J. Have you paid for your passage?

J. Yes! and in gold, not in shells or pebbles.

J. No really wise gnome would scoff at the water, the beautiful water.  “The spirit of man is like the water.”

S. And like the air and fire, no less.

J. Yes, but not like the earth, this low-minded creature’s chosen, dwelling.

M. The earth is spirit made fruitful,—­life.  And its heartbeats are told in gold and wine.

J. Oh! it is shocking to hear such sentiments in these times.  I thought that Bacchic energy of yours was long since repressed.

M. No!  I have only learned to mix water with my wine, and stamp upon my gold the heads of kings, or the hieroglyphics of worship.  But since I have learnt to mix with water, let’s hear what you have to say in praise of your favorite.

J. From water Venus was born, what more would you have?  It is the mother of Beauty, the girdle of earth, and the marriage of nations.

S. Without any of that high-flown poetry, it is enough, I think, that it is the great artist, turning all objects that approach it to picture.

J. True, no object that touches it, whether it be the cart that ploughs the wave for sea-weed, or the boat or plank that rides upon it, but is brought at once from the demesne of coarse utilities into that of picture.  All trades, all callings, become picturesque by the water’s side, or on the water.  The soil, the slovenliness, is washed out of every calling by its touch.  All river-crafts, sea-crafts, are picturesque, are poetical.  Their very slang is poetry.

M. The reasons for that are complex.

J. The reason is, that there can be no plodding, groping words and motions on my water as there are on your earth.  There is no time, no chance for them where all moves so rapidly, though so smoothly; everything connected with water must be like itself, forcible, but clear.  That is why sea-slang is so poetical; there is a word for everything and every act, and a thing and an act for every word.  Seamen must speak quick and bold, but also with utmost precision.  They cannot reef and brace other than in a Homeric dialect,—­ therefore—­(Steamboat bell rings.) But I must say a quick good-by.

M. What, going, going back to earth after all this talk upon the other side.  Well, that is nowise Homeric, but truly modern.

J. is borne off without time for any reply, but a laugh—­at himself, of course.

S. and M. retire to their state-rooms to forget the wet, the chill, and steamboat smell, in their just-bought new world of novels.