than mad dogs," have cast most cruel and wistful glances seaward! yes, their eyes light up with the very light of hell, as they see in the dim distance the white sail of a struggling ship making towards the land!

And now try to imagine the scene, as the night falls, and the storm gathers, two or three ill-looking fellows drop in, say, to a low tavern standing in a by-lane that leads from the cliff to the beach, in some village on our south-western coast—soon muttered hints take form, and in low whispers the men talk over the chances of a wreck this wild night; they remember former gains, they talk over disappointments, when on similar nights of darkness, wildness, and storm, vessels discovered their danger too soon for them, and managed to weather the headlands of the bay.

The plot takes form; with many a deep and muttered curse, the murderous decision is taken, that if a vessel can be trapped to destruction, it shall be.

There is an old man of the party whose brow is furrowed with dread lines; he does not say much, but every now and then his eyes glare, and his features work as if convulsed; his comrades look at him, twice, and as a terrific squall shakes the house, a third time: silently he rises and leaves the inn; his mates now look away from him, as if quite unconscious as to what he is about; their stifled consciences cannot do much for them, but can give to each, just one faint half-realized sensation of shame. Now in the pitch darkness of the night, with bowed head, and faltering steps, battling against the storm, the old man leads a white horse along the edge of the cliff, to the top of the horse's tail a lantern is tied, and the light sways with the movement of the horse, and in its movements seems not unlike the mast-head light of a vessel rocked by the motion of the sea. A whisper has gone through the village, of a chance of something happening during the night, and most of the men and many of the women are on the alert, lurking in the caves beneath the cliff, or sheltered behind jutting pieces of rock.

The vessel makes in steadily for the land; the captain grows uneasy, and fears running into danger; he will put the vessel round, and try and battle his way out to sea.

The look-out man reports a dim light ahead; What kind? and Whither away? He can make out that it is a ship's light, for it is in motion. Yes, she must be a vessel standing on in the same course as that which they are on. It is all safe then, the captain will stand in a little longer; when suddenly in the lull of the storm a hoarse murmur is heard, surely the sound of the sea beating upon rocks? yes! look, a white gleam upon the water! Breakers ahead! Breakers ahead! Oh! a very knell of doom; the cry rings through the ship, Down, down with helm, round her to; too late, too late! a crash, a shudder from stem to stern of the stout ship; the shriek of many voices in their agony, green seas sweeping over the vessel, and soon, broken timbers, bales of cargo, and lifeless bodies scattered along the beach, while the shattered remnant of the hull is torn still further to pieces with each insweep of the mighty seas, as they roll it to, and fro, among the rocks. Fearful and crafty the smile that darkened the dark face of the willing murderer, who was leading the horse with the false light, as he heard the crash of the vessel, and the shrieks of the drowning crew, fearful the smiles that darkened the faces of the men and women waiting on the beach, as they came out from their places, ready to struggle and fight among themselves for any spoil that might come ashore; a homeward-bound ship from the Indies—great good fortune, rich spoil—bale after bale is seized upon by the wreckers, and dragged high upon the beach out of the way of the surf—but see, a sailor clinging to a bit of broken mast, with his last conscious effort he gains a footing on the shore, staggers forward and falls. Is he alive? not now! Why did that fearful old woman kneel upon his chest, and cover his mouth with her cloak? Dead men tell no tales! claim no property!

Have such things been possible?

They have, and have been done; traditions of such dread tragedies still linger on the Cornish coast, and it is a matter of history that all around our shores miscreants were to be found, who were ready to sacrifice to their blood-thirsty avarice those whom the rage of water had spared.

Yes, and still many sailors find their worst enemies ashore, and know no danger so great as that of falling into the hands of their fellow-men; but not now in the small harbours or fishing-villages of the coast—not now among the seafaring population of our shores, must wretches capable of such deeds be looked for, but among the degraded quarters of our large maritime towns—among the land-sharks, who haunt the docks, the crimp-houses, the dens of infamy, the low taverns—there Jack may still be wrecked, and drugged, and robbed, and perhaps murdered. But even there darkness has not got it all its own way; for if there are many who are ready to ruin the reckless sailor, there are many others, thank God, who are ready to warn and aid him. Seamen's Churches, Bethels, Sailors' Homes, Sailors' Missionaries, and all sorts of benevolent institutions, seek to struggle with, and overcome, the bad effect of the many evils to which the sailor on shore is exposed.

And the sea-coasts where the Storm Warriors now gather tell a tale of hardihood, of courage, of endurance, and of skill, no less than the olden days could boast of. But now courage is glorified by mercy, and hardihood by sympathy, and endurance is sustained, and skill and enterprise are quickened into action by the noblest feelings, and readiness for self-sacrifice, which can move the heart of man.

If our last pages have been gloomy in the picture they have given of what was frequently done not many generations ago, let us seek a contrast, which shall be as light to darkness, and compare with those scenes of old, a picture of that which happens month after month, and in the winter season week after week, and sometimes, almost day after day, on our own coasts in the present time.

A homeward-bound ship is rushing along, skimming the green seas, seeming to rejoice in the pride of her beauty, strength, and speed; there is some fatal error or accident, and she comes suddenly to destruction. Many men are anxiously on the look-out; they have been watching her closely from the shore, and eagerly preparing for action at the moment of the shipwreck, which for some time they have feared must happen. And now guns fire, and rockets flash, and the signals quickly given are quickly answered, and the Storm Warriors rush into action; they are not now the Storm Pirates as was the case too often of old, they are the Storm Warriors; their flashing lights tell of coming rescue, and do not lure to destruction; for as the gallant life-boat men rush into all danger, make every effort, battling with mad waves and boiling surf, they fight under the noble banner of Mercy—THEIR MISSION IS TO SAVE.

CHAPTER III. THE INVENTOR OF THE LIFE-BOAT.

"The most eloquent speaker, the most ingenious writer, and the most accomplished statesman cannot effect so much as the mere presence of the man who tempers his wisdom and his vigour with humanity."

Lavater.

What dreams had Lionel Luken, coach-builder of London, in the year 1780, or thereabouts? The perils to machines, or coaches, in those days were many and varied; the roads were often rough, and dangerous enough to equal the pleasing variety and exciting accompaniments of a cross-country gallop; the bridges were very few, and the