Whatever the effect of "Ship-Bored" upon others, its publication has
exerted a very definite effect upon me, or rather upon the character of
my daily mail. Instead of letters the postman now leaves little packages
containing pills which, according to the senders, will prevent the
casting of bread upon the waters.
It is astonishing to learn how many sea-sick remedies there are.
Looking at the bottles and the boxes piled, each morning by my breakfast
plate, I sometimes wonder if there aren't as many remedies as sufferers.
But suppose there are? Why do people send the medicines to me? Why do
perfect strangers assume that, because I have taken up the task of
muck-raking the Atlantic Ocean, I am in need of antidotes for _mal de
mer_? Even suppose that I do suffer thus at sea? Is it anybody else's
business--or luncheon?
All great literary works are born of suffering. Stop the suffering and
you stop the author. Yet people keep on sending pills to me--each pill
an added insult if you choose to take it that way.
But I don't take them that way. I don't take them at all. I try them on
my friends. When a friend of mine is sailing I send him a few pills out
of a recent bottle. If he reports that he was sea-sick I throw away the
balance of the bottle. The same if he dies. That shows that the pills
are too strong.
I do not wish to take undue credit to myself for conducting these
experiments. Since the pills are given to me, my researches cost me
nothing--excepting an occasional friend whom (as he was sailing for
Europe, anyway) I should not be able to see, even if he were alive.