Continual shifts went on among them, and
momentary changes; each in proper sequence marching, and allowed its
proper time, yet at any angle traversed, even in its crowning curl,
not only by the wind its father, but by the penitent return and white
contrition of its shattered elder brother. And if this were not enough
to make a samely man take interest in perpetually flowing changes, the
sun and clouds, at every look and breath, varied variety.
Frank Darling thought how small his griefs were, and how vain his
vanity. Of all the bubbly clots of froth, or frayed and shattered dabs
of drift, flying beside him or falling at his feet, every one was
as good as his ideas, and as valuable as his labours. And of all the
unreckoned waves advancing, lifting their fugitive crests, and roaring,
there certainly was not one that fell with weight so futile as his
own. Who cared even to hear his sound? What ear was soothed by his long
rhythm, or what mind solaced by the magnitude of his rolling?
Suddenly he found that some mind was so. For when he had been standing
a long while thus, chewing the salt cud of marine reflections, he seemed
to hear something more intelligible than the sea. With more surprise
than interest he walked towards the sound, and stood behind the corner
of a jutting rock to listen. In another second his interest overpowered
his surprise, for he knew every word of the lines brought to his ears,
for the very simple reason that they were his own.
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