THERE he stands, somewhat apart from the rest, his eyes straining in the haze to watch her disappearing form. The Life-boat has been launched, and— amazing, incredible, as it yet seems to his mind—launched without him 1 For half a century he has taken a place in that boat whenever she has been called out; for twenty years the principal place; and now she has gone without him, and he is left upon the shore, a solitary figure, upright still, keen-eyed, strong—yet superannuated ! What wistful, inarticulate thoughts must lie behind those keen grey eyes.

Never again to taste the clean salt spray upon his lips; never again to feel the lilt of the tiller in his hand as she lunges at the outer breaker; never again to know the dear delight of danger as, anchor down, he veers nearer and nearer the doomed ship; never again to hear the echoing cheers as he guides her between the harbour piers and the anxious spectators are able to see the rescued burden of his boat. His day is done. From henceforth the gun. will summon him to be no more than a spectator himself, or at most a humble "launcher," whose province it is to help push the boat into the water—a private where he has been commander.

Let us look at one more scene before he retires into oblivion. It is the night of the village concert. The squire and his lady are there, the rector, the doctor, and many others who are anxious to do him honour, conspicuous among them, in their best blue jerseys, the men who formed his crew. There, in the front row, beside his grey-haired wife, he sits, no longer as we have known him best, in thigh boots, and girt in shining oilies | from shoulder to knee, but very spruce in blue cloth with all his medals on his breast. Here is the large one presented by the King of Norway for that arduous and timely service to the Norwegian barque in the Bay; here is the exqui- sitely-designed medal of the French Republic; and here, also, in pride of place, the coveted Silver Medal of the Institution itself, earned many years before for as brilliant and daring a piece of seamanship as the annals of the Life- boat Service have to record.

There is a pause in the programme, and the principal event of the evening is about to take place. The chairman, in a short speech, sketches his career; so many times launched on service, so many lives saved, so many vessels salved; and finishes by presenting him with the Certificate of the Institution, framed on vellum, and signed by the Prince of Wales's own hand as President. The audience bursts into a roar of cheering, ending with " For he's a jolly good fellow," sung in several different keys, and without much regard for harmony, but with immense enthusiasm. Then silence; and the time has come for him to speak. He rises to his feet; but he whom we have known with such com- manding mien, dominating all around ; whose voice has been heard above the violence of the sea and the fury of the wind, is now overcome by emotion and is trembling like a child. He manages to breathe out a few faltering words of thanks, of which we can only catch the phrase that he has " few words." Not words, brave old soul, but deeds; deeds which have surely spoken with as much eloquence to the hearts of those who know than all the oratory of the world.

Is there a more honourable position In the world's records than, this of Cox- swain of the Life-boat 1 The very pick , of a picked body of men, are not such ; the salt of the earth t To lead men into ! danger has always been held in the I highest honour, to lead them into the '' imminent deadly breach in. a, fortress;! or, sword and pistol in hand, over the | side of a boarded ship, has not the man who has done these things always held the world's greatest esteem 1 But to lead men into danger, not to take life but to save ifc, surely that is the finest and 1 noblest of all, and is given to few to} attain, | Consider a few of the qualities which | a man needs in order to fill such a | position. That he must have great  physical courage needs no saying, but much moral courage is also required, so as to take responsibility in the most difficult and trying circumstances. He must have consummate skill; for prob- ably there is no operation in the whole art of seamanship which calls for greater skill than is required to bring a boat alongside » wreck in a heavy breaking sea. He must be a man of infinite resource and instant decision, knowing that on the moment's choice of alternatives depends not only his own life, but that of his crew, and perhaps of those whom he has set out to save. Above all he must be a man who commands the obedience and respect of those who serve under him.

Such a character resembles that of the man to whom were given ten talents, and to such when he retires from Ms posfc may also surely be said: " Well done, thou good and faithful servant.".