he cordage wool; the whole ship is brewed into the
yeast of the gale.

An now, if, when the first green sea breaks over him, Captain Rash is
not swept overboard, he has his hands full be sure. In all probability
his three masts have gone by the board, and, ravelled into list, his
sails are floating in the air. Or, perhaps, the ship _broaches to_, or
is _brought by the lee_. In either ease, Heaven help the sailors, their
wives and their little ones; and heaven help the underwriters.

Familiarity with danger makes a brave man braver, but less daring. Thus
with seamen: he who goes the oftenest round Cape Horn goes the most
circumspectly. A veteran mariner is never deceived by the treacherous
breezes which sometimes waft him pleasantly toward the latitude of the
Cape. No sooner does he come within a certain distance of
it--previously fixed in his own mind--than all hands are turned to
setting the ship in storm-trim; and never mind how light the breeze,
down come his t'-gallant-yards. He "bends" his strongest storm-sails,
and lashes every-thing on deck securely. The ship is then ready for the
worst; and if, in reeling round the headland, she receives a broadside,
it generally goes well with her. If ill, all hands go to the bottom
with quiet consciences.

Among sea-captains, there are some who seem to regard the genius of the
Cape as a wilful, capricious jade, that must be courted and coaxed into
complaisance. First, they come along under easy sails; do not steer
boldly for the headland, but tack this way and that--sidling up to it,
Now they woo the Jezebel with a t'-gallant-studding-sail; anon, they
deprecate her wrath with double-reefed-topsails. When, at length, her
unappeasable fury is fairly aroused, and all round the dismantled ship
the storm howls and howls for days together, they still persevere in
their efforts. First, they try unconditional submission; furling every
rag and _heaving to_: laying like a log, for the tempest to toss
wheresoever it pleases.

This failing, they set a _spencer_ or _try-sail_, and shift on the
other tack. Equally vain! The gale sings as hoarsely as before. At
last, the wind comes round fair; they drop the fore-sail; square the
yards, and scud before it; their implacable foe chasing them with
tornadoes, as if to show her insensibility to the last.

Other ships, without encountering these terrible gales, spend week
after week endeavouring to turn this boisterous world-corner against a