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CHARLES DARWIN 



pating the long wished-for day of return. If, as poets say, 

 life is a dream, I am sure in a voyage these are the visions 

 which best serve to pass away the long night. Other losses, 

 although not at first felt, tell heavily after a period: these 

 are the want of room, of seclusion, of rest; the jading feel- 

 ing of constant hurry ; the privation of small luxuries, the loss 

 of domestic society and even of music and the other pleasures 

 of imagination. When such trifles are mentioned, it is 

 evident that the real grievances, excepting from accidents, of 

 a sea-life are at an end. The short space of sixty years has 

 made an astonishing difference in the facility of distant 

 navigation. Even in the time of Cook, a man who left 

 his fireside for such expeditions underwent severe privations. 

 A yacht now, with every luxury of life, can circumnavigate 

 the globe. Besides the vast improvements in ships and 

 naval resources, the whole western shores of America are 

 thrown open, and Australia has become the capital of a 

 rising continent. How different are the circumstances to a 

 man shipwrecked at the present day in the Pacific, to what 

 they were in the time of Cook! Since his voyage a hemi- 

 sphere has been added to the civilized world. 



If a person suffer much from sea-sickness, let him weigh 

 it heavily in the balance. I speak from experience: it is no 

 trifling evil, cured in a week. If, on the other hand, he take 

 pleasure in naval tactics, he will assuredly have full scope 

 for his taste. But it must be borne in mind, how large a 

 proportion of the time, during a long voyage, is spent on 

 the water, as compared with the days in harbour. And what 

 are the boasted glories of the illimitable ocean. A tedious 

 waste, a desert of water, as the Arabian calls it. No doubt 

 there are some delightful scenes. A moonlight night, with 

 the clear heavens and the dark glittering sea, and the white 

 sails filled by the soft air of a gently blowing trade-wind, a 

 dead calm, with the heaving surface polished like a mirror, 

 and all still except the occasional flapping of the canvas. 

 It is well once to behold a squall with its rising arch and 

 coming fury, or the heavy gale of wind and mountainous 

 waves. I confess, however, my imagination had painted 

 something more grand, more terrific in the full-grown storm. 

 It is an incomparably finer spectacle when beheld on shore, 



