The mind soon tires of tranquil scenes. On the way from the Sandwich
Islands to China I had my fill of tranquility. I found myself yearning
for a gale; felt great respect for the Gulf Stream, with waves as high
as the main yard; longed to see breakers; wondered why the sea would
not occasionally come over our rail. There seemed to be talent about
the Rio de la Plata; Cape Horn was true genius; the North Atlantic
a giant with a progeny in its own image. The halcyon waters of the
Pacific impressed me as amiable but weak; their countenance wore a
perpetual smile; they looked as though they believed themselves to
have reached a sinless state. You long to see their temper tested;
you would be willing to see them ruffled, even angry; hear them lift
their voice out of its monotony with upbraiding, rather than be so
unnaturally gentle. Does the sea have waves of mettle which it employs
in hazardous enterprises, trusting them, and only them, in daring
feats? I came to feel that there were waters which bore a character for
hardihood, nurtured by tempests, voiced for symphonious concerts with
typhoons, not counting their lives dear unto them but dying on the high
places of the field. Let me see them once more! When will this trade
wind region come to an end, and the sea utter its voice and lift up its
hands on high? I felt that the sea reverenced greatness, honored its
waters which stormed impregnable rocks and poured out their lives at
the call of duty. These lines came to me, in this connection: