proper than perhaps any other class of men, and generally speaking a more romantic feeling for woman is cherished on board ship than anywhere else in the world.  If we wish to find in these times quietly romantic enthusiasm, we must be the companion of the sailor on his lonely watch, or listen to him as he lies on the forecastle and talks with naive simplicity about his wife or his sweetheart—­how their attachment came about, and what he means to buy for her when he gets into port.  Love on board ship is a more naturally rich and varying theme than it is in the peasant’s monotonous life; and being in love, by reason of separation from the object of his love, is a different thing to the sailor, a something more entirely of the heart and the imagination, which does not lose its ideal hue in the wear and tear of everyday use.  A married sailor is always an object of quiet respect to his comrades who have not had means to take the same step themselves; and without exaggeration it may be said that woman is present in her truest sense in the midst of the often outwardly rough life on board ship—­warm, loving, and venerated, and surrounded by all the enchantment which distance can supply.  If we are tempted to think otherwise, we have not penetrated to the simple, childlike nature which underlies the sailor’s rough exterior.

The exteriors, indeed, in the dancing-room of the Aurora that evening were rough enough.  Through the cloud of steam and tobacco-smoke, men of the most various physiognomies were to be seen, the majority tanned and bearded, with their hats on the back of their heads, and short clay pipes in their mouths, and all in the wildest state of enjoyment, dripping with perspiration and dancing indefatigably.  There were French and Swedish sailors in their red woollen shirts, Norwegians and Danes in blue, with white canvas trousers, Yankees and English all in blue; and as they swung the gracefully dressed Dutch girls with their small white caps and little capes, and petticoats fastened up to do justice to the neat shoes and white stockings below, vying with each other who should dance the best and longest, the foundation of many a friendship or enmity was laid, to be prosecuted later on in the evening over a bottle of brandy or in a stand-up fight.

Salve and Federigo were sitting over their gin in a side-room which opened into the dancing-room, and was filled with men talking and drinking, or with couples who came in to rest for a moment.  Neither took part in the dancing.  Salve was gloomy and out of tune for pleasure, although, for Federigo’s sake, he made his humour as little apparent as possible.  Federigo looked very disconsolate, and during the early part of the evening sat and sipped his glass abstractedly.  But as the time wore on he kept filling Salve’s glass unconsciously as it were, and getting apparently more and more drunk himself, until he several times spilt the contents of his own glass on the floor.  He became very talkative, recalling incident after incident of their life together.  “I shall never forget you,” he cried, with open-hearted impulsiveness, “never!” And as he repeated the word, there was a gleam of suppressed feeling of some kind or other in his eye.