to a violent death, its immensity has never been loved as the
mountains, the plains, the desert itself, have been loved. Indeed,

I suspect that, leaving aside the protestations and tributes of
writers who, one is safe in saying, care for little else in the

world than the rhythm of their lines and the cadence of their
phrase, the love of the sea, to which some men and nations confess

so readily, is a complexsentimentwherein pride enters for much,
necessity for not a little, and the love of ships - the untiring

servants of our hopes and our self-esteem - for the best and most
genuine part. For the hundreds who have reviled the sea, beginning

with Shakespeare in the line
"More fell than hunger, anguish, or the sea,"

down to the last obscure sea-dog of the "old model," having but few
words and still fewer thoughts, there could not be found, I

believe, one sailor who has ever coupled a curse with the good or
bad name of a ship. If ever his profanity, provoked by the

hardships of the sea, went so far as to touch his ship, it would be
lightly, as a hand may, without sin, be laid in the way of kindness

on a woman.
XXXVI.

The love that is given to ships is profoundly" target="_blank" title="ad.深深地">profoundly different from the
love men feel for every other work of their hands - the love they

bear to their houses, for instance - because it is untainted by the
pride of possession. The pride of skill, the pride of

responsibility, the pride of endurance there may be, but otherwise
it is a disinterested sentiment. No seaman ever cherished a ship,

even if she belonged to him, merely because of the profit she put
in his pocket. No one, I think, ever did; for a ship-owner, even

of the best, has always been outside the pale of that sentiment
embracing in a feeling of intimate, equal fellowship the ship and

the man, backing each other against the implacable, if sometimes
dissembled, hostility of their world of waters. The sea - this

truth must be confessed - has no generosity. No display of manly
qualities - courage, hardihood, endurance, faithfulness - has ever

been known to touch its irresponsible consciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识；觉悟；知觉">consciousness of power. The
ocean has the conscienceless temper of a savage autocrat spoiled by

much adulation. He cannot brook the slightest appearance of
defiance, and has remained the irreconcilable enemy of ships and

men ever since ships and men had the unheard of audacity to go
afloat together in the face of his frown. From that day he has

gone on swallowing up fleets and men without his resentment being
glutted by the number of victims - by so many wrecked ships and

wrecked lives. To-day, as ever, he is ready to beguile and betray,
to smash and to drown the incorrigible optimism of men who, backed

by the fidelity of ships, are trying to wrest from him the fortune
of their house, the dominion of their world, or only a dole of food

for their hunger. If not always in the hot mood to smash, he is
always stealthily ready for a drowning. The most amazing wonder of

the deep is its unfathomable cruelty.
I felt its dread for the first time in mid-Atlantic one day, many

years ago, when we took off the crew of a Danish brig homeward
bound from the West Indies. A thin, silvery mist softened the calm

and majestic splendour of light without shadows - seemed to render
the sky less remote and the ocean less immense. It was one of the

days, when the might of the sea appears indeed lovable, like the
nature of a strong man in moments of quiet intimacy. At sunrise we

had made out a black speck to the westward, apparently suspended
high up in the void behind a stirring, shimmering veil of silvery

blue gauze that seemed at times to stir and float in the breeze
which fanned us slowly along. The peace of that enchanting

forenoon was so profound, so untroubled, that it seemed that every
word pronounced loudly on our deck would penetrate to the very

heart of that infinitemystery born from the conjunction of water
and sky. We did not raise our voices. "A water-logged derelict, I

think, sir," said the second officer quietly, coming down from
aloft with the binoculars in their case slung across his shoulders;

and our captain, without a word, signed to the helmsman to steer
for the black speck. Presently we made out a low, jagged stump

sticking up forward - all that remained of her departed masts.
The captain was expatiating in a low conversational tone to the

chief mate upon the danger of these derelicts, and upon his dread
of coming upon them at night, when suddenly a man forward screamed

out, "There's people on board of her, sir! I see them!" in a most
extraordinary voice - a voice never heard before in our ship; the

amazing voice of a stranger. It gave the signal for a sudden
tumult of shouts. The watch below ran up the forecastle head in a

body, the cook dashed out of the galley. Everybody saw the poor
fellows now. They were there! And all at once our ship, which had

the well-earned name of being without a rival for speed in light
winds, seemed to us to have lost the power of motion, as if the

sea, becoming viscous, had clung to her sides. And yet she moved.
Immensity, the inseparablecompanion of a ship's life, chose that

day to breathe upon her as gently as a sleeping child. The clamour
of our excitement had died out, and our living ship, famous for

never losing steerage way as long as there was air enough to float
a feather, stole, without a ripple, silent and white as a ghost,

towards her mutilated and wounded sister, come upon at the point of
death in the sunlit haze of a calm day at sea.

With the binoculars glued to his eyes, the captain said in a
quavering tone: "They are waving to us with something aft there."

He put down the glasses on the skylight brusquely, and began to
walk about the poop. "A shirt or a flag," he ejaculated irritably.

"Can't make it out. . . Some damn rag or other!" He took a few
more turns on the poop, glancing down over the rail now and then to

see how fast we were moving. His nervous footsteps rang sharply in
the quiet of the ship, where the other men, all looking the same

way, had forgotten themselves in a staring immobility. "This will
never do!" he cried out suddenly. "Lower the boats at once! Down

with them!"
Before I jumped into mine he took me aside, as being an

inexperiencedjunior, for a word of warning:
"You look out as you come alongside that she doesn't take you down

with her. You understand?"
He murmured this confidentially, so that none of the men at the

falls should overhear, and I was shocked. "Heavens! as if in such
an emergency one stopped to think of danger!" I exclaimed to myself

mentally, in scorn of such cold-blooded caution.
It takes many lessons to make a real seaman, and I got my rebuke at

once. My experiencedcommander seemed in one searching glance to
read my thoughts on my ingenuous face.

"What you're going for is to save life, not to drown your boat's
crew for nothing," he growled severely in my ear. But as we shoved

off he leaned over and cried out: "It all rests on the power of
your arms, men. Give way for life!"

We made a race of it, and I would never have believed that a common
boat's crew of a merchantman could keep up so much determined

fierceness in the regular swing of their stroke. What our captain
had clearly perceived before we left had become plain to all of us

since. The issue of our enterprise hung on a hair above that abyss
of waters which will not give up its dead till the Day of Judgment.

It was a race of two ship's boats matched against Death for a prize
of nine men's lives, and Death had a long start. We saw the crew

of the brig from afar working at the pumps - still pumping on that
wreck, which already had settled so far down that the gentle, low

swell, over which our boats rose and fell easily without a check to
their speed, welling up almost level with her head-rails, plucked

at the ends of broken gear swinging desolately under her naked
bowsprit.

We could not, in all conscience, have picked out a better day for
our regatta had we had the free choice of all the days that ever

dawned upon the lonely struggles and solitary agonies of ships
since the Norse rovers first steered to the westward against the

run of Atlantic waves. It was a very good race. At the finish
there was not an oar's length between the first and second boat,

with Death coming in a good third on the top of the very next
smooth swell, for all one knew to the contrary. The scuppers of

the brig gurgled softly all together when the water rising against