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! CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE. Thou art perfect, then, that our ship hath touched upon the deserts of Bohemia? Ay, my lord and fear we have landed in ill time. WINTER'S TALE.