Summary

Martin Johnson Through the South Seas with Jack London

The past is all like some dream. Our world is a big, blue expanse of water, reaching in an eternal circle to the horizon; a blue, clear-looking sky overhead, in which journeys the hot, glowing sun; and a tiny boat, a speck in the immensity of things, pursuing its solitary way across the deep. Loafed on deck most of to-day. We are far south of the regular track of steamers. Bert and Tochigi and I are all writing on our diaries this evening. The Londons have retired. Captain Eames is at the wheel, singing some sea-song—seems to be happy.
Source: Gutenberg

Martin Johnson Through the South Seas with Jack London

In the harbour lay the Snark, looking as if lighted by electricity where the moonbeams were mirrored on her freshly painted sides and her polished metal, and further away was the shadowy shore-line, fringed by groves of cocoanut palms, and still further back, fading away into the night, were the majestic mountains.
"The Snark will never be able to heave-to," we were told. "She catches too much wind aft, no matter how the sails are trimmed." But with the seventy-horse-power engine in running order, the danger was vastly minimised, for with its aid we could cut through a storm like a knife.
Source: Gutenberg

Martin Johnson Through the South Seas with Jack London

Furthermore, some deaths are swift—mercifully swift, and not unlovely. Leprosy is usually slow, vile, hideous. One dies by inches. Terrible in contemplation, what must it be when fastened insidiously upon one's flesh!
But no more of this, lest I, too, be adjudged one of the purveyors of things needlessly dreadful. But remember this: when Jack London, or I, or any other man, says that the horrors of the Molokai leper life have been exaggerated, it is not meant that the disease itself has been exaggerated. No one denies that leprosy is an awful thing.
Source: Gutenberg

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