I.—DISASTERS AT SEA. THE LIFE-BOAT TO THE RESCUE.

To lie awake listening to the storm,—to hear the rush of the wind, now moaning in the chimney, now thundering at the windows, against which the rain beats and hustles,—to feel or fancy that the house trembles, shaken in the rude hurry of the blast,—to hear the waves breaking on the beach, a half-suppressed tumultuous uproar, like the faintly-heard riot of a distant angry mob,—to get further to sea in one's thoughts, to picture a noble ship with close-reefed topsails running before the gale, or beating away from the dread neighbourhood of dangerous sands, the pilot anxious and watchful, and the crew eager and alert, peering through the darkness to catch the welcome guidance of some bright warning light, or the fainter rays of some ship's light hovering perilously near, the passengers wistful and anxious, asking many questions, and receiving cheering answers, but given with an unreality of tone that makes them fear the sound more than they can believe the sense! Or to imagine a vessel at anchor, the cables swinging out at their full length, the sails all closely furled, but the gale beating against the hull and rigging, with a power that seems more than able to drag the ship, and its living freight, to a speedy destruction,—to picture * By the Rev. J. GILMORE, M.A. Reprinted from Good Wards, with the kind permission of the Author and the Publishers.

the ship lifting and pitching and surging in a cloud of spray, the hungry waves leaping at it as if to devour it before its time, the anchors yielding inch by inch, or the cable giving, and the terrible sands under the lee. To fall into an uneasy sleep, oppressed by the weight, of undefined horrors, in the morning to look from the tall cliffs upon a golden beach, then upon the fretting surf beyond, upon the sea bright in the sunshine, smooth browed, but like a great giant rolling his huge limbs in uneasy sleep, quick with great billows rising and falling with crestless heavy swellings.

Then to look at the distant Goodwin Sands, and see the white leaping surf, the fangs in the jaws of death, still gnashing and mumbling after their midnight meal, in which they ravened on a goodly ship, and mangled many a noble form of sailor brave, of weeping women, and trembling, wondering children.

Such pictures are often suggested by the midnight gale, such after-scenes witnessed in the morning's calm at Ramsgate, as at many another spot on the bold coast of our sea-girt island home, where each howling wind, as it rushes on, breathes the trumpet-blast that calls to the struggle of life and death. Our narrative has for its date the 3rd of December. During the whole of the day the wind has been blowing hard from the west-north-west; the weather has been very unsettled for some days, squally, with the cloud scud low, and flying fast. Now it is becoming worse, and the blasts more frequent and more fierce, rapidly growing into a continuous-rising and heavy gale. The Storm Signal hangs ominously from the flag-staff, giving a warning (for which experience has gained respect) of the dangerous winds which may be expected. The Downs anchorage is crowded with shipping, so much so, that the lights of the vessels anchored there shed at night a glow upon the darkness, like the lights of a populous town. Every now and then a vessel leaves the fleet, and running before the gale, seeks surer refuge; or one homeward bound swiftly threads her way through the crowd of vessels, the crew half rejoicing in the gale, which, at every blast bears them nearer home.

On Ramsgate Pier rumours of disasters busy the watchful lookers-on in anxious gossip; many partially disabled vessels have already found refuge in the harbour: now a schooner is brought in by some Broadstairs boatmen. When they boarded her, in answer to her signals of distress, they found that the mate, with a woman and child, alone remained in her. She had been in collision during the previous night, and whether the rest of the crew had escaped to the other vessel, or had been lost overboard, was left a matter of dread uncertainty.

As it is a stirring sight to see the vessels making through the heavy seas for the harbour, so it is an exciting and withal a gallant sight to watch the luggers, heavily freighted with anchors and chains to supply vessels that have slipped their cables, bearing away bravely in all the rush of the storm upon their errand of daring enterprise. The afternoon creeps on; it is half-past three; a puff of smoke is seen coming from the Gall light-ship, but the wind is too strong, and in the wrong direction for the report of the gun to be heard. But the signal is accepted, and soon the steamer and life-boat are away in the hurricane. They make for the light-vessel, that they may learn for what their services are required. A squall of thick rain hides the Downs and south end of the Goodwin Sands from view. Suddenly the squall clears away, passing rapidly to windward; and, it is seen from the pier and cliff, although not from the lower level of the steamer's deck, or from the life-boat, what vessel it is that is in danger. A large, light schooner has driven from her anchorage, and is now dragging perilously near the Sands. She is too near, with the wind as it is, to have any chance of escaping by slipping her cable and trying to sail clear. She is driving fast, and we can plainly see from the cliffs the large flag she has hoisted at her main-topmast head as a signal of distress.

It is an alarming sight. By taking her bearings, it is plain to the watchers on shore that she is fast dragging her anchors and nearing her doom, and the nature of the terrible sea she is in is also very evident. . She is light, buoyant, and lifts to every wave. She looks like a gallant charger taking a succession of desperate leaps, as first her bow is thrown up in the air and for a moment rides high on the top of the wave, and then again her stern is thrown up, and her bow almost buried as the huge short waves pass under her stern. Repeatedly our fears, as we watch her, make us fancy that her cable has at last parted, and that she is in full career for the waiting and deadly sands. The spray clouds drift to leeward, and again we are assured by finding, from carefully-taken bearings, that her position has not much changed for the worse. We only take our eyes off her to look occasionally at the steam-boat and life-boat, as they are making their way with nil speed to the rescue.

The steamer rolls and plunges on, nothing daunted, nothing disturbed by all the buffeting she gets; the life-boat rises like a cork to every wave, and plunges through the crests as she feels the drag of the steamer, while the foam spreads out on either side like a fan, and the scud and spray fly over her in a cloud. We see them making their way to the Gull light-ship, where they learn that a schooner was seen in distress, bearing south-southwest, supposed to been the South Sand Head. On through the giant seas and driving surf, in the very teeth of the gale, they make gallant way, and are about to take up a position from which the life-boat can plunge in through the broken water to the rescue of the crew. A large Deal lugger is beating up to windward from the neighbourhood of the Sands: they speak her, and learn that she has rescued the crew of the schooner.

The lugger, one of the finest of all the noble boats that sail from Deal beach, had, some time before the schooner had got into her present dangerous position, sheered alongside at no slight risk, and as she shot by, the crew had jumped into her for their lives, forgetting in their hurry and excitement the flag of distress which they had left flying high, pleading still, and not unheeded, for help that was no longer required. Nothing could be done for the schooner. Driving fast, she soon began to thump on the Sands; darkness settled down upon her, the fierce waves had her for their prey, and in the morning not a vestige of her was to be seen. The steamer and life-boat having left her to her late, now made for a barque which, with main and mizen masts cut away, had still a chance of weathering out the gale. The wind wag too heavy, and the tide too strong, to tow her to a safer position. Her crew had already made their escape, and she was left in turn, but not, as it proved, to meet the sad fate of the schooner, for she successfully rode out the gale.

A further cruise round the Sands, to see if their services are required by any distressed vessel, and they make again for Ramsgate, which they reach about half-past six. The steamer and life-boat are moored, ready for any fresh call which may be made for their services, the probability of which seems very great.

In such a storm, anxious watchers are on the alert on all the stations of the coast. Boatmen, under the lee of boat-houses and boats, or grouped together at friendly corners. One or two every now and again take a few strides in the open for a wider range of view, and then back again to shelter. The coastguard men, sheltered in nooks of the cliff, or behind rocks, or breasting the storm on the drear sands as they walk their solitary beat, all peer out into the darkness, watching the signals from sea—the gun-flash or the rocket's light, which, while they speak of hope to the imperilled, tell to those on shore of lives in danger, and of waiting death. Or the watchers listen for the dull throb of the signal-gun—the sign of wild warfare and struggles for life mid breaking waves and dashing seas, and calls for the rescuers to rush into the contest, that they may snatch their powerless brethren from the very jaws of death. Often, too, the whisper runs along- the telegraph wires telling of some distant scene of sad distress. It is so in this case. About & quarter past eight in the evening, the harbour-master of Ramsgate receives a telegram. Far away from Ramsgate - away round the stormy North Foreland, some miles to the westward of Margate, the Prince's light-ship is firing signal-guns and rockets.

The Tongue light-ship repeats the signals; the vigilant coastguard men hurry to bear the tidings on to Margate; but there the fine life-boats are powerless to help. The wind is blowing a hurricane from the west-north-west, and drives such a tremendous sea upon the shore that neither life-boat nor any other boat can possibly get off.

The coastguard officer at Margate sees at once how hopeless any attempt of that kind would he, and hurries to send a telegram to Ramsgate. The harbour- master there receives it, and, in a few minutes, hurried notion takes the place of wistful, anxious waiting. For hours the steamer and lifeboat have rested quietly in the sheltered harbour, lifting gently to the small waves that have been playing against their sides. The men, for hours, have been gazing out into the darkness, listening to the roar of the gale and the murmur and tumult of the tumbling waves. The expected challenge comes-a call to action that they do not one moment hesitate to accept. They know the hardship and peril, but do not think of these, for they know what it is for brother-sailors to cling perhaps to a few spars of still standing wreck, while the wild waves leap around, and only a few inches of creaking, yielding limber shield them from their fury. They know the power of the waves to tear the strongest ship to fragments in a few hours; and they are ready for any stern, deadly wrestle to rescue their drowning fellow-creatures. The order is given, and directly there is a rush to the life-boat. Ten Ramsgate boatmen, the coxswain, and two men from the revenue cutter Adder, which happens to be in the harbour, speedily man her. The men on board the ever-ready steam-tug Aid are no less prompt; and within half-an hour both steamer and boat are again making their way through the broken seas, and breasting the full fury of the gale. Imagine the picture that was hid in the pitch-darkness of that wild night. The steamer, strong and powerfully built, and which has never failed in any of its tussles with the storms, but in its every part worked true and well, when failure in crank, rod, or rivet might have been death to many lives, is thrown up and down by the raging sea, now half buried in the wash of surf, or poised for a moment on the broad crest of a huge wave, and again shooting bows under into the trough, rolling and pitching and staggering in the storm, but still true to her purpose. Still onward and onward she goes—the beat of the paddles, the roar of the steam-pipe, the throb of the engines, mingling with the hoarse blast of the gale and the lash and hiss of the surf and fleeting spray; while to the watchers on shore her light alone tells of her progress. The life-boat is almost burrowing its way through surf and scud.

Each man bends low on his seat, and holds on by the thwart or gunwale. The wind has changed, and the boat being towed in the face of the gale and sea, does not ride over the waves as she would do if she were under canvas only, but is dragged on and on, cleaving their crests. '" It was just like as if a fire-engine was playing upon your back, not in a steady stream, but with a great burst of water at every pump," said one of the men, whose station was in the bow. The ends of the life-boat are high, the air-tight compartments in the bow and stern giving her the self-righting power; the waist is low, that she may hold as little water as possible. When a sea comes on board it is rolled out over the low sides, or escapes through the valves in the floor of the boat, so that within a few seconds of being full of water, even up to the gunwales, she frees herself to the floor. In a wild sea, when the waves and surf break over the bows of a big ship, and send the spray flying up almost to the topmast-head, the life-boat, towed on in the teeth of the storm, is constantly deluged with water, or buried in surf and spray. At times, indeed, the water runs over the boat in volume sufficient to wash every man oat of her who is not holding on. Now the waves rush over the bow, arid again a cross-wave catches the side of the boat, staggers her, and fills her ! with water, while she pitches and rolls with a I motion quick as that of a plunging horse. But j the men know her well, and trust her thoroughly, i and with a firm hold and stout hearts they resi-lutely journey onwards.

I The wind has veered a little, and the high cliffs somewhat break its force: the men do not feel the full power of the gale until they are well round the North Foreland. The tide is strong and on its ebb ; the wind is dead on end, and they work their way with great difficulty.

The rain ceases; the clouds of flying scud lift a little ; it is still pitch-dark, but free from mist and rain. The men see the Margate Pier and town lights, which shine out steadily and clearly, and it seems strange to look, from their rough post of danger, action, and hardship, upon the town resting in quiet peace scarcely conscious of the storm.

They make for the Tongue light-ship, nine miles off Margate.

Every five minutes the darkness of the horizon is broken by a rocket from the light-ship. It goes flying up against the gale, and, bursting, gives a moment's flash, as its stars, caught by the fierce wind, go in a short stream of light to leeward. The steamer's crew make for the light-ship, looking anxiously the while in all directions for any signal which may guide them more directly to the vessel in distress. But they see none, and therefore make for the light-ship. The captain is told that signals had been seen from the high part of the Shingles Sandbank, and that they were supposed to be from a large ship in distress. The lite-boat sheered near as she passed, and the crew hoard the same report. Again they urge their way onward against tide and wind, but can see no sign of any vessel, and no vestige of wreck. Perilous and anxious work this, feeling their way in the tempest, and skirting the very edge of the dangerous Sands. The roar of the gale is too great for any cries of distress to be heard. The hull of the vessel may be overrun with the sea, and the crew, clinging to the masts and rigging, be utterly unable to give any signal by firing rockets or guns, or showing lights, and the night is so dark that nothing can be seen except the steamer's light ahead, and the gleam of the foam within a few yards of the boat. Thus the men on board the steamerand life-boat are doubly anxious, not liking to leave the neighbourhood without thoroughly examining it, fearing that they may leave behind, to a despair rendered the more bitter by the false hopes that had been exi-ited, some poor fellows clinging desperately, with small remaining strength to some few trembling fragments of wreck.

They can see nothing, and hear nothing. The vessel must either have gone utterly to pieces, or the men on board the Tongue light-ship have been mistaken in the position of the signals they had seen. Intently they listen, and fancy they hear the boom of a gun fired at intervals ; in a lull in the storm they hear it more plainly, and see in the far distance the flashing of rocket lights. They soon discover that the Prince's and Girdler Lightships are at the same time repeating signals of distress.

They think it best to make tor the Prince's light first; and on arriving there, they are told that a large ship had been seen, on the Girdler Sands, they think, but it might be on the Shingles.

Away again, in the darkness, they speed on their noble mission. At last they plainly discern a light on the south part of the Shingles; they make for it, and are again disappointed—it is the light of the steam-tug, Friend of all Nations, which is lying-to under the Shingles for protection from the rush of the sea. But here they are somewhat repaid for their efforts, for they learn beyond doubt that the vessel in distress is a large ship on the Oirdler Sands, and, mere than this, that another large ship, disabled and in great distress, has been seen driving down the " Deeps "- a very narrow channel between the Shingles and Long Sand: it must have been the signals from this vessel that were seen by the men on hoard the Tongue light-ship. They are unwilling to pass on their way to the Girdler without making an effort to find the vessel which had been seen in such great distress, and which in every probability had gone ashore somewhere in the neighbourhood.

So they make a cruise in the direction of the Deeps. They search narrowly, but in vain, and at last hurry away, as the Gin le • light-ship still continues to fire heavy guns, leaving, as they afterwards found, a ship's crew clinging to a remnant of wreck and in the most deadly peril, of whom in the darkness they could see nothing and hear nothing, although not very distant from them.

At last their long, persevering, and hazardous search is crowned with success. Upon nearing the Girdler light-ship they see on the Sands the flare of blazing tar-barrels, signals made from the vessel on shore, and they at once make preparations for going to the rescue. The steamer is ' obliged to steer clear of the broken water—not only owing to the danger of grounding on the Sands, but also bee'use the surf from the clashing waves would be enough to sweep her decks, and almost swamp her. She skirts the Sands, and tows the life-boat well up to windward. The men on hoard the boat cast off the tow-rope, and the wind and sea at once swing the boa 's head round, and she plunges into the broken water which is rushing over the Sand. It is indeed a wild waste of water.

It boils and foams in tumultuous uproar as, checked by the Sands, the waves break and rebound and dash together, leap high in air, and then recoil and fall with the roar of'an avalanche, while their curling crests, caught by the gale, fly far away in broad feathers of cloud-like spray. It is a desperate strife of waters, and into the midst of it the boat rushes. All the men dare to do is to hoist a close reefed foresail, the gale is so strong. But swiftly it bears the boat along; the waves battle around like hungry wolves, and at times the boat is so overrun with broken water and surf that the men can scarcely breathe. They, however, cling resolutely to the boat, and again and again she shakes herself clear of water, rises buoyantly over the tops of' the waves, and the men are again free for one moment: the next moment, and down she plunges again into the trough of the troubled seas, which from all sides break on board her, and tlme she undauntedly works her way in to the wreck.

II.—THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

It is one o'clock in the morning; the moon gleams out through gulfs in the dark deep clouds which sweep swiftly across her.

The men see a large ship hard and fast on shore, and in a perfect boil of waters. The tremendous seas are surging around, and shaking her from stem to stern, as they wildly leap against her. The spray is flying over her in all directions, and mingles with the dark masses of smoke which rise in thick clouds from the naming tar-barrels, while the smoke and spray are swiftly swept to leeward.

She is making all possible signals of distress. The fierce wind had driven her at each lift of the sea higher on the Sands, until she reached the highest part, and there she has been left. When the tide fell, the waves could no longer lift the vessel, and let her crash down upon the Sand, else long since she would have been utterly broken to pieces.

The boat makes in for the ship, the people on board see her, and cries and cheers of joy greet her approach. The foresail is lowered, the anchor thrown overboard, and the boat fast sheers in towards the ship. The cable goes out by the run and is too soon exhausted, for with a jerk it brings the boat up within sixty feet of the vessel, which they see to be an emigrant ship crowded with passengers. As the poor people see the boat stop short, their cries for help are frantic, and sound dismally in the men's ears as slowly and laboriously they haul in the cable, and get up the anchor before making another attempt to fetch alongside the ship. In the meantime they answer the people with cheers, and the moon shining out, the emigrants see that they are not deserted. The sea is so heavy, and the boat's anchor has taken so firm a hold, that it is a long time before they can get it up ; and they now sail within fifty fathoms of the ship before they heave the anchor overboard again. It is necessary to let tie anchor down as far as possible from the ship, that they may get plenty of sea room when they haul up to it again. This is done in order that they may set sail and get away from the wreck, upon which they must of necessity be driven if they have not allowed themselves sufficient room to sail clear of her. They let the cable out gradually find drop alongside; they get a hawser from the bow and another from the stern, and by these [they are enabled to keep the boat in pretty good posh ion, the men on board hauling and veering to keep the boat sufficiently near without letting her strike against the sides of the vessel; and this, in the broken seas and rapid tide is a matter of no little difficulty. The captain and pilot of the vessel, (the fusilier) shout out, " How many can you carry ?— we have more then one hundred on board, more than sixty women and children." It was with no little dismay that the passengers looked down upon the boat half buried in spray, and wondered how she could be the means of rescuing such a crowd of people. The men shout from the boat that a steamer is near, and that they will takeoff the passengers in parties to her. Two of the boatmen spring as the boat lifts, catch the man-ropes, and climb on board the ship. " Who comes here ?" cries the captain, as the two boatmen, clad in their oil-skin overalls, and pale and half exhausted with their long battling with wind and sea, jump from the bulwarks amid the excited ! passengers. "Two men from the life-boat," is the j reply, and the passengers crowd around them, j seize them by the hands, and some even cling to j them with such an energy of fear as requires force to overcome. The light from the ship's lamps and the faint moonlight reveal the mass of people on board,—some deadly pale and terror-stricken, some fainting, others in hysterics, while many are more resigned. It had been a long, long night of terror and most anxious suspense, and many who during its terrible hours had held up bravely, now break down at the crisis of the lifeboat's arrival. But the night had not been one of unreasoning fear to all. There were those on board, who filled with a calm heroism, had by their example of holy faith exerted great influence for good,—one woman especially, who had been for some time employed by a religious society in London visiting among the poor, proved herself well ! fitted for scenes of danger and distress. Gather- ing many around her, she read and prayed with them; and often, as the wild blasts shook the vessel to its keel, there mingled with the roar the strains of hymns, and many a poor creature gathered consolation and confidence, and learned to look from his, or her, own weakness to the Almighty arm of a loving God; and many who had already learnt those truths which take the sling from death, were encouraged to draw nearer, in more full reliance upon the sufficient atonement of Him who has declared, " I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die." Thus there was light in the darkness, and songs in the night, and the voice speaking in the tempest said, " Peace, be still;" and many felt, although the warring elements still raged, a calm which recklessness may assume, but which faith alone can give at such an hour.

This is no fancy sketch, no bit of imagined and attempted pathos dragged in. One hundred immortal souls were expecting momentarily the summons which should launch them into eternity,and a most terrible shade in the tragic picture it would indeed have been, had none of that throng been prepared tor the summons by the exercise of humble and earnest faith,—if by all of them the expected messenger was thought of as the King of Terrors, and by none as the Messenger of Peace.

Now, as the prospect of safety dawns upon all, a wild excitement for a moment prevails, and there is a rush made for the gangway:—mothers shriek for their children, husbands strive to push their wives through the throng, and children are trodden down in the crowd. It is a few moments before the captain can exercise any authority, but the passengers, checked for a minute, regain self-control, (all back from the side of the vessel, and wait for orders. " How many will the life-boat carry'/" the captain asks, '-between twenty and thirty each trip," is the answer. " There is a very nasty dangerous sea and surf over the Sands; if too crowded, we may get some washed out of her." It is at once decided, of course, that the women and children are to be taken first, and the crew prepare to get them into the boat. Two sailors are slung in bow-lines over the side of the vessel 10 help the women down. The boat ranges to and fro in the rush of the tide; though the men do their best to check its swing with the hawsers which are passed from the ship to the bow and stern of the boat. But still she sheers violently— is now lifted on the crest of a wave to within a few feet of the vessel's deck, and again falls into the trough of the sea after the waves pass under her, and, suddenly dropping many feet below, or, sheering away, leaves a dismal yawning gap of water between her and the vessel's side. It is a terrible scene, most dangerous work, and calling for great courage and nerve. 11 would have been difficult, even though all had been active men, but how much more so when many are frightened and excited women —some aged and very helpless. The mothers among the women are called for first.

One is led to the gangway, and shrinks back from the scene before her. The boat is lifted up, and she sees men standing on the thwarts with outstretched arms, ready to catch her if she falls, and the next moment the boat is in a dark gulf many feet below, and half covered with the fleeting spray. The frightened woman is urged over the side, and now hangs in mid-air, held by either arm by the two men, who are suspended over the side.

As the boat again lifts, the boatmen cry, ' Let go!" The two men do so, but the poor woman clings to one of them with a frantic grasp. One of the men standing on the thwarts of the boat springs up, grasps her by the heels, which he can just reach, draps her down, catches her in his arms as she falls, and the two together roll down into the boat, their fall broken by the men below, who stand ready to catch them. It is no time for ceremony, but for quick, prompt, unhesitating action. The number to be rescued, and the time that must of necessity be occupied in going to and from the steamer, make all feel there is not a moment to be lost. The next woman makes a half spring, and is got into the boat without much trouble. Now the boat lifts, but does not rise enough, she rather falls and sheers off. A woman is being held over the side by the two men ; she struggles, the men in their awkward position can scarcely retain their hold, and she is slipping from them, while the mad waves leap beneath, a ready grave. Just as she falls the boat sheers in again, and she is grasped by one of the active boatmen: by a great effort her course is directed into the boat, and she is saved. Another, who is very near her confinement, cries out piteously, "Oh, don't shake me, don't hurt me!" but she tails from the hands of the men holding her, is caught by the boatmen, and mils over with them into the bottom of the boat. Some of the men on board throw blankets down to the half-dressed women, many of whom are crying aloud for their children. A passenger rushes frantically to the gangway, cries " Here, here !" and thrusts a big bundle into the hands of one of the sailors, who supposes it to be merely a blanket, which the man intends for his wife in the boat. " Here, Bill, catch," the man shouts, and throws it to a boatman standing up in the boat, who just manages to catch it as it is on the point of failing into the sea, and is thunderstruck to hear a baby's cry proceed from it, while a shriek, "My child, my child!" from a woman, as she snatches the bundle from him, tells further of the greatness of the danger through which the child has passed. In spite of all their care, the boat, every now and then, lurches against the ship's side, and would be stove-in but for the cork fenders which surround her. Still she is flying and tossing about, now high as the main chains, now deep in the trough of a big sea, whose hollow leaves little water between her and the Sands; but in spite of all this, about thirty women and children, one after another, are taken on board, and the boat is declared to be full. They cast off the hawsers from the bow and stern, and all hands begin to haul in upon the cable. They get the anchor up with much difficulty, and as the range of cable gets shorter, the boat jerks and pitches a great deal in the rush of sea and tide. The anchor is at length up, the sails are hoisted, the boat feels her helm, gathers way swiftly, and shoots clear of the ship. A half-hearted cheer greets them as they pass astern—the remaining passengers watching them with wistful and somewhat anxious glances as they plunge on through sea and foam.

Away the boat bounds before the fierce gale-on through the flying surf and boiling sea—on, although the waves leap over her and fill her with their spray and foam. Buoyantly she rises and shakes herself free, staggering as the waves break against her bows, and then tossing her stem high in the air as she climbs their crests, she pitches almost bows under as the waves pass under her stern, and rolls as she sinks in the trough of the seas. The poor emigrants, trembling with cold and excitement, crowd together, and hold on to the boat, to each other, or to anything, scarcely realising their safety as the boiling seas foam fiercely around them, and the rising waves seem to threaten at any moment to overwhelm them.

They take a more convulsive and firm grasp, as the cry of warning from the men to " hold on " every now and then is heard, and bend low as the broken seas make a clean sweep over the boat, filling her and threatening to wash all out of her.

The steamer, as has been said, towed the life-boat well to windward, that she might have a fair wind in for the wreck; but as soon as the life-boat left her she made her way round the Sands to leeward, that the boat might have a fair wind to her again, and now waits the boat's return. On she comes:the broken water is now passed, the scud and spray fly all around her; but the cross seas overrun her no longer, and the emigrants lift their heads and rejoice as the lights of the steamer are pointed out to them shining brightly and very near. Thirty women and children are on board, and with this first instalment of the shipwrecked emigrants, the boat runs alongside the Aid. The steamer is put athwart the sea, to form a breakwater for the boat, which comes under her Ice; the roll of the steamer, the pitching of the boat, the wild wind and sea, with the darkness of the night only a little broken by the light of the steamer's lanterns, render it a somewhat difficult matter to get the exhausted women into the steamer. As the boat rises, the men lift up a woman and steady her for a moment on the gunwale, two men on the steamer catch her by the arms as she comes within reach, and she is dragged up the side on to the steamer's deck.

There is no time for ceremony here either: a moment's hesitation, and the poor creature might have a limb crushed between the steamer and the boat. Each woman is thus got on deck, and two men half lead, half carry her to the cabin below.

One struggles to get back to the boat, shrieking for her child; the men do not understand her in the roar of the gale : there is no time for explanations, and she is gently forced below. Again the rolled-up blanket appears; it is handed into the steamer, and is about to be dropped on the deck, when half a-dozen voices shout out, "A baby in the blanket!" and it is carried below and received by the poor weeping mother with a great outburst of joy. " God bless you!— God bless you!" she exclaims to the man, and then blesses and praises God out of the abundant fulness of her heart.

Many, who during the hours of danger had been comparatively calm and resigned, can no longer restrain their feelings. They at last feel themselves safe, and at the same moment realise the greatness of the peril they have escaped and that which those left on board the ship still encounter.

Some throw themselves on the cabin floor, weeping and sobbing; some cling to the sailors, begging and entreating them to save their husbands or children who are left behind ; while others can do little else than repeat some simple form of praise and blessing to God for his great mercy. The boat is towed to windward again, and when the straining cable is let go, her sails are hoisted cheerily, she heads round, swiftly gathers way, and bounds in like a greyhound through the troubled seas towards the ship. A slant of wind comes, however, and drives her from her course; they find that they cannot reach the ship, and make out into the open water. The steamer soon picks her up, tows her into a more favourable position, and the boat speedily runs in again alongside the vessel. There are still on board more women and children than would fill the boat, and they have to leave some half-a-dozen behind. All the old difficulties in getting the women down the side of the vessel are repeated, although the wind has now fallen a little. They make for the steamer, and as each new-comer is handed down into the cabin, the anxiety of those who are eagerly looking for some loved one is great indeed, and the greetings, when such are met with, are very earnest. For the third time the boat reaches the stianded ship, and brings away the remaining passengers. The cabin of the steamer is full of women and children, in every stage of exhaustion and excitement.

They are very thankful to God for the full answers vouchsafed to the earnest prayers of the last night. It has taken more than three hours to get the emigrants on board the steamer, and there has been additional delay by the boat twice failing to reach the ship; but this very delay, which at the time seemed so unfortunate, was, under God's providence, the means of saving further life.

The life-boat again makes for the Fusilier, to see what the crew of the ship will do. The gale has now gone down very considerably, and the tide has been falling fast for some time. The ship being heavy, is 'firmly settled on the Sands, and there is now no immediate clanger, although, should the wind get up again with the returning tide, the ship may be very speedily knocked to-pieces.

! The captain of the vessel thinks it very proba- ble that, if the gale continues to abate, the ship, as she has not been much knocked about, may be [ got off at the next high tide; but while he is un-willing to abandon the vessel as long as there is a I chance of her rescue, he feels the greatness of the ! risk, and wishes the life-boat to remain with him.

It is nearly daylight, the night is clear, and the wind is still blowing very hard; the life-boat takes an order to the steamer to send luggers with anchors and cables, that they may make every effort to get the ship off, if the weather continues to moderate. She then returns and lies by the ship, while the steamer, heavily freighted with the rescued emigrants, makes the best of her way towards Ramsgate.

III.—THE " DEMEIURA." The emigrants describe their perils, and mention that during the previous evening, while their ship was driving, and some time before she struck, they saw a large ship in great distress and apparently drifting fast upon the Sands : that darkness set in, and they lost sight of her.

The crew of the steamer keep a sharp look-out for this vessel, or any signs of her wreck. It is evidently the one of which they heard, and for which they searched before they discovered the fusilier. They see part of a mast, and other wreckage entangled in the Sands, and conclude that the vessel must have gone entirely to pieces, with the loss of all hands, during the night. But for the delay that had been occasioned, they would have proceeded to Ramsgate before there was sufficient light to scan the Sands so narrowly as they did; but now, as they proceed down the Prince's Channel and get near to the light-vessel, they see the small remnant of a wreck, which they think may be the bowsprit and jib-boom of a vessel dismasted and on her beam-ends. They get nearer to her, and find that she is well over on the north-east side of Girdler or Shingle Sands; some of the crew wish to launch the steam-tug's small life-boat, eighteen feet long, and make in through the surf to the wreck, to which, they think, they can see some of the crew clinging.

But it is thought too great a risk to take so small a boat through such a broken sea, and it is agreed that they had better go back for the large life-boat.

They put back, and, passing to windward of the fusilier, strike their flag halt-mast high, as a sign that the boat is to join them: this she speedily does, and they together make for the newly-found wreck. As they approach her they can see that it is a vessel on her beam-ends, with only her foremast standing.

The life-boat, having been towed into a favourable position, makes in for the vessel. The men wonder that she has held together so long, for she is broken and torn almost to pieces, the copper peeled off her bottom, the timbers started, broken, and twisted, the planking is torn off, almost all the cargo is washed out of her shattered hull, and here and there the light to be seen through her bottom. There was now little more than a portion of the skeleton of the ship that a few hours From "GOOD WORDS."] ••TWO MEN FROM THE LIFE-BOAT CLIMB ON BOARD, AND THE PASSENGERS CROWD AROUND THEM, SEIZE THEM BY THE HANDS, AND EVES CLING TO THEM." before, taut and trim, had buoyantly bounded over the seas.

The foremast, feebly held in position by a remnant of the deck, lay stretched a few feet above the water. The crew and pilot had been lashed to it for many hours, and for that time had seemed trembling over their fearful and ready grave. The heavy waves foam up and beat against the hull, and the doomed ship is, bit by bit, being torn to pieces. The crew, as they cling on, hear the timbers creaking and snapping. The deck has been blown up by the force of the waves, and the fragments of wreck are swept away in the swift tide, the heavy seas making more and more a breach over the ship. Sometimes the ship lifts a little from the mere force of the blow given by the tremendous seas; at any moment she may snap the foremast and roll right over; the mast quivers at every shake and heave of the wreck, the fierce tide rushes five feet beneath them, and the waves leap up and beat over them, and still they hold on.

An hour passes, and they are spared; still another and another: they see a steamer's lights in the distance: it nears, it hovers beside them. A few of the trembling storm-beaten sailors shout once or twice, but the rest smile grimly at the folly of supposing that any voice can be heard, even a few yards off, in the roar of such a gale.

They watch the steamer's lights in a very agony of suspense, but without any hope that they can be discovered in the darkness. They see the smaller light astern of the steamer, and imagine it to be that of the life-boat; they hear the dull throbs of the heavy guns from the light-ships, they see the faint flashes of light from the rockets, they know that these signals are calling for the steamer and life-boat to speed on elsewhere to the rescue of other drowning ones, and they watch the steamer's lights grow fainter and fainter until they are lost in the darkness. So they are left alone to their desolation and despair, while the wild winds roar, and the raging waves hunger around them. The moon goes down, the darkness thickens, the gale rushes by more furiously than ever; then comes a slight lull, and a faint light streaks the eastern horizon. They tighten their grasp upon the trembling mast and torn rigging, and speak a few words of hope. They may yet see another sunrise; soon in the dull grey light of the early dawn they faintly see a steamer in the distance, but her course will not bring her quite near to them. Intently they watch her: she alters her course and makes directly for the Sands upon the edge of which their frail wreck rests: they begin to hope again, and joy conies in upon them like a flood. They shout aloud, and wave a rag of canvas, the only means of signalling that is left to them; the steamer sees them, she dips her flag as a signal, and then slowly turns round and steams away full speed in the direction from which she came. An agony of fear comes over them again; they feel that they cannot be altogether deserted, but they shudder as the creaking mast trembles beneath them, and look at the yawning gulf of wild waters which gapes so close below, and in their hearts they fear that the steamer on her return with aid may find no trace of them left. A short time, which however seems long indeed to them, measured as it is by their danger and the greatness of their suspense—a short time, and they again see the steamer, and soon are enabled to make out, to their great joy, that she has the life-boat in tow. Still the flying surf beats upon them and drives them with its sheer weight closer to the mast: still the water rages around, while they cling with all their desperate energy to the quivering shrouds: but the time of despair has The life-boat comes swiftly on, running before the still heavy gale, now rising like a cork to the mounting seas, or again plunging boldly through the surf or broken water. Her men forget the long night-struggle of fatigue and danger through which they have passed: much noble work have they done, but they have still noble work to do,—.

more lives to save by the help of God: and with cool determination they cheerfully proceed to their new labours. They find the water more and more broken as they near the vessel, the waves are flying high over the lost ship, and the ebb tide is running strongly. From the breaking seas and from the position of the ship, now on her broadside with her keel to windward, they cannot anchor on the windward side, and let the boat gradually drop in upon the wreck: their only chance is to run with the wind abeam right in upon the forerrigging. It is true .there is considerable danger in this ; but at such times they cannot stop to calculate danger, and must be ready to risk much in their attempts to save life. They charge in amid the floating wreckage, and the boat hits hard upon the iron windlass which is hanging still to the deck of the vessel. A rope is thrown round the fore-rigging, and the group of exhausted sailors shout with joy as they greet the glad friendly faces coming in upon them out of the storm of desolation which rages around. The crew, sixteen in number, including the pilot and a boy of about eleven years of age, are pale and exhausted, and drop one by one from the mast into the boat, and leave the storm-torn fragment of the Demerara to her speedy fate. " Oars out!" is the cry, and by hard pulling the boat is got clear of the raffle of the wreck. There is then a moment's waiting ere they hoist the sail, and a great shaking of hands all round, and warm greetings, and heartfelt thanks from the saved ones.

It is now nearly ten o'clock in the morning; they set sail and soon reach the steamer which is waiting to leeward. The emigrants who have so recently passed through similar scenes of danger, now crowd the deck. All their keenest sympathies are aroused, shout after shout greets the boat, the women cheer at the top of their voices, and welcome with outstretched arms alike the rescued and the rescuers. One warm-hearted creature seizes the coxswain's hands in both hers, and shakes them with might and main, sobbing out, as the tears roll down her cheeks, " I'll pray the Holy Father for you the longest day that I live!" Many fall on their knees, and out of full hearts pour forth thanks to God.

The steamer is now full of people; the cabins are given up to the women and children, and are crowded in every part; and the poor people, wet and shivering, are full of thankfulness for their safety; while the steamer, with quick motion, rolls and pitches as she makes her way through the cross seas, which still run high and broken, although the fierceness of the tempest is past.

It is no unusual occurrence at Ramsgate for a crowd of people to be grouped at the'Pier-head, watching with interest for the appearance of the steamer, with her flags flying in token of the goodly freight which she bears with her; but with deeper interest than overmuch summer scenes excited, is the steamer waited for now.

It is one of those bright genial winter mornings of which Ramsgate has so goodly a share. Many have been attracted to the Pier to take, on that pleasant promenade, a good instalment of the fresh breeze, and to watch the sea bright with sunshine, and the waves glistening and flashing in their turmoil of unrest. The rumour spreads that the steamer and life-boat have bc-e.i away all night, and are every minute expected to round the Point and appear in sight. The throng on the Pier increases, for long there has been an anxious lookout eastward for the appearance of the returning steamer, and great is the feeling of gladness, and deep the murmur of satisfaction as the gallant Aid appears, with her flags flying at the life-boat's masthead, telling the glad tale of successful effort.

The crowd rejoices greatly in the good work done, and, as the steamer conies nearer, it is seen that never on a summer's day did steamer bear through calm seas a fuller freight even of holiday-seekers.

From the Pier the crowd looks down upon the multitude on board, and knows that they are just snatched from the very jaws of death, and a thrill of wonder and gladness passes through them all, with that half-formed sense of fear, which a realisation of danger recently escaped, either by ourselves or others, always gives. The crowd waves, and shouts, and hurrahs, and gives every sign of glad welcome and deep congratulation; and as the steamer sweeps round the Pier-head, the pale upturned faces of one hundred and twenty rescued men, women, and children, smile back a glad acknowledgment of the hearty welcome so warmly given. It is a scene almost overpowering in the deep feeling it produces.

The migrants land, they toil weakly up the steps to the Pier, all bearing signs of the scene of danger and hardship through which they have passed. Some are barely clothed, some have blankets wrapped round them, and all are weary and worn, and faint with cold and wet and long suspense. There are some aged women among them, who had been unwilling to be left behind when those most dear to them were about to seek their fortunes abroad; others had been sent for by their friends, and to them the thoughts of the terrors and trials of a sea-voyage had been overcome by the longing to see once again before they died the faces long loved and long missed — to see perhaps the grandchildren who, although they had never looked upon them, yet they had thought of until they had become almost part of their daily life. It is piteous to see some of the aged women totter from the steamer to the Pier.

But young men and young women are there too, who, crowded in the race at home, had sought in a wider field to make better way. Here a poor sorrow-stricken mother, deadly pate and sobbing biferly, looks wistfully upon the white face and almost closed eyes of the baby in her husband's arms This is the poor child that was so nearly lost overboard, as it was thrown into the boat wrapped up in a blanket. (The mother's fears were not realized: the baby speedily recovered.) It now became the glad office of the people of Ramsgate to bestir themselves on behalf of those thus suddenly thrown upon their charity. The agent of the Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners' Society took charge of the sailors. Accommodation was found for the emigrants in houses near the Pier, and a plentiful meal was at once supplied ; many of the residents busied themselves most heartily; and clothes, dresses, coats, boots, hats, bonnets, stays, and other garments were liberally given. Subscriptions were at once raised to pay all expenses, and to put into the hands of the poor creatures some little ready money. In the meantime one of the shipping agents telegraphed to the owners of the wrecked emigrant ship, and wag empowered by them to render all required aid. He therefore found the emigrants all needed board and lodging, and next morning forwarded them to London; a crowd of Ramsgate people bade them good-bye at the station, and received grateful acknowledgments of the kindness and sympathy which had been shown.

The emigrants were cared for in London by the owners of the Fusilier. The weather moderating the morning after the wreck, the emigrants' things were got out of the vessel and sent on to them; and the owners of the fusilier soon obtained another ship in which they forwarded the passengers, and they had a prosperous voyage to Melbourne.

The good old Ramsgate life-boat has done some good work since ; but her time has come, and she is now condemned, and 1 fear will soon be broken up. A most noble substitute, a present to the NATIONAL LIFE-BOAT INSTITUTION from the people of Bradford, supplies her place. She is named the Bradford ; and our wish is, that she may have as noble a career, and ever find ready to speed her on her errands of mercy, as many stout hearts and strong hands as have fallen to the lot of the good old Ramsgate Life-boat.

May I be allowed to add a postscript to the narrative, one especially addressed to the good people of Bradford with reference to their gift ? I think it was the first Sunday after their boat arrived at Ramsgate, it was blowing a heavy gale during the morning service, the wind swept over the roof of the church, as if it would lift it bodily away ; on my way home after church, I met one of my Sunday-school lads, clad in oil-skins from top to toe, his face ruddy with excitement and battling against the wind, he had evidently spent his morning on the pier, I felt, I must confess, a little secret appreciation of the temptation the manly little fellow had been under, but thought it necessary, nevertheless, to shake my head gravely at him, and say a passing word of remonstrance.

" A ship ashore, sir, on the Brake; the new lifeboat gone out," was his reply. Well; I hope he did not shake hi. head gravely at me, as he saw the speed with which I rushed off, on hearing his exciting news. For a good hour I watched the Bradford life-boat at work, within about two miles of the shore; a fine barque was on the Brake Sands, the sea making a clean breach over her; the harbour steamer was waiting just clear of the broken water, the Bradford battling in through the troubled seas to the rescue. I could plainly see the boat tossed here and there in the fury of the waves ; again and again was she buried in the rush of spray and surf; I saw her make almost alongside the vessel, which, however, was deserted by her crew, and then again through the heavy sea, for the harbour. She behaved nobly, and a noble boat all declared her to be; and as 1 gratefully watched the scene—one not foreign to Sabbath thoughts, and the Gospel message, efforts to save the perishing from the storm-tossed and fastbreaking wreck, and bear them to a haven of peace—I could not help feeling it to be a matter of little wonder, that so many of the Englishhearted inhabitants of our inland towns, as they realize the nobleness and mercy of lift-boat work, should determine to have their lot in the great and stirring cause, and do all they can to plant and sustain life-boats on our coasts, saying to our brave sailors,— and saying it with no misplaced -confidence,—"Here, for the sake of the perishing, we provide you with the means for their rescue, and to your stout hearts and strong hands, under God's good providence, we leave the rest." JOHN GILMORE.