TROLLING. 489 



we went for a weary time the same noiseless way — when 

 suddenly our curse came again, and I remembered 



" Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

 'Twas sad as sad could be." 



And then : 



"All in a hot and copper sky, 

 The bloody sun, at noon," &c. &c. 



I verily shuddered as I felt the hot stagnation settle upon 

 my forehead and my lungs. I looked appealingly to Piscator. 

 What? Horror! — the despairing wretch! — the disappoint- 

 ment and all has been too much for him ! With head thrown 

 back, and eyes rolling wildly towards the zenith — his large 



manly throat bared, he held — the brandy flask to his lips ! 



the forgotten brandy flask! and then my time came. I 

 imbibed from it contemplatively and laid it aside solemnly. 

 I had rested the end of my rod in the gunwale of the boat, 

 and did not take it up again. I laid myself reposefully in 

 the bow. The vanity of all sublunary things — but most 

 that of trolling for lakers out of season, had been made 

 apparent to me. I looked up to the clouds — above us. they 

 had vanished, and all was "a hot and copper sky:" as if 

 to the spell of some strange wizard of the North, their 

 careering legions had been called down and rested toward 

 the pole upon the mountain tops — still! — still as if they 

 paused in the terror of a weird necromancy, which held 

 them frozen in its dreadful will. They were strangely piled, 

 and strewn, and marshalled. I never saw such clouds before 

 — the forms were all of white, with a dark distinct outline. 

 I became strangely elated and laughed out wildly, and then 

 muttered — 



" Aye, yonder is the pageant of our lives — the substance 

 whereof our realities are made, and yet how strange it seems, 

 how it has become so palpable. Look at it closely ; you will 

 see there 



