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