It was a beautiful night, and we were running before the east wind, the Portland Light upon our starboard beam; the other men in the boat had laid down in their gregos and pilot jackets, and were fast asleep, while Bramble was at the helm steering; and I, who was too restless in my mind to feel any inclination to repose, was sitting on the stern-sheets beside him. "Do you see the line of the _Race_?" said Bramble; "it seems strong to-night." Bramble referred to what is called by the mariners the Race of Portland, where the uneven ground over which the water runs creates a very heavy sea even in a calm. Small smuggling vessels and boats, forced into it in bad weather, have often foundered. The tide, however, runs so rapidly over it that you are generally swept through it in a few minutes, and then find yourself again in comparatively smooth water. "Yes," replied I; "it is very strong to-night, from the long continuance of the easterly wind." "Exactly so, Tom," continued Bramble. "I've often thought that getting into that Race is just like falling in love." "Why so?" replied I, rather pettishly, for I was not pleased at his referring to the subject. "I'll tell you why, Tom," said Bramble; "because, you see, when we get into the Race, it's all boiling and bubbling and tossing about--rudder and sails are of no use; and you are carried along by a fierce tide, which there's no resisting, with no small damage to the upper works, until you are fairly out again, and find breath to thank God for it. Now, aren't that like love?" "I suppose it is as you say so; you know best." "Well, I think I do know best; because, you see, I have long been clear of it. I never was in love but once, Tom; did I ever tell you about it?" "Never," replied I.