Through, perhaps, the narrow, crooked lane of Pine Street he passes, to
come out at length upon a scene set for a sea tale. Here would a lad,
heir to vast estates in Virginia, be kidnapped and smuggled aboard to
be sold a slave in Africa. This is Front Street. A white ship lies at
the foot of it. Cranes rise at her side. Tugs, belching smoke, bob
beyond. All about are ancient warehouses, redolent of the Thames, with
steep roofs and sometimes stairs outside, and with tall shutters, a
crescent-shaped hole in each. There is a dealer in weather-vanes.
Other things dealt in hereabout are these: chronometers, "nautical
instruments," wax gums, cordage and twine, marine paints, cotton wool
and waste, turpentine, oils, greases, and rosin. Queer old taverns,
public houses, are here, too. Why do not their windows rattle with a
"Yo, ho, ho"?

There is an old, old house whose business has been fish oil within the
memory of men. And here is another. Next, through Water Street, one
comes in search of the last word on salt fish. Now the air is filled
with gorgeous smell of roasting coffee. Tea, coffee, sugar, rice,
spices, bags and bagging here have their home. And there are haughty
bonded warehouses filled with fine liquors. From his white cabin at
the top of a venerable structure comes the dean of the salt-fish
business. "Export trade fair," he says; "good demand from South
America."




II

ON GOING A JOURNEY