precipice. A soldier, who preceded him, had
his feet on a small projecting rock or stone;
on the same stone Mr. Meriton had fastened his
hands to help his progress. At this critical
moment the quarrymen arrived. Seeing a
man so nearly within their reach, they dropped
a rope to him, of which he immediately laid
hold; and in a vigorous effort to avail himself
of this advantage, he loosened the stone on
which he stood, which, giving way, Mr. Meriton
must have been precipitated to the bottom.
The rope was providentially lowered to him at
the instant, he seized it as he was in the act
of falling, and was safely drawn to the
summit. The fate of Mr. Brimer was peculiarly
severe. This gentleman, who had only been
married nine days before the ship sailed, to the
daughter of Captain Norman, of the Royal Navy,
in which service Mr. Brimer was a lieutenant,
was now on a voyage to visit an uncle at Madras.
He came on shore with Mr. Rogers, and a
rope was thrown to him, but he was either so
cold or so agitated that he did not fasten the
rope round his body securely. He fell when
half way up, and was instantly dashed to pieces.

As the day advanced and more quarrymen
arrived, many of the survivors crawled to
the extremities of the cavern so as to be seen
from above. The Purbeck quarrymen, strong-
limbed, broad-chested fellows, accustomed to ply
crowbar and pickaxe, were all half sailors and
accustomed to handle ropes. They were as
resolute to save as the storm had been to
destroy. From the top of the cliff to the cavern
was at least a hundred feet, and there was
an overhanging ledge at the top projecting
about eight feet. Ten of the brave Dorsetshire
men formed in a line, two and two, the
last two standing on the very edge of
the beetling precipice, from whence they let
down a rope with a noose as far as the cavern.
A rope was tied round each man, and then
passed up and secured by a strong iron bar
fixed in the ground above. A rope, also strongly
secured, passed between each pair, by which they
might hold and secure their balance. The wind
blowing hard often drove the noosed rope under
the rock and into the cavern, where the sufferers
could reach it without risking their lives by climbing
round the cliff. Whoever first laid hold of it
instantly put the noose round his waist, under
his arms, and was drawn up with great care and
skill. But the poor fellows left were half naked,
hat-less, barefooted, worn out with six days' toil
at the pumps, exhausted from want of food,
depressed by sorrow, chilled by the sleet, and
drenched with the sea. Many of them had not
strength enough left for the dangerous ascent,
where strong hand and firm foot were often
wanted to fend off from sharp projections, to
cling to bushes, or to avoid rough edges where
the rope might fret or cut. The sick and old, the
weakly, the old men, the boys, for the most part,
perished, unable to reach the rope, or too eager
to clutch it; many fell backwards, screaming,
down the tremendous height, and were either
dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks below, or
crushed upon the shingle and licked off by the
next roll of hungry serf.

One poor drummer-boy was washed off the
cave, the counter seas dragged him beyond
the breakers, into whose foam he could never
again struggle. Further and further the
poor boy was drawn slowly out to sea, where,
bravely swimming, he continued to battle
for his life in sight of his pitying messmates
and comrades, crying for help until he sank for
ever. One by one the half-dead men were
drawn up the cliff, till only one was left. This
man, a soldier named William Trenton,
remained in that doleful place of refuge, waves
leaping at him, and hunger and cold tormenting
him, till the morning of the next day, exposed
to another long day's cold and hunger, and
the poignancy of extreme fear. The remains of
the wreck were no longer visible among the rocks,
but jagged spars and broken planks were still
to be seen floating near the shore as far as the
eye could reach. Even as late as ten o'clock
on the Friday morning a sheep could be seen
buffeting with the waves.

The survivors, pale, bruised, and exhausted,
were treated with the greatest tenderness and
hospitality by the gentlemen living near
Seacombe. Indeed, from Weymouth to Corfe
Castle, no farm-house but was ready to
throw open its doors to the poor men just
snatched from the jaws of death. The officers,
mustering the seamen and soldiers at Mr.
Garland's house, called their names, and found
them to amount to only seventy-four out of
two hundred and forty that had left the Downs.
The ship's books and papers being lost, the
names of some of the seamen and petty officers
were never known correctly.

Of the two hundred and forty, about seventy
reached the rocks, and afterwards, in the terror,
darkness, and confusion, either lost their footing
or were washed off from the edge of the
cavern. Fifty or more sank, together with the
captain and ladies, when the round-house gave
way, and the after-part of the ship went to
pieces. Two or three perished while being
drawn up; and a black servant expired in a few
hours after he was taken to a neighbouring
house. Many were so bruised as to remain for
a long time in a dangerous state. On Saturday
morning, Mr. Meriton and Mr. Rogers, being
supplied with money by Mr. Garland, started
for London to carry the melancholy news to
the India House. On their way, they took care
to inform the magistrates of every town they
passed through, in order to disarm suspicion,
that a band of shipwrecked seamen would soon
follow them.

The two messengers arrived in town the next
day, and went straight to the India House. The
directors instantly sent their thanks to Mr.
Garland, and a handsome sum to the brave quarrymen
of Purbeck. The seamen had also money given
them to support them till they could get a new
ship, and start forth to fresh perils. On their
weary tramp up to London, they met with great
kindness at Blandford, where the master of the