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other respects, now" Here again she was carried away by the dance, and, when she returned, caught the end of a sentence of St. Cloud's, "You will consider what I have said in confidence."

"Certainly," answered Mr. Porter; "and I am exceedingly obliged to you;" and then the dance was over, and Mary returned to her father's side. She had never enjoyed a ball less than this, and persuaded her father to leave early, which he was delighted to do.

When she reached her own room Mary took off her wreath and ornaments, and then sat down and fell into a brown study, which lasted for some time. At last she roused herself with a sigh, and thought she had never had so tiring a day, though she could hardly tell why, and felt half inclined to have a good cry, if she could only have made up her mind what about. However, being a sensible young woman, she resisted the temptation, and, hardly taking the trouble to roll up her hair, went to bed and slept soundly.

Mr. Porter found his wife sitting up for him; they were evidently both full of the same subject.

"Well, dear?" she said, as he entered the room.

Mr. Porter put down his candle, and shook his head.

"You don't think Katie can be right then? She must have capital opportunities of judging, you know, dear."

"But she is no judge. What can a girl like Katie know about such things? "Well, dear, do you know I really cannot think there was anything very wrong, though I did think so at first, I

own.

"But I find that his character was bad-decidedly bad-always. Young St. Cloud didn't like to say much to me; which was natural, of course. Young men never like to betray one another; but I could see what he thought. He is a right-minded young man, and very agreeable."

"I do not take to him very much."

"His connexions and prospects, too, are capital. I sometimes think he has a fancy for Mary. Haven't you remarked it?"

"Yes, dear. But as to the other matter? Shall you ask him here?"

"Well, dear, I do not think there is any need. He is only in town, I suppose, for a short time, and it is not at all likely that we should know where he is, you see."

"But if he should call?"

"Of course then we must be civil. We can consider then what is to be done."

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"GOD have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea!" Household words, these, in English homes, however far inland they may be, and although near them the blue sea may have no better representative than a sedge-choked river or canal, along which slow barges urge a lazy

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the sky, and gales are abroad, seaward fly the sympathies of English hearts, and the prayer is uttered with, perhaps, a special reference to some loved and absent sailor. It is those, however, who live on the sea-coast, and watch the struggle going on in all its terrible reality-now welcoming ashore, as wrested from death, some rescued sailor, now mourning over those who have found a sudden grave almost within call

fearfulness of the strife, and to find an answer to the moanings of the gale in the prayer, "God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea!”

This lesson is perhaps more fully learnt at Ramsgate than at any other part of the coast. Four-fifths of the whole shipping trade of London pass within two or three miles of the place; between fifty and a hundred sail are often in sight at once,-pretty picture enough on a sunny day, or when a good wholesome breeze is bowling along; but anxious, withal, when the clouds are gathering, and you see the fleet making the best of its way to find shelter in the Downs, and a south-westerly gale moans up, and the last of the fleet are caught by it, and have to anchor in exposed places, and you watch them riding heavily, making bad weather of it—the seas, every now and then, flying over them.

If it is

winter-time, and the weather stormy, the harbour fills with vessels; tide after tide brings them in, till they may number two or three hundred,-many of them brought in disabled, bulwarks washed away, masts over the side, bows stove in, or leaky, having been in collision, touched the ground, or been struck by a sea. The harbour is then an irresistible attraction to the residents; the veriest landsmen grow excited, and make daily pilgrimages to the piers, to see how the vessels under repairs are getting on, or what new disasters have occurred:

But it is at night-time especially that one's thoughts take a more solemn and anxious turn. As you settle down by the fireside for a quiet evening, you remember the ugly appearance the sky had some two or three hours before, when you were at the end of the pier. You felt that mischief was brewing; gusts of wind swept by; and you looked down upon a white raging sea. The Downs anchorage was full of shipping; some few vessels had parted their cables, and had to run for it, while a lugger or two staggered out with anchors and chains to supply them; others made for the harbour,you almost shuddered as you looked down upon them from the pier, and saw

and plunging, with the waves surging over their bows. Another moment's battle with the tide ;-you heard the orders shouted out, you saw the men rushing to obey them,-the pilot steady at the wheel,—and you could scarce forbear a cheer as ship after ship shot by the pier head, and found refuge in the harbour. Altogether it was a wild, exciting scene, and you cannot shake off the effect; you shut your book, and listen to the storm. The wind rushes and moans by; a minute before it was raging over the sea. The muffled roaring sound you hear is that of the waves breaking at the base of the cliff. You get restless, and go to the window, peer out into the dark night, and watch with anxious, it may be nervous, thoughts the bright lights of the Light Vessels, which guard the Goodwin Sands-sands so fatal that, when the graves give up their dead, few churchyards shall render such an account as theirs in number, and also that they entomb the brave and strong-men who a few hours before were reckless and merry, ready to laugh at the thoughts of death-who, if homeward bound, were full of joy, as they seemed already to stand upon the thresholds of their homes; or by whom, if outward bound, the kisses of their wives, which seemed still to linger on their cheeks, and the soft clasping arms of their little ones, which still seemed to hang about their necks, were only to be forgotten in the few hours of terrible life-struggle with the storm, and then keenly again remembered in the last gasping moments, ere the Goodwin Sands should find them a grave almost within the shadows of their homes! Saddened with these thoughts, you turn again to your book, but scarcely to read. A sudden noise brings you to your feet! What was it? An open shutter or door, caught and banged to by the wind; or the report of a gun? It sounded woefully like the latter! You hurry to the window, and anxiously watch the light vessels. Suddenly from one of them up shoots a stream of light. They have fired a rocket; and the gun, and the rocket,

a vessel is on the sands, and in need of immediate assistance. You remember watching the breakers on the sands during the day, as they rose and fell like fitful volumes of white eddying smoke, breaking up the clear line of the horizon, and tracing the sands in broken, leaping, broad outlines of foam. And you realize the sad fact that, amid those terrible breakers, somewhere out in the darkness, within four or five miles of you, near that bright light, there are twenty or fifty-you know not how many-of your fellow-creatures, struggling for their lives. "Ah!" you say, as the storm-blast rushes by, "if this gale lasts a few hours, and there is no rescue, the morning may be calm, and the sea then smooth as a lake; but nothing of either ship, or crew, shall we see.' But, thank God! there will be a

rescue.

You know that already brave hearts have determined to attempt it; that strong, ready hands are even now at work, in cool, quick preparation; that, almost before you could battle your way against the tempest down to the pier-head, the steamer and life-boat will have fought their way out into the storm and darkness upon their errand of mercy. "God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea-upon the shipwrecked, upon the brave rescuers!" is the prayer that finds a deep utterance from your heart during the wakeful minutes of the anxious night; and, as you fall asleep, visions of the scenes going on so near, mingle with your dreams, and startle you again to watchfulness and prayer. We Te go back to the 26th of November, 1857, and select the events of that night for our narrative because, perhaps, never before, or since, did men and boat live through such perils as the Ramsgate life-boat crew then encountered; and because, moreover, they seem well to illustrate the dangers connected with the lifeboat service on the Goodwin Sands.

The day in question had been very threatening throughout; it was blowing very fresh, with occasional squalls, from the east-north-east, and a heavy sea run

was

the east pier. As the waves beat upon it, and dashed over in clouds of foam, it looked from the cliff like a heavy battery of guns in full play. The boatmen had been on the look-out all day, but there were no signs of their services being required. Still they hung about the pier till long after dark. At last many were straggling home, leaving only those who were to watch during the night, when suddenly some thought they saw a flash of light. A few seconds of doubt, and the boom of the gun decided the point. At once there was a rush for the life-boat. She was moored in the stream about thirty yards from the pier. In a few minutes she was alongside. Her crew already more than made up. Some had put off to her in wherries; others had sprung in when she was within jumping distance of the steps. She was overmanned; and the two last on board had to turn out. In the meantime a rocket had been fired from the light vessel. Many had been on the look-out for it, that they might decide beyond all doubt which of the three light vessels it was that had signalled. It proved to be the North Sand Head vessel. The cork jackets were thrown into the boat; men were in their places, and all ready for a start in a comparatively few minutes. They had not been less active in the steamer, the Aid. Immediately upon the first signal her shrill steam whistle resounded through the harbour, calling on board those of her crew who were on shore; and her steam, which is always kept up, was got to its full power, and in less than half-an-hour from the firing of the gun, she steamed gallantly out of the harbour, with the life-boat in tow. As she went out, a rocket streamed up from the Pier Head. It was the answer to the light vessel, and told that the assistance demanded was on its way.

the

Off they went, ploughing their way through a heavy cross sea, which often swept completely over the boat. The tide was running strongly, and the wind in their teeth; it was hard work breasting both sea and wind in such a tide and gale;

The Ramsgate Life-Boat.

gradually made head-way. They steered for the Goodwin, and, having got as near to the breakers as they dared take the steamer, worked their way through a heavy head sea along the edge of the Sands, on the look-out for the vessel in distress. At last they make her out in the darkness, and, as they approach, find two Broadstairs luggers, the Dreadnought and Petrel, riding at anchor outside the sand. These had heard the signal, and, the strong easterly gale being in their favour, had soon run down to the neighbourhood of the wreck. On making to the vessel, the new comers find her to be a fine-looking brig, almost high and dry on the sands. Her masts and rigging are all right; the moon, which has broken through the clouds, shines upon her clean new copper; and, so far, she seems to have received but little damage.

Efforts have already been made for her relief. The Dreadnought lugger had brought with her a small twenty-feet lifeboat. The "Little" Dreadnought and this boat, with her crew of five hands, has succeeded in getting alongside the brig.

The steamer slips the hawser of the life-boat, and anchors almost abreast of the vessel, with about sixty fathom of chain out. There is a heavy rolling sea -but much less than there has been, as the tide has gone down considerably. The life-boat makes in for the brig; carries on through the surf and breakers; * and, when within about forty fathoms of the vessel, lowers her sails, throws the anchor overboard, and veers alongside. The captain and some of the men remain in the boat, to fend her off from the sides of the vessel; for the tide, although it is shallow water, runs like a sluice, and it requires great care to prevent the boat getting her side stove in against the vessel. The rest of her crew climb on board the brig. Her captain had, until then, hoped to get her off at the next tide, and had refused the assistance of the Broadstairs men. But now he begins to realize the danger of his position, and is very glad to accept the assistance offered. One of his crew speaks a little English; and, through him, he employs the crew of the life-boat, and the

others, to try and get his vessel off the sands.

such, terribly fatal to vessels that get The Goodwin is a quicksand, and, as upon it. At low tide a large portion of it is dry, and is then hard and firm, and miles; but, as the water flows over any can be walked upon for four or five portion of it, that part becomes, as the ready to suck in anything that lodges sailors say, all alive-soft, and quick, and upon it. Suppose the vessel to run bow sand shelves, or is steep. The water on, with a falling tide, and where the hard; the water still flows under the leaves the bow, and the sand there gets stern, and there the sand remains soft; down the stern sinks, lower and lower; the vessel soon breaks her back, or works herself almost upright on her stern; as deeper and deeper into the sand, until the tide flows she fills with water, works only her topmasts are to be seen above at high tide she is completely buried, or begin to beat heavily, and soon break up. water. Other vessels, if the sea is heavy, Lifted up on the swell of a huge wave, as it breaks and flies from under them whole weight upon the sands, and are in surf, they crash down with their soon in pieces; or the broken hull fills with water, rolls, and lifts, and works, until it has made a deep bed in the sands, in which it is soon buried—so that many vessels have run upon the sands in the early night, and scarcely a vestige By way of illustration, let me tell what of them was to be seen in the morning. January, 1857, a few months before the happened one dark stormy night in events now being related.

The harbour steam-tug Aid, and the life-boat, had been out early in the day, trying to get to the Northern Belle, a fine American barque, which was ashore not far from Kingsgate; but the force of the gale and tide was so tremendous that they could not make way, and were driven back to Ramsgate, there to wait until the tide turned, or the wind moderated. About two in the morning, while getting ready for another attempt fired from one of the Goodwin Light to reach the Northern Belle, rockets were

vessels, showing that some ship was in distress there. They hastened at once to afford assistance, and got to the edge of the Sands shortly after three. Up and down they cruised, but could see no signs of any vessel. They waited till morning's light, and then saw the one mast of a steamer standing out of the water. They made towards it; but there were no signs of life, and no wreck to which a human being could cling. Almost immediately upon striking, the vessel, as they concluded, must have broken up, sunk, and become buried in the quicksand. Away, then, for the Northern Belle! Scarcely is the word given, when the captain of the Aid sees a large life-buoy floating near. "Ease her," he cries; and the way of the steamer slacks. "God knows but what that buoy may be of use to some of us." helmsman steers for it. A man makes a hasty dart at it with a boat-hook, misses it, and starts back appalled from a vision of staring eyes, and matted hair, and wildly-tossed arms. They shout to the life-boat crew, and they in turn steer for the life-buoy; the bowman grasps at it, catches it, but cannot lift it in. His cry of horror brings others to help him; they lift the buoy and bring to the surface three dead bodies that are tied to it by spun yarn round their waists. Slowly and carefully, one by one, the crew lift them on board and lay them out under the sail.

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THE boatmen, as soon as they get on

ous position, but have hopes of getting her off;-at all events, they will try hard for it. She is a fine, new, and stronglybuilt Portuguese brig, belonging to Lisbon, and bound from Newcastle to Rio, with coals and iron. Her crew consists of the captain, the mate, ten men, and a boy.

She is head on to the sand; but the sand does not shelve much, and her keel is pretty even. The wind is blowing still very strong, and right astern; the tide is on the turn, and will flow quickly. There is no time to be lost; the first effort must be to prevent her driving further on the sand. further on the sand. With this object the boatmen get an anchor out astern as quickly as possible; they rig out tackles on the foreyard, and hoist the bower anchor on deck, slew the yard round, and get the anchor as far aft as they can; they then shift the tackles to the main-yard, and lift the anchor well to the stern, shackle the chain cable on, get it all clear for running out, try the pumps to see that they work, and then wait until the tide makes sufficiently to enable the steamer, which draws six feet, to approach nearer. They hope the steamer will be able to back close enough to them to get a rope fastened to the flues of the anchor, and then drag the anchor out, and drop it about one hundred fathoms astern of the vessel. All hands will then go to the windlass, keep a strain upon the cable, and heave with a will each time the brig lifts-the steamer towing hard all the time with a hundred and twenty fathoms of nine-inch cable out. By these means they expect to work the brig gradually off the Sands.

But they soon lose all hope of doing this. It is about one o'clock in the morning; the moon has gone down; heavy showers of rain fall; it is pitch dark, and very squally; the gale is evidently freshening up again; a heavy swell comes up before the wind, and, as the tide flows under the brig, she begins to work very much. She lifts and thumps down upon the sands with shocks that make the masts tremble and the decks gape open. The boatmen begin to fear the worst.

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