基本信息
urday afternoon and to stop over till monday morning, this particular january monday morning would not have found me afloat on san francisco bay. not but that i was afloat in a safe craft, for the martinez was a new ferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the run between sausalito and san francisco. the danger lay in the heavy fog which blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, i had little apprehension. in fact, i remember the placid exaltation with which took up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath the pilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to lay hold of my imagination. a fresh breeze was blowing, and for a time i was alone in the moist obscurity; yet not alone, for i was dimly conscious of the presence of the pilot, and of what i took to be the captain, in the glass house above my head. i remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labor which made it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation, in order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of the sea. it was good that men should be specialists, i mused. the peculiar knowledge of the pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of people who knew no more of the sea and navigation than i knew. on the other hand, instead of having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things, i concentrated it upon a few particular things, such as, for instance, the analysis of poe's place in american literature, an essay of mine, by the way, in the current atlantic. coming aboard, as i passed through the cabin, i had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the atlantic, which was open at my very essay. and there it was again, the division of labor, the special knowledge of the pilot and captain which permitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on poe while they carried him safely from sausalito to san francisco. a red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out on the deck, interrupted my reflections, though i made a mental note of the topic for use in a projected essay which i had thought of calling "the necessity for freedom: a plea for the artist." the red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently had artificial legs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart, and with
