Avenue.  We showed him the book, because every time one shows the doctor a book he can startle you by countering with its original manuscript or something of that sort.  We said something about Shelley and Trelawny, in the hope of starting him off.  He smiled gently and drew out a volume from a shelf.  It was the copy of “Prometheus Unbound” that Shelley had given Trelawny in July, 1822, with an inscription.  As the poet was drowned on July 8, 1822, it probably was the last book he ever gave away.

One wonders what may have become of the log of the American clipper that Shelley and Trelawny visited in the harbour of Leghorn shortly before Shelley’s death.  Shelley had said something in praise of George Washington, to which the sturdy Yankee skipper replied:  “Stranger, truer words were never spoken; there is dry rot in all the main timbers of the Old World, and none of you will do any good till you are docked, refitted, and annexed to the New.  You must log that song you sang; there ain’t many Britishers that will say as much of the man that whipped them; so just set these lines down in the log!”

Whereupon Shelley autographed the skipper’s log for him, with some sentiments presumably gratifying to American pride, and drank some “cool peach brandy.”  It was his last drink.

We ourself, just as much as Shelley, enjoy visiting ships, and have had some surprising adventures in so doing.  We remember very clearly our first call upon William McFee, when he was First Assistant Engineer in S.S. Turrialba.  But getting aboard vessels is a much more complicated and diplomatic task than it was in Shelley’s day.  Even when armed with Mr. McFee’s autographed card, it was by no means easy.  We went dutifully up to the office of the United Fruit Company at Pier 9, to apply for a pass, and were surveyed with grim suspicion.  Why, we asked gently, in these peaceful times is it so difficult to visit a friend who happens to be in a ship?  Prohibition, said the candid clerk, and a whole province of human guile was thereby made plain to our shrinking mind.  Mortals incline readily to sin, it seems, and apparently evil and base men will even go so far as to pretend a friendship with those who go down to wet territory in ships, simply for the sake of—­well, we cannot bring ourself to mention it.  “How do you know Mr. McFee wants to see you?” we were asked.  Luckily we had Mac’s card to prove it.

We had long wanted to see Mr. McFee in his sea-going quarters, where he writes his books and essays (so finely flavoured with a rich ironical skepticism as to the virtues of folk who live on shore).  Never was a literary sanctum less like the pretentious studios of the imitation litterateurs.  In a small cabin stood our friend, in his working dungarees (if that is what they are called) talking briskly with the Chief and another engineer.  The conversation, in which we were immediately engulfed, was so vivacious that we had small chance to examine the surroundings