The Queen of night, whose vast command
  Rules all the sea, and half the land;
  And over moist and crazy brains,
  In high spring-tides at midnight reigns. 
  HUDIBRAS.

Among the millions who, on the hallowed and appointed day, lay aside their worldly occupations to bow the knee to the Giver of all good, directing their orisons and their thoughts to one mercy-beaming power, like so many rays of light concentrated into one focus, I know no class of people in whose breasts the feeling of religion is more deeply implanted than the occupants of that glorious specimen of daring ingenuity ­a man-of-war.  It is through his works that the Almighty is most sincerely reverenced, through them that his infinite power is with deepest humility acknowledged.  The most forcible arguments, the most pathetic eloquence from the pulpit, will not affect so powerfully the mind of man, as the investigation of a blade of grass, or the mechanism of the almost imperceptible insect.  If, then, such is the effect upon mankind in general, how strong must be the impressions of those who occupy their business in the great waters!  These men “see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.”  They behold him in all his magnificence, in all his beauty, in all his wrath, in all his vastness, in all his variety.  Unassisted by theory, they practically feel that God is great, and their worship, although dumb, is sincere.

I am aware that it is the idea of many that sailors have little or no religion:  and their dissolute conduct, when thrown on shore, is certainly a strong argument in support of this opinion; but they must not be so partially judged.  Those who are constantly mixed with the world, and exposed to its allurements, are subject to a continual struggle against their passions, which they are more enabled to restrain, as temptation so rapidly succeeds temptation that one destroys the other ­effacing it from their recollection before they have had time to mature their embryo guilt.  But in our floating monasteries, where rigid discipline and active duties allow only the thoughts to ramble to that society which never has been intended to be abandoned, the passions are naturally impelled towards that world, whose temptations are so much increased by long and unnatural seclusion.

In the mountain lake, whose waters are daily increasing, all is unruffled till their own weight has forced its boundaries, and the roaring cataract sweeps everything before it.  Such is the licentious and impetuous behaviour of the sailor on shore.  But on board he is a different being, and appears as if he were without sin and without guile.  Let those, then, who turn away at his occasional intemperance, be careful how they judge.  They may “thank God that they are not as that publican,” and yet be less justified, when weighed in that balance, where, although Justice eyes the beam, Mercy is permitted to stand by, and throw into the scale her thousand little grains to counter-poise the mass of guilt.

Religion in a sailor (I mean by the term, a common seaman) is more of an active than a passive feeling.  It does not consist in reflection or self-examination.  It is in externals that his respect to the Deity is manifest.  Witness the Sunday on board of a man-of-war.  The care with which the decks are washed, the hauling taut, and neat coiling down of the ropes, the studied cleanliness of person, most of which duties are performed on other days, but on this day are executed with an extra precision and attention on the part of the seamen, because it is Sunday.  Then the quiet decorum voluntarily observed; the attention to divine service, which would be a pattern to a congregation on shore; the little knots of men collected, in the afternoon, between the guns, listening to one who reads some serious book; or the solitary quarter-master, poring over his thumbed Testament, as he communes with himself ­all prove that sailors have a deep-rooted feeling of religion.  I once knew a first-lieutenant receive a severe rebuke from a ship’s company.  This officer, observing the men scattered listlessly about the forecastle and waist of the frigate, on a fine Sunday evening, ordered the fiddler up, that they might dance.  The ship’s company thanked him for his kindness, but stated that they had not been accustomed to dance on that day, and requested that the music might be sent below.

The Sunday on board a man-of-war has another advantage over the Sabbath on shore:  it is hallowed throughout.  It commences with respect and reverence, and it ends with the same.  There is no alehouse to resort to, where the men may become intoxicated; no allurements of the senses to disturb the calm repose of the mind, the practical veneration of the day, which bestows upon it a moral beauty.

It was on the evening of such a day of serenity, after the hammocks had been piped down and the watch mustered, that Captain M –­ was standing on the gangway of the Aspasia, in conversation with Macallan, the surgeon.  It was almost a calm:  the sails were not asleep with the light airs that occasionally distended them, but flapped against the lofty masts with the motion communicated to the vessel by the undulating wave.  The moon, nearly at her full, was high in the heavens, steering for the zenith in all her beauty, without one envious cloud to obscure the refulgence of her beams, which were reflected upon the water in broad and wavering lines of silver.  The blue wave was of a deeper blue ­so clear and so transparent that you fancied you could pierce through a fathomless perspective, and so refreshing, so void of all impurity, that it invited you to glide into its bosom.

“How clear the moon shines to-night! to-morrow, I think, will be full moon.”

“It would be well,” observed the surgeon in reply to remark of the captain, “to request the officer of the watch to permit the men to sleep on the upper deck.  We shall have many of them moon-blind.”

“I have often heard that effect of the moon in the tropics mentioned, but have never seen it.  In what manner does it affect the eyes?”

“The moon can act but in one way, sir,” replied Macallan, ­“by attraction.  The men who are affected see perfectly well in broad daylight; but as soon as it is dusk, their powers of vision are gone altogether.  At the usual time at which the hammocks are piped down they will not be able to distinguish the numbers.  I have had sixty men in one ship in the situation I have described.”

“We ridicule the opinion of the ancients, relative to the powers of this planet,” observed the captain; “but, at the same time, I have often heard more ascribed to her influence than the world in general are inclined to credit.  That she regulates the tides is, I believe, the only point upon which there is now no scepticism.”

“There has been scepticism even upon that, sir.  Did you ever read a work entitled `Theory of the Tides’?  I can, however, state some other points, from observation, in which the moon has power.”

“Over lunatics, I presume?”

“Most certainly; and why not, therefore, over those who are rational?  We observe the effect more clearly in the lunatic, because his mind is in a state of feverish excitement; but if the moon can act upon the diseased brain, it must also have power, although less perceptible, over the mind which is in health.  I believe that there is an ebb and flow of power in our internal mechanism, corresponding to the phases of the moon.  I mean, that the blood flows more rapidly, and the powers of nature are more stimulated, at the flood and full, than at the ebb and neap, when a reaction takes place in proportion to the previous acceleration.  Dr Mead has observed, that of those who are at the point of death, nine out of ten quit this world at the ebb of the tide.  Does not this observation suggest the idea, that nature has relaxed her efforts during that period, after having been stimulated during the flood?  Shakespeare, who was a true observer of nature, has not omitted this circumstance; speaking of the death of Falstaff, Mrs Quickly observes, `It was just at the turn of the tide.’”

“Well, but, Mr Macallan, laying aside hypothesis, what have you ascertained, from actual observation, besides that which we term moon-blindness?”

“The effect of the moon upon fish, and other animal matter, hung up in its rays at night.  If under the half-deck, they would remain perfectly sweet and eatable; but if exposed to the moon’s rays, in the tropics, they will, in the course of one night, become putrid and unwholesome.  They emit no smell; but when eaten will produce diarrhoea, almost as violent as if you had taken poison.”

“I have heard that stated, also, by seamen,” said the captain; “but have never witnessed it.”

“A remarkable and corroborative instance occurred, when I was in the bay of Annapolis,” resumed the surgeon.  “I was becalmed in a small vessel, and amused myself with fishing.  I pulled up several herrings; but, to my astonishment, they were putrid and sodden an hour or two after they were dead.  I observed the circumstance to one of the fishermen, who in formed me that several hundred barrels, taken at a fishery a few miles off, had all been spoiled in the same manner.  I asked the reason, and the answer was, `that they had been spawned at the full of the moon.’  How far the man was correct, I know not; but he stated that the circumstance had occurred before, and was well known to the older fishermen.”

“Very singular,” replied Captain M –.  “We are too apt to reject the whole, because we have found a part to be erroneous.  That the moon is not the Hecate formerly supposed, I believe; but she seems to have more power than is usually ascribed to her.  Is that seven bells striking?”

“It is, sir; the time has slipped rapidly away.  I shall wish you good night.”

“Good night,” replied Captain M –­, who, for some time after the departure of the surgeon, continued leaning over the rail of the entering-port, in silent contemplation of the glassy wave, until the working of his mind was expressed in the following apostrophe: ­

“Yes ­placid and beautiful as thou art, there is foul treachery in thy smile.  Who knows, but that, one day, thou mayest, in thy fury, demand as a victim the form which thou so peaceably reflectest?  Ever-craving epicure! thou must be fed with the healthy and the brave.  The gluttonous earth preys indiscriminately upon the diseased carcases of age, infancy, and manhood; but thou must be more daintily supplied.  Health and vigour ­prime of life and joyous heart ­high-beating pulse and energy of soul ­active bodies, and more active minds ­such is the food in which thou delightest:  and with such dainty fare wilt thou ever be supplied, until the Power that created thee, with the other elements, shall order thee to pass away.”

The bell struck eight, and its sharp peals, followed by the hoarse summoning of the watch below, by the boatswain’s-mates, disturbed his reverie, and Captain M –­ descended to his cabin.

And now, reader, I shall finish this chapter.  You may, perhaps, imagine that I have the scene before me, and am describing from nature:  if so, you are in error.  I am seated in the after-cabin of a vessel, endowed with as liberal a share of motion as any in His Majesty’s service:  whilst I write I am holding on by the table, my legs entwined in the lashings underneath, and I can barely manage to keep my position before my manuscript.  The sea is high, the gale fresh, the sky dirty, and threatening a continuance of what our transatlantic descendants would term a pretty-considerable-tarnation-strong blast of wind.  The top-gallant-yards are on deck, the masts are struck, the guns double-breeched, and the bulwarks creaking and grinding in most detestable regularity of dissonance as the vessel scuds and lurches through a cross and heavy sea.  The main-deck is afloat:  and, from the careless fitting of the half-ports at the dockyard, and neglect of caulking in the cants, my fore-cabin is in the same predicament.  A bubbling brook changing its course, ebbing and flowing as it were with the rolling of the ship, is dashing with mimic fury against the trunks secured on each side of the cabin.

I have just been summoned from my task, in consequence of one of the battens which secured my little library having given way to the immoderate weight of learning that pressed upon it; and as my books have been washed to and fro, I have snatched them from their first attempts at natation.  Smith’s Wealth of Nations I picked up first, not worth a fig; Don Juan I have just rescued from a second shipwreck, with no other Hey-day (Haidee) to console him, than the melancholy one extracted from me with a deep sigh, as I received his shattered frame.  Here’s Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” in a very melancholy plight indeed, and (what a fashionable watering-place my cabin has turned to!) here’s Burke’s “Peerage,” with all the royal family and aristocracy of the kingdom, taking a dip, and a captain of a man-of-war, like another Sally Gunn, pulling them out.  So, you perceive, my description has been all moonshine.

  “My wishes have been fathers to my thoughts.”

My bones are sore with rocking.  Horace says, that he had a soul of brass who first ventured to sea; I think a body of iron very necessary to the outfit.  My cot is swinging and jerking up to the beams, as if the lively scoundrel was some metamorphosed imp mocking at me.  “Sarve you right ­what did you list for?” ­Very true ­Why did I? ­Well, anxious as I am to close this chapter, and to close my eyes, I will tell you, reader, what it was that induced me to go to sea.  It was not to escape the drudgery and confinement of a school, or the admonitions received at home.  The battle of Trafalgar had been fought ­I recollect the news being brought down by the dancing-master when I was at school; but although I knew that eighteen or twenty sail of the line had been captured, yet never having seen a vessel larger than a merchant ship at London Bridge, I had very imperfect ideas on the subject ­except that it must have been a very glorious affair, as we had a whole holiday in consequence.  But when I returned home, I witnessed the funeral procession of Lord Nelson; and, as the triumphal car upon which his earthly remains were borne disappeared from my aching eye, I felt that death could have no terrors, if followed by such a funeral; and I determined that I would be buried in the same manner.  This is the fact; but I am not now exactly of the same opinion.  I had no idea at that time, that it was such a terrible roundabout way to St. Paul’s.  Here I have been tossed about in every quarter of the globe, for between twenty and five-and-twenty years, and the dome is almost as distant as ever.

I mean to put up with the family vault; but I should like very much to have engraved on my coffin ­“Many years Commissioner,” or “Lord of the Admiralty,” or “Governor of Greenwich Hospital,” “Ambassador,” “Privy Councillor,” or, in fact, anything but Captain:  for, though acknowledged to be a good travelling name, it is a very insignificant title at the end of our journey.  Moreover, as the author of “Pelham” says, “I wish somebody would adopt me.”