There you stand, lost in the infinite sequence of the sea, with very little ruffled but the waves.
Whales are scarce as hen’s enamel whenever thou art up below." Perhaps they were or maybe there may possibly have been shoals of them in the far horizon but lulled into this kind of an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at final he loses his identity requires the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and mother nature and just about every odd, 50 percent-observed, gliding, gorgeous matter that eludes him every dimly-found, rebellion fin of some undiscernible sort, seems to him the embodiment of individuals elusive ideas that only persons the soul by frequently flitting as a result of it. Very usually do the captains of this sort of ships take these absent-minded youthful philosophers to undertaking, upbraiding them with not experience sufficient "interest" in the voyage half-hinting that they are so hopelessly dropped to all honorable ambition, as that in their magic formula souls they would fairly not see whales than otherwise.
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