he need of knowing the ship's position. I have
often thought, Sir, that the ocean was like human life,--a blind track for
all that is ahead, and none of the clearest as respects that which has
been passed over. Many a man runs headlong to his own destruction, and
many a ship steers for a reef under a press of canvas. To-morrow is a fog,
into which none of us can see; and even the present time is little better
than thick weather, into which we look without getting much information.
Well, as I was observing, here lay our course, with the wind as near aft
as need be, blowing much as at present; for your French mistrail has a
family likeness to the American norther. We had the main-top-gallant-sail
set, without studding-sails, for we began to think of the deep bight in
which Genoa is stowed, and the sun had dipped more than an hour. As our
good fortune would have it, clouds and mistrails do not agree long, and we
got a clear horizon. Here lay a mountain of snow, northerly, a little
west, and there lay another, southerly with easting. The best ship in
Queen Anne's navy could not have fetched either in a day's run, and yet
there we saw them, as plainly as if anchored under their lee! A look at
the chart soon gave us an insight into our situation. The first were the
Alps, as they call them, being as I suppose the French for apes, of which
there are no doubt plenty in those regions; and the other were the
highlands of Corsica, both being as white, in midsummer, as the hair of a
man of fourscore. You see, Sir, we had only to set the two, by compass, to
know, within a league or two, where we were. So we ran till midnight, and
hove-to; and in the morning we took the light to feel for our haven----"

"The brigantine is gybing, again!" cried Ludlow. "He is determined to
shoal his water!"

The master glanced an eye around the horizon and then pointed steadily
towards the north. Ludlow observed the gesture, and, turning his head, he
was at no loss to read its meaning.

Chapter XXI.

"--I am gone, Sir
And, anon, Sir,
I'll be with you again."

Clown in Twelfth Night.

Although it is contrary to the apparent evidence of our senses, there is
no truth more certain than that the course of most gales of wind comes
from the leeward. The effects of a tempest shall be felt, for hours, at a
point that is seemingly near its termination, before they are witnessed at
another, that appears to be nearer its source.