AT SEA. 293 



sun sank behind them, and threw out great spokes 

 of light as from behind my native Catskills. 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 rever- 

 ies are to the inward. That blind, instinctive love of 

 the land, I did not know how masterful- and invol- 

 untary the impulse 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 cur- 

 rents rising to the surface, and coming in contact 

 with the warmer air. One may see them far in ad- 

 vance, looking so shallow that it seems as if the great 

 steamer must carry her head above them. But she 



