How many and many lives were
lost before the Norsemen learned to support the masts of their winged
dragons by means of bull's-hide ropes! How many shiploads of men were
laid at the mercy of the travelling seas before the Scandinavians
learned to use a fixed rudder instead of a huge oar! Not a bolt or rope
or pulley or eyelet-hole has been fixed in our vessel save through the
bitter experience of centuries; one might write a volume about that
mainsail, showing how its rigid, slanting beauty and its tremendous
power were gradually attained by evolution from the ugly square lump of
matting which swung from the masthead of Mediterranean craft. But we
must not philosophise; we must enjoy. The fresh morning breeze runs
merrily over the ripples and plucks off their crests; our vessel leans
prettily, and you hear a tinkling hiss as she shears through the lovely
green hillocks. Sometimes she thrusts away a burst of spray, and in the
midst of the white spurt there shines a rainbow. It may happen that the
rainbows come thickly for half an hour at a time, and then we seem to be
passing through a fairy scene. Go under the main-yard and look away to
leeward. The wind roars out of the mainsail and streams over you in a
cold flood; but you do not mind that, for there is the joyous expanse
of emerald and snow dancing under the glad sun.
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