BY THE REV. J. GILMORE, M.A.* CHAPTER 1.

THE GOODWIN SANDS.

" 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 way. When the stormwreck darkens 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 of land—that learn truly to realise the fearfulness of the strife, and to find an answer to the meanings 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. Fourfifths 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 southwesterly 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 * Reprinted from XacmiOan's Magazine, with the kind permission of the Author and the Publishers.

and chains to supply them; others made for the harbour,—you almost shuddered as you looked down upon them from the pier, and saw them in the grasp of the sea, rolling 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 hound, 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; er 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, five minutes after, form the signal that 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 realise 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!"1 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. You1 know that already brave hearts have determined to attempt it; that strong, ready hands are event now at work, in cool, quick preparation; that almost before you could battle your way against the tempert 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 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 life-boat 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 running. At high tide the sea broke over 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 was 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 over-manned; 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; the 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 he 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.

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; but they bravely set to their work, and 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 lookout 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 life-boat. 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 withinabout 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 sides stove in against the vessel. The rest of her crew climb on board the brig. Her captain had, until then, hoped te get her off at the next tide, and had refused the assistance of the Broadstairs men. But now he begins to realise 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.

The Goodwin is a quicksand, and, as such, terribly fatal to vessels that get upon it. At low tide a large portion of it is dry, and is then hard and firm, and can be walked upon for four or five miles; but, as the water flows over any portion of it, that part becomes, as the sailors say, all alivesoft, and quick, and ready to suck in anything that lodges upon it. Suppose the vessel to run bow on, with a falling tide, and where the sand shelves, or is steep. The water leaves the bow, and the sand there gets hard; the water still flows under the 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 the tide flows she  The ROYAL NATIONAL LIFE-BOAT INSTITUTION is indebted for the annexed beautiful sketch of the services of the Ramsgate life-boat, on this particular occasion, to the distinguished marine painter, E. W. COOKB, ESQ., A.K.A., who has for some years past taken considerable interest in the success of the important operations of the Life-boat Institution.

fills with water, works deeper and deeper into the sand, until at high tide she is completely buried, or only her topmasts are to be seen above water.

Other vessels, if the sea is heavy, begin to beat heavily, and soon break up. Lifted up on the swell of a huge wave, as it breaks and flies from under them in surf, they crash down with their whole weight upon the Sands, and are 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 of them was to be seen in the morning. By way of illustration, let me tell what happened one dark stormy night in January, 1857, a few months before the 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 to reach the Northern Belle, rockets were fired from one of the Goodwin light-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 110 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." The helmsman steers for it. A man makes a hasty dart at it with a boathook, 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.

The Violet passenger steamer had left Ostend about eleven at night; about two in the morning she got on the Goodwin Sands; a little after three there was no one left on board to answer the signals of the steam-boat and show their position; at seven, there was nothing to be seen of her but the one mast, the life-buoy, and the three corpses sleeping their long, last sleep under the life-boat sail. Such are the Goodwin Sands! CHAPTER II.

THE WRECK ABANDONED, AND THE LIFE-BOAT DESPAIRED OF.

THE boatmen, as soon as they get on board the brig, find her in a very perilous 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 Kio, 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. 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 sis feet, to approach nearer. They hope the steamer will be able to back close enough to them to get a rope fastened to the-flaes 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. The lifeboat is alongside, seven hands in her. She is afloat in the basin the brig has worked in the sands, and it requires all the efforts of the men on board to prevent her getting stove in. The tide still Sows, the wind still rising, and the brig working with increased violence. As she rolls and careers over on her bilge, she threatens to fall upon and crush the life-boat. The • captain of the boat hails the men on deck to come on board the boat, and get away from the side of the vessel. The boatmen try and explain the danger to the Portuguese; but they will not understand. Hail after hail comes from the boat, for every moment increases the peril; but the Portuguese captain still refuses to leave his vessel.

Any moment may be too late; the boatmen are almost ready to try and force the Portuguese over the side, but cannot persuade them to stir; and so, as they will not desert them, they also wait on.

Suddenly a loud, sharp crack, like a blast of thunder, peals through the ship. The boatmen jump on the gunwale, ready to spring for the lifeboat —for the brig may be breaking in half. No; but one of her large timbers has snapt like a pipe-stem, and others will soon follow. The Portuguese crew make a rush to get what things they can on deck ; altogether they fill eight chests with their traps. These are quickly lowered into the life-boat- Her captain does not much like having her hampered with so much baggage, but cannot refuse the poor fellows at least a chance of saving their kit. The surf flies over the brig, and boils up all around her. The life-boat is deluged with spray, and her lights are washed out; the vessel lifts and thumps, and rolls with the force of wind and sea. Time after time the sound of her breaking timbers is heard; at each heave she wrenches and groans, and cracks in all directions; she is breaking up fast. Quick, my men, quick ! for your lives, quick 1 The boy is handed into the boat; the Portuguese sailors follow; the boatmen spring in after them; and the brig is abandoned.

We have said that it was about one o'clock in the morning when the squalls came on, with heavy rain and thick darkness. The steamer was still at anchor, waiting for water to enable her to get ..nearer the brig. But, as the gale freshens, there is dangerous broken sea, and the steamer begins to pitch very heavily. She paddles gently ahead to ease her cable ; but it is soon evident that, if they are to get their anchor up at all, they must make haste about it. They heave it up and lay-to for the life-boat. The sea comes on so quickly that the Dreadnought lugger is almost swamped at her anchor, and has to cut her cable without attempting to get it in, and make before the gale for Ramsgate.

The Petrel lugger springs her mast, which is secured with difficulty; and she, too, makes the best of her way for the harbour. The wind increases; the gale is again at its height, and a fearful sea running. Wave after wave breaks over the steamer and sweeps her deck; but she is a splendid boat, strongly built and powerful; and her captain and crew are well used to rough work. Head to wind, and steaming half-power she holds her own against the wind, and keeps, as far as they can judge, still in the neighbourhood of the wreck. Of it, and the life-boat, they can see nothing. Time passes on, and they get anxious. The wreck must have been abandoned before this! Is the boat swamped, or stove, and ail lost? They signalize to it again and again, but in vain; they cruise up and down upon the very edge of the sand, hoping to fall in with it.

Now they make in one direction, and now in another, as the roaring of the storm now and again shapes itself into cries of distress to their straining senses, or a darker shadow on the sea deludes them into the hope that at last they have found the lost boat. All hands are on the lookout, and greatly excited. The storm is terrible in the extreme; but they forget their own peril and hardships in their great, great fears for the safety of their comrades. The anxiety becomes insupportable. Through the thick darkness the bright light of the Gull light-vessel shines out like a star. With a faint hope they wrestle their way through the storm, and speak the vessel. " Have you seen anything of the life-boat?" they shout out. "Nothing, nothing," is the answer; it seems to confirm all their fears. Back now they hasten to their old cruising-ground; they will not slack their exertions, nor lose a chance of rendering their assistance. It is still darkness, and silence, but for the rage of the gale; the hours creep on. How they long for the light! All hands still on the watch; and, as the first gray dawn of morning comes, it is with straining eyeballs that they seek to penetrate the twilight.

It is almost light before they can even find the place where the wreck lay. With all speed, but little hope, they make for it; and then indeed all their great dread seems realized. The brig had completely broken up, and was all to pieces.

They can see great masses of timber and tangled rigging, but no signs of life. Nearer and nearer they go, and wait till it is fairly light; but still nothing is to be seen but shattered pieces of wreck, moored fast by the matted cordage to the half-buried ruins of the hull, and tossing and heaving in the surf. Some think they see mingled with the wreck pieces of the life-boat; but, whether they are or not, the end seems the same; and, after one last careful but vain look around to see whether there are any signs of the life-boat elsewhere on the Sands, sadly they turn the steamer's head and make for the harbour. They grieve for brave comrades tried in many scenes of danger, and think with faint hearts of the melancholy report they have to give; and it is but little consolation to them, in the face of so great a loss, that they, at all events, have done their best.

CHAPTER III.

BEATING OVER THE SANDS.

AM, hands have deserted the brig. There are in the life-boat thirteen Portuguese sailors, five Broadstairs boatmen, and the thirteen Ramsgate boatmen who form her crew—a precious freight of thirty-one souls. The small Dreadnought life-boat has been swung against the brig by the force of the tide, and damaged; and none dare venture in her.

The tide is rising fast, the gale coming on again in all its force, the surf running very high and breaking over the brig, so that the life-boat, which is under her lee, is deluged with a constant torrent of spray. The vessel is rolling very heavily; she has worked a bed in the sand; and this the run of the tide has enlarged. The lifeboat is afloat within the circle of this bed; the brig threatens to roll it over. " Shove and haul off; quick: shove off," are the orders. Some with oars shoving against the brig, others hauling might and main upon the boat's hawser, they manage to pull the life-boat two or three yards up to her anchor, and to thrust her a little from the side of the brig. Now she grounds heavily upon the edge of the basin worked in. the sand by the brig.

" Strain every muscle, men; for your lives, pull'." —No; she will not stir an inch; she falls over on her side; the sea and surf sweep over her; the men cling to the thwarts and gunwale; all but her crew give up every hope; but they know the capabilities of the boat, and do not lose heart.

Crash! The brig heaves, and crushes down upon her bilge; she half lifts upon an even keel, and then rolls and lurches from side to side; each time that she does so, she comes more and more over, nearer to the boat.

Here is the danger that may well make the stoutest heart quail. The boat is aground, hopelessly aground; her crew can see through the darkness of the night the masts and yards of the brig swaying over their heads; they toss wildly in the air as the brig heaves and rights, and, as she rolls, come beating down over their heads. Each time they sweep nearer, and nearer. Let them but touch the boat, and, in spite of all her strength, she must be crushed, and all lost. Desperate efforts they make to get out of their reach ; but all in vain. It is a fearful time of suspense, while this question of life and death is being decided— Which will happen first ? will the tide flow sufficiently to float them, or the brig work so much upon her side as to crush them with her masts and yards ? The men can do nothing more, in the dark, wild night, and terrible danger. Each minute seems an hour. They protect themselves as well as they can from the rush of spray and fierce wind over the boat, and wait on, anxiously watching the brig as she rolls nearer and nearer the boat. Each moment the position becomes more desperate.

There is a stir among the men; they prepare for the last struggle. Some are getting ready to make a spring for the flying rigging of the brig, hoping to be able to climb on board, as the life-boat crushes. " Stick to the boat, men! stick to the boat!" the captain shouts out; "the brig must go to pieces soon, while we may yet get clear." At this moment the boat trembles beneath them, lifts a little on the surf, and grounds again. It is like a word of life to them; and instantly all hands are on the alert. They get all their strength on the hawser, and, as the boat lifts again, draw her a yard or two nearer her cable, but as yet no further from the brig. Again and again they try; but the tide and wind are both setting with all their force on the sand, and they cannot draw the boat up to her anchor.

Then the captain of the boat sees what is before them even if they get clear of the wreck. There is no hope but to beat right across the sand, and this in the wild, fearful gale, and pitch dark night; and what the danger of that is, only those who know the Goodwin Sands, and the fierce sea that sweeps over them, can at all imagine.

They continue to make desperate efforts to draw the boat clear of the brig. After many attempts, they succeed, and now ride at anchor in the surf and breakers, waiting for water to take them over the Sands. They see the lights of the steamer shining in the distance, outside the broken and shallow water; but there is no hope of assistance from her. Their lanterns are washed out,—they cannot signalize; and, if they could, the steamer could not approach them. The sea is breaking furiously over them : time after time the boat fills, as the surf and waves wash clean over her; but instantly she empties herself again through the valves in her bottom. The gale sweeps by more fiercely than ever; the men are almost washed out of the boat; and, worse still, the anchor begins to drag. The tide has made a little ; there may be water enough to take them clear of the brig.

They must risk it. " Hoist the foresail; stand by to cut the cable." "All clear?" "Ay, ay!" " Away, then." And the boat, under the power of the gale and tide, leaps forward, flies along, but only for a few yards, when, with a tremendous jerk, she grounds upon the Sands. Her crew look up, and their hearts almost fail them as they find that they are again within reach of the brig. Her top-gallant masts are swaying about, her yards swing within a few feet of them, and the sails which had blown loose, and are fast going to ribbons, beat and flap like thunder over their heads. Their position seems worse than ever; but they are not this time kept long in suspense.

A huge breaker comes foaming along; its white crest gleams out in the darkness; a moment's warning, and it swamps them, but all are holding on; its force drives the boat from the ridge on which she had grounded. Up it seems to swing them all in its mighty arms, and hurls them forward.

And then again the boat crashes down on the sand as the wave breaks, and grounds with a shock that would have torn every man out of her if they had not been holding on.

One great peril has passed. They are safe from the wreck of the brig; but at that moment they are threatened with another almost as terrible.

The small Dreadnought life-boat has been in tow all this time. As the Ramsgate boat grounds, the smaller boat comes bow on to her, sweeps round, and gets under her side: the two boats roll and crash together; each roll the larger one gives, each lift of the sea, she comes heavily down on the other; the crash and crack of timbers are heard.

Which boat is it that is breaking up ? Both must go soon if this continues. Some of the men seize the oars and boat-hooks, and thrust and shove for very life, trying to free the Dreadnought, which is thumping under the quarter of the Ramsgate boat. Again and again they try; it is a terrible struggle in that boiling sea and with the surf breaking over them. The boats still crash and roll together; one of them is breaking up fast.

" Oars in !" cries the captain; " over the side, half a dozen of you; take your feet to her," and some of the brave fellows spring over, clinging to the gunwale of the Ramsgate boat. Again and again a fierce struggle; a monster wave heads on; the big boat lifts. " Altogether, men!" and with a great effort they push the Dreadnought clear.

They scramble, or are dragged into the Ramsgate boat; the tow-rope is cut; and the Dreadnought, almost a wreck, is swept away by the tide, and lost in the darkness, while the Ramsgate boat is still mercifully uninjured.

A third time are they providentially saved from what seemed almost certain death ; and yet they have only commenced the beginning of their troubles—for is there not before them the long range of sand with the broken fierce waves, and raging surf, and many fragments of wrecks, studded here and there like sunken rocks, upon any one of which, if they strike, it must be death to them all? The boat is still aground upon the ridge of sand.

She lifts, and is swept round, and grounds again broadside to the sea, which makes a clear breach over her. The Portuguese are all clinging together under the lee of the foresail; and there is no getting them to move. The crew are holding here and there where they can, sometimes buried in water, often with only their heads out; the captain is standing up in the stern, holding on by the mizen mast. Often he can see nothing of the men, as the surf sweeps over them. He orders the chests to be thrown overboard; but most of them are already washed away. The rest are unlashed from their fastenings, and lifted as they can get at them; and the next ware carried them away.

Heavy masses of cloud darken the sky; the rain falls in torrents; it is bitterly cold; they can do nothing but hold on; the tide rises gradually; suddenly the boat lifts again, is caught by the driving sea, and is flung forward. There is no keeping her straight; the water is too broken; her stern frees itself before the bow; and round she swings, onward a few yards, and grounds again by the stern. Round sweeps the bow; and with another jerk she comes broadside on the sands again, lurching over on her side with the raging surf making a clean sweep over her waist.

It is a struggle for the men to get their breath; the spray beats over them in such clouds. Again and again this happens. The captain tries to get the men aft, so that the boat may be lightened in the bow, and thus be more likely to keep straight.

Most of the boatmen come to the stern; nut the Portuguese will not move, and even one or two of the English boatmen are so beaten by the waves, and exhausted, that they are almost unconscious, and only able to cling on with an iron nervous grasp to the sides and thwarts of the boat. As the captain sees the big waves sweep over the boat, time after time he expects to have men washed out of her; and, although he makes light of it, and does what he can to cheer them up, he has in his own heart but small hope of ever seeing land again.

The sands on the sea-shore, if there has been any surf, appear, at low tide, uneven with the ridges or ripples the waves have left on them. On the Goodwin, where the force of the sea is in every way multiplied, and the waves break, and the tide rushes, with tenfold power, the little sand-ripples become ridges, perhaps two or three feet high.

It is on these ridges that the life-boat grounds.

She is swept from one to the other as the tide rises, swinging round and round in the twirling tide, crashing and jerking each time she strand*.

AU this was in the midst of darkness, bitter cold, aud a raging wind, surf and sea, until the hardship and peril were almost too much to be borne, and some of the men felt dying in the boat. One old boatman thus describes his feelings: " Well, sir, perhaps my friends were right when they said, ' I hadn't ought to have gone out—that I was too old for that sort of work (he was then about sixty years of age); but, you see, when there is life to be saved, it makes one feel young again; and I've always felt I had a call to save life when I could, and wasn't going to hold back then; and I stood it better than some of them after all. I did my work on board the brig, and, when she was so near falling over us, and when the Dreadnought lifeboat seemed knocking our bottom out, as well as any of them; but, when we got to beating and grubbing over the Sands, swinging round and round, and grounding every few yards with a jerk that bruised us sadly, and almost tore our arms out of the sockets—no sooner washed off one ridge, and beginning to hope the boat was clear, than she thumped upon another harder than ever, and all the time the wash of the surf nearly tearing us out of the boat—it was almost too much for man to stand. There was a young fellow holding on next to me; his head soon dropt, and I saw he was giving over; and, when the boat filled with water, and the waves went over his head, he scarcely seemed to care to struggle free. I tried to cheer him, and keep his spirits up. He just clung to a thwart like a drowning man. Poor fellow, he never did a day's work after that night, and died in a few months. Well, I couldn't do anything with him; and I thought it didn't matter much, for I felt pretty sure it must soon be all over,—that the boat would be knocked to pieces: so I took my life-belt off, that I might have it over all the quicker; for I did not want to be beating about the Sands, alive or dead, longer than I could help; the sooner I went to the bottom the better, I thought. When once all chance of life was over —and that time seemed close upon us every minute—some of us kept shouting, just cheering one another up as long as we could; but I had to give that up: and I remember hearing the captain crying out,' We will see Bamsgate again yet, my men, if we keep clear of old wrecks." And then I heard the Portuguese lad crying, and I remember that I began to think it was all a terrible dream, and pinched myself to try if I were really awake, and began to feel very strange, and to get insensible.

I didn't feel afraid of death; for you see I hadn't left it to such times as that to prepare to meet my God. And, if I ever spent hours in prayer, be sure I spent them in prayer that night. And I just seemed going off in a swoon, when I should have been soon washed out of the boat, for I felt very dream-like, when I looked up, and the surf seemed curling up both sides of me. I was going to dip my head to let the seas beat over my back, and I should never have lifted it again, when I saw a bright star. The clouds had broken a little, and there was that blessed star shining out. It was indeed a blessed, beautiful star to me ; it seemed to call me back to life again; and I began to have a little thought about home, and that I Vasn't going to be called away just yet; and I kept my eye upon that star whenever I could ; and I don't know how it was, but that seemed just to keep me up, so that, when we got ashore, I was not much worse than the best of them. But, for seven whole days after that, I lost my speech, and lay like a log upon my bed; and I was ill a long time—indeed, have never been quite right since; and I suppose I never sBall get over it. But, what is more, I believe that the same may be said of every man that was in the boat. One poor young fellow is dead; another has been subject to fits ever since; and not any of us quite the men we were before; and no wonder, when you think what we passed through. I cannot Describe it, and you cannot, neither can any one else; but, when you say you've beat aud grubbed over those sands almost yard by yard in a fearful storm, on a winter's night, and live to tell the tale, why, it is the next thing to saying—you've been dead,* and brought to life again." The captain of the life-boat was chosen for that position for his fortitude and daring; and well he sustained his character that night—never for one moment losing his presence of mind, and doing his utmost to cheer the men up. The crew consisted of hardy, daring fellows, ready to face any danger, to go out in any storm, and to do battle with the wildest seas; but that night was almost too much for the most iron nerves. The fierce, freezing wind, the darkness, the terrible surf and beating waves, and the men unable to do anything for their safety; the boat almost hurled by the force of the waves from sand-ridge to sand-ridge, and apparently breaking up beneath them each time she lifted on the surf, and crashed down again upon the sand, besides the danger of her getting foul of any old wrecks, when she would have gone to pieces at once—how all this was lived through seems miraculous. Time after time there was a cry—" Now she breaks—she can't stand this—all over at last—another such a thump and she's done for!" and all this lasted for more than two hour*, as, almott yard by yard, for about two mile* they beat over the Sands.

Suddenly the swinging and beating of the boat cease; she is in a very heavy sea, but she answers her helm, and keeps her head straight. At last they have got over the Sands, and into deep water; the danger is past, and they are saved. With new hope comes new life. Some can scarcely realize it, and still keep their firm hold on the boat, expecting each second another terrible lurch and jerk upon the sands, and the wash of the sea.

No; that is all over, and the boat, in spite of her tremendous knocking about, is sound, and sails buoyantly and well. The crew quickly get further sail upon her, and she makes awdy before the gale to the westward. The Portuguese sailors lift their heads. They have been clinging together, and to the boat, crouching down under the lee of the foresail during the time of beating over the Sands; they notice the stir among the boatmen, and that the deadly jerks and rushes of the sea over the boat have ceased; and they, too, learn that the worst is past, and the danger at an end.

Long since did they despair of life; and their surprise and joy now know no bounds. Bravely on goes the life-boat, making good way to the westward. The Portuguese are very busy in earnest consultation: the poor fellows had lost all their kit, and only possessed the things they had on, and a few pounds that they have with them. Soon it becomes evident what their consultation has been about. " Captain," one of the boatmen sings out, " they want to' give us all their money !"• " Yes, yes," said their interpreter, in broken English, " you have saved our lives! thank you, thank you! but all we have is yours; it is not much, but you take it between yon;" and held out the money. It was about 171. "I, for one, won't touch any of it," said the captain of the boat.

" Nor 1, nor I," others added; " come, put your money up." The brave fellows will not take a farthing from brother sailors, and poor fellows much like themselves: and in a few words they make them understand this, and how glad they are to have saved them. * The life-boat has made good progress, and now runs through the Trinity Swatch Way; and, without further adventure, she reaches the harbour about five o'clock in the morning. The crew of the brig were placed under the tfare of the Consul; and the boatmen went to their homes, to feel for many a long day the effects of the fatigues and perils of that terrible night.

All this time the steamer has been cruising up and down the edge of the Sands, vainly searching for the boat; and, soon after daylight, she made, us we have already described, for the harbour.

Her captain and crew are half broken-hearted, and scarce know how they shall be able to tell the tale of the sad calamity that seems so certainly to have happened. Suddenly, as the mouth of the harbour opens to them, they see the life-boat. They stare with amazement, and can scarcely believe their eyes. "Astonished, sir?—that I was; never so much so in my life as when I stood looking at that boat. I could have shouted and cried for very wonder and joy; you might have knocked me down with a straw." Thus the captain of the steamer described his feelings. It was the same with all the crew; and, as they shot round the pier, and heard that all were saved, the good news seemed to more than repay them for all the dangers and anxieties of the night.

Reader, the narrative here simply related is as far as possible literally true, and really very very far Short of the truth. The facts were obtained from four of the men actually engaged in the rescue. It will do its intended work if it teaches you to realize, to any further extent, the nature and danger of the life-boat service, and to give a deeper meaning to the prayer which_ yon are tempted to utter as the storm moans and howls over your head, " God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea!" Especially it will servelts end, if it persuades you to gain this consolation—while, perhaps, you lie warm and safe in bed listening to the storms—namely, that you have a part in the work that may even then be going on on some part of the coast. It will serve its end, if, while you imagine the wrecked vessels, the drowning sailors, and try to fancy the life-boat manned by brave fellows, battling out to sea in the storm and darkness, speeding upon its errand of mercy, you may be able to feel that it is owing to your exer- tions, among others in the life-boat cause, that foreign suitors can bear the noble testimony to our counta-y -Mitch the captain of a foreign vessel once did bear, when he said, "Ah! we may always know whether It is upon the English coast that we are wrecked, by the. efforts that are made for our rescue." *»* This valuable life-boat is the property of the Ramsgate Royal Harbour Commissioners.

She was built by MESSRS. BEECHINO and SONS, of Great Yarmouth, from their model, which gained theorize of 1001. given in 1851 by Vice-Admiral the DUKE of NORTHUMBERLAND, President of the ROYAL NATIONAL LIFE-BOAT INSTITUTION. She has, since 1852, beeing instrumental in rescuing the lives of nearly 150 persons from various shipwrecks on the Goodwin Sands.