ging of the vessel had caught the boat, she would have capsized, and every man in her have been in a moment shaken out into the sea. The boat is very crowded; no fewer than thirty-two men now form her precious freight. They haul in cable and draw up to the anchor as quickly as they can, to get clear of the wreck; an anxious time it is. At last they are pretty clear, and hoist the sail to draw still farther away. There is no thought of getting the anchor.up in such a gale and sea. "She draws away," cries the captain; "pay out the cable; stand by to cut it; pass the hatchet forward; cut the cable; quick, my men, quick!" There is a moment's delay. A sailor takes out his knife, and begins gashing away at the thick rope. Already one strand out of the three is severed, when a fearful gust of wind rushes by; a crash is heard, and the mast and sail are blown clean out of the boat. Never was a moment of greater peril. Away with the rush of the wave the boat is again carried straight for the fatal wreck; the cable is payed out, and is slack; they haul it in as fast as they can; but on they go swiftly, apparently to certain destruction. Let them hit the wreck full, and the next wave must wash them over it, and all perish; let them but touch it, and the risk is fearful. On they are carried; the stern of the boat just grazes the bow of the ship. Some of the crew are ready for a spring into the bowsprit, to prolong their lives a few minutes. Mercifully, the cable at that moment taughtens : another yard or two and the boat must have been dashed to pieces. Might and main they continue to haul in the cable, and again draw away from the wreck ; but they do it with a terrible dread, for they remember the cut strand of the rope. Will the remaining two strands hold? The strain is fearful; each time the boat lifts on a wave, the cable tightens and jerks, and they think it breaking; but it still holds, and a thrill of joy passes through the hearts of all as they hear that the cut part is in. The position is still one of extreme peril. The mast and sail have been drag

ging over the side all this time; with much difficulty they get them on board. The mast had broke short off, about three feet from the heel. They chop a new heel to it, and rig it up again as speedily as possible; but it takes long to do so. The boat is lying in the trough of the sea, the waves breaking over her; the gale blowing as hard as ever; the boat so crowded that they can scarcely move; the Spaniards clinging to each other, the terrors of death not having yet passed away from them. They know nothing of the properties of the life-boat, and cannot believe that it will live long in such a sea. As the huge waves break over the boat and fill it, they imagine that it is going to founder; and, besides this, for nearly four hours had they been lashed to the rigging of their vessel, till the life was nearly beaten and frozen out of them by the waves and bitter wind. One of them, seeing a life-belt lying under a thwart, which one of the crew had thrown off in the hurry of his work, picked it up and sat upon it, by way of making himself doubly safe. But the work went on; at last the mast is fitted and raised. No unnecessary word is spoken all this time, for the life and death struggle is not yet over, nor can be until they are well away from the neighbourhood of the wreck; but, as they hoist the sail, the boat gradually draws away, the cable is again payed out little by little, and, as soon as they are well clear of the vessel, they cut it, and away they go.

The terrible suspense-when each moment was a moment of fearful riskfrom the time they let go their anchor to the time they were clear of the vessel was over. It had lasted nearly an hour. The men could now breathe freely; their faces brightened; and from one and all there arose, spontaneously, a pealing cheer. They were no longer face to face with death, and joyfully and thankfully they sailed away from the breakers, the sands, and the wreck. The gale was still at its height, but the peril they were in then seemed as nothing compared to that which they had left behind. In

the great reaction of feeling, the freezing cold and sleet, the driving foam and sea were all forgotten; and they felt as light-hearted as if they were out on a pleasant summer's cruise. They could at last look around and see whom they had in the boat. Of the saved were eleven Spaniards-the master of the brig, the mate, eight seamen and a boy; six Margate boatmen, and two Whitstable fishermen. They then proceeded in search of the steamer, which, after casting the life-boat adrift, had made for shelter to the back of the Hook Sand, not far from the Reculvers, and there waited, her crew anxiously on the look out for the return of the life-boat. As they were making for the steamer, the lugger, Eclipse, came in chase, to hear whether all hands, and especially her men, had been saved. They welcomed the glad tidings with three cheers for the life-boat crew. Soon after, the Whitstable smack stood towards them on the same errand, and, after speaking them, tacked in for the land. The night was coming on apace. It was not until they had run three or four miles that they sighted the steamer; and, when they got alongside it, was a difficult matter to get the saved crew on board. The gale was as hard as ever, and the steamer rolled heavily; the men had almost to be lifted on board as opportunities occurred; and one poor fellow was SO thoroughly exhausted that they had to haul him into the steamer with a rope.

Again the boat was taken in tow, almost all her crew remaining in her; and they commenced their return home. The night was very dark, although clear; the sea and gale had lost none of their force; and, until they got well round the North Foreland, the struggle to get back was just as hard as it had been to get there. Once round the Foreland, the wind was well aft, and they made easier way; light after light opened to them; Kingsgate, Broadstairs, were passed; and, at last, the Ramsgate pier-head light shone forth its welcome, and they began to feel that their work was nearly over.

A telegram had been sent from Margate, in the afternoon, stating that the

Ramsgate life-boat had been seen to save the crew; but nothing more had been heard, and the suspense of the boatmen at Ramsgate, as they waited for the life-boat's return, was terrible. Few hoped to see them again, and, as hour after hour passed without tidings, they were almost given up. During the whole of the afternoon and evening, anxious eyes were constantly on the watch for the first signs of the boat's coming round the head of the cliff. As the tide went down, and the sea broke less heavily over the pier, the men could venture farther along it, until, by the time of the boat's return, they were enabled to assemble at the end of the pier. When the steamer was first seen with the life-boat in tow, the lookers out shouted for very joy; and, as they entered the harbour, and hailed, "All saved!" cheer after cheer for the lifeboat's crew broke from the crowd.

The Spaniards had somewhat recovered from their exhaustion under the care of the steamboat crew, and were farther well cared for and supplied with clothes by the orders of the Spanish Consul; and the hardy English boatmen did not take long to recover their exposure and fatigues, fearful as they had been. The captain of the Spaniard, in speaking of the rescue, was almost overcome by his feelings of gratitude and wonder. He had quite made up his mind to death, believing that no boat could by any possibility come to their rescue in such a fearful sea. He took with him to Spain, to show to the Spanish government, a painting of the rescue, executed by Mr. Ifold, of Ramsgate.

There is an interest even in reading the names of those (however unknown to us) who have done gallant deeds; we give therefore the names of the crew of the life-boat, and of the steamer. Of the life-boat: James Hogben, captain; Charles Meader, Thomas Tucker, Philip Goodchild, Edward Stock, William Penny, William Priestley, George Hogben, William Solly, George Forwood, John Stock, Robert Solly. Of the steam-tug: Daniel Reading, J. Simpson, W. Wharrier, T. Nichols, J. Denton,

J. Freeman, T. Larkins, W. Penman, W. Matson, W. Solly. Other fearful scenes have most of these men, especially the captains of the life-boat and steam-tug, passed through in their efforts to save life; one so terrible that two out of the crew of the life-boat never recovered the shock given to their nerves. One died a few months after the event, and the other to this day is ailing, and subject to fits. Of the splendid lifeboat too much cannot be said; no fewer than eighty-eight lives have been saved by her during the last five years. Designed and built by J. Beeching and

Sons, boat-builders, &c., of Yarmouth, she won the Northumberland prize of one hundred guineas in a competition of two hundred and eighty boats. Each time the men go out, their confidence in her increases, and they are now ready to dare anything in the Northumberland prize life-boat. It is pleasing to be able to add, by way of postscript, that the Board of Control has presented each man engaged in this rescue with a medal and 21., and that the Spanish Government has also gratefully acknowledged the heroism of the men, and sent to each a medal and 37.

None knelt to the king, yet none were ashamed;

None prayed unto God, yet no one blamed;

None weighed out silver or counted gold;

Nothing was bought, and nothing sold;
None would give, and none would take,
No one answered, and no one spake.
There were crowds on crowds, and yet
no din,

Sinner on sinner, and yet no sin;
Poverty was not, nor any wealth,
None knew sickness, and none knew
health;

None felt blindness, and none saw light, There were millions of eyes and yet no sight;

Millions of ears and yet no hearing,
Millions of hearts, and yet no fearing;
None knew joy, and none knew sorrow;
Yesterday was the same as to-day and
to-morrow.

None felt hunger, none felt thirst,
No one blessed, and no one cursed,
None wasted the hours, and none saved
time,

None did any good, or committed crime;
Grief and woe, and guilt and care,
Fiery passion and sullen despair,
Were all unknown and unthought of
there :

Joy and love, and peace and bliss,
Holy affection and kindly kiss,
Were strangers there to all, I wiss.
The soldier laid aside his spear,
And was a man of peace;

The slave forgot to fear,

And sighed not for release;

The widow dried her tear

And thought not of her lord's decease. The subtle brain

Of the curious priest,

K

Think you
he will quell his rage,
Bend his high and haughty head,
Leave the air at one fell swoop,
And with folded pinions stoop
Underneath these bars; to droop
Once again, with sullen eye
Gazing at the far-off sky?
He has gone his way, and I
Grudge him not his liberty.

Does the wanton butterfly

Long for her aurelia sleep,
Sicken of the sunlit sky,

Shrivel up her wings and creep
From the untasted rose's chalice,
Back into her chrysalis?
Does she on the wing deplore
She can be a worm no more?

The melodious, happy bee,

Will she backward ring her bell, Grieving for a life so free,

Wishing back the narrow cell Where a cloistered nun she lay, Knowing not the night from day?

Lithe and subtle serpents turning
Wheresoe'er they will,
Are they full of sad repining

That they cannot now be still,
Coiled in the maternal prison
Out of which they have arisen?
Earth to earth, and dust to dust,
Ashes unto ashes must;

Death precedeth birth. Infant gladness

Ends in madness,

And from blackest roots of sadness
Rise the brightest flowers of mirth.

I am but the quiver, useless
When the bolts are shot;
But the dangling mocking scabbard
Where the sword is not.

I am like a shattered bark

Flung high up upon the shore ; Gone are streamers, sails, and mast, Steering helm and labouring oar. River-joys, ye all are past;

I shall breast the Nile no more.

I was once a lamp of life,
Shining in upon the soul;

But I was a lamp of clay :
Death and I had bitter strife;