272 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



automatically each conjures up its appropriate 

 human figure, the scarred German student, the 

 weather-beaten Cornishman, the gaunt Asiatic, 

 transplanted to another soil, who worships in 

 the Mosque. Scarcely a bait, but recalls a sea- 

 scape in keeping ; the sunlit Devon estuary for 

 the sand-eel, the chalky line of Kent for the rock- 

 worm and for paste, the uncovered Cornish 

 harbour for the pilchard, the last a memory 

 rather for the nose. 



A pleasant task is done. The persistent per- 

 sonal note, which may, I fear, have embroiled 

 me with reviewers hitherto more than kind, was 

 explained at the threshold. A respected friend, 

 to whom some earlier portions of the book were 

 submitted, took exception to the title. He was 

 indignant, in short, that the salt of a man's life 

 should be associated with " so silly an ideal as 

 "fish-killing, which puts you on a level with otters 

 " and porpoises, or rather below them, since they 

 " kill more fish in a week than you in a year. . . . 

 " as an occasional diversion for idle hours, perhaps, 

 " but as the salt of life. . . . ! " 



Yet retrospect is not sweetened only by mem- 

 ories of the slain, nor is the salt of life necessarily 

 synonymous with its ideals. The failures survive 

 with the successes ; to each the due niche. The 

 quaint restfulness of Poole is not spoilt for me 

 because I caught no bass from its bridge. For 



