eavy minute from the time when the
dawn trembles in the gray sky until the hour when, with stars and
sea-winds in her raiment, night sinks on the sea. Dull! As well describe
the rush of the turbulent Strand or the populous splendour of Regent
Street by that word! I have always held that a man cannot be considered
as educated if he is unable to wait an hour in a railway-station for a
train without _ennui_. What is education good for if it does not give us
resources which may enable us to gather delight or instruction from
every sight and sound that may fall on our nerves? The most melancholy
spectacle in the world is presented by the stolid citizen who yawns over
his _Bradshaw_ while the swift panoramas of Charing Cross or Euston are
gliding by him. Men who are rightly constituted find delight in the very
quietude and isolation of sea-life; they know how to derive pure
entertainment from the pageant of the sky and the music of winds and
waters, and they experience a piquant delight by reason of the contrast
between the loneliness of the sea and the eager struggling life of the
City. Proceeding, as is my custom, by examples, I shall give precise
descriptions of specimen days which anybody may spend on the wandering
wastes of the ocean. "All things pertaining to the life of man are of
interest to me," said the Roman; and he showed his wisdom by that
saying.

Dawn. Along the water-line a pale leaden streak appears, and little
tremulous ripples of gray run gently upwards, until a broad band of
mingled white and scarlet shines with cold radiance. The mystery of the
sea is suddenly removed, and we can watch the strange serpentine belts
that twine and glitter all round from our vessel to the horizon. The
light is strong before the sun appears; and perhaps that brooding hour,
when Nature seems to be turning in her sleep, is the best of the whole
day. The dew lies thickly on deck, and the chill of the night hangs in
the air; but soon a red arc looms up gorgeously at the sea-line; long
rays spread out like a sheaf of splendid swords on the blue; there is,
as it were, a wild dance of colour in the noble vault, where cold green
and pink and crimson wind and flush and softly glide in mystic mazes;
and then--the sun! The great flaming disc seems to poise for a little,
and all around it--pierced here and there by the steely rays--the clouds
hang like tossing scarlet plumes.

Like a warrior-angel sped
On a mighty mission,