Glassy-smooth the water sleeps along the northern coast of our island
summer resort, as the boat slowly skirts the low beach, passing bright
shallows where seines of stupendous extent are hung upon rows of high
stakes to dry;--but already the ear is filled with a ponderous and
powerful sound, rolling up from the south through groves of orange
and lemon--the sound of that "great voice that shakes the world." For
less than half a mile away--across the narrow island--immense surges
are whitening all the long slant of sand.... Divinely caressing the
first far-off tones of that eternal voice to one revisiting ocean
after absence of many weary and dusty summers--tones filling the mind
with even such vague blending of tenderness and of awe as the pious
traveler might feel when, returning after long sojourn in a land of
strange, grim gods, whose temple pavements may never be trodden by
Occidental feet, he hears again the pacific harmonies of some cathedral
organ, breaking all about him in waves of golden thunder.
...Then with a joyous shock we bump the ancient wooden wharf--where
groups of the brown island people are already waiting to scrutinize
each new face with kindliest curiosity; for the advent of the
mail-packet is ever a great and gladsome event. Even the dogs bark
merry welcome, and run to be caressed. A tramway car receives the
visitors--baggage is piled on--the driver clacks his tongue--the mule
starts--the dogs rush on in advance to announce our coming.