You are currently viewing Did you watch the first three seasons of Brave Stranger?

Did you watch the first three seasons of Brave Stranger?

“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue oce­an, roll! Ten thousand blub­ber-hun­ters sweep over thee in vain.”

Very often do the cap­tains of such ships take tho­se absent-min­ded young phi­lo­so­phers to task, upbrai­ding them with not fee­ling suf­fi­ci­ent “inte­rest” in the voya­ge; half-hin­ting that they are so hopel­ess­ly lost to all hono­ura­ble ambi­ti­on, as that in their secret souls they would rather not see wha­les than other­wi­se. But all in vain; tho­se young Pla­to­nists have a noti­on that their visi­on is imper­fect; they are short-sigh­ted; what use, then, to strain the visu­al ner­ve? They have left their ope­ra-glas­ses at home.

“Why, thou mon­key,” said a har­poo­neer to one of the­se lads, “we’­ve been crui­sing now hard upon three years, and thou hast not rai­sed a wha­le yet. Wha­les are scar­ce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.” Perhaps they were; or perhaps the­re might have been sho­als of them in the far hori­zon; but lul­led into such an opi­um-like list­less­ness of vacant, uncon­scious reve­rie is this absent-min­ded youth by the blen­ding cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his iden­ti­ty; takes the mys­tic oce­an at his feet for the visi­ble image of that deep, blue, bot­tom­less soul, per­va­ding man­kind and natu­re; and every stran­ge, half-seen, gli­ding, beau­ti­ful thing that elu­des him; every dim­ly-dis­co­ve­r­ed, upri­sing fin of some undis­cer­ni­ble form, seems to him the embo­di­ment of tho­se elu­si­ve thoughts that only peop­le the soul by con­ti­nu­al­ly flit­ting through it. In this enchan­ted mood, thy spi­rit ebbs away to whence it came; beco­mes dif­fu­sed through time and space; like Crammer’s sprinkled Pan­the­istic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round glo­be over.

The­re is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life impar­ted by a gent­ly rol­ling ship; by her, bor­ro­wed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscruta­ble tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your iden­ti­ty comes back in hor­ror. Over Des­car­ti­an vor­ti­ces you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fai­rest wea­ther, with one half-thrott­led shriek you drop through that trans­pa­rent air into the sum­mer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

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