“Think out something”—the sound was like a brook in summer.
So I thought, and thought, and thought—
Thought I was by the ocean. Every body has stood by the ocean. Every body loves the ocean. They love it because ’tis beautiful. They love it because ’tis terrible. Who that could ever tell his passions, as he has seen the giant rouse himself—the black sky split by the thunder-bolt, and so brazen and fiery that it seemed crisping, and “about to roll away with a great noise”—the driving wind—the bellowing thunder—the crashing deck—the rattling cordage—the death shriek of the sea-shipped wretch as the wave went over him—the horror-like eye’s last glance upon you! But I don’t mean such an ocean. It wasn’t such an one that I was standing by. It was a pretty considerable, magnificent, almighty, great sheet of water as far as the eye went, with a sky above that made one’s heart leap to look at it—its depth of blue seeming to stretch away and away, field after field, without a mist or cloud in it to mar its beauty—one unbounded, unshadowed sweep of glory and magnificence. The winds, soft and balmy, went whirling and whimpering along its surface, curling and crinkling it into small white waves, that, racing and capering up the beach, sparkled and turned into bubbles, and were caught up by the sun beams. Here and there the waters break. The huge porpoise went plunging, and sousing, and weltering along his blue path, flapping his huge tail into the air, and grunting his happiness—the bright light refracted from his surface, came to the eye like a rainbow. Here and there the flying fish slipped from his element, and went careering away over the far waters, till with a light dash or slap, his white wings dipped again into the ocean. The distance had one sail, a single one, right on the horizon’s edge—type, methought, of a being shut from the world—a human heart cut loose from sympathy—on the black desert of man’s pilgrimage. Such was the scene. I felt it. I rose, and stood, and shouted, and—
II.
Thought I was down in the ocean—right on the bottom. Whew! what a place it was!—saw all sorts of things, living and dead—all colors, good and bad—all shapes, hateful and fascinating. Here I wandered through endless groves of coral. Aloft went the light shafts tapering away into the blue distance, then branching forth into a glorious canopy, through which came the broken light with a mellowed beauty, not unlike the sun’s beams through a polished fresco-worken slab of alabaster. The waves swung backwards and forwards through this submarine forest, and their rush made the tall shafts quiver like aspen boughs in the tempest wind; and the light coral twigs, here and there detached by the waters, fell thick and fast like star showers in wintry nights. Nor should I forget the sounds of those waters as they tossed up the shells which were scattered there, and witched from them a music, that tripped and tilted through the brain, like Mab and her melodies in moonlight vision. It changed! I was in a desert! Rocks and barren surfaces above, beneath, around me! Wild cliffs—rent fastnesses—deep chasms—yawning and gaping like the cleft jaws of Hell! They had wrecks, and ruins, and dead men, and skeletons, and skulls in them. Here were fragments of those mighty tenements, that once rode in triumph on the wave’s surface. There were those black engines, wont to belch forth “their devilish glut,” and flame, and thunder. Here were skeletons—some hugging in mortal conflict. They were grappled together, as when death overtook them—their jaws yet apart, as the last curse dwelt on them, the moment the bolt came. There were friends too, parent and child, husband and wife, lover and maiden—laid as they died, locked heart to heart, each on the other’s breast, the two a unity. I sickened, shuddered, gasped—
III.
Thought I was in a forest—a bright, a green, a glorious forest. My heart ached, and I had turned from the heated world and its miseries, and where the lofty branches had intertwined and woven a pleasant twilight dwelling place, I sat me down to meditate. Then I scribbled and scribbled—and thus, I scribbled—
This is indeed a sacred solitude,
And beautiful as sacred. Here no sound
Save such as breathes a soft tranquillity,