Chapter II

Glassy-smooth the water sleeps along the northern coast of our island summer resort, as the boat slowly skirts the low beach, passing bright shallows where seines of stupendous extent are hung upon rows of high stakes to dry;--but already the ear is filled with a ponderous and powerful sound, rolling up from the south through groves of orange and lemon--the sound of that "great voice that shakes the world." For less than half a mile away--across the narrow island--immense surges are whitening all the long slant of sand.... Divinely caressing the first far-off tones of that eternal voice to one revisiting ocean after absence of many weary and dusty summers--tones filling the mind with even such vague blending of tenderness and of awe as the pious traveler might feel when, returning after long sojourn in a land of strange, grim gods, whose temple pavements may never be trodden by Occidental feet, he hears again the pacific harmonies of some cathedral organ, breaking all about him in waves of golden thunder.

...Then with a joyous shock we bump the ancient wooden wharf--where groups of the brown island people are already waiting to scrutinize each new face with kindliest curiosity; for the advent of the mail-packet is ever a great and gladsome event. Even the dogs bark merry welcome, and run to be caressed. A tramway car receives the visitors--baggage is piled on--the driver clacks his tongue--the mule starts--the dogs rush on in advance to announce our coming.