ed Intellect merges itself with the
World-Will and partakes of its essence, which is not a moral essence but
an aesthetic essence . . . "

And at this moment the watch swarmed on to the poop to haul on the port-
braces of the mizzen-sky-sail, royal and topgallant-sail. The sailors
passed us, or toiled close to us, with lowered eyes. They did not look
at us, so far removed from them were we. It was this contrast that
caught my fancy. Here were the high and low, slaves and masters, beauty
and ugliness, cleanness and filth. Their feet were bare and scaled with
patches of tar and pitch. Their unbathed bodies were garmented in the
meanest of clothes, dingy, dirty, ragged, and sparse. Each one had on
but two garments--dungaree trousers and a shoddy cotton shirt.

And we, in our comfortable deck-chairs, our two servants at our backs,
the quintessence of elegant leisure, sipped delicate tea from beautiful,
fragile cups, and looked on at these wretched ones whose labour made
possible the journey of our little world. We did not speak to them, nor
recognize their existence, any more than would they have dared speak to
us.

And Miss West, with the appraising eye of a plantation mistress for the
condition of her field slaves, looked them over.

"You see how they have fleshed up," she said, as they coiled the last
turns of the ropes over the pins and faded away for'ard off the poop. "It
is the regular hours, the good weather, the hard work, the open air, the
sufficient food, and the absence of whisky. And they will keep in this
fettle until they get off the Horn. And then you will see them go down
from day to day. A winter passage of the Horn is always a severe strain
on the men.

"But then, once we are around and in the good weather of the Pacific, you
will see them gain again from day to day. And when we reach Seattle they
will be in splendid shape. Only they will go ashore, drink up their
wages in several days, and ship away on other vessels in precisely the
same sodden, miserable condition that they were in when they sailed with
us from Baltimore."

And just then Captain West came out the chart-house door, strolled by for
a single turn up and down, and with a smile and a word for us and an all-
observant eye for the ship, the trim of her sails, the wind, and the sky,
and the weather promise, went back through the chart-house door--the
blond Aryan master, the king, the Samurai.

And I finished sipping my tea