AT SEA 271 



the northwest, exactly stimulating distant moun- 

 tains. The sun sank behind them, and threw out 

 great spokes of light as from behind my native Cats- 

 kills. Then gradually a low, wooded shore came 

 into view along their base. It proved to be a fog- 

 bank lying low upon the water, but it copied exactly, 

 in its forms and outlines, a flat, umbrageous coast. 

 You could see distinctly where it ended, and where 

 the water began. I sat long on that side of the 

 ship, and let my willing eyes deceive themselves. 

 I could not divest myself of the comfortable feeling 

 inspired by the prospect. It was to the outward 

 sense what dreams and reveries are to the inward. 

 That blind, instinctive love of the land, I did 

 not know how masterful and involuntary the im- 

 pulse was, till I found myself warming up toward 

 that phantom coast. The empty void of the sea 

 was partly filled, if only with a shadow. The 

 inhuman desolation of the ocean was blotted out 

 for a moment, in that direction at least. What 

 phantom-huggers we are upon sea or upon land! 

 It made no difference that I knew this to be a sham 

 coast. I could feel its friendly influence all the 

 same, even when my back was turned. 



In summer, fog seems to lie upon the Atlantic 

 in great shallow fleeces, looking, I dare say, like 

 spots of mould or mildew from an elevation of a 

 few miles. These fog-banks are produced by the 

 deep cold currents rising to the surface, and coming 

 in contact with the warmer air. One may see them 

 far in advance, looking so shallow that it seems as 



