pirit, of the peril
in which it places so many of our fellow-creatures; and, "God help the
poor souls at sea!" rises earnestly in our heart, and even
unconsciously passes the barrier of our lips, as we retire, utterly
unsympathizing with the selfish enjoyment of those who delight to wrap
up themselves, warm and cozy, in their curtained and downy repose,
lulled to deeper slumber by the blustering cold in which others are
shivering, or, haply, contending with the winds and waves so soon to
overwhelm them. And in our more ordinary everyday humour--if it chance
to rise above what in our humble opinion ought to be its maximum, a
gentle refreshing breeze, just enough to waft sweet woodland sounds, or
ripple the quiet stream--why, it discomposes and discomforts us,
whistling, howling, and rattling among slates and chimney-tops, and
making whirligigs of the dust, in the town; and in the country,
_soughing_ among the boughs, as though the trees had got some horrible
secret which they were whispering to each other, while their long arms
lash each other as if for a wager; the whole exciting in us a most
uneasy and undefinable sensation, as though we had done something wrong,
and were every minute expecting to be found out! A sensation which might
fairly be deemed punishment sufficient for all the minor offences of
this offensive world, and which we most decidedly object to having
inflicted on us for nothing.

"The music of the wind!" Why, what can be more detestable than the wind
whistling through a key-hole? or singing its shrill melancholy song
among the straining cordage of the storm-threatened ship? Then,
uninteresting accidents happen during squally weather: hats are blown
off; coat-tails, and eke the flowing garments of the gentler sex, flap,
as if waging war with their distressed wearers; grave dignified persons
are compelled to scud along before the gale, shorn of all the
impressiveness of their wonted solemn gait, holding, perchance, their
shovel-hat firmly on with both hands; and finally, there is neither
pathos nor glory in having your head broken by a chimney-pot, or volant
weathercock. No, the wide sea is an emblem of all that is deceitful and
false, smiling most blandly when preparing to devour you; and the wind
is only one shade more respectable--nay, perchance the worse of the two;
for the waters, in the self-justifying, neighbour-condemning spirit,
apparently inherent in human nature--and for which Father Adam be