Journeys to Bagdad

Are you of that elect who, at certain seasons of the year—perhaps in March
when there is timid promise of the spring or in the days of October when
there are winds across the earth and gorgeous panic of fallen leaves—are
you of that elect who, on such occasion or any occasion else, feel stirrings in
you to be quit of whatever prosy work is yours, to throw down your book or
ledger, or your measuring tape—if such device marks your service—and to
go forth into the world?
I do count myself of this elect. And I will name such stimuli as most set
these stirrings in me. And first of all there is a smell compounded out of
hemp and tar that works pleasantly to my undoing. Now it happens that
there is in this city, down by the river where it flows black with city stain as
though the toes of commerce had been washed therein, a certain ship
chandlery. It is filthy coming on the place, for there is reek from the river
and staleness from the shops—ancient whiffs no wise enfeebled by their
longevity, Nestors of their race with span of seventy lusty summers. But
these smells do not prevail within the chandlery. At first you see nothing but
rope. Besides clothesline and other such familiar and domestic twistings,
there are great cordages scarce kinsmen to them, which will later put to sea
and will whistle with shrill enjoyment at their release. There are such hooks,
swivels, blocks and tackles, such confusion of ships' devices as would be
enough for the building of a sea tale. It may be fancied that here is Treasure
Island itself, shuffled and laid apart in bits like a puzzle-picture. (For genius,
maybe, is but a nimbleness of collocation of such hitherto unconsidered
trifles.) Then you will go aloft where sails are made, with sailormen
squatting about, bronzed fellows, rheumatic, all with pipes. And through all
this shop is the smell of hemp and tar.