Thou, God of this great vast, rebuke those surges which wash both
  heaven and hell; and thou that hast upon the winds command, bind then,
  in brass, having called them from the deep.

  SHAKESPEARE.

The shock threw the men off their feet as they raised an appealing cry to Heaven, which was mocked by the howling of the wind and the roar of the waters.  The masts, which were thrown out from their steps, waved once, twice, and then fell over the sides with a crash, as an enormous sea broke over the vessel, forcing her further on the rocks, and causing every timber and knee in her to start from its place.  The masts, as they fell, and the sea, that at the same moment poured over like an impetuous cataract, swept away thirty or forty of the seamen into the boiling element under the lee.  Another and another shock from the resistless and furious waves decided the fate of the resolute captain and master.  The frigate parted amidships.  The fore part of her, which was firmly wedged on the rocks, remained.  The quarter-deck and after-part turned over to the deep water, and disappeared.  An enormous surge curled over it as it went down, and, as if disappointed at not being able to wreak its fury upon that part of the vessel, which, by sinking, had evaded it, it drove in revenge upon the remainder, forcing it several yards higher upon the reef.

Two-thirds of the ship’s company were now gone ­the captain, the master, and the major part of the officers and men, being on the quarter-deck when the ship divided.  The cry of the drowning was not heard amidst the roaring of the elements.  The behaviour of the captain and the officers at this dreadful crisis has not been handed down; but, if we may judge from what has already been narrated, they met their fate like British seamen.

The fore part of the ship still held together, and, fortunately for the survivors, heeled towards the land, so as to afford some protection from the force of the seas, which dashed over it at each succeeding swell of the billows.  Daylight left them, and darkness added to the despair and horror of nearly one hundred wretches, who felt, at each shock which threatened to separate the planks and timbers, as if death was loudly knocking to claim the residue of his destined victims.  Not one word was exchanged; but, secured with ropes to the belaying-pins, and other parts of the forecastle where they could pass their lashings, they clung and huddled together, either absorbed in meditation or wailing with despair.  Occasionally, one who had supported himself in a difficult and painful position, stimulated with the faint hopes of life, to which we all so fondly and so foolishly cling, would find that his strength was exhausted, and that he could hold no longer.  After vainly imploring those near him to allow him to better his condition by a slight personal sacrifice on their part (an appeal that received no answer), he would gradually loose his hold, and drop into the surge that was commissioned by death to receive his prey.

There are situations in human life of such powerful excitement, and in which the mechanism of the human frame becomes so rapid in its motion, that the friction of a few days will wear it out.  The harrowed feelings of these poor creatures on the wreck, during the short time that they remained, had a greater effect in undermining the constitution than many years of laborious occupation on shore.

Fellow-countrymen, if you are at all interested with the scenes I am now describing, and which, if you have any feeling, you must be (however imperfect the description), let the author, a sailor himself, take this favourable opportunity of appealing to you in behalf of a service at once your protection and your pride.  For its sake, as well as your own, listen not to those who, expatiating upon its expense, and silent upon its deserts, would put a stop to hardly earned promotion, and blast with disappointment the energies of the incipient hero.  And may those to whom the people at large have delegated their trust, and in whom they have reposed their confidence, treat with contempt the calculations, and miscalculations, of one without head and without heart!

Daylight again, as if unwillingly, appeared, and the wild scud flew past the dark clouds, that seemed to sink down with their heavy burdens till they nearly touched the sea.  The waves still followed each other mountains high; the wind blew with the same violence; and as the stormy pétrels flew over the billows, indicating by their presence that the gale would continue, the unfortunate survivors looked at each other in silence and despair.

I know not whether all seamen feel as I do; but I have witnessed so many miraculous escapes, so many sudden reverses, so much, beyond all hope and conception, achieved by a reliance upon Providence and your own exertions, that, under the most critical circumstances, I never should despair.  If struggling in the centre of the Atlantic, with no vessel in sight, no strength remaining, and sinking under the wave that boiled in my ear, as memory and life were departing, ­still, as long as life did remain, as long as recollection held her seat, I never should abandon Hope, ­never believe that it is all over with me, ­till I awoke in the next world, and found it confirmed.

What would these men have valued their lives at in the morning?  Yet at noon a change took place:  the weather evidently moderated fast; and silence, that had reigned for so many hours, lost his empire, and the chances of being saved began to be calculated.  A reef of rocks, many of them above water, over which the breakers still raged, lay between the wreck and the shore, and the certainty of being dashed to pieces precluded all attempts at reaching it, till the weather became more moderate and the sea less agitated.  But when might that be? ­and how long were they to resist the united attacks of hunger and fatigue?

The number of men still surviving was about seventy.  Many, exhausted and wounded, were hanging in a state of insensibility by the ropes with which they had secured themselves.  That our hero was among those who remained need hardly be observed, or there would have been a close to this eventful history.  He was secured to the weather side of the foremast-bitts, supported on the one side by the boatswain, and on the other by Price, the second-lieutenant, next to whom was the captain of the forecastle, one of the steadiest and best seamen in the ship, who had been pressed out of a West Indiaman, in which he had served in the capacity of second mate.

Our hero had often turned round with an intention to speak to Price; but observing that he sat crouched with his face upon his hands and knees, he waited until his messmate should raise his head up, imagining that he was occupied in secret prayer.  Finding that he still continued in the same position, Seymour called to him several times.  Not receiving any answer, he extended his arm and shook Price by the collar, fearing that he had swooned from cold and fatigue.

Price slowly raised his head, and looking at Seymour, answered not.  His vacant stare and wild eye proclaimed at once that reason had departed.  Still, as it afterwards appeared, his ruling passion remained; and, from that incomprehensible quality of our structure, which proves that the mind of man is more fearfully and wonderfully made than the body, the desertion of one sense was followed by the return of another.  His memory was perfect, now that his reason was gone.  Surveying the scene around him, he began with all the theatrical action which the ropes that secured him would permit, to quote his favourite author: ­

  “`Blow winds, and crack your cheeks ­rage ­blow,
  You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout ­’

“`Poor Tom’s a-cold’” ­then, shuddering, he covered up his face, and resumed his former position.

“Is this a time for spouting profane plays, Mr Price?” said the fanatical boatswain, who was not aware of the poor man’s insanity.  “Hold your peace, and call not judgment on our heads, and I prophesy that we shall be saved. `The waves of the sea are mighty, and rage horribly; but yet the Lord who dwelleth on high is mightier.’”

Silence ensued, which, after a few minutes, was interrupted by Seymour lamenting over the fate of Captain M –­ and the rest of the crew who had perished.

“Well, they are in heaven before this, I hope?” observed Robinson, the captain of the forecastle.

“`Many are called, but few chosen,’” rejoined the boatswain, who appeared, by the flashing of his eye, to be in a state of strong excitement.  “No more in heaven than you would be, if the Almighty was pleased to cut you off in his wrath.”

“Where then, Mr Hardsett?” inquired Robinson.  “Surely not in ­”

“I know ­I know,” ­cried Price, who again lifted up his head, and, with a vacant laugh, commenced singing ­

  “Nothing of him that doth fade
  But doth suffer a sea-change
  Into something rich and strange. 
  Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell! 
  Hark! now I hear them ­ding-dong-bell.”

“For shame, Mr Price!” interrupted the boatswain.

“Ding-dong-ding-dong-bell.”

“Mr Price, what does the Scripture say? `Judgments are prepared for scorners,’” continued the boatswain with vehemence.

Price had resumed his former attitude, and made no answer.  As soon as the interruption of the lieutenant had ceased, Robinson resumed his interrogatory to the boatswain:  “Where then? ­not in hell, I hope.”

“Ay,” returned the latter, “in the fire that is never quenched, and for ever and ever.”

“I hope not,” replied Robinson; “I may deserve punishment, and I know I do.  I’ve been overhauling my log-book, while the sea here has been dashing over my bows, and washing my figure-head; and there are some things I wish I could forget; ­they will rise up in judgment against me; but surely not for ever?”

“You should have thought of that before, my good fellow.  I am sorry for you, ­sorry for all those who have perished, for they were good seamen, and, in the worldly service, have done well.  I was reflecting the other day whether, out of the whole navy, I should be able to muster one single ship’s company in heaven.”

“Well, Mr Hardsett, it’s my firm opinion, that when the hands are turned up for punishment in the next world, we shall be sarved out according to our desarts.  Now, that’s my belief; and I shan’t change it for yours, Mr Hardsett, for I thinks mine the more comfortable of the two.”

“It won’t do, Robinson, you must have faith.”

“So I have, in God’s mercy, boatswain.”

“That won’t do.  Yours is not the true faith.”

“Mayhap not, but I hope to ride it out with it nevertheless, for I have it well backed with hope; and if I still drive,” ­said Robinson, musing a short time ­“why, I have charity as a sheet-anchor, to bring me up again.  It’s long odds but our bodies will soon be knocked to shivers in those breakers, and we shall then know who’s right, and who’s wrong.  I see small chance of our saving ourselves, unless indeed we could walk on the sea, and there was but one that ever did that.”

“Had the apostle had faith, he would not have sunk,” rejoined the boatswain.

“Have you then more faith than the apostle?”

“I have, thanks be to Jehovah, the true faith,” cried the boatswain, raising his eyes and hands to heaven.

“Then walk on shore,” said the captain of the forecastle, looking him steadfastly in the face.

Stimulated by the request, which appeared to put his courage as a man, and his faith as a Christian, to the test, and, at the moment, fanatic even to insanity, the boatswain rose, and casting off the ropes which he had wound round his body, was about to comply with Robinson’s request.

A few moments more, and the raging sea would have received him, had not our hero, in conjunction with the captain of the forecastle, held him down with all his power.  “We doubt not your faith, Mr Hardsett,” said Seymour, “but the time of miracles is past.  It would be self-murder.  He who raised the storm, will, in his own good time, save us, if he thinks fit.”

Price, who had listened to the conversation, and had watched the motions of the boatswain, who was casting off the lashings which had secured him, had, unperceived, done the same, and now jumped upon his legs, and collared the astonished boatswain, roaring out ­

  “Zounds, show me what thou’lt do! 
  Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself?”

“Why, he’s mad!” exclaimed the terrified boatswain, who was not far off the point himself.

“Mad!” resumed Price.

  “Not a soul
  But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
  Some tricks of desperation.

  “The king’s son, Ferdinand,
  With hair upstarting (then like reeds, not hair),
  Was the first man that leaped; cried, Hell is empty,
  And all the devils are here!”

As the maniac finished the last words, before they could be aware of his intention, he made a spring from the deck over the bulwark, and disappeared under the wave.  The boatswain, who had been diverted from his fanatical attempt by the unexpected attack of Price, more than by the remonstrances of his companions, resumed his position, folding his arms, and casting his eyes to heaven.  The captain of the forecastle was silent, and so was our hero ­the thoughts of the two were upon the same subject ­eternity.

Eternity ­the only theme that confuses, humbles, and alarms the proud intellect of man.  What is it?  The human mind can grasp any defined space, any defined time, however vast; but this is beyond time, and too great for the limited conception of man.  It had no beginning and can have no end.  It cannot be multiplied, it cannot be divided, it cannot be added unto ­you may attempt to subtract from it, but it is useless.  Take millions and millions of years from it, take all the time that can enter into the compass of your imagination, it is still whole and undiminished as before ­all calculation is lost.  Think on ­the brain becomes heated, and oppressed with a sensation of weight too powerful for it to bear; reason totters in her seat, and you rise with the conviction of the impossibility of the creature attempting to fathom the Creator ­humiliated with the sense of your own nothingness, and impressed with the tremendous majesty of the Deity.

Time is Man ­Eternity is God!