64 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



homage fish spoilt for such overtures by the fine- 

 ness of my Redditch-gut. There is no envy in 

 my neighbours, some of whom are fellow-students 

 (alas for the studies !) at the old University round 

 the bend of the river, and they could scarcely 

 feel more pleasure in catching these silly fish 

 themselves than they apparently derive from 

 watching me. 



The view dissolves, and in its place I dimly see 

 a white breakwater faintly reminiscent of that at 

 Plymouth. It is a night of June, not a common- 

 sense, businesslike night of northern latitudes, 

 but the sensuous night of Boccaccio's rose-gardens, 

 a night on which, as that shrewd and friendly 

 student of the Anglo-Saxon, M. d'Humieres, would 

 say, Englishmen wisely flee to sport as sanctuary 

 from greater mischief. The imperfect darkness 

 of the summer sea cannot veil the silhouette of 

 anchored feluccas, while the great inner harbour 

 of Leghorn is sparsely dotted with the side-lights 

 of anchored steamers. These beacons of traffic 

 are fewer than of yore, for one commercial crisis 

 after another has brought the port of the Medici 

 to the verge of stagnation, and by day the vast 

 deserted quays painfully recalled Hawthorne's 

 mournful picture of the Salem Customs House. 

 The flickering rays of a candle-lamp at my feet 

 rest on the queer, distorted form of a little crippled 

 barber, my constant companion on these forays. 



