,--now it appears at the mizen-mast-head,--
now there is a ball at each mast-head. The men declare that it is a
spirit of evil come to guide us to destruction. Often while the foaming
seas are roaring and hissing round us, and the wind is shrieking and
whistling through the shrouds, and all is so dark that a hand held up at
arm's length can scarcely be seen, flashes of lightning burst forth
making it light as day, and revealing the pale and affrighted
countenances of those standing around.

Day dawns at length. As I looked to leeward, not half a mile away, I
see a vessel. She is dismasted, labouring heavily. We are drifting
slowly down towards her. Now she rises, now she falls in the trough of
the sea, and is hid from view. She is a brig, as we discover by the
stumps of her two masts, and we do not doubt the very vessel of which we
have lately heard. A signal of distress is flying from a staff lashed
to the main-mast; but, with the sea now running, what help can we render
her hapless crew?

We watch her anxiously; even Phineas Golding, his thoughts generally
running on dollars, seems to commiserate the fate of those on board,
especially when Tony Hinks remarks in his hearing that such may be ours
ere long. The men are at the pumps, and we can see them working for
their lives; but, by the way she labours, there seems but little chance
that they will keep her afloat. We are gradually dropping down towards
her; we can distinguish through our glasses the countenances of the
crew, their hair streaming in the gale. What looks of horror, of
hopeless despair are there! They know that we cannot help them, though
so near. The vessel is sinking lower and lower; the crew desert the
pumps, and hold out their hands imploringly towards us as we drive down
towards them. Their boats have been all washed away: it were madness in
us to attempt to lower one. Some with hatchets are cutting away at the
bulwarks and companion hatch to form rafts, others run shrieking below
to the spirit-room, or rush bewildered here and there; not one do I see
on bended knees imploring aid from heaven. The vessel now labours more
heavily than ever; a huge sea rolls towards her,--she gives a fearful
plunge. Many of our people, rough and hardened as they are, utter cries
of horror. I pass my hands across my eyes, and look, and look again.
She is gone!--not a trace of her remains but a few struggling forms amid
the white foam. One by one they