Newton Forster by Frederick Marryat

"Boldly I venture on a naval scene, Nor fear the critics' frown, the pedants' spleen. Sons of the ocean, we their rules disdain. Hark! -- a shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock. Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes In wild despair -- while yet another stroke With deep convulsion rends the solid oak, Till like the mine in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell, At length, asunder torn, her frame divides, And crushing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. " FALCONER.

It was in the dreary month of fog, misanthropy, and suicide -- the month during which Heaven receives a scantier tribute of gratitude from discontented man -- during which the sun rises, but shines not -- gives forth an unwilling light, but glads us not with his cheerful rays -- during which large tallow candles assist the merchant to calculate his gains or to philosophise over his losses -- in short, it was one evening in the month of November of the year l7 -- , that Edward Forster, who had served many years in his Majesty's navy, was seated in a snug armchair, in a snug parlour, in a snug cottage to which he had retired upon his half-pay, in consequence of a severe wound which had, for many years, healed but to break out again each succeeding spring.