Thought I was by the ocean. Every body has stood by the ocean. Every
body loves the ocean. They love it because ’tis beautiful. They love it
because ’tis terrible. Who that could ever tell his passions, as he has
seen the giant rouse himself--the black sky split by the thunder-bolt,
and so brazen and fiery that it seemed crisping, and “about to roll
away with a great noise”--the driving wind--the bellowing thunder--the
crashing deck--the rattling cordage--the death shriek of the
sea-shipped wretch as the wave went over him--the horror-like eye’s
last glance upon you! But I don’t mean such an ocean. It wasn’t such an
one that I was standing by. It was a pretty considerable, magnificent,
almighty, great sheet of water as far as the eye went, with a sky above
that made one’s heart leap to look at it--its depth of blue seeming
to stretch away and away, field after field, without a mist or cloud
in it to mar its beauty--one unbounded, unshadowed sweep of glory and
magnificence. The winds, soft and balmy, went whirling and whimpering
along its surface, curling and crinkling it into small white waves,
that, racing and capering up the beach, sparkled and turned into
bubbles, and were caught up by the sun beams. Here and there the waters
break. The huge porpoise went plunging, and sousing, and weltering
along his blue path, flapping his huge tail into the air, and grunting
his happiness--the bright light refracted from his surface, came to
the eye like a rainbow. Here and there the flying fish slipped from
his element, and went careering away over the far waters, till with a
light dash or slap, his white wings dipped again into the ocean. The
distance had one sail, a single one, right on the horizon’s edge--type,
methought, of a being shut from the world--a human heart cut loose from
sympathy--on the black desert of man’s pilgrimage. Such was the scene.
I felt it. I rose, and stood, and shouted, and--