calling "Woe to you! Woe for ever! Darkness is coming, and I and Death
await you with cold arms." Every timber complained with whining
iteration, and the boom of the full, falling seas tolled as a bell tolls
that beats out the last minutes of a mortal's life. The Cockney poet
sings--

"A cheer for the hard, glad weather,
The quiver and beat of the sea!"

Shade of Rodney! What does the man know about it? If his joints were
aching and helpless with the "hardness," he would not think the weather
so "glad"; if the "beat of the sea" made every nerve of him quiver with
the agony of salt-water cracks, I reckon he would want to go home to his
bath and bed; and if the savage combers gnashed at him like white teeth
of ravenous beasts, I take it that his general feelings of jollity would
be modified; while last of all, if he saw the dark portal--goal of all
mortals--slowly lifting to let him fare on to the halls of doom, I wager
that poet would not think of rhymes. If he had to work!--But no, a real
sea poet does not work.

Ferrier was a good and plucky man, but the moments went past him,
leaving legacies of fear. Was he to leave the kindly world? Oh!
thrilling breath of spring, gladness of sunlight, murmur of trees,
gracious faces of women! Were all to be seen no more? Every joyous hour
came back to memory; every ungrateful thought spoken or uttered was now
remembered with remorse. Have you looked in the jaws of death? I have,
and Ferrier did so. When the wheels of being are twirling slowly to a
close, when the animal in us is cowed into stupor, then the spirit
craves passionately for succour; and let a man be never so lightsome, he
stretches lame hands of faith and gropes, even though he seem to gather