the great rocks of Penmaenmawr. Ten miles
of sea rolled between these two gateways of
the bay. To the north spread that vast graveyard
of ships, the Lavan sands. The vessel's
course lay up the straits leading past
Beaumaris to Caernarvon and the Irish Sea. The
north-east point of the dreaded Lavan sands is
named (from some wreck centuries ago) the
Dutchman's Bank, between which and an
outlying insular shoal called the Spit there is the
Wash, a very narrow channel. In the open
sea the Rothsay Castle was a mere bundle of
driftwood; what would it be when surrounded
by shoals, and picking its way down mere lanes
of deep water, with death on either side?

A little past midnight the end began. The
ship had dragged along the eastern edge of
the Dutchman's Bank, and, in endeavouring
to recover her course, jammed on the Spit
sand, stern foremost. Five minutes before, the
helmsman had grimly and silently touched Mr.
Broadhurst, a passenger, on the shoulder, and
pointed out breakers whitening a hundred yards
to larboard.

The first shock was alarming, but was not
violent—a mere grating thump. Few passengers
were on deck. With the second concussion
there came a heavy crash as if the vessel was
breaking up bodily. Then came shrieks from
the women, and all in the cabin, sick or well,
rushed to the stairs and struggled to reach the
deck. One of the passengers saw the nails of
the ship's timbers partially drawn out by the
shock, and at once decided that all was lost.
A Liverpool branch pilot, unnoticed before, and
who had been drinking with the steward and
sleeping in some hole forward, now came among
the passengers, and exclaimed:

"We are all lost!"

That drove the women to absolute frenzy.
Some, however, still maintained that it was only
the paddle-wheel which had broken, and all
would soon be well. The captain gave violent,
confused, and contradictory orders. He ordered
the helm "hard a-starboard," which would
have driven the vessel further into the sands.
The man at the helm, however, seeing the
danger, thought right to port the helm; but
the captain sent the mate angrily, and he took
the wheel and put it a-starboard, as if
determined to lose the vessel at once. The gentlemen
passengers were then ordered to go first
forward and then aft, in order to try and float
the vessel. The paddles were ordered to be
reversed, but the steam was too low to work
them. Those on deck who heard these proofs
of the captain's ignorance of the long-existing
danger now lost all hope. The vessel was fast
filling. Some persons entreated the captain to
let go the anchor, and keep the vessel from
driving, as the sands would soon be covered
with deep water, and assistance might then
arrive. His answer was:

"Hold your bother; there's no danger."

Once more the vessel was washed off it,
cleared the sand, but struck again. Then she
dragged herself, like a wounded, delirious
creature, a mile along the bank, rolling, pitching,
and bumping, till she came within two hundred
yards of the Swash Channel. There the doomed
wreck beat again on the sand, and lay helpless,
with no motion of her own, no struggle left
in her, clogged by the fatal indraught, staked
to the sand by the dead weight of the lifeless
engine, and ready to pour out her hecatombs of
victims to man's insatiable enemy, the sea. At
that last death-blow every one rushed from
below. Some of the ladies remained locked in
each other's arms, some tore their dress or
threw away their caps and bonnets, others
swooned or dashed themselves on the deck in a
delirious and passionate paroxysm of terror.
Many were hugging their children in the agony
of parting; husbands and wives were taking
leave of each other, or avowing their
determination to die together. The infatuated captain
still had, or pretended to have, hope. He
ordered the jib to be hoisted, to wear the
vessel's head round towards the Swash. He
cried out that there was no danger, it was only
sand she was on; she would soon float again;.
she was all right; she was on her way to
Beaumaris.

Mr. Foster was now asked, by request of the
passengers, if he would allow his carriage to be
thrown overboard; he at once consented; but
while some property of value was being
removed from it, the captain interfered, giving it
as his opinion that the weight was rather
beneficial than otherwise to the wreck. The
captain was then asked to let the bell be rung to
alarm Beaumaris. He said:

"If they wanted it rung, they might ring it
themselves."

The bell was rung till the tongue was broken;
then it was beaten with a piece of wood and
with bits of coal. At this crisis a seaman
deliberately took out the binnacle lamp and broke
it into pieces on the deck. The captain, at last
aroused, was trying the depth of the water
alongside with a pole, and found it to be seven
feet.

The wreck now dashed about in its death-
gasp. The stays of the ponderous chimney had
long ago given way, but had been secured again
by the crew and passengers. They soon again
yielded to the rocky strain, and the loosened
tube swung to and fro, threatening to sweep
away all in its fatal neighbourhood. At last it
fell, tearing away the mainmast, and both struck
across the poop and starboard quarter with
hideous crashes that sounded like the roar of a
sundered iceberg. The bulwarks on the side
of the fall were shattered into fragments. It
is supposed the captain and mate both perished
at this time, as they were never seen again on
deck. The passengers were now praying, alone
or in groups. The crew were carefully watched
to see what they would do, but they, too, were
all but hopeless. Three lashed themselves to
the top of the foremast, some stripped and
prepared for swimming, others tried to collect
materials for rafts. Two men got hold of a big
drum, but there was a discussion about their