For all that has been said of the love that certain natures (on shore) have professed to feel for it, for all the celebrations it had been the object of in prose and song, the sea has never been friendly to man.  At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness, and playing the part of dangerous abettor of world-wide ambitions.  Faithful to no race after the manner of the kindly earth, receiving no impress from valour and toil and self-sacrifice, recognising no finality of dominion, the sea has never adopted the cause of its masters like those lands where the victorious nations of mankind have taken root, rocking their cradles and setting up their gravestones.  He—­man or people—­who, putting his trust in the friendship of the sea, neglects the strength and cunning of his right hand, is a fool!  As if it were too great, too mighty for common virtues, the ocean has no compassion, no faith, no law, no memory.  Its fickleness is to be held true to men’s purposes only by an undaunted resolution and by a sleepless, armed, jealous vigilance, in which, perhaps, there has always been more hate than love.  Odi et amo may well be the confession of those who consciously or blindly have surrendered their existence to the fascination of the sea.  All the tempestuous passions of mankind’s young days, the love of loot and the love of glory, the love of adventure and the love of danger, with the great love of the unknown and vast dreams of dominion and power, have passed like images reflected from a mirror, leaving no record upon the mysterious face of the sea.  Impenetrable and heartless, the sea has given nothing of itself to the suitors for its precarious favours.  Unlike the earth, it cannot be subjugated at any cost of patience and toil.  For all its fascination that has lured so many 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 complex sentiment wherein 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.