Hampshire shore. About this time the hawse-
plugs were washed in, and the hawse-bags
carried off, which caused a great shipping of
heavy seas on the gun-deck. Already the vessel
had been hit hard, a leak sprung, and five feet of
water in the hold. The pumps were instantly
set to work, they clued the maintopsail aft,
hauled up the mainsail, and battled hard, but in
vain, to furl both.

On Wednesday, the 4th, at two in the morning,
they endeavoured to wear the ship, but
without success; and judging it necessary to
cut away the mizen-mast, it was immediately
done, and a second fruitless attempt made to
wear the ship; the ship having now seven
feet of water in her hold, and gaining fast
on the pumps, it was thought expedient, for
their preservation, to cut away the main-
mast, the vessel appearing to be in immediate
danger of foundering. In the fall of the mast,
Jonathan Newton, coxswain, and four men either
fell or were drawn by the wreck overboard and
drowned. By eight in the morning, however,
the wreck was cleared, and the ship got before
the wind, in which position she was kept about
two hours. During this time the pumps cleared
the ship of two feet of water in the hold, and
the ship's head was brought to the eastward
with the foresail only. At ten in the morning
the wind abated considerably; but the ship,
still labouring extremely, rolled the foretopmast
over on the larboard side, and in the fall the
wreck went through the foresail and tore it to
pieces.

What a terrible change since Sunday! and
now only Wednesday; the two masts gone, the
chief sails destroyed, the men worn out with
working at the pumps, the hold half full, the
women paralysed with terror, the officers stern,
grave, and silent, the brave ship reeling and
staggering under the blows of the great waves,
a dangerous shore near, and hope lessening
every moment. At eleven in the forenoon the
wind came to the westward, and, the weather
clearing up, the Hampshire coasts were
distinguishable. They now bent another foresail,
erected a jury main-mast, and set a top-gallant-
sail for a mainsail, under which sail they bore up
for Portsmouth, and employed the remainder of
the day in getting up a jury mizen-mast. On
Thursday, the 5th, at two in the morning, the
wind came to the southward, blew fresh, and the
weather was very thick. At noon, the stony
peninsula of Portland and the shingle ridge of
the Chesil Bank were seen, distant two or three
leagues. At eight at night it blew a strong
gale at south, and the lights on the Portland
Bill were seen bearing north-west, distant four
or five leagues. They then wore the ship, and
get her head to the westward; but, finding they
lost ground on that tack, they wore her again,
and kept stretching on to the east. The Dorsetshire
coast was now scooping away to their
right, with its dark limestone cliffs and huge
ramparts ribbed with rich ochrous colours.
Captain Pierce tried hard to weather the wavy chalk
buttresses of Peverel Point, and run to anchor
near Poole, in Studland Bay, under the shelter
of Standfast Point and "Harry and his Wife."
But this too failed. At eleven at night it cleared,
and they saw St. Alban's Head. Then, indeed,
they knew that certain destruction awaited the
vessel if it could not be stopped from running
full butt on the ruthless buttresses of Portland.
St. Alban's Head being a mile and a half to the
leeward of them, they took in sail, and let go
the small bower-anchor, which brought up the
ship at a whole cable; she rode for about an
hour, but then drove; they then let go the sheet-
anchor, and wore away a whole cable; the ship
rode for about two hours longer, then she drove
again. Poor ship! will it go to pieces in Dead-
man's Bay, or will it drive upon the Shambles—
that dreadful shoal, which is paved with the
bones of sailors? How many brave Dorsetshire
men, sitting calmly round the fire at Osmington,
Kimeridge, or Preston, or indeed in any of the
snug villages nestled among the cliffs, were this
night talking about the storm, but little thinking
of the two hundred and forty poor creatures that
were being borne hopelessly on to their terrible
death!

As the storm still continued with unabating
violence, and the vessel would soon be on
the rocks, no anchor holding, every sail torn
away, the masts gone, the hold filling fast, the
sailors hopeless and cowed, the women
paralysed or hysterical with fear, the officers silent
and desponding, the captain sent for Mr. Henry
Meriton, the chief officer, and, shut in the cabin,
consulted him as to the probability of saving
the lives of the crew and passengers. The chief
officer shook his head; they were driving fast
on the shore, and must expect every moment
to strike. The sea and wind could no longer be
baffled; they must have their prey. They talked
of the boats, but instantly agreed that in such a
sea they could not be lowered; still, in case they
could be made serviceable in the coming crisis, it
was resolved to reserve the long-boat for the
officers and the ladies, and orders were instantly
given to that effect.

About two in the morning of Friday, the
sixth day from leaving the Downs, Mr. Meriton
again sat with the captain in the cuddy. The two
men looked at each other, and read despair in each
other's eyes. The captain's heart was bleeding
for his daughters, who were amongst the passengers.
He earnestly asks the chief officer if any
means can be devised for saving them: for
himself he does not care — but the children. Mr.
Meriton keeps back his tears with a brave effort,
but does not answer for a moment. He then
says, in a low voice, that it is, he fears, impossible
that any of them can be saved by even the
greatest efforts. All they can do is to trust to
God, and wait for daylight. The father makes
no reply, but raises his hands to heaven in silent
supplication and agony.

It was at that very moment the ship struck
on the Seacombe rocks with such tremendous
violence that the captain and chief officer were
thrown up till they touched the deck which roofed
the cuddy, and the moment after there came a