I saw thee in thy stirrups stand, And hew thy foes down fast, When Grierson fled, and Maxwell fail'd, And Graham, saved by the sword, raged fierce I came to curse thee-and I wept: CHARACTERS. A SAILOR Is a pitched piece of reason calked and tackled, and only studied to dispute with tempests. He is part of his own provision, for he lives ever pickled. A fair wind is the substance of his creed, and fresh water the burden of his prayers. He is naturally ambitious, for he is ever climbing out of sight; as naturally he fears, for he is ever flying. Time and he are every where; ever contending who shall arrive first. He is well winded, for he tires the day, and outruns darkness. His life is like a hawk's, the best part mewed; and if he lives till three coats, is a master. He sees God's wonders in the deep, but so as they rather appear his playfellows than stirrers of his zeal. Nothing but hunger and hard rocks can convert him, and then but his upper deck neither, for his hold neither fears nor hopes. His sleeps are but reprievals of his dangers, and when he awakes, it is but next stage to dying. His wisdom is the coldest part about him, for it ever points to the north, and it lies lowest, which makes his valour every tide overflow it. In a storm it is disputable whether the noise be more his or the elements', and which will first leave scolding; on which side of the ship he may be saved best; whether his faith be starboard faith or larboard, or the helm at that time not all his hope of heaven! His keel is the emblem of his conscience; till it be split he never repents-then no farther than the land allows him. His language is a new confusion, and all his thoughts new nations. His body and his ship are both one burden; nor is it known who stows most wine or rolls most, only the ship is guided-he has no stern. A barnacle and he are bred together, both of one nature, and, it is feared, one reason. Upon any but a wooden horse he cannot ride, and if the wind blows against him he dare not he swarms up to his seat as to a sail-yard, and cannot sit unless he bear a flag staff; if ever he be broken to the saddle, it is but a voyage still; for he mistakes the bridle for a bowling, and is ever turning his horse-tail. He can pray, but it is by rote, not faith, and when he would he dares not, for his brackish belief hath made that ominous. A rock or a quicksand plucks him before he is ripe, else he is gathered to his friends at Wapping. A SOLDIER Is the husbandman of valour; his sword is his plough, which honour and aqua vitæ, two fiery nettled jades, are ever drawing. A younger brother best becomes arms, an elder, the thanks for them. Every heat makes him a harvest, and discontents abroad are his sowers He is actively his prince's, but passively his passion's servant. He is often a desirer of learning, which, once arrived at, proves his strongest armour. He is a lover at all points, and a true defender of the faith of women. More wealth than makes him seem a handsome foe, lightly he covets not-less is below him: he never truly wants but in much having, for then his ease and affluence afflict him. The word peace, though in prayer, makes him start, and God he best considers by his power. Hunger and cold rank in the same file with him, and hold him to a man; his honour else, and the desire of doing things beyond him, would blow him greater than the sons of Anack. His religion is commonly as his cause is, doubtful, and that the best devotion keeps best quarter. He seldom sees gray hairs, some none at all; for where the sword fails, there the flesh gives fire. In charity he goes beyond the clergy, for he loves his greatest enemy best-much drinking. He seems a full student, for he is a great desirer of controversies: he argues sharply, and carries his conclusion in his scabbard. In the first refining of mankind this was the gold; his actions are his ammel*; his alloy (for else you cannot work him perfectly) continual duties, heavy and weary marches, lodgings as full of need as cold diseases: no time to argue but to execute. Line him with these, and link him to his squadrons, and he appears a rich chain for princes. SINGULAR RECOVERY FROM DEATH. SIR, I AM about to detail the circumstances of an event which, some years ago, plunged me into unutterable horror, and of which I cannot, even now, think without a shudder. Unfortunately I do not possess those mental powers that might present to others a clear picture of the agonies I then endured; but there is often felt to be in the simple truth a power of awakening emotion beyond what belongs to the most skilful fiction,-and therefore it is that I shall attempt to describe some of my sufferings during that fearful and nearly fatal day, of which no portion can ever be obliterated from my memory. The incidents which I shall now narrate are well known to the kind and sympathising friends of my own small circle, but have never, I believe, been made public. Nor should I now obtrude upon the world any narration of an event in the life of an individual so perfectly obscure as I am, unless there belonged to it that which rarely belongs to stories of that kind,-a solemn and momentous moral. *An old word for enamel. It was on the afternoon of the 14th of August, 1811, that two friends called upon me, whom I had not seen for several years. One was a clergyman, alike distinguished for his genius, learning, and talents, just returned from India, after an absence of seven years from his native country; and the other was an officer, who had served with distinguished reputation in Spain, and who was now forced to return home, in consequence of a severe wound, that wholly disabled him for actual service. I had scarcely recovered from a fever, which had some weeks before nearly brought me to the grave, and the effects of which were still felt by me, not only in extreme lassitude of body, but also in a certain weakness and wandering of mind. The least noise thrilled through me, like the sound of a gong, and I would frequently burst into tears in cases of the most trifling emotion. But I was convalescent; and, day by day, was sensible of an improvement in the health both of my bodily and mental frame. Indeed, an acquaintance, who had not heard of my illness, would probably not have observed any thing about me more than ordinary, except a diminution of my usual energy, and a slight querulousness foreign to my previous habits, and, I believe I may with truth say, foreign to the original conformation of my character. The sight of two dear friends, whom I had not embraced for years, operated upon me like a charm. We discoursed of a few important matters, and of ten thousand trifles; and though two or three times during dinner, and in the course of the afternoon, I painfully felt a sudden confusion among thoughts a moment before distinct, and a total forgetfulness of incidents and transactions of which my friends spoke, as not only familiarly known but interesting to me; yet, on the whole, I was well and happy, and the evening imperceptibly wore away in mirth, friendship, and affection. There had been some conversation about the comet that so long glorified the evening sky during that summer, and to decide a disputed question respecting its relative position to a particular star, I went into the little garden before my house, and then, for the first time, felt an indescribable emotion of perplexity, and I might say, almost of terror. The whole heavens seemed on fire as if the stars were hurrying back and forwards athwart the sky, with long trains of flashing and sparkling light, fiercely illuminating the sable back-ground of a troubled firmament. The moon seemed rolling on with prodigious swiftness, dashing all the stars aside, as a vessel dashes away the waves, and yet never disappearing, as if a boundless space were before me, -driven through by an object in incessant motion. It was one undistinguishable tumult of sound, colour, and form; while ever and anon the great Castle cliff, and all the lofty edifices of the city, seemed lifted up among the reeling clouds, and the fiery stars, and that red rushing moon, as if earth and heaven were commingled. I shut my eyes in consternation, with a hope that it was but a momentary distraction of the senses, arising from the effects of my late fever, and instinctively returned into the room where my friends were sitting, but aghast and speechless, and seemingly, as they have since informed me, struck by some sudden and mortal blow. I heard their voices; and, making a convulsive effort to speak, I at last joined my voice to theirs; but I heard its hollow and imperfect sound with a hideous conviction that it was the voice of death, and that I was hurrying into utter insensibility, struck, as I felt, with apoplexy. I fell down, and suddenly one horrid image possessed my whole spirit, that of a demon, partly human and partly bestial in its shape, that leaped upon me, and seemed to crush and grind me in its enormous arms. It fixed its fangs into my heart with miserable pain,while a deep growl, as of thunder, accompanied the mangling and maceration of my flesh and spirit. A mortal sickness came over me; I felt myself becoming pale as ashes;-the blood seemed ebbing back upon my heart, each drop becoming stagnant there, while a deep convulsion rent my inmost frame asunder, and filled my being with one continued pang of unabating pain. My ears did not ring,-that is a word altogether |