A THUNDER STORM. 107 



self as I stand or try to stand, reeling to and fro, 

 holding on to a belaying pin or rope, for support. 

 But give me firm footing, and I love the sea. I 

 don't believe Byron ever thought of writing about it 

 till he got on shore. The idea of a man thinking, 

 much less making poetry while he is staggering like a 

 drunken man, is preposterous. 



But I like to have forgot myself — I was reclining 

 on the slope of a hill the other day, near a lake, 

 from which I had a glorious view of the broken 

 chain of the Adirondack. From the ravishing beauty 

 of the scene, my mind, as it is wont, fell to musing 

 over this mysterious life of ours— on its strange con- 

 trasts and stranger destinies, and I wondered how its 

 selfishness and sorrow, blindness and madness, pains 

 and death, could add to the glory of Grod ; or how 

 angels could look on this world without turning away, 

 half in sorrow and half in anger, at such a blemished 

 universe, when suddenly, over the green summit of the 

 far mountain, a huge thunder-head pushed itself into 

 view. As the mighty black mass that followed slowly 

 after, forced its way into the heavens, darkness began 

 to creep over the earth. The song of birds was 

 hushed — the passing breeze paused a moment, and 



