Now, take that first book on my travel shelf. It is Knight's "Cruise of the Falcon6." Nature was guilty of the pun which put this soul into a body so named. Read this simple record and tell me if there is anything in Hakluyt more wonderful. Two landsmen—solicitors, if I remember right—go down to Southampton Quay7. They pick up a long-shore youth, and they embark8 in a tiny boat in which they put to sea. Where do they turn up? At Buenos Ayres. Thence they penetrate9 to Paraquay, return to the West Indies, sell their little boat there, and so home. What could the Elizabethan mariners10 have done more? There are no Spanish galleons11 now to vary the monotony of such a voyage, but had there been I am very certain our adventurers would have had their share of the doubloons. But surely it was the nobler when done out of the pure lust12 of adventure and in answer to the call of the sea, with no golden bait to draw them on. The old spirit still lives, disguise it as you will with top hats, frock coats, and all prosaic13 settings. Perhaps even they also will seem romantic when centuries have blurred14 them.
Another book which shows the romance and the heroism15 which still linger upon earth is that large copy of the "Voyage of the Discovery in the Antarctic" by Captain Scott. Written in plain sailor fashion with no attempt at over-statement or colour, it none the less (or perhaps all the more) leaves a deep impression upon the mind. As one reads it, and reflects on what one reads, one seems to get a clear view of just those qualities which make the best kind of Briton. Every nation produces brave men. Every nation has men of energy. But there is a certain type which mixes its bravery and its energy with a gentle modesty16 and a boyish good-humour, and it is just this type which is the highest. Here the whole expedition seem to have been imbued17 with the spirit of their commander. No flinching18, no grumbling19, every discomfort20 taken as a jest, no thought of self, each working only for the success of the enterprise. When you have read of such privations so endured and so chronicled, it makes one ashamed to show emotion over the small annoyances21 of daily life. Read of Scott's blinded, scurvy22-struck party staggering on to their goal, and then complain, if you can, of the heat of a northern sun, or the dust of a country road.
That is one of the weaknesses of modern life. We complain too much. We are not ashamed of complaining. Time was when it was otherwise—when it was thought effeminate to complain. The Gentleman should always be the Stoic23, with his soul too great to be affected24 by the small troubles of life. "You look cold, sir," said an English sympathizer to a French emigre. The fallen noble drew himself up in his threadbare coat. "Sir," said he, "a gentleman is never cold." One's consideration for others as well as one's own self-respect should check the grumble25. This self-suppression, and also the concealment26 of pain are two of the old noblesse oblige characteristics which are now little more than a tradition. Public opinion should be firmer on the matter. The man who must hop27 because his shin is hacked28, or wring29 his hand because his knuckles30 are bruised31 should be made to feel that he is an object not of pity, but of contempt.
The tradition of Arctic exploration is a noble one among Americans as well as ourselves. The next book is a case in point. It is Greely's "Arctic Service," and it is a worthy32 shelf-companion to Scott's "Account of the Voyage of the Discovery." There are incidents in this book which one can never forget. The episode of those twenty-odd men lying upon that horrible bluff33, and dying one a day from cold and hunger and scurvy, is one which dwarfs34 all our puny35 tragedies of romance. And the gallant36 starving leader giving lectures on abstract science in an attempt to take the thoughts of the dying men away from their sufferings—what a picture! It is bad to suffer from cold and bad to suffer from hunger, and bad to live in the dark; but that men could do all these things for six months on end, and that some should live to tell the tale, is, indeed, a marvel37. What a world of feeling lies in the exclamation38 of the poor dying lieutenant39: "Well, this is wretched," he groaned40, as he turned his face to the wall.
The Anglo-Celtic race has always run to individualism, and yet there is none which is capable of conceiving and carrying out a finer ideal of discipline. There is nothing in Roman or Grecian annals, not even the lava-baked sentry41 at Pompeii, which gives a more sternly fine object-lesson in duty than the young recruits of the British army who went down in their ranks on the Birkenhead. And this expedition of Greely's gave rise to another example which seems to me hardly less remarkable42. You may remember, if you have read the book, that even when there were only about eight unfortunates still left, hardly able to move for weakness and hunger, the seven took the odd man out upon the ice, and shot him dead for breach43 of discipline. The whole grim proceeding44 was carried out with as much method and signing of papers, as if they were all within sight of the Capitol at Washington. His offence had consisted, so far as I can remember, of stealing and eating the thong45 which bound two portions of the sledge46 together, something about as appetizing as a bootlace. It is only fair to the commander to say, however, that it was one of a series of petty thefts, and that the thong of a sledge might mean life or death to the whole party.
Personally I must confess that anything bearing upon the Arctic Seas is always of the deepest interest to me. He who has once been within the borders of that mysterious region, which can be both the most lovely and the most repellent upon earth, must always retain something of its glamour47. Standing48 on the confines of known geography I have shot the southward flying ducks, and have taken from their gizzards pebbles49 which they have swallowed in some land whose shores no human foot has trod. The memory of that inexpressible air, of the great ice-girt lakes of deep blue water, of the cloudless sky shading away into a light green and then into a cold yellow at the horizon, of the noisy companionable birds, of the huge, greasy51-backed water animals, of the slug-like seals, startlingly black against the dazzling whiteness of the ice—all of it will come back to a man in his dreams, and will seem little more than some fantastic dream itself, go removed is it from the main stream of his life. And then to play a fish a hundred tons in weight, and worth two thousand pounds—but what in the world has all this to do with my bookcase?
Yet it has its place in my main line of thought, for it leads me straight to the very next upon the shelf, Bullen's "Cruise of the Cachelot," a book which is full of the glamour and the mystery of the sea, marred52 only by the brutality53 of those who go down to it in ships. This is the sperm-whale fishing, an open-sea affair, and very different from that Greenland ice groping in which I served a seven-months' apprenticeship54. Both, I fear, are things of the past—certainly the northern fishing is so, for why should men risk their lives to get oil when one has but to sink a pipe in the ground. It is the more fortunate then that it should have been handled by one of the most virile55 writers who has described a sailor's life. Bullen's English at its best rises to a great height. If I wished to show how high, I would take that next book down, "Sea Idylls."
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 limpid56 mirror, the splendour of the sun, the sweet silvery glow of the moon, or the coruscating57 clusters of countless58 stars. Like the ashen-grey hue59 that bedims the countenance60 of the dying, a filmy greasy skin appeared to overspread the recent loveliness of the ocean surface. The sea was sick, stagnant61, and foul62, from its turbid63 waters arose a miasmatic64 vapour like a breath of decay, which clung clammily to the palate and dulled all the senses. Drawn65 by some strange force, from the unfathomable depths below, eerie66 shapes sought the surface, blinking glassily at the unfamiliar67 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 transparent68 substance, wriggling69 worm-like forms of such elusive70 matter that the smallest exposure to the sun melted them, and they were not. Lower down, vast pale shadows creep sluggishly71 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 "Ebb50 Tide." Clark Russell deserves a whole shelf for himself, but anyhow you could not miss out "The Wreck72 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 Courageous73" and Jack74 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 tingle75 in the blood of an American when you reflect that in all that broad continent there is not one whose forefather76 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.
I have said that "Omoo" and "Typee," the books in which the sailor Melville describes his life among the Otaheitans, have sunk too rapidly into obscurity. What a charming and interesting task there is for some critic of catholic tastes and sympathetic judgment77 to undertake rescue work among the lost books which would repay salvage78! A small volume setting forth79 their names and their claims to attention would be interesting in itself, and more interesting in the material to which it would serve as an introduction. I am sure there are many good books, possibly there are some great ones, which have been swept away for a time in the rush. What chance, for example, has any book by an unknown author which is published at a moment of great national excitement, when some public crisis arrests the popular mind? Hundreds have been still-born in this fashion, and are there none which should have lived among them? Now, there is a book, a modern one, and written by a youth under thirty. It is Snaith's "Broke of Covenden," and it scarce attained80 a second edition. I do not say that it is a Classic—I should not like to be positive that it is not—but I am perfectly81 sure that the man who wrote it has the possibility of a Classic within him. Here is another novel—"Eight Days," by Forrest. You can't buy it. You are lucky even if you can find it in a library. Yet nothing ever written will bring the Indian Mutiny home to you as this book will do. Here's another which I will warrant you never heard of. It is Powell's "Animal Episodes." No, it is not a collection of dog-and-cat anecdotes82, but it is a series of very singularly told stories which deal with the animal side of the human, and which you will feel have an entirely83 new flavour if you have a discriminating84 palate. The book came out ten years ago, and is utterly85 unknown. If I can point to three in one small shelf, how many lost lights must be flitting in the outer darkness!
Let me hark back for a moment to the subject with which I began, the romance of travel and the frequent heroism of modern life. I have two books of Scientific Exploration here which exhibit both these qualities as strongly as any I know. I could not choose two better books to put into a young man's hands if you wished to train him first in a gentle and noble firmness of mind, and secondly86 in a great love for and interest in all that pertains87 to Nature. The one is Darwin's "Journal of the Voyage of the Beagle." Any discerning eye must have detected long before the "Origin of Species" appeared, simply on the strength of this book of travel, that a brain of the first order, united with many rare qualities of character, had arisen. Never was there a more comprehensive mind. Nothing was too small and nothing too great for its alert observation. One page is occupied in the analysis of some peculiarity88 in the web of a minute spider, while the next deals with the evidence for the subsidence of a continent and the extinction89 of a myriad90 animals. And his sweep of knowledge was so great—botany, geology, zoology91, each lending its corroborative92 aid to the other. How a youth of Darwin's age—he was only twenty-three when in the year 1831 he started round the world on the surveying ship Beagle—could have acquired such a mass of information fills one with the same wonder, and is perhaps of the same nature, as the boy musician who exhibits by instinct the touch of the master. Another quality which one would be less disposed to look for in the savant is a fine contempt for danger, which is veiled in such modesty that one reads between the lines in order to detect it. When he was in the Argentina, the country outside the Settlements was covered with roving bands of horse Indians, who gave no quarter to any whites. Yet Darwin rode the four hundred miles between Bahia and Buenos Ayres, when even the hardy93 Gauchos94 refused to accompany him. Personal danger and a hideous95 death were small things to him compared to a new beetle96 or an undescribed fly.
The second book to which I alluded97 is Wallace's "Malay Archipelago." There is a strange similarity in the minds of the two men, the same courage, both moral and physical, the same gentle persistence98, the same catholic knowledge and wide. sweep of mind, the same passion for the observation of Nature. Wallace by a flash of intuition understood and described in a letter to Darwin the cause of the Origin of Species at the very time when the latter was publishing a book founded upon twenty years' labour to prove the same thesis. What must have been his feelings when he read that letter? And yet he had nothing to fear, for his book found no more enthusiastic admirer than the man who had in a sense anticipated it. Here also one sees that Science has its heroes no less than Religion. One of Wallace's missions in Papua was to examine the nature and species of the Birds-of-Paradise; but in the course of the years of his wanderings through those islands he made a complete investigation99 of the whole fauna100. A footnote somewhere explains that the Papuans who lived in the Bird-of-Paradise country were confirmed cannibals. Fancy living for years with or near such neighbours! Let a young fellow read these two books, and he cannot fail to have both his mind and his spirit strengthened by the reading.
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1
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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scrapped
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| 废弃(scrap的过去式与过去分词)； 打架 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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galleons
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| n.大型帆船( galleon的名词复数 ) | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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coruscating
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| v.闪光，闪烁( coruscate的现在分词 ) | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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miasmatic
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| adj.毒气的，沼气的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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forefather
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| n.祖先；前辈 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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pertains
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| 关于( pertain的第三人称单数 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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zoology
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| n.动物学，生态 | |
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corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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gauchos
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| n.南美牧人( gaucho的名词复数 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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