By Joseph Conrad

Several of us, all more or less connected with the sea, were dining in a small river-hostelry not more than thirty miles from London, and less than twenty from that shallow and dangerous puddle to which our coasting men give the grandiose name of “German Ocean.”  And through the wide windows we had a view of the Thames; an enfilading view down the Lower Hope Reach.  But the dinner was execrable, and all the feast was for the eyes.

That flavour of salt-water which for so many of us had been the very water of life permeated our talk.  He who hath known the bitterness of the Ocean shall have its taste forever in his mouth.  But one or two of us, pampered by the life of the land, complained of hunger.  It was impossible to swallow any of that stuff.  And indeed there was a strange mustiness in everything.  The wooden dining-room stuck out over the mud of the shore like a lacustrine dwelling; the planks of the floor seemed rotten; a decrepit old waiter tottered pathetically to and fro before an antediluvian and worm-eaten sideboard; the chipped plates might have been disinterred from some kitchen midden near an inhabited lake; and the chops recalled times more ancient still.  They brought forcibly to one’s mind the night of ages when the primeval man, evolving the first rudiments of cookery from his dim consciousness, scorched lumps of flesh at a fire of sticks in the company of other good fellows; then, gorged and happy, sat him back among the gnawed bones to tell his artless tales of experience—­the tales of hunger and hunt—­and of women, perhaps!

But luckily the wine happened to be as old as the waiter.  So, comparatively empty, but upon the whole fairly happy, we sat back and told our artless tales.  We talked of the sea and all its works.  The sea never changes, and its works for all the talk of men are wrapped in mystery.  But we agreed that the times were changed.  And we talked of old ships, of sea-accidents, of break-downs, dismastings; and of a man who brought his ship safe to Liverpool all the way from the River Platte under a jury rudder.  We talked of wrecks, of short rations and of heroism—­or at least of what the newspapers would have called heroism at sea—­a manifestation of virtues quite different from the heroism of primitive times.  And now and then falling silent all together we gazed at the sights of the river.

A P. & O. boat passed bound down.  “One gets jolly good dinners on board these ships,” remarked one of our band.  A man with sharp eyes read out the name on her bows:  Arcadia.  “What a beautiful model of a ship!” murmured some of us.  She was followed by a small cargo steamer, and the flag they hauled down aboard while we were looking showed her to be a Norwegian.  She made an awful lot of smoke; and before it had quite blown away, a high-sided, short, wooden barque, in ballast and towed by a paddle-tug, appeared in front of the windows.  All her hands were forward busy setting up the headgear; and aft a woman in a red hood, quite alone with the man at the wheel, paced the length of the poop back and forth, with the grey wool of some knitting work in her hands.