The Pacific

When gliding by the Bashee isles we emerged at last upon the great South Sea; were it not for other things, I could have greeted my dear Pacific with uncounted thanks, for now the long supplication of my youth was answered; that serene ocean rolled eastwards from me a thousand leagues of blue.

As we glided past the Bashee isles, we finally entered the great South Sea. If not for other things, I could have greeted my dear Pacific with endless thanks. At last, the long prayer of my youth had been answered. The serene ocean rolled eastward from me, a thousand leagues of blue.

There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.

There is some sweet, mysterious quality about this sea. Its gentle, awe-inspiring movements seem to speak of a hidden soul beneath. They are like the legendary rising and falling of the earth at Ephesus over the buried Evangelist St. John. And it is fitting that the waves should rise and fall, ebb and flow without stopping over these sea pastures. They are wide, rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields for all four continents. For here lie millions of mingled shades and shadows, drowned dreams, sleepwalkings, and reveries. All that we call lives and souls lie here, still dreaming, dreaming. They toss like sleepers in their beds, and their restlessness alone makes the waves roll on.

To any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld, must ever after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of the world, the Indian ocean and Atlantic being but its arms. The same waves wash the moles of the new-built Californian towns, but yesterday planted by the recentest race of men, and lave the faded but still gorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham; while all between float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown Archipelagoes, and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious, divine Pacific zones the world’s whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth. Lifted by those eternal swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan.

Any thoughtful Magian wanderer who has seen the serene Pacific must forever after adopt it as his sea. Its waters roll at the very center of the world, while the Indian ocean and Atlantic are merely its arms. The same waves wash the piers of newly built Californian towns, founded only yesterday by the newest race of men. They also wash the faded but still magnificent shores of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham. Between them float milky ways of coral islands, endless low-lying, unknown Archipelagoes, and impenetrable Japans. This mysterious, divine Pacific encircles the whole bulk of the world. It makes all coasts one bay and seems to be the tide-beating heart of the earth. Lifted by those eternal swells, you must acknowledge the seductive god and bow your head to Pan.

But few thoughts of Pan stirred Ahab’s brain, as standing like an iron statue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging, with one nostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the Bashee isles (in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking), and with the other consciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea; that sea in which the hated White Whale must even then be swimming. Launched at length upon these almost final waters, and gliding towards the Japanese cruising-ground, the old man’s purpose intensified itself. His firm lips met like the lips of a vice; the Delta of his forehead’s veins swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran through the vaulted hull, “Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick blood!”

But few thoughts of Pan stirred in Ahab’s mind. He stood like an iron statue in his usual place beside the mizzen rigging. With one nostril, he unconsciously breathed in the sweet musk from the Bashee isles. In their fragrant woods, gentle lovers must be walking. With the other nostril, he consciously inhaled the salty breath of the newly found sea. In that sea, the hated White Whale must even then be swimming. At last, Ahab had reached these nearly final waters, and as the ship glided toward the Japanese cruising-ground, his resolve grew stronger. His firm lips closed like the jaws of a vise. The branching veins on his forehead swelled like overflowing streams. Even in his sleep, his ringing cry echoed through the vaulted hull: “Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick blood!”