How is this, for example, if you have an ear for the music of prose?  It is a simple paragraph out of the magnificent description of a long calm in the tropics.

“A change, unusual as unwholesome, came over the bright blue of the sea.  No longer did it reflect, as in a limpid mirror, the splendour of the sun, the sweet silvery glow of the moon, or the coruscating clusters of countless stars.  Like the ashen-grey hue that bedims the countenance of the dying, a filmy greasy skin appeared to overspread the recent loveliness of the ocean surface.  The sea was sick, stagnant, and foul, from its turbid waters arose a miasmatic vapour like a breath of decay, which clung clammily to the palate and dulled all the senses.  Drawn by some strange force, from the unfathomable depths below, eerie shapes sought the surface, blinking glassily at the unfamiliar glare they had exchanged for their native gloom—­uncouth creatures bedight with tasselled fringes like weed-growths waving around them, fathom-long, medusae with coloured spots like eyes clustering all over their transparent substance, wriggling worm-like forms of such elusive matter that the smallest exposure to the sun melted them, and they were not.  Lower down, vast pale shadows creep sluggishly along, happily undistinguishable as yet, but adding a half-familiar flavour to the strange, faint smell that hung about us.”

Take the whole of that essay which describes a calm in the Tropics, or take the other one “Sunrise as seen from the Crow’s-nest,” and you must admit that there have been few finer pieces of descriptive English in our time.  If I had to choose a sea library of only a dozen volumes I should certainly give Bullen two places.  The others?  Well, it is so much a matter of individual taste.  “Tom Cringle’s Log” should have one for certain.  I hope boys respond now as they once did to the sharks and the pirates, the planters, and all the rollicking high spirits of that splendid book.  Then there is Dana’s “Two Years before the Mast.”  I should find room also for Stevenson’s “Wrecker” and “Ebb Tide.”  Clark Russell deserves a whole shelf for himself, but anyhow you could not miss out “The Wreck of the Grosvenor.”  Marryat, of course, must be represented, and I should pick “Midshipman Easy” and “Peter Simple” as his samples.  Then throw in one of Melville’s Otaheite books—­now far too completely forgotten—­“Typee” or “Omoo,” and as a quite modern flavour Kipling’s “Captains Courageous” and Jack London’s “Sea Wolf,” with Conrad’s “Nigger of the Narcissus.”  Then you will have enough to turn your study into a cabin and bring the wash and surge to your cars, if written words can do it.  Oh, how one longs for it sometimes when life grows too artificial, and the old Viking blood begins to stir!  Surely it must linger in all of us, for no man who dwells in an island but had an ancestor in longship or in coracle.  Still more must the salt drop tingle in the blood of an American when you reflect that in all that broad continent there is not one whose forefather did not cross 3000 miles of ocean.  And yet there are in the Central States millions and millions of their descendants who have never seen the sea.