I wanted to see a first-class storm at sea, and perhaps ought to be satisfied with the heavy blow or hurricane we had when off Sable Island, but I confess I was not, though, by the lying to of the vessel and the frequent soundings, it was evident there was danger about.  A dense fog uprose, which did not drift like a land fog, but was as immovable as iron; it was like a spell, a misty enchantment; and out of this fog came the wind, a steady, booming blast, that smote the ship over on her side and held her there, and howled in the rigging like a chorus of fiends.  The waves did not know which way to flee; they were heaped up and then scattered in a twinkling.  I thought of the terrible line of one of our poets:—­

       “The spasm of the sky and the shatter of the sea.”

The sea looked wrinkled and old and oh, so pitiless!  I had stood long before Turner’s “Shipwreck” in the National Gallery in London, and this sea recalled his, and I appreciated more than ever the artist’s great powers.

These storms, it appears, are rotary in their wild dance and promenade up and down the seas.  “Look the wind squarely in the teeth,” said an ex-sea-captain among the passengers, “and eight points to the right in the northern hemisphere will be the centre of the storm, and eight points to the left in the southern hemisphere.”  I remembered that, in Victor Hugo’s terrible dynamics, storms revolved in the other direction in the northern hemisphere, or followed the hands of a watch, while south of the equator they no doubt have ways equally original.

Late in the afternoon the storm abated, the fog was suddenly laid, and, looking toward the setting sun, I saw him athwart the wildest, most desolate scene in which it was ever my fortune to behold the face of that god.  The sea was terribly agitated, and the endless succession of leaping, frothing waves between me and the glowing west formed a picture I shall not soon forget.

I think the excuse that is often made in behalf of American literature, namely, that our people are too busy with other things yet, and will show the proper aptitude in this field, too, as soon as leisure is afforded, is fully justified by events of daily occurrence.  Throw a number of them together without anything else to do, and they at once communicate to each other the itch of authorship.  Confine them on board an ocean steamer, and by the third or fourth day a large number of them will break out all over with a sort of literary rash that nothing will assuage but some newspaper or journalistic enterprise which will give the poems and essays and jokes with which they are surcharged a chance to be seen and heard of men.  I doubt if the like ever occurs among travelers of any other nationality.  Englishmen or Frenchmen or Germans want something more warm and human, if less “refined;” but the average American, when in company, likes nothing so well as an opportunity to show the national trait of “smartness.”  There is not a bit of danger that we shall ever relapse into barbarism while so much latent literature lies at the bottom of our daily cares and avocations, and is sure to come to the surface the moment the latter are suspended or annulled!