Some commanders of ships take their Departure from the home coast sadly, in a spirit of grief and discontent. They have a wife, children perhaps, some affection at any rate, or perhaps only some pet vice¹, that must be left behind for a year or more. I remember only one man who walked his deck with a springy step, and gave the first course of the passage in an elated voice. But he, as I learned afterwards, was leaving nothing behind him, except a welter of debts and threats of legal proceedings².

On the other hand, I have known many captains who, directly their ship had left the narrow waters of the Channel, would disappear from the sight of their ship’s company altogether for some three days or more. They would take a long dive, as it were, into their state-room, only to emerge a few days afterwards with a more or less serene³ brow. Those were the men easy to get on with. Besides, such a complete retirement⁴ seemed to imply a satisfactory amount of trust in their officers, and to be trusted displeases⁵ no seaman⁶ worthy⁷ of the name.

On my first voyage as chief mate with good Captain MacW—— I remember that I felt quite flattered, and went blithely⁸ about my duties, myself a commander for all practical purposes. Still, whatever the greatness of my illusion, the fact remained that the real commander was there, backing up my self-confidence, though invisible to my eyes behind a maple-wood veneered cabin-door with a white china handle.

That is the time, after your Departure is taken, when the spirit of your commander communes with you in a muffled⁹ voice, as if from the sanctum sanctorum of a temple; because, call her a temple or a “hell afloat” — as some ships have been called — the captain’s state-room is surely the august place in every

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