All at once I saw a man seize a life-buoy, one of those large yellow cork rings; and as the last wave left the stone pier free from water right to where the lighthouse rose, he dashed along it, running swiftly towards where the swimmer was striving to reach the sh.o.r.e.

In a few moments he was beside him, and threw the buoy so that the poor fellow reached it, when the men around me began to shout to the gallant fellow to return. But every shout seemed beaten back instantly; and amidst a violent commotion--men running and seizing ropes, women shrieking and clutching one another--I saw a large wave come tearing in, rise like a huge beast at a leap, and curl right over the pier, sweeping it from end to end, and deluging it with many feet of water. This was succeeded by another and another, and then once more the water was streaming off the stones, and one could see the fisherman who ran to his brother man's rescue struggling for his own life on the other side of the pier, against which he was at length violently dashed. But there were kinsmen and friends at hand in plenty, and one with a rope round him ran down the pier, plunged in, swam to the poor fellow, clutched him, and then they were drawn ash.o.r.e together insensible, but locked in a tight embrace.

All this time the sailor who clung to the buoy seemed wild and confused, and ignorant of its purpose, for, all at once a groan rose from the crowd a.s.sembled, when loosing his hold, the drowning man threw up his arms and disappeared in the boiling surge.

In rushed the waves again and again, while more than once the yellow life-buoy could be seen; but as the waves receded they dragged it back, and now every eye was directed to the little schooner, which seemed to lift with the waves, and then tremble in every beam as it was dashed down again, till the masts went over the side.

About a hundred yards lower down I could see a crowd of people a.s.sembled facing a large brig which had struck amongst the rocks, and whose crew seemed doomed to meet with a watery grave.

But preparations were being made to afford succour here, for as I reached the crowd I found them busy with the rocket apparatus. There were the rocket and the long line carefully laid in and out, round peg after peg, in its case, so that it might run forth swiftly and easily; and just then the stand was directed right, the rocket aimed, the fire applied, and after a loud rushing sound, off darted the fiery messenger on its errand of mercy, forming an arc in the air and falling upon the other side of the doomed ship, which lay about sixty yards from the sh.o.r.e.

An exultant chorus followed this successful attempt to connect the vessel with the sh.o.r.e by means of a cord, for the rocket line ran easily and perfectly out, and the cable at hand being now attached, the sailors on board began to haul, when, like a snake, the great rope slowly ran down the beach, plunged into the boiling surf, and still kept on uncoiling and running down till those on the cliff signalled down that the end was hauled on board and made it fast to the mast.

And now so far successful, the cable and a line being on board, the cable hauled tight by those on sh.o.r.e, and secured to a capstan used for hauling up fishing-boats, the rest of the arrangements were concluded, and those on board drew the tarpauling and rope seat which run by a ring along the cable, and into which a person coming ash.o.r.e slipped his legs, and then swung beneath the tightened rope as the apparatus was hauled by those on sh.o.r.e, and the shipwrecked one rode over the boiling waves, and was perhaps only once immersed where the rope bellied down in the middle.

All seemed ready, the men by me began to haul, and it was then seen that a woman was swinging beneath the rope, which rose and fell with the weight upon it, till for a few seconds the poor creature disappeared from sight in the tossing waves. But the men worked well, and the next minute, with a loud hurrah, she was ash.o.r.e, and a dozen hands ready to free the drenched sufferer, when the joy was turned into sorrow, for it was seen that in the hurry of pa.s.sing the poor woman over the ship's side the rope had become entangled round her neck, and she had been strangled just in those brief minutes when there was life and safety before her.

But there were other lives to save, and as the body of the fair, delicate woman was borne with tender, loving hands up the sands, through the opening, and then to the large inn, the sling was drawn back by the crew of the ship, and another tried the perilous pa.s.sage.

How the angry waves leaped up, and darted again and again, as if to tear the men being rescued from the rope of safety, and how those ash.o.r.e cheered again and again as each poor drenched and dripping wretch, half choked with the brine, was hauled ash.o.r.e, and then stood trembling and tottering, sometimes not even able to stand from being so exhausted!

Some shouted for joy, some burst into fits of crying, others stood stolidly gazing at their saviours, while one or two went down on their knees devoutly to offer thanks for the life saved.

To five-and-twenty souls did that thin line, shot over the wreck by means of a rocket, carry life and hope, and heartily their fellow-men worked to save them from the sea that fought hard to take them for its prey; and when, at last, nearly every man had come ash.o.r.e upon the frail bridge of hemp, the waves seemed to tear at the wreck with redoubled fury, piling mountains of foaming water upon it, leaping upon the deck, or lifting the hull to dash it again upon the cruel rocks that were gnawing their way through the bottom.

"Only the captain left now," said the last poor fellow who came ash.o.r.e, and then he staggered and fell--quite insensible from the revulsion of feeling. And on hearing these words the men set the slings free, but they were dragged back only slowly, and as if the poor captain was about exhausted. Every now and then we could make him out clinging to the rigging where the end of the cable had been secured, but all at once a regular mountain of a wave came coursing in faster and faster, leaped up, seemed hanging in mid-air for a few moments, and then poured down with resistless fury upon the doomed vessel. There was a wild confused cry from those on sh.o.r.e, which was heard above the howling of the storm; men and women clasped their hands and ran hither and thither, as if agonised at their helplessness to render aid, and then, as I looked out seaward, I could only see the clean-swept deck at intervals, for the rigging was gone, while the cable, that bridge of safety to so many, now hung slack in the water.

"Haul!" shouted the man who managed the rocket apparatus--one of the old Coast Guardsmen,--and a score of willing hands crowded down to get a clutch at the cable, when at a given signal they started insh.o.r.e to run it up, but checked directly, for they found that there was a large tangle of wreck attached, which came up slowly, with the huge waves tearing at it as though to drag it back; but as more and more of the dripping cable appeared from the water more willing hands seized upon it, so that at last it came faster and faster, and part of a mast, with a confusion of blocks, ropes, and shrouds, appeared at the edge of the sands where the water boiled so furiously, and the next minute was high upon the sands.

I hurried down to be one of the knot of people who crowded round, when my heart sank, for it was as I feared: the captain, a fine, calm, stern-browed man, lay there amongst the cordage, one leg in the slings, as if about to venture, when that cruel wave poured ruin on the deck of the ship, and tore away his last chance for life.

Twisted, tangled, and confused, the ropes lay together, and it was only by means of a free use of their clasp-knives that the beachmen and sailors set the poor fellow free.

Slowly and sadly we stood round, looking down upon the pale features of the brave man who had clung to his ship till the last of his crew was ash.o.r.e; but there was no weeping and wailing wife to cast herself upon the cold, drenched form, and sweep the hair from his broad forehead; so slowly, and with the crowd following in silence, we bore the corpse to the inn, to lay it side by side with that of the wife he had tried to save.

A young, n.o.ble-looking pair, with faces calm and pale, seeming but to sleep as they lay there hushed in death--in that great mystery, for the sea had conquered.

"Sixty years have I lived down here, man and boy," said a fisherman, in his pleasant sing-song tone, "and if I were to try and count up the lives of men as the great sea has taken, I could hardly believe it.

I've seen the sea-sh.o.r.e strewn with wreck, and I've known the waves cast up the dead day after day for weeks after a storm; some calm and pale-faced, some beaten, torn, and not to be looked upon without a shudder. Seems, sir, as if the sea kept 'em as long as it could, and then cast them up and busily tried to hide 'em, throwing up sand and sh.e.l.ls--sand and sh.e.l.ls, so that I've found them, sometimes half-hidden, and the water lapping melancholy-like around. Now it's some poor fisherman--now a sailor, or a gentleman been a-yachting, or a foreigner from some fine vessel. Every year hundreds taken, and every dead body with such a tale of sorrow, and misery, and wretchedness attached as would make your heart ache could you but read it. Ah, the sea is a great thing, and I as live by it knows it well. To-day you see it quiet and still--to-morrow it's tearing at the sh.o.r.e with fury, and it's only G.o.d who can still its rage."

But still, year after year, in their calm dependence upon His great arm, our fishers and sailors put forth to tempt the perils of the vast deep for their livelihood. Right and left of them others are taken; but still the busy toilers thrust forth from the sh.o.r.e and make their voyage easily, or in an agony of fear are overtaken by the storm, and at length, "being exceedingly tossed with the tempest... lighten the ship."

And, again, when run ash.o.r.e, cling terror-stricken to the vessel and its rigging, till beaten off before succour arrives when they are cast ash.o.r.e.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE FIRST STRAY HAIR.

What is a Wife? Well, that seems a question easily answered. But still the answer depends upon circ.u.mstances; in fact, there seem to be no end of replies to that little query, and answering the question, as one who has taken a little notice of wives in general, I'll tell you what a wife is sometimes. It is a something to be kicked and sworn at, and beaten, knocked down and trampled upon, used in brutal ways that the vilest barrow-man would hesitate about applying to his donkey for fear of killing it, while when the poor woman is forced to appear before a magistrate and prosecute, why--well, he is her husband after all, and for lack of evidence the brute gets off. A wife is something to have her hair dragged down and her head beaten against the wall; to be neglected, half-starved, or made to work for the n.o.ble specimen of creation who hulks about in front of public-houses, and scowls at every decent-looking working man who pa.s.ses him. She is the something who sits up for him and puts his drunken highness to bed; nurses his children; slaves for him worse than any drudge--ten times--no a hundred times, for money would not buy a soul to slave as some women do for their husbands. What is a wife? Why, often and often a poor, trusting, simple-hearted woman, toiling in hard bondage till there's a place dug for her in one of the cemeteries and she goes to rest.

But what is a wife? Is she not the G.o.d-given blessing to cheer a working man's home? and while working with her husband to make that home happy, is she not the sharer of his joys and sorrows,--the heart that he can trust and confide in, though all the world turn their backs upon him? Yes, this, and much more, _if her husband will_.

And now a word for those who have dissension and discomfort at the cottage or lodgings, for it's hardly fair to disgrace that most holy of names by calling some places I know _home_. And first just a word about some of these miserable spots, and let's try and find a few causes for there being one-roomed places, badly furnished or not furnished at all, for the rickety chairs and beggarly bed and odds and ends are not worthy the name; children with no shoes, dirty clothes, dirty faces, dirtier hands, and dirtiest noses. The wife--oh, desecration of the sacred name!--a sour-faced, thinly-clad, mean-looking, untidy-haired, sorrowful woman, dividing her time between scolding the children and "rubbing out," not washing, some odds and ends of clothes in a brown pan--the wash-tub leaked, so it was split up and burned--and then hanging the rags upon strings stretched from one side of the room to the other, just as if put there on purpose to catch "the master's" hat and knock it off when he comes home from work.

Well, there are two sides to every question, and one reason for there being such wretched places is this:--Young folks get wed after the good old fashion invented some six thousand years ago, when Eve must have blushed and turned away her head and let her hand stay in Adam's; and while the days are young all goes well, but sometimes Betsy--that's the wife, you know--thinks there's no call to be so particular about her hair now as she used to be before Tom married her, and so puts in the thin end of a wedge that blasts the happiness of her future life.

What strong language, isn't it? Betsy does not make her hair so smooth as she used to, and so puts in the thin end of a wedge that blasts the happiness of her future life. Strong words, sweeping words, but true as any that were ever written, for that simple act of neglect, that wanting of pride in her appearance and innocent coquetry to please her husband, is deadly, ruinous, to love and esteem, and altogether a something that should be shuddered at by every woman in England.

The unbrushed hair leads to other little acts of neglect which creep in slowly, but so surely; shoes get down at heel, dresses torn and unhooked, and then the disorder slowly spreads to the children, then to the furniture, and so on, step by step, till Tom stands leaning against the wall looking upon the wreck before him, and wondering how it is possible that the slovenly, half-dirty woman before him can have grown out of that smart, bright-eyed servant la.s.s he once wed.

But there it is--there's the fact before him; that's Betsy sure enough-- at least that's the present Betsy, not the Betsy of old--and, somehow or another, Tom puts his hands in his pockets, sighs very deeply, and then goes out and loiters about the streets.

"Just arf a pint, Tom," says a mate he meets, whose wife is suffering from the same disease; and Tom says he will, and they go in where there's a clean sanded floor, no noisy children, a bright fire, and some dressed up and doctored decoction sold to the poor fellows as beer.

Next time it's Tom says to the other--"Just arf a pint, Sam;" and Sam says he will. But the mischief is they don't have "arf a pint," but a good many half-pints; and at last every Sat.u.r.day night there's an ugly score up that gets paid out of the wages before any money goes home; while Betsy says Tom has got to be so fond of the public-house that he never sits at home now, while the money he spends is shameful.

"Bet, Bet, Bet--and whose fault is it?"

"Not mine, I'm sure," says Betsy in a very shrill voice, as she bridles up.

"Wrong, Betsy; for it is your fault, and yours alone."

"There," cries Betsy; "the cruel injustice of the thing!" And then she would go on for nearly half-an-hour, and tell all the neighbours what we have said. But we must stop her. So, go to, Betsy, thou wife of the British working man, for in hundreds, nay, thousands of cases, it is your fault, and yours alone; and, where it is not, I say, may the great G.o.d help and pity you! for yours is indeed a pitiful case.

Come, now, listen to a few words, and don't frown. There's the trace as yet of that bonny face that won poor Tom. He'll come back cross and surly to-night. Never mind: try and bring back that same old smile that used to greet him. Smooth that tangled hair and drive some of the wrinkles out of your forehead--all will not go; make the best of the common cotton dress--in short, as of old, "clean yourself" of an afternoon; and, if you've a trace, a spark of love for your husband and yourself, hide away and stuff into a corner--under the bed--anywhere-- that household demon, the wash-tub or pan; while, as to the rubbed-out clothes, bundle them up anywhere till he is out of sight again. Think of the old times, and start with new rules. It will be hard work, but you will reap such a smiling, G.o.d-blessed harvest that tears of thanksgiving will some day come to your eyes, and you will weep and bless the change. You have children; well, thank G.o.d for them. You were a child once yourself; you are a child now in the hands of a great and patient Father who bears with your complaining. Well; those children; they are dirty and noisy, but there are cures--simple remedies for both evils. If their precious little fasts are only broken on bread and treacle, let them be broken at regular hours decently and in order, and don't have them crumbling the sticky bread all over the floor, running about the room, or up and down the stairs, or in the street.

Get them to bed at regular times, and manage them kindly, firmly; and don't snarl and strike one day, and spoil and indulge the next. Make the best of your home, however beggarly; but, in spite of all, in your efforts to have it clean, don't let Tom see you cleaning.

Now, don't think after years of neglect, that because you have now made no end of improvement all is going to be as it used. Don't think it.

You let in the thin end of the wedge over that stray hair, and things have gone gradually wrong. Just so: and you must by slow, painful degrees, get that wedge gradually worked back a little bit and a little bit, while all your patience and perseverance will be so sorely tried, that in sheer despair you'll often say, "There: it's of no use!" But it is of use, and of the greatest of use, and even though he may not show it, Tom can see the difference and feel those household spirits tugging at his heart-strings, and saying, when at public-house, "Come away!" in tones that he finds it hard to resist. Brutal men there are in plenty, we know, but, G.o.d be thanked for it! how many of our men have the heart in the right place, and you women of England can touch it if you will.

Say your home, through long neglect, has become bare and beggarly.

Never mind; make the best of it. It's wonderful what a ha'porth of hearthstone, a ha'porth of blacklead, and a good heart will do. And that isn't all, you foolish woman; for there's a bright and glorious light that can shine out of a loving woman's face and make the humblest home a palace with its happy radiance. Say your room is bare. What then? Does Tom go to a well-furnished place to spend his money? No; but to a room of hard, bare forms and settles, and common tables sticky and gum-ringed, while the floor, well sanded, grits beneath his feet.

Go to, Betsy, never mind the bareness, for you have a glorifying sun within you, whose radiance can brighten the roughest, th.o.r.n.i.e.s.t way.

Look out here at this bare court, dull, dingy, filthy, frowsy, misery stricken. The sun comes from behind yon cloud, and lo! the place is altered so that even your very heart leaps at the change, and your next breath is a sigh of pleasure. And have you not for years been shrouding your face in clouds and keeping them lingering about your home?

Thousands of you have: take heart, and let the sun appear everywhere that Tom will cast his eye. Why, the reflection shall so gladden your own spirit that it shall leap for joy, while you know within yourself that you have done your duty.

Young wives, beware--take heed of the first stray hair and jealously prison it again, for by that single frail filament perhaps hangs yours, your husband's, your children's future welfare; so never let Tom be less proud of you than in the days of old.

What is a wife? The prop or stay of a man, the balance that shall steady him through life, and make him--the weaker vessel--give forth when struck a sonorous, honest, clear tone. _He_ is the weaker vessel, and yours are the hands to hold him fast.

But it cannot always be so, for in spite of all a loving heart can do there are brutes--we won't call them men--we won't own them as belonging to our ranks, but drum them out--brutes, before whom the jewel of a true wife's love is as the pearl cast before swine. But, there; leave we them to their wallow, for it is defiling paper to quote their evil ways.

What is a wife? A burden? a care? Oh no, she is what we choose to make her: a constant spring of bright refreshing water, ready for us at all times during our journey through life--a confidant--one we can turn to for help when stricken down by some disease, or the wounds met with in the battle of life, ready to smooth our pillow, and cool the weary, aching head. There; when looking upon some of the poor, dejected, neglected, half-forsaken women we see around, it is enough to make a man's heart swell with indignation and scorn for those who have cast aside so great a treasure, and made of it a slave.

There are faults enough on both sides, but many a happy home, many a simple domestic hearth, has been opened out or swept and garnished ready for the reception of a demon of discord, whose web once spun over the place, can perhaps never be torn away. But turn we again to the hopeful side of the question. Let the sun of your love shine forth, oh woman, brightly upon your home, however bare, and fight out the good fight with undying faith. And young wife, you of a few days, weeks, months, remember the first stray hair.