remained inside the light-house of Cape May, than ventured out upon
the sea. The heavy masses of black clouds which were piled on the edge
of the distant horizon seemed gradually gathering nearer and nearer,
as if to surround and ingulf the gallant vessel, which sped onward
fearlessly and proudly, as if conscious of its power to survive the
tempest, and bide the storm.

Captain Greene's eye was at length attracted by the threatening aspect
of the sky, and seizing his speaking-trumpet he gave the orders of
preparation, which were the more promptly executed inasmuch as they
had been anxiously awaited.

"Lay aloft there, lads, and in with the fore to'gallant-sail and
royal--down with the main gaff top-sail!--bear a hand, lads, a norther
on the Banks is no plaything! Clear away both cables, and see them
bent to the anchors--let's have all snug--lower the flag from the
gaff-peak, and send up the storm-pennant, there--now we are ready."

A thunder-storm at sea is perhaps the sublimest sight in nature,
especially when attended with the darkness and mystery of night. The
struggling vessel plunges onward into the deep blackness, like a blind
and unbridled war-horse. All is dark--fearfully dark. Stand with me,
dear reader, here in the bow of the ship! make fast to that halliard,
and share with me in the glorious feelings engendered by the storm
which is now rioting over the waters and rending the sky. We hear the
fierce roar of the contending surges, yet we see them not. We hear the
quivering sails and strained sheets, creaking and fluttering like
imprisoned spirits, above and around us, but all is solemnly
invisible; now, see in the distant horizon the faint premonitory flush
of light, preceding the vivid lightning flash--now, for a moment,
every thing--sky--water--sheet--shroud and spar are glowing with a
brilliancy that exceedeth the brightness of day--the sky is a broad
canopy of golden radiance, and the waves are crested with a red and
fiery surge, that reminds you of your conception of the "lake of
burning fire and brimstone." We feel the dread--the vast sublimity of
the breathless moment, and while the mighty thoughts and tumultuous
conceptions are striving for form and order of utterance within our
throbbing breasts--again all is dark--sadly, solemnly dark. Is not the
scene--is not the hour, truly sublime?

There was one at least on board the little Raker, who felt as we
should have felt, dear reader--a sense of exul