The battle is fought and won--thanks to the abating of the storm and
a calmer sea. The weather to-day is fine and warm--58 degrees in the
shade. It was 68 degrees yesterday, and the mugginess of the
atmosphere made it unpleasant. For me, indeed, it is never too
pleasant on board ship. I have an uneasy feeling that the most one
can hope for is a truce, and that the battle with sea-sickness may
have to be fought over again at any moment. Under such circumstances
writing is not easy.
The sea, the deep mysterious sea, with its changeful, elusive hues
and its passionate moods! The dominant mood, I fancy, is melancholy.
The sea lifts up its voice only to weep, and every sea-sound dies
away in a sob or a wail. When the crested waves break into foam,
what are the spray drops but the tears of the salt sea? It not only
yields a grave to the countless millions that are buried beneath its
waters, but weeps for them ever, and chants over them an unending
requiem. And its loneliness is beyond words. Mid-ocean seems the
native home of solitude--a solitude that the passing ship leaves
unbroken. What a tale this lonely, moaning sea could tell of the men
who have sunk into its depths, "unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown!"
But till it gives up its dead, that tale shall not be told.
* * *