100 



THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 



hit by one of those momentary gusts which fall; and where, 

 as Burns expressively has it, the wind is every where 

 blowing 



" As 'Iwould blaw its last," 



it lashes a portion of the surge to a greater elevation than it 

 can bear; or, some bank or hidden rock from below arrests 

 it in its course; and down it thunders in brawling and foam, 

 interrupting the succession, and embroiling its successors in 

 its fate. 



Even when seen from the pebbly beach of a lee-shore, 

 the ocean in a storm is a sight both to be enjoyed and re- 

 membered. T^e wave comes rolling onward, dark and 

 silent, till it meets with the reflux of its predecessor, which 

 produces a motiontoseawardonthe ground, and throws the 

 approaching wave off its equilibrium. Its progress is arrest- 

 ed for a moment; the wall of water vibrates, and as it now 

 meets the wind, instead of moving before it, its crest be- 

 comes hoary with spray; it shakes — it nods — it curls for- 

 ward, and for a moment the liquid column hangs suspended 

 in the air; but down it dashes in one volume of snow-white 

 foam, which dances and ripples upon the beach. There is 

 an instant retreat, and the clean and smooth pebbles, as they 

 are drawn back by the reflux of the water, emulate in more 

 harsh and grating sounds the thunder of the wave. 



Here we may see what a wonderful thing motion is. 

 What is so bland and limpid as still water! what substance 

 half so soft and fine as the motionless atmosphere! The 

 one does not loosen a particle of sand: the other — you 

 must question with yourself, and even add a little faith to 

 feeling, before you be quite sure of its existence. But arm 

 them once with life, or with that which is the best emblem 

 and the most universal indication of life, motion, and they 

 arc terrible both in their grandeur and their power. The 

 saud is driven like stubble; the solid earth must give way; 

 and the rocks are rent from the promontory, and flung in 

 ruins along its base. Need we, therefore, wonder that the 

 masts and cordage that man constructs should be rent as if 

 they were gossamer, and his navies scattered like chafi'.'' 



The grandest scenes, however, are found at those places 

 where former storms have washed away all the softer parts, 

 and the caverned and rifted rocks — the firm skeleton of the 

 globe, as it were — stand out to contend with the turmoiling 

 waters. The long roll of the Atlantic upon the Cornish 

 coast; a south-easter upon the cliffs of Yorkshire, or among 

 the stupendous caves to the eastward of Arbroath; a north- 

 easter in the Bullers of Buchan; or, better still, the whole 

 mass of the Northern ocean dashed by the bleak north wind 

 against the ragged brows of Caithnees and Sunderland; 

 those — that especially — are situations in which, if it can be 

 viewed in these islands, the majesty of the deep may be 



seen. Upon the last, in the acme of its sublimity, one dares 

 hardly look. The wind blows ice; and the spray, which 

 dashes thick over five hundred feet of perpendicular clifis, 

 falls in torrents of chilling rain; while the vollied stones, 

 which the surges batter against the clifis, the hissing of the 

 imprisoned air in the unperforated leaves, and the spouting 

 water through those thatare perforated, and the dashing and 

 regurgitation of the latter, as it falls in the pauses of the 

 commotion, produce a combination of the terrible, which 

 the nerves of those who are unaccustomed to such scenes 

 can hardly bear. 



And yet there is an enchantment — a fascination almost to 

 madness — in those terrible scenes. Mere height often has 

 this singular eflfect, which is alluded to by the Philosopher 

 of Poets, in his admii-able description of Dover clifi": 



" I'll look no more ; 

 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 

 Topple down headlong." 



But when the elements are in fury — when the earth is 

 rocking, and the sea and sky reeling and confounding their 

 distinctive characters in one tremendous chaos — when, in 

 all that is seen, the common laws of nature seem to be abro- 

 gated, and her productions of peace cast aside, in order that 

 there may be an end of her works, and that the sway of 

 " the Annarch old" may again be universal — the heroism 

 of desperation — that which tempers the soldier to the strife 

 of the field, and the sailor to the yet more terrible conflict 

 on the flood — comes, and comes in its power — and the dis- 

 position to dash into the thickest of the strife, and die in the 

 death-struggle of nature, is one of the most powerful feel- 

 ings of one who can enter into the spirit of the mighty 

 scene. 



We leave those who allocate the feelings of men accord- 

 ing to the scale of their artificial systems, to find the place 

 of this singular emotion, and call it a good or an evil one, 

 as they choose. But we have been in the habit of feeling 

 and thinking that it is an impulse of natural theology — one 

 of those unbidden aspirations toward his Maker which man 

 feels when the ties that bind him to nature and the earth 

 appear to be loosening, and there remains no hope, but in 

 the consciousness of his God, and of that eternity, the gate 

 of which is in the shadow of death. Thus, amid the fury 

 of the elements, the unsopliisticated hopes of man cling to 

 Him, who " rideth in the whirlwind and directcth the 

 storm." 



But beautiful or sublime as the ocean is, according to 

 situation and circumstances, we should lose its value, were 

 we to look upon it only as a spectacle, and were the emo- 

 tions that it produced to be only the dreams of feeling, 

 however touching, or however allied to religion. To ad- 



