Almost imperceptibly her nose straightens down the river and soon on the starboard quarter—­how quickly one picks up these nautical terms!—­looming through the harbor mists, you behold the statue of Miss Liberty, in her popular specialty of enlightening the world.  So you go below and turn in.  Anyway, that is what I did; for certain of the larger ships of the Cunard line sail at midnight or even later, and this was such a ship.

For some hours I lay awake, while above me and below me and all about me the boat settled down to her ordained ship’s job, and began drawing the long, soothing snores that for five days and nights she was to continue drawing without cessation.  There were so many things to think over.  I tried to remember all the authoritative and conflicting advice that hadbeen offered to me by traveled friends and well-wishers.

Let’s see, now:  On shipboard I was to wear only light clothes, because nobody ever caught cold at sea.  I was to wear the heaviest clothes I had, because the landlubber always caught cold at sea.  I was to tip only those who served me.  I was to tip all hands in moderation, whether they served me or not.  If I felt squeamish I was to do the following things:  Eat something.  Quit eating.  Drink something.  Quit drinking.  Stay on deck.  Go below and lie perfectly flat.  Seek company.  Avoid same.  Give it up.  Keep it down.

There was but one point on which all of them were agreed.  On no account should I miss Naples; I must see Naples if I did not see another solitary thing in Europe.  Well, I did both—­I saw Naples; and now I should not miss Naples if I never saw it again, and I do not think I shall.  As regards the other suggestions these friends of mine gave me, I learned in time that all of them were right and all of them were wrong.

For example, there was the matter of a correct traveling costume.  Between seasons on the Atlantic one wears what best pleases one.  One sees at the same time women in furs and summer boys in white ducks.  Tweed-enshrouded Englishmen and linen-clad American girls promenade together, giving to the decks that pleasing air of variety and individuality of apparel only to be found in southern California during the winter, and in those orthodox pictures in the book of Robinson Crusoe, where Robinson is depicted as completely wrapped up in goatskins, while Man Friday is pirouetting round as nude as a raw oyster and both of them are perfectly comfortable.  I used to wonder how Robinson and Friday did it.  Since taking an ocean trip I understand perfectly.  I could do it myself now.

There certainly were a lot of things to think over.  I do not recall now exactly the moment when I ceased thinking them over.  A blank that was measurable by hours ensued.  I woke from a dream about a scrambled egg, in which I was the egg, to find that morning had arrived and the ship was behaving naughtily.