CHAPTER XXII.

SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS (_concluded_).

Eastbourne and its Quiet Charms—Hastings—Its Fishermen—The Battle of Hastings—Loss of the _Grosser Kurfürst_—The Collision—The Catastrophe—Dover—The Castle—Shakespeare’s Cliff—“O’er the Downs so free”—St. Margaret’s Bay—Kingsdown—Deal—A Deed of Daring—Ramsgate and Margate—The Floating Light on the Goodwin Sands—Ballantyne’s Voluntary Imprisonment—His Experiences—The Craft—The Light—One Thousand Wild Ducks caught—A Signal from the “South Sand Head”—The Answer—Life on Board.

The coast north‐east from Beachy Head is rugged and interesting till Eastbourne is reached, one of the quietest and prettiest of the south‐ coast watering‐places, and one which has been very greatly improved of late by the lavish expenditure of his Grace the Duke of Devonshire, the principal landowner in the neighbourhood. Some of the promenades are planted with trees _à la boulevard_. The bathing and boating are both excellent; while in the neighbourhood are the ruins of Pevensey, an old Norman castle, and Hurstmonceaux, a red‐brick castle of the mediæval period, ivy‐and creeper‐covered, and embowered in trees. It is the delight of artists, who annually besiege it in great numbers. Eastbourne has some hundred fishermen engaged in the herring and mackerel fisheries. They have a benefit association or club, into which they pay a monthly subscription, and when their nets are damaged or lost a part of the money needed to repair or replace them is found. There is also a lifeboat, which has done excellent work.

And next in sequence comes historical Hastings, which extends for near a mile along the sea at the present time, or, if we include the fashionable town of St. Leonard’s‐on‐Sea, its sea front must be reckoned at nearly three miles. Many readers will be familiar with the charming glen or vale in which it is situated, and which opens to the sea on the south. Hastings is otherwise sheltered by high hills and cliffs, and has a warm, even, and yet bracing climate; for salubrity it will rank with any of the popular sea‐side resorts. It has a steady population of about 35,000, of whom 700 are fishermen and boatmen. In one week the herring catch has been worth £5,000. A boat fitted for the herring or mackerel season is worth £350, and for trawling £200. The mackerel season commences in April and continues till the latter end of July, while the trawling commences and ends two or two and a half months later. The herring season commences in September and ends in the latter part of November. There is a church at Hastings, under the eastern cliffs, for the special accommodation of fishermen.

The famous battle of Hastings was fought A.D. 1066, Oct. 14. The alarm sounded, both parties immediately prepared for action; but the English spent the night previous to it in riot and jollity, whilst the Normans were occupied in the duties of religion. On the morning the Duke called together his principal officers, and ordered the signal of battle to be given. Then the whole army, moving at once, and singing the hymn or song of Roland, advanced in order and with alacrity towards the English.

Harold had seized the advantage of a rising ground, and, having secured his flanks with trenches, resolved to stand upon the defensive, and to avoid an engagement with the cavalry, in which he was inferior. The Kentish men were placed in the van, a post of honour which they always claimed as their due. The Londoners guarded the standard; and the King himself, accompanied by his two valiant brothers, Gurth and Leofwin, dismounting from his horse, placed himself at the head of his infantry, and expressed his resolution to conquer or to die. The first attack of the Normans was desperate, but was received with equal valour by the English, and the former began to retreat, when William hastened to their support with a select band. His presence restored the courage of his followers, and the English in their turn were obliged to retire. They rallied again, however, assisted by the advantage of the ground, and William, in order to gain the victory, had recourse to a stratagem, which, had it failed, would have resulted in his total ruin. He commanded his troops to allure the enemy from their position by the appearance of flight. The English followed with precipitation; the Normans faced upon them in the plain, and drove them back with considerable slaughter. The artifice was a second time repeated, with the same success; yet a great body of the English still maintained themselves in firm array, and seemed determined to dispute the victory. While they were galled by the Norman archers behind, they were attacked by the heavy‐armed infantry in front; and Harold himself was slain by an arrow as he combated with great bravery at the head of his men. The English, discouraged by the fall of their prince, fled on all sides. The memory of the eventful fight is kept green by the name of Hastings, and Battle Abbey, in its immediate neighbourhood.

Sadly must all readers look back upon the morning of Friday, May the 31st, 1878, when the _Grosser Kurfürst_ went down off Sandgate, so near to land that the people on shore felt certain that the commander would be able to beach her before she had time to sink, unhappily an entirely erroneous supposition. Very shortly before this ever‐to‐be‐lamented catastrophe occurred, the German squadron, in command of Admiral Von Batsch, was sailing with a light easterly wind blowing down Channel with all the pomp and pardonable display of a force so numerically small yet so grandly powerful. The sea was perfectly smooth, the weather fine, and there seemed no more reason for anticipating the impending danger than if they had been lying at anchor in the sunlit harbour of Bremen.

The squadron consisted of three vessels, sailing in two columns—the _König Wilhelm_, carrying the admiral’s flag, and the _Preussen_ forming the port division, the _Grosser Kurfürst_ forming the starboard, and less than two ships’ lengths apart from the admiral; indeed, it is said that scarcely one length intervened.

“In this formation the German squadron came across two sailing vessels hauled to the wind,” says the writer of the article from which we quote, “on the port tack, and consequently standing right across the bows of both divisions. The _Grosser Kurfürst_ had first to give way, which she did at the proper time and strictly in accordance with the rule of the road, porting her helm and passing under the stern of the first of these two sailing ships. But the _König Wilhelm_, which it must be borne in mind was close to the _Grosser Kurfürst_ at this time, and steering a course parallel to her, endeavoured at first to cross the bows of the sailing vessel, but finding she had no room for this manœuvre, rapidly changed her plan, and, putting her helm hard a‐port, also stood under the stern of the sailing vessel. In the meanwhile the _Grosser Kurfürst_ had resumed her original course, and thus was lying right across the bows of the _König Wilhelm_, as she came under the stern of the sailing barque almost at right angles to the original course.... The captain of the _Grosser Kurfürst_, Graf Von Montz, seeing the terrible proximity of the _König Wilhelm_, immediately put his vessel at full speed, hoping to cross her bows, but the space would not allow it. He then gave the order to port his helm, hoping to lay his ship parallel to the course of the _König Wilhelm_, but unfortunately for this also there was neither time nor space.” All might have gone well up to this point, however, as it appears the _König Wilhelm_ was in charge of an “able and experienced officer;” he had given the order to port the helm to steer clear of the sailing vessel, and then ordered the helm to be “immediately steadied,” intending to range up alongside the _Grosser Kurfürst_; but the helmsman had become bewildered, and instead of steadying put the helm still more port. The _König Wilhelm_ was put at full speed astern, and the fatal crash could not be avoided. All now was confusion on both vessels.

The _König Wilhelm_ carried away everything from the point where she struck the _Grosser Kurfürst_ to the stern, “ripping off the armour plating like the skin of an orange.” The bowsprit of the _König Wilhelm_ fouled the rigging of the ill‐starred ship and brought down the mizzen top‐gallant‐mast on the quarter‐deck, and the quarter boats were swept away “like strips of paper.”

The doomed iron‐clad went down in seven minutes; on board there was scarcely time left the officers and crew to think much less to act with effect. The boats that had not been smashed could hardly be got into the water; the hammocks had been stowed in some unusual place, so that it was useless to attempt to get at them, and thus a very perfect means of escape was cut off from the 280 poor fellows that were drowned.

The experience of the first lieutenant when the vessel was going down under the very eyes of a number of people on shore is interesting in the extreme. He felt himself sucked in, and describes a sensation of enormous pressure on his ribs, as if the water were forcing him down. Then he came across another column of water, which as promptly vomited him up to the surface again, when he caught hold of a spar, and saved his life. A dreadful fate befell some thirty unfortunate sailors, who, in spite of the commands and entreaties of the boatswain, who was standing on the forecastle, threw themselves over the bows, and endeavoured to swim away. But the sinking ship was too fast for them, and they were caught in the netting which is stretched under the jibboom, and, thus entangled, were carried down with the ship. The disabled _König Wilhelm_ was almost immediately towed into Portsmouth for repairs.(59)

Dover is by no means so generally known as many less interesting places on the south coast, for the larger number of those who depart for or arrive from the Continent usually pass it by. It has been often incidentally mentioned in these pages, but no description of its special attractions has yet been given.

It is situated not far from the South Foreland, in the extreme south‐east corner of Kent, on the narrowest part of the British Channel, and only some twenty miles from the opposite coast of France. Hence it is the port for steamers crossing to Calais on the Continental service, a trip usually made in about one hour and three‐quarters. If the reader should cross on the now‐famous _Calais‐Douvres_, the luxurious and easy‐riding twin vessel, he will hardly require the advice relative to the _mal de mer_ contained in a previous chapter. Dover, though comparatively little used as a watering‐place, possesses excellent accommodation for visitors—bathing‐machines, and all the usual paraphernalia of such places. Its grand hotel, “The Lord Warden,” is second to none in England, and has sheltered scores of crowned heads and coroneted aristocrats, as well as the less distinguished, though perhaps equally worthy, Jones, Brown, Smith, and Robinson.

On the eastern side of the town stands that elevated and noble fortress the Castle, of which some description has already been given. A short distance from it the chalk cliff rises 370 feet above the sea, and hard by stands a beautiful piece of brass ordnance, 24 feet in length, which bears the name of “Queen Elizabeth’s Pocket Pistol,” and was presented to her Majesty by the States of Holland. It is said to carry a 12‐lb. ball to a distance of seven miles. It is curiously adorned with a variety of devices, typifying the blessings of peace and the horrors of war. On its breech is the following motto in Dutch, which, freely translated, signifies:—

“O’er hill and dale I throw my ball, Breaker my name of mound and wall.”

To the westward of the town rises the majestic headland named after our immortal bard. Shakespeare’s cliff rears its lofty head _at the present time_ to an altitude of 350 feet, but in the great dramatist’s day its summit was much higher, as indicated by the enormous boulders and heaps of _débris_ at its base, the result of frequent landslips and falls. Shakespeare well describes this grand precipice:—

“Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark, Diminished to her cock; her cock, a buoy, Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more, Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.”

From the heights about Dover the views are magnificent. Seaward is the beautiful bay, the Straits and the Downs, with its ever‐changing fleets, the ships of all nations. Stretching one’s vision a little farther are seen the lofty white cliffs of the French coast; Cape Grisnez, near Calais (which itself lies on low land, and is therefore undiscernible), and the heights of Boulogne.

The antiquity of Dover is undeniable. Julius Cæsar here made his first descent on Britain, in August, B.C. 55. Picts and Scots, Danes and Normans, successively attacked it; while at the period of the Conquest, 1066, the town suffered fearfully, the whole place being reduced to ashes except twenty‐nine houses. But when it became one of the Cinque Ports it soon rose in importance, and Dover men largely helped that brilliant attack on Philip IV.’s fleet, by which France lost 240 vessels. That enraged monarch retaliated on Dover by burning the larger part of the town; but before the year 1296 the British navy had not merely swept the enemy from the Channel, but had made several reprisals on the coast of France. At the period of the Armada, Dover, with the other Cinque Ports, fitted out, at a cost of £43,000, six large ships for the Queen’s service, which were the means of decoying the great _Galleas_ of Spain on a shoal, afterwards engaging and burning her.

Riding or walking over the Downs some interesting places may be seen on or near the coast. At St. Margaret’s Bay, seven miles north from Dover—to the merits of the lobsters of which the present writer can testify, having both caught and eaten them—there is a pretty little fishing‐village, with “Fisherman’s Inn” embowered in trees, at the base of lofty cliffs. Here the preliminary borings for the possible Channel Tunnel of the future were made. Farther on is Kingsdown, a fishing village and lifeboat station, the men and boat of which have done specially good service in saving life. Visible from thence is Walmer Castle and quaint old Deal, so often mentioned in these pages in connection with lifeboat work on the Goodwin Sands, themselves also plainly in sight. Riding at anchor in Deal Roads, or outward bound, or on the homeward tack, are seen ships, great and little, flying the colours of every maritime nation under the sun. The trip from Dover to Deal and back can be made by any tolerable pedestrian in a day, allowing time for visits to all the points just named. That part of the trip from Dover to St. Margaret’s Bay can be made over the Downs only, but thence to Deal the coast can be easily followed.

Coming nearer home, the writer must record a case of “derring‐do,” which will prove—if after what these pages have recorded of the men of Deal and Walmer and Kingsdown, of Ramsgate and Margate, further proof were needed—that the men of the North and South Foreland are not degenerate descendants of their forefathers, who sailed and fought and died with Blake and Nelson. It occurred in Deal on a Sunday morning in bleak December. A whole gale was blowing from the south‐west and vessels in the comparatively sheltered Downs were riding to both anchors. As the various congregations were leaving their respective places of worship umbrellas were blown inside out, and children were taken off their feet or clung frightened to their parents’ limbs, the wind and spray along Deal beach being blinding. Let the “Chaplain” (_nom de plume_ of the excellent clergyman who superintends the Missions to Seamen) tell the tale. “Just then,” he writes, “in answer to the boom of the distant gun, the bell rang to man the lifeboat, and the Deal boatmen gallantly answered to the summons. A rush was made for the life‐belts and for the coxswain’s house. The coxswain, Robert Wilds, has for fifteen years held the yoke‐lines through the surf on the sands, and knows the powers of the boat to save. Fourteen men besides the coxswain were the crew, and with a mighty rush they launched the good boat down the steep beach to the rescue. There were three vessels on the Goodwins. The crew of one took to their boats, and not being in the worst part of the sands got safe round the North Foreland to Margate. Another schooner, supposed to be a Dane, disappeared, and was lost with all hands. The third, a German barque, the _Leda_, with a crew of seventeen ‘all told,’ was stuck fast in the worst part of the sands—viz., the South Spit, on which even on a fine day the writer has encountered a dangerous and peculiar boil or tumble of seas. The barque’s main and mizen masts by this time were gone, and the crew were clinging to the weather bulwarks, while sheets of solid water made a clean breach over them—so much so that from cold and long exposure the captain was almost exhausted. The Deal life‐boat, the _Van Kook_, fetched a little to windward of the devoted barque, and dropping anchor, veered down on her. One cable being too short, another was bent on to it, and closer and closer came the lifeboat. If the cable parted and the lifeboat struck the ship with full force, not a man would probably have survived to tell the tale; or if they got to leeward of the barque the crew of the wreck would have been lost, as the lifeboat could not again have worked ‘to weather’ to drop down as before. No friendly steam‐tug was at hand to help the lifeboat to windward in case of failure in this their first attempt, and both the crew in distress and their rescuers were well aware of the stake at issue, and that this was the last chance. But the lifeboat crew said, ‘We’re bound to save them,’ and with all the coolness of the race, yet ‘daring all that men dare do,’ they concentrated their energies on getting close enough to the wreck to throw their line, and yet to keep far enough off to ensure the boat’s safety. They were now beaten and hustled by the tremendous seas breaking into and over them, and no other boat could have lived a moment in the cauldron of waters seething and raging around them. Notwithstanding the self‐emptying power of the wondrous boat, the seas broke into her in such quick succession that she was and remained full up to her thwarts while alongside the vessel, and as each cataract came on board the coxswain sang out, ‘Look out, men!’ and they grasped the thwarts and held on with both hands, breathless, for dear life. One sea hurled the lifeboat against the ship, and stove in her fore air‐box, so that the safety of all made it necessary to sheer off. Another sea prostrated two men under her thwarts. The lifeboat’s throw‐line was at last got on board the barque, and communication being established the crew were drawn on board the lifeboat through the raging waves by ones or twos, as the seas permitted. Thus saved from the jaws of death, so astonished were the rescued crew at the submerged condition of the lifeboat and the awful turmoil of water around them that some of them wished to get back to their perishing vessel; but the coxswain and crew knew the powers of their gallant boat. ‘Up foresail and cut the cable,’ and with its goodly freight of thirty‐four souls the lifeboat, hurled like a feather, sometimes dead before the wind, and next moment ‘taken aback,’ plunged into the surf for home. One of the rescued crew had twice before been saved by the same boat (the _Van Kook_), and encouraged his comrades with a recital of his previous deliverances. Some rum, which was brought for the use of the lifeboat crew, was generously given by them and all used by the perishing men of the barque. And so at last, sodden through and through, exhausted, but gloriously successful, they landed the staggering and grateful Germans on the Deal beach, where, despite the storm, crowds met them with wondering and thankful hearts.”

Among nearly all classes who dwell near and love the sea the same heroic spirit prevails. Only in 1879 Lord Dunmore, with John M‘Rae, Ewen M‘Leod, and Norman Macdonald, put out to sea in a furious Atlantic gale, in the noble Scottish peer’s _undecked_ cutter, the _Dauntless_, when no other boat would venture out at all, and saved the lives of several men, women, and children from the yacht _Astarte_, wrecked on a small island‐rock between Harris and the North Uist coast (west coast of Scotland). The noble hero of this gallant band is a Murray of the ducal tree of Atholl, sharing the savage motto, “Forth fortune, and fill the fetters.” The spirit of daring adventure which spurred his forefathers to feats of reckless foray and ruthless feud has, in a milder age, developed into the performance of deeds of valour for the benefit of suffering humanity.

Sad to say, occasionally, there is another story to be told. In February, 1880, some strapping fishermen refused to make up the complement of the Blackpool lifeboat—some of her own men being away fishing off North Wales, and others at Fleetwood—and remained leafing on the beach while they let the coxswain take in two joiners and a stonemason, and then start two short of the complement. Nevertheless four persons were saved from the wreck of the _Bessie Jones_, under circumstances most honourable to the rescuers. On their return, being obliged to run over the bank with a tremendous sea running, they had the narrowest escape from being capsized; one man was washed out of the boat, but was recovered, and most of the loose tackle was swept overboard and irretrievably lost.

Popular Ramsgate, with its fashionably select annexe St. Lawrence‐on‐Sea, is so well known by all, that no lengthened description is required here, for its actual and practical connection with the sea, in the noble work done by its lifeboatsmen, has already been detailed. Ramsgate has a fine harbour and piers, from which the “husbands’ boat” is often, more especially on Saturdays, watched and longed for by hundreds of wives and daughters.

Margate had, in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, fifteen boats and other vessels, ranging from one to eighteen tons, there being four of the latter. It had 108 inhabited houses. It now has a floating population of 50,000 to 70,000 people, the permanent residents being about 15,000 in number. There are several pilots, and a large number of luggers employed in fishing and in seeking for casualties; it owns a certain number of coasting vessels; while a large number of coasters and French fishing‐boats come in during the winter months and fishing season for refuge, repairs, and provisions. Margate has a Seaman’s Room and Observatory, and Ramsgate a Seaman’s Infirmary. The local agents of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society have their hands full in winter, and generally at other seasons in stormy weather.

Who that has visited Ramsgate or Margate, has not, some time or other in his or her life, nourished an all‐absorbing curiosity to peep into the interior and solve the mysteries of those distant beacons, the “Floating Light Ships.” Those who have seen them either lying peacefully on the tranquil bosom of the sunlit ocean, or trembling and shaken in Neptune’s angry moods, still valiant and isolated, nobly doing their duty, must often have wished to get a closer view. That natural curiosity can be gratified at last; the curtain has been raised, so that we may peep into the mysteries of the flame‐coloured sphinxes, by a writer(60) who went into voluntary imprisonment for one week on the Gulf Stream Light Vessel, one of three floating lights which mark the Goodwin Sands.

“That curious, almost ridiculous‐looking craft,” writes Mr. Ballantyne, “was among the aristocracy of shipping. Its important office stamped it with nobility. It lay there, conspicuous in its royal colour, from day to day and year to year, to mark the fair‐way between Old England and the outlying shoals, distinguished in daylight by a huge ball at its mast‐ head, and at night by a magnificent lantern, with argand lamps and concave reflectors, which shot rays like lightning far and wide over the watery waste, while in thick weather, when neither ball nor light could be discerned, a sonorous gong gave its deep‐toned warning to the approaching mariner, and let him know his position amidst the surrounding dangers.”

Here the writer bestows well‐deserved praise upon the services, “disinterested and universal,” of this lonely craft, and afterwards tells you what would meet the eye, if, leaning against the stern, you gazed along the deck forward.

“It was an interesting kingdom in detail. Leaving out of view all that which was behind him, and which, of course, he could not see, we may remark that just before him stood the binnacle and compass, and the cabin skylight. On his right and left the territory of the quarter deck was seriously circumscribed and the promenade much interfered with by the ship’s boats, which, like their parent, were painted red, and which did not hang at the davits, but, like young lobsters of the kangaroo type, found shelter within their mother when not at sea on their own account. Near to them were two signal carronades. Beyond the skylight rose the bright brass funnel of the cabin chimney, and the winch by means of which the lantern was hoisted. Then came another skylight and the companion hatch about the centre of the deck. Just beyond this stood the most important part of the vessel—the lantern‐house. This was a circular wooden structure about six feet in diameter, with a door and small windows.

“Inside was the lantern—the beautiful piece of mechanism for which the light‐ship, its crew and appurtenances, were maintained. Right through the centre of this house rose the thick, unyielding mast of the vessel. The lantern, which was just a little less than its house, surrounded the mast and travelled upon it.” Immediately at sundown the order “Up lights” was given, regular as the sun itself. The lantern was connected with the rod and pinion, by means of which with the clock‐work beneath, the light was made to revolve and “flash” once every third of a minute. The glass of the lantern is frequently broken, not by wind and wave, but by the sea‐birds, which dash violently against it. In a single night, nine panes of a light‐ house were shattered from this cause. On one occasion one thousand wild ducks were caught by the crew of a light‐ship. It is necessary to defend with trellis‐work the lights most exposed.

The cabin of the Floating Light was marvellously neat and clean. Everything was put away in its proper place, not only as the result of order and discipline, but on account of the extreme smallness of the cabin. The author of the work from which we quote depicts a scene on board during a night of storms when a wreck and unexpected rescue took place:—“A little before midnight, while I was rolling uneasily in my ‘bunk,’ contending with sleep and sea‐sickness, and moralising on the madness of those who choose ‘the sea’ for a profession, I was roused—and sickness instantly cured—by the watch on deck suddenly shouting down the hatchway to the mate, ‘South Sand Head light is firing, sir, and sending up rockets.’ The mate sprang from his ‘bunk,’ and was on the cabin‐floor before the sentence was well finished. I followed suit, and pulled on coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if my life depended on my own speed. There was unusual need for clothing, for the night was bitterly cold. On gaining the deck, we found the two men on duty actively at work—the one loading the lee gun, the other adjusting a rocket to its stick. A few hurried questions from the mate elicited all that it was needful to know.

“The flash of the gun from the ‘South Sand Head’ light‐ship, about six miles off, had been distinctly seen a third time, and a third rocket went up, indicating that a vessel had struck upon the fatal Goodwin Sands. The report of the gun could not be heard, owing to the gale carrying the sound to leeward, but the bright line of the rocket was distinctly visible. At the same moment the glaring light of a burning tar‐barrel was observed. It was the signal of the vessel in distress, just on the southern tail of the sands.

“By this time the gun was charged, and the rocket in position.

“One of the crew dived down the companion‐hatch, and in another moment returned with a red‐hot poker, which the mate had thrust into the cabin fire at the first alarm. He applied it in quick succession to the gun and rocket. A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the whiz of the rocket as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into the surrounding darkness.

“This was their answer to the South Sand Head light, which, having fired three guns and sent up three rockets to attract the attention of the _Gull_, then ceased firing. It was also their first note of warning to the look‐out on the pier of Ramsgate Harbour. Of the three light‐ships that guarded the sands, the _Gull_ lay nearest to Ramsgate; hence, which ever of the other two happened to send up signals, the _Gull_ had to reply, and thenceforward to continue repeating them until the attention of the Ramsgate look‐out should be gained, and a reply given.

“The steam tug _Aid_, which always attends upon, and takes in tow, the Ramsgate life‐boat, soon hove in sight, going to the rescue, thus showing the great value of steam in such matters. Having learnt the direction of the wreck from the mate of the light‐ship, they proceeded on their course.”

The life of the crew of every light‐ship is pretty much the same on Sunday. At dawn the lantern is lowered and cleaned and prepared for the next night’s work. At 8 a.m. all hands must be on the alert, the hammocks stowed, and breakfast served. At 10.30 the men assemble for prayers, and the captain or mate performs divine service. After sunset the men meet again for prayers. With the exception of the services, the routine on week days is the same as on Sunday. The captain and mate take turn and turn—a month on board and a month on shore; the men do duty for two months on board for one on shore; and, monotonous as their life may seem to the uninitiated, it is doubtful whether there is not a beneficial moral activity in existence on a floating light that tends to elevate the character of both officers and men.