A Midsummer Trip to the Tropics.
17
nor in the abyss beneath ;—there are no wings or fins to
be seen. Towards evening, under the slanting gold light,
the color of the sea deepens into ultramarine ; then the
sun sinks down behind a bank of copper-colored cloud.
III.
Morning of the third day. Same mild, warm wind.
Bright blue sky, with some very thin clouds in the hori-
zon,— like puffs of steam. The glow of the sea-light
through the open ports of my cabin makes them seem
filled with thick blue glass. ... It is becoming too warm
for New York clothing. . . .
Certainly the sea has become much bluer. It gives
one the idea of liquefied sky: the foam might be formed
of cirrus clouds compressed,—so extravagantly white it
looks to-day, like snow in the sun. Nevertheless, the old
gentleman from Guadeloupe still maintains this is not the
true blue of the tropics !
. . . The sky does not deepen its hue to-day : it bright-
ens it ;—the blue glows as if it were taking fire through-
out. Perhaps the sea may deepen its hue ;—I do not
believe it can take more luminous color without being
set aflame. ... I ask the ship's doctor whether it is really
true that the West Indian waters are any bluer than these.
He looks a moment at the sea, and replies, " Oh yes !"
There is such a tone of surprise in his "oh" as might
indicate that I had asked a very foolish question; and
his look seems to express doubt whether I am quite in
earnest. ... I think, nevertheless, that this water is ex-
travagantly, nonsensically blue !
... I read for an hour or two; fall asleep in the chair;
wake up suddenly ; look at the sea,—and cry out ! This
sea is impossibly blue ! The painter who should try to
paint it would be denounced as a lunatic. . . . Yet it is
transparent; the foam-clouds, as they sink down, turn