{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_42845/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_42845","id":"gutenberg_42845","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42845","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: French Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Natural history","Ocean"],"text":"Transcriber's Note\n\nItalic text is denoted by _underscores_.\n\nAll oe ligatures were converted to oe.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEA.\n\n\n\n\n_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_,\n\nAnd by the same Author.\n\n\n    _LOVE_ (L'AMOUR.) (_Twenty-seventh edition._)  Price, $1,00\n    _WOMAN_ (LA FEMME.) (_Thirteenth edition._)            1,00\n    _THE CHILD_ (L'ENFANT.) (_In press._)\n    _THE INSECT_ (L'INS\u00c8CTE) Its Life, Loves and Labors. (_In press._)\n    _THE BIRD_ (L'OISEAU.) Its Life, Loves, and Labors.   (_In press._)\n    _WOMEN OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION._   (_In press._)\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEA\n\n(La Mer.)\n\n\nFrom the French of\n\nM. J. MICHELET,\n\n\n_Of the Faculty of Letters, Author of \"A History of France,\"\n\"Love,\" \"Woman,\" \"The Child,\" \"The Insect,\" \"The Bird,\"\n\"Women of the French Revolution,\" etc., etc., etc._\n\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE LATEST PARIS EDITION.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nNEW YORK:\n\nRUDD & CARLETON, 180 GRAND STREET\n\nPARIS: L. HACHETTE ET Cie.\n\nMDCCCLXI.\n\n\n\n\n    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861, by\n\n    RUDD & CARLETON,\n\n    In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the\n    Southern District of New York.\n\n\n\n\nEXTRACT FROM THE LONDON ATHEN\u00c6UM, Feb. 9. 1861.\n\n\n'The Sea' is another of M. Michelet's dreamy volumes,--half science,\nhalf fancy, with a blending in both of sensuous suggestion. M.\nMichelet takes the seas of the world in his hands, manipulates them,\ninvokes their monsters, assembles all their finny droves, gossips with\nthe sirens, sails among the Hyperborean waters with Behemoth, and is\non intimate terms with Tennyson's little shell-king, who lives in a\npalace with doors of diamond, and wears a rainbow frill, for the\nadmiration of the nations that dwell in his dim, sunken wildernesses.\n* * * * * He discourses upon marine terrors and beauties, and tells\nthe reader, as a sublime Peter Parley might, that the salt of all the\nseas, if piled upon America, would spread over the continent a solid,\ncliff-edged mass, 4,500 feet high. There are chapters on Sands, Cliffs\nand Beaches; on Waves; on the anatomy of the Sea itself, which\nresembles \"a gigantic animal arrested in the earliest stage of its\norganization;\" on Tempests; on the sympathy between Air and Water; on\nthe Fecundity of the Sea, which, were it not self-devouring, would\nputrefy, according to M. Michelet into one solid mass of herring; on\nFish of every species, and especially on Pearls. The Queens of the\nEast, he says, dislike the gleams of the diamond. They will allow\nnothing to touch their skins except pearls. A necklace and two\nbracelets of pearls constitute the perfection of ornament. The pearls\nsilently say to the woman, \"Love us! hush!\" In the North, too, dainty\nCountesses love their pearls,--wearing them beneath their clothes by\nnight and by day, concealing them, caressing them, only now and then\nexposing them. So do the Odalisques of Asia prize the soft linen\nvestment that just covers their limbs, never taking it off until worn\nout, which says little for Oriental baths.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe book is pleasant reading, like all else that M. Michelet writes.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                                    Page\n\nExtract from The London Atheneum,                                      5\n\n\nBOOK FIRST.\n\n  A GLANCE UPON THE SEAS.\n\n     I. The Sea as seen from the Shore,                               11\n    II. The Beach, the Sands, and the Iron Bound Coast,               19\n   III. The Same, (_Continued_)                                       24\n    IV. The Same, (_Continued_)                                       81\n     V. The Fiery and the Watery Circle. The Currents of the Sea,     40\n    VI. Tempests,                                                     58\n   VII. Tempests (_Continued_)                                        63\n  VIII. The Storm of October, 1859,                                   72\n    IX. The Beacons,                                                  91\n\n\nBOOK SECOND.\n\n  THE GENESIS OF THE SEA.\n\n     I. Fecundity,                                                   105\n    II. The Milky Sea,                                               114\n   III. The Atom,                                                    128\n    IV. Blood-Flower,                                                139\n     V. The World Makers,                                            149\n    VI. Daughter of the Seas,                                        160\n\n   VII. The Stone Picker,                                            173\n  VIII. Shells, Mother of Pearl, and Pearl,                          182\n    IX. The Sea Rovers (Poulpe, &c.)                                 194\n     X. Crustace\u00e6. Battle and Intrigue,                              202\n    XI. The Fish,                                                    212\n   XII. The Whale,                                                   225\n  XIII. The Syrens,                                                  236\n\n\nBOOK THIRD.\n\n  CONQUEST OF THE SEA.\n\n     I. The Harpoon,                                                 251\n    II. Discovery of the Three Oceans,                               260\n   III. The Law of Storms,                                           275\n    IV. The Polar Seas,                                              289\n     V. Man's War upon the Races of the Sea,                         306\n    VI. The Law of the Ocean,                                        319\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH.\n\n  THE RESTORATION OF THE SEA.\n\n     I. Origin of Sea Bathing,                                       329\n    II. Choice of Coast,                                             340\n   III. The House,                                                   349\n    IV. First Aspiration of the Sea,                                 360\n     V. Baths. Restoration of Beauty,                                369\n    VI. The Restoration of Heart and Brotherhood,                    377\n   VII. The New Life of the Nations,                                 388\n\nNotes.                                                               401\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST.\n\n  A GLANCE UPON THE SEAS.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE SEA AS SEEN FROM THE SHORE.\n\n\nA gallant Dutch seaman, a cool and stern observer, who has passed his\nwhole life at sea, frankly tells us that his feeling on first seeing\nthe ocean was _fear_. For all terrestrial animals, water is the\nnon-respirable element, the ever heaving but inevitably asphyxiating\nenemy; the fatal and eternal barrier between the two worlds. We need\nnot, all things being considered, be at all surprised, if that immense\nmass of waters which we call the sea, dark and inscrutable in its\nimmense depths, ever and always impresses the human mind with a vague\nand resistless awe.\n\nThe imaginative Orientals see it only and call it only, as, the _Night\nof the Depths_. In all the antique tongues, from India to Ireland, the\nsynonymous or analogous name of the sea is either _Night_ or the\n_Desert_.\n\nAh! With what a great and a hallowed and a hallowing, with what an at\nonce soothing and subduing melancholy it is that, evening after\nevening, we see the Sun, that great world's joy, that brilliant,\nlife-quickening, and light-giving Sun of all that lives, fade, sink,\ndie--though so surely to rise and live again! Ah! as that glorious\nlight departs, how tenderly do we think of the human loves that have\ndied from us--of the hour when we, also, shall thus depart from human\nken, lost, for the time, to this world--to shine more gloriously in\nthat other world, now dark, distant, unknown, but certain.\n\nDescend to even a slight depth in the sea, and the beauty and\nbrilliancy of the upper light are lost; you enter into a persistent\ntwilight, and misty and half-lurid haze; a little lower, and even that\nsinister and eldritch twilight is lost, and all around you is Night,\nshowing nothing, but suggesting everything that darkness,--handmaiden\nof terrible Fancy--can suggest. Above, below, beneath, all around,\ndarkness, utter darkness, save when, from time to time, the swift and\ngracefully terrible motion of some passing monster of the deep makes\n\"darkness visible\" for a brief moment--and, then, that passing gleam\nleaves you in darkness more dense, more utter, more terrible, than\never. Immense in its extent, enormous in its depth, that mass of\nwaters which covers the greater part of our globe seems, in truth, a\ngreat world of shadows and of gloom. And it is that which, above all,\nat once fascinates and intimidates us. Darkness and Fear! Twin\nsisters, they! In the early day, the at once timid and unreasoning\nChildhood of our race, men imagined that where no Light was, neither\ncould there be Life; that in the unfathomed depths, there was a black,\nlifeless, soundless, Chaos; above, nought but water and\ngloom,--beneath, sand, and shells, the bones of the wrecked mariner,\nthe rich wares of the far off, ruined, and vainly bewailing\nmerchant;--those sad treasures of \"that ever-receiving and\nnever-restoring treasury--the Sea.\"\n\nThe waters of the sea afford us no encouragement by their\ntransparency. Look not there for the seductive, brightly sparkling,\nand ever-smiling nymph of the fountain. Opaque, heavy, mighty,\nmerciless, your sea is a liquid Polyphemus, a blind giant that cares\nnot, reasons not, feels not--but hits a terribly hard blow. Trust\nyourself upon that vast and ever-heaving bosom, bold swimmer, and\nmarvellously will you be upheld; the mighty thing that upholds you\ndominates you, too; you are a mere weak child, upheld, indeed, for the\ninstant by a giant-hand--in another moment that giant-hand may smite\nyou with a giant's fatal force.\n\nHer anchor once tripped, who can tell whither the good ship may be\nurged by some sudden wind, or some unsuspected but irresistible\ncurrent? Thus it was that our northern fishermen, not only without\ntheir intention, but even in spite of it, discovered polar America,\nand supped full of the horrors of funereal Greenland. Not a nation\nupon the earth but has its tales and traditions of the sea. Homer and\nthe _Arabian Nights_, have handed down to us a goodly number of those\nfrightful legends, of shoals and tempests and of calms no less\nmurderous than tempests,--those calms during which the hardiest sailor\nagonizes, moans, loses all courage and all hope in the tortures of the\nhours, days, haply even weeks, when, with cracked lip and\nblood-shotten eye, he has around him, heaving upward and sinking\ndownward, but never progressing a cable's length,\n\n    \"Water, water, everywhere,\n    But not a drop to drink.\"\n\nThrilling and saddening legends have all our old writers handed down\nto us of the Anthropophagi, those loathsome man-eaters, and of the\nLeviathan, the Kraken, the great sea-serpent, &c. The name given to\nthe great African desert--_The Abode of Terror_,--may very justly be\ntransferred to the sea. The boldest sailors, Phoenicians and\nCarthaginians, the conquering Arabs who aspired to encircle and grasp\nthe whole world, seduced by what they heard of the Hesperides and the\nland of gold, sailed out of the Mediterranean to the wide ocean, but\nsoon were glad to seek their port again. The gloomy line eternally\ncovered with clouds and mist which they found keeping their stern\nwatch before the equator, intimidated them. They lay to; they\nhesitated; from man to man ran the murmur \"_It is the Sea of\nDarkness_--and, then, back went they to port and, there told to\nwondering landsmen what wonders they had seen, and what horrors they\nhad imagined.\" Woe to him who shall persist in his sacrilegious\nespionage of that dread region! On one of those weird and far isles\nstands a sternly-threatening Colossus, whose sempiternal menace\nis--\"Thus far thou hast come--farther thou shalt not go!\"\n\nChildish as we may think those terrors of the long by-gone ages they\nreally were much the same as the emotions which we may any day see\nevinced by an inland-born novice who for the first time looks upon the\nsea. And not merely man, but all animals, experience the same\nsurprise, the same shock, when suddenly brought face to face with the\nmighty water-world. Even at ebb tide, when the water so gently and so\nlovingly caresses, as it leaves, that shore to which it shall so\nboisterously return, your horse quite evidently likes it not; he\nshudders, balks, snorts,--and very often bolts from it at the very top\nof his speed. Your dog recoils, howls, and, after his own canine\nfashion, returns insult for insult to the waves that annoy and terrify\nhim; he never concludes a real peace with the element which to him\nseems less doubtful than positively hostile. A certain traveller tells\nus that the Kamtschatkan dogs, accustomed as they are to the sight of\nthe sea, are nevertheless irritated and alarmed by it. During the long\nnights immense troops of them howl back to the howling waves that\nbreak, in their furious might, upon the iron-bound shores of the\nnorthern ocean.\n\nThe natural introduction, the portico, the ante-room, of the Ocean,\nwhich prepares us thoroughly to appreciate its vast and melancholy\nextent, is to be found in the dreary course of the rivers of\nnorth-western France, the vast sands of the South, or the sad and\nrarely trodden _Landes_ of Brittany. All who approach the sea by any\nof those routes are greatly impressed by that intermediate region. All\nalong the rivers, there is a seemingly infinite chaos of roots and\nstumps, of willows and the like water-loving vegetation, and the\nwaters becoming more and more brackish, at length become absolutely\nsalt--the veritable sea-water. In the Landes, on the other hand, as we\napproach the sea, we have a preliminary and preparatory sea of\nlow-growing and coarse shrubs, broom, and bushes. Proceed a league or\ntwo, and you see sickly and drooping trees which seem, after their\nmanner, to tell you how much they suffer from the blighting breath of\ntheir near neighbor, and great tyrant, the Sea. Evidently, if they\nwere not held there by their great strong roots they would fly to some\nclimate more genial and some soil more generous; they turn every\nbranch from the sea and towards the earth, as though they were a\nrouted host, disorganized, panic-stricken, and prepared to seek safety\nin flight. Fixed to the soil, they bend themselves eastward,\ntwisting, writhing, mutely agonized at every new assault of the\nstorm-winds from the seaward. Still nearer to the Sea, the trunk of\nthe tree is slender, its stature dwarfish, and its few poor branches\nspread themselves confusedly to the horizon. On the shore, on the very\nmargin and boundary line between land and Sea, where the crushed\nshells rise in a fine and pungent dust, the trees are invaded,\ncovered, choked up with it; their pores are closed, they inhale no\nair, they are stifled; still living as to form, they are mere\npetrified trees, spectral trees, melancholy shadows which have not\neven the privilege of departing,--sad prisoners--even in death! Long\nbefore we are face to face with the Sea, we can hear and imagine that\ngrand and terrible entity. At first, we hear only a dull, uniform, and\ndistant moaning, which grows louder and louder still, until its\nmajestic roar silences, or covers, all meaner sounds. Very soon we\nperceive that that roar is not monotonous, but has its alternating\nnotes; its full, rich, mellow tenor, and its round, deep, majestic\nbass. The pendulum of the clock oscillates less regularly than that\nalternating moan and roar of the Ocean in its grand unrest. And this\nlatter, let me repeat it, has _not_ the monotony of the pendulum, for\nin \"what those wild waves are saying,\" we feel, or fancy that we feel\nthe thrilling intonations of life. And in fact, at high flood, when\nwave rears its crest upon wave, immense, electric, there mingles with\nthe tumultuous roaring of the fiercely rushing waters, the sound of\nthe shells and pebbles, and the thousand things animate as well as\ninanimate that they carry with them in their shoreward rush. When the\nebb comes, a soft murmur tells us that, together with the sands, the\nsea carries back into her depths all with which for a few brief hours\nthe shore had been adorned or enriched.\n\nAnd how many other voices hath the mighty sea! Even when least\nagitated, how her wailings and her deep sighs contrast with the dull\ndead silence of the deserted shore, which seems to expect, in mute\nterror, the threatening of that mighty mass which so recently laved it\nwith a gentle and caressing wavelet. And will she not speedily fulfil\nher threat? I know not, and will not anticipate. I will not, just now,\nat least, speak of those terrible concerts in which, haply, she ere\nlong will take the principal part; of her duets with the rocks, of the\nbasses, those muttered thunders which she utters in the deep caverns\nof the rocky shore, or of those strange, wild, weird, shrieking tones\nin which we seem to recognize the \"_Help, spare, save me!_\" of some\ntortured or fearfully imperilled humanity. No; let us, for the\npresent, contemplate her in her calmer moods; when she is strong,\nindeed, but not violent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE BEACH, THE SANDS, AND THE IRON-BOUND COAST.\n\n\nWe need not be at all surprised if childhood and ignorance are\nastounded, _astonied_, when they first find themselves face to face\nwith that vast and mysterious Sphinx of the Great Master's sculpture,\nthe Ocean. Why, in fact, should we be astonished by their gaze of\nmingled awe, admiration and bewilderment, when we ourselves, despite\nour early culture and life-long experience, see so much in the great\nRiddle of that great Sphinx which we cannot even hope to explain?\n\nWhat is the real extent of the ocean? That it is greater than that of\nthe earth is about as much as, conscientiously, we can at all\npositively affirm. On the entire surface of our globe, water is the\nGenerality--land the Exception. But what is their relative proportion?\nThat, water covers four-fifths of the globe is probable, though, some\nsay a third or a fourth. It is difficult, not to say impossible, to\nanswer the question precisely. A bold explorer discovers a polar land,\nlays it down, latitude and longitude, with scientific precision; in\nthe very next year an equally bold and no less scientific adventurer\nseeks it in vain; and in all latitudes immense shoals and lovely Coral\nislands form in the dark depths, rise to the surface, and disappear,\njust as suddenly and unaccountably as they arose.\n\nThe real depth of the sea is still less known to us than its extent;\nwe are only at the mere commencement of our early, few, and imperfect\nsoundings.\n\nThe daring little liberties which we take with the surface of the\ninvincible element, and the confidence with which we go hither and\nthither upon its unsounded depths, have really nothing to say against\nthe grand and well-founded pride of the Ocean, impenetrable as she is\nas to her secrets, ever moving yet unchangeable, a reality, yet, in\nall but a few of her phenomena, as unreal to us as the spectres of our\nactual dreaming. That those mighty depths contain a whole world, a\nmarvellously great and diversified world, of life, love, war, and\nreproduction of all sorts and sizes, we must imagine and may already\nwith confidence affirm; but we have only, and barely, touched upon the\nthreshold of that world. We are in such a hurry to leave that strange\nand hostile element! If we need the Ocean, see ye, my brothers, the\nOcean in no wise needs us. Nature, fresh from the hand of Deity,\nscorns the too prying gaze and the too shallow judgment of finite but\npresumptuous man.\n\nThat very element which we term fluid, shifting, capricious, suffers,\nin reality, no change; on the contrary it is a very perfect model of\nregularity. The really and constantly changing creature is Man. His\nbody of this year will have evaporated by this time next year, for,\naccording to Berzolius, four-fifths of our frame are water, which at\nevery instant we yield to the ever craving atmosphere. Fragile and\nfleeting creature as Man is, he has indeed good reason for reflection\nand for humility when he finds himself in presence of the great\nunchanging, and, humanly speaking, unchangeable, powers of nature,\njust, and grand, glorious, as is his hope, his belief, his _certainty_\nof a spiritual immortality. Despite that delightful hope, that\nconfident belief, that sustaining certainty, Man yet is necessarily\nand terribly saddened by the smiting and strange suddenness with which\nhe hourly sees the thread of man's life forever broken. The Sea seems\nto exult over our fleeting tenure of a life of which we cannot\nanticipate, far less command, one added moment. Whenever we approach\nher, she seems to murmur from her dark, inscrutable depths,\nunchangeable as His will who made them--\"Mortal! to-morrow you shall\npass away, but I, _I_ am, and ever shall be, unchanged, unchangeable,\nmighty and mysterious. The earth will not only receive your bones but\nwill soon convert them into kindred and indistinguishable earth, but\nI, ever and always, shall remain, main, the same majestic and\nindifferent entity, the great perfectly balanced Life, daily\nharmonising myself with the harmonious and majestic life of the bright\nfar worlds that shine above and around you.\" A stern and a scorning\nrebuke that is which is given to our poor human pride when, twice in\nour every mortal day the sea tears from our vexed shores the stony\nspoils which twice in every day she scornfully and terribly hurls back\nagain. To any imagination but that of the trained and veteran seaman,\nthe fierce rush of the rising tide infallibly suggests the likeness of\na fierce and deadly combat; but when the child, or the Savage,\nobserves that the fury of the sea has its inevitable limits, the\nterror of the child or Savage is turned--true coward-fashion--into an\nunreasoning compound of hate and rage, and he as fiercely, as\nimpotently, pelts the terrible waves with the very pebbles which\nwithout effort, without consciousness, she has cast, heaps upon heaps,\nby ship loads, at every vast beat of her semi-diurnal pulse! Foaming,\nroaring, threatening, the waves rush shoreward; the boy observes that\nthough they may kiss, they cannot, at his safe stand-point, submerge\nhis delicate little feet, returns laughter for their roarings, petty\npebbles for their impotent threats.\n\nI saw a battle of this sort at Havre, in July, 1831. A little boy whom\nI took thither felt his young courage aroused and his young pride\nstung, by the loud challenges and fierce threats of the incoming\ntide, and he returned scorn for threat, feebly-thrown pebble for\nsurging and mighty wave. Greatly, aye, laughably unequal was the\nstrife between that small, white, delicate and feeble hand of the\nyoung mortal, and the vast and terrible force which cared not about\nit, feared it not, felt it not, knew it not. _Laughably_, said I? Ah!\nno inclination towards laughter remains with us when we reflect upon\nthe fleeting existence, the ephemeral and impotent fragility of our\nbest beloved, our fellows, our Maker's favored, erring, vain-glorious,\nand, in the last issue, utterly helpless Humanity, when in presence of\nthat tireless and inscrutable Eternity to which we may at any moment\nbe recalled! Such was one of my earliest glances at the Ocean; such\nthe gloomy meditations, only too truly and too sternly realized, that\nwere suggested to me by that combat between the fierce Sea upon which\nI look so often, and the glad and laughing, and buoyant child upon\nwhom, alas! I shall look, lovingly and anxiously, no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE BEACH, THE SANDS, AND THE IRON-BOUND COAST, CONTINUED.\n\n\nLook upon the Ocean where and when you may, you everywhere and alway\nshall find her the same grand and terrible teacher of that hardest of\nall the lessons man has to learn,--man's insignificance. Take your\nstand upon some bold headland, from which with earnest and well\ntrained eye, you can sweep the entire horizon; or, wander, with\nshortened ken, in the sandy desert;--go whithersoever you will, where\nold Ocean shall lash the shore, and everywhere and alway, I repeat,\nyou shall find Ocean the same--mighty and terrible. True it is, that\nour finite and dim gaze cannot discern the, humanly speaking,\n_Infinity_ of the Ocean; but we feel, we instinctively comprehend,\nthat Infinity, and the impression made by that instructive\ncomprehension is even deeper than could be made by Ocean visibly to\nour material eye, tangibly to our poor human hand.\n\nSuch, so deep, so permanent, was the impression made upon me by that\nwild tumultuous scene on the scourged-shore where Granville--dear old\nGranville!--keeps neutral watch between Normandy and Brittany. The\nwealthy, kindly and hearty, though bluff, and somewhat vulgar Normandy\nwith its vast outspread of orchard and meadow suddenly disappears,\nand, by Granville and by the frowning Saint Michel we pass all at once\ninto quite another world. For Granville, though Norman as to race, is\nthoroughly Breton as to aspect. Sternly, solidly, invincibly, the\ngreat Rock rears his defiant front, and looks down in a quite insolent\ncontempt upon the wild surges that incessantly assault, but never\nharm, that passionless and mutely mocking Titan. Let the wild winds,\nunpent from their northern caverns, sweep the rugged coast; borne on\nthe cross-currents from the angry West, let the wind sweep all things\nelse clear from its path and this stern unconquerable rock ever and\nalway saith \"thus far shalt thou come, but no farther. Strengthened\nthough you are by your mad trans-Atlantic leap of a thousand leagues,\nagainst me your fury shall be spent in vain.\"\n\nI loved that odd and somewhat dull little town, which owes its support\nto the distant and most perilous fishery. Every family there, feels\nthat it is supported by a dread game in which human life is at stake;\nand this feeling produces a certain harmonious gravity in the aspect\nand tone of the dwellers hereabout, and of all their surroundings. A\ntouching and a hallowing melancholy, that, of which I have often felt\nthe influence, when, walking on the already darkening shore or gazing\nfrom the upper town that crowns the great rock, I have seen the sun\nsink below the far and misty horizon, harshly streaked by alternate\nrays of luridness and gloom, and not pausing to tint the sky with\nthose glowing and fantastic brilliances which in other climes delight\nus. Here it is already autumn in August, and twilight scarcely exists.\nScarcely has the sun set, when the shrewd winds freshen, and the dark\ngreen waves sweep on with added force; below, you see a few spectral\nforms hurrying along in their dark cloaks, and from afar you hear the\nmelancholy bleatings of the sheep already benighted on their scanty\npasturage.\n\nThe very small upper town rears its northern front sharply and boldly\nabove the very edge of a cold dark abyss, facing the great sea, and\nswept by an eternal blast. This part of the place consists of only\npoor houses, and in one of them I found my quarters with a poor man, a\nmaker of those pretty shell pictures for which the place is famous.\nAscending by a ladder, rather than a staircase, into a dark little\nroom, I looked out upon the strange wild scene, as strange and tragic,\nas wild and impressive, as that which had presented itself, when, also\nfrom a window, I had caught my first view of the great glacier of the\nSwiss Grindelwald. The glacier had shown an enormous monster of\npeaked icebergs which seemed crashing down upon me; and this vexed sea\nof Granville seemed an army of monstrous waves all rushing together to\nthe attack.\n\nMy host here, though far from old, was feeble and suffering, and, as I\nexamined his shell work and talked with him, I perceived that his mind\nwas somewhat shaken. Poor fellow; upon that shore his only brother had\nperished, and from that moment the sea appeared to him an intelligent\nand persistent enemy. In the winter it beat his windows with snow or\nwith icy winds, and kept him sleepless and peaceless during the long\nand dreary nights, and in the summer it brought him the vivid\nlightnings and the far resounding thunders. At the high tides it was\nstill worse; the spray then beat upon his very windows, and he felt\ndoubtful if some day he would not be drowned even on his own hearth.\nBut he had not the means of finding a more secure shelter, and perhaps\nhe was unconsciously retained there by we know not what strange\nfascination. He had not resolution to break altogether with that\nterrible foe, for which he had a certain respect, as well as a great\nawe. He seldom spoke of it by name; like the Icelander who, when at\nsea, does not name the Ourque, lest she should hear, and appear. I\nfancy that even now I can see his pale face, as, pointing to the\nwave-beaten beach, he said--\"That terrifies me!\"\n\nWas he a lunatic? Not at all. He spoke quite sensibly, and was in\nreality interesting and even distinguished. A nervous being, too\ndelicately organized for such a scene as that in which he was placed.\n\nBut the sea can madden, and often does. Livingstone brought from\nAfrica a bold and intelligent man who had hunted and killed Lions, but\nhad never seen the Sea. When taken on board ship, the novel sight was\ntoo much for his brain, he became frantic, and threw himself headlong\ninto the heaving deep, which at once terrified and fascinated him. On\nthe other hand, so attached do some men become to the sea, that they\ncan never quit it. I have seen old pilots, compelled by infirmity to\nabandon their office, fret themselves into imbecility.\n\nOn the very summit of Saint Michael you are shown what they call\n_Maniac's Shelf_; and I know no place better fitted to make one mad\nthan that giddy height. All around a vast stretch of white sand,\nsolitary ever, and ever treacherous. It is neither land nor water; it\nis neither sea water nor fresh, though streams are constantly flowing\nbeneath. Rarely, and but for brief moments, a boat can cross there,\nand if you cross when the water is out you risk being swallowed in. I\ncan state that with full authority, for I nearly lost my life there. A\nvery light vehicle in which I ventured there, and the horse that drew\nit, disappeared in too, and only by a perfect miracle I escaped on\nfoot, feeling myself sinking at every step. At length, however, I\nreached the Rock, that gigantic Abbey, Fortress and Prison, that\nfrowning sublimity, so well worthy of the scene which it so sternly\ndominates. This is no place for a detailed description of such a\nmonument. On a huge block of granite, that Titanic pile rises and\nrises still, rock upon rock, age upon age, and still dungeon above\ndungeon. At the foot, the _in pace_ of the Monks; higher up, the iron\ncage made by Louis XI.; higher still, that of Louis XIV.; higher\nstill, the prison of our own day. And all this in a whirlwind, a\nperpetual tempest; a Sepulchre without the Sepulchre's peace.\n\nIs it the fault of the sea, if this beach is treacherous? Not at all.\nThere, as elsewhere, the Sea arrives strong and loud, indeed, but in\nall frankness and loyalty. The real fault is in the land, apparently\nsolid, but undermined by numberless streams of fresh water which\nconverts that seemingly solid beach into a treacherous and devouring\nquagmire. And especially is the fault in the ignorance and negligence\nof man. In the long dark ages when man invented the legend and the\npilgrimage of the Archangel who vanquished the Devil, the Devil took\npossession of that deserted plain. The sea is quite innocent in the\nmatter. Far, indeed, from doing harm, the sea upon its madly bounding\nwaves brings in a nourishing and fecundating salt more precious than\nthe fat slime of the Nile, enriching the once hideous marshes of Dol\ninto the lovely gardens of our own day. The Sea is a somewhat violent\nmother, no doubt;--but a mother still. Abounding in fish, she lavishes\nupon the opposite Cancale, and upon many another bank, millions,\nthousands of millions, of oysters, whose crushed shells give beauty,\nand verdure, and flowers, and fruit. We must enter into a right\nunderstanding with the Sea, and not be led away by the false notions\nwhich its barren beach or its own more violent phenomena--often only\nthe disguises of very real and very great benefits--may suggest to\nus.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE BEACH, THE SANDS, AND THE IRON-BOUND COAST, CONTINUED.\n\n\nThe headlands, the sandy beaches, the bold capes and the low shores,\ncommand various, but ever useful, views of the great sea, stern and\nwild at the first glance, but divine and friendly, as we come to know\nit better. The advantage of the headlands is that at the foot of one\nof those giant rock-walls we more entirely than elsewhere appreciate\nthe breathing and bounding pulse of the sea. Insensible,\nimperceptible, on the Mediterranean, that pulse is very distinct on\nthe ocean. The Ocean breathes and pulsates, even as you and I do; it\ncompels me to calculate my days and hours, and to look up to Heaven.\nIt reminds me alike of myself and of the world. Let me seat myself\nupon some such shore, that, for instance, of Antifer, whence I may\nlook out upon that vast expanse. The sea which, but a moment agone,\nseemed dead, has suddenly shuddered and become tremulous--first\nsymptom of the great approaching movement. The tide has heaved past\nCherbourg and Barfleur, and turned sharply and violently round the\nlighthouse; its divided waters lave Calvados, rush upon Havre and come\nto me at \u00c9tretat, at F\u00e9camp, at Dieppe, to hurl themselves into the\ncanal despite the strong Northern currents. It is for me to watch its\nhour. Its height, almost indifferent to the sandhills, is here, at the\nfoot of the headland, alike worthy of your attention and powerful to\ncommand it. This long rock-wall of thirty leagues has but few\nstairways. Its narrow inlets, which form our smaller havens, occur at\nrare and great distances. And at low water we can with inquiring gaze\ninspect and question the strata above strata, gigantically and\nregularly superposed, which, as so many Titanic registers, tell us the\nhistory of accumulated ages of growth and decay, of life and death.\nFrom that great open book of time every year tears away a page. We\nhave before us a piece of an hourly perishing, hourly renewing, world,\nwhich the sea from beneath is hourly devouring, and the torrents and\nthe tempests, the frosts and the thaws from above, are hourly, and\nstill more destructively, attacking. Wearing, crushing, beating,\npulverising, wave, and wind, and storm and Time, that great _Edax\nrerum_, that unsparing and untiring Moth of the Universe, are, even as\nwe gaze, converting the one vast rocky mass into the rounded and petty\npebble. It is this rough work which makes this coast, so richly\nfertile on the land side, a real maritime desert on the seaward. A\nfew, very few, sea plants survive the eternal crushing and grinding of\nthe ever crushed and ever crushing pebbles driven hither and thither\nby every wave that every wind scourges into motion. The mollusc\u00e6, and\neven the very fish shun this vexed shore. Great contrast that between\nan inland country so genial, and such a stern, rugged, threatening and\ninhospitable coast.\n\nIt is only to be seen thoroughly when looked down upon from the bold\nheadland. Below, the hard necessity of toiling over the beach, the\nsand yielding, and the pebbles round, hard, and rolling, makes the\ntask of traversing this narrow beach a real and violent gymnastic\nexercise. No; let us keep to the heights where splendid villas, noble\nwoods, the waving harvests, the delicious gardens which even to the\nvery edge of the great rocky wall, look down upon that magnificent\nchannel which separates the two shores of the two great empires of the\nworld.\n\nThe land and the sea! What more! Both, here, have a great charm;\nnevertheless, he who loves the sea for her own sake, he who is her\nfriend, her lover, will rather seek her in some less varied scene. To\nbe really intimate with her, the great sandy beaches, provided,\nalways, that they be not too soft, are far more convenient. They allow\nof such infinite strolls! They suffer us so well to build up our air\ncastles, and to meditate upon so many things; they allow us to hold\nsuch familiar and deep conference with that never silent sea! Never do\nI complain of those vast and free arenas in which others find\nthemselves so ill at ease. When there, I am never less lonely than\nwhen alone. I come, I go, I feel that ever present sea. It is there,\never there, the sublime companion; and if haply that companion be in\ngentle mood, I venture to speak, and the great companion does not\ndisdain to speak to me again. How many things have we not said to each\nother in those quiet wastes, when the crowd is away, on the limitless\nsands of Scheveningen, Ostend, Royan, and Saint Georges. There it is\nthat in long interviews we can establish some intimacy with the Sea,\nacquire some familiarity with its great speech.\n\nWhen from the towers of Amsterdam the Zuyderzee looks muddy, and when\nat the dykes of Scheveningen the leaden waves seem ready to overleap\nthe earthy mound, the Sea wears its least pleasing aspect; yet I\nconfess that this combat between land and water attracts me\nforcibly--this great invention, this mighty effort, this triumph of\nman's skill and man's labor, over the fiercest force of inanimate\nnature.\n\nAnd this sea also pleases me by the treasures of fecund life which I\nknow to abound in its dark depths. It is one of the most populous in\nthe world. On the night of St. John, when the fishery opens, you may\nsee another sea arise from the depths--the Sea of Herrings. You will\nimagine that the boundless plain of waters will prove too limited for\nthis great living upburst, this triumphant revelation of the boundless\nfecundity of Nature. Such was my first impression of this sea, and\nwhen I saw the pictures in which genius has so well marked its\nprofound character, Ruysda\u00ebl's gloomy _Estacade_ beyond any other\npainting in the Louvre has always irresistibly attracted me. Why? In\nthe ruddy tints of those phosphorescent waters, I feel not the cold of\nthe North Sea, but the fermentation, the stream, the rushing energy of\nlife.\n\nNevertheless, were I asked what coast the most grandly and powerfully\nimpresses me, I should answer, that of Brittany, especially those wild\nand sublime headlands of granite which terminate the old world at that\nbold point which dominates the Atlantic and defies the western storm\nwinds. Nowhere have I better felt than there, those lofty and\nennobling melancholies which are the best impressions of the sea.\n\nBut I must explain, here. There are different melancholies; there is a\nmelancholy of the weak, and a melancholy of the strong,--the\nmelancholy of the too sensitive souls who weep only for themselves,\nand that of the disinterested hearts, which cheerfully accept their\nown lot, and find nature ever blessing and blessed, but feel the\nevils of society, and in melancholy itself find strength for action,\nmeans for creating good or mitigating evil. Ah! what need we have, we\nof the working brain, often to strengthen our souls in that mood which\nwe may call _heroic melancholy_.\n\nWhen, some thirty years since, I paid a visit to this country, I could\nnot account for the potent attraction that it had for me. At the\nfoundation of this attractive potency of Brittany, is its great\nharmony. Elsewhere, we feel, though we cannot explain it to ourselves,\na certain discordance between the race and the soil. The very\nbeautiful Norman race, in those districts in which it is most unmixed,\nand where it retains the peculiar, ruddy complexion of the true\nScandinavian, has not the slightest apparent affinity with the\nterritory upon which it has intruded itself. In Brittany, on the\ncontrary, on the most ancient geological formation on our globe, on\nthat soil of granite and of flint, lives a race solid as that granite,\nsharp as that flint, a sturdy and antique race. Just as much as\nNormandy progresses, Brittany retrogrades. Witty, lively, and too\nimaginative, the impossible, the utterly absurd, are ever welcome to\nher. But, if wrong on many points, she is great upon a most important\none; she has character; often you may think her erroneous, but never\ncan you deem her common-place.\n\nIf we would for a time emerge from that wretched common-place, that\ndeadly liveliness, that horrible waking dream \"of stupid starers and\nof loud huzzas,\" let us seat ourselves on one of the impending and\ncommanding peaks that overlook the bay of Douarnenez,--the stern, bold\nheadland, for instance, of Penmark. Or, if the wind blow too strongly\nthere for our frame, effeminated by the late hours, the bad\natmosphere, and the hateful habits, and still more hateful passions,\nof the thronged city, let us take a quiet sail among the lower isles\nof the Morbihan, where the soft warm tide is lazy, and all but\nsoundless. Where Brittany is mild, Brittany is surpassingly mild.\nSailing among her islands and on her gentler tides, you might fancy\nyourself on Lethe; but, on the other hand, when Brittany is aroused,\nBrittany, take my word for it, is terribly strong and terribly in\nearnest!\n\nIn 1831 I felt only the sadness of that coast, not its more than\ncompensating inspiration; I was yet to learn the real character of\nthat sea. It is in the most solitary little creeks, pierced in between\nthe wildest and most rugged looking rocks, that you will find her\ntruly gay, joyous, buoyant, abounding in glad and vigorous life. Those\nrocks seem to you to be covered by you know not what greyish ashy\nasperities--look a little more closely and you perceive that that\nlayer of seeming dust is a little world of living creatures, left\nthere high and dry by the ebb of the sea, to be revived and fed again\nnext tide. There, too, you see our little stone workers, hosts upon\nhosts of those sea hedge-hogs or urchins, which M. Cailland has so\nintelligently watched and so admirably described. All this swarming\nthough minute world chooses and feels just contrariwise to our choice\nand our feeling. Beautiful Normandy terrifies them; the hard pebbles\nof the beach would crush them, and they love not, either, the\ncrumbling limestone that overhangs the more smiling shore, for they\ncare not to build where at any moment building and foundation may sink\ninto the depths forever. They love and affect only the solid rocks of\nBrittany. Let us take a lesson from them, and trust only to truth and\nnot to mere appearance. The marine life shuns precisely those\nenchanting shores whose vegetable life is the most abounding and the\nmost brilliant. They are rich, but rich only in fossils; very curious\nare they to the geologist, but they yield to him only the bones of the\ndead. The stern granite, on the contrary, looks down upon the sea\nswarming with its piscine life, and supports upon its massive breast\nthe humble, but none the less interesting little mollusc\u00e6 whose\nlaborious life makes the serious charm, the great moral of the sea.\n\nAnd yet amidst all that teeming life there is a deep silence; that\ninfinite population is ever and inevitably silent. Its life is\nself-concentrated, its labors unmarked, uncheered, by a sound; it has\nno connection with you or me--to us, that life is only another aspect\nof Death. A great and a dead solitude, says some feminine heart; it\nalarms, it saddens me.\n\nWrong! All here is lovable and friendly. These little creatures speak\nnot to the world, but they all the time are hard at work for it. They\nyield themselves up to the sublime voice of their sublime parent, the\nOcean, that speaks for them; by his great utterance, they speak,\nconfidingly, and by proxy.\n\nBetween the silent earth and the mute tribes of the sea, a great,\nstrong, grave, and sympathetic dialogue is constantly carried on--the\nharmonious agreement with the _Great I AM_, with himself and his great\nwork--that great eternal conflict which, everywhere and always, is\nLove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE FIERY AND THE WATERY CIRCLE--THE CURRENTS OF THE SEA.\n\n\nScarcely has the earth cast one glance upon herself ere she not merely\ncompares herself to the Heavens above, but vaunts her own superiority.\nGeology, the mere infant, hurls a Titanic cry against her elder\nsister, Astronomy, that haughty and splendid queen of all the\nsciences. \"Our mountains,\" exclaims Geology, \"are not _cast confusedly\nhither and thither like those stars in the sky_; our mountains form\nsystems in which are found the elements of a general and orderly\narrangement of which the celestial constellations present no trace.\"\nSuch is the bold and impassioned phrase which is uttered by a man as\nmodest as he is illustrious,--M. Elias de Beaumont. Doubtless, we have\nnot yet developed the order, which, yet, we may not doubt is great,\nwhich prevails in the seeming confusion of the Milky Way, but the more\nobvious regularity of the surface of the globe, the result of the\nrevolutions in its unfathomed and unfathomable depths, preserve\nstill, and ever will preserve, for the most ingenious science, many\nclouds and many mysteries. The forms of that great mountain, upheaved\nfrom the mighty mass of waters, which we call the Earth, shows many\narrangements which, while they are sufficiently symmetrical, are still\nnot reducible to what would seem a perfect system. The dry and\nelevated portions show themselves more or less as the waters leave\nthem bare. It is the limiting line of the sea which, in reality,\ntraces out the form of continent and of island; it is by the Sea that\nwe commence all true understanding of Geography.\n\nLet us note another fact, which has been discovered only within a few\nyears past. The Earth presents us with some seemingly antagonistic\nfeatures. The New World, for instance, stretches from north to south,\nthe Old World from east to west; the sea, on the contrary, exhibits a\ngreat harmony, an exact correspondence between the two hemispheres. It\nis in the fluid portion of our world, that portion which we have\ndeemed to be so capricious, that the greatest regularity exists. That\nwhich this globe of ours presents of the most rigidly regular, the\nmost symmetrical, is just that which appears to be most utterly free,\nmost entirely the mere sport of unrestricted motion. No doubt, the\nvertebr\u00e6 and the bones of that vast creature have peculiarities which\nwe, as yet, are not qualified to comprehend. But its living movements\nwhich cause the ocean currents, convert salt water into fresh water,\nwhich anon is converted to vapor to return again to the salt water,\nthat admirable mechanism is as perfect and systematic as the\nsanguineous circulation of the superior animals; as perfect a\nresemblance as possible to the constant transformation of your own\nvenous and arterial blood.\n\nThe world would wear quite another aspect, were we to class its\nregions, not by _chains of mountains_ but by _maritime basins_.\n\nSouthern Spain, resembles Morocco, more than Navarre; Provence,\nresembles Algeria, rather than Dauphiny; Senegambia, the Amazon,\nrather than the Red Sea; and the great valley of the Amazon, is more\nlike to the moist regions of Africa than it is to its arid neighbors,\nPeru, Chili, &c.\n\nThe symmetry of the Atlantic is still more striking in its\nunder-currents and the winds and breezes that sweep over it. Their\naction potently helps to create these analogies, and to form what we\nmay call the _fraternity of the shores_.\n\nThe principle of Geographical unity, will be more and more sought for\nin the _maritime basin_, where the waters and the winds, faithful\nintermediaries, create the relation, the assimilation, of the opposite\nshores. Far less can we ask this illustration of Geographical unity\nfrom the mountains, where two slopes frequently present to you, under\nthe same latitude, both a Flora and a population absolutely different;\non the one slope, eternal summer, on the other, eternal winter,\naccording to the aspect of each. The mountain rarely gives unity of\ncountry; far more frequently, duality, discordance, actual diversity.\n\nThis striking state of the case was first pointed out by Borg. de\nSaint Vincent, and has since, in a thousand instances, been confirmed\nby the discoveries of Maury.\n\nIn the immense valley of the sea, beneath the double mountain of the\ntwo continents, there are, strictly speaking, only two basins:--\n\n1. _The basin of the Atlantic_;\n\n2. _The great basin of the Indian Ocean, and the Pacific._\n\nWe cannot give the name of basin to the indeterminate cincture of the\ngreat Austral Ocean, which has no boundary save that on the north it\nis touched by the Indian Ocean, the Coraline and the Pacific.\n\nThe Austral Ocean alone exceeds in extent all other seas together, and\ncovers almost one-half of the entire globe. Apparently, the depth of\nthat sea is in proportion to its extent. While recent soundings of the\nAtlantic give a result of 10,000 to 12,000 feet, Ross and Denham found\nin the Southern Ocean from 14,000 to 46,000 feet. Here, too, we may\nnote the mass of the Antarctic ice, infinitely more vast than the\nArctic. We shall not be very wide of the truth, if we say that the\nsouthern hemisphere is the world of waters, the northern the world of\nland.\n\nHe who sails from Europe to cross the Atlantic, having been fortunate\nenough to get clear of our ports in which he too frequently is\nimprisoned by the westerly wind, and having cleared the variable zone\nof our capricious seas, speedily gets into the fine climate and\nconstant serenity which the N. E. breezes, the genial trade-winds,\nspread over sea and sky. Above and around, everything favors him,\neverything smiles upon him, but, as he approaches the Line, the\ninspiring breezes cease to breathe balmily upon him, and the air is\nalmost suffocating. He enters the circle of those calms which prevail\nunder the Equator, and present unchangeably their barrier between our\nnorthern trade-winds and those of the south. Heavy mists and clouds\nare all above and around him, and the tropical rains descend in mighty\ntorrents. Bitterly the seaman complains of those gloomy and deluging\nclouds, but only for their gloomy screen what scathing beams would\ndescend upon the poor dizzy heads, and be reflected in smiting power\nfrom the bright, broad mirror of the Atlantic? _But_ for those\ntorrents which fall upon the other face of our globe, the Indian Ocean\nand the sea of Coral, what would be their fermentation in the craters\nof their antique volcanoes! That dark mass of blackest clouds, once\nthe terror of the navigator and the obstacle to navigation, that\nsudden and dense night extended over those broad waters form precisely\nthe safeguard, the protecting facility which softens our passage and\nenables us, sailing southward still, to meet again the bright sun, the\nclear sky, and the balmy mildness of the regular winds.\n\nQuite naturally, quite inevitably, the heats of the Line raise the\nwaters in masses of vapor, and form that dark band, so threatening in\nappearance, but in reality so beneficent.\n\nThe observer who from some other planet could look upon our world\nwould see around her a ring of clouds not unlike the belt of Saturn.\nDid he seek the purpose and the use of that ring, he might, in reply,\nbe told--\"It is the regulator which, by turns absorbing and giving\nforth, equalizes the evaporation and fall of the waters, distributes\nthe rains and dews, modifies the heat of each country, interchanges\nthe vapors of the two worlds, and borrows from the southern world the\nrivers and streams of our northern world.\" Marvellous co-partnership\nand mutual reaction! South America, from the respiration of its vast\nforests, condensed into clouds, fraternally nourishes the flowers and\nfruits of our Europe. The air which revives and inspirits us, is the\ntribute paid by the hundred isles of Asia, exhaled by the great\nvegetation of Java or Ceylon, and entrusted to the great\ncloud-messenger that turns with the world and sheds life and freshness\nupon it.\n\nPlace yourself in imagination upon one of the many islands of the\nPacific and look to the southward. Behind New Holland you will\nperceive that the southern ocean touches with its circular wave the\ntwo extreme points of the old and the new continents. No land in that\nantarctic world; not one of those little islands or of those pretended\nPolar lands which discoverers have marked only to behold their\ndisappearance, and which probably have been but so many icebergs.\nWater, still water; water without end.\n\nFrom the same post of observation on which I have, in imagination,\nplaced you, in contrast with the great circle of antarctic waters,\nlook eastward, towards the arctic hemisphere, and you may discern what\nRitter terms the circle of fire. To speak more precisely, it is an\nopened ring, formed by the volcanoes commencing at the Cordilleras,\npassing by the heights of Asia, to the innumerable basaltic isles of\nthe eastern ocean. The first volcanoes, those of America, present, for\na length of a thousand leagues a succession of sixty gigantic Beacons\nwhose constant eruptions command the abrupt coast and the distant\nwaters. The others, from New Zealand to the North of the Philippines,\nnumber eighty still burning, and a countless host that are extinct.\nSteering northward, from Japan to Kamschatka, fifty flaming craters\ndispense their ruddy lights far away to the gloomy seas of the Arctic.\nIn the whole, there is a circle of three hundred active volcanoes\naround the eastern world.\n\nOn the other front of the globe, our Atlantic Ocean presented a\nsimilar appearance, prior to the revolutions which extinguished most\nof the volcanoes of Europe and annihilated the continent of the\nAtlantis. Humboldt believes that that great ruin, only too strongly\nattested by tradition, was only too real. I may venture to add that\nthe existence of that continent was in logical concordance with the\ngeneral symmetry of the world, for that face of the globe was thus\nharmonized with the other. There rose, with the volcano of Teneriffe,\nwhich alone remains of them, and with our extinct volcanoes of\nAuvergne, of the Rhine, &c., those which were to destroy Atlantis.\nAltogether, they formed the counterpoise of the volcanoes of the\nAntilles, and other American craters.\n\nFrom these burning or extinct volcanoes of India and the Antilles, of\nthe Cuban and the Javanese seas proceed two enormous streams of hot\nwater, which are to warm the north, and which we may fitly term the\naort\u00e6 of the world. They are provided, beside or beneath, with their\ntwo counter currents which, flowing from the north, bring cold water\nto compensate the flow of hot water and preserve the balance. To the\ntwo streams of hot water which are extremely salt, the cold currents\nadminister a mass of fresher water which returns to the equator, the\ngreat electric furnace, where it is heated and made salt.\n\nThese streams of hot water, narrow at first, some twenty leagues in\nbreadth, long preserve their force and their identity, but by degrees\nthey grow weaker as they widen ultimately to about a thousand leagues.\nMaury estimates that the hot water stream which flows from the\nAntilles in a northernly course towards us displaces and modifies a\nfourth part of the waters of the Atlantic. These great features in the\nlife of the seas, noticed only recently, were, however, as visible as\nthe continents themselves. Our great Atlantic and her sister, the\nIndian artery, proclaim themselves by their color. In each case it is\na great blue torrent which traverses the green waters; so darkly blue\nis this torrent, that the Japanese call theirs the _black river_. Ours\nis very clearly seen, as it leaps boilingly from the Gulf of Mexico,\nbetween Cuba and Florida, and flows west, salt, and distinguishable\nbetween its two green walls. In vain does the Ocean press upon it, on\neither side, it still flows on, unbroken. By I know not what intrinsic\ndensity, or molecular attraction, these blue waters are so firmly held\ntogether, that, rather than admit the green water, they rear their\ncentre into an arch, and they thus slope to the right and to the left,\nso that anything thrown into them rolls off into the ocean. Rapid and\nstrong, this Gulf stream at first flows towards the north, along the\nshores of the United States; but, on reaching the great bank of\nNewfoundland, its right arm sweeps off to the eastward, while the left\narm, as an under current, hastens to create, towards the Pole, the\nrecently discovered open sea where all else around is fast frozen. The\nright arm spreading out, and proportionately weakened, at length\nreaches Europe, touches Ireland and England, which again divide the\nwaters previously divided at Newfoundland. Weaker and weaker, it yet\ncarries a little warmth to Norway, and carries American woods to that\npoor Iceland which, but for them, would die frozen beneath the very\nfires of her volcano.\n\nThe Indian and the American streams have this in common, that,\nstarting from the Line, from the electric centre of the globe, they\ncarry with them immense powers of creation and agitation. On the one\nhand they seem the deep and teeming womb of a whole world of living\ncreatures; on the other hand, they are the centre and the vehicle of\ntempests, whirlwinds, and water spouts. So much nursing gentleness and\nso much destroying fury; have we not here a great contradiction? No,\nit proves only that the fury disturbs only the exterior and not any\nconsiderable depths. The weakest creatures, shelled atomies, the\nmicroscopic medus\u00e6, fluid creatures that a mere touch dissolves,\navailing themselves of the same current, sail, in all safety, though\nthe tempest is loud and fierce right above them. Few of them reach our\nshores; they are met at Newfoundland by the cold stream from the Pole,\nwhich slays them by myriads. Newfoundland is the very bone-house of\nthese frost-stricken voyagers. The lightest remain in suspension, even\nafter death; but at length sink, like snowy showers to the depths,\nwhere they deposit those banks of shells which extend from Ireland to\nAmerica.\n\nMurray calls the Indian and American streams of hot water, _the two\nMilky Ways of the sea_.\n\nSo similar in color, heat, direction, and describing precisely the\nsame curve, they yet have not the same destiny. The American, at the\nvery outset, enters an inclement sea, the Atlantic, which, open to the\nNorth, bears down the floating army of icebergs from the Pole, and it\nthus early parts with much of its heat. The Indian stream, on the\ncontrary, first circulating among the isles, reaches a closed sea well\nprotected from the North, and thus for a long time preserves its\noriginal heat, electric and creative, and traces upon our globe an\nenormous train of life.\n\nIts centre is the apogee of terrestrial energy, in vegetable\ntreasures, in monsters, in spices, in poisons. From the secondary\ncurrents which it gives off, and which flow towards the North,\nresults another world, that of the Sea of Coral. There, says Maury,\nover a space as large as the four continents the polypes are\nindustriously building thousands of islands, shoals, and reefs, which\nare gradually studding and dividing that sea; shoals which at present\nare the annoyance and the dread of the mariner, but which will at\nlength rise to the surface, join together to form a continent, which,\nsome day--who knows? may be the refuge of the human race, when flood,\nor fire, or earthquake, leave it no other shelter.\n\nJohn Reynaud in his fine article in the _Encyclopedie_, remarks that\nour world is not solitary. The infinitely complicated curve which it\ndescribes represents the forces, the various influences, which act\nupon her, and bear testimony to her connection and communication with\nthe great luminaries of the Heavens.\n\nThat connection and communication are especially visible with the Sun\nand Moon; the latter, though the servant of earth, has none the less\npower over her. As the flowers of the earth turn their heads sunward,\nso does the flower-bearing earth aspire towards him. In her most\nmovable portion, her immense fluid mass, she raises herself and gives\nvisible token of feeling his attraction. She rises as far as she can\nand swelling her bosom twice a day gives, at least, a sigh to the\nfriendly stars.\n\nDoes not our earth feel the attraction of yet other globes? Are her\ntides ruled only by the sun and moon? All the learned world say it,\nall seamen believe it; thence terrible errors resulting in shipwrecks.\nAt the dangerous shallows of Saint Malo the error amounted to eighteen\nfeet. It was in 1839 that Chazallan, who nearly lost his life through\nthese errors, began to discover and calculate the secondary, but\nconsiderable undulations which, under various influences, modify the\ngeneral tide. Stars less dominant than the sun and moon have,\ndoubtless, their share in producing the alternate rise and fall of the\nwaters of our globe. But under what law do they produce this effect?\nChazallan tells us;--\"the undulation of the tide in a port _follows\nthe law of vibrating chords_.\" A serious and suggestive sentence,\nthat, which leads us to comprehend that the mutual relations of the\nstars are the mathematical relations of the celestial music, as\nantiquity affirmed.\n\nThe earth, by great and secondary tides, speaks to the planets, her\nsisters. Do they reply to her? We must think so. From their fluid\nelements they also must rise, sensible to the rise of the waters of\nthe earth. The mutual attraction, the tendency of each star to emerge\nfrom egotism, must cause sublime dialogues to be heard in the skies.\nUnfortunately the human ear can hear but the least part of them. There\nis another point to be considered. It is not at the very moment of\nthe passing of the influential planet that the sea yields to its\ninfluence. She is in no such servile haste to obey; she must have time\nto feel and obey the attraction. She has to call the idle waters to\nherself, to vanquish their inert force, to attract, to draw to her\nthe most distant. The rotation of the world, too, so terribly\nrapid, is incessantly displacing the points subjected to the\nattractive power. To this we must add that the great army of waves\nin its combined motion has to encounter all the opposition of natural\nobstacles,--islands, capes, straits, the various curvings of shores,\nand the no less potent obstacles of winds, currents, and the rapid\ndescent of mountain torrents, swelled by the melted snows;--these, and\na thousand other unforseen accidents occur, to alter the regular\nmovement into terrible strife. The ocean yields not. The display of\nstrength which is made by broad and swift rivers cannot intimidate\nhim. The waters, that the rivers pour down upon him, he heaps them up\ninto mountainous masses and drives them back so violently that he\nseems bent on forcing them to the summits of the mountains from whence\nthey have descended.\n\nObstacles thus numerous and various cause apparent tidal\nirregularities, which at once impress and confuse our minds. None of\nthose irregularities is more surprising than the difference of their\ntime between two quite closely neighboring ports. One Havre tide, for\ninstance, equals two of Dieppe,--as is mentioned by Chazallon, Baude,\n&c. It is greatly to the honor of human genius to have subjected\nphenomena so complex to even proximately accurate calculation and\npositive laws.\n\nBut beneath these exterior movements, the sea has others within; those\nunder currents by which she is traversed in various directions and at\nvarying depths. Superposed at different depths, or flowing laterally\nin opposite directions, hot currents in one direction, cold counter\ncurrents in another, they, between them, keep up the circulation of\nthe sea, the exchange of salt and fresh waters, and the alternating\npulsation which is the result. The hot _pulse-beat_ is from the line\nto the pole; the cold, from the pole to the line. Shall we be\nwarranted in saying, as it has sometimes been said, that these\ncurrents so distinct and unmingling, may be strictly compared to the\nvessels, veins and arteries, of the superior animals? Strictly\nspeaking, we cannot so compare them; but they have considerable\nresemblance to the less determinate circulation which materialists\nhave lately discovered in some inferior creatures, as molluscs and\nannelides. That _lacunary_ circulation supplies the want of, and at\nthe same time prepares, the _vascular_; the blood flows in currents\nbefore it has precise channels.\n\nSuch is the sea. She resembles a vast animal that has stopped short at\nthe first degree of organization. Who has developed the currents,\nthose regular fluctuation of the abysses into which we never descend?\nWho has taught us the geography of those dark waters? Those that live\nwithin or float upon those waters;--animals and vegetables. We shall\nsee how the huge whale and the minute shelled atomies, how even the\nwoods of America, floating to bleak Iceland, have concurred in\nrevealing the flow of hot water from the Antilles to Europe, and the\ncounter current of cold meeting it at Newfoundland, passing it beside\nor below, and thus getting its ices melted into immense fogs.\n\nA vast cloud of red animalcules, carried by a tempest from Orinoco to\nFrance, explained the great a\u00ebrial current of the Southwest which\nbrings to our Europe the rains that have their birth place in the far\nCordilleras of South America.\n\nBut for the constant change of waters which is made by the currents in\nthe depths of the sea, she would, in parts, be filled up with salt,\nsands, animal and vegetable remains and the like detritus. It would be\nanother case of the Dead Sea, which, for want of movement, has its\nbanks loaded with salt, its vegetation incrusted with salt, and the\nvery winds that cross its surface, burning, withering, breathing only\nof famine and of death.\n\nAll the scattered observations upon currents of the air and of the\nwater, the seasons, the winds and the tempests, were long confined to\nthe memory of the fishermen and sailors, and too frequently died with\nthem. Meteorology, that guide of navigation, for want of being\nsystematized and centralized seemed vain, and was even denied rank and\nusefulness as a science. The illustrious M. Biot, demanded a strict\naccount of the little that she had yet done. However, upon the two\nopposite shores of Europe and America, persevering men founded that\nneglected and denied science upon the basis of observation.\n\nThe latest and most celebrated of these observers, Maury the American,\ncourageously undertook what a whole administration had recoiled from,\nviz., to extract from and arrange the contents of I know not what\nmultitude of log books, those often confused and ill-kept records of\nthe sea captains. These extracts, reduced into tables under regular\nheads, gave, in the result, rules and generalities. A congress of\nseamen assembled at Bruxelles decided that the observations,\nhenceforth to be logged with more care, shall be sent from all parts\nto the observatory at Washington. A noble compliment, that, paid by\nEurope to young America and her patient and ingenious Maury, the\nlearned poet of the sea. He has not only summed up and exemplified her\nlaws; he has done much more, for, by the force of heart and by the\nlove of nature as much as by positive results, he has carried the\nwhole world with him. His charts and his first work, of which a\nhundred and fifty thousand copies were printed, are liberally\ndistributed to sailors of all nations by the United States government.\nA number of eminent men in France and in Holland, Tricot, Jullien,\nMargole, Zurcher, and others, have made themselves the interpreters,\nthe eloquent missionaries, of this apostle of the sea.\n\nWhy is it that in this matter America, so young, has outstripped\nEurope, so old? It is precisely because she is young, and burning with\na desire to be in close connection with the whole globe. Upon her\nsuperb continent and in the midst of so many states, she yet deems\nherself solitary. So far from her European brother, she looks towards\nthat centre of civilization as the earth looks toward the sun, and\nwhatever seems to draw her into closer and more familiar connection\nwith the grand old world, thrills her in every nerve. We have abundant\nproof of that from the joy, the intoxication, the perfect frenzy with\nwhich she hailed the completion of the submarine telegraph which\njoined the two distant shores, and promised that they should\ncommunicate within the brief space of minutes, in such wise that the\ntwo worlds should have but one thought.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTEMPESTS.\n\n\nIt is with a very real and masterly genius that Maury has demonstrated\nthe harmony that exists between air and water. As is the maritime\nocean, so is the a\u00ebrial ocean. Their alternating movements and the\nexchange of their elements are precisely analogous. The a\u00ebrial ocean\ndistributes heat over the world and making dryness or humidity. The\nlatter, the air draws from the seas, from the infinity of the central\nocean, and especially at the tropics, the great boilers of the\nuniversal cauldron. Dryness, on the contrary, the air acquires as it\nsweeps over the arid deserts, the great continents, and the glaciers\n(those true intermediate poles of the globe), which draw out its last\ndrop of moisture from it. The heating at the equator and the cooling\nagain at the pole, alternating the weight and lightness of the vapors,\ncause them to cross each other in horizontal currents and counter\ncurrents; while under the line the heat which lightens the vapors\ncreates perpendicular currents, ascending from sea to sky. Previous to\ndispersing they hover in this misty region, forming, as it were, a\nring of clouds around the globe.\n\nHere, then, we have pulsations both maritime and a\u00ebrial, different\nfrom the pulse of the tide. This latter was external, impressed by\nother planets upon ours, but this pulse of various currents is\ninherent in the earth, it is her own veritable life.\n\nTo my taste, one of the finest things in Maury's book, is what he says\nof salt: \"The most obvious agent in producing maritime circulation,\nheat, would not alone suffice; there is another and a no less\nimportant agent, nay, an even more important--it is salt.\"\n\nSo abundant is salt in the sea that if it could be cast on shore it\nwould form a mountain 4,500 feet thick.\n\nThough the saltness of the sea does not vary very greatly, it yet, is\naugmented or diminished somewhat, according to locality, currents and\nproximity to the equator or to the poles. As it is more or less\nsalted, the sea is lighter or heavier, and more or less mobile. This\ncontinued, with its variations, causes the water to run more or less\nswiftly, that is to say, _causes currents_, so like the horizontal\ncurrents in the bosom of the sea and the vertical currents from the\nsea of water upward to the sea of air.\n\nA French writer, M. Lartique, has ingeniously corrected some\ndeficiences and inexactitudes in M. Maury's great work \"Maritime\nAnnals.\" But the American author had anticipated criticism by frankly\npointing out where and why he thought his work and his science\nincomplete. On some points distinctly confining himself to hypothesis,\nat times he shows himself uncertain, and anxious. His frank and candid\nbook quite plainly reveals the mental struggle which the author\nundergoes between _biblical literalism_ and the modern sentiment the\n_sympathy of nature_. The former makes the sea a thing, created by God\nat once, a machine turning under his hand, while the latter sees in\nthe sea a living force, almost a person, in which the Loving Soul of\nthe World, is creating still, and ever will create.\n\nIt is curious to observe, how, by degrees, as it were by irresistible\nproclivity, Maury approaches this latter view. As far as possible he\nexplains himself mechanically, by weight, heat, density, &c. But this\ndoes not suffice, and for certain cases he adds a certain molecular\nattraction or a certain magnetic action. But even this does not\nsuffice, and then he has recourse to the physiological laws which\ngovern life. He attributes to the sea a pulse, veins, arteries, and\neven a heart. Are these mere forms of style, simple comparisons? Not\nso; he has in him--and it is one source of his strength--an imperious,\nan irresistible feeling of the personality of the sea. Before him the\nsea was to most seamen a thing; to him it is a person, a violent and\nterrible mistress whom we must adore, but must also subdue.\n\nHe loves, he deeply loves the sea; but on the other hand, he every\nmoment thinks it necessary to restrain his enthusiasm and to keep\nwithin bounds. Like Levammerdam, Baunet and many other illustrious men\nat once philosophical and religious, he seems to fear that in\nexplaining nature too completely by her own phenomena we show\ndisrespect to Nature's God. Surely, a very ill founded timidity. The\nmore we exhibit the universality of life,--the more we confess our\nadoration of the great soul of the universe. Where would be the danger\nwere it proven that the sea in her constant aspiration towards\norganized existence is the most energetic form of the Eternal Desire\nwhich formerly evoked this globe and still creates in it?\n\nThis salt sea, like blood, which has its circulation, its pulse, and\nits heart (for so Maury terms the equator) in which its two bloods are\nexchanged, is it quite sure that an entity that has all these is a\nmere thing, an inorganic element?\n\nLook at a great clock, or a steam engine which imitates almost exactly\nthe movement of the vital forces. Is that a freak of nature? Should we\nnot far rather imagine that in these masses there is a mixture of\nanimality?\n\nOne immense fact that he exhibits, but only secondarily, and as it\nwere in a mere side view, is that the infinite life of the ocean, the\nmyriads upon myriads of beings which it at every moment makes and\ndestroys, absorb its various salts to form their flesh, their shells,\n&c., &c. They thus, by depriving the water of its salt, render it\nlighter, and, by so much, aid in producing currents. In the potent\nlaboratories of animal organization, as those of the Indian ocean and\nthe Coraline, that force, elsewhere less remarkable, appears as what\nit really is--immense.\n\n\"Each of these imperceptibles,\" says Maury, \"changes the equilibrium\nof the ocean, they harmonize and compensate it.\" But is this saying\nenough? Should they not be the grand moving powers which have created\nthe currents of the sea, put the immense machine into motion?\n\nWho knows whether this vital _circulus_ of the marine animality is not\nthe starting point of all physical _circulus_? If animalized sea does\nnot give the eternal impulse to the animalizable sea--not organized,\nindeed, as yet, but aspiring to be so, and already fermenting with\napproaching life?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTEMPESTS.\n\n\nThere are occasional commotions of the sea, which Maury, in his\nforcible way, calls \"the Sea's _spasms_.\" He especially alludes to the\nsudden movements which appear to proceed from below, and which in the\nAsiatic seas are often equivalent to a genuine tempest. These sudden\noutbursts are attributed to various causes, as: 1st, the violent\ncollision of two tides or currents; 2nd, the sudden superabundance of\nrain water on the sea's surface; 3rd, the breaking up and sudden\nmelting of the icebergs, &c. To these causes, some authors add the\nhypothesis of electric movements and volcanic submarine heavings.\n\nIt seems probable, however, that the depths of the great mass of the\nwaters are quite peaceable; were it otherwise, the sea would be\nunfitted for her office of nursing-mother to her myriads upon myriads\nof living beings. If these occasional commotions, so violent at the\nsurface, were equally so at the bottom of the sea, what could preserve\nthe nurslings of that great nursery where a whole world of delicate\ncreatures more fragile even than those of our earth, are cradled in\nand nourished by its waters? The myriad-life of the Ocean assures us\nthat these violent commotions cannot be common in its depths.\n\nNaturally, the great sea is of great general regularity; subject to\ngreat periodical and uniform movements. Tempests are the occasional\nand transient violences into which the sea is lashed by the winds, by\nelectric power, or by certain violent crises of evaporation. They are\nthe mere accidents which reveal themselves on the surface, but tell us\nnothing about the real, the mysterious personality of the sea. It\nwould be sad reasoning were we to judge of a human temperament by the\nravings of a brain-fevered man; and by what better right do we judge\nthe sea on account of the momentary and merely superficial movements\nwhich probably do not make themselves felt to the depth of a very few\nhundred feet? Everywhere that the sea is very deep, we may fairly\nassume that she is constantly calm, ever producing, ever nourishing,\nher quite literally countless brood. She takes no note of those petty\naccidents which occur only at the surface. The mighty hosts of her\nchildren that live, as we cannot too often repeat, in the depths of\nher peaceful night, and rise at the most only once a year within the\ninfluence of light and storm must love their great, calm, prolific\nmother as Harmony itself.\n\nBut these surface-disturbances of the great mother Ocean have too\nserious a bearing upon the life of man, to allow of his sparing any\npains towards obtaining a thorough comprehension of them. And to\nobtain that comprehension is no easy matter; in making the necessary\nobservations, the boldest of us is a little apt to lose his cool\npresence of mind. Even the most serious descriptions give only vague\nand general features, scarcely anything of the marked individuality\nwhich makes every tempest a thing of originality, a thing _sui\ngeneris_, the unforeseen result of a thousand unknown circumstances,\npotent in their influence, but obscure far beyond our power of search.\nHe who safely gazes from his safe watch-tower on the shore, may, no\ndoubt, see more clearly, as he is not distracted by his own danger.\nBut for that very reason, he cannot so well appreciate the tempest in\nits grand and terrible entirety, as he can who is in the very centre\nof its rage and of its power, and looks in every direction upon that\nterrible panorama!\n\nWe mere landsmen are indebted to the bold navigators for at least the\ncourtesy of giving what old Chaucer calls \"faith and full credence\" to\nwhat they tell us about what they have actually seen and suffered. It\nseems to me that there is exceedingly bad taste in that sceptical\nlevity which men of the study, those stay-at-home travellers\noccasionally exhibit in their criticisms of what seamen tell us, for\ninstance, about the height of the waves. They laugh at the seaman who\ntells us of waves a hundred feet in height. Engineers affect to be\nable to measure the tempest, and to assure us that twenty feet is the\nutmost height of a wave. On the other hand, an excellent observer\nassures us, on the testimony of his own sight, that standing in safety\non the shore, observing calmly, and in absence of all distraction, he\nhas seen waves that would overtop the towers of Notre Dame, and the\nheights of Montmartre. It is abundantly evident that these opposing\nwitnesses speak of two totally different things; and hence their flat\ncontradiction. If we speak of the lower bed of the tempest, of those\nlong bowling waves which even in their fury preserve a certain\nregularity, probably the calculation of the engineers is pretty exact.\nWith their rounded crests alternating with depressed valleys, it is\nlikely enough that their utmost height does not greatly exceed twenty\nor five-and-twenty feet. But your chopping sea, where cross wave\nfuriously hurls itself against cross wave, rises far higher. In their\nfierce collision they hurl each other to a quite prodigious height,\nand fall with a crushing weight, assailed by which the stoutest craft\nwould open her seams, and go bodily down into the dark depths of the\nangry sea. Nothing so heavy as sea water, in those mighty shocks,\nthose enormous falls of which sailors truthfully speak, and of which\nnone but those who have witnessed them, can calculate the tremendous\ngreatness and power.\n\nOn a certain day, not of tempest but of emotion, when old Ocean\nindulged only in wild and graceful gaieties, I was tranquilly seated\nupon a beautiful headland of some eighty feet in height, and I enjoyed\nmyself in watching the waves as upon a line of a quarter of a league\nthey rushed in as if to assail my rocky seat, the green crest of each\nwave rounding and rearing, wave urging wave as though in actual and\nintelligent racing. Now and then a sea would strike so that my very\nheadland seemed to tremble, and burst as with a thunder clap at my\nvery feet. Advancing, retiring, returning, breaking, the wildly\nsportive waves were for a long time quite admirably regular in their\nmovements. But on a sudden this regularity was at an end. Some wild\ncross wave from the west suddenly struck my great regular and hitherto\nwell behaved wave from the south. Such was the crash that in an\ninstant the very sky above me was darkened by the blinding spray; and\non my lofty promontory I was covered, not with the many colored and\nfleeting mist, but with a huge, dark, massive wave, which fell on me,\nheavy, crushing, and thoroughly saturating. Ah! Just then I should\nvery much have liked the company of those very learned Academicians\nand ultra positive Engineers, who are so well posted up in the combats\nof the Ocean, and so very certain that the utmost height of a wave is\njust twenty feet! No; tranquilly seated in our studies we should _not_\nlightly question the veracity of so many bold, hardy, and resolved\nmen, who have looked Death in the face too often to be guilty of the\nchildish vanity of exaggerating the dangers which they have often\nbraved--and are ready to brave again. Nor should we ever oppose the\ncalm narratives of ordinary navigators on the great and well known\ncourses to the animated and often thrilling pictures occasionally\npresented to us by the bold discoverers who seek the very reefs and\nshoals which the common herd of sailors so carefully avoid. Cook,\nPeron, Durville--discoverers such as these incurred very real dangers\nin the then unfrequented Australian and Coraline seas, compelled as\nthey were to dare the continually shifting sand bank, and the\nconflicting currents which raise such frightful commotions in the\nnarrow channels.\n\n\"Without tempest, with only rollers to deal with, and with a moderate\nwind right abaft, a cross wave will give your craft such a shock, that\nthe ship's bell will strike, and if these big rollers with their\nsweeping motion, continue for any time, your masts will go by the\nboard, your seams will open--you will be a wreck.\" So says the\nexperienced Durville--gallant sailor, if ever there was one. And he\ntells us that he has himself seen waves from eighty to a hundred feet\nhigh. \"These waves,\" he says, \"only boarded us with their mere crests,\nor the craft must have been swamped. As it was she staggered, and then\nfor an instant stood still, as though too terrified to understand what\nwas the matter. The men upon the deck were for moments completely\nsubmerged. For four long hours that night this horrible chaos endured;\nand those hours seemed an eternity to turn one's hair grey. Such are\nthe southern tempests, so terrible that even ashore the natives have a\npresentiment of their approach, and shelter themselves in caves.\"\n\nHowever exact and interesting these descriptions may be, I do not care\nto copy them; still less would I be bold enough to invent descriptions\nof what I have not seen. I will only speak briefly about tempests\nwhich I have seen, and which have, as I believe, taught me the\ndifferent characteristics of the Ocean and the Mediterranean.\n\nDuring half a year that I passed at about two leagues from Genoa, on\nthe prettiest shore in the world, at Nervi, I had in that sheltered\nspot but one little sudden tempest, but while it lasted it raged with\na quite wonderful fury. As I could not, quite so well as I wished,\nwatch it from my window, I went out and along the narrow lanes that\nseparate the palaces, I ventured down, not indeed, to the beach, for\nin reality, there is none worthy the name, but to a ledge of black,\nvolcanic rock, which forms the shore, a narrow path, often not\nexceeding three feet in width, and as often overhanging the sea at\nvarying heights of from thirty up to sixty feet. One could not see far\nout; the spray continually raised by the whirlwind, drew the curtain\ntoo closely too allow of one's seeing far, or seeing much, but all\nthat was to be seen was sufficiently frightful. The raggedness, the\nsalient and cutting angles, of this iron-bound coast, compelled the\ntempest to make incredible efforts, to take tremendous leaps, as,\nfoaming and howling, it broke upon the pitiless rocks. The tumult was\nabsurd, mad; there was nothing connected, nothing regular; discordant\nthunders were mingled or followed by sharp shrill shrieks, like those\nof the steam engine; piercing shrieks, against which one only in vain\ntried to stop his ears. Stunned by this wild scene, which assailed\nsight and hearing at once, I steadied myself against a projecting wall\nof rock, and thus comparatively sheltered, I was better able to study\nthe grandly furious strife. Short and chopping were the waves, and the\nfiercest of the strife was on this side where the sea broke on the\nragged, yet sharply pointed rocks, as they rose boldly above, and ran\nout far beneath the waves, in long, shelving, reefs. The eye, as well\nas the ear was vexed, for a blinding snow was falling, its dazzling\nwhiteness heightened by contrast with the dark waves into which it\nfell.\n\nOn the whole, I felt that the Sea had less to do than the land in\nrendering the scene terrible; it is exactly the contrary on the\nOcean.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nTHE STORM OF OCTOBER, 1859.\n\n\nThe storm, which of all storms, I had the best opportunity of\nobserving, was that which swept in fury over the west of France, from\nthe 24th of October 1859, to the 31st of the same month, the\nimplacable and indefatigable storm, which, with but few and very short\nintervals, raged furiously for six days and six nights, and strewed\nour whole western coasts with wrecks. Both before and after that\nstorm, the barometer indicated great disturbances, and the telegraphic\ncommunications were cut off by the breaking of the wires, or the\nmagnetic falsifications. Very hot seasons had preceded this tempest,\nbut it brought us a succession of very different weather; rainy, and\ncold. Even 1860, up to the very day on which I write these lines, is\nmarked by heavy rain storms, and cold winds from the west, and south,\nwhich seem to bring us all the rains of the Atlantic, and of the great\nSouth Sea.\n\nI watched this tempest from a spot so smiling and peaceful that\ntempest was the last thing that one would anticipate there. I speak of\nthe little port of Saint George, near Royan, just at the entrance of\nthe Gironde. I had passed an exceedingly quiet five months there,\nmeditating what I should say on the subject which I had treated upon\nin 1859; that subject at once so serious and so delicate. The place\nand the book are alike filled with memories very agreeable to me.\nCould I have written that book in any other place? I know not; but one\nthing is quite certain: the wild perfume of that country; its aspect,\nat once staid and gentle, and the vivifying odors of its Brooms, that\npungent and agreeable shrub of the Landes, had much to do with that\nbook, and will ever be associated with it in my thought.\n\nThe people of the place are well matched with its aspect and its\nnature. No vulgarity, no coarseness, among them. The farming\npopulation are grave in manner, and moral in speech and conduct, and\nthe seagoing population, consists, for the most part, of pilots, a\nlittle band of Protestants, escaped from persecution. All around, too,\nthere is an honesty so primitive that locks and bolts are absolutely\nunknown there. Noise and violence are utterly out of the question\namong people who are modest and reserved, as seamen seldom are, and\nwho have a quiet and retiring tact not always to be found among a far\nmore pretentious and highly placed people. Though well known to and\nwell respected by them, I yet enjoyed all the solitude which study and\nlabor demanded. I was all the more interested in these people and\ntheir perils. Without speaking to them, I daily and hourly watched\nthem in their heroic labors, and heartily wished them both safety and\nsuccess. I was suspicious of the weather, and looking upon the\ndangerous channel, I often asked myself whether the sea, so long\ngentle and lovely, would not, sooner or later, show us quite another\ncountenance.\n\nThis really dangerous place has nothing sad or threatening in its\naspect. Every morning, from my window, I could watch the white sails,\nslightly ruddied by the morning beams, of quite a fleet of small\ncoasters, that only waited for a wind to leave the little port. At\nthis port, the Gironde is fully nine miles wide. With some of the\nsolemnity of the great rivers of America, it combines the gaiety of\nBourdeaux. Royan is a pleasure place, a bathing town which is resorted\nto by all Gascony. Its bay, and the adjoining one of St. George, are\ngratuitously regaled with the wild pranks of the porpoises, that\nboldly venture into the river, and into the very midst of the bathers,\nleaping, at once heavily and gracefully, six feet, and more, above the\nsurface of the water. It would seem that they are profoundly convinced\nof the fact, that no one thereabout is addicted to fishing; that at\nthat point of great daring and great labor, where from hour to hour\nall hands may be called upon to succor some imperilled vessel, folks\nwill scarcely care to slay the poor Porpoise, for his oil.\n\nTo this gaiety of the waters, add the especially harmonious beauty of\nthe two shores, as the abounding vineyards of Medoc look across to the\nvaried culture of the fertile fields of Saintonge. The sky, here, has\nnot the fixed, and sometimes rather monotonous beauty of the\nMediterranean, but, on the contrary, is very changeable. From the\nmingling waters of sea and river, rise variegated mists, which cast\nback upon the watery mirror, strange gleamings of gorgeous coloring,\nrod, blue, deepest orange, and most delicately pale green. Fantastic\nshapes, \"a moment seen, then gone for ever,\" \"appearing only to\ndepart, and seen only to be regretted,\" adorn the entrance to the\nOcean with strange monuments of bold collonades, sublime bridges, and,\noccasionally, triumphal arches.\n\nThe two crescent-shaped shores of Royan and Saint Georges, with their\nfine sands afford to the most delicate feet a delightful promenade of\nwhich one does not easily grow tired, tempted, and regaled as we are\nby the perfume of the pines which so enliven the downs with their\nyoung verdure. The fine promontories which overlook these shores, and\nthe sandy inland downs send near and far their healthful perfumes.\nThat which predominates on the downs has a something of medicinal, a\nmingled odor, which seems to concentrate all the sun and the warmth of\nthe sands. The inland heaths furnish the more pungent odors which stir\nthe brain and cheer the heart; thyme, and wild thyme, and marjoram,\nand sage which our fathers held sacred for its many virtues, and\npeppermint, and, above all, the little wild violet, exhale a mingled\nodor surpassing all the spicy odors of the far East.\n\nIt seems to me that on these heaths the birds sing more beautifully\nthan elsewhere. Never have I heard elsewhere such a lark as I listened\nto in July on the promontory of Valli\u00e8re, as she rose higher and\nhigher, her dark wings gilded and glinting in the rays of the fast\nsetting sun. Her notes coming from a height of probably a thousand\nfeet were as sweet as they must needs have been powerful. It was to\nher humble nest, to her upward gazing and listening nestlings that she\nevidently sang her \"wood notes wild,\" her song at once so rustic and\nso sublime, in which one might fancy that she translated into harmony\nthat glorious sunlight in which she hovered, and called to her\nnestlings--\"Come up hither my little ones, come!\"\n\nOut of all these, perfumes and song, soft air, and sea made mild by\nthe waters of the beautiful river, proceeded an infinitely agreeable,\nthough not very brilliant harmony. The moon shone with a softened\nlight, the stars were quite visible, but not very bright, and the\natmosphere so mild and pleasant, that it would have been voluptuous,\nthat whole scene and its accessories had there not mingled with all a\nsomething, which made one reflect, and substituted active thought for\nluxuriously idle reverie.\n\nAnd why so? Do those shifting sands, those many colored and varying\nhues of the downs, and that crumbling and fossiliferous limestone\nremind you of the eternal change, that one only rule which here on\nearth has no exception? Or, is it the silent but undying memory of the\npersecuted Protestants? It is also, and in still greater power, the\nsolemnity of the roadstead, the frequency of wrecks, the near\nneighborhood of the most terrible of seas, by which the interior\nbecomes so serious, so suggestive of great and solemn thought.\n\nA great mystery is being enacted here, a treaty, a marriage infinitely\nmore important than any human and royal nuptials; a marriage of\ninterest between ill matched spouses. The lady of the waters of the\nsouth-west, swelled and quickened by Tarn and Dordogne and by those\nfierce brethren the torrents of the Pyrenees, hastens, that amiable\nand sovereign Gironde, to present herself to her giant spouse, old\nOcean, here, more than elsewhere, stern and repulsive. The mud banks\nof the Charente and the long line of sands which, for fifty leagues,\noppose him, put him in bad humor; and when he cannot hurtle fiercely\nagainst Bayonne and Saint Jean de Luz, he pitilessly assaults the poor\nGironde. Her outlet is not like that of the Seine, between sheltering\nshores; she falls at once into the presence of the open and limitless\nocean. Generally, he repels her; she recoils to the right and to the\nleft, and seeks shelter in the marshes of Saintonge, or among the\nMedoc vineyards to whose vines she imparts the cool and sober\nqualities of her own waters.\n\nAnd now imagine the boldness of the men who throw themselves headlong\ninto the strife between two such spouses; who go in the frail boat to\nthe aid of the timorous craft who wait at the mouth of the pass afraid\nto venture in. Such is the boldness of my pilots here; a boldness at\nonce so modest, so heroic, so glorious, could it but be fully\ndescribed.\n\nIt is easy to understand that the old monarch of shipwrecks, the\nantique treasurer and guardian of so much submerged wealth bears no\ngreat good will towards the bold ones who venture to dispute with him\nhis prey. If he sometimes allows them to succeed, sometimes also he\navenges himself upon them--more malignantly delighted to drown one\npilot than to wreck two ships.\n\nBut for sometime past no such accident had been spoken of. The\nexceedingly hot summer of 1859, produced only one wreck in this\nneighborhood; but I knew not what agitation even then foretold\ngreater disasters. September came, then October, and the brilliant\ncrowd of visitors, loving the sea only when it is calm and smiling,\nalready took its departure. I still remained, partly kept there by my\nunfinished work, partly by the strange attraction which that season of\nthe year has for me.\n\nIn October we had strange eccentric winds, such as seldom blow there;\na burning storm-wind from the East, that quarter usually so peaceable.\nThe nights were occasionally very hot, even more so in October than in\nAugust; sleepless, agitated, nervous nights; nights to quicken the\npulse to the fever pace, and without apparent cause to render one\nexcited and peevish.\n\nOne day as we sat among the pines, beaten by the wind though somewhat\nsheltered by the downs, we heard a young voice, singularly clear,\npiercing, resonant, and, so to speak, metallic. It was the voice of a\nvery young girl, small in figure, but austere in countenance. She was\nwalking with her mother and singing snatches of an old ballad. We\ninvited her to sit down and sing us the whole of it. This old ballad,\nthis rustic little poem admirably expressed the double spirit of the\ncountry. Saintonge is, in the first place, essentially rustic and\nhome-loving, with none of the wild adventurous impulses of the\nBasques. And yet in spite of her sedentary tastes Saintonge turns\nsailor and goes forth into not unfrequent dangers. And why? The old\nballad explains:\n\nThe lovely daughter of a king while washing, like Nausica of the\nOdyssey, loses her ring in the sea; a young lover dives in search of\nit, and is drowned. She weeps his loss so bitterly that she is changed\ninto the rosemary of the shore, at once so bitter and so odorous. This\nballad, heard in that pine wood already shuddering and moaning at the\nthreatening storm, touched and delighted me, but at the same time\nstrengthened my secret presentiments.\n\nWhenever I went to Royan, I might calculate upon being overtaken,\nunsheltered, in a storm, before I could accomplish that short journey\nof only a few hours. It pressed upon me in the vineyards of Saint\nGeorge and the heathy table land of the promontory which I first\nascended; and it pressed upon me more heavily still as I traversed the\ngreat semi-circular shore of Royan. Even now, in October, the heath\nexhaled all its perfumes of wild flowers and shrubs, and their\nperfumes seemed to me more pungent now than ever. On the still unvexed\nshore, the wind, warmly and gently fanned my cheek, and the no less\ngentle sea in murmuring ripples strove to kiss my feet. But for both\ncaressing wind and gently murmuring wave, I was too well prepared, too\nsuspicious, to be deceived by them. By way of prelude to the great\nchange, after so many beautiful and almost effeminating evenings,\nsuddenly, in the very middle of the night, burst forth a frightful\ngale of wind. Again and again this occurred, but especially on the\nnight of the 26th. On that night I felt sure that some great damage\nmust needs be done. Our pilots had gone out on their generous and\nperilous errand. During those long fluctuations of the equinoctial\nweather they had hesitated somewhat, delayed some little, then they\ngrew impatient of delay, duty and business called to them aloud, and\nthey resolved to put out, at the risk of some sudden and ruinous gust.\nI felt that there would be some such; I whispered to myself, \"some one\nperishes now.\" And too truly was it so.\n\nFrom a pilot boat, which, in face of the bad weather, put out to\nrescue a vessel imperilled in the pass, an unfortunate man was swept\nfrom the deck, and the boat, herself in utmost peril was unable to\nlie-to for him. He left three young children and a pregnant wife. What\nrendered this calamity especially to be regretted, was the fact that\nthis excellent young man, with the generous affection so common among\nsailors, had married a poor girl rendered incapable of earning her\nbread by an accident which had mutilated her hands. Alas! How much was\nshe to be pitied, helpless, pregnant, burdened with a young\nfamily--and thus suddenly widowed!\n\nA subscription was made for her, and I went to Royan, with my mite\ntowards it. A pilot whom I met there, spoke to me, with real grief and\nemotion, of the sad accident. \"Ah, Sir,\" said he, \"such is our hard\nprofession; it is precisely when wind and sea are most angry, and most\nthreatening, that it is especially incumbent upon us to go forth.\" The\nmarine commissioner, who keeps the register of the living and the dead\nof that little community, and who, better than any one else, knows the\nhistory and the circumstances of every family there, appeared to me to\nbe exceedingly saddened and anxious. It was plain that he thought, as\nI did, that this was only the beginning of calamity.\n\nI resumed my journey along the shore, and in the course of it, I had\nthe opportunity to notice and study the dark zone of clouds which\nhemmed me in on every side, to the extent of, I should judge, not less\nthan eight or ten leagues. On my left was Saintonge, expectant, dull,\npassive; on my right, Medoc, from which I was separated by the river,\nlay in a gloomy and misty stillness. Behind me, coming from the west\nand brooding over the Ocean, was a whole world of cloud and mist, but\nin my face, and opposing that world of cloud, blew the fresh\nland-breeze. Sweeping down the course of the Gironde, it seemed that\nthe funereal pall that rose above the Ocean, might be repulsed and\ndispelled. Still uncertain, I looked behind me to the shoal of\nCordovan, from which, pale, fantastic, weird, its tower rose like\nsome spectre that said--\"Woe, woe, woe!\"\n\nI was not mistaken. I saw quite plainly that the land-breeze not only\nwould be conquered, but that it would be compelled to become the\nhelp-mate of its seeming foe. That land-breeze blew quite low over the\nGironde, swept away from before it all dwarfish obstacles, but still\nhovered beneath the high pitched and inky clouds that swept in from\nthe Ocean, and formed for those clouds, as it were, a slippery\ninclined plane over which they would glide only the more easily and\nthe more swiftly. In a brief space all was still from the landward,\nevery breath died away beneath the thick grey mists; and, unopposed,\nthe upper winds swept the ominous storm-clouds shoreward.\n\nWhen I reached the vineyards of Valli\u00e8re, near St. George, hosts of\npeople were busily at work, striving to improve the brief time during\nwhich they could hope to labor. The first heavy drops of rain came\ndown, solid and smiting as so much molten lead, and in another\ninstant, one was right glad to find a sheltering roof.\n\nI had seen my full share of tempests. I had read my full share of\ndescriptions of them; and I was prepared to expect anything and\neverything from their fury and from their power. But nothing that I\nhad either seen or read, had prepared me for the effects of _this_\ntempest, so fierce, so long-enduring, so implacable in its unceasing\nand uniform fury. When, from time to time, we have a pause, even the\nslightest mitigation, even a change, however slight, in the Tempest's\nmoods and manifestations, our over-distended senses also relax,\nrecuperate, prepare themselves for the next assault. But in this case,\nnight after night, day after day, for six weary and wearying nights\nand days, the storm-fiend never winked an eye or spared a blow.\nFierce, strong, angry, implacable; still the storm-fiend raged,\nuntiring, and unsparing. On mine honor, see ye! it was something to\ndaunt the boldest, to suggest despair to the most hopeful. No thunder,\nno crashing combat of the positive and negative storm-clouds, no loud\nand animating crash of the meeting and contending waves. All around\nwas one dark, leaden, sinister, ominous, and mysterious pall of cloud\nand mist, all above us one black sky, terminated in the horizon by a\nsickly and leaden line brooding over a slowly heaving and mighty mass\nof leaden looking sea;--so slowly and monotonously heaving that one\nalmost wished for the coming storm-blast to rouse them into a fierce\nfury, less terrible, less oppressive, than their horribly oppressive\nmonotony. No poetry of a great terror could oppress one like this most\nprosaic and dark monotony. Still, still and ever, came from the deep\nbosom of the coming storm the same terribly monotonous--\"Woe, woe!\nAlas, alas, alas!\" Our abode was close upon the shore. We were no mere\nspectators of that scene; we were in it, of it, sharers, actors,\nthrilled actors in that sublime scene. Every now and then the wild sea\ncame within twenty feet of us; at every rush, she made our very hearth\nstone quiver beneath our feet. Happily, the ever-rising and terrible\nsou' west wind struck our windows only obliquely, or we should have\nbeen drowned as we gazed, so vast was the torrent, nay the deluge,\nwhich every blast bore upon its mighty bosom, alike from the clouds\nabove, and from the vexed and upheaving Ocean below. In haste, and\nwith no small difficulty, we fastened the shutters, and lighted lamps,\nthat we might at least look coming fate in the face. In those\napartments which looked out upon the landward, the noise and the\nperturbation were no jot or tittle inferior. I wrote on, curious to\nascertain whether this wild outburst of nature could in reality\noppress and fetter a free intellect, and I thus kept my intellect\nactive, agile, cool, thoroughly in self-command. I wrote, I noted, I\ncompared, I drew mine own conclusions. At length, worn out solely by\nfatigue, and abstinence, and the want of\n\n    \"Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,\"\n\nI felt myself deprived of that which I believe to be one of the most\nimportant of the writer's powers, the quick, sure, delicate sense of\nrhythm; I felt that my sentences became inharmonious. That sense of\nrhythm was the first cord in my being to snap, broken, inharmonious,\nover-strained,--ruined.\n\nThe mighty howling of the Tempest had but one variation, in the weird\nand strange tones of the winds that pitilessly yet mournfully assailed\nus. The house in which I was seated was directly in their path; and\nthey therefore assaulted it in utmost fury and apparently on every\nside at once. Now it was the strong, stern blow of the master,\nimpatient to enter his own house; anon some strong hand tried to dash\nopen the shutters; and again came shrill shrieks down the wide\nchimneys, wailing for the master's exclusion, fiercely threatening, if\nwe did not admit him, and, at length, furious and mighty attempts to\nforce an entry by dislodging the very roof from its rafters. And all\nthese sounds were occasionally dominated by the sad, deep, melancholy,\n_Heu, heu! Alas, alas!_ Woe, woe, and Desolation. So immense, so\npotent, so terrible was that _Heu, heu!_ of chorusing wind and sky,\nthat even the voice of the bold storm-blast seemed to us, in\ncomparison, secondary and mild. At length, the wind managed to clear a\nway for the rain; our house--I had almost said our craft--began to\nleak; the roof, opening its seams here and there, admitted the rain in\ntorrents.\n\nStill worse, the fury of the Tempest, by a desperate effort, loosened\none of the hinges of a shutter, which still remained closed, but from\nthat moment shook, creaked, shrieked, in the most dismal fashion that\nyou can imagine. To make it fast I had to open the window, and that\nmoment that I did so, though sheltered by the shutter, I felt myself\nin the very centre of the whirlwind, half-deafened by the frightful\nforce of a sound equal to that of a cannon fired close to one's ear.\nThrough the cracks of the shutter I perceived what gave me a clear\nnotion of the tremendous power that was raging landward, skyward,\nseaward, horizontally, upward, and downward. The waves, meeting and\nbattling, smote each other so fiercely that they could not descend\nagain. Gust after gust from beneath them, carried them landward;\nmighty and vast as they were, they were borne landward as though so\nmany feathers, by the upheaving force of those mighty blasts.\n\nHow would it have been, if, shutters and windows being driven in, our\npoor room had _shipped_ one of those vast billows which the storm-wind\nthus hurled upon the adjacent heaths? We were, in fact, exposed to the\nstrange chance of being shipwrecked on the land. Our house, so close\nto the shore, might at any moment have its roof or even its upper\nstory carried right away by wind and wave. The villagers often told us\nthat that was, in fact, their nightly thought and their nightly\nterror, and they advised us to seek a more inland shelter. But we\nstill comforted ourselves with the thought that the longer this\ntempest had lasted, the sooner it must come to an end; and, to the\nundoubtedly reasonable advice thus given to us, our reply was, still,\n\"To-morrow, to-morrow.\"\n\nThe overland news that came to us, told of nothing but wrecks, still\nwrecks. Close by us, on the 30th of October, a vessel from the South\nSea, with a crew of thirty hands, foundered, with a loss of all hands\nand her rich cargo--and this at the very entrance of the roadstead.\nAfter having passed through so many storms and calms, after having\nsafely weathered so many rocks and shoals, she had arrived within\nsight, within hail, almost within touch of a little beach of fine\nsand, the fine-weather bathing place of delicate and timid women.\nWell! That seemingly gentle little sandy beach, upheaved into a huge\nand impassable sandbar--was the grave of the good ship, which ran upon\nit with frightful force, and was crushed, shivered into small\npieces--converted from a \"thing of life,\" into a mutilated corpse.\nWhat became of the crew? Not a trace of them has ever been found; they\nwere probably swept, vainly struggling, from the deck, and swallowed\nup by the sands.\n\nThis tragical event very naturally led us to suspect that many similar\nones had occurred, elsewhere, and nothing was thought of or talked of\nbut probable calamities. But the sea seemed by no means at the end of\nher work. We on shore had had quite enough of it. Not so our enraged\nsea. I saw our pilots, sheltering themselves behind a rocky wall from\nsouth-west, keep an anxious look-out seaward, and shake their heads in\nominous doubt of what was even yet to come. Happily for them, no craft\nmade her appearance in the offing--or they were there to risk, most\nprobably to lose, their lives. And I, also, looked anxiously out upon\nthat sea, on which I looked no less in hate than in anxiety. True, I\nwas in no real danger, but for that very reason I was all the more\ndespairingly the victim of _ennui_. That sea had a look at once\nhideous and terrible; her vagaries were as absurd as her strength was\nirresistible. Nothing there reminded one of the fanciful descriptions\nof the poets. By a strange contrast, the more I felt myself depressed,\nand as it were, lifeless, the more vigorously and vehemently did she\nseem to feel and manifest her life; as though, galvanized by her own\nfurious motion, she had become animated by some strange, fantastic\nsoul. In the general rage, each wave seemed animated by its own\nspecial and sentient rage; in the whole uniformity, (paradoxical as it\nmay seem, it, yet, is quite true) there was, as it were some\ndiabolical swarming. Was all this attributable to my worn brain and\nwearied eyes? Or were the reality and the impression alike true? Those\nwaves reminded me of some terrible _mob_, some horrid rabblement, not\nof men, but of howling dogs, a myriad of howling and eager dogs,\nwolves--maddened and furious dogs and wolves. Dogs and wolves, do I\nsay? Let me rather say, a dread concourse of nameless, and detestable,\nand spectral beasts, eyeless and earless, but with hugely yawning\njaws, foaming and eager for blood, blood, still more blood!\n\nMonsters! what more do ye require? Are ye not surfeited with wrecked\nships and slain men? Do we not from all sides hear of your horrid\ntriumphs? What more, I ask, do ye demand? And the horrid phantoms\nanswer--\"Thy death, universal Death, the destruction of the Earth, a\nreturn to black Night and ancient Chaos.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTHE BEACONS.\n\n\nImpetuous is the channel where her strait receives the full rush of\nthe North sea, and very turbulent is the sea of Brittany, rushing over\nbasaltic shoals in swift and furious rapids. But the gulf of Gascony,\nfrom Cordouan to Biarritz, is just one long maritime contradiction,\none enigma of mighty strifes. As she goes to the southward, she\nsuddenly becomes extraordinarily deep, as though her waters sank, on\nthe instant into some vast and fathomless abyss. Passing over that\nsudden and immense depth, the onward wave under the impulse of the\nterrible pressure leaps upward to a height and onward with a velocity\nunequalled by any other of our seas. The great surge from the\nnorth-west is the motive-power of this huge liquid machinery; from a\nlittle more north it threatens to crush Saint-Jean-de-Luz; farther\nwest it repels the Gironde, and crowns with her terrible billows the\nluckless Cordouan.\n\nThat poor Cordouan, that respectable martyr of the seas and victim of\nthe tempests, is only too little known. I believe it is the oldest of\nall the European beacons. At all events, only one, the celebrated\nGenoese lantern, can rival it in antiquity. But there is a vast\ndifference between them. The Genoese, crowning a fort and solidly\nseated upon solid rock, looks smilingly, almost scornfully, down upon\nthe impotently furious storms. But Cordouan is upon a shoal which the\nwater never wholly leaves. And, in truth, he was a bold man who\nconceived the notion of erecting a beacon here, amidst the waters;\nwhat say I? in the eternal wave-combat between such a river and such a\nsea. From one or the other, it, at every instant, receives tremendous\nblows. Yes, even the Gironde urged on the one hand by the winds, and\non the other by the rude torrents from the Pyrenees, assails this\nstern calm guardian, as though it were responsible for the assailing\nand repelling fury of the ocean.\n\nYet, Cordouan is the only saving and consoling light that gleams over\nthis stormy sea. Run before the north wind, and miss Cordouan, and\nverily, my storm-tossed brother, you are in very real danger; you,\nlikely enough, will fail to sight Arcachon. This sea, most stormy\namong seas, is also the darkest. At night, storm-driven upon that sea,\nthere is no guiding mark, if you miss the beneficent light.\n\nDuring our whole six months stay upon this coast, our usual\ncontemplation, I had almost said, our almost sole companion, was the\nbeacon of Cordouan. We felt that this guardian of the sea, this\nconstant watchman over the strait became less a mere building than an\nactually living and intelligent _person_. Standing erect over the vast\nwestern horizon, it shows itself under a hundred various aspects. Now\nit is gilded, glorified by the setting sun; anon, pale and indistinct\namidst the shifting mists, it tells us nothing of good augury. At\nevening, when suddenly it flashes its ruddy and glowing light athwart\nthe heaving waters, it looks like some zealous inspector impressed and\nanxious in its conscious and deep responsibility. Whatever happens\nfrom the seaward, our Cordouan is held responsible for it. Throwing\nhis ruddy beams into the gloom of the tempest, he, the preserver, is\nheld to be the cause of that which he only, and savingly, exhibits.\nThus, only too often, it is that genius is accused of evoking the\nevils which it exposes only that it may reform them. We, also, were\nourselves thus unjust towards Cordouan. Was he late in displaying his\nguiding light? How ready we were to exclaim: \"Cordouan, Cordouan, pale\nphantom, can you show yourself only to conjure up the storm, and the\nstorm fiend?\"\n\nAnd yet I believe, quite firmly, that to Cordouan thirty of our\nfellows owed their lives in the great storm of October. Their vessel\nwas a total wreck, but they escaped with their lives.\n\nIt is much that we can see our shipwrecking, to go down in full light,\nknowing exactly where we are, what are our perils, and what chances we\nhave of evading or overcoming them. \"Great God! If we must perish,\ngive us to perish in the broad, bright light of day!\"\n\nWhen the ship of which I speak, driven by the strong surge from the\nopen sea, reached this shore in the deep night, there were a thousand\nchances to one against her making her way into the Gironde. On her\nstarboard the bright point of the Grave warned her off from Medoc; on\nher larboard the little beacon of Saint-Palais showed her the\ndangerous rock of the Grand'Caute on the Saintonge side; and between\nthose fixed white lights, high over the central shoal flashed the\nruddy Cordouan, showing from moment to moment the only safe channel.\n\nBy a desperate effort she got through, but only, and barely; wind,\nwave, and current conspired to drive her on Saint-Palais. The saving\nlight showed the much harrassed, but still undaunted crew, where only\nlay their chance of safety from the driving sea behind and the\nterrible sands in front. Fearing, yet daring, they leaped, fell, I\nknow not how or where, and were saved, bruised, fainting,--but still\nliving.\n\nWho can even imagine how many ships and how many men are saved by\nthese beneficent beacons? Light, suddenly dispelling the dense shadows\nof those horrible nights when the bravest lose their courage and their\npresence of mind, not only points the path, but clears the head and\nstrengthens the heart. It is a great moral support to be able to say\nin some mortal peril, \"Again! Again! Haul away my brothers, be bold!\nThough wind and wave are both against us, we are not alone. See,\nyonder! Humanity is still watching over us, and guiding us from yonder\nlofty tower!\"\n\nThe seamen of the old times, ever hugging the shore, and anxiously\nmarking every headland, were still more in need than we are of the\nfriendly beacon light. The Etruscans, we are told, first kept the\nnight-fires burning upon their sacred stones; the beacon was at once\nan altar, a temple, a column, and a watch tower. The Celts, too, had\ntheir round towers which were beacons also; the most important of them\nwere built on precisely those points where the friendly light could\nmost widely flash over the dark waters; and the Romans lit up watch\nfires from height to height and promontory to promontory along their\nwhole shores of the Mediterranean.\n\nThe great terror of the Northern sea kings, and the perilled and\ntrembling life of the dark middle age, put out all those guiding and\nsaving lights. The people cared not to favor the inroad of the sea\nrover; the sea was an object of dread, almost of hatred. Every ship\nwas an enemy, and, if it ran aground, was deemed lawful as well as\nunpitied prey. The pillage of a wreck was the gain of the noble; the\n_noble_ and the _wrecker_ were one! The Count de Leon, made wealthy by\nthe fatal shoal upon his County's shore, said of that murderous rock,\nthat it was \"a precious stone, far more precious than any that\nglitters in a kingly crown.\"\n\nEven in our own time, innocently, the poor fishermen have, again and\nagain, by those fires which they have kindled upon the beach, seduced\nour poor seamen into shipwreck and death. The very beacons themselves\nhave, not seldom, played the bad part of the false hearted wrecker,\nalluring, only to betray; so easy is it to mistake one light for\nanother. Now and then, that mistake, so readily made, leads to very\nhorrible consequences.\n\nIt was France, who, at the close of her great wars, took the lead in\nmaking the lighthouse the great saviour of the benighted and well nigh\nwrecked seamen. Provided with that great refracting lamp of Fresnel,\n(a lantern equal to four thousand common ones, and throwing its ruddy\ngleam over a dozen, or so, of leagues), it can cast, that good modern\nbeacon, its directing and saving light, hither and thither so that\nstrait and shoal are made visible and safe in the deep midnight as in\nthe full broad glow of the bright noon. To the sailor, who steers by\nthe stars, this invention gave him, as it were, a new heaven and added\nconstellations. Planets, fixed stars, all were created anew for him,\nand in those newly invented constellations there was even an\nimprovement upon the celestial lights, in the variety of color,\nintensity and duration, of their glow and of their flashing. To some,\nwe gave the calm, fixed, pale and steady gleaming which sufficed for\nthe tranquil night and the comparatively safe sea; to others, the\nrevolving and flashing, and fierce and ruddy glow that shone to every\npoint of the compass. These latter, like the phosphoric creatures of\nthe deep, palpitate and flash fitfully, now gleaming and anon paling,\nnow leaping into dazzling glow, and anon dying into deepest darkness.\nIn the darkest and most tempestuous nights, they are ever restless as\nOcean's self, and seem to give him back motion for motion, and gleam\nfor gleam to the lurid and fitful lightnings.\n\nLet us remember that in 1826, and even as late as 1830, our seas were\nstill terrible in their drear darkness. In all Europe there were but\nfew lighthouses; in Africa, there was but the single one on the Cape,\nand, in all vast Asia there were only those of Bombay, Calcutta, and\nMadras, while the whole vast extent of South America displayed not\neven one. Since the latter date all nations following, imitating, even\nrivaling, France, have said, on every bold headland that overlooks\nevery dangerous shoal and strait have said \"Let there be light!\" and\nevery where the friendly light, gleams tranquilly, or fitfully\nflashes.\n\nJust here I should like you to make with me the circumnavigation of\nour seas from Dunkirk to Biarritz, and to take a survey of our\nlighthouses. But, it would occupy us too long. Calais, with her four\nlights of different colors, throws out her friendly warnings and\nhospitable imitations even to distant Dover; and the noble gulf of the\nSeine, between Heve and Barfleur, lights the American seaman on his\notherwise perilous passage to Havre and thence to the very home, the\nvery heart of France.\n\nAnd the good heart of France goes to her very threshold to welcome the\ncoming and sea borne guest; lighting up, as, with an admirable skill\nand hospitality she does, every bold point of Brittany. At the outpost\nof Brest, at Saint Matthew, at Penmark, at the isle of Fen, every\nheadland has its warning and guiding light, now flashing, now\ndarkening, from minute to minute, or from second to second, and saying\nby sudden flash or momentary gloom, \"Seamen! Beware! Luff it is! give\nthat rock a wide berth! Keep off that shoal! Port! Hard\naport!--Weather,--it is! Midship helm! So! Steady! Safe you are,--at\nyour moorings!\"\n\nAnd observe, all these watch towers over the perilous deep, often\nbuilt as they are among the breakers, and as it were in the very bosom\nof the tempest, solve for art the difficult problem of absolute\nsolidity or seemingly treacherous and unsafe foundation. Many of them\nare quite enormously high. The architecture of the middle ages, about\nwhich so much is as boastfully as untruly said and sung, never\nventured to build so high, save on condition of giving their edifices\nclumsy buttresses and of clamping with clumsy and costly clamps of\niron, the peaked summits of their towers. A glance at the much\nboasted, though really anything but artistic steeple of Strasbourg,\nwill convince you of this. Our modern builders resort to no such rude\nexpedients. The H\u00e9aux beacon, recently erected by M. Reynaud on the\ndangerous shoal of the \u00c9p\u00e9es de Tr\u00e9guier, displays all the sublime\nsimplicity of some gigantic ocean tree. It has no buttresses, and it\nneeds none; its foundation is sunk boldly and bodily into the living\nrock; from its base of sixty feet, it rears its tall column of\ntwenty-four feet in diameter, and each of its huge granites is, neatly\nas firmly, dovetailed into the other, so neatly, so closely, so\nfirmly, that cement is a sheer superfluity; and so solidly is all\nbuilt that from base to summit the tall tower is solid as, nay, we may\nalmost venture to say, more solid than, the old rock from which\nscience, and art, and perseverance and what the American so\ngraphically calls _pluck_ have hewn each separate stone. Your wild\nwave knows not where to find a rent in the armor of this tall\nocean-espying giant. She may smite, she may rage, but her blows will\nnot harm, her rage will be spent in vain; from that rounded and great\nmass the giant blow glances harmlessly off; the mightiest thunder\nstrokes of the ever enraged and ever baffled ocean have only succeeded\nin giving to this grand edifice a far slighter inclination than that\nof the purposely inclined \"leaning tower\" of Pisa.\n\nBehold, then, instead of those sad bastions which, in the olden day,\noverlooked and threatened old ocean, like those with which Spain\nthreatened the Moor, our modern civilization erects peaceful towers of\nmost benevolent and beneficent hospitality; beautiful and noble\nmonuments, often sublime as they appeal to art, always touching as\nthey appeal to sentiment; those towers which, flashing forth their\nruddy or gleaming with their silvery fires, make upon the confines of\nour living, swarming, and much imperilled earth, a new firmament,\nsaving, and guiding, blessing and blessed, as the firmament above us.\nWhen no star shines upon us from that firmament above, the seaman\nhails this art-created light as the star of brotherhood;\n\n    \"Bids its ruddy lustre hail\n    And scorns to strike his timorous sail.\"\n\nPleasant it is to seat oneself below one of these noble beacons, those\nfriendly fires, those true and welcoming homes of the storm tried\nmariner. Even the most modern of them is a venerable thing to all who,\nfor one moment, reflect how many lives the most modern of them has\nalready saved. With even the most modern, many a touching memory, many\na wild and beautiful, and no less authentic story is connected. Two\ngenerations, merely, are enough to make your beacon already ancient,\nlinked with old memories, consecrated, honorable, hallowed. Often, oh\noften does the mother say to her little ones--\"Behold! That friendly\nbeacon saved your grandfather; but for it you would never have been\nborn.\"\n\nAnd how often does our brave beacon receive the loving, and tender,\nand pure visits of the anxious wife or brother who watches for the\nreturn of the far husband or son! In the darkening evening, and even\nfar into the dark night, the one or the other gazes anxiously up to\nthe lofty tower, wishing, begging, imploring, for the first gleaming\nof the blessed and blessing light that shall guide the absent one\nsafely back into port.\n\nOh! Very justly did the men of the old day, confound these honored\nstones with the altars of the man guiding and man saving gods; to the\nheart that weeps, and hopes, and prays and battles amidst the howlings\nof the tempest, see ye! they are still one and the same; they are\nstill the saving guides, the very altars of the saving and the guiding\nDeity. For, in very truth, what are man's best works, but the\nrealization of the Almighty will and the great directing mercy?\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND.\n\n  THE GENESIS OF THE SEA.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nFECUNDITY.\n\n\nFive minutes after midnight of St. John's--24th to 25th of June,\ncommences the great Herring Fishery, in the North Seas. Phosphoric\nlights gleam and flash upon the waters, and from deck to deck is heard\nthe hearty hail, \"Look out, there! The _Herring lightning_!\" And a\nreal, and a vast lightning that is, as from the depths that vast mass\nof life springs upward in eager quest of heat, light, and dalliance.\nThe soft, pale, silvery light of the Moon is well pleasing to that\ntimorous host; a beacon to guide them to their great banquet of Love.\nUpward they spring, one and all; not one idler or straggler remains\nbehind. Gregariousness is the fixed rule, the indefeasible law of that\nrace; you never see them but in shoals. In shoals they lie buried in\nthe vast dark depths, and in shoals they come to the surface to take\ntheir summer part in the universal joy, to see the light, to\nrevel--and to die. Packed, squeezed, crushed, layer on layer, it\nseems that they never can be close enough, they swim in such compact\nmasses that the Dutch fishermen compare them to their own\nDykes--afloat! Between Scotland, Holland and Norway, one might fancy\nthat an immense island had suddenly risen, and that a whole continent\nwas about to arise. One division detaches itself eastward, and chokes\nup the Baltic sound. In some of the narrower straits you actually\ncannot row, so dense and solid is the mass of fish. Millions, tens of\nmillions, tens of thousands of millions;--who can even guess at the\nnumber of those hosts upon hosts? It is on record that on one\noccasion, near Havre, one fisherman, on one morning, found in his nets\nno fewer than eight hundred thousand; and in Scotland, the mighty mass\nof eleven thousand barrels was taken in a single night!\n\nThey come as a blinded and doomed prey; no amount of destruction can\ndiscourage them. Constantly preyed upon alike by fish and by men, they\nstill come on in myriad shoals. And no marvel either; for they love\nand multiply, even as they move. Kill them as fast as we may, they\njust as fast reproduce; their vast, deep columns, even as they float\nalong, give themselves wholly up to the great work of reproduction.\nThe wave of the sea and the electric wave impel that whole vast mass\nat every instant. No weariness, no satiety, no weakness, not even a\npause, take one where you will and it either has just propagated, is\npropagating, or is about to propagate. In that vast polygamous host,\npleasure is an adventure and love a navigation. Over every league of\nits passage it pours out its torrents of fecundity.\n\nAt some two or three fathoms deep the water is completely discolored\nby the incredible abundance of the Herring-spawn; and at sunrise, far\nas the eye can reach, you may see the water whitened with the\nmarvellous abundance of the thick, fat, viscuous billows in which life\nis fermenting into new life. Over hundreds of square leagues it seems\nas though a volcano of teeming and fecund milk had burst forth and\noverwhelmed the sea.\n\nFull of life as it is at the surface, the Sea would be actually choked\nup with it but for the fierce and eager union of all sorts of\ndestructions. Let us remember that each Herring has forty, fifty, or\neven seventy thousand eggs. But for the thinning process, each of them\ngiving the average increase of fifty thousand, and as each of these in\nits turn giving the same average increase, a very few generations\nwould suffice to solidify the Ocean into a stagnant and putrid mass,\nand make our whole globe a desert. Here we see the imperative\nnecessity to Life, of life's twin sister, Death; in their immense\nstrife there is harmony; destruction is the handmaiden of\npreservation.\n\nIn the universal war carried on against the doomed race, it is the\nfierce giants of the deep that prevent the mass from dispersing, and\ndrive it in dense shoals to our shores. The whale, and the other\ncetace\u00e6, plunge into the living mass, swallow down whole tons, and\ndrive shoreward the still vast, the seemingly undiminished, host. And\nat the shore commences quite another and more vast destruction. In the\nfirst place, the smallest of fish devour the spawn of the Herring,\nswallowing, like any human spendthrift, the great future for the small\npresent. And for the present, for the full-grown Herring, nature has\nprovided a very efficiently gluttonous foe, dull-eyed, huge appetited,\neager, insatiable,--the whole tribe of fish-devouring fish, Cod,\nWhiting, &c. The Whiting gloats, devours, crams itself so with Herring\nthat it becomes one luscious mass of fat. The Cod similarly stuffs\nitself with Whitings, and becomes fat, fecund, overflowing with\nfecundity--with a really threatening superabundance of fecundity. Just\nconsider! What we have seen of the fecundity of the Herring is a mere\nnothing when compared to the fecundity of the Cod, which not seldom\nhas nine millions of eggs! A cod weighing fifty pounds has fourteen\npounds of eggs; and its breeding season is nine months of every year.\nThis is the creature that, unchecked, would soon solidify the Ocean\nand destroy the world. And accordingly we cry \"Help! To arms! Launch\nships and away, to check this too vigorous fecundity.\" England alone\nsends some twenty or thirty thousand seamen to the Cod Fisheries. And\nhow many are sent from America, from France, from Holland--from\neverywhere? The Cod alone has caused the foundation of whole towns--of\nwhole colonies! The catching and curing of the Cod form an art, and\nthat art has its own idiom--the _patois_ of the Cod fishery.\n\nBut what could man do against the enormous fecundity of the cod?\nNature knows well that our petty efforts of fleets and fisheries would\nbe insufficient and that the Cod would conquer us; and nature evokes\nanother and a more efficient destroyer of the superfluous life that\nwould produce universal death. Down from its spawning bed in the\nriver, thin, famishing, eager, fierce with hunger, comes the Sturgeon,\nthat great devourer. Real rapture it is to the famishing glutton to\nfind, on his return to the sea, ready fattened for him, the succulent\nand unctuous Cod, the concentrated substance of whole shoals of\nHerrings! This great devourer of the cod, though less fecund than its\nprey, _is_ fecund, producing fifteen hundred thousand eggs. The danger\nreappears. The Herring threatened with its terrible fecundity, the Cod\nthreatened, the sturgeon threatens still. Nature, therefore, produced\na creature superb in destroying, almost powerless to reproduce, a\nmonster at once terrible and serviceable that could cut through this\notherwise invincible and ruinous fecundity, an omnivorous monster,\nhuge of jaw and constant in appetite, ready for all prey, living or\ndead, the great, the perfectionated, the matchless devourer--the\nShark.\n\nBut these furious devourers are anticipatively kept down; mighty in\ndestroying, they are very slow in reproducing. The Sturgeon, as we\nhave seen is less prolific than the Cod, and the Shark is actually\nsterile, if compared to any other fish. Not like them does it\noverspread and discolor the sea. Viviparous, it sends forth its rare\nyoungling, fierce, fully armed, savage and terrible.\n\nIn her dark and teeming depths, the Sea can smile in scorn at the\ndestroyers to which she gives birth, well knowing, as the great proud\nfertile Sea does, that no might of destruction can surpass her might\nof reproduction. Her chief wealth, her most vast and countless\nproduce, defies all the fury of the devourers, is inaccessible to\ntheir attacks. I speak of the infinite world of living atoms, of the\nmicroscopic atomies that live and love, enjoy, struggle, suffer and\ndie from the surface to the utmost depths of the sea. It has been\naffirmed that, in the absence of solar light, life, also, must be\nabsent; yet the darkest depths of the sea are studded with sea stars,\nliving, moving, microscopic infusori\u00e6 and molluscs. The dark crab, the\nphosphorescent seaworm, and a thousand strange and nameless creatures\nswarm in those uttermost depths and rise only now and then, describing\nlong lines of variegated light upon the heaving surface. In its\nsemi-transparent density, the sea has its own lucidity, its own\nglowing gleam, like that which fish, living or dead, reflect. The Sea!\nglorious Sea, hath her own lights, her own Sun, Moon, and Stars.\n\nGaze inquisitively and intelligently on a mere salt well and you at\nonce perceive how prolific the ocean depths must be; that seeming\ndeposit of dead and inert matter hath its real life; it is a mass of\ninfusori\u00e6, microscopic, but organized and sentient. All voyagers on\nthe wide Ocean concur in telling us that in their far wanderings they\nstill and ever traverse living waters. Freynel saw millions of square\nyards covered by a crimson glow--that glow, consisting of living\nanimalcul\u00e6 so minute that a myriad is packed into every square inch.\nIn the bay of Bengal, in 1854, Captain Kingman sailed for thirty miles\nthrough one vast white blotch which made the sea look like a great\nsnow field. Not a cloud above, but one unbroken leaden grey, in\nstrange contrast with the brilliant whiteness beneath. Look closely\nand you see that that seeming snow is gelatinous; bring your\nmicroscope into play and you see that that seeming jelly is a mass of\nliving, moving, phosphoric animalcul\u00e6, flashing forth strange and\nmarvellous lights.\n\nPeron, too, tells us that for thirty leagues his good ship ploughed\nher way through what seemed a sort of greyish dust; examined with the\nmicroscope, this seeming dust was seen to be the eggs of some unknown\nspecies, covering and concealing the waters over all that immense\nspace.\n\nEven along the desolate shores of Greenland, where we vainly fancy\nthat prolific nature must needs expire, the sea is enormously\npopulous. Through waves two hundred miles by fifteen you sail through\ndeep brown waters, colored by microscopic medus\u00e6, of which, de\nSchleiden tells us, more than a hundred and ten thousand live and\nlove, battle, and die in every cubic foot. These productive and\nnourishing waters are supersaturated with all sorts of fatty atoms\nadapted to the delicate nature of the fish which lazily drink in the\nnourishment provided for them by the fertile and generous common\nmother. Do they know what they thus swallow? Scarcely. Its minute but\nabounding nurture, its nourishing mother's-milk, comes to it without\nits care, and is received without its gratitude. Our great fatality,\nour sad calamity, fierce and terrible hunger, is known only on the\nland. Exertion and want of food are unknown in the great world of\nwaters. There, life must glide away like a glad dream. What can the\ncreature there do with his strength? All use of it is superfluous,\nimpossible;--all save only one; all strength, all energy, are reserved\nfor the great work of love.\n\nThe one great law, the one great work of the seas, is to increase and\nmultiply. Love fills up the whole of its fecund depths, and is\nwealthiest in reproduction among those which are so small that to our\nunassisted eye they are invisible, unknown as though they were\nnon-existent. We have spoken of mere atomies; but are there, in\nreality, any such? When we imagine that we have got the lowest, the\nutterly indivisible, we have but to examine with more earnest and\npenetrating gaze and we see that this seemingly frail atomy still\nloves, still reproduces itself in miniature. At the very lowest stages\nof life you find all the forms of life and reproduction.\n\nSuch is the Sea, such the great _Female of the Globe_, whose ceaseless\nyearning, whose permanent conception, whose production and\nreproduction, never end.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE MILKY SEA.\n\n\nThe water of the Sea, even the purest, examined when you are far away\nfrom land, and from all possible admixture, is somewhat viscuous; take\nsome between your fingers, and you find it somewhat ropy and\ntenacious. Chemical analysis has not yet explained this peculiarity;\nthere is in that an organic substance which Chemistry touches only to\ndestroy, taking from it all that it has of special, and violently\nreducing it back to general elements.\n\nThe marine plants and animals are covered with this substance, whose\nmucousness gives them the appearance of a coating of jelly, now fixed,\nanon trembling, and always semi-transparent. And nothing more than\nthis contributes to the fanciful illusions presented to us by the\nworld of waters. Its reflections are irregular, often strangely\nvariegated, as, for instance, on the scales of fish and on the\nmollusc\u00e6, which seem to owe to it the exquisite beauty of their pearly\nshells.\n\nIt is that which most attracts and enchains the interest of the child\nwhen he first sees a fish. I was very young when I first saw one, but\nI still remember how vividly I felt the impression. That creature with\nvariously colored lights flashing from its silvery scales, threw me\ninto an astonishment, a fascination, a rapture, which no words can\ndescribe. I endeavored to catch it, but found that it could no more be\nheld than the water which glided through my small weak hand. That fish\nseemed to me to be identical with the element in which it swam, and\ngave me a confused idea of animated, organized and surpassingly\nbeautiful water.\n\nA long time after, in my maturity, I was scarcely less impressed when\non a sea beach I saw, I know not what of shining and transparent\nsubstance, through which I could clearly see the sand and pebbles.\nColorless as crystal, slightly, very slightly solid, tremulous when\never so slightly touched, it seemed to me as to the ancients and to\nR\u00e9aumur, that which R\u00e9aumur so graphically named it--_gelatinised\nwater_.\n\nStill more forcibly do we feel this impression when we discover in the\nearly stage of their formation the yellowish white threads in which\nthe sea makes her first outlines of the fuci and alg\u00e6 which are to\nharden and darken to the strength and color of hides and leather. But\nwhen quite young, in their viscuous state, and in their elasticity,\nthey have the consistence of a solidified wave, all the stronger\nbecause it is soft. What we now know of the generation and the complex\norganization of the inferior creatures, animal or vegetable,\ncontradicts the explanation of R\u00e9aumur and the ancients. But all this\ndoes not forbid us to return to the question which was first put by\nBorg. de Saint Vincent; viz: What is the _mucus_ of the Sea? That\nviscuousness which water in general presents? Is it not the universal\nelement of life?\n\nMuch engaged with these and the like reflections, I called upon an\nillustrious chemist, a man at once positive and sound, an innovator no\nless prudent than bold, and I abruptly asked him this plain\nquestion--\"What, in your opinion, is that whitish, viscuous matter\nwhich we find in sea water?\" \"Nothing else than life,\" was his reply,\nthen retracting, or rather explaining his somewhat too simple and too\nabsolute dictum, he added, \"I should rather say a half organized and\nwholly organizable matter. In certain waters it is a dense mass of\ninfusori\u00e6, in others a matter which is not yet, but which is to become\ninfusori\u00e6. In fact, we have yet to begin, at all seriously, the study\nof this matter.\"\n\nThis was spoken on the 17th of May, 1860.\n\nOn leaving our great Chemist, I went to a Physiologist, whose opinion\nhas no less weight with me, and to him I put the same question. His\nreply was very long and very beautiful. In substance it ran thus: \"We\nknow in reality no more about the composition of water than we know\nabout that of blood. What we best know and can most safely affirm\nabout the _mucus_ of sea water, is that it is at once an Alpha and an\nOmega, a beginning and an end. Is it the result of the numberless\ndeaths which furnish forth materials for new lives? No doubt, that is\nthe general law; but in the case of the sea, that world of rapid\nabsorption, the majority of the creatures there are absorbed while in\nfull life; they do not slowly linger on towards death, as we on land\ndo. The sea is a very pure element; war and death purvey to it. But\nlife, without arriving at its final dissolution, is incessantly\napproaching it, exuding and exhaling all that is superfluous. With us,\nthe animals of the earth, the epidermis, through its millions of\npores, wastes the body at every instant; we suffer, as it were, a\npartial death at every breath we draw. Now this partial death, this\nvast exudation, in the case of the marine world, fills that vast world\nof waters with a gelatinous wealth of which the young world has the\ninstant benefit. It finds in suspension the oily superabundance of\nthis common exudation, the still living atoms and liquids which have\nnot had time to die. All this does not fall back into the inorganic,\nbut enters quickly into new organisms. Of all the theories on the\nsubject, this seems the most reasonable; rejecting this theory, we\nplunge into a sea of extreme difficulties.\"\n\nThese ideas of the most enlightened and earnest thinkers of the\npresent day, are not irreconcilable with those which, nearly thirty\nyears ago were promulgated by Geoffrey Saint Hilaire, upon that\ngeneral _mucus_ in which nature seems to find all life. He calls it\n\"the _animalisible_ substance, the raw material of organic bodies. Not\na creature, whether animal or vegetable, but both absorbs and produces\nit from the earliest to the latest breath; indeed, the weaker the\ncreature, the more abundant that is.\"\n\nThis remark suggests a broad and bright light upon the life of the\nseas. Their tenants seem, for the most part, foetuses in the\ngelatinous stage, which absorb and produce the mucous substance,\npermeate and saturate with it all the waters, and give to them the\nfecund and nourishing powers of a vast womb, in whose depths an\ninfinite succession of generations, perpetually float, as in warm\nmilk.\n\nLet us make ourselves present in this divine work. Let us take a drop\nfrom the sea; in it we shall be able to espy the very process of the\nprimitive creation. Nature's God is ever consistent; he does not work\nin one fashion to-day, and in another to-morrow. This drop of water, I\ndoubt not, will tell us in its transformations, the tale of the\nUniverse. Let us be patient, and observe. Who can foresee or guess\nthe history of this drop of water? Which will it first produce, the\nvegetable-animal, or the animal-vegetable? Will this drop be the\ninfusori\u00e6, the primitive _monad_, which, vibrating, shall shortly\nbecome _vibrion_, and ascending step by step, from rank to rank,\npolypus, coral, or pearl, may perchance in ten thousand years reach\nthe dignity of insect? Will it produce the vegetable thread, so slight\nand silken that one would scarcely discern it, and yet already is no\nless than the first born hair, amorous and sensitive, which is so well\nknown as _Venus's hair_? This is no fable--it is true natural history.\nThis hair, of double nature, at once animal and vegetable, is, in\nfact, the commencement of life.\n\nLook quite down into the depths of a vessel of water; at first you\ndiscover nothing; patience for a few moments and you perceive drops,\natomies, that are moving. Bring a good glass into the service, and you\nsee a whole cloud of these atomies. Are they gelatinous or fleecy?\nUnder the microscope this seeming fleece becomes a group of filaments,\nof finest and silkiest threads; a thousand times finer, it is\nbelieved, than the finest hair that adorns the head of woman. You are\nnow looking upon the first timid attempt of life that is struggling to\nachieve organization. These conferv\u00e6, these hair-weeds, are to be\nfound wherever there is stagnant water, whether fresh or salt. They\nare the commencement of that double series of the primary vegetation\nof the sea which became terrestrial when the earth emerged from the\nwatery depths. Once above and beyond the waters, they become the vast,\nthe numberless Fungus-family; in the water, they are the hair-weeds,\nthe many-formed and many-named Alg\u00e6.\n\nThis is the primitive, the indispensable element of organized\nvitality, and we find it even where we should, at the first glance\ndeem it to be impossible. Even in the dark depths of the ferruginous\nwaters, supersaturated with iron; even in the all but boiling hot\nsprings, you find this mucus, this abounding mass of little creatures,\nmoving, writhing, agitated ever, which to your first glance, seem only\nso many lifeless specks. You need not greatly care into what class our\nfinite and dim science consigns them. If Candolle honors them with the\ntitle of animals, if Dujardin, on the other hand, degrades them into\nthe low rank of the lowest vegetation--let us not stay to heed these\nmere names. Such as they are, all that they ask is that they may live\nand that their humble existence may open up the long series of beings\nwhich, but for them, would never be. These atomies, whether we call\nthem living or dead, or passing from life to death, or vigorously\nstruggling from death into organic life, are self-supporting,\nindependently struggling, and ever taking and giving from and to the\nmaternal waters, the life creating and the life supporting gelatine.\n\nIt really is without any approach, even, to probability, that they\nshow us, as specimens of the first creation, the primitive\norganization, the fossil imprints, more or less complex, whether of\nanimal or vegetable--of the Trilobites, for instance, already\nfurnished with the superior organs--eyes, &c.,--or gigantic\nvegetation, widely branched and richly foliaged. It is beyond all\ncomputation more probable that these were preceded and heralded, and\nprepared, by species far more simple, but of such yielding and\ndestructible matter that it could make no impress, leave no mark\nbehind. How can we expect that those gelatinous, those almost liquid\ncreatures should _not_ \"die and make no sign\" when we see that the\nhard shells are ground into very dust? In the South Seas we see fish\nwith teeth so sharp, at once, and of such iron strength that they\nbrowse on the tough coral, even as the timid sheep browses on the\ntender grass-blades. Oh! Depend upon it, generation after generation\nof the soft gelatinous germs of life have breathed before nature put\nforth its robust Trilobite and its imperishable ferns.\n\nLet us be just to these conserv\u00e6; let us restore to them their pretty\nobvious right to eldership in this glad and various world of ours. Be\nthey animal or be they vegetable, or do they vibrate and struggle\nbetween both--let us at least do them justice, let us speak about them\nall that is evidently true.\n\nUpon them, and at their expense, arose the immense, the really\nmarvellous marine Flora.\n\nAt that starting point I will not hesitate to express my tender\nsympathy. For three very sound and sufficient reasons I love and I\nbless that vast vegetation; small or large, that vegetation has three\nlovely qualities:--\n\nFirstly, how innocent are all its members. Not one of them all is\npoisonous. Vainly in the whole marine vegetation shall you search for\none poisonous plant. Seek in every sea, and in every latitude, you\nwill find the vegetation wholesome, genial, a blessing and a mercy.\n\nThose innocent plants ask for nothing more than to nourish or to heal\nanimality. Many of them, the Laminaires, for instance, contain a\nluscious sugar; and others, as, for instance, the Corsican or Irish\nMoss, have a health-restoring bitter; and all, without exception,\ncontain a concentrated and most nourishing mucilage, not a few of them\nsaviours to the weak, worn, perishing lungs of presumptuous and\nungrateful man. Where we now exhibit iodide, the English formerly used\nnothing but a confection of that same Corsican, or Irish, Moss.\n\nThe third characteristic of that vegetation is its marvellous\namorousness. We cannot doubt that if we pay the slightest attention to\nits strange hymeneial metamorphoses, here is the striving to be,\nbeyond being, to be potent beyond power. We see it in the fire flies\nand the like small things, and we see it no less, if we will only look\nfor it, in the sea weeds which, at the consecrated moment, seem to\nquit their merely vegetable life and leap into animality.\n\nWhere do these wonders commence? Where are these first sketches of\nanimality made? Where are we to look for the primitive scene of\norganization?\n\nFormerly these things were hotly disputed; in our own day there seems\nto be a certain agreement in the learned world of Europe. I can find\nthe reply to these questions in many recognized and authorized\nvolumes, but I prefer to borrow it from an Essay recently crowned by\nthe Academy of Sciences, and, consequently, shielded by its high,\nunquestionable authority.\n\nLiving creatures are found in the hot waters of eighty, even up to\nninety, degrees. It is when the cooled globe gets down to that\ntemperature that life becomes possible. The water has then absorbed,\nat least in part, that terrible element of death--carbonic acid gas.\nIt becomes possible to breathe.\n\nAll the seas were at first like those parts of the great Pacific\nOcean, which are comparatively shallow, and are studded with small,\nlow islets. These islets are extinct craters of by-gone volcanoes; the\nseaman knows them only by the summits which the slow but steadfast\ntoil of the coral insect has upheaved from the depths. But the depths\nbetween these volcanoes are probably themselves no less volcanic, and\nmust have been, for the first essays of primitive creation, so many\nreceptacles of life.\n\nPopular tradition has, for ages past, attributed to volcanoes the\nguardianship of buried treasures, which from time to time give out to\nour upper world the gold that lies buried in the depths.--Poetic\nfiction, which yet has its firm foundation in fact. The volcanic\nregions have within themselves the treasure of our globe, potent\nvirtues of fecundity. It is they that most largely dower the otherwise\nsterile earth; from the dust of their lavas, from their still warm\nashes, life springs, expands, glows, and creates new life. We\nrecognize the wealth of Vesuvius, and of Etna in the long offshoots\nthat they send far into the Sea, and we know what a lovely paradise is\nformed under the Himalayas, by the volcanic circle of the vale of\nCachemire. And the same thing is repeated in the lovely isles of the\nfar South Sea.\n\nEven under the least favorable circumstances, the vicinity of\nvolcanoes, and the warm currents which are their concomitants, create\nand preserve animal life, even in the most desolate and dreary places.\nAmidst all the freezing horrors of the Antarctic pole, not far from\nthe volcanic Erebus, Captain James Ross found living coral insects at\nthe depth of a thousand fathoms below the surface of the frozen sea.\n\nIn the early ages of our world, innumerable volcanoes exerted a\nsubmarine action far more powerful than they exhibit now. Their clefts\nand their intermediate valleys allowed the marine mucus to accumulate\nin places, and to be electrified into life by the warm currents. No\ndoubt the _mucus_ affected those parts, fixed itself there and worked\nand fermented to the utmost of its young power. Its leaven was the\nattraction of the substance for itself. The creative elements,\noriginally dissolved in the sea formed combinations, leagues, I had\nwell nigh written marriages. First appeared, merely elementary\nlives--death following almost inseparably, indistinguishably, upon\nyoung life; and other lives following close upon, and nourished by,\nthose wrecks and spoils, had firmer hold on life, became preparatory\nbeings, slow but sure creators, which, thenceforth, began beneath the\nwaters that eternal labor which, even in our own day and beneath our\nown scrutiny, they still continue.\n\nThe sea nourishing them all, gives to each that which best suits it.\nEach draws from that great nursing-mother, in its own fashion, and for\nits own especial behoof, that which it most needs, must have, to make\nit what we see of naked, or of shelled, of seeming vegetable, or of\nfierce, vigorous, and pugnacious life. And whether in life or in\ndeath, whether building actively or passively decomposing, they clothe\nthe sad nudity of the virgin rocks, those daughters of the volcanic\nfires from which flaming and sterile, they were hurled from the\nplanetary nucleus.\n\nQuartz, basalt, porphyry, and semi-vitrified flints, each and all\nreceive from these minute laborers a new, a more graceful, and a more\nfecund garb; from the fecund maternal milk (for such we must call the\n_mucus_ of the Sea) they absorb and restore, and thus build up, and\nsecure, and fructify, and beautify, this, our habitable earth. It is\nfrom these more favoring localities that have arisen our primal\nspecies.\n\nThese works must have been commenced among the volcanic isles and\nislets, in the depths of their Archipelagoes, in those sinuous\nwindings, those peaceful labyrinths where the tides enter timidly and\ngently, warm and sheltered cradles for the newly-born.\n\nBut the bolder strength of the fully-expanded flower, is to be sought\nfor in, for instance, the vast depths of the Indian Gulfs. There, the\nSea is veritably a great artist. There she gives to the earth its most\nadorable forms, lively, loving, and lovable. With her assiduous\ncaresses she rounds or slopes the shore, and gives it those maternal\noutlines, and I had almost said the visible tenderness of that\nfeminine bosom on which the pleased child finds so softly safe a\nshelter, such warmth, such saving warmth, and rest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE ATOM.\n\n\nFrom the bottom of his nets a fisherman one day gave me three almost\ndying creatures, a sea hedge-hog, a sea star, and another star, a\npretty ophiure, which still moved and soon lost its delicate arms. I\ngave them some sea water, but forgot them for two days, and when I\nagain saw them, all were dead. On the surface of the water a thick\ngelatinous film had formed. I took an atom of this on the point of a\nneedle; that atom, when placed under the microscope, showed me the\nfollowing scene. A whirling crowd of short, thick, strongly built\nanimals--_Kolpodes_--rushed to and fro as though intoxicated with\ntheir sense of life, delighted, I may say, that they were born and\nkeeping their birthday with a perfectly bacchanalian joy, while\nmicroscopic eels--_Vibrions_--swam less than vibrated to spring\nforward.\n\nWearied with the contemplation of such movement, the eye, however,\nsoon remarked, that all was not in motion, there were some vibrions\nyet stiff and still, and there were some intertwined in heaps which\nhad not yet detached themselves and which looked as though expecting\nthe moment of their deliverance.\n\nIn that living fermentation of still motionless creatures, the\ndisorderly Kolpodes rushed and raged, hither and thither, regaling and\nfattening themselves at will.\n\nAnd this grand spectacle was displayed within the compass of an atom\nof film taken on the point of a needle! How many such scenes would be\nenacted in the whole of the gelatinous film which had so promptly\nformed on the surface of the water containing three dead creatures!\nThe time had been wonderfully put to profit. In two days the dead had\nmade a world; for three animals that I had lost I had gained millions,\nabounding in youth, absorbed in a real fury of new life!\n\nThat infinite world of life which every where surrounds us was almost\nunknown until lately. Swammerdam and others, who formerly recognized\nit, were stopped at their first step; and it was as lately as the year\n1830, that the magician Uhrenberg looked, revealed, and classified it.\nHe studied the figure of these invisibles, their organization, their\nmanners; he saw them absorb, digest, chase, and fiercely battle. Their\ngeneration remained a mystery to him. What is the nature of their\namours? _Have_ they any amours? For creatures so elementary, would\nnature go to the expense of a complicated generation? Or do they\nspring up spontaneously, and, in vulgar phrase, \"like mushrooms?\"\n\nA great question! at which more than one naturalist smiles and shakes\nhis head. One is so certain of having solved the great mystery of the\nworld and secured, laid down, once and forever, the true laws of life!\nIt is for Nature to obey! When, a hundred years ago, R\u00e9aumur was told\nthat the female silk worm could produce alone and without the male, he\ndenied it in the brief phrase--\"Out of nothing, nothing comes.\" But\nthe fact, often denied but always proved, is now thoroughly\nestablished and admitted, not only as to the silk worm, but as to the\nbee, certain butterflies, and still other creatures.\n\nIn all times, in every nation, both the learned and unlearned have\nsaid, \"Out of death cometh life.\" It was especially supposed that the\nimperceptible animalcul\u00e6 immediately sprang up from the wrecks of\ndeath. Even Harvey, who first laid down the law of generation, did not\nventure to contradict that ancient belief, for though he said every\nbody comes from the egg, he immediately added--_or from the dissolved\nbody of a preceding life_.\n\nIt is precisely the theory which has been so brilliantly revived by\nthe experiments of M. Ponchet. He has established the fact that from\nthe remains of the infusori\u00e6 and other creatures, there proceeds a\nfecund jelly, the \"prolific membrane\" from which spring, not new\nbeings, indeed, but the germs, the eggs from which new creatures will\nspring.\n\nWe live in an age of miracles. This is not to astonish us. Any one\nwould formerly have been laughed at who had ventured to say that some\nanimals, disobedient to the general laws of nature, take the liberty\nto breathe through their paws. The noble labors of Milne Edwards have\nbrought this to light. And Cuvier and Blainville had observed, it is\nsaid, that other creatures, destitute of the regular organs of\ncirculation, supply their place by the intestines, but those great\nnaturalists deemed the fact so enormous and so incredible, that they\ndid not venture to publish it. It is now perfectly established by\nMilne Edwards, M. de Quatrefages, &c.\n\nWhatever may be thought of their birth, our atoms, when once born,\npresent a world infinitely and admirably varied. All forms of life are\nthere honorably represented. If they know themselves, they must\nconsider that they compose among themselves a harmony so complete as\nto leave but little to desire.\n\nThey are not dispersed species, created apart; they clearly form a\nkingdom in which the various species have organized a great division\nof the vital labor. They have collective beings like our polypus or\ncoral insect, engaged in the servitude of a common life; and they have\ntheir minute molluscs which already display their minute and delicate\nshells; they have their swiftly swimming fish and whirling insects,\nproud crustace\u00e6, miniatures of the future crabs, armed, like them, to\nthe teeth; warrior, atoms that chase and devour inoffensive atoms.\n\nAnd all this in an enormous and marvellous abundance, which shows the\ncomparative poverty of our visible world. Without speaking of those\nRhizopodes which have made their part of the Apennines and the\nCordilleras,--the Foramineferes, alone, that numerous tribe of shelled\natoms, amount, according to Charles d'Orbigny, to two thousand\nspecies. They are contemporary with every age of the earth; they\npresent themselves at all the various depths of our thirty crises of\nthe globe; sometimes varying a little in form, but always existing as\nspecies; identical witnesses of the life of the earth. In the present\nday the cold current from the south pole which the point of America\ncuts in two, sends forty species towards La Plata and forty towards\nChili. But the great scene of their creation and organization appears\nto be the warm stream of the sea which flows from the Antilles. The\nnorthern currents kill them. The great paternal torrent drifts\nmyriads of their dead to Newfoundland in our ocean, whose bottom is\npaved with them.\n\nWhen the illustrious godfather of the atoms, Ehrenberg, baptised them\nand introduced them to the scientific world, he was accused of being\ntoo favorable to them, and of exaggerating the character of those\nlittle creatures. He declared them to be a complicated and elevated\norganization. So liberally did he endow them, that he gave them a\nhundred and twenty stomachs. The visible world became jealous of these\ninvisibles, and, by a violent reaction, Dujardin reduced them to the\nlowest degree of simplicity. The asserted organs he treated as mere\nappearances; but, as he could not deny their obvious and great powers\nof absorption, he granted them the gift of being able to improvise\nstomachs proportioned to what they had to swallow. M. Pouchet does not\ncoincide with this opinion, but rather inclines to that of Ehrenberg.\n\nWhat is incontestable and admirable in these atoms is the vigor of\nmovement.\n\nMany have all the appearance of a precocious individuality. They do\nnot long remain subject to the communistic life led by their immediate\nsuperiors, the true Polypes. Very many of these invisibles are\nindividuals at the first leap; that is to say, that, at the first\nmoment of their existence, they can come and go alone and at their\nown will; true citizens of the world whose movements depend only upon\nthemselves.\n\nWhatever can be seen or imagined of various modes of locomotion in the\nvisible world, is equalled, even surpassed, among these invisibles.\nThe impetuous whirl of a potent star, of a sun which attracts around\nhim, as his planets, the weaker one which he meets, the more irregular\ncourse of the eccentric comet, the graceful undulation of the slender\none in the water or upon the land, the rocking barque that veers right\nround in an instant, the rush of the swift shark and the slow crawl of\nthe wretched sloth--all and every movement, clumsy or graceful, slow\nor swift, is to be found in the various species of atoms. And with\nwhat a marvellous simplicity of machinery! Here you see one, a mere\nthread, advancing, twisting, a veritable elastic cork-screw; there you\nsee one that for oar and rudder has only an undulating tail or a pair\nof little vibrating eye-lashes. The beautiful little polypus-worms,\nlike flowers in a vase, anchor together upon an isle--a little plant,\nor a miniature crab, and then separate and cast off by detaching their\ndelicate peduncle.\n\nWhat is even more surprising than the organs of motion, is what we may\nterm the expression, the attitudes, the original signs of character\nand temper. You may recognize here the apathetic, there the vivacious\nand fantastic, some all alert for war, and others, as it would seem,\nfretful and agitated without any apparent cause. Again, you will\noccasionally see a whole crowd of remarkably quiet and peaceable atoms\nsuddenly dispersed and knocked over by some scapegrace atom, conscious\nof superior strength, and spoiling for a fight.\n\nA prodigious comedy is that of our atoms! They seem to be satirically\nrehearsing the various farces which are played in our own noble and\nserious world, of atoms of larger growth!\n\nAt the head of the infusori\u00e6, we must make respectful mention of the\nmajestic giants, the highest type of motion and of strength, slow, but\nterrible and great.\n\nTake some moss from a roof, steep it for a few hours in water, then\nplace it under the microscopic inspection, and you behold a vast, a\nmighty animal, the elephant or the whale of the invisibles, moving\nwith a youthful grace which those large animals do not always display.\nRespect this king of all the atoms, this rotifer, so called because on\neither side of his head he has a wheel; these wheels are his organs of\nlocomotion, like the paddle-wheels of a steamship, or perhaps they\nalso serve him as his arms of chase to catch his small game, the\ninferior and peaceable atoms! All fly, all yield to the rotifer, save\none; one atom only fears nothing, yields nothing, but trusts to his\nsuperior weapons. He is a monster, but he is provided with superior\nsenses. He has two great gleaming, purplish eyes. He is slow, but he\ncan see, and he is admirably armed. To his strong paws he adds strong,\nsharp talons, which serve him to hold on with, and, at need, to serve\nhim in the fight.\n\nPotent initial essays of Nature, that with such small expenditure of\nmatter, can create in such majestic fashion! Sublime first note of the\nsublime overture. These,--of what consequence is mere size?--have a\ncolossal power of absorption and of movement, far beyond that which\nwill be given to the enormous animals that are classed so much higher\nin the animal scale.\n\nThe oyster fixed upon its rock, the crawling slug, are to the rotifers\ncreatures as disproportioned as man to the Alps or Cordilleras--so\ndisproportioned that one cannot compare them by glance, hardly by\nreflection and calculation. Yet among those animal mountains, where\nwill you find the vivacity, the ardor of vitality, displayed by the\nrotifer? What a fall we have as we ascend! Our atoms are too\nvivacious, dazzlingly agile, and these gigantic beasts are smitten\nwith paralysis. What if the rotifer could conceive, for instance, the\nsuperb, the colossal starred sponge, which one may see in the Museum\nat Paris? It is to the rotifer what this globe, with its twenty-seven\nthousand miles of circumference is to man. Well! If the rotifer could\ncompare himself to the huge sponge, rely upon it that the rotifer\nwould move his wheels in utmost excitement, and exclaim--\"I am great.\"\n\nAh! Rotifer, rotifer! we should despise no one, and nothing.\n\nI am well convinced of your advantages and your superiority. But who\nknows if the captive and slumbering life which you, for instance,\ndespise in the oyster or the snail, or the slug, be not in truth a\nprogress? Your wild vertiginous movement, and vivacity, by no means\nsecure a passage towards higher destinies; for that passage, nature\nprefers a motion of less enchantment. She enters the dark sepulchre of\nthat melancholy communism in which element reckons but for little; she\nteaches how to dominate individual anxieties and ambitions, and to\nconcentrate substances for the benefit of superior lives.\n\nShe sleeps there, for a time, like the _Sleeping Beauty in the Wood_.\nBut sleep, captivity, enchantment, be it what it may, it is not Death.\nIn the sponge, seemingly so dead, what life there is! It moves not,\nbreathes not, has no organs of circulation, or of sense,--and yet it\nlives. How know we that, do you ask? Twice in every year the sponge\nreproduces. She lives after her fashion, and even more richly than\nmany others. At the proper day, small spheres leave the mother sponge,\narmed with minute fins, which enable them for a short time to float\nabout in full liberty, but soon coming to anchor, they remain there,\ngrowing, reproducing, till the sponge-hunter carries them to the\nhabitations of man, to the service of the greater enslaver, man, the\ncivilized.\n\nThus, in the apparent absence of senses, and of all organization, in\nthat mysterious enigma, at the doubtful threshold of life, generation\nopens up to us the visible world by which we are to ascend. As yet\nthere is nothing, and in the bosom of that nothingness maternity\nalready appears. As with the fabled gods of antique and mysterious\nEgypt, as with that old Isis and Osiris, who begat before their birth,\nhere, also, Love exists before Being.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nBLOOD-FLOWER.\n\n\nAt the heart of the globe, in the warm waters of the Line, and upon\ntheir volcanic bottoms, the sea so superabounds in life that it seems\nimpossible for it to balance its multitudinous creations. Overpassing\npurely vegetable life, its earliest products are organized, sensitive,\nliving.\n\nBut these animals adorn themselves with a singular splendor of botanic\nbeauty, the splendid liveries of an eccentric and most luxuriant\nFlora. Far as the eye can reach, you see what, judging from the forms\nand colors, you take for flowers, and shrubs, and plants. But those\nplants have their movements, those shrubs are irritable, those flowers\nshrink and shudder with an incipient sensitiveness which promises,\nperception and _will_.\n\nCharming oscillation, fascinating motion, most graceful equivoque! On\nthe confines of the two kingdoms of animal and vegetable life, Mind,\nunder those fa\u00ebry oscillations gives token of its first awakening, its\ndawn, its morning twilight, to be followed by a glorious and glowing\nnoon. Those brilliant colors, those pearly and enamelled flashings,\ntell at once of the past night and the thought of the dawning day.\n\nThought! may we venture to call it so? No, it is still a Dream, which\nby degrees will clear up into Thought.\n\nAlready, in the north of Africa, over the other side of the Cape, the\nvegetable kingdom, which reigns alone in the temperate zone, sees\nitself rivalled, surpassed. The great enchantment progresses,\nincreases, as we near the Equator. On the land,--tree, shrub, flower,\nweed, are proud and gorgeous, flaming in every bright color, delicate\nin every soft shade, and beneath the waters' slime and the ruddy\ncorals. Beside parterres, that display rainbow beauties of every color\nand every tint, commence the stone plants; the madrepores, whose\nbranches (should we not rather say their hands and fingers?) flourish\nin a rose-tinted snow; like peach or apple blossoms. Seven hundred\nleagues on either side of the Equator, you sail through this fa\u00ebry\nland of magical illusion and wondrous beauty.\n\nThere are doubtful creatures, the Corallines, for instance, that are\nclaimed by all the three kingdoms. They tend towards the animal, they\ntend towards the mineral, and, finally, are assigned to the vegetable.\nPerchance they form the real point at which Life obscurely and\nmysteriously rises from the slumber of the stone, without utterly\nquitting that rude starting-point, as if to remind us, so high placed\nand so haughty, of the right of even the humble mineral to rise into\nanimation, and of the deep and eternal aspiration that lies buried,\nbut busy, in the bosom of Nature.\n\n\"The fields and forests of our dry land,\" says Darwin, \"appear sterile\nand empty, if we compare them with those of the sea.\" And, in fact,\nall who traverse the marvellous transparent Indian seas are thrilled,\nstirred, startled, by the phantasmagoria that flashes up from their\nfar clear depths. Especially surprising is the interchange between\nanimal and vegetable life of their especial and characteristic\nappearances. The soft impressible gelatinous plants, with rounded\norgans, that are neither precisely leaves nor precisely stalks, the\ndelicacy of their animal curves--those Hogarthian \"lines of beauty,\"\nseem to ask us to believe that they are veritable animals, while the\nreal animals, on the other hand, in form, in color, in all, seem to do\ntheir utmost to be mistaken for vegetables. Each kingdom skilfully\nimitates the other. These have the solidity, the quasi permanence, of\nthe tree; the others alternately expand and fade like the evanescent\nflower. Thus the sea Anemone opens as a roseate and pearly flower, or\nas a granite star with deep blue eyes; but when her coroll\u00e6 have given\nforth an Anemone daughter, you see the fair mother droop, fade, die.\n\nFar otherwise variable, that Proteus of the waters, the Halcyon, takes\nevery form and every color. Now plant, now flower, it spreads itself\nout into a fanlike beauty, becomes a bushy hedge, or rounds itself\ninto a graceful bouquet. But all this is so ephemeral, so fugitive, so\ntimid, so shrinking, that at the slightest touch of the softest breath\nit disappears, and returns on the instant into the womb of the common\nmother. In these slight and fugitive forms you at once recognize the\ntwin sisters of the sensitive plants of our earth; closing up, as they\nclose at the first breath of evening.\n\nWhen you gaze down upon a coral reef, you see the depths carpeted,\nmany colored flowers with fungi, masses of snowy brilliancy; every\nhill, every valley, of the great deep, is variegated with a thousand\nforms, and a thousand colors, from the ruddy and outstretched branches\nof the coral, to the deep, rich, velvety green of the Cariophylles or\nviolets, which seek their food by the gentle motion of the richly\ngolden stamens. Above this lower world, as if to shade them from the\ntoo glowing kiss of the ardent sun, waves a whole forest of giant and\ndwarf trees and shrubs, and from tree to tree feathery spirals stretch\nand interlace like the loving and embracing tendrils of the vine, but\nfiner in tendril and infinitely more splendid in their variegated and\ncontrasting, yet singularly harmonizing colors.\n\nThis glorious sight inspires, yet agitates us; it is a dream, a\nvertigo; that Fay of the shifting mirage, the Sea, adding to these\ncolors her own prismatic tints, fading, reappearing, now here, now\ngone, a capricious and fitful inconstancy, a hesitation, a doubt. Have\nwe really seen it, this lovely scene? No, it was not so. Was it an\nentity, or a delusion? Yes, yes, it must be real, there are certainly\nvery real beings there, for I see whole hosts of them lodged there and\nsporting there. The molluscs confide in that reality, for there you\ncan see their pearly shells reflecting lights, now flashing and\nbrilliant, and anon of a most tender delicacy; and the crab, too,\nbelieves in it, for see how he hastens on his sidelong path. Strange\nfish, vast and curious monsters of the deep, move hither and thither\nin their many colored vesture of purple and gold, and deep azure and\ndelicate pink; and that delicate star, the Ophiure agitates his\ndelicate and elegant arms.\n\nIn this phantasmagoria the arborescent Madrepore more gravely displays\nhis less brilliant colors. His beauty is chiefly that of form.\n\nBut the chief attraction of the aspect of this vast community is in\nits entirety; the individual is humble, but the republic is imposing.\nHere you have the strong assemblage of aloes and cactus; there you\nhave the superbly branching antlers of the Deer; and anon, you see the\nvast stretch of the vigorous branches of the giant cedar stretching at\nfirst horizontally, but tending to advance upward and upward still.\n\nThose forms at present despoiled of the thousands and tens of\nthousands of living flowers, which should cover and enliven them have,\nperhaps, in that stern nudity an additional attraction for the mind. I\nlove to look upon the trees in winter, when their bared boughs tell us\nand show us what they really are. And thus it is with the Madrepores.\nIn their present nudity, when from pictures they have become statues,\nit seems as though they were about to reveal to us the whole secret of\nthe minute populations of which they are at once the creation and the\nmonument. Many of them seem to write to us in strange characters, to\nspeak to us in strange tones. Their interlacings evidently have a\nsomething to tell us, could we but understand them. But who shall be\ntheir interpreter; who shall give us the keynote to their harmony,\nmysterious harmony--but Harmony doubtless?\n\nHow much less significant is the Bee architecture in its cold, severe,\ngeometry! That is the produce of life, but here we look upon life\nitself. The stone was not simply the base and shelter of this people;\nit was itself a previous people, an anterior generation, which,\ngradually overtopped by the younger, assumed its present consistence.\nAnd all the movements of that first community are still strikingly\nvisible, as details of another Herculaneum, or Pompeii. But here\neverything is accomplished without catastrophe, without violence, by\norderly and natural progress; all testifies to serenity and peace.\n\nEvery sculptor will here admire the forms of a marvellous art which\nhas achieved such infinite variety of forms, improving upon all arts\nof ornamentation. But we have to reflect upon something far beyond\nmere form. The arborescent variety on which the activity of these\nlaborious tribes has been so wonderfully employed, is the effort of a\nthought, of a captive liberty, seeking the guiding thread in the deep\nand mazy labyrinth, and timidly feeling its way upward towards the\nlight, and gently and gracefully working out its emancipation from\ncommunist life.\n\nI have in my possession two of these little trees differing from each\nother, but of like species. No vegetable is comparable to them. One,\npurely white as the most immaculate alabaster, has an inexhaustible\nwealth of buds, and blossoms and flowers, on every one of its many\nspreading branches. The other, less white and less spreading, has also\nits whole world upon its branches. Exquisitely beautiful are they\nboth; alike yet unlike, twins of innocence and fraternity. Oh who\nshall explain to us the mystery of the infant soul that created these\nfa\u00ebry things! We feel that it must be at work, captive and yet free;\ncaptive in a captivity so beloved that though still tending upward\ntowards freedom, it yet cares not fully to achieve it.\n\nThe arts have not yet seized upon those wonders from which the world\nhas derived so much benefit. The beautiful statue of Nature (at the\nentrance of the Jardin des Plantes) should have been surrounded by\nthem; Nature should only be exhibited as she ever lives, amidst fa\u00ebry\ntriumphs, enthroning her on a mountain of her own beauties. Her first\nborn, the Madrepores, would have furnished the lower strata with their\nmeanders, their stars and their alabaster branches; while above, their\nsisters, with their bodies and their fine hair would have made a\nliving bed, softly to embrace with caressing love the divine Mother in\nher dream of eternal maternity.\n\nPainting has succeeded in these things no better than sculpture. Her\nanimated flowers have neither the expression nor the true, pure,\ndelicate coloring of the animated flowers, of the nature of which our\ncolored engravings give but a poor and mechanical idea, altogether\ndestitute of the unctuous softness, suppleness, and warm emotion of\nthe flowers of the fields, the woods, the gardens, or animated flowers\nof the seas. Enamels, even attempted as by Palissy, are too hard and\ncold; admirable for reptiles and the scales of fish, they are too\nglaring to resemble these tender and soft creatures that have not even\na skin. The little exterior lungs of the annelides, the slight net\nwork in which certain of the Polypes float, the sensitive and\never-moving hairs which support the Medus\u00e6, are objects not merely\ndelicate to sight, but affecting to imagination. They are of every\nshade, fine and vague, yet warm; as though a balmy breath had become\nvisible. You see an ever-varying, ever-moving rainbow that delights\nyour eye; but for them it is a very serious matter, the creating of\nthat marvellous rainbow, of various forms and colors; it is their\nblood and their weak life converted into changing hues and tints, and\nlights and shades. Take care! Do not stifle that little floating soul,\nwhich mutely, but oh how eloquently, tells you its secret in those\nvarying and palpitating colors.\n\nThe colors do not long survive, and their creators, the Madrepores,\nthemselves survive only in their base, which has been called\ninorganic, but which in reality is condensed and solidified life.\n\nWomen, who have a more delicate and penetrating sense of the beautiful\nthan we have, do not thus mistake; they have, at the least, confusedly\ndivined that one of these trees, the coral, is a living thing, and\nthence the just favor in which they hold it. Vainly did science tell\nthem that coral was mere stone, and then that it was a plant, they\nknew quite differently.\n\n\"Madame, why is it that you prefer this tree of a dubious red, to all\nthe precious stones?\"\n\n\"Monsieur, it suits my complexion. Rubies are too vivid, they make me\nlook pale, while this, somewhat duller, rather more favorably\ncontrasts fairness.\"\n\nThe lady is quite right; the coral and the lady are related. In the\ncoral, as in the lip and the cheek of the lady, it is iron, according\nto Voyel, which makes the one red and the others roseate.\n\n\"But, Madame, these brilliant stones have an incomparable polish, and\ndazzling lustre.\"\n\n\"Yes, but the coral has something of the softness and even the warmth\nof the skin. As soon as I put it on, it seems to become a part of\nmyself.\"\n\n\"But Madame, there are much finer reds than that of your coral\nnecklace.\"\n\n\"Doctor, leave me this, I love it. Why? That I know not; or if there\nis a reason, that which will do as well as any, is that its Eastern\nand true name is 'the Blood-Flower.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE WORLD MAKERS.\n\n\nOur Museum of Natural History, within its too narrow limits, contains\na fa\u00ebry palace in every part of which we see the genius of\nmetamorphoses of Lamarck and Geoffroy. In the dark lower hall the\nMadrepores serve as the base of the more and more living world that\nrises, stage above stage, above. Higher up the superior creatures of\nthe sea display their energy of organization, and prepare the life of\nthe terrestrials, and above these, Mammifer\u00e6, over which the lovely\nbirds spread their wings and almost seem to be still singing! The\nmultitude of visitors pass quickly and with small show of interest\nfrom the Madrepores, those elder born of the globe, and hasten to the\nlight and to the presence of things of brightest beauty, mother of\npearl, the richly painted wings of butterflies, and the plumage of\nbirds. I, who stop longer below, often find myself quite alone in that\ndark little gallery.\n\nI love that solemn crypt of the great scientific Church. There I best\ncan feel the sacred soul, the still present spirit of our great\nmasters, their great, their sublime effort, and the immortal audacity\nof our voyagers and travellers, the intrepid collectors of such a\nwealth of whatever is beautiful or instructive. Wherever their bones\nmay lie they themselves are still present in the Museum by the\ntreasures which they have bequeathed, treasures which some of them\nhave paid for with their lives.\n\nOn the 15th of last October, having remained in that crypt somewhat\nlate, I had some difficulty in reading the label on some\nMadrepores--that label bore the name of \"Lamarck.\"\n\nA sudden warmth, a religious glow, thrilled through my heart and\nbrain.\n\n\"Lamarck!\" Great name, and already antique! It is as though among the\ntombs of Saint Denis we should suddenly read the name of Clovis. The\nglory, the strifes, the royal triumphs, of his successor, have\nobscured somewhat the name of that blind Homer of the Museum, who,\nwith the instinct of genius created, organized, and named the\npreviously almost unknown class of Invertebrates; a class, nay, a\nwhole world, a vast abyss of soft half organized life still destitute\nof vertebr\u00e6; that bony centralization and essential support of\npersonality. These are all the more interesting because they are\nobviously the earliest of all--those humble and so long neglected\ntribes. R\u00e9aumur placed the Crocodiles among the insects. The proud\nBuffon deigned not to know even the names of humble Invertebrates, he\nexcluded them altogether from the Olympus at Versailles which he\nerected to Nature. These great populations, so obscure, so confused,\nwhich, nevertheless, prepared everything and abound every where,\nremained exiled from the world of science until the coming of Lamarck.\nIt was precisely the elders that were thus excluded, elders so\nnumerous that to exclude them was, in some sort, to close the eyes and\nbar the gate against nature herself.\n\nThe genius of the Metamorphoses was emancipated by botany and\nchemistry. It was a bold but most precious thing to take Lamarck, from\nthe Botany in which he had passed his life, and remove him to the vast\nworld of animality. That ardent genius, trained in miracles by the\ntransformations of plants, and full of faith in the unity of life,\nnext drew the animals, and that vast animal, the Globe, from the state\nof petrifaction in which they so long had lain. Half blind, he\nintrepidly treated a thousand things which the clear sighted scarcely\ndared to approach. At least, he infused his fire into them, and\nGeoffroy, Cuvier and Blainville found them warm and living.\n\n\"All is living, or has been,\" said Lamarck; \"everything is life,\neither present or past.\" Great revolutionary effort, that, against\ninert matter; effort proceeding even to suppress and banish the\ninorganic! No longer any actual death. That which has lived may sleep;\nand yet preserve latent life, the capacity to revive. Who is really\ndead? No one. What? Nothing.\n\nThis dictum, so novel, and so bold, swelled the sails of our\nscientific age with a strong and a favoring gale; it has urged on\nenquiries, such as but for it we should never have dreamed of making.\nHistory, or Natural History, we demand of every thing, who are\nyou--and every where the answer is, \"_I am Life_,\" and, thus, Death\nretreats before the bold advance and eagle glance of science, and Mind\nmoves onward still, conquering and to conquer.\n\nAmong these resuscitations, I first note my Madrepores, taking the\ninterest of life, though previously scorned, or unnoticed, as dead\nstone. When Lamarck collected and explained them at the Museum, they\nwere detected in the mystery of their activity, in their immense\ncreations, and they exemplified how a world is made. That once known,\nit was at once suspected that if the earth makes the animal, the\nanimal also makes the earth; and that each aids the other in the\noffice of creation.\n\nAnimality is every where, filling every thing and peopling every\nthing. We find the remains or the imprint of it even in the minerals,\nas the statuary marble and alabaster, which have passed through the\ncrucible of the most destructive fires. At every advance, in our\nknowledge of the existing, we discover an enormous past of animal\nlife. As soon as our improvements in Optics enabled us to discover and\nto watch the Infusori\u00e6, we behold them making mountains and paving the\nocean. The hard silex is a mass of animalcules, the sponge is an\nanimated silex. Our limestones are all animals; Paris is built with\ninfusori\u00e6, a part of Germany rests upon a newly buried bed of coral.\nInfusori\u00e6, coral, shells, chalk and lime. They are constantly taking\nfrom the Ocean, but the fish, which devour the coral, restore it as\nchalk, and restore it to the waters whence it came. Thus the Coral Sea\nin its labor of production, of upheaving, in its constructions\nincessantly augmented or diminished, built, ruined, and rebuilt, is an\nimmense fabric of limestone which is continually oscillating between\nits two lives;--the _acting_ life of the day--the other life that\n_will act_ to-morrow.\n\nFoster quite justly decides that these circular islands are the\ncraters of volcanoes, raised up by the polypes. He has been\ncontradicted, but wrongly so. Upon no other hypothesis can we account\nfor this identity of figure. There is always the same ring of about a\nhundred paces in diameter, very low, beaten on the outside by the\nwaves, but enclosing a tranquil basin. A few plants of three or four\nspecies, here and there, crown the basin with verdure. The water is of\nthe most beautiful green. The enclosing ring is of white sand, the\nresidue of dissolved coral, contrasting with the blue of the Ocean.\nBeneath the salt water, our little laborers are at work, the stronger\nand bolder at the breakers, the weaker and more timid on the smoother\nsides.\n\nThis is not a very varied world. But wait. The winds and the currents\nare constantly at work to enrich it; come a good tempest, and all the\nneighboring isles will be laid under contribution to enrich this\nrising one. And in this is one of the most magnificent functions of\nthe Tempest; the greater, the wilder, and the more sweeping, the more\nfecund it is. A water-spout passes over an island; the torrent that it\nproduces carries with it slime, rubbish, plants, living or dead, and\neven whole forests, which the waves carry to the neighboring isles,\nraising, and at the same time enriching, their soil.\n\nA great messenger of life, and one of the most transportable, is the\nsolid cocoanut. Not only does it travel well, but, when thrown upon\nshoal or rock, if it find only a little poor white sand, which would\nsupport nothing else, the cocoanut contents itself there, finds\nbrackish water not a jot less agreeable than the freshest; germinates,\nthrives, grows into a robust cocoa tree. A tree being thus planted,\nfresh water comes, falling leaves create earth, other trees follow,\nand at length we see the noble palm grove, which arrests the vapors,\nwhich at length form a rivulet or river, which, flowing from the\ncenter of the isle, make an opening of fresh water in the cincture of\nwhite sand, and thus keep the polypes, inhabitants only of salt water,\nat a respectful distance.\n\nOf the rapidity with which the Polypes do their work, we have some\ncurious proofs. In forty days' harboring at Rio Janeiro, boats were\nwholly destroyed; in a strait near Australia, there were formerly only\ntwenty-six islets; there are already a hundred and fifty--well\nrecognized: and the English admiralty believes that there are even\nmore; and in twenty years hence the whole strait, forty leagues in\nlength, will be so completely blocked up as to be unnavigable.\n\nThe eastern shoal of Australia is three hundred and sixty leagues,\n(one hundred and twenty-seven without any interruption,) and that of\nNew Caledonia one hundred and forty-five leagues; the single shoal of\nthe Maldives is almost five hundred miles long, and groups of isles in\nthe Pacific are four hundred leagues long, by a hundred and fifty\nwide. To all this work of the Polypes, we must add, that the banks of\nthe isle of France, and the shallows of the Red Sea, are continually\nrising. Tunis and its environs present a wholly animal world; and the\nrocks present forms so strange, and colors so splendid, that the\nspectator is amazed and dazzled. You see them in a space of several\nleagues of shallow sea water--probably not averaging more than a foot\nof depth, working calmly, but perseveringly at their business of\ncreating.\n\nTheir first intelligent observer was Forster, companion of Cook, who\nfound them at work, caught them in the very fact of their great\nconspiracy to make, noiselessly and marvellously, whole chains of\nislands, to be by degrees converted into a continent.\n\nAll this passed before his eyes, as it might have done in the first\ndays of the world. From the submarine depths, the central fire throws\nup a dome or cone, which opens, and its lava forms a circular crater.\nBut the volcanic strength becomes exhausted, and the cooling lava\nbecomes covered with a living jelly, an animal multitude, whose\nperpetual exudation of mucus continually raises the circle higher and\nhigher, to low water mark; no higher, or they would be dry; no lower,\nbecause they would lack the light. If they have no special organ with\nwhich to perceive the light, it circumfuses, penetrates, permeates\ntheir whole being. The glowing sun of the tropics, which traverses\nright through their transparent little frames, seems to have for them\nall the irresistible attraction of magnetism. When the tide ebbs and\nleaves them uncovered, they, nevertheless, remain open, and drink in\nthe vivid light.\n\nDumont d'Urville, who so often coasted among their little isles,\nsays:--\"It is a real pain to see, so near by the peace of that\ninterior basin, and to see all around shallow waters, beneath which\nare the shelving rocks, tenanted by the coral insects, in perfect\nsecurity, while we are enduring all the shocks of a raging tempest.\"\nBut this amiable community and its edifice are a shoal, a terrible lee\nshore, scarcely hidden by the shallow waters; touch upon that shoal\nand you will be crushed. Trust not to anchors among those peaked and\njagged rocks; your cables, however good, would soon wear and snap. The\nseaman's anxiety is extreme, in those long nights when the Southern\nsurges drive him among these shoals, at once so rugged and yet as\ncutting as razors.\n\nTo such accusations as these, our innocent shoal-makers\nreply--\"Time--give us only time, and these rocks will become\nhospitable, tenanted, fruitful. These banks, joined on to their\nneighboring banks, will no longer have these terrible threatenings for\nthe seaman. We are preparing a spare world to replace your old one\nshould it perish. Ingrates! Come some great and overwhelming\ncatastrophe to your old world, if, as some one among you has said, the\nsea turns from one pole to the other in every ten thousand years, and\nyou perchance will bless us, and hail with joy these southern isles\nwhich we are making, this huge southern continent that we are\npreparing. Confess, now, that if, unhappily, ships do occasionally\nperish on these shoals, our work here, nevertheless, is useful, and\ngood, and great. Our improvised world may not unjustly be proud. To\nsay nothing about the beauty of its triumphant colors, before which\nthose of your earth grow pale; to say nothing about the graceful\ncurves and circles on which we pride ourselves,--how many are the\nproblems, which, insolvable to you, find their solution among us! The\ndivision of labor, a charming variety combined with a great\nregularity, a geometrical order, softened and made graceful and\ngracious by a rising liberty--where, among you men, will you find\nthese so combined as from the beginning we have combined them among\nus? Our incessant labor in relieving the sea-water of its salts,\ncreates those currents which give it life and healthful power. We are\nthe very spirits of the Sea, giving, as we do, her motion.\"\n\n\"And the sea is not ungrateful; she nourishes us at fixed periods; and\nnot less punctually comes the glowing sun to caress us and dower us\nwith brilliant colors. We are the beloved, the favored workers of the\nDeity, entrusted by him with the first rude sketches and outlines of\nhis worlds, and all our juniors upon this globe, need us, and are\nindebted to us. Our friend the Cocoa tree, that inaugurates\nterrestrial life upon our isle, could not do so but from our dust. In\nits far back origin, vegetable life is our liberal gift, and, made\nrich by us, it nourishes the superior creation.\"\n\n\"But what need of other animals? We are within our own circle\ncomplete, harmonious and sufficing; with us the circle of creation\nmight be closed. For as God crowns his isle on his old volcano of\nfire, he has created a volcano of life, and expansion of that living\nparadise. He has created all that he needs, and now He may repose.\"\n\nNot yet, not yet. A creation must rise above yours, a thing which you\ndo not fear. That rival is not the tempest, you would brave it; nor\nthe fresh water, you would build beside it. It is not even the earth,\nwhich by degrees is invading your constructions. What, then, is that\nother power? In yourself, in Polypes, there is an ambition to cease to\nbe one. In your Republic there is a certain creature who in constant\nanxiety and yearning, repeats that the perfection of this vegetating\nexistence is not real life. It constantly dreams of a freer and more\nexpanded life, navigating hither and thither, penetrating and viewing\nthe unknown world even at the hazard of shipwreck;--that thing is--the\nSoul.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nDAUGHTER OF THE SEAS.\n\n\nI passed the early part of 1858 in the pleasant little town of Hy\u00e8res\nwhich, from afar, gazes down on the sea, the islets and the peninsula\nby which its coast is sheltered. The sea, seen from this distance, is\neven more potently seductive than when one is on its very shore. The\npaths leading to it, whether we pass between gardens with their hedges\nof jasmin and myrtle, or, ascending some little, pass through the\nolive grounds and a little wood of pines and laurels, are exceedingly\ntempting. The wood by no means hinders us from catching, now and then,\na glance of the bright sea. The place is, by no means unjustly, called\nFair-Coast. Often in the fine days of its gentle winters we met there\na most interesting invalid, a young foreign princess who had come\nthither from a distance of five hundred leagues, in the hope of adding\nsome span to her fading and failing life. That life, short as it was,\nhad been a hard and sad one. Scarcely had she become a glad wife when\nshe found herself rudely threatened by Death. And now she dragged on\nfrom day to day of suffering, supported and most tenderly treated by\nhim who lived only for her and hoped not to survive her. If wishes and\nprayers could have preserved her she would still live; for all prayed\nfor her, especially the poor. But spring came, and bloomed and ended,\nand on one of those April days whose genial influence revives every\nthing we saw the two shadows pass, pale as the wandering Elysian\nspectres of Virgil.\n\nSad at heart with sympathy, we reached the gulf. Between the bold\nrocks, the pools left by the sea contained some little creatures that\nhad not been able to accompany the retreating tide. Some shelled\ncreatures were there, self-concentrated and suffering from want of\nwater, and amongst them, unshelled, unsheltered, lay the living\nparasol, that for some, anything, rather than good reason, we call the\n_Medusa_. Why has that name of terror been given to a creature so\ncharming? Never before had my attention been attracted to those\nwrecked beauties, which we so often see high and dry upon the sea\nshore at low ebb tide. This especial one was small, not larger than my\nhand, but singularly beautiful, in its delicate colors, passing so\nlightly from tint to tint. It was of an opal whiteness, into which\npassed, as in a light cloud, a crown of the most delicate lilac. The\nwind had turned it over, so that its lilac filaments floated above,\nwhile the umbrella, that is to say, its proper body, lay upon the\nrock. Much bruised in that tender body, it was also wounded and\nmutilated in its fine filaments, or hairs, which are its sensitive\norgans of respiration, absorption, and even love. And the whole\ncreature thus thrown upside down was receiving in full force the rays\nof the Proven\u00e7al sun, severe in its first awakening and rendered still\nmore severe by the dryness of the occasional gusts of the\nsouth-westerly winds, the _Mistral_ of our Proven\u00e7al coasts. The\ntransparent creature was thus doubly pierced, doubly tormented,\naccustomed as it was to the caressing sea, and unprovided with the\nresisting epidermis of land animals.\n\nClose to her dried up lagune were other lagunes still full of water,\nand communicating with the sea. Within a few paces of her, then, was\nsafety, but for her who had no organs of locomotion, excepting her\nundulating hairs, it was impossible to traverse even that petty\ndistance, and it seemed that remaining under that fierce sun and\nexposed to the arid blasts of that wind she very speedily must faint,\ndie, and be actually dissolved.\n\nNothing more ephemeral, more delicate than these daughters of the sea.\nSome of them are so fluid that they dissolve and disappear as soon as\ntaken from the sea. Such is that slight band of azure called the\n_Girdle of Venus_. The Medusa, a little more solid has all the more\ntrouble in dying. Was she dying or already dead? I do not readily\nbelieve in death, and believing that she still lived I resolved to\nconvey her to a lagune of salt water. To say the truth I felt some\nrepugnance to touching her. The delicious creature with her visible\ninnocence, and rainbow of tender colors, looked like a trembling jelly\nwhich must slip from one's touch or dissolve in one's grasp. However,\nI conquered this repugnance, slid my hand gently beneath her and as I\nturned her over her hairs fell down into their natural position, when\nused in swimming. I thus carried her to the water, where she sank\nwithout giving the slightest sign of life. I walked about the shore,\nbut in about ten minutes returned to look after my Medusa. She was\nswimming under water, her hairs undulating gracefully beneath her; and\nslowly, but safely, she had left the rock far behind her.\n\nPoor creature, perhaps she got wrecked or stranded again, ere long,\nfor it is impossible to navigate with weaker means or in a fashion\nmore dangerous. The Medus\u00e6 fear the shore where so many hard\nsubstances hurt them, and in the open sea they are liable\nto be overturned at every gust of wind, in which case, their\nswimming-feathers being above instead of below their bodies, they are\ncarried hither and thither, at random, upon the waves, as the prey of\nfish or the delight of birds who find sport and profit in seizing\nthem.\n\nDuring a whole season which I spent on the banks of Gironde I saw them\ncast ashore to perish miserably by hundreds. On their arrival they\nwere white and brilliant as crystal. Alas! How different was their\naspect in the course of a couple of days. Very happily they sank\nbeneath the sand and were lost to my pitying view.\n\nThey are the food of every thing marine, and have themselves scarce\nany aliment, none that we know of, but the, as yet, scarce organized\natoms floating in the sea which they, etherialize, as we may say, and\nsuck in without making them suffer. They have neither teeth nor\nweapons; no defence, excepting that some species, Forbes says not all,\ncan secrete, when attacked, a liquid which stings somewhat like the\nnettle, but so faintly that Dicquemare with impunity received some of\nit in his eye.\n\nHere we have, indeed, a creature little provided and in great peril.\nShe is superior already; she has senses, and, if we may judge from her\ncontractions, a great sensibility to suffering. She cannot, like the\nPolypus, be divided and live. Divide him and you double his existence;\ndivide her and she dies. Gelatinous as the polypus, the Medusa seems\nto be an embryon cast away too soon from the bosom of the common\nmother, torn from the solid base and the association to which the\nPolypus owes his safety, and launched into adventure. How has the\nimprudent creature set out? How, without sails, or oars, or helm, has\nshe left her port? What is her point of departure?\n\nEllis, as long ago as 1750, saw a little Medusa produced from the\ncampanular polypus, and many later observers have ascertained that she\nis a kind of polypus that has left the society. To speak more simply,\nshe is an escaped polypus.\n\nAnd the learned M. Forbes who has so deeply studied them, very aptly\nasks, what is there astonishing in that? It only shows that to that\nextent the animal still obeys the vegetable law. From the tree, the\ncollective being, proceeds the individual, the detached fruit which\nfruit will make another tree. A pear tree is a sort of vegetable\npolypus of which the pear, (the emancipated individual) can give us a\npear tree.\n\nIn like manner, adds Forbes, as the leaf laden tree, stops in its\ndevelopment, contracts, and becomes an organ of love--i. e. a flower,\nthe _Polypier_, contracting some of its polypes and transforming their\ncontractions, forms the placenta, the eggs from which proceeds the\nyoung and graceful Medusa.\n\nOne would guess as much from her hesitating grace, that weakness at\nonce so unarmed and so fearless, which embarks without instruments of\nnavigation, and trusts too much to life. It is the first tender and\ntouching adventure of the new soul going forth without defence from\nthe security of the common life, to be itself, an individual acting\nand suffering on its own account--soft sketch of free nature; an\nembryon of liberty.\n\nTo be oneself, oneself alone, in a little complete world, was a great\ntemptation for all. A universal seduction! a beautiful folly, which\ncauses all the effort and all the progress of the world, from our\nearth upward to the very stars. But in her first attempts the Medusa,\nseems especially unjustified. One would say that she was created on\npurpose to be drowned. Laden above, and ill-ballasted below, she is\nformed in conditions exactly opposite to those of her parent, the\nPhysalie. This latter displays on the surface of the water, only a\nlittle balloon, an insubmersible membrane and below has infinitely\nlong tentacul\u00e6, of twenty feet or more, which steady her, sweep the\nwaters, stupefy the fish, make prey of him. Light and careless,\ninflating her pearly balloon of blue or purple tints, she darts from\nher long hairy tentacul\u00e6 a subtle and murderous poison. Less\nformidable, the Velelles are no less secure. They have the form of\n_radeaux_, their minute organization is already somewhat solid, and\nthey can steer and trim their oblique sail to every wind. The\nPorpites, that seem to be only a flower, a sea Margaret, have their\nown peculiar levity; even after death, they continue to float. It is\nthe same with many other fantastic and almost a\u00ebrial beings, garlands\nwith golden bells or with rosebuds--such as the Physopheres,\nStephanomie, &c., azure girdles of Venus. All these swim and float\ninvincibly, fear only the shore, and sail boldly out on the open sea,\nand when it is ever so rough are perfectly safe there. So little do\nthe Porpites and Velelles fear the sea, that, being able to rise at\npleasure, they exert themselves to sink to the concealing depths when\nthe weather is bad.\n\nNot such is our poor Medusa. Fearing the shore, she is also in danger\nat sea. She could sink into the depths at will, but the watery abyss\nis forbidden to her; she can live only on the surface, in the broad\nlight and in full peril. She sees, she hears, and her sense of touch\nis very delicate, to her misfortune, too much so. She cannot guide\nherself; her most complicated organs overload and overbalance her.\n\nAnd so we are tempted to believe that she must needs repent of so\nperilous a search after liberty; and desires to be back in the\ninferior state, the security of the common life. The polypier made the\nMedusa, she in turn makes the polypier, and returns to the life of\ncommunity. But this vegetating state wearies her, and in the next\ngeneration she again emancipates herself and goes forth again to the\nperils of her vain navigation. Strange alternation, in which she\nfloats incessantly; moving, she dreams of repose; in rest, she sighs\nfor movement.\n\nThese strange metamorphoses, which by turns raise and abase the\nundecided creature, keeping her alternating between two lives so\ndifferent, are apparently the case of the inferior species, of the\nMedusa which have not been able to enter decidedly into the\nirrevocable career of emancipation. For the others, we can easily\nsuppose that their charming varieties mark the interior progress of\nlife, the degrees of development, the sports, the smiling graces of\ntheir new liberty. This latter class, admirably artistic, won this so\nsimple theme of a disk or parasol which floats, of a light lustre of\ncrystal which reflects the sun's glowing and coloring lights, has made\nan infinity of variations, a deluge of little marvels.\n\nAll these beauties floating on the green mirror of the sea in their\ngay and delicate colors, and in the thousand attractions of an\ninfantine and unconscious coquetry, have puzzled Science, which to\nclass and to name them, has been obliged to call to its aid both the\nQueens of History and the Goddesses of Mythology. Here we have the\nwaving Berenice, whose rich hair floats another and brighter flood\nupon the flood; there we have the little Orithya, the fair spouse of\nE\u00f6lus, who, at the breathing of her husband, displays her pure, white\nurn, uncertain, and scarcely supported by her fine hair, which she\noften entangles beneath, or the weeping Dionea, looking like an\nalabaster cup, from which, in crystalline streamlets, flow splendid\ntears. Such, when in Switzerland, I saw spreading themselves the\nwearied and idle cascades, which, having made too many turnings,\nseemed dropping with drowsiness and languor.\n\nIn the great fa\u00ebry of the illumination of the sea on stormy nights,\nthe Medusa has her separate part. Bathed, like so many other beings,\nin the phosphoric fluid with which they are all penetrated, she\nreturns it in her manner, with a peculiar charm.\n\nHow dark is the night at sea when we do not see that phosphoric gleam\nor a fitful flashing! How vast and formidable are those dark depths,\non such gloomy nights. On land, the shadows are less dense and\nimpenetrable, we see, if dimly, and make out forms, if imperfectly, so\nthat we get so many directing marks. But at sea, how vast, unbroken,\ninfinitely dense is the darkness of the dark nights. Nothing, still\nnothing; a thousand dangers to be imagined, but not one to be seen and\navoided!\n\nWe feel all this, even when living on the coast. It is a great\ngladness, an exciting pleasure, when, the air becoming electric, we\nsee in the distance, a slight line of pale fire. What is it? We see it\neven at home, on the dead fish, the Herring, for instance. But, living\nin his great sea, he is still more luminous in the long trains that\nhe leaves behind him. That phosphoric brilliancy is by no means the\nexclusive privilege of Death. Is it an effect of Heat? No, for you\nfind it at both poles, in the Antarctic Seas, in the Siberian Seas, in\nours--in all.\n\nIt is the common electricity which the half-living waters throw off in\nstormy weather; the innocent and pacific lightning of which all marine\ncreatures are then so many conductors. They inhale it, and they exhale\nit, and they restore it largely when they die. The sea gives it, and\nthe sea takes it back again. Along the coasts and in the straits, the\ncurrents and the collisions, cause it to circulate the more\npowerfully, and each creature, according to its waters, takes more or\nless of it. Here, immense surfaces of peaceable infusori\u00e6 appear, like\na milky sea, of a mild, white light, which, when more animated, turns\nto the yellow of burning sulphur; there their conical lights pirouette\nupon their own bases, or roll in red balls. A great disc of fire\n(Pyrosome) commences with an opaline yellow, becomes for a moment\ngreenish, then bursts into red and orange, and at last darkens down\ninto blue. These changes occur with an approach to regularity that\nwould indicate a natural function, the contraction and dilatation of\nsome vast creature, breathing fire.\n\nThen on the horizon, fiery serpents writhe and glide along an immense\nlength--sometimes to the extent of twenty-five or thirty leagues. The\nBiphores and the Salpas, transparent alike to sea and sulphur, are the\nperformers in this serpentine spectacle, an astonishing company which\ndisport themselves in this frantic dance, and then separate.\nSeparated, its free members produce free little ones, which, in their\nturn light up the horizon with their dancing and wild lights. Great\nfleets, more peaceful, float over the waves of lights. The Velelles,\nat night, light up their little craft. The Beroes are triumphant as\nflames. None more magical than those of our Medus\u00e6. Is it in part a\nphysical effect like that which gives their serpentine motion to the\nSalpas, injected with fire? Is it, as others think, and as some\nobservations would lead us to believe, an act of aspiration? Is it a\ncaprice, as with so many beings that throw out their sparkles and\nflashes of a vain and inconstant joy? No, the noble and beautiful\nMedus\u00e6, such as the crowned Oceanique, and the lovely Idonea, seem to\nexpress gravest thoughts. Beneath them, their luminous hair, like some\nsombre watch-light, gives out mysterious lights of emerald and other\ncolors, which, now flashing, anon growing pale, reveal a sentiment,\nand, I know not what of mystery; suggesting to us the spirit of the\nabyss, meditating its secrets; the soul that exists, or is to exist\nsome day. Or should it not rather suggest to us some melancholy dream\nof an impossible destiny which is never to attain its end? Or an\nappeal to that rapture of love which alone consoles us here below?\n\nWe know that on land our fire flies, by their fire give the signal of\nthe bashful yet eager lover who thus betrays her retreat, and decoys\nher mate. Have the Medus\u00e6 this same sense? We know not; but thus much\nis certain, that they yield at once their flame and their life. The\nfecund sap, their generative virtue, escapes and diminishes at every\ngleam. If we desire the cruel pleasure of redoubling this brilliant\nfa\u00ebry, we have only to expose them to warmth. Then they become\nexcited, flash, and become beautiful, oh, so exquisitely\nbeautiful--and then the scene is at an end. Flame, love, and life, all\nare at an end--all evanish for ever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTHE STONE PICKER.\n\n\nWhen the excellent Doctor Livingstone visited the poor Africans who\nhave so much difficulty in defending themselves against the Lion and\nthe slave merchant, the women, seeing him armed with all the\nprotecting arts of Europe, invoked him as their friend and providence\nin these touching words--\"Give us sleep!\"\n\nAnd such is the prayer which all beings in their own language address\nto Nature. All desire, and all dream of, security. We cannot doubt of\nthat when we note the ingenious endeavors which are made to obtain it.\nThose efforts have given birth to the arts. Man has not invented one,\nwhich animals had not previously invented, under that strong and\nabiding instinct, the desire of safety.\n\nThey suffer, they fear, they desire to live. We must not assume that\ncreatures little advanced, and as it were embryonic, have, therefore,\nbut little sensibility. The very contrary is certain. In every\nembryon, that which first appears, is the nervous system, that is to\nsay, the organ and capacity of feeling and of suffering. Pain is the\nspur by which the creature is urged to foresight and expedients.\nPleasure serves the like purpose, and it is already observable even in\nthose which seem the most cold. It has been observed that the snail,\nafter the painful researches of his love, is singularly happy on\nmeeting again the loved object. Both of them with a touching grace\nwave their swan-like necks, and bestow upon each other the most lively\ncaresses. Who is it that tells us this? The rigid, the very exact\nBlainville.\n\nBut alas! how largely and how widely is pain distributed! Who has not\nnoted with pity the painful efforts of the shell-less mollusc, as he\ngrovels along on his unguarded belly? Painful but faithful image of a\nfoetus untimely torn from the mother by some cruel chance, and cast\nupon the ground naked and defenceless. The poor mollusc thickens and\nindurates his skin as well as he can, softens the asperities of his\nroad, and renders it slippery. But at every contact with the ragged or\npointed stones, his writhings and contractions only too plainly show\nhow great is his sensibility to pain.\n\nNotwithstanding all this, she loves, does that great Soul of Harmony\nwhich is the unity of the world; she loves all beings, and by\nalternations of pleasure and of pain, instructs them and compels them\nto ascend. But to ascend, to pass into a superior grade, they must\nfirst exhaust all that the lower one can furnish of trials more or\nless painful, of instinctive art, and of stimulants to invention. They\nmust even have exaggerated their species, perceived its excesses, and,\nby contrast, be inspired with the craving and the need of an opposite\none. Progress is thus made by a kind of oscillation between contrary\nqualities, which by turns are separated from life, and incarnated with\nit.\n\nLet us translate these divine things into human language, familiar,\nindeed, and little worthy of the grandeur of such things, but which\nwill make them understood:\n\nNature, having long delighted to make, unmake, and remake the Medus\u00e6,\nthus infinitely varying the theme of infant liberty, smote her\nforehead one morning, and said--\"I have a new and a delicious idea. I\nforgot to secure the life of the poor creature. It can continue only\nby the infinity of number, the very excess of its fecundity. I must\nnow have a creature at once better guarded and more prudent. It shall\nif need be, be timid, even to excess, but above all, it is my will\nthat it shall survive.\"\n\nThese timid creatures, when they appeared, were of a prudence carried\nto its extremest limits. They shut themselves in, shunning even the\nlight of day. To save themselves from the rude contact of sharp and\nragged stones, they employed the universal means, a glutinous mucus\nfrom which they secreted an enveloping tube, which elongated in\nproportion to the length of their journey. A poor expedient, that,\nwhich kept these miners, the Tarets out of the light and out of the\nfree air, and which compelled an enormous expenditure of their\nsubstance. Every step cost them enormously; a creature thus ruining\nitself that it may live, can only vegetate--poor, and incapable of\nprogress.\n\nThe next resource was not much better, temporarily to bury themselves,\ngoing below the sands at low water, and rising to the flood-tide; the\nresource of the Solen. A varying life that, fugitive twice a day, and\nconsequently full of anxiety.\n\nAmong very inferior creatures a thing as yet obscure, which was in\ntime to change the world, began to appear. The simple sea stars had in\ntheir fine rays a certain support, a sort of jointed carpentry, and on\nthe outside some thorns, suckers, which could be thrust forward or\nwithdrawn at will. An animal very humble, but timid and serious, seems\nto have profited by this coarse specimen. It said, I imagine, to\nNature:\n\n\"I am quite without ambition. I do not ask for the brilliant gifts of\nthe molluscs; I covet neither pearl nor mother of pearl, much less the\nbrilliant colors, the gorgeous array which would discover and betray\nme; least of all do I envy your silly medus\u00e6, with the fatal charm of\ntheir waving and fiery hair, which serves only to drown them, or give\nthem a helpless prey to fish below or birds above. Oh, mother Nature,\nI ask but one thing, _to be_, to exist, to have life; to be one, self\nconcentrated, and without compromising external appendages; to be\nstrongly and solidly built, self centred, and of rounded figure, as\nthat is the figure that is least easily taken hold of. I have but\nlittle desire to travel; sometimes to roll from high to low water will\nsuffice me. Fastened to my rock, I will solve the problem which your\nfuture favorite, man, will vainly brood over, the problem of safety;\n_the strict exclusion of enemies, and the free admission of friends_,\nespecially water, air, and light. I know that to achieve this, I must\nwork hard and work long. Covered with movable thorns, I shall be\navoided, I shall live a strictly retired life; and my name shall be\noursin, little Bear, or sea hedge-hog.\"\n\nHow superior is that prudent animal to the Polypes, in their own\nstone, which they make from their own secretion, without hard labor,\nindeed, but also without affording them any safety; how superior, even\nto his superiors themselves, I mean to so many _molluscs_, who have\nmore various senses, but are destitute of the unity of his vertebral\nprovision, of his persevering labor, and of the skillful tools with\nwhich that very labor has provided him.\n\nThe great marvel, however, of this poor rolling ball, which we might\nmistake for a thorny chestnut, is that he is at once _one and\nmultiple_, _fixed and movable_, and consists of two thousand four\nhundred pieces, which separate at his will and pleasure.\n\nLet us see his history of creation.\n\nIt was in a narrow creek of the Sea of Brittany, where there was no\nsoft bed of polypes and of Alg\u00e6, such as the sea hedge-hogs of the\nIndian Sea enjoy, in addition to their exemption from labor. Our\nBreton, on the contrary, was in presence of great peril and\ndifficulty; like Ulysses, in the Odyssey, who, cast ashore, and anon\nwashed seaward again, endeavored to fasten himself to the rock, with\nhis torn and bleeding fingers. Every ebb and flow of the tide was to\nour little Ulysses, as bad as a mighty tempest; but his iron will and\npotent desire made him cling so closely and lovingly to the rock, that\nhe became fastened to it as though the air had been expelled from\nbetween them by the cupping glass. At the same time his strong thorns\nscratched and scratched, and endeavored to get a hold, and one of them\nsubdivided and formed a triple and real anchor of safety in aid of the\ncupping glass, if this latter should fail to act quite perfectly on a\nby no means smooth surface.\n\nAfter he had thus doubly secured himself to his rock, he gradually\ncomprehended that he would be a great gainer if he could form a\nconcavity in it, gradually dig himself out a hole, and thus form\nhimself a snug nest, for the day of sickness or of age. For, in fact,\none is not always young and strong. And how pleasant it would be, if,\nsome day, the veteran oursin could relax somewhat of the effort\nnecessitated by this constant holding on, this anchorage by day and\nnight.\n\nSo he worked and worked, to make a hollow; it was for dear life that\nhe was working, and you may be sure that he never relaxed. Formed of\ndetached pieces, he worked with five claws, which, always pushing\ntogether, united and formed an admirable pick. His pick of five teeth,\nof the finest enamel, is attached to a frame work, delicate, but very\nstrong, and consisting of forty pieces, which work in a sort of\nsheath, playing in and out, in the most perfect and regular manner,\nwith an elasticity preventing too violent shocks, and self-repairing,\nin case of any accident.\n\nRarely, in the softer stone, which he holds in contempt, but almost\nalways in the solid rock, in the hardest granite, it is that this\nheroically laborious sculptor goes to work. The harder the rock, the\nfirmer he feels himself secured. And, then, in fact, what does it\nmatter about the length of the task? Time is of no consequence to him,\ncenturies are before him; supposing that his tools and his life\nshould end to-morrow, another would take his place and continue his\nwork. During their life, they hold but little communication, these\nhermits; but in death a brotherhood exists, even for them, and the\nyoung survivor, who shall find the work half done, will bless the\nmemory of the good workman who has preceded him.\n\nDo not fancy that he strikes, and strikes continually. He has an art,\na labor-saving art of his own. When he has well attacked the layers of\nthe rock, and well cleaned it, he tears away the asperities as with\nlittle pincers. A work of great patience, and one which requires long\nintervals, too, in order that the water may aid in doing the work upon\nthe denuded parts. He then proceeds to the second layer, then to the\nnext, and so on till the long, long labor is at length completed.\n\nIn this uniform life, however, there are occasional crises, even as in\nthe life of the poor human laborer. The sea retires from certain\nshores; in the summer, this or that rock becomes quite insupportably\nhot; and our oursin must have two houses, one for summer, and one for\nwinter. A great event, that, of moving from place to place, for a\ncreature without feet and covered all over with points. M. Cailland\nhad an opportunity of observing the conduct of the creature under\nthose circumstances. The weak and movable scoops which play backward\nand forward, are by no means insensible though he protects them\nsomewhat by covering them with a little soft gelatine. At length he\nsteadies himself on his thorns, as on so many crutches, rolls his\nDiogenes' tub, and attains his port as he best may. Arrived there, he\nshuts himself up again, and in the little nest which he almost always\nfinds partly made, he concentrates himself in the enjoyment of his\nsolitary and thrice blessed security. Let a thousand enemies prowl\nwithout, let the storm-lashed wave moan or rage, all that is for his\npleasure. Let the very rock tremble at the dash of the breakers; he\nwell knows that he has nothing to fear, that it is only his kind nurse\nthat is making all that noise; he is safe in his cradle, and with a\nglad good night, he sleeps.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nSHELLS, MOTHER OF PEARL, AND PEARL.\n\n\nThe oursin has carried the genius of defence to its utmost limit. His\ncuirass, or, preferably, his fortress of pieces, is at once movable\nand resisting, yet sensitive, retractile, and capable of being\nrepaired in case of accident; this fortress is fast-joined and\nanchored to the rock, and still farther lodged within a hollow of the\nrock, so that the enemy has no means of attacking the citadel;--it is\na system of defence so perfect that it can never be surpassed. No\nshell is comparable to it; far less are any of the works of human\nindustry.\n\nThe oursin is the completion of the starred and circular creatures; in\nhim they have their highest and most triumphant development. The\ncircle has few variations; it is the absolute form; in the globe of\nthe oursin, at once so simple and so complicated, is the perfection\nand completion of the first world.\n\nThe beauty of the world next to come, will be the harmony of double\nforms, their equilibrium, the gracefulness of their oscillation. From\nthe molluscs even up to man, every being in this next world is to be\nmade up of two corresponding halves; in every animal is to be found\n(far better than _unity_) _Union_.\n\nThe master piece of the oursin had gone even beyond what was needed;\nthat miracle of defence had made him prisoner; he was not only shut in\nbut buried; he had dug his own grave. His perfection of isolation had\nbanished him, deprived him of all connections, and of all possibility\nof progress.\n\nTo have a regular ascent, we must commence from a very low stage, from\nthe elementary embryon, which at the outset will have no other\nmovement than that of the elements. The new creature is the mere serf\nof the planet; so completely so, that even in the egg, it turns as the\nearth turns, with its double turning on its own axis, and the general\nrotation.\n\nEven when emancipated from the egg, growing up, become adult, it will\nstill remain the embryon, the soft mollusc. It will vaguely represent\nthe progress of the superior lives; it will be as the foetus, as the\nlarv\u00e6 or nymph of the insect, in which, folded and hidden, there yet\nare the organs of the winged creature which is yet to come.\n\nOne trembles for a creature so weak; even the polypus though not less\nsoft is less in danger. Having life equally in all its parts, wounds,\neven mutilations will not kill the polypus: wounded and mutilated he\nstill lives on, apparently forgetful of the excised parts. But the\ncentralised mollusc is far more vulnerable. What a door in his ease is\nopen to death!\n\nThe uncertain motion of the Medusa, which sometimes, perchance, may\nsave her; the mollusc, at least at the outset, possesses but very\nslightly. All that is granted to him is his sloughing or exuding a\ngelatine matter, which walls him in, and replaces the cuirass of the\noursin and the oursin's rock. The mollusc has the advantage of finding\nhis defence within himself. Two valves form a house, light and\nfragile, indeed, so much so that those which float are transparent; in\nthe case of those which are to be stationary, the mucus forms a\nfilamentary anchoring cable, called the hyssas. It is formed exactly\nas silk is from an element originally quite gelatinous. The gigantic\nIridacne, moors so fast by that cable, that the Madrepores mistake it\nfor an islet, build upon it, envelope it, and strangle it.\n\nPassive and motionless life. It has no other event than the periodical\nvisit of the sun and light, and no other action but to absorb what\ncomes, and to secrete the jelly which makes the house, and will by\ndegrees do the rest. The attraction of the light, always in the same\ndirection, centralizes the view; and behold the eye. The secretion\nfixed by a constant effort, becomes an appendage, an organ which\nlately was a cable, and which by and bye will become the foot, a\nshapeless and inarticulated mass, which will bend itself to anything.\nIt is the fin of those that swim, the pick of those that burrow in the\nsand, and the foot of those who at first rather crawl than walk. Some\nspecies arch it so that they can make a clumsy essay at leaping.\n\nPoor tribe, terribly exposed, pursued by many enemies, tossed by the\nwaves and bruised on the rocks. Those of them which do not succeed in\nbuilding a house, seek a shelter in living beds; they find a tent with\nthe polypes, or with the floating Halcyons. The pearl-bearing Avicule,\ntries to find a quiet life in the hollows of the sponge. The Pholade,\ntries in his stony retreat, to imitate the arts of the oursins, but\nwith what inferiority! Instead of the admirable chisel of the oursin,\nwhich might be envied by our stone cutters, the Pholade has but a\nlittle rasp, and to dig out a shelter for her fragile shell, she wears\nout the shell itself.\n\nWith but a few exceptions, the moluscs know themselves the prey of\neverything, and are therefore the most timid of creatures. The Cone so\nwell knows that he is sought after, that he dares not leave his\nshelter, and dies there, from fear of being killed. The Volute and the\nPorcelain drag slowly along their pretty houses, and conceal them as\nwell as they can. The Casque, to get along with his palace, has only\na little Chinese foot, so small and so useless that he scarcely\nattempts to walk.\n\nSuch the life, such the dwelling; in no other species is there more\ncomplete identity between the inhabitant and the habitation; taken\nfrom his own substance, his house is but a continuation, a supplement\nof his own body; alike it even in form and tints. The architect,\nbeneath the edifice, is himself its very foundation-stone.\n\nA very simple thing it is for the sedentaries to remain sedentary. The\noyster, regularly fed by the sea, has only to gape when he would dine,\nand sharply to close his shells, when he has any suspicion that he may\nbecome himself a dinner for some hungry neighbor. But for the\ntravelling mollusc the thing is more complicated. He can travel, but\nhe cannot leave behind him his beloved house which he will need for\ndefence as well as shelter; and it is precisely while on his journey,\nthat he is most liable to be attacked. He must shelter, above all, the\nmost delicate part of his being, the tree by which he breathes, and\nwhose little roots nourish him. His head is of little consequence,\noften it is lost without the destruction of life; but if the viscera\nwere left uncovered and wounded, he must die.\n\nThus, prudent and cuirassed he seeks his livelihood. Come nightfall,\nhe asks himself whether he will be quite safe in a wide open lodging?\nWill not some inquisitives intrude a look--who knows--may not some\none find the way in with claw and tooth as well as glance?\n\nThe hermit reflects. He has but one instrument, his foot, from that he\ndevelopes a very serviceable appendage with which he closes the\naperture and behold him safe at home for the night. His great and\npermanent difficulty is this, to combine safety with connection with\nthe outer world. He cannot, like the oursin, utterly isolate himself;\nwithout the aid of his instructors and nurses, light and air, he\ncannot strengthen his soft body and make his organs. He must acquire\nsenses; he needs scent and hearing, those guides of the blind; he must\nacquire sight, and above all, he must be able to breathe freely. Great\nand imperative function, that! How little we think of it while it is\neasy; but what terrible pain and agitation if it become too difficult!\nLet our lungs become congested, let the larynx even be embarrassed for\na single night and our agitation and anxiety are so extreme, so\nunendurable, that often, at all risks, we have every window thrown\nopen. With the asthmatic, the anxiety and torture are so extreme that\nwhen they cannot breathe freely through the natural organ, they create\na supplementary means. Air, air, air, or death!\n\nNature, when thus pressed, is terribly inventive. We not wonder if the\npoor sedentaries, stifling in their houses, have discovered a thousand\nmeans, invented a thousand sorts of pipes through which to admit the\nvital air. One admits air between plates around his feet, another by a\nsort of comb, another by a disc or buckler, and others by extending\nthreads, some with pretty side plumes, and lastly, some have on their\nback a little tree, a pretty miniature aspen, which trembles\ncontinually and at every movement inhales or exhales a breath.\n\nSometimes those most sensitive and important organs affect the most\nelegant and fanciful forms; we would say that they wish to plead, to\nmelt, to secure mercy, taking every form and every color. These little\nchildren of the sea, the molluscs, in their infantine grace, in their\nrich variety of colors, are their ocean mother's eternal ornament and\njoy. Stern as she may be, she has but to look on them, and she must\nsmile.\n\nBut a timid life is full of melancholy. One cannot doubt that she\ngreatly suffers from her severe seclusion, that fairest of the fair,\nthat queen beauty of the seas, the Haliotide. She has a foot, and\ncould, if she chose, get along, though slowly; but she dares not. Ask\nher why, and she will reply: \"I am afraid. The Crab is continually\nwatching me, and a whole world of voracious fish are continually\nswimming over my head. My cruel admirer, man, punishes me for my\nbeauty; pursuing me from the Indies to the Pole, and is now loading\nwhole ships with me at golden California.\"\n\nBut the unfortunate, though unable to go out, has discovered a subtle\nmeans of procuring air and water; in her house, she has little\nwindows, which communicate with her little lungs. Hunger at length\ncompels her to risk something, and towards evening she crawls a little\naround, and feeds on some sea-weed, her sole nourishment.\n\nHere let us remark, that those marvellous shells, not only the\nHaliotide, but the Widow (black and white) and the Golden Mouth (of\nmingled pearly and gold color,) are poor herbivori, inoffensive,\ntemperate, feeders. A living, and decisive refutation, that, of those\nwho fancy that beauty is the daughter of Death, of blood, of murder,\nof a merely brutal accumulation of animal substance.\n\nBut to these, our beautiful shell-tenants, the merest modicum of\nsubsistence suffices. Their chief aliment is the light which they\ndrink in, by which they are permeated, by which they color and tint,\nwith more than rainbow beauty, and variety of tint, their inner\ndwelling, in which they conceal and cherish their solitary love. Each\nof them is double, hermaphrodite; lover and loved, in one. As the\npalaces of the East are concealed by dark and repulsive outer walls,\nso, here, also, without, all is rude, within, all is of the most\ndazzling beauty; the hymeneal seclusion is lightened up by the\ngleaming and many-hued reflections of a little sea of mother of pearl,\nwhich, even when the house is closed to the outer light, create a\nfa\u00ebry, a mysterious, and a most lovely twilight.\n\nIt is a great consolation that when our poor prisoners cannot have the\nsun, they can at least have a moon of their own, a paradise of soft\nand trembling lights, ever changing, yet ever renewed, and giving to\nthat sedentary life, that little variety which is absolutely needed by\nevery creature.\n\nThe poor children who work in the mines, ask visitors, not for food,\nor sweetmeats, or money, or toys--all they ask for is the means of\ngetting more light. And it is the same with our Ocean children, the\nHaliotides. Every day, blind though they be, they feel, and greedily\nwelcome, the return of the light, receiving it, and contemplating it,\nwith the whole of their transparent bodies; and when the light has\ndeparted, from without, they still preserve and nurse some portion of\nit within themselves. They watch, they wait, they hope for its return;\ntheir whole little soul consists of that hope, that watching, that\neager desire, that incessant yearning. Who can doubt that the return\nof the glad light is as delightful to them as it is to us, nay, even\nmore so than it is to us, who have the manifold distractions of so\nbusy and varied a life?\n\nTheir whole lives pass in thinking, wishing, divining, hoping, or\nregretting; their great lover, the Sun. Never seeing him, they yet, in\ntheir own fashion, certainly comprehend that that warmth, that\nglorious light comes to them from without, and from a great centre,\npowerful, fecund and beneficent. And they love that great deeply felt,\nthough never seen, central light, which caresses them, fills them with\njoy, floods them with life. Had they the power, they no doubt would\nrush to seek his rays. And, at least, attached as they are to their\nabode, they, like the Brahmin at the door of the Pagoda, silently\noffer him up their homage, at once meditative and thrilling. First\nflower of instructive worship. Already they love and pray, who say the\nlittle word which the Holy prefers to all prayer--that _Oh!_ that\nheart utterance, which contents and pleases Heaven. When the Indian\nutters it at sunrise, he well knows that all that innocent world of\nmother of pearl, pearl, and humblest shells, utters it with him, from\nthe depths of the seas.\n\nI fully understand what the sight of the pearl suggests of feeling and\nfancy to the charmingly untutored heart, the woman heart, that dreams,\nand fancies, and is stirred by a sweet, and strange, and\nuncomprehended emotion. That pearl is not exactly a person, but\nneither, on the other hand, is it exactly a thing. What adorable\nwhiteness; no, call it not mere whiteness, but _candor_, virginal\ncandor; no, not virginal, but better still. For your young virgins,\nsweet and modest as they are, have always a slight dash of young\ntartness, and verdancy. No, the pearl's candor rather resembles that\nof the innocent young bride, so pure, yet so submissive to love.\n\nNo ambition to shine. Our pearl softens, almost suppresses, its\nlights. At first, you see only a dull white; it is only when you have\ntaken a second and a closer glance that you discover its mysterious\niris, its exquisitely glancing and pure light.\n\nWhere lived it? Ask the deep Ocean. On what? Ask the sunbeams; like\nsome clear spirit it lived on love and light.\n\nGreat mystery! But our beautiful pearl herself explains it. We cannot\nlook upon her without feeling that this creature, at once so lovely\nand so meek, must for a long time have lived in quietude, waiting and\nwaited for, willing nothing and doing nothing, but the will of the\nbeloved one.\n\nThe son of the sea put his beautiful dream into his shell, the shell\ninto the mother of pearl, and she into the pearl, which is but a\nconcentration of herself.\n\nBut the pearl we are told only comes to her mother in consequence of\nsome wound, some continued suffering, which withdraws or absorbs all\nvulgar life into that divine poetry.\n\nI have been told that the great ladies of the East, more delicate and\ntasteful than our vulgar rich, shun the diamond and allow their soft\nskin to be touched only by the pearl. And in truth, the brilliancy of\nthe diamond is not in accord with the light of love. A necklace and a\npair of bracelets of fine pearls are the harmonious and true\ndecorations for woman; instead of diverting the glance of the lover,\nthey move him, make tenderness more tender--say to him--\"No noise--let\nus love!\" The pearl seems amorous of woman, and woman of the pearl.\nThe ladies of the North, when they have once put on pearl ornaments,\nnever afterwards remove them, but carry them day and night concealed\nbeneath their attire. On very rare occasions, if the rich fur cape,\nlined with white satin, chances to slip aside, we may catch a\nmomentary glance of the happy ornament, the inseparable necklace. It\nreminds one of the silken tunic which the Odalisque wears close to her\nperson, and loves so much that she will not part with it until it is\nworn and torn beyond all possibility of repair; believing it as she\ndoes to be a talisman, an infallible love charm.\n\nIt is just so with the pearl; like the silk, it drinks in and is\nimpregnated with the very life of the wearer. When it has slept so\nmany nights upon her fair bosom, the ornament is no longer an\nornament, it is a part of the person, and is no longer to be seen by\nan indifferent eye. One alone has a right to know it, and to surprise\nupon that necklace the mystery of the beloved woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTHE SEA ROVERS (POULPE, &C.)\n\n\nThe Medus\u00e6 and the Molluscs are generally innocent creatures, and I\nhave thus far dwelt, as it were, with them in their amiable and\npeaceful world. Thus far I have met with few carnivora; and even those\nfew killed only in the stern necessity of hunger, and even of those\npart fed only on atoms, animal jelly, life unorganized, and scarcely\ncommenced. As a consequence, pain, anger, cruelty were absent. Their\nlittle souls had, nevertheless, a ray, the aspiration towards the\nlight alike of Heaven and of Love, revealed in the changing flame\nwhich illumines and rejoices the seas.\n\nBut, now, I have to enter into quite another world: a world of war,\nslaughter, fierce pursuit, and greedy devouring. I must confess that\nfrom the beginning, from the first appearance of life, death also\nappeared; a rapid and useful purification of the globe from the weak\nand slow, but prolific tribes whose fecundity would otherwise have\nbeen mischievous. In the oldest strata we find two wondrous creatures,\nthe _Devourer_ and the _Sucker_. The first is made known to us by the\nimprint of the Trilobite, a species no longer existing, an extinct\ndestroyer of extinct species. The second is known to us by a frightful\nremnant, a beak of almost two feet pertaining to the great Sucker, the\nLeiche or Poulpe of Dujardin. Judging from that immense beak, this\nmonster must have had an enormous body, and sucking-arms of twenty or\nthirty feet, like a prodigious spider.\n\nSad reflection, these murderous creatures are those which we earliest\nfind in the depths of the earth. Are we then to suppose that death\npreceded life? No doubt; but the soft creatures upon which these\nmonsters fed have perished utterly, not leaving remains or even\nimprint of themselves.\n\nThe devourers and the devoured, were they two nations of different\norigin? The contrary is more probable. From the mollusc, form\nundecided, matter still fit to be converted to any form, the\nsuperabundant strength of the young world, richly plethoric, abounding\nin alimentation, there must at an early period have proceeded two\nforms, contrary in appearance, but tending and qualified to the same\nend. Swelling and breathing, and measurelessly inflating itself, the\nMollusc became an enormous balloon, an absorbing bladder, absorbing\nall the more as it stretched the more, ever craving and ever\nconsuming, but toothless,--and we have the _Sucker_. On the other\nhand, by the self-same force, the Mollusc gradually developing\narticulated members of which each had its shell, and hardening this\nshelled creature everywhere, but especially at the claws and mandibles\nformed for gnawing and grinding, to pulp or powder, the very hardest\nsubstances became--the _Devourer_. Let us in the first place, in this\nchapter, speak of the first, the _Sucker_.\n\nThe Sucker of the soft gelatinous world, was himself soft and\ngelatinous. Warring upon and devouring the molluscs, he himself none\nthe less, remained mollusc, that is to say, still a mere embryon.\nThere would be something absurd, caricatural, were it not so terrible,\nin this sight of a mere foetus, soft and transparent, yet cruel,\nraging, eager, breathing nothing but murder. For he, see you, goes not\nto war for the mere sake of food. He has a real passion for\ndestroying, for destruction's sake; whenever he has gorged himself,\nwell nigh to bursting, he will destroy still. Destitute of defensive\narmour, his threatening snortings disguise, but by no means quiet, his\nreal anxiety; his real, his only safety, is an attack. He is the\nveritable bully of the young world; really vulnerable himself, and yet\nso terrible to others; he sees in everything that he meets only enemy\nor victim. At all risks he casts hither and thither his long arms, or\nrather his whip-lashes, tipped with cupping glasses, and upon enemy or\nvictim, before the fight or the capture commences, he sends out his\nstupefying, paralysing effluvia.\n\nDouble power. To the mechanical strength of these outstretched arms,\nadd the magical force of that mysterious fluid, and a singularly acute\nhearing and quick eye. You see in all these, a creature to alarm you.\n\nWhat must it have been, then, when the early world so lavished its\nwealth of alimentation, that these monsters of the deep could feed and\nswell indefinitely? They have decreased now, both in number and in\nsize. Yet, even lately, Rang tells us that he has seen them big as a\nhogshead; and Peron has seen them quite as large in the South Sea. The\ncreature rolled, and snorted in the rolling wave, with a noise to\nterrify, to astonish, all meaner creatures. His arms, six or seven\nfeet in length, turning, twisting, writhing, and grasping in every\ndirection, imitated some furious pantomime, some fantastic dance of at\nonce furious and eccentric serpents.\n\nAfter these matter of fact statements, it seems to me, that we should\nnot be quite so incredulous, not quite so scornful, when we read the\naccounts of the old voyagers; we should not curl the lip _quite_ so\ninsolently as we read, in Denis de Montford, that he saw a monstrous\nPoulpe, grasp, with his enormous arms, lash, scourge, smite, stupefy\nwith his electric lashes a fierce and strong mastiff which, in spite\nof all his efforts, and his terrible howlings, had to succumb, did\nsuccumb, _did_ die in that giant and terrible embrace.\n\nThe Poulpe, that terrible and living steam machine, can accumulate\nsuch incalculable force and elasticity, that, as d'Orbigny tells us\n(see his article Cephal.) it can leap from the sea to the deck of a\nship. This at once relieves our old voyagers from the charge so often\nand so lightly made against them, of exaggeration and mere romance.\nThey told us, and it now seems quite truly told us, that they came\nathwart a gigantic Poulpe that leaped inboard, twining its prodigious\narms around masts and shrouds; and the monstrous creature would have\nhad possession of the craft, and would have devoured all hands, but\nthat these latter cut away its arms with their axes, as they would\nhave cut away masts in a case of impending wreck, and the mutilated\nbut still threatening creature fell into the sea.\n\nSome have given this creature credit for arms of sixty feet in length;\nand others have reported that while cruising in the North seas, they\nfell in with the Kraken, a monstrous creature, half a league in\ncircumference, no doubt, one of our terrible _Poulpes_, able to\nembrace, stupefy, and devour, a whale a hundred feet long.\n\nThe prolonged existence of these monsters, would have endangered\nNature herself, would have absorbed our very globe. But, on the one\nhand, gigantic birds (perhaps, for instance, the _Epiornis_) made war\nupon them; and on the other hand the exhausted earth destroyed the\nmonster by cutting off its supply of alimentation.\n\nThank Heaven, our existing Poulpes are somewhat less terrible. Their\nelegant species of the present day, the Argonaut, that graceful\nswimmer in its wavy shell, the Calmar, good sailor, if ever there was\none, and the handsome Seiche, blue-eyed, and beautiful to look upon,\ntraverse the Ocean, hither and thither, annoying nothing but the small\ncreatures that they need for their support.\n\nIn them we see exhibited the first approach to the vertebral bone;\nthey display, too, a perfect rainbow of changing colors, that come and\ngo--shine, fade, dazzle and die. We may quite fairly call them the\nChameleons of the sea. They have the exquisite perfume, ambergris,\nwhich the whale only owes to the countless multitudes of Seiches which\nit has absorbed. And the porpoises, too, make an enormous destruction\nof them. Your Seiches are very gregarious. About the month of May,\nthey seek the coast to deposit their eggs, and the Porpoises await\nthem there, sure of a splendid banquet. And your Porpoise is somewhat\nof a _gourmet_ though sufficiently _gourmand_; he feeds delicately,\nthough we cannot deny that he feeds largely. The head and the eight\narms are his tid-bits, tender and easy of digestion; the rest of the\ncarcass they may have who come for it. Tens of thousands of these\nmutilated Seiches you find upon the coast at Royan; and there, too,\nyou will see the Porpoises making their mighty bounds when in chase of\ntheir coveted prey, the Seiches, or in bacchanal enjoyment and\nrevelling when the prey has been taken and the banquet is over.\n\nNotwithstanding the strange, not to say grotesque, appearance of its\nbeak, the Seiche is decidedly an interesting creature. All the various\nshades of the most brilliant and various rainbow, come and go, die and\nreappear on his transparent skin, according to the play of the light\nas he turns now hither and now thither, and as he dies his azure eyes\nlook upon you with an expression, now flashing and now fading, which\nseems to rebuke you for your cruelty in killing, or to express a\nregret at parting with life.\n\nThe general decrease of that class, so immensely important in the past\nages, is less remarkable as to the navigators (Seiches, &c.) than in\nthe Poulpe, properly so called, the sad frequenter of our shores. It\nhas not the same firmness as the Seiche, strengthened as the latter is\nby an interior bone, and it has not, like the Argonaut, a resisting\nexterior, a shell to protect the most vulnerable organs. Neither has\nit the kind of sail which aids its navigation and spares it the labor\nof _rowing_. It paddles about along our shores, hugging the shore\nlike some timid coaster. And its conscious inferiority teaches it\nhabits of treachery; it is at once timid and bold--lying in ambush\nuntil quite sure that it can devour without the preliminary necessity\nof a fight. Lying in wait in some rocky crevice, it awaits its prey.\nThat having passed in unsuspicious security, your Poulpe throws out\nthe terrible lashes, the weaker of the prey are devoured, the stronger\nget loose and escape. A man when swimming, if thus attacked, finds no\ndifficulty in mastering his at once insolent and imbecile assailant.\nDisgusted, but not alarmed, he handles the creature without gloves,\ncrushes, collapses him, and feels actually vexed with himself for\nhaving even for an instant been provoked by an enemy so contemptible.\n\"Bah!\" one is tempted to exclaim, on having so easily vanquished such\na thing--\"Bah! You came swelling, blowing, threatening, and after all\nyou prove to be only a sham, a mask rather than a being. Without\nfixity, without substance, a blown-up bladder, now collapsed, to be\nto-morrow a mere drop, a nameless portion of the dark blue waters of\nthe Sea.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nCRUSTAC\u00c6--BATTLE AND INTRIGUE.\n\n\nIf, from some rich collection of armor, of the middle ages,\nimmediately after examining the mighty masses of iron in which our\nknights of old oppressed and half stifled themselves, we go to the\nMuseum of Natural History, and examine the armor of the Crustac\u00e6, we\nshall actually feel something very like contempt for our human skill.\nThe former are a mere masquerade of absurd disguises, that seem\nespecially designed for encumbering their warlike wearers, and\nrendering them impotent. But these latter, especially the armor of the\nterrible _Decapodes_, the ten-footed warriors of the waters, are so\nmarvellously armed that had they but the stature and bulk of our human\nwarriors, none of us could dare even to look upon them. The _veni\nvidi_ of C\u00e6sar, would be eternally followed by his soon-ended _Vici_;\nthey would not need to seize, or to strike; their very aspect would\nthrill, magnetise--utterly stupefy and subdue us.\n\nThere they are, all ready for the fight, armed at all points. Within\nthat terrible arsenal, offensive and defensive, how lightly, yet how\nstrongly are they armed. There are the strong nippers, mandibles,\nready to craunch through iron itself, and the cuirasses, furnished\nwith the thousand darts, every one of which cries aloud to the foe\n_Noli me tangere_. We ought to be very thankful to Nature, that has\nmade them thus diminutive. If only the stature and bulk of man were\ngiven to them, who, who, and by what means, could engage with them?\nFire arms would be in vain; the Elephant, vast and mighty, and\nintelligent as he is, would have to hide; the fierce Tiger, with\nlashing tail, blood-shotten eyes and fatal paw, would seek shelter on\nthe topmost branches of the tallest trees, and the trice solid hide of\nthe Rhinoceros, would no longer be invulnerable.\n\nWe perceive at once that the interior agent, the motive power of that\nmachine, centralized within an almost invariable convex, has, even\nfrom that single peculiarity, a perfectly enormous force. The slender\nand delicate elegance of man, his longitudinal figure, divided into\nthree parts, with four great and diverging appendages, distant, all,\nfrom his centre, make him, whatever we may say to the contrary, an\nessentially weak animal. In those armors of the old knights, in the\ngreat, telegraphic arms, and in the heavy, pendant legs, we, at a\nglance, see, and sadden, as we see, the unsteady, uncentralized\ncreature; halting and staggering, that the slightest collision will\nbeat to the earth. In the crustac\u00e6, on the contrary, the appendages\nare at once so firmly, so neatly, and so closely, conjoined to the\nshort, rounded, and compacted body, that every blow, every touch,\nevery grasp, has the whole weight, and the whole force and impetus of\nthe entire mass. Even to the extremity of its claws, every inch is\ninstinct with nervous energy, mighty with the whole physical force.\n\nIt has two brain systems, head and body; but to concentrate its power\nthus, it must have no neck; head and body must be undivided, a dual\nunity. Marvellous, perfectly marvellous, simplification! The head\ncombines eyes, feelers, claws and jaws. When the quick eye has\ndiscerned the enemy, or the prey, the feelers touch, the claws grasp,\nthe jaws crush, and, immediately behind them, the stomach, which is\nitself furnished with a strong crushing machinery, triturates and\ndigests whatever enters it. In an instant the prey is seized, crushed,\ndigested, and disappears.\n\nIn this creature, every organ is superior.\n\nThe eyes can discern, both in front, and in rear. Convexed, exterior,\nand _en facettes_, they can, at a glance, sweep almost the entire\nhorizon.\n\nThe antenn\u00e6, the feelers, organs of touch and trial, of warning and of\nguiding, have the sense of touch at their extremities, of hearing and\nof scent, at their base. An immense advantage, such as we do not\npossess. How would it be if the human hand could hear and smell? How\nrapid and concentrated would then be our power of observation. Divided\namong three senses, each of which works independently of the other,\nour impressions are, for that very reason, very often inexact or\nevanescent.\n\nOf the ten feet of the Decapodes, six are hands, hard, griping\npincers, and, moreover, are, at their extremeties, organs of\nrespiration. And in this last particular our singularly armed warrior,\nby a quite revolutionary expedient, solves the problem which so much\nembarrassed our poor mollusc; how to breathe, in spite of the shell.\nTo this he calmly replies: \"I breathe through hand and foot. This\ngreat, this fatal difficulty of breathing, which would so surely\novercome me, I overcome by the very same weapon with which I smite,\nthe very same implement by which I seize and masticate my food.\"\n\nThe chief and most potent enemies of the Crustac\u00e6, are the tempest and\nthe rock. Little in the deep sea, they almost constantly lurk along\nshore in waiting for their prey. Often, as they lurk there waiting for\nthe oyster to open and furnish them with a breakfast, a hard gale\ndrives them from their ambush, and then their armor becomes their\nfatality. Hard, and destitute of elasticity, it receives the full and\nunmitigated shock of every collision; dashed upon the rocks, they\nleave it, if alive, only with broken weapons and rent armor. Happily\nfor them, they, like the Oursin, can replace an organ, lost or\nmutilated. So well do they know that strange power, that they\nvoluntarily shake off a claw, if confined by it. It would seem that\nNature especially favors servants so useful. To counterbalance the\ninfinite fecundity of other species, the crustac\u00e6 have an infinite\npower of absorption. And they are everywhere; on every coast;\nubiquitous as the seas themselves. The Vultures, and other carrion\nbirds, share with the crustac\u00e6 the essential office of health\npreservers. Let some large animal die, and, on the instant, the bird\nabove, and the crab below and within, are at work to prevent it from\npolluting the atmosphere.\n\nThe Talitre, that small and skipping crab that we might almost mistake\nfor an insect, burrows in the sands of the sandy shores. Let a tempest\ndrive a quantity of Medus\u00e6 or other such prey upon the beach, and you\nwill immediately see the sands all in motion, and myriads of crabs\nswarming, leaping, hungry, and apparently determined to clear away the\nspoil before the next flood tide.\n\nLarge, robust, and full of wiles, the great crabs are a very combative\nrace. So highly are they gifted with the instinct of war that they\neven resort to noise in order to intimidate their enemies; advancing\nto the fight they clash their claws together with a noise like that\nof castanettes. Yet, they are very prudent when they have to do with a\nstronger enemy. I remember to have watched them from the top of a high\nrock, when the tide was out. But, high above them as I was, they\nperceived that they were watched, and speedily beat a retreat; the\nwarriors hurrying sidelong, as is their wont, into their secure\nambush. They resemble Achilles far less than Hannibal. When they feel\nthat they are the stronger, they will attack both the living and the\ndead, and the helplessly wounded man may well dread them. It is\nrelated that, on some desert isle, several of Drake's sailors were\nattacked and devoured by these greedy creatures.\n\nNo living creature can fight them with equal weapons. The gigantic\nPoulpe who should enlace the smallest of the crab family, would do so\nat the risk of losing his antenn\u00e6, and the greediest of fish would not\nventure to swallow so hard a morsel.\n\nWhen the Crustace\u00e6 are large they are the tyrants and the terror of\nboth land and sea; their impregnable armor enables them to attack\neverything. They would multiply to such an excess as to disturb the\nbalance of living creatures, but that their armour itself is their\ngreat peril and destroyer. Hard and inelastic, it will not yield to\nthe increasing growth of the animal and thus becomes its prison\nalways, and at certain periods its torture.\n\nTo find, despite this solid wall, the means of breathing, it is\nobliged to place the organ of respiration in that very organ, the\nclaw, which it most frequently loses. To allow for the growth of its\ninterior substance, it is obliged--most perilous obligation!--to\nsubmit that the hard cuirass shell shall at times be discarded; that\nthe creature shall have its seasons of _moulting_; that the eyes, and\nthe claws, and the tentacles, which supply the place of lungs shall\nsuffer with all the rest.\n\nA strange and pitiful sight it is to see the Lobster writhing,\ntwisting, struggling, to get out of its too confining armor. So\nviolent is the struggle that he sometimes actually casts off his\nclaws. Then he remains soft, weak, exhausted. In two or three days a\nraw shell covers the naked body; but the Crab does not so easily\nrepair damages; it takes him much longer to renew his armor, and\nduring that time he is the victim of all that previously were his\nunspared and unpitied prey. Even handed justice now becomes terrible\nto him. The victims now have their revenge; the strong is subjected to\nthe law of the weak; falls, as a species, to their level, and pays\nfull share in the great balance between Life and Death.\n\nIf one died but once in this world, there would be less of sadness,\nbut every living thing must partially die daily; daily suffer\nmoulting, that partial death which is essential to the continuance of\nlife. Hence, a weakness and a melancholy to which we do not readily\nconfess. But what is to be done? The bird in its moulting time is sad\nand silent; still more sad is the poor snake when it casts its skin.\nWe, also, in every month, every day, every instant, are parting with\nportions of our living frame, but as gently as constantly, and only\nfeel weakened, in those moments of dreamy melancholy, when the vital\nflame is weakened, that it may become stronger and more vivid.\n\nHow far more terrible it must be for the creature whose whole external\nframe work must be rent asunder and cast off. It is weak, timorous,\ncrushed;--at the mercy of the first comer.\n\nThere are crustac\u00e6 of the fresh water that must thus partially die a\nscore of times in every two months. Others (the crustacean suckers)\nsuccumb to this terrible operation, are unable to renew their armor,\nand lose all power. So to speak, they resign their piratical\ncommission, and, coward-like, take shelter in the viscera of the\nlarger animals, which, in spite of themselves, have to forage for them\nand to feed them.\n\nThe insect in its Chrysalis seems utterly to forget itself, not only\ndoes it not suffer, but it even seems to enjoy that semblance of\ndeath, that unconscious life, which the infant enjoys in its warm\ncradle. But the crustac\u00e6, in their moulting time, see themselves and\nfeel themselves as they are, suddenly hurled from energetic and\nterrible life and power to the most complete impotency. They are\nalarmed, helpless, lost, and can but creep under some sheltering\nstone, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing but the terror\nof the coming foe and the unpitied death. Never having encountered\nterrible foe, or even serious obstacle, and relieved from all\nnecessity of industry by their potent armor, they no sooner lose that\nthan they find themselves utterly without resource. Each might protect\nthe other, but they are all defenceless at the same time. Yet it is\nsaid that, in certain species, the male does strive to protect the\nfemale, and that if we take one we take both.\n\nThat terrible necessity of moulting, and the eager research of man,\nmore and more lord of the shores, and the extinction of the old\nspecies that afforded them such abounding alimentation, have\nnecessarily kept down the increase of the crustace\u00e6. Even the Poulpe\nwhich, being good for nothing, is neither hunted after nor eaten, has\nconsiderably decreased in number. How much more so, then, the\ncrustace\u00e6 whose flesh is so excellent and so coveted by all creatures.\nThey actually seem to be aware of this. The weaker among them resort\nto the grossest little rogueries to protect themselves; they are\ningenious, intriguing. This latter epithet is the true one; they\nreally resemble intriguers who, without visible means, contrive to\nsupport themselves upon the means of others. A kind of bastards,\nneither quite fish, nor quite flesh, they make increment alike of the\nliving, the dying and the dead; occasionally even of land animals.\n\nThe Oxystome makes himself a kind of miser, and thieves by night; the\nBirgus at nightfall quits the sea on a marauding expedition, and, for\nwant of better, even ascends the cocoa tree and eats the fruit. The\nDromios disguise themselves, and Bernard the Hermit, unable to harden\nhis exterior, seizes a Mollusc, devours the body, and clothes himself\nin the shell. Thus fitted out, he prowls at evening in search of food,\nand we detect the furtive pilgrim by the noise which he cannot avoid\nmaking as he halts and staggers along, under the load of his ill\nacquired and ill fitting armor.\n\nOthers, at most times, but especially in the winter, seek the land,\nand burrow. Perhaps they would change their nature altogether and\nbecome insects, were the sea not so dear to them. As once in every\nyear the twelve tribes of Israel were wont to wend their way to\nJerusalem to celebrate the feast of Tabernacles, there are certain\nshores to which these faithful children of the sea repair to pay her\ntheir homage and to consign to her tender care their eggs, thus\nrecommending their offspring to her who nursed their ancestry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE FISH.\n\n\nIt was inevitable that the free element, the Sea, should, sooner or\nlater, produce a creature like unto herself, eminently free,\nundulating and fluid, gliding like the wave, but with a marvellous\nmobility founded on an interior miracle greater still, on an internal\norganization at once delicate and strong, and very elastic, such as no\ncreature had previously ever approached to.\n\nThe Mollusc, crawling on its belly, was the poor serf of the glebe,\nand the Poulpe, with all his swelling and threatening pride, swimming\nbadly and unable to walk or crawl at all, was still more completely\nthe serf of chance. The warlike crustace\u00e6, by turns so high and so\nlow, alternately the terror and derision of all, were at times the\nslave, the prey of even the weakest creatures.\n\nGreat and terrible servitudes those; how were they to be remedied?\n\nStrength is the very soul of liberty. From the very beginning, Life\nseems gradually but confusedly to have sought the creation of a\ncentral axis which should give the creature unity, and enormously\nincrease its strength of motion. The rayed family and the molluscs\nexhibit a presentiment, a partial sketch of it, but they were too much\nled away by the insoluble problem of the exterior defence. The\ncovering, always the covering, was that which constantly occupied the\nattention of these poor beings. As to that one point, they produced\nmasterpieces; the thorny ball of the Oursin, the shell at once open\nand closed of the Haliotide, and, finally, the armors of jointed\npieces of the Crustace\u00e6, are the very perfection of armor at once\ndefensive and terribly offensive. What more could be required? It\nwould seem, _nothing_.\n\n_Nothing?_ Say, rather, everything. Let us have a creature who shall\ntrust entirely to motion, a creature of freedom and audacity, that\nshall look down upon all these creatures as infirm, or miserably slow;\na creature that shall consider the envelope as a merely secondary\nmatter, and concentrate his whole strength within himself.\n\nThe crustace\u00e6 shroud themselves, as it were, in an exterior skeleton.\nThe fish has his skeleton within, to which nerves, muscles, and all\norgans are attached.\n\nThis seems a fanciful invention, and one quite contrary to good sense;\nto place the hard and the solid beneath the thick covering of the\nsoft! To place the bone, so useful without, precisely where it seems\nit must be so useless! The crustace\u00e6 must needs have laughed in\nderision when they first saw the short, thick, soft fish of the Indian\nOcean, for instance, without defensive armor, having no strength save\ninwardly, protected only by its oily fluidity, by the exuberant mucus\nthat surrounds it, and which by degrees consolidates into elastic\nscales, a slight cuirass, which ever yielding, never yields entirely.\n\nIt was a revolution comparable to that of Gustavus Adolphus, when he\nrelieved his soldiery of their heavy iron armor, and covered their\nbreasts only with the at once stout and yielding buff leather. A late\nrevolution, but a wise one.\n\nOur fish, being no longer confined like the crab or lobster,\nimprisoned in armor, is at the same time relieved from the cruel\ncondition inseparable from that armor, the _moulting_, with its\nattendant danger, weakness, struggle, and enormously wasteful\nexpenditure of strength. Like the superior animals and man, he moults\nslowly. He economises and hoards up strength, and creates for himself\nthe treasure of a powerful nervous system, with numerous telegraphic\nthreads that connect spine and brain. Even when the bone is soft or\nabsent, and the fish preserves its embryonic appearance, he has\nnevertheless his great harmony in that abundant provision of nervous\nthreads.\n\nWe do not find in the fish the elegant weakness of the reptile and the\ninsect, so slender that in those parts one can cut through them as\nthrough a thread; his segments are within, and well protected. He uses\nthem for contractile power, but does not, as the less perfect reptile\nand insect do, expose them to external injury.\n\nLike the crustace\u00e6, the fish prefers strength to beauty, and for this\nend has no neck; head and trunk form one mass. Admirable principle of\nstrength, which enables him, in cleaving through so yielding an\nelement as water, to strike, at will, with a thousand fold more force\nthan is necessary, and then his motion is as the flight of an arrow or\nthe flash of lightning!\n\nThe interior bone, single in the Seiche, is in the fish at once one\nand multiple; one for force of unity, multiple for elasticity,\nenabling the muscles alternately to contract and expand, and thus\ncreate swift motion. Marvellous, really marvellous is that formation\nof the fish, so solid without and contractile within, that inward keel\nto which are attached the motor muscles which work with an alternating\nshock. Exteriorly, he exposes only his auxiliary oars, short fins\nwhich are but little in danger, being strong, slippery, and sharp to\nwound, or to scrape. How superior in all this is the fish, to the\nPoulpe and the Medusa, which present to all comers soft flesh, a\ntempting morsel for the crustace\u00e6 or the porpoise.\n\nThis true son of the water, gliding and mobile as his mother, glides\nby means of his mucus, cleaves with his head, impelled by his\ncontractile muscles, and finally, with his strong fins rows and\nsteers.\n\nThe least of these powers would suffice, but he unites them all; a\nperfect model and absolute type of swift motion.\n\nEven the bird is less mobile, seeing that he has to perch. He is fixed\nfor the night, but the fish, never; even asleep, he still floats.\n\nSo extremely mobile, he at the same time is in the highest degree\nstrong and lively. Wherever there is water, there is the fish: he is\nthe universal creature of the globe. In the loftiest lakes of Asia and\nof the Cordilleras, where the atmosphere is so rarefied that no other\ncreature can endure it, the fish lives and thrives. It is the red fish\nof the Gudgeon species, which thus looks down upon all the earth. In\nlike manner, in the great depths, beneath the most enormous weights,\nlive the Herring and the Cod. Forbes, who divides them into ten\nsuperposed beds or stages, finds them all inhabited, and in the lowest\nof all, supposed to be so dark, he finds a fish provided with eyes so\nadmirable that he finds sufficient light in that which seems to us the\nuttermost darkness of night.\n\nThere is yet another privilege of the fish. Many species, as Salmon,\nShad, Eels, Sturgeon, &c., can live equally in fresh water or sea\nwater, and regularly migrate from one to the other. Many families of\nfish include both sea fish and fresh water fish, as for instance, the\nThornback.\n\nNevertheless, peculiar degrees of heat, peculiar food, and peculiar\nhabits, seem to confine them within certain limits in the seas, free\nas that element is. The warm seas are as a confining wall beyond which\nthe polar species cannot pass; and on the other hand, the fish of the\nwarm seas are stopped by the cold currents at the Cape of Good Hope.\nWe know of only two or three species that can be properly called\ncosmopolitan. Few of them frequent the open sea; most of them hug the\nshore, and have favorite shores to frequent. Those of the United\nStates are not those of Europe. Then, too, fish have peculiarities of\ntaste which attach them to certain localities, though they do not\nactually confine them there. The Thornback grovels in the mud, Soles\nin sandy bottoms, the Bullhead loves the high bottoms, and the Sea Eel\nthe rocks. The Scorpene, or flying fish, swims and flies by turns;\nwhen pursued by fish, she darts from the water, and for some distance\nsustains herself in the air; and when pursued by birds she drops back\ninto the water.\n\nThe popular phrase, \"As happy as a fish in water,\" is founded on a\ntruth. In fine weather he floats at his ease, enabled as he is to rise\nor sink at pleasure, to make himself a balloon more or less filled\nwith air, and therefore lighter or heavier. He moves in peace, rocked\nand caressed by the wave, and, if he so chooses, even sleeps as he\nfloats. He is at once surrounded and isolated by the unctuous\nsubstance which renders his skin and his scales slippery and\nimpenetrable by the water. His temperature varies but little and is\nneither too hot nor too cold. What a difference between a life so\nconvenient, and that which is allotted to us dwellers upon the land;\nwhere at every step we meet with asperities and obstacles, which\nfatigue and exhaust us as we toil up or down our hills and mountains!\nThe atmosphere varies, and often most cruelly, with our various\nseasons. For days and nights together, the cold rains pour pitilessly\ndown, penetrating us; at times frozen, and piercing us with its sharp\ncrystal points.\n\nThe felicity and fullness of life of the fish is shown at the Tropics\nby the splendor of his colors, and at the North by the swiftness of\nhis motion. In Oceania and the Indian Sea they rove and sport in the\noddest forms and colors, taking their pleasure among the corals, and\nliving flowers. Our fish, of the temperate and cold seas, are potent\nrowers; thorough sailors. Their slender and elongated figures give\nthem an arrowy swiftness and grace of movement, which might serve as\nensample to our ship builders. Some of them have as many as ten fins\nwhich serve them, at will, as sails or oars, and may be kept wide\nspread or close-reefed. Their tail, that marvellous rudder, is also\nthe principal oar. The best swimmers have it forked, the entire spine\nends there and which contracting its muscles gives the fish his swift\nmotion. The Thornback has two immense fins, two great wings to cleave\nthe waves. His long, supple, and slender tail is a weapon with which\nto lash and divide the waters. So slender and displacing so little\nwater, this fish has no need of the air bladder which supports the\nthicker fish. Thus each has the peculiar provisions that fit it for\nits peculiar locality and surroundings. The Sole is oval and flat that\nit may glide in the sand, the Eel long and slender that it may glide\nthrough the mud, and the Lophies, that they may cling to the rocks,\nhave hand like fins that remind one rather of frogs than fish.\n\nSight is the great sense of the bird; scent is that of the fish. The\nHawk, from above the clouds, pierces, with his glance, the deep space\nand marks the scarcely visible prey below; in like manner the Shark,\nfrom the depths of the water, scents his tempting prey, and darts\nupward upon it. Those that, like the Sturgeon, rummage the mud for\nfood have exquisite touch. In the watery world half darkened, and\nhaving only uncertain and delusive lights, scent, and, in some cases,\ntouch, must be relied on. The Shark, the Thornback and the Cod, with\nhis great eyes, see badly, but have an exquisite sense of scent. The\nThornback has that sense in such excess that he is provided with a\nveil for the express purpose of deadening it at will, when it probably\naffects his brain unpleasantly. To this powerful means of chasing\ntheir prey, we must add admirable teeth, sometimes like those of a\nsaw. Some species have several rows of them, lining the mouth, the\npalate, the throat, and even the tongue. These teeth being so fine\nare, therefore, fragile; and behind, therefore, are others ready to\nreplace them if they break.\n\nAt the commencement of this second book, we said that it was necessary\nthat the sea should produce these terrible and mighty destroyers to\ncombat her own too great fecundity. Death by persevering excision and\nbleedings relieved her of a plethora which, otherwise, would have\ndestroyed her. Against that alarming torrent of production which we\nhave instanced in the case of the Herring and the Cod, those frightful\nmultiplying machines which would have choked up the ocean and\ndesolated the earth, she defends herself by the machine of Death, the\narmed swimmer, the fierce and voracious fish. Great, splendid,\nimpressive spectacle! The universal combat between Death and Life,\nwhich we witness upon the land, fades into insignificance when we\ncompare it to that which is going on in the depths of the sea. There,\nits surpassing grandeur, at first, almost alarms us, but when we\nexamine more closely we see that all is harmonious and in marvellous\nequilibrium. That fury is necessary; that dazzlingly rapid exchange of\nsubstance, that prodigality of slaughter, are safety. Nothing of\nsadness, but a wild fierce joy seems to reign in all this. In this\nopposition in the sea of two forces, that seem so inevitably\ndestructive of each other, the sea finds her marvellous health, her\nincomparable purity, and a beauty at once sublime and terrible. She\ntriumphs alike in the living and in the dead, giving to them and\nreceiving from them the electricity, the light which beams, flashes,\nsparkles everywhere, even in the long, dark, polar night.\n\nWhat is melancholy in the sea is not her carelessness to multiply\ndeath, but her impotence to reconcile progress with the excess of\nmovement.\n\nShe is a hundred times, a thousand times richer, and more rapidly\nfecund than the earth. She even builds up for earth. The increase of\nthe land, as we have seen in the case of the Corals, is given by the\nsea; the sea is no other than the parturient and laboring womb of the\nglobe. Her sole obstacle is in the rapidity of her births; her\ninferiority appears in the difficulty, which, so rich in generation,\nshe finds in organizing Love. It is melancholy to reflect that the\nmyriads upon myriads of the inhabitants of the sea have only a vague,\nelementary, and imperfect, Love. Those vast tribes that, each in its\nturn, ascend and go in pilgrimage towards pleasure and light, give in\nfloods the best of themselves, their very life, to blind and unknown\nchance. They love, and they will never know the beloved creature in\nwhich their dream, their desire, was incarnated; they produce\nmultitudes, but never know their posterity. A few, a very few of the\nmost active, warlike, and cruel species love after our human manner.\nThose terrific monsters, the Shark and his female, are obliged to\napproach each other. Nature has imposed upon them the peril of\nembracing. A terrible and suspicious embrace. Habitually they devour,\neagerly and blindly, everything that comes in their path--animals,\nwood, stone, iron--anything, but in their fierce love, they restrain\ntheir hunger. They approach each other with their sawlike and fatal\nteeth, and the female intrepidly allows the male to seize her with\nhis, and thus fastened together, they sometimes roll furiously about\nfor weeks, unwilling to separate, even though famishing, and\ninvincible in their fierce embrace, even by the fiercer tempest.\n\nIt is affirmed that even after they have separated, they lovingly\npursue each other, the faithful male following his mate till the birth\nof his heir presumptive, the sole fruit of that marriage, and never,\nnever devours him, but follows and watches over him. In fact, in case\nof peril to the sharkling, the excellent farther takes him into his\nvast throat, but to shelter, not digest him.\n\nIf the life of the sea has a dream, a wish, a confused desire, it is\nthat of fixity. The violent and tyrannical embrace of the Shark, the\nfury of his union with the female give us an idea of a perfectly\ndesperate love. Who knows if in other species, gentler and better\nfitted for families, who knows if this impotence of union, this\neternal fluctuation of an objectless voyage, is not a cause of\nsadness? These children of the sea become owners of the land. Many of\nthem ascend the rivers amorous with the fresh water, which they find\nso poor and possessed of so little nutriment, that they may deposit\nthere, far from the raging waves, the hope of their posterity. At the\nvery least they approach the shore in search of some sinuous and land\nlocked creek. At this time they even become industrious, and with\nsand, mud, and grass endeavor to make little nests. A touching effort!\nThey have none of the implements of the insect, that marvel of animal\nindustry. They are far more destitute than the bird. By sheer dint of\nperseverance, without hands, or claws, or beak, and solely with their\npoor bodies, they yet pass and repass over it till they have pressed\nit into a sufficient cohesion, as Coste informs us in his description\nof the Sticklebacks. And what obstacles still await them! The female,\nblind and greedy, threatens the eggs, the male will not quit them, but\nguards and protects them, more motherly than the mother herself. This\ninstinct is found in several species, especially in the humblest, the\nGobies, a small fish, unfit for food, held in such contempt that if,\nby chance, caught, it is thrown back again to the water. Well, this\nlowest of the low is a tender father. Weak, small, destitute as he is,\nhe, nevertheless, is the ingenious architect and laborious workman of\nthe nest, and constructs it unaided, save by his tenderness and his\nstrong will.\n\nIt moves one to pitying reverie, to perceive that such an effort of\nthe heart is arrested at the first effort of art, and by the fatality\nof the world, in which its nature detains it. We feel that that world\nof waters is not all sufficient for itself.\n\nGreat mother that hath commenced life, thou canst not perfect it;\nallow thy daughter, the Earth, to continue the work. You see it, even\nin your bosom; your children think of Earth and long for its fixity;\nthey approach her, offer her their homage.\n\nIt is for thee still to commence the series of new beings, by an\nunexpected prodigy, a grandiose rough draft of the warm amorous life,\nof blood, of milk, of tenderness which will have its development in\nthe terrestrial races.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE WHALE.\n\n\n\"The fisherman belated at night in the North Sea,\" says Milton, \"saw\nan isle, a shoal, which, like the back of an enormous mountain, lay\nupon the water, and in that isle or shoal he fastened his anchor. The\nisle fled and carried him away. That isle was Leviathan.\"\n\nAn error only too natural. D'Urmont Durville was similarly though not\nso fatally deceived. He saw at a distance what seemed a bank with\nbreakers and eddies all around it, and certain patches upon it looked\nlike rocks. Above and around this seeming bank the swallow and the\nstormy petrel raced and sported. The bank looked venerably grey,\ncovered as it was with shells and madrepores. But the mighty mass\nsuddenly moved, and two enormous columns of water which it threw high\ninto the air, revealed the awakened Whale.\n\nThe inhabitant of another planet who should descend towards ours in a\nballoon and survey it from a vast height would say to himself, \"The\nonly creatures that I can discover there are from one hundred to two\nhundred feet long, their arms are only twenty feet long, but their\nsuperb tail, thirty feet, magnificently beats the Sea, and enables\nthem to advance with a speed and a majestic ease which make it very\nevident that they are the sovereigns of that planet.\"\n\nAnd by and bye he would add: \"It is a great pity that the solid part\nof that globe should be deserted, or at best peopled only by creatures\nso small that they are invisible. The sea alone is inhabited and by a\nkind and gentle race. Here the family is held in honor, the mother\nnurses and suckles her young ones with tenderness, and although her\narms are very short she contrives during the raging of the tempest to\nprotect her little one by pressing it to her vast body.\"\n\nWhales are given to companionship. Formerly they were seen sailing\nalong not only in pairs, but occasionally in large families of ten or\ntwelve in the solitary seas. Nothing exceeded the grandeur of those\nvast and living fleets, sometimes lighted up by their own\nphosphorescence, and throwing to the height of thirty or forty feet in\nthe Polar seas columns of water which smoked as it rose. They would\napproach a vessel, peaceably and in evident curiosity; looking upon\nher as some specimen of a new and strange species of fish; and they\nsported around and welcomed the visitor. In their joy they raised\nthemselves half upright and then fell down again with a huge noise,\nmaking a boiling gulf as they sank. Their innocent familiarity went so\nfar that they sometimes touched the ship or her boats. An imprudent\nconfidence which was most cruelly deceived! In less than a century,\nthe great species of the Whale have almost disappeared.\n\nTheir manners and their organization are those of our herbivora. Like\nour ruminating animals they have a succession of stomachs where their\nnourishment is elaborated; they need no teeth and have none. They\neasily graze the living prairies of the sea, I mean the gigantic,\nsoft, and gelatinous, fucus, the beds of infusori\u00e6, the banks of the\nimperceptible atoms. For such aliments the chase is not necessary.\nHaving no occasion for war, they have no necessity for the sawlike\nteeth or the frightful jaws of the Shark and other destructive\ncreatures. Boitard tells us that they never pursue. Their food is\nborne to them on every wave. Innocent and peaceable, they engulf a\nworld of scarcely organized creatures which die ere they lived, and\npass unconsciously into the crucible of universal change.\n\nNot the slightest connection between this gentle race of mammifer\u00e6,\nwhich, like our own, have milk and red blood, and the monsters of an\nearlier age,--horrible abortions of the primitive mud! The Whale, of\nfar more recent origin, found a purified water, a free Sea, and a\npeaceful globe.\n\nHe had finished, the Globe had, his old discordant dream of\nlizard-fishes, and flying dragons, the frightful reign of the reptile;\nhe had got out of the sinister fogs and mists into the lovely dawn of\nharmonious conceptions. Our carnivorous creatures were not yet in\nexistence. There was a brief time (a hundred thousand years, perhaps,)\nof great gentleness and innocence, when the Opossum and other pouched\nanimals were on the earth; excellent creatures, that tenderly loved\ntheir families, that carried their young, and, in case of the fatigue\nor danger of those little creatures, sheltered them in their pouches.\nIn the Sea appeared vast and gentle giants.\n\nThe milk of the sea, its superabundant oil, its warm animalized mucus,\nsaturated with a marvellous power tending to life, swelling at length\ninto those gigantic creatures, those spoilt children of nature which\nshe endowed with an incomparable strength, and with the yet greater\ngift of the beautiful and warm red blood, which now for the first time\nappeared.\n\nThat is the true flower of the world. All the pale and cold blooded\ncreation is languid and seemingly heartless, when compared with the\ngenerous and exulting life which boils with anger or love in the rich\npurple.\n\nThe strength of the superior creation, its charm, its beauty, reside\nin that blood. With it commenced a new youth in nature, a flame of\ndesire, of love, and the love of family and race; to be completed and\ncrowned in man by divine Pity.\n\nBut with this magnificent gift of red blood, the nervous sensibility\nwas enormously increased; the being became more vulnerable, more\nsensitive alike to pleasure and to pain. The Whale having scarcely any\nsense of scent or hearing, every thing in his organization is\nfavorable to the sense of touch. The thick blubber which so well\nprotects him from the cold, does not at all guard him against hurts.\nHis finely organized skin of six tissues shudders and vibrates in them\nall at every blow, and their papill\u00e6 are most delicate instruments of\ntouch. And all this is animated and made vivid by rich, red blood,\nwhich, even allowing for difference of bulk, is infinitely more\nabundant than that of the terrestrial mammifer\u00e6. The Whale, when\nwounded, ensanguines the ocean to a great distance; the blood that we\nhave in drops, is lavished upon him in torrents.\n\nThe female is pregnant nine months. Her milk is sweetish and warm,\nlike that of the human female. But as she has always to breast the\nwave, her front mamm\u00e6, if placed on the chest, would be exposed to all\nshocks; they are, therefore, placed a little lower on the belly. Here\nthe young one is sheltered and safe from the shock of the wave, which\nis already broken, ere it reaches him. The form, inherent to such a\nlife, contracts the mother, at the waist and deprives her of that\nadorable grace of woman, that beauty of settled and harmonious life,\nwhere all is tenderness. But the Whale, the great woman of the sea,\nhowever tender she may be, is forced to conform, in every thing, to\nher continual battle with the waves. For the rest, beneath that\nstrange uncouth disguise, the organization, and the sensitiveness, are\nthe same; fish above, the Whale is woman beneath. She is infinitely\ntimid, too; the mere flight of a bird will sometimes terrify her so\nmuch that she dives so violently as to hurt herself by striking the\nbottom.\n\nLove with the Whale being subject to difficult condition requires a\nprofoundly peaceful place. Like a noble elephant, who fears profane\neyes, the Whales love only the desert. Their meeting place for pairing\nis towards the poles, in the solitary bays of Greenland, among the\nfogs of Behring, and, also, no doubt, in the warm sea which is known\nto exist close to the pole itself. A solitude they must have to mate\nin, be it arctic or antarctic.\n\nWill that warm sea be found again? It is only to be reached by\ntraversing the horrid defiles which open, close, and change, with\nevery succeeding year, as though to prevent the return. The Whale, it\nis believed, pass under the ice from one sea to the other; a bold and\nperilous journey by that dark road. Compelled to rise to breathe every\nquarter of an hour, though they have reserves of air which will last\nthem a little longer, they are much endangered as they pass through\nthat enormous crust with only here and there a breathing hole. If one\nof these cannot be reached in due time, the ice is so thick and solid\nevery where else, that no strength of the Whale could break through\nit; and he would be as helplessly drowned as Leander in the\nHellespont. But the Whales know nothing about the fate of Leander; so\nthey boldly venture, and for the most part pass safely.\n\nThe solitude is great, it is a strange scene of death and silence for\nthis festival of ardent and passionate life. A white Bear, a Seal, or,\nperhaps, a blue Fox, respectful and prudent, looks on from a distance.\nFantastically brilliant chandeliers and mirrors are not wanting.\nBluish crystals, huge and dazzling peaks of ice, and masses of virgin\nsnow, are all around.\n\nWhat renders this Elephantine Hymen the more interesting, is, that it\nis one of express consent. They have not the tyrannous weapons of the\nShark by which he subdues his female, for on the contrary their\nslippery skins separate them. In their struggle to overcome this\ndesperate obstacle to their happiness, one might suppose them to be\nfighting. The whale-men assert that they have seen this strange\nspectacle. The couples in their burning transports rear themselves\nupright like two vast towers, and endeavor to embrace with their short\narms. They fall down again with an immense crash; and Bear and Man\nalike retreat, astounded by the deafening sobs of the vast creatures.\n\nThe solution is unknown; those explanations, which have been given,\nare simply absurd. What is certain is, that, whether in the act of\nlove or of suckling, or of defence, the unfortunate Whale suffers\nunder the double oppression of its weight and its difficulty of\nbreathing. She can only breathe with her head above water; if she\nremain below she will be choked. Is the Whale, therefore, a\nterrestrial animal? Not so. If by chance she be stranded on the coast,\nthe enormous weight of her flesh and blubber overwhelms her respiring\norgans and she is strangled.\n\nPlaced wholly in the only element in which she can respire, she is\nasphyxiated just as surely as if kept beyond a certain space of time\nwholly beneath the water.\n\nLet us speak plainly. This vast mammiferous giant is an incomplete\ncreature, the first poetic offspring of creative power, which first\ncontemplates the sublime and then reverts to the possible and the\ndurable. The admirable animal was well provided as to size, strength,\nwarm blood, sweet milk, and good disposition. It needed nothing but\nthe means of living. It was made without respect to the general\nproportions of this globe, without respect to the imperative law of\nweight. In spite of his enormous bones, beneath, his gigantic sides\nwere not strong enough to keep his chest sufficiently expanded and\nfree. Escaping from his enemy, the water, he found another enemy in\nthe land, and his mighty lungs were overwhelmed, and collapsed. His\nmagnificent blowing apertures throwing up columns of water thirty feet\ninto the air, are, in themselves, proofs of an organization infantine\nand rude. In throwing up that column towards the sky the _panting\nblower_ seems to say, \"Oh, nature, why hast thou made me a serf?\"\n\nThe life of this creature was a problem, and it seemed that this\nsplendid but imperfect first draft of the vast and the warm-blooded\ncould not endure. Their furtive and difficult love, their suckling\namidst the roar and the rush of the tempest, in the hard choice\nbetween shipwreck and strangling; the two great acts of their life\nrendered almost impossible, and performed only by mightiest effort and\nmost heroic will;--what conditions of existence are these!\n\nThe mother has never more than one little one, and that is much for\nher to achieve. Both she and it have three great annoyances, the\ndifficulty of breasting the waves, the suckling, and the fatal\nnecessity of rising to the surface to breathe. The education of the\nyoung one is a real combat. Tempest-tossed and sorely beaten by the\nwaves, the young one sucks, as it were, by stealth, when the mother\ncan throw herself on her side. Here the mother is admirable. She knows\nthat the young one in endeavoring to draw the teat will be forced to\nleave its hold; and, therefore, seizing the favorable moment, she, as\nfrom a piston, discharges a tun of milk into the gaping and craving\nmouth.\n\nThe male seldom quits the female. Their embarrassment is great when\nthe eager and cruel fishers attack them in the person of their young\none. The whale-men harpoon the young one, well knowing that the\nparents will follow it. And, in fact, they do make almost incredible\nefforts to save it and carry it off; they rise to the surface and\nexpose themselves to the utmost danger. Even when it is dead, they\nstill defend it; though so well able to dive and save themselves, they\nremain upon the water in full peril to follow the floating body of\ntheir little one.\n\nShipwrecks are common among them, for two reasons. In the first place\nthey cannot, like the fishes, remain during tempestuous weather in the\nlower and peaceable depths; and in the next place, whatever the\ndanger, they will not separate; the strong nobly share the fate of the\nweak; the whole family drowns together.\n\nIn December, 1723, at the mouth of the Elbe, eight females perished,\nand near their carcasses were their eight males; and a similar scene\nwas witnessed in 1784, at Andierne in Brittany. In the latter\ninstance, fish and frightened porpoises were driven on shore by the\ntempest, and strange and terrible bellowings were heard from a great\nfamily of Whales, tempest-driven, and struggling for life. There,\nagain, the males perished with the females. Many of the latter were\nwith young and defenceless against the pitiless waves; they were cast\nupon the shore to die. Two of them, in this situation, brought forth\ntheir young with piercing shrieks, and groans most harrowingly human.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTHE SYRENS.\n\n\nBehold me once more on shore. I had enough, and to spare, of\nshipwreck. I want durable races. The Cetace\u00e6 must disappear. Let us\nmoderate our conceptions, and, of that gigantic fa\u00ebry of the\nfirst-born mammalia, of milk and warm blood, let us preserve all\nexcept the giant.\n\nAbove all, let us preserve the gentleness, the love, and the love of\nfamily. Let us preserve them completely in those humbler but kindly\nraces into which both elements infuse their spirits.\n\nThe benedictions of the Earth already begin to be felt. On quitting\nthe life of the fish, many things impossible to it, easily become\nharmonized.\n\nThus the Whale, tender mother if ever there was one, could grasp her\nnursling, but could not press it to her breast, the arms being too\nhigh and short, and the breast, as we have already shown, being,\nperforce, placed far back. In the new creatures, which swim, but\nwhich also creep upon the land, such as seals, sea cows, &c., the\nbreast, lest it should be hurt by the ground, is placed upon the\nchest, thus foreshadowing woman, and giving to the form and attitude,\na grace most illusive at a distance.\n\nIn reality, even closely examined, if it has less of charming\nwhiteness, the breast of the new creatures is a true feminine breast;\nthat globe which, swelling with love, and with the sweet necessity of\ngiving suck, exhibits, in its gentle heavings, all the sighs of the\nheart beneath, and invites the child to nourishment and soft repose.\nAll this is denied to the mother that swims and floats, but is enjoyed\nby her who rests. The fixity of the family, the constant tenderness,\nlet us at once say, Society, all these commence from the moment that\nthe child reposes on the maternal breast.\n\nBut how is organization to pass from creatures of the sea to creatures\nof both sea and land? Let us try to divine that transition.\n\nAt the outset, the parentage of the amphibious race is evident. Many,\namphibious still, to their great inconvenience, have the heavy tail of\nthe Whale. And this latter, in one species, at least, conceals in its\ntail the rude outlines and distinct commencements of the two hind feet\nof the highest of the amphibious creatures.\n\nIn the seas studded with islands, continually interposing land, the\ncetace\u00e6, so frequently interrupted in their passage, had to modify\ntheir habits accordingly. Their less rapid motion, and confined life,\ndiminished their bulk, and from the Whale they were reduced to the sea\nElephant, and reserving the memory of the superb which had armed\ncertain of the cetace\u00e6, in their grand sea life, the sea Elephant\nstill has strong, but very harmless fore teeth. Even its masticating\nteeth are not precisely either herbivorous or carnivorous. They are\nbut ill adapted to either diet, and must needs operate but slowly.\n\nTwo things tended to lighten the Whale; his mass of blubber, that vast\nmass of concentrated oil, which floated him on the water, and that\npowerful tail whose alternate strokes to right and left, urged him\nonward. But all this was unfitted for the amphibious creature,\ngrovelling in shallow waters, or crawling on the rocks. The fish, so\nagile, scorns a creature that cannot catch him, and he consequently\ngets little other prey than the molluscs, as slow as himself. By\ndegrees, he learns to eat the abundant and gelatinous sea wrack, which\nnourishes, and fattens, but without giving the strength of animal\nfood.\n\nSuch a one we may see in the Red Sea, the Malay isles, and those of\nAustralia. Crawling or sitting, that rare collossus, the Dugong,\ndisplays its chests and breasts. He is sometimes called the Dagon of\nthe Tabernacles, an inert idol, which in spite of its imposing\naspect, cannot defend itself, and which will soon disappear, and enter\ninto that region of fable which already contains so many realities, at\nwhich we as stupidly, as presumptuously, laugh. What has caused this\ngreat change, created the terrestrial Dugong, and his brother the\nWalrus? The plentiful alimentation of the generous and fertile earth,\ntruly pacific before the coming of man, and doubtless, also, Love, so\ndifficult to the Whale, so easy in the quiet and settled life of the\namphibious.\n\nLove, to these latter, is no longer a thing of flight and danger; the\nfemale is no longer the shy giant that must be followed to the end of\nthe world, but is content, on her bed of sea-weed, to obey the will of\nher master, whose life she makes pleasant. Few mysteries here. The\namphibious live frankly and honestly in the face of day. The females\nbeing very numerous, voluntarily form a seraglio. From wild, fierce\npoetry, we descend to patriarchal manners and pleasures too facile.\nThe male, good patriarch, notable for his large head, his moustaches,\nand his great front teeth, sits proudly between his Sarah and Agar,\nRebecca and Leah, and his little flock of young ones, to all of which\nhe is most kind. In his quiet life, the great strength of this\nsanguineous creature, turns wholly to family tenderness; he embraces\nall his family, and is willing to die, if need be, in their defence.\nBut, alas! his strength and his fury serve him but feebly for even\nhis own defence: his enormous mass delivers him over to the enemy. He\nbellows, and crawls, and is willing to combat, but unable--gigantic\nfailure as he is; an abortion belonging to neither world, a poor\ndisarmed Caliban.\n\nWeight, so fatal to the Whale, is still more so to these. Let us,\nthen, still farther reduce the bulk, make, the spine more supple, and\nabove all, either do away with that tail, or rather, let us fork it\ninto two fleshy appendages, which will be much more useful. This new\nbeing, the Seal, lighter, a good fisher, getting his subsistence in\nthe sea, but living on the land, will employ his life in endeavoring\nto return to it, to climb the rock to which his females and their\noffspring await his return from fishing. Having no tusks, like those\nwith which the Walrus assists himself in climbing, he presses into the\nservice his front and back members, clings to the sea-weed, distending\nhis members continually, until they form into fingers.\n\nWhat is finest in the Seal, what strikes you the moment you catch\nsight of his round head, is the great capaciousness of brain. Boitard\nassures us that, with the exception of man, no creature has so fine a\ncerebral development as the Seal. We are strongly impressed by the\naspect of the Seal, far more so than by that of the ape tribe, whose\ngrimaces never fail to revolt us. I shall never forget the Seals in\nthe Zoological Garden at Amsterdam, admirable museum, so rich, so\nbeautiful, so well organized, decidedly one of the finest\nestablishments in the world. I was there on the twelfth of last July,\njust after a great rain fall. The atmosphere was heavy and sultry, and\ntwo Seals sought shelter and coolness, swimming and playing in their\npond. When they rested they looked up at me with their velvety eyes,\nand there was a mixed intelligence and melancholy in their fixed gaze.\nThere was no language which we could mutually understand. Pity that,\nbetween soul and soul, there should be that eternal barrier!\n\nThe earth is the world of their greatest affection. There they are\nborn, there they love; thither, when wounded, they retire to die.\nThither they take their pregnant females, form for them their beds of\nsea-weed, and provide them with fish. They are very affectionate, good\nneighbors, mutually defending each other; only at their season of\namours they are a little apt to fight. Each male has two or three\nfemales that he finds a home for on some mossy rock of sufficient\nextent. That is his estate, and he suffers no intrusion upon it. He\nknows how to maintain his right of proprietorship. The females are\ngentle and defenceless. If ill treated, they weep, are agitated and\ncast despairing glances upon the assailant.\n\nThey are parturient during nine months, and nurse their young during\nfive or six months, teaching them to swim, fish, and select the best\nfood. No doubt they would keep them still longer, but the husband is\njealous of his own progeny, fearing that the too weak mother will give\nhim a rival.\n\nNo doubt this brevity of education has limited the progress which the\nSeal would otherwise have made. Maternity is only complete when we\ncome to the Sea Cow, an excellent family in which the parents have not\nthe sad courage to drive away their young. The mothers nurse them for\na long time; even while suckling a second, the mother still keeps by\nher the eldest, which, though it be a male, the father never ill\ntreats, but seems to regard him with a love only second to that of the\nmother.\n\nThis extreme tenderness, peculiar to that species, is exemplified in\nthe physical progress made in the organization. In the Seal, a great\nswimmer, and in the heavy and clumsy sea Elephant the arms still\ncontinue to be fins; closely attached to the body are incapable of\nextension. But at length the Sea Cow, the _Sea Mama_ as the negroes\ncall her, accomplishes the miracle. All extend and becomes pliant by a\ncontinuous effort. Nature exerts all her ingenuity upon the fixed idea\nof holding, pressing, caressing the young. The ligaments yield and\nextend, the fore arm appears and by and by appears the hand.\n\nAnd then the mother has the great, the supreme pleasure to press her\nyoung one to her breast. Here, then, are two things which may enable\nthese amphibious creatures to make great progress. Already they have\nthe hand, that organ of industry, that essential instrument of future\ntoil. It must be supplied, must aid the work of the teeth as with the\nBeaver, and the Ant, will commence, at the outset, with building a\nhome for the family.\n\nOn the other hand, education, also, has become possible. The young one\nrests on the maternal bosom and, slowly drinking in her life, remains\nthere a long time, and to an age when he can learn every thing,--all\nthis depends on the kindness of the father who protects the innocent\nrival. And it is that which allows of progress.\n\nAnd, if we might give credence to certain traditions, progress did\nmarvellously continue. The developed amphibious creatures, according\nto those traditions, approached nearer and nearer to the human form\nand became Tritons and Syrens, men and women of the Sea. Only, in\ncontradiction to the fables of the melodious Syrens, these are dumb in\ntheir utter impotency to find a language in which to address\nthemselves to man and obtain his pity. These races will have perished,\nas has the unfortunate Beaver which cannot speak, but weeps.\n\nIt has been very lightly affirmed that these men and women of the Sea\nwere Seals. But how is it possible that such a mistake could be made?\nEvery species of the Seal has been known from very early times; even\nas early as the seventh century the Seal was hunted, not only for his\nskin, but also for his flesh, which was then eaten.\n\nThe men and women of the Sea which are spoken of in the writings of\nthe sixteenth century, were seen, not merely for an instant, and on\nthe water, but brought to land, shown, and kept in the great cities of\nAntwerp and Amsterdam in the time of Charles V. and Philip II., and,\ntherefore, under the very eyes of Vesale and other learned men and\neminent naturalists. Mention is made of a marine woman who, for\nseveral years, wore the dress of a nun and lived in a Convent where\nany one might see her. She could not speak, but worked, and could\nspin, knit, and sew. Only one peculiarity, they could not cure her\nof,--her great love of the water, and her incessant efforts to return\nto it.\n\nBut it will be asked--\"If these creatures really existed, how is it\nthat we do not see them now?\" Alas! We need not seek far for the\nreply. They were so generally killed! It was considered a sin to let\nthem live, \"for they were _monsters_.\" This we are expressly told by\nthe old writers.\n\nWhatever had not the known form of animality, and, especially,\nwhatever approached to the form of man passed for a _monster_, and was\npitilessly dispatched. Even the human mother of a greatly deformed\nchild, could not protect it; the poor creature was smothered, as being\na child of the Devil, an invention of his malice to outrage the\ncreation and calumniate the Deity. On the other hand, those Syrens,\ntoo analogous to humanity, were all the more taken and detested for a\ndiabolic mockery. In such horror and hate were they held in the eyes\nof the middle ages that their appearance was considered a prodigy, an\nomen that God permitted to terrify sinners. People scarcely dared to\nname them, and made haste to get rid of them. Even the bold sixteenth\ncentury still believed them to be men and women in shape, but Devils\nin reality, and not even to be touched, excepting with the harpoon.\nThey had become very rare when miscreants made a profit of keeping and\nexhibiting them.\n\nBut do there now exist any remains, any whole, or even partial,\nskeletons of these creatures? We shall know that, when the Museums of\nEurope shall throw open to our view the whole of their immense\ncollections. I am aware that room is wanting for that; and it is\nalways likely to be wanting, if we need a palace. But the most simple\nbuilding, if it only be sufficiently spacious and weather tight, would\nserve to hold such collections, and needs not to be at all costly.\nHitherto, we have only seen mere specimens and selections.\n\nLet us add that stuffed amphibious creatures, to give us a real idea\nof them, should be so placed as to exhibit _these monsters_ in the\nattitudes of their actual life. Let the maternal Seal, or the Sea Cow,\nbe seen on its rock, as a Syren, in the first use of her hand and\npressing her little one to her breast.\n\nIs this to affirm that these creatures might have ascended to us? Or\nthat we have descended from them? Mallet supposed so, but I cannot see\nthe least probability in either.\n\nThe Sea, no doubt, commenced everything. But it is not from the\nhighest marine animals, that has proceeded the long parallel series of\nterrestrials that is culminated and crowned in Man. They were already\ntoo fixed, too special, to form the first rude sketch of a nature so\ndifferent. They had carried far, almost exhausted, the fecundity of\ntheir species. In that case the elders perish; and it is very low down\nin the obscure juniors of some parent class that the new series\ncommences that is to ascend so much higher. [See notes at the end of\nthe volume.]\n\nMan was not their son, but their brother--a terribly tyrannical\nbrother.\n\nSee him at length arrive, the active, the ingenious, the cruel\nmonarch of the world! My book grows brighter, clearer. But what does\nit now proceed to exhibit? Alas! What sad things must I now draw into\nthat broad, bright light! This creature, this tyrannical sovereign,\ncan create a second nature within Nature. But what has he done with\nthe first, with his mother, and his nurse? With the very teeth that\nshe has given him, he has cruelly gnawed her bosom!\n\nHow many animals that lived peaceably, were becoming civilized, began\neven to practise some of the arts, are now hunted and terrified into\nthe condition of mere brutes? The Ape-kings of Ceylon, whose sagacity\nwas so well known in India, and that Brahmin of the creation, the\nElephant, have been chased, subdued into the state of mere beasts of\nburthen.\n\nThe freest of beings, that formerly sported so joyously and harmlessly\nin the sea, those affectionate Seals, those gentle Whales, the pacific\npride of the Ocean, have fled to the polar seas, the terrible world of\nice. But they cannot all support, for long, so hard a life; in a brief\ntime they will all have disappeared.\n\nAn unfortunate race, the Polish peasants, have learned to understand\nthe intelligence of the dumb exile which has taken refuge in the lakes\nof Lithuania. The Poles say--\"Woe to him who makes the Beaver weep.\"\n\nThat artist-animal has become a timid beast, which knows nothing and\ncan do nothing. The few that still survive in America, still retire\nfarther and farther from the vicinage of man. A traveller lately found\none, far, very far off, beyond the great lakes. It was timidly\nresuming its traditional labors, and had commenced building a house\nfor its family. When it saw a man, it dropped the wood on which it was\nworking; it did not even dare to escape, but burst into tears.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD.\n\n  CONQUEST OF THE SEA.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE HARPOON.\n\n\n\"The Sailor who sights Greenland,\" says Captain John Ross, with a\ngrave simplicity, \"finds nothing to delight him with the sight.\" I can\nvery well believe it. In the first place, it is an iron-bound coast of\nmost pitiless aspect, whose dark granite does not even preserve a\nvestment of snow. Everywhere else, Ice; not a trace of vegetation.\nThat desolate land which hides the Pole from us, seems a veritable\nland of Famine and of Death.\n\nDuring the brief time when the water remains unfrozen, one might\ncontrive to live there; but the place is frozen up for nine months in\nthe year, and during all that time, what is to be done? And what can\none get to eat? One can scarcely even search for food. The night lasts\nfor months together, and at times the darkness is so dense that Kane,\nsurrounded by his dogs, could only discover them by the humid warmth\nof their breath. In that long, long, darkness, on that sterile land,\nclothed in impenetrable ice, there wander, however, two Hermits, who\npersist in living in that land of horror. One of these is the fishing\nBear, a bold and eager prowler, in rich fur, and in so thick an under\nvestment of fat, that he can for a long time defy both cold and\nhunger. The other, a grotesque creature, looks, when seen from a\ndistance, like a fish reared upwards, standing on the tip of its tail;\na fish clumsily and awkwardly built, and having long hanging fins. But\nthis seeming fish is a man. Each scents the other, the brute and the\nman; both are fierce with hunger, yet the Bear sometimes declines the\ncombat, and retreats before the fiercer, and still more famished, man.\n\nA famishing man is very terrible in his cruel courage. With no other\nweapon than a sharpened bone, our Greenlander pursues the enormous\nBear. But he would have long since perished of famine, had he no other\nfood than his terrible compatriot. He saved himself from death only by\na crime. The earth affording nothing, he turned his attention to the\nSea, and as it was closed by the ice, he found nothing there to kill\nexcept his gentle acquaintance the Seal. In him he found the oil\nwithout which he would be dead of cold, even sooner than of hunger.\n\nThe day dream of the Greenlander is that at his death he will pass to\nthe Moon, where he will have wood, fire, the light of the hearth.\nHere below, in Greenland, oil supplies the place of all these. He\ndrinks it, in huge draughts, and is at once warmed and nourished.\n\nA great contrast between that man and the somnolent, amphibious\ncreatures, that, even in that climate, can live without any very\nsevere suffering! The gentle eye of the Seal, sufficiently indicates\nthat. Nursling of the Sea he is always, in connection with her, and\nthere are always clefts in the ice, at which the excellent swimmer\nknows how to provide himself with food. Heavy and clumsy as we may\ntake him to be, he can adroitly mount on a piece of ice and steer\nhimself in search of a convenient fishing place. The water, thick with\nmolluscs, and fat with animated atoms, richly nourishes the fish, for\nthe use of the Seal, who, having well filled himself, returns to his\nrock, and sleeps too soundly to feel the cold, or to fear anything.\n\nThe man's life in Greenland, is the very contrary of this. He seems to\nbe there in spite of Nature, an accursed being, upon whom everything\nmakes pitiless war. Looking upon the photographs that we have of the\nEsquimaux, we can read their terrible destiny in the fixity of their\ngaze, and in the harsh, dark eye; black as midnight. They look as\nthough petrified by perpetually seeing before them the vision of an\ninfinite wretchedness. That gazing upon eternal terror, has hidden\nbeneath a mask of iron the man's strong intelligence, which, however,\nis rapid and full of the expedients suggested by the endless dangers\nand sufferings of such a life.\n\nWhat was he to do. His family was famishing, his children cried for\nbread, and his wife shivered upon the snow. The North wind, pitilessly\nassailed them all with mingled hail and snow, that horrid pelting\nwhich blinds, stupefies, deprives one of sense and voice. The Sea was\nfrozen up; so, fish was out of the question. But the Seal was there,\nand how many fish there were in one Seal; what an accumulation of the\nrichest oil! The Seal was there, defenceless, sleeping. Nay, had he\neven been awake, he would not have tried to escape. He is like the Sea\nCow; you must beat him if you wish to drive him away. Take one of\ntheir young and it is in vain that you throw him into the Sea, he will\nget out and still follow you, gentle and attached as your favorite\ndog. This facile, this affectionate, trait in the creature's\ncharacter, must have terribly troubled the man who first thought of\nkilling such a creature; must have made him hesitate and resist the\ntemptation. But at length cold and famine got the upper hand, and he\ncommitted the assassination; from that moment he was rich.\n\nThe flesh nourished the famishing people, the oil served to warm and\ncheer them, and the bone and sinews served for many domestic uses,\nwhile the skin served to clothe them. And what was still more useful\nwas, that by industriously sowing the skins together they made a\nvehicle, at once light, and strong, and water proof, which the man\ncalled his canoe, and in which he dared to put out to sea.\n\nA miserable little vehicle it was; long, slender, and weighing\nscarcely anything. But it was every where very firmly closed up,\nexcept an opening in which the rower seated himself, drawing the skin\ntightly around his waist. One would suppose that such a craft must\nupset and be swamped; but nothing of the sort occurs. It darts like an\narrow over the crest of the wave, disappears, reappears, now in the\neddies, now between the icebergs.\n\nMan and boat are one; a marine entity; an artificial fish. But how\ninferior is this artificial fish to the true one! He has not the\nfloating bladder, which enables the fish to make itself lighter or\nheavier as the occasion may demand. Still more, the man has not the\nvigorous motion, the lively contraction and expansion of the spine to\ncommunicate such power to the strokes of the tail, nor has he the oil\nwhich, being so much lighter than water, will always ride above the\nwaves. What the man best imitates is the fin, but even that only\nimperfectly. The man's fins, his oars, are not attached to his body,\nbut, moved by his long arms, are weak compared to the fin, and,\nmoreover, soon fatigue the rower. What is it that makes amends for so\nmuch of inferiority in the means of the man? His terrible energy, his\nvivid reason which, from beneath that fixed and melancholy\ncountenance, flashes out from time to time, invents, resolves, and\nfinds an instant remedy for all the deficiences which, in this\nfloating skin, momentarily threaten him with death.\n\nFrequently our rower is stopped by a mass of ice which peremptorily\nrefuses him a passage. Then comes a new expedient, the parts are\nchanged on the instant. Hitherto the canoe has carried the man; now\nthe man carries the canoe. He takes it on his shoulder and traverses\nthe icy portage till he comes again to open water, the ice crackling\nbeneath him as he crosses it. Occasionally icebergs, floating, and\nterrible mountains, are so close that they leave between them only a\nnarrow passage which our man passes through at the risk of being in an\ninstant crushed, flattened between them. Those icy walls now widen,\nnow contract, the space between them; they may, at any moment, come\ntogether with a force that would crush a seventy-four, to say nothing\nabout our poor Greenlander in his poor skin canoe. Such a fate did, in\nfact, once occur to a tall ship; she was cut in two, flattened,\ncrushed; by the coming together of two icebergs.\n\nThese Greenlanders tell us that their ancestors were Whale fishers.\nThey were less wretched then, more ingenious, and better provided. No\ndoubt they had iron; procured probably from Norway or Iceland. Whales\nhave always been very numerous in the Greenland seas. A grand object\nof desire to those to whom oil is a thing of the very first necessity!\nThe fish give it by drops, the Seal in waves--the Whale in mountains!\nHe was truly a man, and a bold one, who first, with his poor weapons,\nwith the sea howling at his feet, and the darkness closing around him,\ndared to pursue the Whale! A bold man, he, who trusting to his\ncourage, the strength of his arm and the weight of his harpoon, first\nbelieved that he could pierce that mighty mass of blubber and flesh\nand convert it to his own profit!--the man who first imagined that he\ncould attack the Whale and not perish in the tempest that would be\nraised by the plunges and terrific tail-blows of the astonished and\nsuffering monster! And, as if to crown his audacity, the man next\nfastened a line to his harpoon, and braving still more closely the\nfrightful shock of the agonized and dying giant, never once feared\nthat that giant might plunge headlong into the deep, taking with him\nharpoon, line, boat,--and man!\n\nThere is still another danger, and no less terrible. It is that\ninstead of meeting the common Whale, our man should fall in with the\nCachalot, that terror of the seas. He is not very large, perhaps not\nmore than from sixty to eighty feet. But his head alone measures\nabout a third; from twenty to twenty-five feet. In case of such a\nmeeting, woe to the fisher; he would become the chased instead of the\nchaser, the victim instead of the tyrant. The Cachalot has horrible\njaws, and no fewer than forty-eight enormous teeth; he could with ease\ndevour all; both boat and man. And he seems always drunk with blood.\nHis blind rage so terrifies all the other Whales that they escape,\nbellowing, throwing themselves on the shore, or striving to hide\nthemselves in the sand. Even when he is dead they still fear him and\nwill not approach his carcass. The fiercest species of the Cachalot is\nthe Ourque or Physetene of the ancients, which is so much dreaded by\nthe Icelanders, that when they are on the sea they will not so much as\nname him lest he should come and attack them. They believe, on the\nother hand, that a species of Whale, the Jubarte, loves and protects\nthem, and provokes the monster in order to save them from his fury.\n\nMany think that the first who undertook so perilous a task as that of\nWhale fishing must have been eccentric hot heads. According to those\nwho think so, that perilous chase could never have originated with the\nprudent men of the North, but must have been initiated by the Basques,\nthose daring hunters and fishers who were so well accustomed to their\nown capricious sea, the Gulf of Gascony, where they fished the Tunny.\nHere they first saw the huge Whales at play and pursued them, frenzied\nby the hope of such enormous prey, and pursued them still, onward and\nonward, no matter whither; even to the confines of the pole.\n\nHere the poor Colossus fancied it must needs be safe, for it could not\nfancy any one would be desperate enough to follow it thither, and so\nit went tranquilly to sleep. But our Basque mad-caps approached it\nstealthily and silently. Tightening his red belt around his waist, the\nboldest and most active of the Basque sailors leaped from the deck\nright on to the back of the sleeping monster, and, fearlessly or\ncarelessly, drove the harpoon home to the very eye. Poor Whale!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nDISCOVERY OF THE THREE OCEANS.\n\n\nWho opened up to men the great distant navigation? Who revealed the\nOcean, and marked out its zones and its liquid highways? Who\ndiscovered the secrets of the Globe? The Whale and the Whaler!\n\nAnd all this before Columbus and the famous gold seekers, who have\nmonopolized all the glory, found again, with much outcry about their\ndiscovery, what had so long before been discovered by the Whalers.\n\nThat crossing of the Ocean which was so boastfully celebrated in the\nfifteenth century, had often been made, not only by the narrow passage\nbetween Iceland and Greenland, but also by the open sea; for the\nBasques went to Newfoundland. The smallest danger was the mere voyage,\nfor these men, who went to the very end of the then world, to\nchallenge the Whale to single combat. To steer right away into the\nNorthern seas, to attack the mighty monster, amid darkness and\nstorms, with the dense fog all around and the foaming waves below,\nthose who could do this, were, believe it well, not the men to shrink\nfrom the ordinary dangers of the voyage.\n\nNoble warfare; great school of courage! That Fishery was not then, as\nit is now, an easy war to wage, made from a distance, and with a\npotently murderous machine. No; the fisher then struck with his own\nstrong hand, impelled and guided by his own fearless heart; and he\nrisked life to take life. The men of that day killed but few Whales,\nbut they gained infinitely in maritime ability, in patience, in\nsagacity, and in intrepidity. They brought back less of oil; but more,\nfar more, of glory.\n\nEvery nation has its own peculiar genius. We recognize each by its own\nstyle of procedure. There are a hundred forms of courage, and these\ngraduated varieties, formed, as it were, another heroic game. At the\nNorth, the Scandinavian, the ruddy race from Norway to Flanders, had\ntheir sanguine fury. At the South, the wild burst, the gay daring, the\nclear-headed excitement, that impelled, at once, and guided them over\nthe world. In the center, the silent and patient firmness of the\nBreton, who, yet, in the hour of danger could display a quite sublime\neccentricity. And lastly, the Norman wariness, considerately\ncourageous; daring all, but daring all for success.\n\nSuch was the beauty of man, in that sovereign manifestation of human\ncourage.\n\nWe owe a vast deal to the Whale. But for it, the fishers would still\nhave hugged the shore; for almost every edible fish, seeks the shore,\nand the river. It was it that emancipated them, and led them afar. It\nled them onward, and onward still, until they found it, after having\nalmost unconsciously, passed from one world to the other. Greenland\ndid not seduce them, it was not the land that they sought, but the\nsea, and the tracks of the Whale. The Ocean at large is its home, and\nespecially the broad and open Sea. Each species has its especial\npreference for this or that latitude, for a certain zone of water;\nmore or less cold. And it was that preference which traced out the\ngreat divisions of the Atlantic.\n\nThe tribe of inferior Whales, that have a dorsal fin, (Baleinopteres)\nare to be found in the warmest, and in the coldest seas; under the\nline, and in the polar seas. In the great intermediate region, the\nfierce Cachalot inclines towards the South, devastating the warm\nwaters. On the contrary, the Free Whale fears the warm waters; we\nshould rather say that they did, formerly, fear them;--they have\nbecome so scarce! Especially affecting, for their food, the molluscs,\nand other forms of elementary life, they sought them in the temperate\nwaters, a little to the northward. They are never found in the warm,\nsouthern current; it was that fact that led to the current being\nnoticed, and thence to the discovery of the _true course from America\nto Europe_. From Europe to America, the trade winds will serve us.\n\nIf the Free Whale has a perfect horror of the warm waters, and cannot\npass the Equator, it is clear that he cannot double the southern end\nof America. How happens it, then, that when he is wounded on one side\nof America, in the Atlantic, he is sometimes found on the other side\nof America, and in the Pacific? _It proves that there is a\nnorth-western passage._ Another discovery which we owe to the Whale,\nand one which throws a broad light alike on the form of the globe, and\nthe geography of the seas!\n\nBy degrees, the Whale has led us everywhere. Rare as he is at present,\nhe has led us to both poles, from the uttermost recesses of the\nPacific to Behring's strait, and the infinite wastes of the Antarctic\nwaters. There is even an enormous region that no vessel, whether war\nship or merchantman, ever traverses, at a few degrees beyond the\nsouthern points of America and Africa. No one visits that region but\nthe Whalers.\n\nHad they chosen, the magnates of the earth might much earlier have\nmade the discoveries of the fifteenth century. They should have\naddressed themselves to the sea rovers, to the Basques, to the\nIcelanders, to the Norwegians, and to our Normans. For very many\nreasons, they could not venture to do so. The Portuguese were\nunwilling to employ any but men of their own nationality, and formed\nin their own school. They feared our Normans, whom they chased and\ndispossessed from the coast of Africa. On the other hand, the kings of\nCastile always felt suspicious of their subjects, the Basques, whose\nprivileges rendered them a kind of republic within a monarchy, and\nwho, moreover, were well known to be both bold and dangerous. It was\nthis feeling which caused these princes to fail, in more than one\nenterprise. We need mention only one of them, the miserably ruined\nArmada, so proudly and absurdly called the _Invincible_. Philip II,\nwho had two veteran Basque Admirals, gave the command of the Armada,\nto a Castilian. The advice of the veterans was neglected, and thence\nthe disaster.\n\nA terrible disease broke out in the fifteenth century. The hunger, the\nthirst, the raging thirst for gold. Kings, priests, warriors, people,\nall cried aloud for gold. There was no longer any means of balancing\nincome and expenditure. False money, cruel persecutions, atrocious\nwars, all and every thing, were employed, but still the cry was for\ngold, and the gold was not forthcoming. The alchemists confidently\npromised that they would soon make it; but it was to be waited for,\nthat gold; still, still, it was not forthcoming. The treasury became\nfurious as a hungry Lion, devoured the Jews, devoured the Moors, and\nof all that mighty devouring there was not a morsel left between the\nteeth of the still gold-hungry nations.\n\nThe peoples were quite as eager as the kings. Lean and sucked to the\nvery bone, they begged, they prayed, they implored, for a miracle that\nwould bring down gold from Heaven.\n\nWe all know the story of Sinbad the Sailor, that capital story in the\n_Arabian Nights_. The poor porter, Hindbad, bending under a load of\nwood, stops before the doors of Sinbad's palace, to listen to the\nmusic, and bitterly complains of the contrast between the lot of the\npoor porter Hindbad, and that of Sinbad, the returned, renowned, and\nmagnificently rich Sinbad. But when the enriched sailor related all\nthe perils he had undergone, and all the sufferings he had endured,\nHindbad stood aghast at the tale. The entire effect of the story is to\nexaggerate the dangers of the great game, the vast lottery of\ntravelling, but also to exaggerate the profits that may be made by it,\nand to discourage steady and humble industry.\n\nThe legend, which, in the fifteenth century, influenced so many\nhearts, and turned so many brains, was a rehash of the fable of the\nHesperides, an Eldorado, a land of gold, which was located in the\nIndies; a terrestrial paradise, still existing here below. The only\ndifficulty consisted in finding that same golden land. They did not\ncare to seek it in the North, which was the reason why so little use\nwas made of the discovery of Newfoundland and Greenland. In the South,\non the contrary, gold dust had already been found in Africa. That was\nencouraging.\n\nThe learned dreamers of a pedantic century heaped up texts and\ncommentaries, and the discovery, by no means difficult in itself, was\nrendered so, by dint of lectures, reflections, and utopian dreams. Was\nthis land of gold, Paradise, or was it not? Was it at our antipodes?\nand, in fact, have we any antipodes? And at this last question all the\nDoctors, all the men of the black robe, stopped the learned quite\nshort, and reminded them that upon that point, the Church was quite\npositive; the heretical doctrine of the Antipodes having been formally\nand expressly condemned. Behold a serious difficulty! Our learned\ndreamers were stopped short.\n\nBut why was it so difficult to discover the already discovered\nAmerica? The reason seems to be that the discovery was at once hoped\nfor and dreaded.\n\nThe learned Italian bookseller, Columbus, felt quite satisfied upon\nthe subject. He had been in Iceland to collect traditions, and on the\nother hand the Basques told him all that they knew about Newfoundland.\nA Gallician had been cast away there and had lived there. Columbus\nselected for his associates the Pin\u00e7ons, Andalusian pilots, who are\nwith much probability supposed to be identical with the Pin\u00e7ons of\nDieppe. We say that this is very probable because our Basques and\nNormans, subjects of Castile, were intimately connected. They are the\nsame who, under the name of Castilians, were led by the Norman\nBethencourt to the famous expedition of the Canaries. Our kings\nconferred privileges on the _Castilians_ settled at Honfleur and\nDieppe; and, on the other hand, the men of Dieppe had trading\nestablishments at Seville. It is not certain that a Dieppois found\nAmerica four years before Columbus, but it is about certain that these\nPin\u00e7ons of Andalusia were Norman privateers.\n\nNeither Basques nor Normans could obtain authority to act under the\ncommission of Castile. It was an able and eloquent Italian, a\npersistent Genoese, who seized upon the fitting moment, and used it,\nand set all scruple aside,--that moment when the ruin of the Moors had\ncost so dear to Castile, and when the cry of Gold, Gold, or we perish,\nbecame louder, more piteous, and more unanimous, than ever. That\nmoment was when victorious Spain shuddered as she counted the cost,\npaid and unpaid, of her wars of the crusade and the Inquisition. The\nItalian seized upon that lever and used it most unscrupulously;\nbecoming most devout among the devout. More apparently bigoted than\nthe Bigots themselves, he pressed the very Church into his service.\nIsabella was reminded of the great sin and scandal of leaving whole\nnations of Pagans still in the valley of the shadow of death; and it\nwas particularly pressed upon her observation, that to discover the\ngolden land, was the one thing needful to acquiring the ability to\nexterminate the Turk and to recover Jerusalem.\n\nIt is well known that of three ships the Pin\u00e7ons shipped two, and\ncommanded them, and they led the way. One of them, indeed, mistook his\ncourse, but the others, Francis Pin\u00e7on and his younger brother\nVincent, pilot of the vessel _Nina_, signalled to Columbus, on the\n12th of October, 1492, to steer to the south-west. Columbus, who was\non a westerly course, would have encountered the gulf stream in its\nfullest force, and directly thwart hawse, and he would have crossed\nthat liquid wall only with the greatest difficulty. He would have\nperished, or would have made such little way that his discouraged crew\nwould have mutinied. On the contrary, the Pin\u00e7ons, who probably had\ncollected some traditions on the subject, steered as though they were\nwell acquainted with the current; they did not attempt to cross it in\nits force, but keeping well to the southward, crossed without\ndifficulty and made the exact spot where the trades blow directly from\nAfrica to America in the latitude of Haiti. This is proved from the\njournal of Columbus himself, who candidly avows that he was guided by\nthe Pin\u00e7ons.\n\nWho first saw America? One of Pin\u00e7on's sailors, if we may put any\nconfidence in the report of the royal enquiry of 1513.\n\nFrom all this it would seem pretty plain that a good share of both the\nglory and the gain ought to have been awarded to the Pin\u00e7ons. They\nthought the same, and commenced legal proceedings, but the king\ndecided in favor of Columbus. Why? Apparently because the Pin\u00e7ons were\nNormans, and Spain preferred to recognize the right of a Genoese,\nwithout national feeling, than that of French subjects of Louis XII,\nand of Francis I, to whom, as French subjects, they might some day,\nfrom fear or favor, transfer their rights. One of the Pin\u00e7ons died of\ndespair, caused by this very manifestly unjust decision.\n\nBut still, who had overcome the great obstacle of religious\nrepugnance? Whose eloquence, tact, and perseverance, in fact set the\nexpedition fairly afloat? Columbus, and Columbus alone. He was the\nreal author of the enterprise and he was also its heroic conductor,\nand he merits the glory which his posterity preserves and ever will\npreserve for him.\n\nI think with M. Jules de Blosseville (a noble heart and a good judge\nof great and heroic things) that in all these discoveries the only\nreal difficulty was the circumnavigation of the globe, the enterprise\nof Magellan and his pilot, the Basque, Sebastian del Cano. The most\nbrilliant, but at the same time the easiest, was the crossing the\nAtlantic, catching the trade wind, and thus getting to America far\nsouth of the point at which it had long before been discovered at the\nNorth.\n\nThe Portuguese did a far less extraordinary thing in taking an entire\ncentury to discover the Western coast of Africa. Our Normans, in a\nvery brief space had discovered the half of it. In spite of all that\nis said about the laudable perseverance of Prince Henry, in\nestablishing the Lisbon school, the Venetian Cadamosto clearly proves\nthe want of ability of the Portuguese pilots. They no sooner had one\nat once bold and highly gifted, in the person of Bartholomew Diaz, who\ndoubled the Cape, than they replaced him by Gama, a noble of the\nking's household, and, above all, a soldier. The truth is, that the\nPortuguese cared more about conquests to make, and treasure to gain,\nthan about discoveries, properly so called. Gama was brave as brave\ncould be, but he was only too faithful to his orders to suffer no\nother flag in the same seas. A ship load of Pilgrims from Mecca, whom\nhe barbarously murdered, exasperated all the hates, and augmented,\nthroughout the East, that horror of the very name of Christian, which\nmore and more closed Asia, alike against discoverers, for the sake of\ndiscovery, and adventurers for the sake of plunder.\n\nIs it true that Magellan, before his great enterprise, had seen the\nPacific laid down upon a globe by the German, Behaim? No; that globe\nhas never been produced. Had he seen, in the possession of his master,\nthe king of Portugal, a chart which had it so laid down? It has been\nsaid, but never proved. It is far more probable that some of the\nadventurers who, already, for twenty years, had been traversing the\nAmerican continent, had seen the Pacific, not on globes or charts, but\nwith their own eyes. That report, which was circulated, spread\nadmirably well with the theoretical calculation of such a\ncounterpoise, necessary to our hemisphere, and to the equilibrium of\nthe globe.\n\nThere is not a more terrible biography than that of Magellan.\nThroughout, we have nothing but combat, far voyages, flights, trials,\nattempted assassination, and at length, death, among the scourges. He\nfought in Africa, he fought in the Indies, and he married among the\nbrave but ferocious Malays;--whom, by the way, he seems not a little\nto have resembled.\n\nDuring his long residence in Asia, he collected all possible\ninformation, preparatory to his great expedition, to find the way by\nAmerica, to the Spice Islands, the Moluccas; thus getting spices so\nmuch cheaper than by the old course. His original idea of the\nenterprise, was, thus, an altogether commercial one. To lower the\nprice of pepper, was the primitive inspiration of the most heroic\nvoyage ever made on this globe!\n\nThe true court spirit of intrigue, reigned in Portugal in full power\nover everything. Magellan finding himself ill treated there, went over\nto Spain, where Charles V. magnificently furnished him with five\nships, but not choosing to put full confidence in a Portuguese\nmalcontent, the king associated with Magellan a Castilian. Magellan\nsailed between two dangers, the jealousy of the Castilian, and the\nvengeance of the Portuguese, who sought to assassinate him. He soon\nhad a mutiny in the fleet, and displayed, in crushing it an\nindomitable heroism, and no less barbarity. The mutineers he savagely\nput to death, and his Castilian colleague he put into irons. To\nincrease his troubles, some of his vessels were wrecked. His people\nwere unwilling to proceed with him, when they saw the desolate aspect\nof Cape Horn, the truly discouraging aspect of Terra-del-Fuego, and\nCape Forward. The islands, which form, under the name of Cape Horn,\nthe southern point of America, seem to have been violently rent from\nthe continent by the fury of many volcanoes, and suddenly cooled. As\nthe result, they present a frightfully heterogeneous mass of sharp\npeaks, huge blocks of granite, of lava, and of basalt, all these,\ngrotesquely, yet frightfully, arranged, in frowning confusion, and\nclothed in ice and snow.\n\nAll had quite enough of this at a single glance, and bold Magellan's\nword was--\"Onward!\" He filled away his sails, steered now to\nstarboard, now to larboard, then to starboard again, and at length\nfound himself in that boundless sea which was then so _Pacific_ that\nit then received the name which it has ever since borne; though all\nwho have sailed upon it, well know that at times, it can comport\nitself in an anything rather than pacific style.\n\nMagellan at length perished in the Philippines. Four vessels were\nlost. The only one which survived, was the Victory, whose crew was\nreduced to thirteen men. But among them was the great and intrepid\nPilot, the Basque, Sebastian, who, in 1521, returned to Spain, the\nfirst of mortal men who had been completely round the globe.\n\nNothing could be grander. The sphericity of the globe was thus made\nmatter of certainty. That physical marvel of water uniformly extended\nover a globe, and constantly adhering to it, that strange mechanical\npostulate, was fully demonstrated. The Pacific was at length known,\nthat grand, and till then mysterious laboratory, in which, far from\nour ken, Nature so profoundly labors in life-creating and\nlife-nurturing, making new rocks, new islands, new continents.\n\nA revelation, that, of immense significance; and not only of material,\nbut also of moral significance, which gave a hundred fold increase to\nman's daring, and sent him forth on another daring voyage, on the\nboundless Ocean of the Sciences, to circumnavigate,--with more or less\nof success, as it may chance,--the INFINITE!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE LAW OF STORMS.\n\n\nIt is but yesterday, as it were, that we have built ships fit for\nsouthern navigation; for navigation in those seas where the long,\nstrong, _rollers_, pile themselves, each upon each, into absolutely\nmountainous masses of storm-lashed waves. What, then, shall we say of\nthe early navigators who ventured into such seas with their clumsy\nleewards, heavy, and yet scarcely sea-worthy cock-boats?\n\nEspecially for the polar seas, whether arctic or antarctic, we need\nships expressly built for such rude service. They were bold men, those\nwho, like a Cabot, a Brentz, a Willoughby, ventured in their clumsy,\nill-found, badly rigged, and scarcely sea-worthy tubs to navigate the\nicy seas; to dare Spitzbergen, to make Greenland by that funereal cape\n_Farewell_, and to coast the thousand giant icebergs in sight of\nwhich, men in our own day, a hundred Whalers have gone to pieces.\n\nWhat chiefly rendered those ancient heroes so sublime was their very\nignorance, their blind courage, their desperate resolution. They knew\nbut little of the sea, and of the Heavens they knew still less; the\ncompass, their only instructor and their only reliance, they dared the\nmost alarming phenomena without being able even to guess at their\ncauses. They had none of our instruments which speak to us so plainly\nand so unmistakably. They went blindfolded towards, and fearlessly\ninto, the uttermost darkness. They, themselves, confess that they\nfeared, but also, they would not yield. The sea's tempests, the air's\nwhirlwinds and water spouts, the tragic dialogues of those two Oceans,\nof air and water, the striking, and, not so long since, ominous\nphenomena of the Aurora Borealis, all this strange and wild\nphantasmagoria seemed to them the fury of irritated Nature, a\nveritable strife of Demons against which man could _dare_ all--as they\ndid--but could _do_ what they also did--nothing.\n\nDuring three centuries but little progress was made. Read Cook, read\nPeron, and you will readily comprehend how difficult, uncertain, and\nperilous was navigation, even up to an hour so near our own.\n\nCook, that man of immense courage, but also, of most lively\nimagination, himself confesses, as his Journal testifies, that he knew\nhow uncertain and perilous was the profession of the seaman even so\nlately as his day. In his Journal, we read; \"The dangers are so\ngreat, that I venture to say, that no one will dare to go farther than\nI have gone.\"\n\nNow it is precisely since then that voyages have become, at once, more\ndistant, more regular, and less dangerous.\n\nA great age, a Titanic age, the 19th century, has coolly,\nintelligently, and sternly noted all those phenomena which the old\nnavigators braved, but did not examine. In this century it is that we,\nfor the first time, have dared to look the Tempest squarely, and\nfearlessly, and scrutinizingly, in the eyes. Its premonitory symptoms,\nits characteristics, its results;--each and all have been calmly\nwatched, and carefully and systematically registered; and, then, from\nthat registration, necessarily come explanation and generalization,\nand thence, the grand, bold--and, as our not very distant ancestors\nwould have said, impious system--the _Law of Storms_.\n\nSo! What we took, what we in the old, bold, but blind day, took for\nmatter of caprice, is really, after all, reducible to a system,\nobedient to a Law! So! then, those terrible facts, that made the brain\nswim, the boldest quail, because they _fought shadows_ and _walked in\nthe darkness_, so! then, those terrible facts have a certain\nregularity of recurrence, and the seaman, resolute and strong, calmly\nconsiders whether he cannot oppose to those regular attacks a defence\nno less regular. In brief, if the Tempest has its _science_, can we\nnot create and use an _art_? An art not merely to survive the Tempest\nbut even to make it useful?\n\nBut our science and our art cannot be called into life and activity\nuntil we shall have laid aside our old and ill founded notion that\nTempests are caused by \"the caprice of the winds.\" Attentive\nobservation has taught us that the winds are _not_ capricious, that\nthey are the accident, sometimes, also, the agent of the Tempest, but\nthat, generally speaking, the Tempest is an _electrical phenomenon_,\nand often occurs in the absence of gales.\n\nRomme (brother of the Conventionalist, principal author of the\nCalendar) laid the foundations of our very important science. English\nseamen had remarked that in the tempests in the Indian Seas, they\nsailed for days together, and yet made no headway. Romme collected and\nsystematized all their observations, and pointed out the important\nfact that the same occurred in the tempests of China, Africa, and the\nAntilles. He also first pointed out that rectilinear winds are of rare\noccurrence, and that, usually, tempests have a circular\ncharacter,--are, literally, a _whirl_ wind. The great _whirling_\ntempests of the United States in 1815, and that of 1821 (the year of\nthe great eruption of Hecla) when the winds blew from all points to a\ncommon centre, aroused philosophical attention, both in America and\nEurope. Brande, in Germany, and at the same time, Redfield in New\nYork, were the next after Romme in profiting by these facts to lay\ndown the law that, generally, the tempest is a _Whirl_-wind,\nadvancing, and at the same time _revolving on its own base_. In 1838,\nthe English engineer, Reid, being sent to Barbadoes after the too\ncelebrated tempest which killed fifteen hundred people, ascertained,\nwith mathematical precision, this double movement of advance and\nrotation. But his still more important discovery was that _in our\nnorthern hemisphere the tempest turns from right to left_, that is to\nsay from East to North, and round the compass, back to East; while in\n_southern tempests it turns from left to right_. A most important fact\nto regulate the seaman's course.\n\nReid very rightfully gave his book the bold title of--\"On the Law of\nStorms.\"\n\nBut it was the law of their _Motion_, not the explanation of their\n_cause_; it told nothing, either, of what Storms do, or of what they\nare.\n\nHere France came to the rescue. In 1840, Peltier published his _Causes\nof Whirlwinds_, and his ingenious and numerous experiments established\nthe fact that whirlwinds, whether at sea or on shore, were _electrical\nphenomena_, in which the winds play only a secondary part. Beccaria, a\nfull century earlier, had suspected that fact, but it was reserved\nfor Peltier to establish the fact, by making miniature storms.\n\nElectrical whirlwinds readily take their rise in the neighborhood of\nvolcanoes,--those ventilating pipes of the subterranean world, and\ntherefore they are more common in the subterranean world, than in\nours.\n\nThe Atlantic, open at both ends, and swept in all directions by the\nwinds, should necessarily, have more rectilinear, and fewer circular\ntempests; but Piddington quotes a great number of the latter.\n\nFrom 1840 to 1850, the immense compilations of Piddington and Maury\nwere made, at Calcutta and New York. Maury is rendered illustrious for\nhis charts, his _Directions_, and his _Geography of the Sea_.\nPiddington, less artistical, but not less learned, in his _Seaman's\nGuide_, that Encyclopedia of storms, gives the results of an infinite\nexperience, the minutest and most precise means of calculating the\ndistance of the whirlwind, its rate of speed, and the nature of its\nvarious waves. He confirmed the ideas of Peltier, as to the electric\ntheory, and showed that those who had dwelt on the caprice of the\nwhirlwind, had, in truth, completely mistaken the effect for the\ncause.\n\nThe old art of auguries, and science of presages, never contemptible,\nwas most happily revived by that excellent book.\n\nThe setting of the Sun, is by no means an indifferent augury. If he\nset red, and if the sea retain the reflection of his blood-red rays,\nrely upon it, a storm is brewing, in that other Ocean--the air; if\naround him you see a lurid red within a white circle, and the stars\nare flickering, and seeming to fall, be sure that the upper regions of\nthe atmosphere are threatening.\n\nStill worse, it is, if, upon a dirty sky, you see small clouds\nmarshalling, like so many purple arrows, flying from all quarters to\none common point, and if, at the same time, the larger masses assume\nthe shape of strange buildings, ruined bridges, broken rainbows, and a\nhundred other eccentricities; then rely upon it, the storm has already\ncommenced in the upper region. At present, all is calm, here below,\nbut, on the horizon, you may discern the faintly flashing, and silent\nlightnings. Listen attentively, and, from time to time, you shall hear\nthe low mutterings of the distant thunder; and the waves, as they\nbreak upon the beach, seem to sob. Look out! The sea tells you,\nplaintively, of the coming storm. \"What are those wild waves saying?\"\nThey are warning you, I repeat, of the coming storm. The wild, free\nbirds have already taken warning, and hasten to their secure shelter\nin the clefts of the rocks. If they are far from land when they see,\nand feel, and hear, the first threatenings of the rising storm, they\nsettle down upon your masts, and yards, and shrouds. And first among\nthem comes that bird of evil omen, the \"Mother Carey's Chicken,\" the\nStormy Petrel. Look out, my brothers; I assure you the tempest\napproaches.\n\nDoes it thunder? Be very glad of that, brother seaman; the electric\ndischarge is taking place far above us, and we shall have the less of\nthe tempest. It is an old popular observation, but confirmed by the\nscience of Peltier and by the experience of Piddington and others.\n\nIf the electricity, accumulated on high, discharges itself here below,\nit will create circular currents, and we shall have whirlwind, fierce\ntempest, and, probably water spout.\n\nThis last sort of storm not uncommonly attacks you when you are\nseemingly quite safe in harbor. In 1698, Captain Langford, in port and\nwell anchored, saw that he was about to be thus assailed, slipped his\ncable, and found safety on the open sea. Other craft, whose commanders\nhad less freight or less daring, remained at anchor and were\ndestroyed.\n\nAt Madras and at Barbadoes, warning signals are given to the ships at\nanchor. In Canada, the electric Telegraph, swifter than Nature's own\nelectricity, sends warning of the coming storm from port to port.\n\nTo the sailor when on the broad Ocean, the great friend and adviser is\nthe Barometer; its perfect sensitiveness gives you the most exact\ninformation of the weight with which the storm-laden atmosphere\noppresses it. Usually, it tells you of nothing but fine weather; it\nalmost seems to sleep. But at the first and most distant note of the\nrising storm, it suddenly awakens, is agitated, and its mercury\ndescends, ascends, redescends. The barometer has its own tempest.\nPeron when at the Mauritius observed that flashes of pale light\nescaped from the mercury, and filled the whole tube. During gales, the\nsensitive instrument seems actually to breathe. \"In its fluctuations,\"\nsay Daniel and Barlow, \"the water barometer breathed, blew, like some\nwild animal.\"\n\nBut the Tempest advances and occasionally illuminates the horizon all\naround with its electric lightnings. In 1772, during the great storm\nin the West Indies, when the sea rose seventy feet above ordinary high\nwater mark, the dense darkness of the night was dissipated by balls of\nlurid fires that lighted up every shore.\n\nThe approach of the storm may be more or less rapid. In the Indian\nOcean, thickly studded with islands and obstacles, the whirlwind and\nthe water-spout approach you only at the rate of some two miles an\nhour; while when they come along the course of the warm current, that\ncomes to us from the Antilles, they travel at the rate of from forty\nto fifty. Their speed would, in fact, be incalculably great but for\ntheir oscillation, beaten as they are by the winds, both internally\nand externally.\n\nSlow or rapid, the fury of the tempest is the same. In 1789, in a\nsingle instant and with a single rush, the tempest dashed to pieces\nevery vessel in the port of Ceringa; at a second rush the town was\nflooded; at the third it was in ruins, and twenty thousand of its\ninhabitants were dead. In 1822, off Bengal, a water spout was for\ntwenty-four hours sucking up air and water, and, when it burst, fifty\nthousand people perished.\n\nIn different localities, different aspects of the Tempest. In Africa\nyou have the _upas_, the fierce compound of _simoom_ and _tornado_.\nThe atmosphere seems calm and clear, and yet you feel a strange\noppression of the lungs and a general anxiety as terrible as it is\nstrange. Then a black cloud, \"no bigger than a man's hand,\" appears on\nthe horizon, approaches with lightning speed, lengthening, widening,\nand deepening as it approaches (_vires acquirit eundo_) the storm\ndescends, and in a quarter of an hour all around is devastated,\nutterly ruined, and ships have utterly disappeared. Nature takes no\nheed of such small matters. About Sumatra and Bengal, you see in the\nevening or night (never in the morning) a dark arched cloud in the\nsky. It rapidly increases, and presently, from that dark cloud, come\ndown flashes and sheets of pale and ghastly lights. Woe to the\nmariner who shall encounter the first wind that rushes from that\nsinister cloud; he will pretty certainly go down.\n\nBut the ordinary form is that of a huge funnel. A sailor, who was\ncaught in one of these terrible storms, says: \"I found myself, as it\nwere, at the bottom of an enormous crater of a volcano; all around was\ndarkness, above a glimmering of lurid lights.\" That light is what is\ntechnically termed \"_the eye of the Tempest_.\"\n\nWhen the Water spout, the horrible Typhoon, empties itself, human\nscience and human daring are of no avail. Roaring, howling, shrieking,\nhissing, the storm fiends are at work above, below, around the\nluckless vessel. Suddenly there is a dead, a quite horrible silence,\nand there comes forth, seemingly, from the very centre of the water\nspout, a blinding flash, and a deafening report, and when you, at\nlength, recover power to look aloft, you find that mast and spars have\nbeen shivered.\n\nSeymour tells us that, sometimes, after being caught in one of those\nhorrible Typhoons the sailors, for a long time, have blackened nails\nand weakened sight. Sometimes, too, this terrible Typhoon sucks up not\nonly air and water, but also the luckless ship, holds it suspended in\nthe air, and then dashes it rudely down into the watery abyss. From\nthis terrible action and pitiless power of the Typhoon, the Chinese\nderived their notion of the terrible mother _Typhon_, who, hovering\nin the sky, picks out her victims and is ever conceiving and bearing\nthe _Ken Woo_, whirlwinds of fire and iron. To that terrible _Typhon_\nthey have erected temples and altars, adoring her and praying to her\nin the vain hope of humanising her.\n\nThe brave Piddington had no adoration to spare for her; on the\ncontrary, he gives her a marvellously ill name. He calls her an only\ntoo strong corsair, a pirate so strong and so tricky that there is no\ndishonor in getting out of her way.\n\nThat perfidious enemy sometimes sets a snare for you; tempts you with\n_a good wind_. Avoid that same _good wind_, turn your back to it if\nyou possibly can. Give that dangerous companion the widest possible\nberth. Steer very clear of the storm cloud or it will suddenly sink\nyou; ship, crew and cargo.\n\nSuch is the advice of the brave and skillful Piddington, and,\nassuredly, one would gladly take such advice. But how? It would be\nutterly useless if the storm cloud and the ship were brought together\nwithin narrow and land locked waters. But, in general, this enormous\ncompound of whirlwind and water spout embraces a circle of ten,\ntwenty, or even thirty leagues, and this gives every ship, on which a\nconstant and intelligent look out is kept, a fair chance of keeping at\na respectful distance from so redoubtable a foe. The great point to\nbe ascertained is, _where is the centre_, the nucleus, the terrible\nhome, of this terrible _Typhon_. And then to ascertain its rate of\nprogression and its line of approach.\n\nThe sailor of the present day has two excellent lights to steer by;\nhis Maury and his Piddington. On the one hand, Maury teaches him the\ngeneral laws of the air and sea, and the art of selecting and using\nthe currents, directing him, as it were, along the streets and\nhighways of the Ocean. On the other hand, Piddington in his small, but\ninstructive volume, sums up for him, and places in his hands, the\n_Experience of Tempests_; not only how to avoid them, when possible,\nbut sometimes when to make them useful.\n\nAnd this it is that at once explains and justifies the fine sentence\nof the Dutch Captain Jansen. \"At sea,\" says he, \"the first impression\nis that of the power of nature, the profundity of the depths--and our\nown nothingness. On board of the largest ship, we still feel that we\nare constantly in danger. But when the mind's eye has penetrated the\ndepths and surveyed the expanse, man no longer fears the danger. He\nrises to the true sense of the situation. Guided by Astronomy, shown\nby Maury along the highways and byways of the Ocean, he steers his\ncourse safely and _confidently_.\"\n\nThis is truly sublime. The Tempest is not abolished, it is true; but\nignorance, bewilderment, that terrible bewilderment which is born of\ndanger and darkness, are abolished. At least if the seaman of the\npresent day perish, he will know the why and wherefore. Great, oh,\nvery great is the safeguard of having the calm, clear presence of\nmind, with our soul and intellect unruffled and resigned to whatever\nmay be the effect of the great divine laws of the world which, at the\nexpense of a few shipwrecks, produce Equilibrium and Safety.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE POLAR SEAS.\n\n\nWhat most tempts man? The difficult, the useless, the impossible. Of\nall maritime enterprises, that to which the most persistent energy has\nbeen given, is the north western passage, the direct line from Europe\nto Asia. And yet, the plainest common-sense might anticipatively have\ntold us that, given, the existence of such a passage, in a latitude so\ncold, so blocked up by ice, it would, practically, be useless; few\nwould, none could, make any regular use of it. _Open this year, it is\nquite sure to be closed up next year._\n\nRemember that that region has not the flatness of Siberia; it is a\nmountain of a thousand leagues, horribly broken, with deep chasms,\nwith seas, that, thawed one hour, are frozen up the next, passages\nbetween icebergs, which shift their position from time to time, open\nto invite you, and close to crush you. At length, in 1853, that\npassage was found, by a man who had got so far in, that it was safer\nto go ahead, than to recede, and who, therefore, went daringly and\ndesperately forward, till he found that which he sought. Now we know\nwhat that passage is; men's minds are calmed down; we know that there\nis such a passage, and we have not even the smallest desire to make\nuse of it.\n\nWhen I spoke of that passage, as being _useless_, I spoke of it as a\ncommercial highway. But in following this commercially useless\nenterprise, we have made many very useful discoveries for Geography,\nMeteorology, and the magnetism of the Earth; just as silly Alchemy,\nhas done so much for wise, and admirably useful Chemistry.\n\nWhat was the original idea? To open a short way to the land of gold,\nto the East Indies. England, and other powers, jealous of Spain and\nPortugal, reckoned upon surprising them in the very heart of their\ndistant possessions, in the very sanctuary of wealth. From the time of\nQueen Elizabeth of England, adventurers having found, or stated that\nthey found, some portions of gold in Greenland, searched into, and\nmade bold use of the old Northern legend of _treasure hidden beneath\nthe Pole_; mountains of gold, guarded by Gnomes, &c., &c. And the\nlegend inflamed men's minds. Upon so reasonable a notion, sixteen\nships were sent out, having on board the sons and hopes of the noblest\nfamilies. There was quite a competition as to who should have leave to\ngo in quest of that Polar Eldorado; and those who sought it,\nsucceeded in finding only hunger, icy barriers, suffering, and--Death!\nBut that check was unavailing; during three hundred years, explorers,\nwith a perfectly marvellous perseverance, continued to explore, to\nfail, to be martyrized, and to die. Cabot, the earliest of them, was\nonly saved by the mutiny of his crew, who would not allow him to go\nany farther. Brentz died of cold, and Willoughby of famine. Cortereul\nlost all, property, and life; and Hudson was set adrift by his men,\nand, as he had neither sails nor provisions, it is but too probable\nthat he perished miserably, though his fate was never precisely\nascertained. Behring, in finding the strait which separates America\nfrom Asia, perished of fatigue, cold, and want, on a desert island. In\nour own day, Franklin perished, in the ice; he and his men having been\nreduced to the most horrible cannibalism.\n\nEvery thing that can discourage man, is combined in these Northern\nvoyages. Considerably before the Polar circle is reached, a cold fog\nfreezes upon the sea, and covers you with hoar frost; sails and ropes\nare icy and stiffened, the deck is one sheet of glare ice, and every\nmanoeuvre is a work of immense difficulty; and those moving shoals,\nthe icebergs, that are so much to be dreaded, can scarcely be made out\nat the distance of the ship's length. At the mast-head, the look-out\nman, an actual living stalactite, every now and then warns the watch\nupon deck of the approach of a new enemy, a huge white phantom, a\nterrible iceberg, often from two to three hundred feet out of the\nwater.\n\nBut these preliminary horrors, which announce to the seaman his\napproach to the world of ice and suffering, so far from deterring,\nincrease his desire and determination to proceed. In the mystery of\nthe Pole, there is, I know not what, of sublime horror and heroic\nsuffering. Even those who have only gone as far North as Spitzbergen,\nretain in memory a profound impression of its drear and horrible\nsublimity. That mass of peaks, chains, and precipices, which, for four\nthousand five hundred feet, rears its icy front, is like a gigantic\napparition, in that gloomy sea. Its glaciers flash forth living\nlights, dazzling flashes of the most brilliant colors, green, blue,\nand purple, contrasting marvellously with the uniform whiteness of the\nsnow. During the nights, whose duration is not of hours, but of\nmonths, the _Aurora Borealis_, every now and then lights up the dreary\nscene in the strange splendors of a sinister illumination; vast and\nterrible bale fires, that, from time to time, light up the whole\nhorizon, forming, with their magnificent jets of lurid lights, a\nfantastic Etna, that throws temporary and illusive light on that scene\nof eternal winter.\n\nAll is prismatic in an atmosphere surcharged with icy particles, where\nthe air is full of mirrors and little crystals. Hence, the most\nastonishing mirages, rendering one uncertain whether he may take the\nevidence of his own eyes as to the reality of any thing that he thinks\nhe sees. Merely a\u00ebrial reflections and colored mists appear solid\nmasses, castles, cathedrals, islands,--anything; and what you see\nupright at one moment, is upside down a moment afterwards. The strata\nof air which produce these effects, are in constant revolution, the\nlightest ascends above the others, and in an instant the mirage\nchanges form, color, size, and character. The slightest variation of\nthe temperature, lowers, raises, or slopes, the huge mirror; the image\nbecomes confounded with the object; they separate, disperse, another\nsucceeds, and then a third, pale and feeble, appears, to disappear in\nits turn.\n\nIt is a world of illusion. If you love to dream; if, especially, you\nlove day-dreaming, with fancies wild or tender, go to the North, and\nthere you will see real, yet no less fugitive, all that your waking\ndreams have ever painted. In that world of mirages, the atmosphere\nwill put all your \"castles in the air\" to utter shame. No style of\narchitecture but that magical atmosphere can imitate. Now you have the\nclassic Greek, with its porticos and colonnades; anon, Egyptian\nobelisks appear, the one pointing high and sharp, towards the sky, the\nother lying prostrate, and in twain, at the base of the former. And,\nthen, mountain upon mountain appears, Pelion upon Ossa, a whole city\nof giants, with Cyclopean walls, which change into the circular\nsacrificial stones of the Druids, with dark, mysterious caves beneath.\nFinally, all disappears; the wind rises, and the mists and atmospheric\nreflections are dispersed. In this veritable world of the upside down,\nthe law of gravitation is repealed, or, at the least, disregarded; the\nweak and the light, carrying the strong and the heavy; a spacious\nchurch is seen on the top of a slender spire, an Egyptian pyramid\nwhirls, dances, upon the sharply pointed apex; it is an eccentric, a\nmad, school of art, where you pass at once from the beautiful to the\nterrible, from the terribly sublime to the absurdly fantastic.\n\nSometimes a terrible incident occurs. Against the great stream, which\nflows majestically and slowly from the north, there suddenly comes,\nfrom the south, a huge iceberg, whose base is some six or seven\nhundred feet below the water. It is impelled by the strong under-tow,\nand advances so swiftly that it dashes aside, or to pieces, whatever\nit happens to encounter. Arrived at the plain of ice, this moving\ngiant, this terrible iceberg is not at all embarrassed. Thus, Duncan,\nwriting in 1826, describes a scene of the kind--\"The field-ice was\nbroken up for miles in less than a minute, with reports loud as those\nof a hundred pieces of artillery. As the mountainous heap approached\nus, the space between it and us was filled with the mighty masses,\ninto which the shock of her collision had broken up the massive field\nice. We should assuredly have perished, but the huge mass suddenly\nsheered off to the northeast, and we were saved.\"\n\nIt was in 1818, after the European war, that this war against nature,\nthis search after the north-western passage was resumed. It opened\nwith a serious and singular event. The gallant Captain Ross, being\nsent with two ships into Baffin's Bay, was completely deceived by the\nphantasmagoria of that world of spectral delusions. He distinctly saw,\nas he thought, a land which has never existed, maintained that if he\nproceeded he would certainly lay the bones of his ships on that\nnon-existent shore, and actually returned to England. There he was\nlaughed at, and accused of timidity, and he was refused by the\nAdmiralty, the command of another expedition, which he solicited, in\nthe interest of his honor. Sir Felix Booth, a London distiller and\nliquor merchant, more liberal than the British Government, presented\nRoss with a hundred thousand dollars, and Ross returned to the North,\ndetermined to pass or die. Neither the one nor the other was granted\nto him! But he remained during I know not how many winters, forgotten,\nin those terrible solitudes. He had all the appearance of a mere\nsavage, so long and so horrible was his destitution, when he was saved\nby some whalers, who, when they first saw him, asked him if he had,\nby any chance, fallen in with _the late Captain John Ross_!\n\nHis Lieutenant, Parry, who confidently believed that he could pass,\nmade four attempts to do so; trying first by Baffin's Bay and the\nWest, and then by Spitzbergen and the North. He made some discoveries\nby boldly pushing forward in a sledge-boat; a sledge on the ice, and a\nboat in the water. But the ice always defeated his bold attempts, and\nhe was no more successful than Ross.\n\nIn 1882, a brave young Frenchman, Jules de Blassville, conceived that\nFrance, in his person, might win the glory of discovering the\nnorth-west passage. He risked, at once, money and life; and purchased\ndeath. He could not even get the selection of a proper ship. They gave\nhim the _Lilloise_, which sprang a leak on her very first day out, and\nhe had her repaired and refitted, at his own cost of about eight\nthousand dollars. In this unsafe vessel, he sailed for the iron-bound\ncoast of Greenland. According to all appearance, he did not get even\nas far out as that. He has never since been heard of, nor has any\nportion of his unseaworthy vessel been picked up. Most likely she\nfoundered, with all hands on board.\n\nThe English expeditions have been fitted out in a very different\nstyle; every thing was provided that prudence could suggest or\nliberal-expenditure supply; yet they succeeded no better. The\ngallant, scientific, and ill fated, Franklin, was blocked in by the\nice in 1845. For twelve years from that date the English, with an\nhonorable persistence, sent out expeditions in search of him. And not\nEngland alone; France and America no less honorably assisted, and both\nthose great nations lost some of their brightest and best in the\nbrave, though fruitless, search. Side by side with the name of\nFranklin, as connected with the icy peaks and capes of that desolate\nregion, our Belliot, and others, must be named, who devoted themselves\nin hope to save him. And, on the other hand, Captain John Ross offered\nto organize and lead an expedition to search for Blainville. Dark\nGreenland is connected with a host of such brave, sad reminiscences,\nand the desert is no longer quite a desert when connected with such\ntouching testimonies of _human brotherhood_.\n\nThere is something very touching in the persistent belief, the\ninflexible affection, of Lady Franklin. She could not, would not,\nbelieve herself widowed, but incessantly besought for further search\nafter her brave husband. She vowed that she was quite sure that he\nstill lived for his country and for her; and so well did she impress\nher own belief upon the Admiralty board, that, seven years after he\nwas completely missing, he was officially named, not as _Captain_, but\nas Vice Admiral. And she was right; he was then still living. The\nEsquimaux saw him in 1850, and he had then sixty of his men with him.\nVery soon after he had only thirty, and those so worn by fatigue and\nwant that they could not hunt, or even walk, and as each one died he\nwas eaten by his far more wretched survivors. If Lady Franklin's\nadvice had been duly attended to, her brave husband and most, perhaps\nall, of his men would have been Saved. For she said--and the soundest\nsense dictated her words--that he should be sought for to the\nsouthward, inasmuch as it was to the last degree improbable that in\nhis desperate situation he should aggravate it by proceeding towards\nthe North. But the Admiralty, perhaps more anxious about the\nnorth-west passage than about the lost Franklin, persisted in sending\nexpeditions to the North, and the afflicted lady did for herself what\nthe Admiralty would not do for her. At a great expense, she fitted out\na vessel to search to the southward of his last known or presumed\nposition. But it was already too late. Only the bones of Franklin were\nfound.\n\nIn the mean time longer, but more successful, voyages were made\ntowards the South pole. There we do not find the same commingling of\nland and sea, ice and tempestuous thaws, that make up the great horror\nof Greenland. There is a boundless sea of immense and mighty waves,\nand a glacier far more extensive than ours of the North. Very few\nislands; those which have been seen, or, rather fancied, have most\nprobably been only shifting and wandering icebergs. Everything there\nvaries with the varying character of the winters. Morel in 1820,\nWeddell in 1824, and Ballery in 1839, found an opening, and made their\nway into an open sea, which none since have been able to find.\n\nThe French Kerguelen and the English James Ross have, undoubtedly,\ndiscovered lands. The first, in 1771, discovered the large island\nwhich he named after himself, but to which the English have given the\nappropriate title of _Desolation_. Two hundred leagues in length it\nhas some excellent ports, and, in spite of the severity of the\nclimate, it is tolerably prolific in seals and birds, with which a\nship can be plentifully provisioned. That glorious discovery which\nLouis XVI., on his accession, rewarded with a peerage, was,\nsubsequently the ruin of Kerguelen. False charges were brought against\nhim, and the rivalry of noble officers overwhelmed him, jealous rivals\nwith a hateful intrepidity, bearing false witness against him. It was\nfrom a dungeon of six feet square that, in 1782, he dated the\nnarrative of his discovery.\n\nIn 1838, America, France, and England each fitted out an expedition in\nthe interests of science. The illustrious Duperrey had pointed out the\nway to important magnetic observations, and it was desired to continue\nthem under the very pole. The English expedition, with this object,\nwas entrusted to the command of James Ross, nephew and lieutenant of\nthe Captain John Ross of whom we have spoken. It was a model\nexpedition for which everything was foreseen, and provided, and James\nRoss brought back his crew without having lost a man, or even had a\nman sick.\n\nThe American Wilkes and the French Dumont d'Urville were not thus\nadmirably fitted out; and perils and sickness scourged them fearfully.\nJames Ross, more fortunate, doubled the Arctic circle and found real\nland; but he confesses, with a really admirable modesty, that he\nchiefly owed his success to the admirable manner in which his\ngovernment had fitted him out. The _Erebus_ and the _Terror_ with\ntheir powerful machines, their ice saw, and their iron shielded prow,\ncut their way through the ice till they reached an open sea abounding\nin birds, seals, and whales, and lighted up by a volcano of twelve\nthousand feet in height, a northern Etna. But no vegetation, no\nlanding place, but an enormously high and sharply scarped granite upon\nwhich not even the snows could retain their hold. But it _was_ land;\nnot a doubt of that. That Polar Etna, which they named after their\ngood ship Erebus, is there to prove it.\n\nA terrestrial nucleus, therefore, is girdled by the arctic sea.\n\nApril and May of 1853, were a grand date in the history of the arctic\npole.\n\nIn April that passage was found which had been so perseveringly and\nvainly sought for during three centuries. The discovery resulted from\na bold stroke of desperation.\n\nCaptain Maclure having made his way in by Behring's strait was, for\ntwo years, shut in by the ice. Finding it impossible to return, he\ndetermined, at all hazards, to push forward. He did so and in only\nforty miles further found himself along side of English ships in the\nEastern ocean. His boldness saved him and the great problem was at\nlength solved.\n\nAt that very time, May, 1858, New York sent out an expedition for the\nextreme North. A young naval surgeon, Elisha Kent Kane, only about\nthirty years old, but who had already sailed far and wide, announced\nan idea which greatly excited the American mind. Just as Wilkes had\nproposed to find a world, Kane proposed to find a sea, an open sea,\nunder the pole. The English, in their routine, had searched from East\nto West; Kane proposed to sail due North and take possession, for his\ncountry, of that, as yet, undiscovered open polar sea. The bold\nproposal was enthusiastically hailed. Grinnell of New York, a great\nship owner, princely alike in fortune and in heart, generously gave\ntwo ships; learned societies, and not a few of the general public,\nassisted with pecuniary contributions, with a perfectly religious zeal\nmade up and contributed warm clothing. The crews, carefully selected\nfrom volunteers, were sworn to three things; to be obedient to orders,\nto abstain from spirituous liquors, and from profane language. A first\nexpedition failed, but its failure daunted neither Mr. Grinnell nor\nthe American public; and a second was fitted out, with the aid of\ncertain English societies, who had chiefly in view the propagation of\nthe gospel or a final search after Franklin.\n\nFew voyages are more interesting than this second one of Kane's. We\ncan readily understand the ascendancy which young Kane acquired over\nhis followers. Every line of his book is marked by his strength, his\nbrilliant vivacity, and his practical exemplification of the bold\nAmerican watchword--_Go ahead._ He knows every thing; is confident of\neverything; prudent, hopeful, more than hopeful,--positive. Every line\ntells you that he is a man to be conquered by no obstacle. He will go\nas far as mortal man can go. The combat is curious between such a\ncharacter and the pitiless and icy North, that rampart of terrible\nobstacles. Scarcely has he sailed when he is already seized by the\ncold hand of winter and detained for six months amidst the ice. Even\nin the spring he had a cold of seventy degrees! At the approach of the\nsecond winter, on the 28th of August, nine out of his seventeen men,\ndeserted him. But the fewer his men and resources, the bolder and\nsterner he became, being determined, as he tells us, to make himself\nthe better respected. His good friends, the Esquimaux, who hunted or\nfished for him, and from whom he is even compelled to take some small\nobjects, stole three copper vessels from him. In return he kidnapped\ntwo of their women. An excessive and savage chastisement. It was\nhardly prudent to bring these poor creatures among the eight seamen\nwho still remained with him; all the less prudent when we consider\nthat discipline was already so much relaxed. They were married women,\ntoo. Siver, wife of Metek, and Aninqua, wife of Marsiqua, were in\ntears for five days. Kane laughed at them and makes us laugh too, when\nhe says: \"They wept and made terrible lamentation; _but they did not\nlose their appetite_.\"\n\nAt length their husbands and friends took back the stolen articles and\ntook all that had passed in good part, with the native good sense of\nmen who had no weapons, but sharpened fish bones, to oppose to\nrevolvers. They agreed to every thing and promised the utmost\nfriendship and most faithful alliance. A week after, they disappeared\nand we may easily imagine with what feelings of friendship! Of course,\nwherever they went, they would warn the natives to shun the white man.\nAnd thus it is that we close the uncivilized world alike against\nourselves and civilization.\n\nThe sequel is sad. So cruel are the sufferings of the seamen that some\ndie and others want to return. But Kane is of quite another mind, he\nhas promised to discover a new sea, and discover it he will. Plots,\ndesertions, treacheries, all add to the horrors of his situation. In\nthe third winter he must have died, destitute as he was of food and\nfuel, had not other Esquimaux supplied him with fish; he aiding them\nby hunting. In the mean time some of the men, who had been out\nexploring, had the good fortune to find that sea about which he was so\nanxious. At least they reported that they had seen a vast extent of\nopen unfrozen water, and, all around, birds which seemed to find there\nthe shelter of a less severe climate.\n\nThat was enough to warrant the return. Kane, saved by the Esquimaux,\nwho took no advantage either of their superior numbers or of his\nextreme destitution, left there his vessel frozen up in the ice.\n\nWeak and exhausted, he yet contrived, in eighty-two days, to get back\nto the South. But he got back only to die. That intrepid young man,\nwho approached nearer to the pole than any other man had ever done,\ndying, carried off the prize which the learned societies of France\nlaid upon his tomb--the great geographical prize.\n\nIn his narrative, which contains so many terrible things, there is one\nwhich seems to me to be very touching. It enables us to estimate the\nexceeding sufferings of such an expedition; I allude to the death of\nhis dogs. He had some excellent ones of the Newfoundland breed, and\nsome of the Esquimaux; they, rather than men, were his companions and\nhis friends. During his long winter nights, those nights of months,\nthey watched around his ship, and when he sallied out in the dense\ndarkness he recognized the brave brutes by their warm breath as they\ncame and licked his hands.\n\nThe Newfoundlanders were the first to grow sick. He fancied that they\nsuffered less from the cold than from the privation of light; when the\nlanterns were shown to them they seemed to revive. But, by degrees, a\nstrange melancholy grew upon them, and they went mad. Next followed,\nin the same sad course, the Esquimaux dogs, and none remained but his\nlittle slut, Flora, _the wisest_ little thing--as he calls her--and\nshe neither went mad nor died. I believe this is the only point, in\nhis fearfully interesting narrative, at which you can perceive that\nthat brave, stern heart, for an instant sank.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nMAN'S WAR UPON THE RACES OF THE SEA.\n\n\nOn reviewing the whole history of Voyages, we are impressed by two\nquite contrary feelings:\n\n1. We admire the courage and genius with which man has conquered the\nseas, and dominated his whole planet.\n\n2. We are astonished to find him so unskilful in all that concerns the\nconciliation of the inhabitants of the various seas and lands, that he\nhas conquered. Every where, the voyager has gone, as the enemy of the\nyoung populations, whether human or brute, whether terrestrial or\nmaritime, which, properly treated, would have been, each in its own\nlimited sphere, so servicable to him. Man, as to the globe on which he\nhas made such grand discoveries, is like a musical novice, before some\nimmense Organ, from which he can produce but a few notes. Emerging\nfrom the middle ages, after so much of philosophy and theology, he\nstill remained barbarous; of the sacred instrument, he only knew how\nto break the keys.\n\nThe gold seekers, as we have seen, sought only gold, nothing but that;\nman they pitilessly crushed. Columbus, though the last of them, shows\nthis with a quite terrible plainness and simplicity, in his own\njournal. His words make us shudder, anticipating, prophesying, as they\ndo, what would be done by his successors. No sooner has he landed in\nHaiti, than he enquires, \"where is the gold? Who has got gold?\" The\nnatives smiled, in their innocent astonishment, at this fierce desire\nfor gold. They promised him that they would search for it for him, and\nin the mean time, gave their rings and ornaments to satisfy the\nearlier, that eager appetite.\n\nHe gives us a most touching description of that unfortunate race, so\ninteresting for its beauty, its kindness, and its tender confidence.\nBut the Geonese, touchingly as he described that people, had his own\nmission of avarice, his hard, stern habits of thought. The Turkish\nwars, the atrocious galleys, and their wretched slaves, piracy and\nmanstealing, were the common life of that day. The sight of that\nyoung, unarmed community, those poor, naked children, and lovely and\ninnocent women, inspired him only with the horrible mercantile\nthought, that they might be very easily enslaved.\n\nHe would not, however, consent to have them carried away from the\nbeautiful island; they and it, belonged, said he, to the King and\nQueen, Ferdinand and Isabella. But he said these darkly and terribly\nsignificant words--\"They are timid and well fitted for obedience. They\nwill do whatever they are ordered to do; a thousand of them would\nretreat before three or four of ours. If your Highnesses give me the\norder to carry them off or to enslave them here, there is nothing to\nhinder it; fifty men will suffice to do it.\" Thus wrote he in his\nJournal, or Despatch, of 14 and 16, December.\n\nPresently came from Europe the wholesale sentence of that whole poor\ninnocent people. They were ordered to be the slaves of gold--all\nsubjected to compulsory labor, some to seek gold, and others to feed\nthe goldseekers.\n\nColumbus confesses that in twelve years, six sevenths of that once\nhappy population had perished; and Herrera adds that in twenty-five\nyears, that population had fallen from a million of souls to fourteen\nthousand.\n\nWhat followed, is only too well known. The gold seeker and the planter\nexterminated the natives and incessantly replaced them at the expense\nof the negroes. And what has been the consequence? That in the low,\nhot, immensely fecund countries, the black race alone, are permanent.\nAmerica will belong to that race; Europe has achieved precisely the\nopposite of that which it intended.\n\nEvery where, in all directions, the colonizing impotency of Europe\nhas displayed itself in America. The French adventurer has not\nsurvived; he took thither no family, and did take thither all the\nworst vices of his native land. As a natural consequence, instead of\ncivilizing the barbarians, he added their vices to his own, and sank\nto their barbarous level. With the exception of two temperate\ncountries into which they went _en masse_, and in families, the\nEnglish have not been much more successful than the French in planting\ntheir race permanently and healthily in transmarine colonies. In\nanother century, India will scarcely know that the Englishmen once\nlived there. Have the Missionaries, whether Catholic or Protestant,\nmade any converts? Dumont, the thoroughly well-informed Dumont, tells\nme--\"_not one_!\"\n\nBetween them and us, there are thirty centuries and thirty religions.\nTry to force their intellect, and the result will be that which the\ntruly great Humboldt observed in those American villages which are to\nthis day called \"_Missions_;\" that, having lost their own native\nenergies and traditions, without acquiring ours, they will sink into a\nsort of stupefaction, become merely so many children of a larger\ngrowth, alive in body, but dead in mind,--all but idiots, useless\nalike to themselves and to others.\n\nOur voyages, upon which we moderns, and more especially the learned,\nso plume ourselves, have they been really, or at all, servicable to\nthe savages? I really cannot see it. While, on the one hand, the\nheroic races of North America have perished of hunger and\nwretchedness, the soft, effeminate, gentle races of the South, perish,\ntoo, to the great shame of our seamen, who, in that distant part of\nthe world, have thrown off even the very mask of decency. Population\nat once kindly and weak, in whom Bourgainville discerned such excess\nof complaisance, among whom the English Missionaries have gained much\nprofit, but not a single soul,--kindly and weak people, they are\nperishing miserably beneath the double scourge of the worst vices and\nthe most loathsome diseases of the old world.\n\nFormerly, the long coast of Siberia was well peopled. Under that\nterribly hard climate, the nomadic natives hunted the richly, the\npreciously, furred animals which at once fed and clothed them. The\nRussian despotism, at once strong and senseless, compelled them to\nadopt the settled life of agriculturists, in a climate, and upon a\nsoil, where agriculture is an absurdity, an impossibility. The\nconsequence is that these peoples have gradually died off. On the\nother hand, the trading spirit, that greedy and insatiable devourer,\nhas refused to spare the brutes in their breeding seasons, and as a\nnecessary consequence, the brutes have disappeared with the men; and\nnow, for a thousand miles along that coast, you have a terrible\nsolitude, where man hunts not, and where the brutes are not. The\nwinds may whistle shrilly, the frost may be bitter and biting as ever,\nbut there is neither man nor beast to listen to the one or to shudder\nbeneath the other.\n\nHad our voyagers to the North been truly wise, their very first care\nshould have been to form a good, firm friendship with the Esquimaux,\nto mitigate their miseries, to adopt some of their children and have\nthem well instructed in Europe, and thus lay the foundation of a great\nindigenous race of discoverers. We learn from Captain John Ross, and\nfrom not a few others, that they are very intelligent, and very\nreadily acquire the knowledge and the arts of Europe. Marriages would\nhave been contracted between European sailors and the native women; a\nmixed population would thus have sprung up, to which all that northern\nportion of the American continent would have been \"native and to the\nmanor born.\" And that would have been the, at once, safe and sure way\nof discovering the much coveted North-western passage. Thirty years--a\nsingle generation--would have done it effectually--and in three\nhundred years it has been done only uselessly because you have\nterrified those poor savages; because you have destroyed alike the man\nof the soil and the _Genius Loci_. What is the use of merely seeing\nthat desert, when, in the very act of seeing it you make it either\ndepopulated or hostile?\n\nWe may be quite sure that if man, civilized man, has thus ill treated\nhis uncivilized brother man, he has been neither more friendly nor\nmore merciful for the brutes. He has converted the gentlest and the\nmost affectionate of them forever, irreclaimably, into savage and\nmerciless foes to man. And man, civilized man, has done this. All the\nold authors concur in telling us that when these poor brutes first\n(most unluckily for themselves!) made the acquaintance of man, they\nexhibited nothing but the most confident and inquisitive sympathy. He\ncould walk past and through whole families of Sea Cows and Seals, and\nthey never fled from him. The Penguins, and their kindred species,\nfollowed him, begged a share of his shelter, yea, even nestled at\nnight beneath his garments.\n\nOur forefathers, quite justly, believed that, to a very great extent,\nthe animals feel and love, even as we do. Certain it is that they have\na singular and very decided taste for music. The very Shad, simple as\nthey seem, will follow you to the sound of bells; Valence tells us;\nand No\u00ebl tells us that he has often seen the poor Whale, the Joubarde\nroll and frolic around the bark, delighted with the music, and,\nfearless of the _man_!\n\nWhat the poor, dumb creatures most enjoy; what they most possess of\nintelligent life; what they have most been deprived of by dint of\nhuman and very cruel persecution;--is the right, the security, the\nsanctity of marriage! Fugitive and isolated, they now only retain that\nwhich we, most cruelly, have left to them; temporary concubinage, that\nmiserable temporary concubinage which makes sterile every creature\nthat is subjected to it.\n\nMarriage, fixed, settled, faithful, is the very life of nature,--and\nwe find it in even the poorest living tribes on which man's tyranny\nhas not yet imposed unnatural laws. The Roebuck, the Pigeon, that\nprettiest of the Parrot family, the \"Love Bird,\" and hundreds of other\nspecies, which we, in our profound ignorance and fancied learning,\ndespise, have this instinctive love of marriage. You may notice that,\neven among the other and wilder birds and beasts, the matrimonial tie\nis inseparable, at least, until the young family is old enough to take\ncare of itself.\n\nThe Hare, in its timid and ever anxious life, the Bat, that strange\nprowler in the dark night hours, are very very tender of their\nfamilies. The Crustace\u00e6, even, nay, even the very Poulpes have their\nmarital affection; take the female and the male is sure to be there,\nto combat vainly, and to be taken with her.\n\nHow much more, then, shall Love, the Family, _Marriage_, in the true\nsense of that word, exist among our gentle, truly gentle, till\nbrutally persecuted, amphibious creatures! Slow, sedentary, attached\nto home, how natural, how inevitable it is, that, the male should be\ntrue to his mate,--and she to him! Among them the husband will die\nfor, or with, the wife, either for the young one. And, among them,\ntoo, we find what we too often, only in vain look for among what we\npresumptuously term the higher animals, the young one will boldly\nleave its shelter and fight for the mother that has previously rescued\nhim.\n\nSteller and Hartwig mention a strange, an almost human scene enacted\nin the family of the Otarie, another amphibious creature. The female\nhad allowed her young to be stolen from her. The male, furious, beat\nher severely, and she grovelled and wept.\n\nThe Whales, which have not the fixed abode of the amphibii, yet cross\nthe Ocean in couples. Duhamel and Lacepede say, that in 1723, two\nWhales being attacked kept firmly side by side. One of them being\nkilled, the other, with terrible moanings of mingled despair and\ngrief, of sympathy and rage, threw itself upon the dead body of its\nmate and died, rather than retreat. If there was in the world one\nbeing which, even more than any other ought to have been spared, it\nwas the free Whale, that admirable creature so abounding in value;\nthat most inoffensive of all the creatures of the Ocean whose very\nfood is different from that of man. Excepting its terribly strong\ntail, this creature has not even a weapon of defence. And, then, the\npoor thing has such a host of enemies! Every one and everything seems\nto be hostile to it. Its parasites establish themselves, not only on,\nbut in its vast gnawing, even its very tongue. The Narvel, with its\nterrible tusks pierces it, the Dolphins gnaw it, and the bold, ever\nhungry, swiftly swimming, Shark tears huge bleeding morsels from it.\n\nAnd, then, there are two blinded and ferocious foes that, in most\ndastardly fashion, thin that inoffensive race even anticipatively;\nkilling the pregnant mother. First, there is the horrible Cachalot,\nwhose head makes a full third of its entire frame. This horrid\ncreature, with its crushing jaws, armed with forty-eight teeth,\nliterally eats the unborn young one. Man, still more cruel, causes the\npoor creature a more prolonged suffering. The cruel harpoon, plunged\nagain and again into that quivering and sensitive body inflicts\nsuffering, such as we cannot even think of, without blushing for that\nhuman nature of which we so often and so unblushingly boast.\n\nDying slowly, and in the long agony of many wounds, and of many\nconvulsions, she writhes, shudders, lashes the sea into a mad foam\nwith her terrible tail, and, even as she dies, feels about with her\npoor hand-fins, as though striving once more to embrace and caress her\nlittle one. Something dreadfully human, as it seems to me, is that\ndeath scene of the poor Whale!\n\nAt this day we can scarcely even imagine what were the scenes of\nbutchery some two hundred years ago; while the Whales swam in shoals\nand every shore swarmed with the amphibii. The enormous massacres\npolluted the ocean with blood to an extent such as our human battles,\nfrom the earliest day, cannot even begin to compare with. In a single\nday, from fifteen to twenty Whales were killed, and fifteen hundred\nSea Elephants! And this was mere killing for the sake of killing. For\nwhat was to be done with so many of those huge creatures, each of\nwhich had so much blood and so much oil? What was the meaning of all\nthis cruel slaughter? What the result? Just simply, to redden and\npollute so many miles of the pure Ocean! To have the cold and cruel\nenjoyment of most brutal tyrants; to watch, with cruel eye, the\nlingering agonies and the fierce, but impotent struggles, of one of\nGod's noblest and most inoffensive creatures! Peron relates, with a\ndisgust which does him honor, that he saw a brutal sailor thus slowly\nand brutally butcher a female Seal. She groaned and writhed like\nsomething human; and whenever she opened her poor, bleeding mouth, he\ndashed the oar into it, breaking her poor teeth at every thrust.\n\nDurville tells us that at the new Shetland isles, in the South Seas,\nthe English and Americans actually exterminated the Seals in four\nyears; killing, in their blind rage, alike the newly born and\nparturient female, and often they killed only for the skin, losing\nthe vast and very precious amount of oil.\n\nSuch slaughter as that is really a disgrace to our common humanity;\nsuch butchery reveals a terrible, a loathsome, instinct, that makes us\nshudder as we look around upon even our best and kindliest, and\nreflect how soon and upon what slight temptation they, too, may become\ncruel! On a smiling shore and among a notably amiable people, we\nremember one of these murderous massacres to have taken place. Some\nfive or six hundred Tunnies were driven into a lovely bay that they\nmight be ignominiously murdered in a single day. The drag nets, so\nvast that the capstan and the bars had to be brought into requisition,\nto _heave_, rather than draw them in, brought the poor creatures into\nthat beautiful bay, to them, a veritable _chamber of death_, and all\naround were bronzed, hardy, and cruel men, armed with harpoons and\npikes. And from distances of even twenty leagues around, fair\nwomen--shame to our nature!--yea, women sat or stood to witness that\ntruly brutal butchery. The signal is given and the dastardly butchers\nstrike, and the pierced and bleeding victims writhe, bound,\nagonize--as though they were human, and pitiless woman applauds the\nprowess--Godwot!--of pitiless man! The waters, agitated by the vain,\nthough mighty struggle of the victims, is polluted and discolored with\nblood and foam, and woman--Woman looks on this horrid scene and, when\nthe last victim has given its last gasp, sighs deeply and departs,\nwearied, but not satisfied, and whispers--Is that all? And yet we call\nourselves only, \"a little lower than the angels!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE LAW OF THE OCEAN.\n\n\nA great and deservedly popular writer, Eugene No\u00ebl, who throws a\nbright, broad light upon every subject which he touches, most truly\nsays, in his important work on Pisciculture, the following words: \"We\nmight make the Ocean an immense food-factory, more productive than\neven our earth itself, fertilizing and supporting everything, seas,\nrivers, lakes, and Lands. Hitherto we have cultivated only the\nlands--let us now cultivate the waters. Nations! Attention!\"\n\nMore productive than the land? Eh! How is that to be?\n\nM. Baude explains the matter very clearly, in his recently published\nand very important work on Fishery. He shows very clearly that, of all\ncreatures, the fish consumes the least, and produces the most. Merely\nto keep that creature alive, nothing, or next to nothing, is required.\nRondelet kept a carp three years in a bottle of water, and gave it\nnothing save what it could extract from that water; yet, in that\ntime, it so increased in bulk that he could not get it out of the\nbottle! The Salmon, during its stay, of two months, in fresh water,\nscarcely feeds at all, and yet in that time scarcely loses flesh. Its\nstay in salt water, during the same space of time, gives it the\nenormous increase of six pounds in weight. How little that resembles\nthe slow growth of our land animals! If we were to pile up into one\nheap all that it takes to fatten an Ox or a Pig, we should actually be\nastounded at the amount of food required for the like increase of\nweight.\n\nAnd, accordingly, those people whose demand most urgently presses upon\ntheir power of supply, the Chinese, with their three hundred millions\nof ever craving appetites, have directly applied themselves to the art\nof promoting that great power of reproduction, that richest\nmanufacture of nourishing food. On all the great rivers of China,\nprodigious multitudes find in the waters, the food which they would\nbut vainly ask from the land. Agriculture is always more or less\nprecarious; a blighting wind, a frost, the slightest accident, can\nsentence a whole nation to all the horrors of Famine. But, on the\ncontrary, the living and teeming, the exulting and abounding, harvest\nbeneath the waters, nourishes innumerable families, and makes those\nfamilies almost as prolific and abounding as itself.\n\nIn May, on the great central river of the Empire, a vast trade is\ndone in Fish _fry_, which is bought, sold, and resold, for the purpose\nof stocking the fish-ponds of private persons, who feed their fish\nfrom the mere offal of the household.\n\nThe Romans,--so long ago!--had the same wise system;--only they,\nsometimes, were barbarous enough to feed their fish with slaves! Bad\nenough, that, and to spare; but at least they left us the precious\nlegacy of these words--\"The spawn of the sea fish _can_ become fish in\nfresh water.\" In the last century, a German, by the name of Jacobi,\ndiscovered, or rather, revived, the art of _artificial fecundation_;\nand, in our own century, and with still more productive effect,\nFrance, copying from England, has done the same thing. A fisherman of\nBresse, Remy, has practised, since 1840, the art which has now become\nEuropean.\n\nTaken in hand by such men as Coste, Pouchet, &c., this art has ceased\nto be merely empirical--it has become _a Science_. Among other things,\nit has become known that there are certain regular connections between\nthe salt and the fresh water; the fish from the former, coming, at\ncertain seasons, to spawn in the latter. The Eel, wherever bred, as\nsoon as it has the thickness of a needle, hastens to ascend the river,\nand in such numbers that it actually whitens the whole stream. This\ntreasure, which, if properly taken care of, would give many thousands\nof pounds of the most nutritious food is unworthily, shamefully,\ndestroyed; sold as so much mere manure. The Salmon is no less\nfaithful; invariably it comes from the sea back to the river in which\nit had its birth. Mark hundreds of them, and not one of them shall be\nmissing. Their love of their native river is such that they will even,\n(see the _Salmon Leaps_ of Scotland, Ireland, and Northern England)\n_leap_, springing from the tail, over seemingly insurmountable\nobstacles! Such are the Fish!\n\nUpon land, we take care of our _Horses_; why not PRESERVE THE SEA? Why\nnot _protect the breeding Season of the Ocean_? The young and the\npregnant females, should be held sacred, more especially as to those\nspecies which are not superabundantly productive, such as the Cetac\u00e6,\nand the Amphibii. To kill, is a necessity of our nature, our teeth and\nstomach sufficiently testify to that; but that very necessity obliges\nus to preserve life.\n\nOn the land, we feed and protect our flocks and herds. But for the\nfood and protection which we give to them, most of them would not\nexist at all, or would have been devoured by wild beasts. We have a\nright, or at least, a plausible excuse, for killing them, but we take\ncare to spare the young and the pregnant.\n\nIn the seas there are still more young lives annihilated when we\ndepart from this law of _preserving_ that we may the more plentifully\nkill. We may, if we prudently as well as mercifully so will it, make\nthe generation of the inferior animals, an element almost infinitely\nproductive. In our seas and rivers, chiefly, it is, that Man appears\nthe Magician. High time it surely is, that he should unite to his\npower both kindness and wisdom. He is in reality, the opponent of\ndeath; for, though appetite compels him to kill, his skill and care\ncan create torrents of teeming life.\n\nAs regards those precious species which, foolishly, as well as\ncruelly, we have almost annihilated, and especially for that greatest\nand most precious life of all, the Whale, there should be an absolute\npeace, for at least half a century. That great, that really\nmagnificent species, will then repair its losses. Being no longer\npersecuted, it will return to the temperate zone, which is its natural\nclimate, where it will find its natural food in the abounding\nanimalcul\u00e6 of the comparatively warm waters. Being thus restored to\nits natural climate and its natural food, it will regain its old\ngigantic proportions. Let the old rendezvous of their Love be held\nsacred, and again we shall see the Leviathan, the whale of two or\nthree hundred feet long. Let this magnificent creature's haunts be\nrespected, especially in its breeding season, and in half a century it\nwould be as plentiful as of old. Formerly it abounded in a bay of\nCalifornia. Why not make that bay sacred to it? Then it would not seek\nshelter among the horrid glaciers of the pole. Let us respect their\nreason of Love, and enormous will be the benefit to ourselves.\n\nPeace! I say again; peace for the Whale, the Sea-Cow, the\nSea-Elephant; peace for all those precious species which man's\ninhumanity has so nearly crushed out of existence. A long, a sacred\npeace should be granted to them; like that which the Swiss so wisely\ngranted to the Chamois, which, when almost extinct, was thus rendered\nnumerous as ever. For all, whether Fish or Amphibii there is needed a\nseason of perfect rest, like the _Truce of God_, which in the olden\nday prevented the chivalry of Europe from butchering each other.\n\nThese creatures themselves instinctively comprehend what we either\nknow not or neglect; for, at their season of maternity, they lose\ntheir timidity, and venture to our shores, as though certain that at\nsuch a season, they will be held sacred. At that season, they are in\ntheir greatest beauty a id their greatest strength. Their brilliant\ncolor and their flashing phosphorence indicate the utmost vigor of\ntheir existence, and in every species that is not menacingly\nsuperabundant, that season of reproduction should be respected. Kill\nthem afterwards? By all means--but pray do not anticipatively kill in\nthe one fish a whole shoal of fishes.\n\nEvery unoffending creature has a right to the moment of happiness, to\nthat moment when the individual, however lowly placed, goes beyond\nthe narrow limits of his individual _Self_, and from his dark\nindividuality, glances into and feels the Infinite Future.\n\nAnd let us aid Nature; then shall we be blessed, from the lowest\ndepths to the starry heights; then shall we receive the blessing\nglance of that God who hath made both great and small, and who has\ncommanded us to imitate Him.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH.\n\n  THE RESTORATION OF THE SEA.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nORIGIN OF SEA BATHING.\n\n\nThe Sea, so ill treated by man, in this pitiless warfare, has been to\nhim most generously kind. When Earth, which he loves so much, when\nthat rude Earth wears, weakens, exhausts him, it is that so much\nfeared, so much abused Sea, which takes him to her bosom, and restores\nhim to new life.\n\nAnd, in fact, is it not from her that life primitively sprang? She\ncontains within her all the elements of life in a quite marvellous\nplenitude. Why, then, when we feel ourselves sinking, do we not repair\nfor restoration to the abounding source of life?\n\nThat source has space and kindness enough for all, but is especially\nkind to the too civilized children of men, for the sons and daughters\nwho are suffering for the fathers and mothers, victims of mistaken or\nsinning Love, less culpable than the sinning parents, yet a thousand\nfold more punished. The Sea, that vast female, delights to restore\nthem; to their weakness she gives her strength; and restores them\nyoung, beautiful, healthful, from the boundless stores of her wide\nexpanse and fathomless depths. Venus, who was born of Ocean, is from\nOcean reborn every moment, and not a sick, suffering, peevish, pale,\nand melancholy Venus, but the triumphant, Venus full of passion and\ncertain of fecundity.\n\nHow between this great and salutary, but somewhat rude, strength and\nour weakness, can there be any connection? What union can there be\nbetween elements so greatly disproportioned? That was a serious and\ndifficult question; to solve it required an art, an initiation. To\nunderstand that question thoroughly, we must make ourselves acquainted\nwith the time and occasion when this art first revealed itself.\nBetween two ages of strength, the strength of the age of the\nRenaissance and that of the Revolution, there was a period of\ndepression both moral and physical. The old world had died, the new\none was not yet born, and the misbegotten children of worn out parents\nwere weak and unhealthy. On the one hand, the excessive indulgence of\nthe rich; on the other hand, the awful privations of the poor,\ndecimated the nations, and most decimated, precisely those nations\nwhich most boasted their civilization. France thrice ruined, from base\nto apex, in a single century succumbed beneath the orgies of the\nRegency. England triumphed over our ruin, yet had death and\ndestruction within her own bosom. Her Puritan idea had departed, and\nanother had not yet come. Weakened by the fierce lusts of Charles II.,\nshe was still farther degraded by the paltry briberies of Walpole; and\nin the debasement of the Public the worst passions of the Individual\ncame to light. The fine book of _Robinson_ exhibits the horrors of the\nterrible Lust of Strong Drink;--a terrible book, that, in which\nMedicine calls to its aid all the denunciations of Religion, and\ndenounces the gloomy suicide of celibatism.\n\nAnxieties, evil habits, effeminate and unwholesome life;--all these\nbetray themselves in the softened tissues, the meagre forms, the\nhorrid scrofula. Lovely complexions cover the most vile diseases. Anne\nof Austria, renowned for her extreme clearness of complexion, died of\nloathsome ulcer; the Princess of Soubise, that dazzlingly fair beauty,\nrotted, so to speak, into her grave. In England, the Duke of Newcastle\nasked the learned Doctor Russell why it was that the beautiful Lily\nand Rose concealed so much of scrofula.\n\nIt rarely happens that a worn out race recovers itself; but the\nEnglish did so. For some seventy or eighty years it recovered a\nwonderful strength of activity. Partly it owed its recovery to its\npolitical and social disturbances,--for there is nothing so conducive\nto health as movement; but it must be confessed that the chief cause\nof its renovation was its change of habits. It changed in\neverything,--education, food, medicine; all were changed, for all felt\nthat health and strength were necessary to success in anything and\neverything.\n\nThere needed no great genius for such a Reform; the true theory had\nbeen propounded; all that was necessary was to make the Science an\nArt, to _practise_ what hitherto had only been _preached_. The\nMoravian, Comenius, writing a century before Rousseau, said: \"Return\nto Nature; educate according to Nature;\" the Saxon Hoffman said:\n\"Return to Nature; make her your Physician.\" Hoffman appeared just in\ntime to combat the evils caused by the orgies of the Regency, evils in\nwhich the remedies were as bad as the disease, the Physician as fatal\nas the Quack. Hoffman truly said to his age--\"Leave Doctors alone;\nlive temperately, drink water, and you will need no medicines.\" That\nwas a true moral reform. And thus among ourselves, Priessnith in 1830,\nafter the Bacchanalia of the Restoration imposed upon the luxurious\naristocracy of Europe the coarse food of the peasant, and, in the hard\nnorthern climate, the open air bath, in snow water; that Hell of cold\nwhich, in its reaction, gives such a glow of heat. And the rich and\nthe delicate submitted to this hard discipline; so great is our human\nlove of life and fear of death.\n\nAnd, in fact, why should not water be the safety of man? Berzelius\nassures us that four-fifths of our living frames are water; just as\nfour-fifths of our globe are covered by Oceans, Seas, Lakes, and\nRivers. For our arid Earth the Sea is a constant Hydropathist, curing\nit of its otherwise deadly dryness, and nourishing and beautifying its\nfruits and flowers. Strange and prodigious magician, that same water!\nWith so little, making so much; with so little, destroying so\nmuch--destroying so slowly, but so surely!\n\n    _Gutta lapidem cavat, non vi, sed stepe cadendo_;\n    \"The plastic globule wears the rugged rock,\n    By frequent falling, not by sudden shock.\"\n\nWater is at once the most potent and the most elastic of all forces,\nlending her aid to all the metamorphoses of our globe, covering,\npenetrating, transforming all around us.\n\nInto what frightful desert, into what gloomy forest, will not man\npenetrate in search of the healing springs which boil up from the\nbosom of the earth? What a perfectly superstitious belief we have in\nthose springs which bring to us the hidden and healing virtues! I have\nseen fanatics who had no Deity but Carlsbad, that wonderful meeting of\nthe most contradictory waters. I have seen the worshippers of Bareges,\nand I confess that I have myself submitted to the gushing and\nsulphureous waters of Acqui in their strange and almost animal\npulsations. The hot baths of earth have no medium in their action;\nthey are either certain health or certain death. How many sufferers\nwho might have lingered through weeks, months, or even years, have\nbeen quickly slain by them! Frequently, those potent waters give a\nsudden revival, and, together with health, bring back the very\npassions which caused disease; passions hot as the waters which\nrevived them. The very atmosphere above these sulphureous waters is\nintoxicating, the _aura_ of the Sybil that maddened her into Prophecy!\nAn outburst which compels us to speak that which we would most\nconceal. And how terribly self-revealing we are in those Babels to\nwhich, under the plea of seeking health, we resort to throw aside the\nconventionalities, in too many cases the very decencies of Society.\nThere, pale, worn sufferers, of both sexes, sit at the gaming table in\neager passion to win gold, and, in reality, winning only an earlier\nDeath.\n\nVery different is the saving breath of the great Sea; in itself it is\na purifier. That never ceasing interchange of the ocean of air, and\nthe ocean of water, forbids life ever to languish. Early and late,\nthose oceans of air and sea are at work. At every instant each passes\nthrough the crucible of death--and at every instant revives. The\nwhirlwind and the water spout give newer and stronger life to the\nvexed ocean.\n\nTo live on land is to repose; to live on sea is to combat, and to\ncombat savingly;--for those who can bear it, a Spartan training in\nwhich many perish, but those who survive are very strong.\n\nIn the middle ages there was a perfect horror of the Sea. They\nlibelled the great Sea, they called that fertile mother \"the kingdom\nof the prince of the powers of air\"--the very name which was given to\nSatan. The nobility of the seventeenth century would by no means\nconsent to have its palaces near the huts of the rude seamen. The\nfrowning castle, with its ugly and formal garden, was almost always\nbuilt, as far as possible from the sea, on some place destitute of sun\nand air, but marvellously rich in fog and miasmata. In England it was\njust the same. If the manor house was on a hill, the advantage of the\nsituation was sedulously provided against by a forest of tall trees,\nand quite as often, instead of being on the hill, it was in the\npestilent marsh below. At the present day, England, wiser than of old,\nbuilds by the sea side, rejoices in sea baths even in winter, and is\nrewarded by strong health. The people of the sea coasts better knew,\neven in earlier times, the life-giving power of the sea. Its purifying\npower first struck them; they observed its power in curing scrofula of\nits disgusting sores, and they well knew the power of its bitterness\nin killing the parasite worms which, otherwise, would kill the child.\nThey ate the Sea weed and the _Halcyonia_, well knowing that the\niodine that they contain contracts and makes firm the flesh. Russell,\nwho heard and noted these popular recipes, was thus enabled to answer\nthe question of the Duke of Newcastle, and did so in his excellent\nbook, published in 1750, on the use of Sea water in cases of glandular\nwasting.\n\nThere is a great force in his sentence--\"The great want is not how to\ncure, but how to repair, _to create_.\"\n\nHe proposed a miracle, but a quite possible one; to make new flesh,\nnew tissues. And he proposed to do that chiefly with the child, who,\nthough born of polluted parents, might yet be re-made.\n\nIt was at the same time that Bakewell, the Leicestershire farmer,\n_created_ meat. Up to that time horned cattle were chiefly valued for\ntheir milk, from his day forth they are made to yield a more generous\nfood. The poor milk diet, in fact, had to be abandoned by men who are\ncompelled to be so active, so laborious, so untiring. Russell's little\nbook, in 1750, created Sea bathing; it is not too much to say he\ncreated it, for it really was he who made it in vogue.\n\nThis whole grand theory may be summed up in a very few words:\n\n\"It is necessary to drink sea-water, to bathe in sea-water, and to eat\nsea-weed; clothe your children as lightly as possible, and let them\nhave plenty of air. The Ocean breeze, and the Ocean water; there you\nhave the sure cure.\"\n\nThat last advice seems very bold. To have the half naked child exposed\nto the open air in a damp and variable climate, is, no doubt,\nanticipatively, to lose the weak; but the strong will survive, and\ntheir posterity will be the better brought up. Let us add that\nbusiness, and navigation, by earlier relieving the boys from school,\nfrom the sedentary life of the young nobles at Oxford or Cambridge,\nmake them a new race.\n\nIn his ingenious book, guided only by popular tradition, Russell\ndoubtless was far enough from suspecting how, in a single century, all\nscience would come to the aid of his theory, and that each would aid\nhim in making of the Sea a perfect system of Therapeutics.\n\nThe most valuable elements of terrestrial life are abundantly in the\nsea; and science may well say to us--\"Hither! Hither, worn and wearied\nnation, swinked laborer, failing woman, young child, fading because\nyour parents sinned; hither! to the Sea, and the Sea shall cure you!\"\nThe universal base of life, the embryonic mucus, the living animal\njelly in which man continually takes and retakes the marrowy substance\nof his being, is so abounding in the sea that we may call it the sea\nitself. Of that mucus, both marine animals and marine vegetables are\nmade. Her generosity puts earth to shame. She is liberal to give, be\nye therefore, willing to receive.\n\n\"But,\" it maybe said, \"we are attacked in the very foundation and\nsupport of our being. Our bones bend, bow, and we are weak, and\ntottering from their insufficient nurture.\" Well! The lime which they\nneed abounds in the sea; so abounds that her madrepores build islands\nof it, and are at this moment building whole continents. Her fishes\ncarry it hither and thither in such vast quantity that, washed upon\nevery shore, it serves as a manure.\n\nAnd you, young female, you who, visibly, are wasting into an early\ngrave, repair to the sea, where every breath you draw shall be a\nrestorative. That restorative iodine, is in every breath that blows,\nin every wave that heaves, in every fish that swims. The Cod alone\nhave enough to iodise the entire earth.\n\nIs it animal warmth that you lack? The sea affords you the most\nperfect, the most equable, the most widely diffused warmth; warmth so\ngreat, in fact, that were it not diffused, it would melt the earth\nfrom Pole to Pole, and make each Pole another Equator.\n\nThe rich, warm, red blood, is the triumph of the Sea; by it she has\nanimated and armed with mightiest strength her giants, so much\nmightier than mightiest giants of the earth. She has made that\nelement, and she can remake you, poor, pale, drooping flower. She\nabounds, superabounds, in that rich red blood; in her children it so\nabounds that they give it forth to every wind.\n\nAnd there is the revelation of the whole mystery. All the principles,\npale mortal, that are combined in you, she has in separation. She has\nyour bone, your blood, your sap and your heat--in one or the other of\nher creatures, she has them all.\n\nAnd she has, also, what you have not, a superabundant strength. Her\nbreathing gives I know not what of inspiring excitement; of what we\nmay call physical heroism. With all her violence, the great generating\nelement inspires us with the same fiery vivacity, the same wild love,\nwith which she herself palpitates.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nCHOICE OF COAST.\n\n\nEarth is her own doctor; every climate has its own remedy. More and\nmore will Medicine lie in Emigration. But it must be an Emigration of\nforesight, not one of those mad-cap, rapid, and most mischievous\njourneys in which the patient rushes from one extreme of climate to\nanother, but prudently calculated to the obtaining of those vivifying\naids which nature every where holds in store for those who know how to\nprofit by them. The youth, that is yet to be born, depends upon these\ntwo things--the _Science of Emigration_ and the _Art of\nAcclimatization_. Hitherto, man has remained a prisoner like an oyster\non its rock. If he occasionally emigrates to some small distance from\nhis temperate zone, he, for the most part, goes to die. He will only\nbecome free, really brave, when the science and art of Emigration and\nClimatization shall make him free of the whole globe.\n\nFew diseases are cured in the place and under the circumstances which\nhave given rise to them; they hold to certain habits which the\nlocalities perpetuate and render unconquerable. There is no Reform,\nphysical or moral, for those who persist in the originating vice.\n\nMedicine, guided by the auxiliary sciences, directs us in the new road\nto the desired end. Our emigrations must be made prudently and\ngradually. Can we, safely, without preparation, without alteration of\ndiet and of habits, be suddenly removed from an inland to a maritime\nabode? Can we prudently take to the sea-bath until the sea breeze\nshall have trained our physical frame? Can we suddenly and without\npreparation encounter the severe shock, the horripilation of the\nreally tremendous shock of the cold water bath in the cold open air?\nThese questions we are glad to say are more and more being put and\nanswered by our physicians.\n\nThe extreme rapidity of our railroad journeys is very mischievous even\nto the strong;--in many cases fatal to the ailing. To pass, as so many\ndo, from Paris to the Mediterranean in twenty-four hours, passing at\nevery hour into a different climate, is as perilous a thing as a\nnervous person can do. You arrive agitated, giddy. When Madame de\nSevign\u00e9 took a whole month to travel from Brittany to Provence, she\nproceeded by slow and calculated degrees from one climate to another,\nand its opposite. She proceeded, by slow degrees, from the maritime\nclimate of the West into the inland climate of Burgundy. Then,\ntravelling slowly by the upper Rhone into Dauphiny, she, with the\ngreater safety and comfort, braved the free winds of Valence and of\nAvignon; then, halting awhile, and resting at Aix, in the interior of\nProvence, far from the Rhone and from its shores, she made herself\nProven\u00e7al in lungs.\n\nFrance has the enviable advantage of being between two seas, and\nthence the facility of alternating, as the disease may require,\nbetween the saline tonicity of the Mediterranean and the moister\nand--except in case of tempest--the far milder air of the Ocean.\n\nOn each of the two coasts there is a graduated scale of stations, more\nor less mild, more or less strengthening. It is very interesting to\nobserve, and very useful to follow, this double scale,--proceeding, as\na general thing, from weaker to stronger.\n\nThe climate of the Ocean parting from the strong, rough, ever-heaving\nwaters of the channel, becomes extremely mild at the South of\nBrittany, milder still in the Gironde, and mildest of all in the\nland-locked basin of Arcachon.\n\nThe air of the Mediterranean, which we may call circular, has its\nhighest note in the dry, though keen, climate of Provence and Genoa,\nbecomes more mild as you approach Pisa, milder and less variable in\nSicily, and at Algiers attains a wonderful mildness and regularity.\nAnd on your return be sure of a balmy air at Majorca and the little\nports of the Rousillon, so well sheltered from the harsh north wind.\n\nThe Mediterranean commands our admiration by two characteristics; the\nbeauty of its shores and the brilliant purity of its sky and\natmosphere. Very salt, very bitter is that sea; but what a glorious\nblue sky is above it! It gives out by evaporation about thrice as much\nwater as it receives from all its tributary rivers. It would become\nall salt, like that terrible Dead Sea, but for the lower currents, the\nunder-tow, like that from Gibraltar, for instance, were not constantly\ntempering it with the waters of the Ocean.\n\nAll that I have seen of its shores are beautiful, though somewhat\nstern. Nothing common-place about those shores. The volcanic, the\nlurid bale fires of the lower earth, have everywhere made their mark\nupon the upper earth; those dark Plutonic rocks are never tiresome\nlike the marshy sands of other shores. If the famous Orange woods\nsometimes seem somewhat monotonous, they compensate you when here and\nthere, a sheltered spot, you find the true African vegetation, the\nAloe and the Cactus, the hedge of Myrtle and Jessamine, and the wild\nand perfumed landes. Above, it is true, bald and frowning mountains\nloom, and their long offshoots run even into the very sea.\n\n\"It seemed to me,\" said a traveller, \"that I was between two\natmospheres; the air above, and the air below.\" He describes the\nvaried world of plants and animals which were reflected by the crystal\nmirror of that deep blue sea of Sicily. I was less fortunate off\nGenoa, where, gazing into the depths, I saw nothing but a desert. The\ndry and sterile rocks, the volcanic framing of the shores, dark as\nmidnight, or of a still sadder and more ghastly and ghostlike white,\nshowed me nothing but antique sarcophagi--reversed churches, reminding\none, at times, of the cathedrals of Florence, or the leaning tower of\nPisa. Sometimes, also, I seemed to see \"strange monsters of the deep.\"\nWhales? Elephants? I do not know; but of real life not a trace.\n\nSuch, however, as that beautiful sea is, it admirably nerves and\nhardens the dwellers on its shores, and the sailors on its bosom; it\nmakes at once the most fiery and the most solid of races. Our giants\nof the North, are, perhaps, stronger, but certainly are not more\nenduring, and, as certainly, they do not so readily, or so safely\nacclimatise, as the seamen of Genoa, of Calabria, or of Greece,\nbronzed as they are, not by an accident of the skin, but by the\npermeation, the imbibation of the Sun's rays. A friend of mine, a\nlearned physician, sends his pale patients from Paris or Lyons to take\ntheir Sun-baths in the South, and himself lies nude on the rocks, for\nhours together. He has only his head covered; as to all the rest of\nhis person, he is bronzed as an African.\n\nThe really sick will go to Sicily, to Algiers, to Madeira, in search\nof health. But the restorative of the pale, worn populations of our\ngreat cities, is best to be found in the more varied and more\nstrengthening climates of the country which has given to Earth its\nmost iron humanity, its heroes by sea and by land, and in the council\nchamber--that truly iron race of the Columbuses, the Dorias, the\nMassenas,--and the Garibaldis.\n\nOur extreme Northern ports, Dunkirk, Boulogne and Dieppe, where the\nwinds and waters of the Channel meet, are also a great nursery of\nrenewed life, and restored strength. That great breeze and that great\nsea, might recall one from the grave. You may see there perfectly\nincredible recoveries. Go there without any real and vital wound, and\nyou recover on the instant. The whole human machine acts strongly;\ndigests well, breathes freely. You need not even strive for health\nwhen there, for nature says to you, as Tully said to Atticus, _Jubeo\nvalere_,--_I command you to be well_. The sturdy vegetation that\nflourishes upon the very margin of the sea, seems to rebuke our\nweakness. Each of the little ports which pierce our Norman coast, is\nswept by the nor' westerly wind, which strengthens and revives us;\nbut grows less violent, though not less salubrious, at the mouth of\nthe Seine, beneath the fruitful orchards of Honfleur and Trouville.\nThe good river, sweeping away to the left, carries with it a softer\nand gentler air. Higher up, you meet the strong, the sometimes really\nterrible, sea of Granville, Saint-Maloes, and Cancale, about the best\nof naval schools for young folks, a school which will make the strong\nstill stronger.\n\nBut if, on the contrary, we have to deal with some weakling, some\nyoung child, born to weakness, or some young mother, made weak by too\nfrequent parturition, we must select some milder shelter. And such a\nwarm and always calm shelter, you will find, without going further\nSouth, among the sleepy little isles and peninsul\u00e6 of Morbihan. These\nisles form a labyrinth more perplexed than that in which the English\nking sheltered his fair Rosamond. Entrust your own treasure to that\nshelter, and none shall know of her save the Druidic rocks and the\nhandful of fishermen who inhabit those at once wild and gentle shores.\nDoes some gentle patient ask us on what people live, in those marine\nsolitudes? We reply, upon Fish, Fish--still Fish! It is not far from\nSt. Gildas, where the Bretons assure you that Heloise sought her\nAbelard. They contrive to live there as cheaply and as well as\nRobinson Crusoe and his man Friday.\n\nPlaces more civilized and attractive are to be found farther South,\nsuch as Pornice, Royan, Saint George, Arcachon, &c.\n\nI spoke elsewhere of Saint George's, bordered by many a bitter and\nprecious plant; and Arcachon, too, is as attractive, with its resinous\nand wholesomely pleasant odor of its pine woods. But for the worldly\nrush from that great and Wealthy Bordeaux, but for that flood of\nhealth seekers, which pours into it at certain seasons, it is at\nArcachon that we would shelter the dearly beloved patient, that dear\nand delicate creature for whom we fear the rush and crush of the hard\nworking day world. That place, as long as we contemplate it only\nwithin the inner basin, offers the contrast of an absolute and very\ndeep calm with a terribly rough sea close by. Beyond the lighthouse is\nthe terrible Gascon sea, within the bay a lazy tide, so lazy that you\ncannot hear its murmurs, as low, as light, as the quiet tread of\nlady's gentle footstep on the sea-weed carpet of that strand.\n\nIn an intermediate climate which is neither North nor South, neither\nBrittany nor Vend\u00ebe, I have visited again and again, and always with\npleasure, the pretty and staid shelter of Ponice, with its frank\nseamen and its pretty girls, with their conical hats. It is a pretty\nquiet little place, which, protected as it is by the island (rather\nthe peninsula) of Noirmantiers, receives only a slanting and\nexceedingly well behaved sea; that enters silken in its softness. And\nin that bay of several leagues, these creeks, with sloping shores,\nmade, as it would seem, on purpose for baths for women and children,\nthey are so sheltered and so safe. Those nice sandy beaches, parted by\nsuch sheltering rocks, conceal so much, and yet reveal so much of the\nsea life, the plain, blunt, yet ever kindly and courteous life of the\nseaman! But if those sheltering rocks do much good, they also do no\nlittle injury. The sheltered creek and safe haven, keeps out the\nTempest;--but, it also keeps out the fishes. By little and little, but\nvery regularly, the grand rush and the grand murmur of the sea are\nkept out, and yet, that half silence has a very great charm. No where\nelse have I so much welcomed, or so richly enjoyed, that great luxury\nof the undisturbed Day-dreaming.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE HOUSE.\n\n\nPermit an ignoramus who, yet, has paid a pretty high price for what he\n_does_ know, to give you some quiet advice upon certain points upon\nwhich books, hitherto, have told you little and Doctors nothing. That\nthis advice may come the more directly to both head and heart, I will\naddress them to an imaginary patient. Imaginary? Not so; I have met\nsuch a patient many times.\n\nYou meet a young lady seriously ill, or manifestly about to be so, she\nis very weak, and her young child is weaker still. The Winter has been\nhard upon them, and the Spring still harder. Yet it is only\nweakness;--lassitude, the _tedium vit\u00e6_ which Byron truly calls \"more\nterrible than death itself.\" And she is sent to the sea-side for the\nSummer.\n\nA great expense, that, for a fortune below even mediocrity; painful\nmoving for the mistress of a family; hard separation, above all, for\nhusband and wife who truly love each other. They bargain, they would\nfain shorten that separation. Would not one month be enough? But the\nwise Physician knows better, and says it would _not_; he well knows\nthat a very short sojourn at the sea side is far more likely to injure\nthan to benefit. The sudden, the severe shock of the sea bath is\nlikely enough to injure even the strong; to the feeble it is simply\nmurderous. You should first breathe the sea air;--acclimatize\nyourself. Do this during the month of June, then you shall have July,\nAugust, September, and, in some seasons, even October for your baths,\nand the bath and the great, strong, keen winds will harden your frame\nagainst the fast approaching Winter.\n\nFew men are free during the whole Summer; happy the husband who can be\naway from the thronged city to pass a couple of the Summer months at\nthe sea side with his suffering wife. However much he may feel\ninclined to sacrifice every secondary interest for her, it is for her\ninterest that he must remain in the counting house or the factory.\nThere are strong links in the chain of our daily life which we may\nnot, which we cannot, break. Therefore, the wife must go alone; and,\nfor the time, behold them loving, and yet divorced. Shall I give you\nmy opinion? _Let_ her go alone; better for her than if she went in the\ntrain of some rich luxurious family.\n\nThat gregarious travel and gregarious abode have their pleasures, no\ndoubt; but, also, they have their evils. In such cases we are apt\neither to become enemies, or, which is still worse in the case of\nwoman, to become too friendly. The style of life at a watering place\nsometimes, and not seldom produces results which we regret through the\nwhole remainder of life. In my opinion the smallest inconvenience of\nthat gregarious watering-place life (smallest but very far from small)\nis that the very people who alone would be both morally and physically\nbenefited by the sea, lose all that benefit by carrying to the solemn\nshore the frivolity, the late hours, the false gaiety of the great\ntown.\n\nAlone we think; in the crowd we gossip and scandalise. The great and\nthe rich lead the young and suffering female into their own\ndissipations, and the consequence is that she has by the sea shore a\nreally more mischievous excitement than she would have had in Paris,\nor London, Saint Petersburgh or New York, and will entirely lose the\nend for which, loving husband, you sent her thither. Reflect upon it,\nyoung woman, be courageous, but also be prudent. It is in an innocent\nsolitude that you may, if you will, enjoy with your child, that you\nwill most surely find the renewed health and strength that you so much\ndesire. In that infantine, pure, but noble and poetic life, I again\nassure you, it is that you will find restoration. Believe me the\ndelicate and tender justice which makes you fear expense, while he at\nhome is toiling so hard, will well repay you. The old Ocean will love\nyou the better if you love only it, and will lavish upon you its great\ntreasures of health and youthfulness. Your child will flourish like a\nyoung bay tree and you shall increase in grace and beauty; and you\nwill return to your far home youthful and dearly beloved.\n\nShe resolves, she departs, for a place, the waters of which are well\nknown by chemical analysis to have the qualities suited to her case.\nBut there are many local circumstances which cannot be known or even\nguessed at from a distance. The Doctor who recommends particular\nwaters seldom knows the place, though he knows the waters.\n\nFor some of the more important watering places Guides have been\npublished which are not without merit, so far as they point out the\nparticular diseases for which particular waters are suited. But very\nfew give details which enable one to choose between a healthy and\nunhealthy, a pleasant and an unpleasant, situation. They do not\nventure upon such particulars as would enable one to choose between\nplaces as well as between waters, but confine themselves to so general\na eulogy of the latter as to leave us in the dark as to the former.\n\nWhat is the precise exposition? Look at the map and you perceive that\nthe coast slopes to the South, but even this tells you nothing; for\nit may chance that a peculiar curve of the land may place your house\nunder a cold or damp influence, from a Northern or Western exposure.\n\nAre there any marshes in the neighborhood? In most cases the answer\nmust be, yes. But the difference is very great whether the marshes be\nsalt and renewed, and made salubrious by the sea, or whether they be\nstagnant marshes of fresh water which after droughts emit feverish\nmiasmata.\n\nIs the sea very pure, or mixed? And in what proportion? A great\nmystery. For nervous persons, however, for novices just commencing\nwith salt water bathing, the mildest are the best. A sea, somewhat\nmixed, an air less salt and keen, and a less desolate shore, having\nsome of the charms of the country, are the best recommendations.\n\nA grave point is the choice of a house; and who shall direct you as to\nthat? No one. You must see for yourself; you must observe all the\nparticulars on the spot. You will learn little from persons who have\nvisited or even lived there. They praise or condemn this or that place\nnot on account of its real merit, but according to the pleasure they\nhave enjoyed or the friends they have made there. They recommend you\nto some of those friends who receive you admirably; at first you are\ndelighted, but in a short time you discover many inconveniences, and\nsometimes the house is even dangerously unhealthy. Yet you do not like\nto leave it, lest you should mortify both those who recommended you\nand the kind and amiable family who so hospitably received you.\n\n\"Well, then,\" you say, \"I will ask no recommendation, but on reaching\nthe place I will consult an honest and skilful doctor who will be able\nto enlighten me.\" Honest! that is not enough, he must also be very\nintrepid to tell you frankly any of the bad qualities of the place,\nfor he would be a ruined man, he would take leave of the whole place,\nwould live as solitary as a wolf; and, indeed, would be lucky if some\npersonal injury were not done to him.\n\nI have a perfect horror of the absurdly flimsy houses which\nspeculators build in our variable climate. These pasteboard erections\nare so many dangerous traps. In the full heats of Summer such bivouacs\nare all well enough, but often one has to remain in September and\nOctober amid the high winds and the torrents of rain.\n\nFor themselves the landlords build good substantial houses, but for\npoor patients they build chalets of wood, ill closed, and not even\nmoss-covered, like the Swiss chalets. It really is treating us quite\ntoo ill.\n\nIn those villas, apparently luxurious, but in reality wretched, no\nprovision is made for comfort. Drawing-rooms for show,--and commanding\na view of the sea, they have, but no provision is made to gratify\nthat feeling of home comfort, so dear to the sick, and more especially\nso to woman. She feels unsheltered, as though constantly exposed to\nhalf a gale of wind, and constantly passing from one temperature to\nanother.\n\nOn the other hand, the solidly built house of the Fisherman is often\nlow, damp, and inconveniently arranged in its interior. Often, it has\nnot even a double ceiling, but mere planks, which admit cold draughts\ninto the upper rooms, inflicting coughs, rheumatism, and a score of\nother diseases.\n\nWhatever may be your choice, Madame, between these two kinds of house,\ndo you know what I heartily wish for you? Laugh, if you please. What I\nwish you to have, even in June, is a good fire-place, with a very\nexcellent chimney, well closed against the wind. In our beautiful\nFrance, with its cold north-west and its rainy south-west, which\noccasionally predominates for nine months, a good fire may be\nnecessary, even in June. On a damp evening, when your child returns\nshivering from his promenade, a fire is necessary, to warm him, before\nhe goes to bed.\n\nTwo things ought to be especially looked after, wherever you lodge,\nfire and good water, the latter a thing rarely to be found near the\nsea. If it is altogether bad, endeavor, by the use of beer or tea, to\ndispense with drinking the plain water, or if you must use it, let it\npreviously be boiled.\n\nWhy cannot I, with a single word, build you just such a villa as I\nhave in my mind? I do not speak of the show-house, the almost castle,\nsuch as the wealthy build at the sea side, but of the humble house,\nfitted for humble fortunes. It is an art which is yet to be created,\nand one which no one seems to suspect, that of building a house, at\nonce small and substantial. The houses which are built for us,\nespecially at the sea side, are built in direct contradiction with our\nneeds in so changeable a climate. Those Kiosks, with their flimsy\nornaments, may do well enough for well-sheltered situations, but make\none fancy that the wind must needs blow them into the sea. The Swiss\nchalets have immense overhanging roofs, which so well protect from the\nsnow, but also have the serious defect of excluding the light. The\nsun, in our northern seas, should not be excluded, but most cordially\nreceived. As to the imitations of chapels, gothic churches, and the\nlike toys, we need say nothing about them, they are really beneath\nnotice, so absurdly ill calculated as they are for comfortable homes.\n\nThe first necessity for a sea-side house, is great strength, a solid\nthickness of walls, which will obviate that rocking which we always\nfeel in slight buildings. We want such a solidity of construction as\neven in the greatest tempests will give courage to a timid woman, and\nenable her to say with a smile of pleasure. \"How very comfortable we\nare in here, while such a storm rages without!\"\n\nThe second point is that on the land side, the house should be so\nperfectly sheltered that on that side we can sit and forget the sea,\nand in the neighborhood of that great movement find the most complete\nrepose.\n\nTo meet those two needs, I prefer the form which affords least hold to\nthe wind, the crescent form, with the convex front to the sea, so that\nevery window will in turn receive the Sun.\n\nThe concave portion of this half circle would be sheltered by the\nhorns of the crescent, so as to enclose the pretty flower garden of\nthe mistress of the house. Stretching from this flower garden, the\nprogressive sloping of the soil would allow of a kitchen garden of a\ncertain extent, well sheltered from the wind.\n\nWe are told that \"Flora shuns the sea;\" what she really does shun, is\nnot the sea, but man's negligence, ignorance, or indolence. At\nEteretat, before a very heavy sea, on the high overlooking beach, and\nexposed to heavy winds, there is a farm, with an orchard of superb\ntrees. What precautions have been taken? A simple hedge-crowned bank,\nfive feet high, and behind that a row of elms, which shelter all the\nrest. Many places Brittany would furnish us with like instances. Who\ndoes not know that Roscoff raises fruit and vegetables in such\nprofusion as to sell them cheaply, even in Normandy?\n\nBut to return to our building. I want it low-pitched; only a ground\nfloor, and over that the bed-chambers. Our house, therefore, will be\nbut small; but, on the other hand, it must be very thick, must have\ntwo rows of chambers, an apartment looking out on the sea, and another\non the land.\n\nThe ground floor apartment, looking towards the land, would be\nsomewhat sheltered by the upper story, which would project about five\nfeet. This would make the interior crescent a sort of gallery for use\nin bad weather. The lower rooms would be a dining room;--a small room\nfor our books (voyages and travels, and natural history) and a\nbathroom. I do not mean an actual library or luxurious bath. The\nnecessary, and the very plain, the convenient, and nothing more.\n\nOn very rough days, when the beach is hardly the fit place for\ndelicate patients, I should wish to see the lady reading or working in\nher pretty parterre. She would have some life there, flowers, an\naviary, and a little tank of sea water to receive the little creatures\nwhich the fishermen would be sure to give her. Of course she would\nalso have an excellent compound microscope.\n\nFor the aviary, I should prefer the free one which I have advised\nelsewhere, into which the birds come at night for protection and a\nlittle food. It is closed upon them at night, to protect them from\nbirds of prey, but opened for them very early in the morning. They\nreturn to this aviary very regularly. I believe, even, that if the\naviary were large enough, and the tree which they most affect were\nenclosed, they would freely breed there, and confide their little ones\nto your protection.\n\nDelightful, and yet serious life, this, that we have planned for our\nfair patient and her sole child. What charming solitude in this short\nwidowhood. How new the situation. No housekeeping, no business. With\nher boy, she is even more alone than she would be without him. But for\nhim she would be intruded upon by reverie and vain fancies. But her\ninnocent guardian, her boy, keeps all such fancies away. He occupies\nher, causes her to talk, and talks to her of home, and he thus\nconstantly reminds her of him who, in their far off home, is toiling\nfor them, and she counts the days to her return.\n\nFlourish, pure and amiable woman. You are now even younger than ever,\nyou have become a girl again, free, sweetly free, under the\nguardianship of your boy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nFIRST ASPIRATION OF THE SEA.\n\n\nIt is a great and sudden transition to leave Paris in the beautiful\nmonth of June when the great city is resplendent with its magnificent\ngardens and its chestnut trees in bloom. June would be delightful on\nthe coast if one had a single companion and the crowd had not arrived.\nBut when one is alone on the deserted, with the great sea, we are\ntouched with a sort of melancholy.\n\nOn a first visit to the coast the impression made is not very\nfavorable. There is aridity, there is wildness, and yet there is a\ncertain monotony. The novel grandeur of the spectacle makes us feel,\nby contrast, how weak and small we are, and that thought thrills the\nheart. The delicate chest that so lately was confined in a chamber,\nand now finds itself suddenly removed to this vast open chamber of the\nuniverse, with the sun shining so brightly and the sea breeze blowing\nso strongly, feels oppressed. The child comes, goes, and the mother\nsits down, shivering in the free fresh breeze. The warmth of the home\nshe has but just left comes to her mind and she saddens. But her boy\nfrolics gaily and that soon consoles her.\n\nAll this will soon pass away Madame. Be resolute; your impressions\nwill be very different when you become better acquainted with the Sea\nand think of its myriads of inhabitants. And that painful constriction\nof the lungs will pass away too, when you become accustomed to the\nfree atmosphere of the sea. You require time to accustom yourself to\nit, by and by, not thinking about it, as your boy plays with you in\nsheltered nooks, you will breathe freely and your chest will dilate\nwithout pain and without conscious effort. But, just at first, I\nadvise you not to stay too long at a time on the beach, but rather to\ntake your walk inland.\n\nThe land, your accustomed friend, recalls you. The pine woods rival\nthe sea in healthful emanations; and theirs have less of harshness.\nThey penetrate all our being, enter by every pore, modify and purify\nthe blood, and perfume us with their subtle aroma. In the Landes\nbehind the pine woods, the herbs and even the coarse grass on which\nyou tread, yield perfumes not enervating or intoxicating as the\ndangerous roses, but agreeably bitter. Seat yourself among them and\nyou, like them, will be sheltered by this slight slope of land. Might\nyou not, now that you are thus sheltered, fancy yourself a hundred\nleagues from the sea? Drink in the sweet breathings, the pure spirits,\nthe very soul of these wild flowers--that, in purity, are your very\nsisters. Gather them if you will, Madame; they ask for nothing better.\nSomewhat rude, perhaps, and yet so beautiful; and in their virginal\nperfume they have that singular mystery of calming and strengthening.\nDo not fear to hide them in your fair bosom and upon your beating\nheart.\n\nLet us not forget that these sheltered landes are, at certain hours,\nburning hot. They so absorb and concentrate the rays of the sun. The\nweak woman is wilted there. The young girl, full of vigorous life,\nfeels her pulses boiling and has redoubled power; her brain swims and\nshe has strange and dangerous day dreams. If you wish to go there let\nit be on some moist and rather cloudy day; or, still better, rise at a\nvery early hour when all is cool, when the wild thyme still keeps\nsomewhat of its dew, and while the Hare is still abroad.\n\nBut let us return to the Ocean. At ebb-tide he manifests, and, in some\nsort, presents to you, the rich life that he nourishes. You must\nfollow, step by step, the retiring waves, though the wet sand will\nsink some little beneath your feet. Fear not. The gentle wave will, at\nthe most, kiss your feet. If you look closely you will perceive that\nthe sand is not, as you at first thought it, dead, but is here and\nthere moved by numerous lingerers that the ebb-tide has left behind.\nOn certain beaches, small fish are thus hidden in the sand. At the\nmouth of the rivers the Eel's writhing movement, throws up the sand in\nmimic earthquakes. The Crab, too eagerly engaged in feeding, or\nfighting, has now to hasten back to the sea, and in his flight he\nleaves an odd mosaic, a zigzag line marking his oblique travel, and at\nthe end of that line you will find him lying in wait for the coming in\nof the tide. The Solen (_Manche de Couteau_), that razor-shaped shell\nfish, has plunged deep into the sand, but betrays himself to you by\nthe breathing holes that he has left. The Venus you can just as\ncertainly trace by the fucus attached to its shell, but floating on\nthe surface; and the undulations of the soil betray to you the covered\nways of the warlike annelides, and viewing them with the aid of your\nmicroscope you will be charmed with the rainbows of their changing\ncolors.\n\nBut the finest sights are caused at the first low ebb, which always\nfollows the high Spring tide. At such ebbs, immense and unexplored\nspaces are left bare, and we can survey that mysterious bottom of the\nsea, on which we have so often speculated and dreamed. There you\ndiscover, in motion, in life, in all the secrecy of their retreats,\nastonished populations, which fancied themselves secure, and which\nrarely, if ever before, had been looked upon by the sun, and still\nmore rarely by the eye of man. Be not alarmed, swarming populations of\nminute creatures, you are seen only by the inquisitive but\ncompassionate eye of a woman; it is not the cruel and coarse hand of a\nfisherman that invades your retreat. But you ask, what does she want\nwith you? Nothing but to see you, salute you, show you to her boy, and\nleave you in your natural element, and with every kindly wish for your\nhealth and prosperity. At times we need not wander far; at such times\nin a cleft of the rock, we may find every minute species, old Ocean\nhaving diverted himself with lodging a whole world of minute creatures\nwithin the space of a few square feet. We sit and we watch, and the\nlonger and the more closely we watch, the more do we see of life, at\nfirst imperceptible. And so interested are we that we should sit there\nfor an indefinite time, were we not chased to shore by that imperious\nmaster of the beach, the flood Tide.\n\nBut to-morrow, at ebb, she will return to the beach, that school, that\nMuseum, that inexhaustible amusement for both mother and child. There\nthe delicate and penetrating sense of woman and the tenderness of her\nheart seize and divine all. Maternity tells her all the secrets of\nincreasing, diminishing, and recreating life. Do you ask why her\ninstinct so quickly reveals creation to her; why she enters as one so\nthoroughly at home, into the great mystery of Nature? It is because\nshe is Nature herself.\n\nIn the depths of the unctuous waters the small alg\u00e6, small, but\nunctuous and nourishing, and other little plants of delicate and\npretty figures, form a miniature prairie which is browsed by a vast\nherd of mollusc\u00e6, Limpets, Whelks, and a hundred other species, watch,\nwait, feed, there, and to-morrow you will find them there still. But\ndo you therefore suppose that they are utterly inert? That they have\nno confused idea of Love and the Unknown? Of some benevolent thing\nwhich at certain hours returns to refresh and nourish them? Oh yes,\nthey both think of it and expect it; those widows of the great Ocean\nwell know that he will return to caress the earth. Anticipatively they\nlook towards the Ocean, and even those which have a fixed abode, turn\nfrom the rock and open their shells towards the incoming tide. And if\nit come in somewhat strongly they are all the more delighted; too\nhappy to hail that living wave that advances so strongly, as in haste\nto caress them.\n\n\"See my child\" says the young mother, \"at our approach the motionless\nones remain, but the quicker have fled. Now see, they take courage\nagain. The active shrimp, with its fine feelers, rainbowed by the\nwater, creates a great commotion in that mimic and miniature sea, and\nthe slow and hesitating sea spider, at once timid and daring, saves\nherself by ascending to the warm surface, and the crab advancing and\nsurveying, suddenly returns into his miniature forest of sea weed.\n\n\"But what do I see now? What _is_ that? A large, motionless shell\nsuddenly takes life, and moves. Oh, but that is not natural, and the\nimpostor betrays himself by his awkward gait and his many stumbles.\nYes, yes, we detect you now, you most cunning of all cunning crabs,\nSir Bernard the Hermit, who would fain pass yourself off for an\ninnocent mollusc! Your bad conscience agitates you too much.\"\n\nOn the shore of our ocean, strangers to these movements, the animated\nflowers expand their coroll\u00e6. Near to the heavy anemone those charming\nlittle annelides appear in the sunlight. From a tortuous tube rises a\ndisc, an umbrella, white or lilac, sometimes flesh color. Thrown,\nitself, a little on one side, it casts off from itself an object which\nhas nothing comparable to it in the whole vegetable world. Not one of\nthese is like its sister, and all are admirable for their velvety\ndelicacy.\n\nSee one of them, without umbrella, which throws off a whole cloud of\nlight cottony threads, scarcely tinted with a silver grey, while five\nlonger filets are of the richest cherry color. They wave, they\nentwine, they untwist, and their silvery heads form beautiful images\nin the water. To the coarse senses of man, such a sight as that would\nsuggest no serious thought; but to the nervous and delicate woman, it\nis much. At those colors, by turns flashing and fading, she reflects\non her own young life that now flashes, now fades, and now threatens\nto expire. Affecting thought! Again she looks into the pretty\nminiature Ocean of a few feet square, and there she better discerns\nNature, the fertile mother, but the stern mother too.\n\nAnd our fair patient is plunged into an oppressive reverie. Woman\nwould cease to be woman, that is to say, the charm of the world, if\nshe had not that touching gift of _Tenderness for everything that\nlives_; _pity, and loving tears_.\n\nShe has not wept as yet, our fair patient, but she has been so near to\ndoing so! Her boy perceives it. Being already attentive and quick, he\nremains silent; and, silently they return. That was the amiable first\nday when she first began to spell with her heart the language of\nNature. And at her very first lesson that language had so stirred the\ntenderness of that poor heart! The daylight was dying, the sea bird,\non rapid wing, approached the shore and sought his nest. And as our\npatient and her boy entered their already dark garden, the cry of the\nnight bird was heard. But the aviary was well closed, and the innocent\nlittle refugees within were asleep with heads under wings. Having\nherself seen that all was thus safe, she relieved her heart with a\nsigh, and embraced her son.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nBATHS--RESTORATION OF BEAUTY.\n\n\nIf, as certain French physicians maintain, sea-water baths have only a\nmechanical action, infuse no new principle into the blood and _are\nmerely a simple branch of hydropathy_, it must be confessed that of\nall the forms of hydropathy they are the harshest and most hazardous.\nLet it once be clearly shown that that sea-water, so rich in life,\nbestows no more of vitality than fresh water and we must confess that\nit is little less than madness to take sea-baths in the open air and\nat all the risk of the wind, the sun, and the thousand possible\naccidents.\n\nWhoever has seen a poor creature come out of the water after taking\nhis first bath, whoever has seen him come out pale and shuddering,\nmust perceive how dangerous such experiments are to certain\nconstitutions. Be assured that none of us would submit to so much\nsuffering if health could be as readily secured without suffering and\nwithout danger, in one's own house, and by common fresh water\nhydropathy.\n\nAnd, as though the impression of a first sea-bath were not\nsufficiently strong, it is aggravated for a nervous woman by the\npresence of the crowd of bathers. For her it is a cruel exhibition to\nmake before a critical crowd, before rivals, delighted to see her\nugly, for once; before silly and heartless men, who, with telescope in\nhand, watch the sad hazards of the toilette of the poor humiliated\nwoman.\n\nTo brave all this the patient must have faith, great, surpassing\nfaith, in the Sea. She must believe that no other remedy will meet her\ncase, and must determine that, at whatever risks, she will be\npermeated by the virtues of the sea water. \"And why not be thus\n_permeated_?\" ask the German physicians. \"If at first entering the\nwater you contract and close up your pores, reaction brings almost\nimmediately a warmth that reopens them, dilates the skin and renders\nit very capable of _absorbing_ the life of the sea.\"\n\nThe two operations, the closing and the reopening of the pores, the\nfirst chill and the succeeding glow, almost always take place in five\nor six minutes. To stay in longer than the latter space of time, is\nalmost always injurious.\n\nMoreover, we should not venture upon this violent emotion of the cold\nbath without a preliminary course of warm bathing, to facilitate\nabsorption. Our skin which is entirely composed of the little mouths\nwhich we call pores, and which, in its way, both absorbs and digests,\nas the stomach does, wants time to get accustomed to such strong\nnourishment as the _mucus_ of the sea, that salted milk with which the\nsea makes and remakes such myriads of creatures. By a graduated course\nof baths, hot, warm, lukewarm, and almost cold, the skin acquires this\nhabit, and, so to speak, this appetite; and \"increase of appetite\ngrows by what it feeds on.\"\n\nFor the hard ceremony of the first cold sea-water baths, at least, the\nodious gaze of a mob of people is to be avoided. Let them be taken in\nprivate and with no one present but a perfectly reliable person who,\nat need, will help the nervous patient, and rub her with hot cloths\nand revive her with warm drinks containing a few drops of the potent\nelixir.\n\n\"But,\" it may be said, \"the presence of other bathers lessens the\ndanger; we are far different from Virginia, who, in an extreme danger,\npreferred drowning herself to taking a bath.\" A great mistake; we are\nmore nervous now than ever we were. And the impression of which I\nspeak is at once so vivid and so revolting--I mean for nervous\npeople--that it is quite capable of killing, by aneurism or apoplexy.\n\nI love the people, but I hate a mob; especially a noisy mob of fast\nlivers who come to sadden the great Sea with their noise, their\nfashions, and their absurdities. What! Is not the land large enough?\nMust such people come to the Sea to martyrize the sick and to\nvulgarize the majesty of the Sea, that wild and true grandeur?\n\nI once had the ill luck to run from Havre to Honfleur in a craft\nloaded with such fools. Even in that short trip they found time to\ngrow weary of quiet, and to get up a ball. One of them--probably a\ndancing master--had his Kit with him and played all sorts of dances in\nthe presence of that great Ocean. Happily one could not hear much of\nthat small music; scarcely now and then could a shrill note or two\nrise above the solemn, the truly solemn bass of the Sea's roar. I can\neasily imagine the sadness of the lady who, in July, suffers under the\ninvasion of a mob of these fops, fools, and gossips. All liberty is\nthen at an end. Even in the most retired spot the drowsy ear of night\nis vexed by the boisterous echoes from saloon, and dancing room,\ncoffee-room and Casino. In the day the host of yellow gloves and\nvarnished boots crowds the shore. One lady is observed alone, with her\nboy. Why is that? Impertinents wish to know, they approach, and,\ngathering sea shells for the child, endeavor to force their\nconversation on the mother. The lady is embarrassed, bored to death,\nand has to confine herself to her lodging or venture out only in\nearly morning, while the empty pated revellers are still sleeping off\nthe effects of the last night's follies. Then, from her seclusion flow\na thousand ill natured comments. She becomes alarmed, for some of\nthese idlers have influence and may, possibly, injure her husband.\n\nNowhere more than at the sea side, are we inquisitive, and the poor\nwoman becomes agitated and sleepless during the long hot nights of\nJuly and August, and if, towards morning, she at length sleeps, she is\nnot much more tranquil. The baths, far from cooling, add the saline\nirritation to the fierce heat of the dog days. From her youth she\nderives, not strength, but fever; and, weak and highly nervous, she is\nall the more disturbed by that interior storm.\n\nInterior, but yet not hidden. The Sea, the pitiless Sea, brings to the\nskin the proofs of that excitement which the sufferer would fain keep\nhidden. She betrays it by red blotches, slight efflorescences. All\nthese petty annoyances, which still more afflict the children, and\nwhich in them the mother looks upon as signs of returning health, the\nmothers feel as humiliations when seen on their own faces. They fear\nthat they will therefore be less loved. So little do they know of the\nheart of man. They know not that the sharpest spur of love is not\nbeauty, but suffering.\n\n\"Oh! If he should find me ugly!\" is the poor woman's morning thought,\nas she looks in her glass. She at once fears and desires the coming of\nher husband. And yet she feels so lonely, and fears, she knows not\nwhat, amidst that noisy crowd. She dares not go out, she becomes\nfeverish, and at length is confined to her bed. In little more than\ntwenty-four hours, the beloved one is by her side.\n\nWho has summoned him? She certainly has not. But, in his great\nstraggling handwriting, her boy has written to his father thus: \"My\ndear Papa, come quickly. Mamma is confined to bed, and the other day\nshe said 'oh if he were here!'\" And accordingly he was there, and\nimmediately she felt herself recovering. And he, how happy he is!\nHappy to see her restored, happy to be necessary to her, and happy to\nsee her looking so beautiful. She is somewhat sun burnt, but how young\nshe looks! What life in her glance, and in her flowing and silky hair!\n\nIs this mere fiction, this so prompt restoration of life, beauty, and\ntenderness; this delightful incident of finding in a wife, a young\nmistress, so happy in being rejoined by a husband? Not at all. It is\nan agreeable sight which right often may be witnessed. If rare among\nthe very rich, it is not so among the laborious families whose labor\nmakes them, during most of their lives, close prisoners. Their forced\nseparations are painful, and their reunion has a charm, a rapture,\nwhich they do not even try to conceal.\n\nWhen we consider the prodigious tension of modern life, for toiling\nmen, (that is to say, for every one but a few idlers) one cannot but\nbe glad to witness those scenes of joy, when a reunited family expand\ntheir hearts. Those who have no hearts, call all this vulgar and\nprosaic. But, the form matters little, where the substance is so\nsurpassingly good. The careworn merchant, who, from three months to\nthree months, has only with utmost difficulty saved the bark in which\nthe destiny of his wife and children is exposed to shipwreck; the\nadministration victim; the employ\u00e9, worn well nigh to death by the\ninjustice and tyranny of the offices--these suffering captives, are\nreleased, for a brief space, from their galling chains, and the tender\nfamily, the mother and child, endeavor to make the husband and father\nforget his cares.\n\nAnd well able are wife and child to wile the worn man into that sweet\ntemporary oblivion. Their gaiety, their caresses, and the distractions\nof the sea-side, soothe his wearied soul, and fill his mind with other\nand happier thoughts. It is their triumph. They hurry off to visit\n_their_ beach, to contemplate _their_ sea, and to enjoy his\nadmiration, which he, worthy man, just a little exaggerates, because\nhe wishes them to be pleased. Yes! it is _their_ sea; having bathed\nin it, they have taken possession; and he, the toilworn husband and\nfather, must share with them in their vast possession. The young woman\nno longer fears that crowd which formerly so much annoyed, and even\nalarmed, her; now that he is beside her she is not merely safe, but\nbold, daring; to say the truth, just a little presumptuous. She is\nquite familiar with the sea; familiar enough to be determined to learn\nto swim. At first she is supported by her active and bold boy.\nSupported by him, she swims--but I fear if left to herself her native\ntimidity would return, and she would sink. Yet she is in love with the\nsea; yea, jealous of the sea. For, in fact, the sea inspires no\nmoderate passions. There is I know not what of electric inspiration,\nof all-absorbing passion for the Sea, in all who truly know it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE RESTORATION OF HEART AND BROTHERHOOD.\n\n\nThere are three forms of Nature which especially expand and elevate\nour souls, release her from her heavy clay and earthy limits, and send\nher, exulting, to sail amidst the wonders and mysteries of the\nInfinite.\n\nFirst; there is the variable Ocean of Air with its glorious banquet of\nlight, its vapors, its twilight, and its shifting phantasmagoria of\ncapricious creatures; coming into existence only to depart on the\ninstant.\n\nSecond; there is the fixed Ocean of the earth, its undulating and vast\nwaves as we see them from the tops of \"earth o'er gazing mountains,\"\nthe elevations which testify its antique mobility, and the sublimity\nof its mightier mountains clad in eternal snows.\n\nThird; there is the Ocean of waters, less mobile than air, less fixed\nthan earth, but docile, in its movements, to the celestial bodies.\n\nThese three things form the gamut by which the Infinite speaks to our\nsouls. Nevertheless, let us point out some very notable differences.\nThe air-Ocean is so mobile that we can scarcely examine it. It\ndeceives, it decoys, it diverts; it dissipates and breaks up our chain\nof thought. For an instant, it is an immense hope, the day of an\ninfinity;--anon, it is not so; all flies from before us, and our\nhearts are grieved, agitated, and filled with doubt. Why have I been\npermitted to see for a moment that immense flood of light? The memory\nof that brief gleaming must ever abide with me, and that memory makes\nall things here on Earth look dark.\n\nThe fixed ocean of the mountains is not thus transient or fugitive; on\nthe contrary, it stops us at every step, and imposes upon us the\nnecessity of a very hard, though wholesome, gymnastic. Contemplation\nhere has to be bought at the price of the most violent action.\nNevertheless, the opacity of the Earth, like the transparency of the\nair, frequently deceives and bewilders us. Who can forget that for ten\nyears Ramon, in vain, sought to reach Mount Perdu, though often within\nsight of it?\n\nGreat, very great, is the difference between the two elements; the\nEarth is mute and the Ocean speaks. The Ocean is a voice. It speaks to\nthe distant stars, it answers to their movements in its deep and\nsolemn language. It speaks to the Earth on the shores, replying to the\nechoes that reply again; by turns wailing, soothing, threatening, its\ndeepest roar is presently succeeded by a sad, pathetic sigh. And it\nespecially addresses itself to Man. As it is the fecund womb in which\ncreation began and still continues, it has creation's living\neloquence; it is Life speaking to Life! The millions, the countless\nmyriads, of beings, to which it gives birth, are its words. That milky\nSea from which they proceed, that fecund marine jelly, even before it\nis organized, while yet white and foaming,--speaks. All these mingled\ntogether makes the unity, the great and solemn voice of the Ocean.\n\nAnd, \"what are those wild waves saying?\" They are telling of _Life_,\nof the eternal Metamorphosis; of the great fluid existence, shaming\nour senseless ambitions of the earth-world.\n\nThey are telling of _Immortality_. An indomitable strength is at the\nbottom of Nature, how much more so at Nature's summit, the Soul! And\nit speaks of Partnership, of Union. Let us accept the swift exchange\nwhich, in the individual, exists between the diverse elements; let us\naccept the superior Law which unites the living members of the same\nbody--Humanity; and, still more, let us accept and respect the supreme\nLaw which makes us create and co\u00f6perate with the Great Soul,\nassociated as we are--in proportion with our powers,--with the loving\nHarmony of the world--copartners in the Life of God.\n\nThe Sea very distinctly, in that voice that is mistakenly supposed to\nbe a mere confusion of sounds, articulates those grave words. But man\ndoes not easily recognize those words, when he first arrives on the\nshore exhausted by worldly struggles, deafened, distracted, by worldly\nbabble. The sense of the higher life is dulled even among the best of\nus; the best of us, to a greater or less extent, resist that sense.\nAnd who shall teach us to quicken and obey that sense? Nature? Not\nyet. Softened into tenderness by the family, by the innocence of the\nchild and the tenderness of the wife, man first takes an interest,\nreal and strong, in the things of humanity, in the cares and studies\nwhich tend to preserve the family. But woman is earlier and more\ndeeply interested in the Sea, in the Poetry of the Infinite. And thus\nwe see that souls have sexes as well as bodies have. For the man\nthinks of the seaman more than of the sea's wonders; he thinks of its\ndangers, of its daily and hourly tragedies, and of the floating\ndestiny of his family. The woman, tender as she is to individuals,\ntakes less interest in classes. Every laborious man, who visits the\ncoast, bestows his principal attention and his principal sympathy upon\nthe hard life of the man of toil, the fisherman and the sailor; upon\nthat hard hard life so laborious and perilous and so little productive\nof gain.\n\nSuch a man, while his wife rises and dresses her sweet child, walks\nupon the beach in the early morning just as the fishing boats return.\nThe morning is cold, the night has been rainy, and the boats have\nshipped many a heavy sea. The men, and not only men but very small\nboys, too, are wet to the skin. And what have they brought back? Not\nmuch;--but they _have_ come back, and that is much. For last night,\nsee you, they shipped many a sea and looked at death closely many a\ntime. Ah! When the stranger reflects upon the hard life brought\nimmediately under his purview, surely, however much he may have\ncomplained of his own lot, he will now learn to say \"My lot is far\nbetter than theirs.\"\n\nIn the evening, just when the sun sets, coppery and threatening, into\nthe sinister horizon, these men already have to sail again. And the\nstranger says to them, \"Shall you not have bad weather, think you?\"\n\"Sir,\" they reply, \"we must earn our bit of bread,\" and they and their\nsturdy boys push off to Sea. And their wives, more than serious, sad,\nfollow them with their eyes; and more than one of those wives whisper\nan earnest prayer. And the stranger, too, whispers his prayer, and\nsays to himself, \"They will have a dirty night; would that they may\nreturn in safety.\"\n\nAnd thus it is that the Sea opens the heart, and that even the hardest\nhearts are softened in presence of the great stern mother. In that\npresence, no matter what we may strive to think, we become humanized,\nsympathizing, tender. And Heaven knows how much need and how much\noccasion there are for sympathy there! Every kind of want and struggle\nis to be found among those brave, honest and intelligent marine\npopulations who are incomparably the best of our country. I have lived\na good deal on the coast. Every heroic virtue, which an inland\npopulation would praise so highly, is there an every day and very\ncommon-place matter. And, still more curious!--there is no pride among\nthese hardy mariners. All our French pride is for the landsmen--the\nsoldiery. But among our marine population the greatest dangers count\nfor nothing; every one braves such every day, and no one ever thinks\nof boasting of them. I have never met with men who were milder or more\nmodest (I had almost said more timid) than our Gironde pilots who,\nfrom Royan and from St. George's gallantly put out, to face all that\nCordouan has of peril. There, as at Granville, and every where else on\nthat coast, it is the women alone who have anything to say, or any\nbusiness to do, on land. The brave pilots, when once on shore, never\nsay a word in the way of command; peaceable as their valiant wives are\nsuperbly noisy, the men leave the women full authority to administer\nthe poor income and to rule (occasionally with a pretty hard hand)\nthe youngsters of the household. The husband, in fact, though he reads\nno Latin, literally and practically translates the Latin poet:\n\n    \"Happy, when in mine own house I am as nobody.\"\n\nTheir wives, greatly interested about the foreigner, had,\nnevertheless, let it be boldly as truly said, a royal, a magnificent,\na generous, kindly feeling. At St. Georges, they cut up, and scraped\nup, all their linen to make lint for the wounded at Solferino. At\nEntretat, three Englishmen being wrecked, and in awful danger, the\nwhole population, men, women and children, rushed to the rescue, and\ndragged them to land with all the outward and visible signs of a real\nand a violent sensibility. And they were fed, and clothed, and tended,\nand relieved, even as though they had been compatriots, and very dear\nfriends. This occurred in April, 1859.\n\nOh! Those kind French people! And yet, how hard, hitherto, has been\ntheir life! In our _regime_ of Classes (so useful, however, in itself,\nand from which we derive so much of giant strength) the sailor is\ncompelled, at any moment, to leave the merchant service for the war\nship, daily and hourly growing more severe, more crushing, in its hard\ndiscipline! Forty years ago the sailor sang, as he worked at the\ncapstan bar; _now_ he heaves in silence. (Ial. Arch II. 522). And in\nthe merchant service, the great fisheries are almost worked out. The\nprofits of the Whale Fishery belong, almost entirely, to the\noutfitter. (Boitard, Diet. art. Cetace\u00e6, Whales, &c.) The Cod has\ndiminished, the Mackerel grows more and more scarce. A very precious\nlittle book (_The Story of Rose Duchenin_, by herself) gives a most\ntouching picture of this great destitution. Alphonse Karr, that\nadmirable writer, had the good sense to write that book from the\ndictation of that Fisherman's Wife, without altering a word of hers,\nor adding a word of his own.\n\n\u00c9tretat is not, properly speaking, a port. Situated little, if any,\nabove the level of the Sea, and defended only by the pebbly bar which\nthe sea has washed in, it is but poorly sheltered. And consequently,\nit is necessary that, according to the old Celtic custom, every vessel\nthat runs in there, must be hauled up to the Quay by the cable and the\ncapstan; the capstan bars being handled by the women, for the lads are\nall at sea. The labor and the difficulty will be easily understood by\nall who read this. The lubberly craft, as it is drawn up, hits hard\nfrom boulder to boulder, and ascends only by leaps, violent and\ndamaging, and still more threatening than either. And at every leap\nand every shock, those poor women suffer from the hard blow to their\nnecks and from the bitterly painful emotions of their poor hearts.\n\nWhen I first witnessed this terrible labor, I was wounded, saddened in\nmine inmost heart. My first impulse was to bear a hand and lend my\naid. But the thing would seem so singular, I thought, that a\nsomething, I know not what, of false shame, arrested me. But every day\nI lent a hand, at least with my wishes and my prayers. I went, and\nlooked. Those young and charming, though anything but pretty, women\nand girls did not sport the short red petticoat of the coasts, but\nlong robes; and for the most part, they had the refined and delicate\naspect of the young lady of the great city. Bending to that hard toil\n(a filial, and, therefore, a noble toil) they had a certain mingled\ngrace and pride, and, in all that hard toil, not a complaint, not even\na sigh, escaped them.\n\nThat very small Quay of Boulders, small as it is, yet is too large. I\nsaw there a number of vessels, abandoned, useless. For, see you, the\nFishery has become so unproductive! The fish have fled that shore.\nEntretat languishes, perishes, so near to languishing, and, but for\nits sea-bathing, perishing, Dieppe, which owes its present\nexistence--such as it is!--to the greater or less number of visitors,\nwho render Dieppe in one season prosperous, and in another as nearly\nas possible, bankrupt. And this very influx from Paris, worldly Paris,\nis, after all, morally, at least, a real scourge to that marine\npopulation.\n\nOur Norman populations who discovered America, and who, ever since the\nfourteenth century, have known Africa, are every year becoming less\nand less in love with the sea, so that, year by year, more and more of\nthem are turning their faces inland. The descendant of the bold fellow\nwho formerly harpooned the Whale, is now a pale cotton-spinner of\nMontville or of Balbec.\n\nIt is for Science, it is for the Law, to put a stop to this fearful\ndecay. The former with its skill, its sound advice will,--if such\nadvice be resolutely acted upon, _economise the Sea and_ revive that\nFishery which is the very nursery of Seamen; and in the next place,\nthe Law, less exclusively caring for the interests of the real\n_\u00e9lite_, the real flower and elect of the country, in no wise to be\ncompared to those great masses from which we draw our soldiery, but\nwho, under given circumstances, will be able to cut the Gordian knot\nof the world.\n\nSuch were my reflections, on the little wharf or Quay of Etretat, in\nthe cloudy and rainy summer of 1860, while the capstan bar was heaved\nat by young females, while the capstan screamed at every turn, and\nwhile the whole scene put one in mind of _desolation for the present,\nand worse to come_.\n\nAnd thus is it with our century. Ever since 1730, and so in the\npresent day, labor, fatigue, and slowness have been upon us. Let us\nall, of no matter what rank, put hand and strength to the capstan bar!\nBut, alas! how many of us prefer _picking up pebbles on the wild_ sea\nshore!\n\nWe read that Scipio, stern conqueror of Carthage, and Terence, the\nlucky refugee from that shipwreck of a world, amused themselves in\npicking up shells on the sea shore; capital friends in their\nforgetfulness of the past. They enjoyed the _dolce far niente_; they\nwere luxurious in their enjoyment of the illusion of being _boys once\nmore_. But let not that be _our_ wish. We will not, we must not, we\ndare not, forget _our_ duty; no, with persistent labor, with uncooling\nardor, we will put our hands to the capstan bar, and help to _warp up_\nthis great, but worn and much tried century.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTHE NEW LIFE OF THE NATIONS.\n\n\nJust as I was finishing this book, in December, 1860, resuscitated\nItaly, that great and glorious mother of the modern nations, sent me\ntidings, in the shape of a small book, a mere pamphlet. It was my \"New\nYear's gift for 1861.\"\n\nAnd from that Italy how often have we had great and beautiful tidings?\nIn 1300 news from Dante; in 1500 news from Americus Vespucius; in 1600\nfrom Galileo. And what are our present tidings from Florence?\n\nApparently, but small. But who knows? Perhaps the results will be\nimmense! It is a discourse of but a few pages, a medical pamphlet, and\nits very title is more likely to repel than to attract. And, yet, in\nthose few pages there is matter which, duly acted upon, may change the\nwhole destiny of our great, but weak, our often wise, but still more\noften mistaken Humanity.\n\nOpposite to the Title I find two portraits, one a deceased boy, and\nanother dying. The author of the pamphlet is a Doctor, who, very\nunusual thing! has been so terribly impressed by the fate of his poor\nunknown and, but for him, uncared for children, that he has been led\nto write for our instruction, his pain and his regret.\n\nThe elder of these children, of a fine and high nature, in the\nbitterness, as it would seem, of a great destiny cut short, has a\nbouquet upon his pillow. His mother,--poor, poor, mother! has given it\nto him this morning, having nothing else to give, and the nurses,\nseeing the quite religious love with which he cared for the poor gift\nof that poor mother, have allowed him to keep it.\n\nThe second, still younger, in all the tender grace of his four or five\nyears, is evidently dying; his eyes are fast veiling beneath the death\nfilm. Each of these poor boys had shown sympathy for the other. When\nthey could no longer speak their sympathy, they _looked_ it in their\ntender glances, and the good kind Doctor, (blessings on him for the\nkindly thought!) had them placed opposite to each other, and his\nengraving shows them to us (touching sight), just as, dying, they\nexchanged their sympathizing glances!\n\nThe whole is truly, and nobly, Italian. In any other country a man\nwould fear to be laughed at in showing himself thus truly tender. Not\nso in Italy. The Doctor wrote to his Italian public, just as he might\nsoliloquise in the privacy of his own study; and he unreservedly pours\nout all his feelings with an intensity, with a perfectly feminine\nsensibility, which will make the worldly man laugh, and the kindly man\nweep. And it must be confessed that his native language has much to do\nwith his power over our feelings; it is the language of women and\nchildren, at once so tender and so striking, beautiful even in its\nterrible accent of grief and suffering. It is a shower of mingled\ntears and roses.\n\nAnd then he suddenly stops himself. and apologizes. He would not have\nwritten thus, but for sufficient cause, and that cause is that \"Those\npoor children would not have died if they could have been sent to the\nsea-side.\" And, the inference? That at the sea-side we must have\nHospitals for children. Now here, if you please, is a really skilful,\nas well as greatly humane, man. He touches the heart; and the rest\nnecessarily follows. Men listen attentively and are touched; women\nburst into an agony of tears. They beg, they pray, they insist--and\nwho is to resist them? Without waiting for government action, or\ngovernment aid, a voluntary society has founded a \"_Children's\nSea-Bathing Hospital_\" at Viareggio.\n\nAll who have been there admire the crescent-like sweep, made by the\nMediterranean, when it quits Genoa passes the magnificent road of\nSpezzia and reaches the Virgilian Olive Groves of Tuscany. About half\nway from Leghorn a cape, stolen from the Sea, is the site, henceforth\nthe sacred site, of this truly admirable foundation.\n\nFlorence, by the way, has preceded all Europe in the way of charitable\nfoundations; she had hospitals before the close of the tenth century,\nand in the year 1287, when Beatrice inspired and maddened Dante, her\nfather, the cruel persecutor of the greater, far greater Dante,\nfounded the hospital of _St. Maria Nuova_. Even Luther, though in his\ntravels he saw little to admire in Italy, _did_ admire, and very\nheartily, its Hospitals and the beautiful Italian women, who, veiled,\nstood by the bedsides of the sick sinner and the dying pauper.\n\nThis new foundation, of which we have spoken, will, we trust, be a\nmodel for Europe. We owe that much to children; for upon them it is\nthat fall the worst effects of our murderous toils and our still more\nmurderous excesses in every kind of bad life.\n\nIt is impossible not to perceive the visible and terrible\ndeterioration of our Western races. The causes of it are numerous and\nvery various. The chief of them all is the immensity and the constant\nand rapid increase of our hours of labor. For the most part, it is\ncompulsory; compelled by trade regulations and trade necessities. But\neven where no such compulsion exists, there the same ardor of long\nhours and hard toil exists. I know not what demoniac fire exists in\nour modern temperament. Compared to ourselves, all former centuries\nhave been positively idle. Our results, no doubt, are immense. From\nour prolific brain and iron hand, proceeds such a marvellous flood of\nart, science, inventions, productions, and ideas, that we are actually\nglutting the markets, not only of the present, but also of the future.\nBut at what cost are we doing all this? At the price of an awful\nexpenditure of strength, and of nervous energy; we are enervating\nourselves, our works are prodigious, and _our children_ are miserable.\nWe condemn them to disease, suffering, and premature death even before\nthey are born. _Our spendthrift waste of energy entails feebleness and\nearly death upon them!_ And let it be remembered that this immense\namount of production is the work of only a comparatively small number.\nAmerica does little of it, Asia next to nothing, and even in Europe\nall, or nearly all, is done by a few millions in the extreme West. The\nothers laugh to see the really working peoples thus wear themselves\nout. Poor Barbarians! Do you fancy, then, that this Russian or that\nBackwoodsman, can replace, at need, a mechanic of London or an\noptician of Paris? No; we have become such by the education and the\npractice of long centuries. A whole and a very long tradition is in\nus. What would become of you if we should die? None of you are ready\nto succeed us.\n\nBut this same murderous toil, this absolutely suicidal production, if\nwe be willing to accept it for ourselves, it is our duty _not_ to\naccept it for our children; we have no right thus to _add murder to\nsuicide_. And, yet, that is what we really are doing. They are born\nalready, with our fatigue, our cerebral exhaustion. With a perfectly\nfrightful precocity, they _know_, they _can_, they _will_, and they\n_do_. But how long? The grave opens for them _so_ early!\n\nThe human infant, like the young plant, needs rest, air, and a sweet\nliberty. Do we give our children any of these? No; our very virtues,\nas well as our vices, deny them all. Everything seems to combine to\nkill them early. Do we love them? No doubt; and yet our worst malice\ncould not do more than we do to kill them early or to cause them to\nlive miserably, pitifully, sufferingly, effeminate. Such a society as\nours, so overworked, so over excited, so constantly agitated, is,\n(whether society will confess it or not) a real, and a murderous war\nupon our children.\n\nEspecially there are times and seasons in the course of the child's\ngrowth when his life quite literally hangs upon a thread. Life, at\nthose times, seems to borrow human voice, and to ask,--\"Can I possibly\nlast?\" At those critical times, see you, the contact of so many, the\nclose, sedentary, and imprisoned life of cities, is just simply Death\nto those delicate and fading creatures. Or, even worse than Death, it\nis the commencement of a long career of suffering and helplessness far\nworse than Death itself. In this latter case you leave a poor creature\nwho, now sick, now well, drags on a wretched existence, a misery to\nhimself and a burthen upon public charity.\n\nAll this must be cut short. We must have foresight combined with\nhumanity. We must snatch the child from these murderous surroundings;\nwe must take him from man and give him to the grand nursing of the\nfecund Nature--of the Sea. And, then, the child will live and become\nMan. Your very foundlings, if you thus treat them may some day become\nyour Nelsons and your Napiers, and your community, instead of having\nto support an habitual patient of your hospitals, will have the bold\nseaman or the strong laborer.\n\nAnd, for the matter of that, why need we depend upon the State to do\nthis great thing? Florence hath taught us that the royal heart is\nfully equal to any other royalty; woman in her mercy, _is_ a royalty;\nshe commands, entreats, and man obeys. Woman! Have mercy upon the\nchildren!\n\nIf I were a young and lovely woman, I well know what _I_ should say,\nand what _I_ should do. I should have all around me my magnificence\nand my luxury, and when on some fine day, my lover in his love should\nbe eager, passionate, ready to give great gifts, I would say to him:--\n\n\"Please offer me none of your Cachemires, designed in England and\nwoven in India; for Diamonds I really care nothing; Berthollet who\nknows so well how to imitate Nature can make Diamonds, if he so\nplease. But if you really wish to make me a present which I shall\nlove, and for which I shall love you, be so good as to get me a nice\nwell sheltered, yet beautifully sunny home, in which I can lodge some\nthree score, or so, of poor children. They will want no fine\nfurniture; not much of any kind. Once established in that sunny,\nquiet, and kindly home, they will be well fed, and well cared for;\nand, my word for it, not a woman will go to the sea-side for her own\nhealth who will not give her mite towards the support of those poor\nchildren. If Beatrice of Florence could influence her father to found\nsuch a home, such a saving refuge, cannot we women of France do as\nmuch? Is it that we are less beautiful, or are you less truly in\nLove?\"\n\n\"If the Sea, as you every morning tell me, has beautified and improved\nme so much; surely, your best gift would be my keepsake for the beach.\nAnd if you really love me, you will share with me in this work, this\ngreat work of bringing to the bosom of the great Ocean-mother a whole\nfamily of these perishing children. Let her take our pledges of a\ndurable tenderness and purest love! Let her bear witness that, in the\npresence of the Infinite, we _were_, in very truth, united in one holy\nthought!\"\n\nOne woman has thus commenced and another will continue, the common\nmother, France. No Institution more useful, no money better expended.\nAnd, in fact, not much needs to be expended. The chief thing necessary\nwill be to transfer some of our charitable institutions from the\ninterior. For many of those institutions expend their funds in mere\nwaste; in fact, some of them might be quite truly termed Pauper\nManufactories.\n\nThe Romans had the good sense never to grudge expense for anything\nthat concerned the public health. Just look at their splendid\naqueducts, just consider their public baths where quite gratuitously,\nor, at the utmost, at the charge of a half cent, the meanest could\nbathe, and you will at once understand their public spirit, their\nreally large and grand patriotism. Fresh water baths, salt water\nbaths, everything was provided for that lazy and non-producing\nplebeianism! Perhaps, in fact, in the politico-economical sense, the\nPatricians of Rome did too much for that, at once indolent and\nseditious _Plebs_. And shall we, WE, WE hesitate to do far less to\nsave our own race, that one creative and laborious race that creates\nall that is really progressive on our globe?\n\nI speak not here merely, or even principally, of the children; but of\nall. Every town, at this very instant, has a town within a town, a\ntown of horrible sufferers; of the poor, and the afflicted; they are\ngoing to be Paupers not only now, but for the whole remainder of their\nlives. Again, and again, and again they will come; cured to-day, and\nreturning to-morrow worse and more helpless than ever. They must be\nenormously expensive; and who pays the cost? Why their hardier fellow\nworkmen who, in the ultimate result, pay all our expenses! And the\nlaborer dies young, and leaves his young ones a burthen on the public\npurse.\n\n_Prevention is better than cure._ You can do far more for the man who\nis in danger of being sick than for him who is already worn out. Ten\ndays or a fortnight of rest and good living at the sea-side, will\nrestore him to you, a good, sound, solid laborer. His carriage, and\nthe cheap shelter, for so few days! by that recuperating sea-side, I\ntell you again, will restore him to you, a good sound, honest, and\nindependent laborer. And the man will be saved, and his young family;\nand such a man as, if you once lose him, you cannot easily replace.\nNo! You cannot replace him, for, as I have already said, every really\nworking man is the slow product, of a long tradition of thought and of\nlabor, and he himself is a work of art; of that so much misunderstood\nhuman art in which _Humanity itself becomes a creative Power_.\n\nWho shall give me to see that crowd of inventive people, that creating\nand manufacturing people, who in the world's service are hourly\nwearing themselves out; who, I ask, will give me to see that People,\nthat true People, enabled to repair their shattered frames at the\nmagnificent sea-side? Let this ability be provided for them, and all\nclasses and conditions will equally share the benefit. And let it not\nbe forgotten that all classes and conditions _owe_ thus much to the\nworn toilers, for by their toil, their excessive toil, all classes are\nbenefited. It is by their very blood, by their very marrow, that all\nclasses receive their enjoyments, their elegance, and their\nenlightenment. Let society, then, give to them the repose, the saline\nair, the restoring waters of the great restoring Sea. In doing thus\nmuch, society will benefit itself; while doing the simplest justice to\nits worn toilers.\n\nHave pity upon yourselves, all ye poor men of the West. Consult upon,\nand act for, the common weal. Earth entreats you to live and offers\nyou that which is her best, the SEA, to repair your own strength and\nthus secure your children against your weakness. Earth would be ruined\nif you persist in ruining yourselves, for you are her Genius, her\ninventive and working Soul. She lives by your life, and if you die\nshe also will die. In the name, then, of Humanity and of Nature, too,\nNations! Attention! Mercy for yourselves; Earth supplies you with the\nmeans of laboring and living; THE SEA offers you the still better\nmeans of living WELL.\n\n\n\n\nNOTES.\n\n\n\"That vast animal the Earth, which for heart has a magnet, has at its\nsurface a doubtful being, electric and phosphorescent, more sensitive,\nand infinitely more prolific, than the Earth itself.\n\n\"That being which we call the Sea,--is it a parasite of the vast\nanimal which we call the Earth? No. It has not a distinct and hostile\npersonality. It vivifies and fecundates the Earth with its vapors; it\neven appears to be the Earth itself in that which it has of the most\nproductive; in other words, its principal organ of fecundity.\"\n\nGerman Dreams! But are they, in feet, entirely Dreams? More than one\ngreat mind, without going quite so far, seem to admit for both Earth\nand Sea a kind of obscure personality. Ritter and Lyell say: \"The\nEarth labors herself; can she be impotent to organise herself? How are\nwe to imagine that the creative power which we observe in every being\non the globe can be denied to the globe itself?\" But how does the\nglobe act? How at the present time does it obtain accretion? From the\nSea and its living denizens.\n\nThe full solution of these great questions would require a more\nprofound study of Physiology than we as yet have made. Nevertheless,\nduring the last twenty years every thing tends this way: 1. We have\nstudied the irregular and exterior phase of the movements of the Sea,\nwe have inquired into the _Law of Storms_. 2. We have studied the\nmovements proper to the Sea, its _currents_, the play of its arteries\nand veins, of which the first propel the salt water from the Equator\nto the Poles, while the second return it, freshened, to the Equator:\n3. The third and more difficult question on which modern chemistry\nwill throw light, is that as to the real nature of the marine _mucus_,\nof that unctuous gelatine which is every where found in Sea water, and\nwhich appears to be a living liquid.\n\nIt is quite recently that the sounding of Brooke, and more especially\nthe soundings for the submarine telegraph from Europe to America, have\nbegun to reveal the secrets of the bottom of the Sea. Are its lowest\ndepths peopled? Formerly, that was denied, but Forbes and James Ross\nfound life throughout them.\n\nPrevious to those splendid discoveries, which were made less than\ntwenty years ago, the book of the Sea could not be written. The first\nattempt at writing it was made by M. Hartwig. For my own part, I was\nstill far from the idea of writing it when, in 1845, in preparing my\nbook of \"The People,\" I commenced, in Normandy, my study of the\npopulation of the Coasts. In the fifteen subsequent years, this vast\nand difficult subject has been continually growing upon me, and has\nfollowed me from shore to shore.\n\nThe first book of this Volume--_A glance at the Seas_, is, as the\ntitle indicates, merely a preliminary promenade. All the important\nmatters therein are discussed in the following three books. I except\ntwo, however, _Tides_ and _Beacons_. Here my principal guide has been\nM. Chazallon's important _Annual_, already numbering twenty volumes,\nthe first having appeared in 1839. If the Civic Crown was bestowed\nupon the man who saved one human life, how many such crowns has not M.\nChazallon deserved! Anterior to his labors, the errors, as to the\ntides, were enormous. By immense labor he has corrected the\nobservations for nearly five hundred ports from the Adour to the Elbe.\nHis _Annual_ gives the most exact information upon the Beacons.\nSimilarly valuable is the clear and agreeably written exposition in\nthe _Souvenirs_ of M. de Quatrefages on the Lighthouse system of\nFresnel and Arago. The admirable system of revolving lighthouses, in\nwhich the lights flash and disappear, at short and regular intervals,\nis due to Lemoine, Mayor of Calais.\n\nFor the various names of the Sea refer to Ad. Pictet-_Origines\nIndo-Europeennes_. On the water, consult the Introduction to Deville's\n_Annual of the Waters of France_; Aime's _Annale's de Chimie_ II., V.,\nXII., XIII., and XV. Morren, the same, I, and Acad de Bruxelles, XIV.,\n&c. On the saltness of the Sea Chapman quoted by Tricaut _Ann. de\nHydrographie_ XIII., 1857, and Thomassy's _Bulletin de la Soci\u00e9t\u00e9\nGeographique_, 4 June, 1860.\n\nI did not thoroughly comprehend the Shore of _Saint Michel en Greve_\nand the questions concerning it, until I read in the _Revue des Deux\nMondes_ the two very fine articles of M. Baude, full alike of facts\nand ideas. I speak elsewhere of his excellent views on the Fisheries.\n\nIn speaking (Chap. III.) of Brittany, I must acknowledge my obligation\nto the book of Cambry which formerly gave me my first ideas upon that\nsubject. It should be read in the edition which \u00c9mile Souvestre\nenriched, and we may say doubled, with his excellent notes and notices\nwhich thenceforth made us thoroughly acquainted with the _Derniers\nBretons_. In several admirable little tales of graphic and striking\ntruthfulness, Souvestre has given the best existing pictures of our\nwestern coasts, especially of Finisterre and the neighboring shores of\nthe Loire. I should be glad to quote something from a writer so\nagreeable, and a friend so sincerely lamented, but the limits of this\nlittle book prevent me from quoting any literary matter.\n\nThe remarkable observation made by Elie de Beaumont, quoted by me in\nChapter 4 of Book I., stands at the head of his article--which, in\nitself, is a great book--_Terrains_ in the Dictionary of M. d'Orbigny.\n\nWhat I have said about St. George's, in Chapter 7, is much better said\nin Pelletan's books on _Royan_ and in his _Pasteur du Desert_. That\nPastor, as is generally known, was the grandfather of Pelletan, the\nreverend minister Jarousseau, so admirably heroic in saving his\nenemies. His small house, still standing, is a veritable Temple of\nHumanity.\n\nNotes to Book 2. Chapter I, _Fecundity_. On the Herring, see Vol. I of\nDe Reste's translation of an anonymous Dutch work; No\u00ebl de la\nMoriniere in his excellent works printed and unpublished;\nValenciences' _Poissons_, &c.\n\nChapter II. _Milky Sea._ Bory de Saint Vincent, _Diet. Classique_,\nArticles _Mer et Matieres_; Zimmerman, the _World before Man_, a\nbeautiful and popular work which is in every one's hands. I am\nindebted also to the work of M. Bronn, crowned by the _Academy of the\nSciences_. On the universal innocuousness of the vegetation of the\nSea, consult Pouchet's _Botanique_ a work of the highest order. For\nthe plants which become animals; see Vaucher's Conferves, 1803;\nDecaisne and Thuret _Annales de Sc. Nat._, 1845; Volumes III., XIV.\nand XVI., and _Comptes de l'Acad._, 1853, Vol. XXXVI.; also, articles\nof Montagne Dict d'Orb. On the Volcanoes, see part 4, of Humboldt's\nCosmos, and Ritter, translated by Elisee Reclus, _Revue Germ._, 30th\nNovember, 1859.\n\nChapter III. _The Atom._ In the text I have quoted the great masters,\nEhrenberg, Dujardin, Pouchet, Heterogenie. In the end spontaneous\ngeneration will conquer.\n\nChapters IV., V., VI., &c. Throughout this book, in ascending from\ninferior to superior life, I have taken for my guiding thread in the\ngreat labyrinth, the hypothesis of Metamorphosis but without serious\nintention of constructing a _chain of beings_. The idea of ascending\nMetamorphosis is natural to the mind, and is, in some sort,\nirresistibly imposed upon us. Cuvier himself, at the close of his\nIntroduction to his _Poissons_, confesses that if that theory has no\nHistorical value it _has a logical value_. On the _Sponge_, see Paul\nGervais Dict. d'Orb. V. 375; Grant in Chenn, 307, &c. On Polypes,\nCorals, and Madrepores (Chapters 4 and 5) besides Forster, Peron and\nDawin consult Quoy and Gaimard; Lamouroux, _Polypes Flexibles_; Milne\nEdwards, Polypes and Ascidies of the Channel, &c. On the Calcaire, see\nthe two Geologies of Lyell.\n\nChapter VI. _Medus\u00e6, Polypes, &c._ See Ehrenberg, Lession, Dujardin,\n&c. Forbes shows by vegetable analogies that these animal\nmetamorphoses are very simple phenomena. Annals of Nat. History,\nDecember, 1844. See also his excellent dissertations, _Medus\u00e6_, in\nquarto, 1849.\n\nChapter VII. _The Oursin or Sea Hedgehog._ See the curious\ndissertations in which M. Cailland has described his discoveries.\n\nChapter VIII. _Shells, Pearl, and Mother of Pearl._ The capital work\non these is Blainville's _Malacology_. See, also, on the Pearl Mabius\nof Hamburgh, _Revue Germ._, July 31, 1858. I have profitably consulted\non this subject our celebrated Jeweller, M. Froment Meurice.\n\nChapter IX. _The Poulpe._ Cuvier, Blainville, Dujardin Ann. des\nSciences Nat., first series, Vol. V. p. 214, and second series Vols.\n3, 16, and 17; Robin and Secord, Locomotion of Cephalapodes, Revue de\nZoology, 1849, p. 333.\n\nChapter X. _Crustace\u00e6._ Besides the classical and important work of\nMilne Edwards, I have consulted d'Orbigny and various travelers. See,\nalso, the fine Atlas of Dumont d'Urville.\n\nChapter XI. _Fish._ The Introduction of Cuvier, Valenciennes' article\nFish, in d'Orbigny's Dictionary. This last article is a complete book,\nlearned and excellent. On the anatomy of Fish see the celebrated\ndissertation of Geoffroy. For what I have said on the nests made by\nspawning Fish I am indebted to Messrs. Caste and Gerbe.\n\nChapters XII and XIII. _Whales, Amphibii and Syrens._ Here, Lacepede\nis at once instructive and eloquent. Nothing can be better than\nBoitard's articles in d'Orbigny's Dictionary.\n\nNotes to Book 3. _Conquest of the Sea._ This book sprang naturally out\nof my perusal of travels and voyages from the first History of Dieppe,\nby Vitel Estancelin, down to the recent discoveries. Especially\nconsult Kerquelon, John Ross, Parry, Weddell, Dumont, d'Urville, James\nRoss, and Kane; Biot in the _Journal des Savants_ and the luminous and\nprecious abridgement of those works, by M. Langele in the _Revue des\ndeux Mondes_. On the Fishery, besides the great works of Duhamel, see\nTiphaine, \"Economie History of the Western Seas de France, 1760.\"\n\nNotes to Book 4. _Restoration by the Sea._ As long ago as 1725,\nMaraigli seems to have suspected the presence of iodine. In 1730, an\nanonymous work, _Comes Domesticus_, recommended Sea Bathing.\n\nThe Bibliography of the Sea would be endless. There are many excellent\nbooks. Among them I may mention \"the Mediterranean Sea,\" by W. H.\nSmith, 1854, the Manuals and Guide books of Guadet, Roccas, Cochet,\nErnst, &c.\n\nOn the degeneracy of Races, see Morel, 1857: Magnus Huss,\n\"_Alcoholismus_,\" 1852, &c.\n\nI owe my acquaintance with the pamphlet of Doctor Barellay (_Ospizi\nMarini_) to my illustrious friend Montanelli, and to the delightful\narticles of M. Dall' Ongaro.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    _NEW BOOKS_\n\n    And New Editions Recently Published by\n\n    RUDD & CARLETON,\n    _150 GRAND STREET, NEW YORK._\n    (BROOKS BUILDING, COR. OF BROADWAY.)\n\n[Illustration]\n\n     N.B.--Rudd & Carleton, upon receipt of the price, will send\n     any of the following Books, by mail, postage free, to any\n     part of the United States. This convenient and very safe mode\n     may be adopted when the neighboring Booksellers are not\n     supplied with the desired work.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n_NOTHING TO WEAR._\n\nA satirical poem, by William Allen Butler. With illustrations by A.\nHoppin. 12mo. muslin, 50 cts.\n\n\n_ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT._\n\nA new and popular biography, including his travels and labors, with an\nintroduction by Bayard Taylor. 12mo. muslin, $1.25.\n\n\n_HUMBOLDT'S PRIVATE LETTERS._\n\nAlexander Von Humboldt's private correspondence with Varnhagen von\nEnse and other contemporary celebrities; translated from the German.\n12mo., $1.25.\n\n\n_THE GREAT TRIBULATION._\n\nOr, Things coming on the Earth. By Rev. John Cumming, D.D., author of\n\"Apocalyptic Sketches,\" &c. In two volumes 12mo. muslin, either sold\nseparately, $1.00 each.\n\n\n_THE GREAT PREPARATION._\n\nOr, Redemption draweth Nigh. By Rev. John Cumming, D.D., author of\n\"The Great Tribulation,\" &c. In two volumes 12mo. muslin, either sold\nseparately, $1.00 each.\n\n\n_A WOMAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN._\n\nBy Miss Muloch ; author of \"John Halifax, Gentleman,\" \"A Life for a\nLife,\" &c. 12mo. muslin, $1.00.\n\n\n_THE HABITS OF GOOD SOCIETY._\n\nA handbook for ladies and gentlemen; with thoughts, hints, and\nanecdotes concerning social observances, taste, and good manners.\n12mo. muslin, $1.25.\n\n_LOVE (L'AMOUR)._\n\nFrom the French of M. Jules Michelet, author of \"A History of France,\"\n&c., translated by Dr. J. W. Palmer, 12mo. muslin, $1.00.\n\n\n_WOMAN (LA FEMME)._\n\nA continuation of \"L'Amour.\" Translated from the French of Michelet by\nDr. Palmer. 12mo. muslin, $1.00.\n\n\n_THE CHILD (L'ENFANT)._\n\nSequel to \"L'Amour\" and \"La Femme.\" Translated from the French of\nMichelet. 12mo. muslin, $1.00 (in press).\n\n\n_THE BIRD (L'OISEAU)._\n\nFrom the French of M. Michelet, translated by Dr. J. W. Palmer. 12mo.\nmuslin, $1.00 (in press).\n\n\n_THE INSECT (L'INS\u00c8CTE)._\n\nFrom the French of M. Michelet, translated by Dr. J. W. Palmer. 12mo.\nmuslin, $1.00 (in press).\n\n\n_WOMEN OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION._\n\nFrom the French of M. Michelet, translated by Dr. J. W. Palmer. 12mo.\nmuslin, $1.00 (in press).\n\n\n_THE MORAL HISTORY OF WOMEN._\n\nAn Offset to \"L'Amour,\" translated from the French of Ernest Legouv\u00e9\nby Dr. Palmer. 12mo. muslin, $1.00.\n\n\n_VICTOIRE._\n\nA new American novel. 12mo. muslin, $1.25 (in press).\n\n\n_THE CULPRIT FAY._\n\nA fa\u00ebry poem by Joseph Rodman Drake. Elegantly printed on tinted\npaper. 12mo. muslin, 50 cts.\n\n\n_DOCTOR ANTONIO._\n\nA Tale of Italy. By G. Ruffini, author of \"Lorenzo Benoni,\" &c. 12mo.\nmuslin, $1.25.\n\n\n_LAVINIA._\n\nA new novel of Italian Life, by G. Ruffini; author of \"Doctor\nAntonio,\" &c. 12mo. muslin, $1.25.\n\n\n_DEAR EXPERIENCE._\n\nA novel by G. Ruffini; author of \"Doctor Antonio,\" &c. 12mo. muslin,\nillustrated, $1.00.\n\n\n_BEATRICE CENCI._\n\nA novel, translated from the Italian of F. D. Guerrazzi, by Luigi\nMonti of Harvard College. 12mo. muslin, $1.25.\n\n\n_ISABELLA ORSINI._\n\nAn Historical novel, translated from the Italian of Guerrazzi, author\nof \"Beatrice Cenci.\" 12mo. muslin, $1.25.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\n\nSome presumed typose were corrected. Although most words were left as\nper the printed version, some standardization was made (ex., Arcachon\nfor Archachon, Archacon and Arrachon). Based on some research, the\nfollowing list of changes were made.\n\n\n  Page(s)   Change\n  ========  ===========\n   26       Grindenwald => Grindelwald\n   28, 173  Livingston => Livingstone\n   34       Sheveningen => Scheveningen\n   32       Eloretat => \u00c9tretat and Fecamp => F\u00e9camp\n   98       Biarrity => Biarritz\n   99       H\u00e8aux => H\u00e9aux and Epees de Treguier => \u00c9p\u00e9es de Tr\u00e9guier\n  133       Ponchet => Pouchet\n  149, 152  Geoffray => Geoffroy\n  158       Added missing quotes at end of top and begining\n                of next paragraph\n  165       Medea => Medusa\n  171       Vetelles => Velelles\n  222       everything that comes in their path--animals, (\"path--\" added)\n  236       Catace\u00e6 => Cetace\u00e6\n  402       appearing => appeared\n  404       Chapter IX. _Fish._ => Chapter XI. _Fish._\n  ad2       LA VINIA => LAVINIA","title":"The Sea (La Mer)","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":88638}