He brought to mind the time when the sight of the sea animated his youth with the desire of plunging into her waves, and measuring his force against her’s.—­“Why,” said he to himself, with the most bitter regret, “why do I yield so unremittingly to reflection?  How many pleasures are there in active life, in those exercises which make us feel the energy of existence?  Death itself then appears but an event, perhaps glorious, at least sudden, and not preceded by decline.  But that death which comes without having been sought by courage, that death of darkness which steals from you in the night all that you hold most dear, which despises your lamentations, repulses your embrace, and pitilessly, opposes to you the eternal laws of nature and of time! such a death inspires a sort of contempt for human destiny, for the impotence of grief, for all those vain efforts that dash and break themselves upon the rock of necessity.”

Such were the sentiments that tormented Oswald; and what particularly characterised his unhappy situation, was the vivacity of youth united to thoughts of another age.  He entered into those ideas which he conceived must have occupied his father’s mind in the last moments of his life; and he carried the ardour of twenty-five into the melancholy reflections of old age.  He was weary of every thing, and yet still regretted happiness, as if her illusions were still within his grasp.  This contrast, quite in hostility with the ordinance of nature, which gives uniformity and graduation to the natural course of things, threw the soul of Oswald into disorder; but his manners always possessed considerable sweetness and harmony, and his sadness, far from souring his temper, only inspired him with more condescension and goodness towards others.

Two or three times during the passage from Harwich to Empden the sea put on the appearance of approaching storm; Lord Nelville counselled the sailors, restored confidence to the passengers, and when he himself assisted in working the ship, when he took for a moment the place of the steersman, there was in all he did, a skill and a power which could not be considered as merely the effect of the agility of the body,—­there was soul in all that he did.

On his quitting the vessel all the crew crowded around Oswald to take leave of him; they all thanked him for a thousand little services which he had rendered them during the voyage, and which he no longer remembered.  Upon one occasion, perhaps, it was a child which had occupied a large share of his attention; more often an old man, whose tottering steps he had supported when the wind agitated the ship.  Such a general attention, without any regard to rank or quality, was perhaps never met with.  During the whole day he would scarcely bestow a single moment upon himself:  influenced alike by melancholy and benevolence, he gave his whole time to others.  On leaving him the sailors said to him with one voice, “My dear Lord, may you be more happy!” Oswald had