154 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



dropping behind the rim of the horizon, or gently 

 blown along its edge, their yard-arms pointing to 

 all quarters of the globe ! Mystery, adventure, the 

 promise of unknown- lands, beckon to us from the 

 full- rigged ships. One does not see them come or 

 depart ; they dawn upon him like his own thoughts, 

 some dim and shadowy, just hovering on the verge 

 of consciousness, others white and full, a solace to 

 the eye. But presently, while you ponder, they 

 are gone, or else vaguely notch the horizon line. 

 Illusion, enchantment, hover over the sail-ships. 

 They have the charm of the ancient world of fable 

 and romance. They are blown by Homeric winds. 

 They are a survival from the remotest times. But 

 yonder comes a black steamship, cutting across this 

 enchanted circle in defiance of wind and tide; this 

 is the modern world snubbing and dispelling our 

 illusions, and putting our poets to flight. 



But the veritable oceanic brine there before 

 one, the continental, primordial, original liquid, the 

 hoary, eternal sea itself, what can a lover of 

 fields and woods make of it? None of the charms 

 or solacements of birds and flowers here, or of rural 

 sights and sounds; no repose, no plaintiveness, no 

 dumb companionship ; but a spirit threatening, hun- 

 gering, remorseless, decoying, fascinating, serpen- 

 tine, rebelling and forever rebelling against the fiat, 

 "Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther." The 

 voice of the sea is unlike any other sound in nature ; 

 more riant and chafing than any roar of woods or 

 storms. One never ceases to hear the briny, rimy, 



