inequality of size. Both men perished, and
the drum was afterwards seen, burst and
abandoned to the waves. Some of the passengers,
in paroxysms of irresolution and terror, moved
restlessly from place to place, Mr. Tarrey,
whose wife and five children were on board, at
first agitated, had now grown calm, resolute,
and resigned. He said:

"To return without my family would be
worse than death. Yes, I will die with them."

The storm was now increasing, the moon had
gone down, a solitary star in the black vault
above and the phosphorescence of the turbulent
sea were the only light. Many persons clung
to the iron under the plank that passes from
one paddle-box to another. The windlass and
the belfry were also seized with avidity as
points of resistance to the waves. Hughes,
one of the seamen on the foremast, let go
his child's hand when he began to climb, and
the boy (a fine fellow of about twelve) sobbed
and shrieked, "Father, father, save me!" But
in vain; despair has no heart. In the midst
of all this horror, however, one poor woman, a
carpenter's wife, seemed to entirely forget
herself, and was absorbed in her anxiety for an
infant at her breast.

There had been a rush to the ship's boat, till
a sailor called out that there were no oars, and
that there was a hole in the bottom of it. The
boat then broke away at one end, and hung by
the other. The carpenter's wife, who still clung
to it, was rescued by some of the passengers.
This poor loving mother instantly begged a
gentleman near her to wrap her shawl closer
round her to prevent the water touching the
child. Even when she sank a short time afterwards,
she was seen holding the child up above
the waves, careless of all but that.

While Mr. Selwyn and other passengers were
praying, some one exclaimed:

"There's a light on Puffin Island!"

Everybody at once sprang to their feet and
shouted; but when no answer came but the
impatient roar of the sea, some returned to
their prayers, others wept, and many agonised
each other by mutual accusations as to who
had prompted the fatal voyage.

And now came the climax of horror. The
ship began to part, and the two trembling
masts leant one way, the stern the other. A
tremendous wave rolled and leaped over the
vessel, striking and splitting and washing away
to leeward. The frightened crowd clung
together. There was a deathlike silence. Their
heads almost touched the water. Their collective
weight broke away railings and stanchions,
benches and bulwarks, and they all passed into
the yawning sea. There was one deep-drawn
sigh, one spasmodic, choking, simultaneous
gasp; they struggled and writhed in a whirlpool,
and then sank.

A side plank first yawned open, and then the
deck sank to the level of the sea. Another wave
succeeded this. Mr. Tinne says he then found
himself on the mast, with the steward, his wife,
and, he thinks, a child. The steward's wife was
exhausted, and her husband was trying to
encourage her. Mr. Tinne then left the mast,
and swam to some other spars on which were
two persons. He could see a raft in the
distance with eight or nine persons on it. Stunned
for a moment by floating pieces of wreck, Mr.
Tinne dived every time a drift approached, and
cautioned his companions to do the same.
Presently a vast mass rolled over him, and when
he again looked up he was alone. A little girl
named Tarrey, whose family had already been
drowned, was seen tossed about the quarter-
deck, repeatedly dashed against the gunwale,
and then sucked back by the waves to be again
beaten and tossed. She kept crying piteously:
"Oh! won't you come to me, father? Oh,
mamma!" till she was washed away.

A Mr. Nuttall, who also fell when the bulwark
gave way, weary of suffering, reclined his head
on the water, and waited to sink. At that
moment the side of the packet came floating
by, and he succeeded in getting on it and resting
on his knees. While doing this, the little
boy the seaman had forsaken caught hold of
him, and mounted on his back with the
inexorable clutch of despair. Mr. Nuttall, unable
to swim, heavily clad, and thus encumbered,
did not abandon hope. By dint of a rope
washed near him, he contrived to get to the
poop, and place the boy within reach of the
wheel. Just then he heard a cry, and looking
over the side of the wreck saw a woman
clinging. She was trying to climb, but seemed
about to fall back into the sea. He caught her
by her hair, which was loose to the wind. He
then got a firmer hold, and dragged her up on
the poop. Another person then drew her to
the wheel, and broke her bonnet-strings, her
bonnet being full of water and nearly choking
her. They then rescued a Mr. Coxhead, who
had been hanging for a quarter of an hour to
some ropes at the stern, dashed against the
vessel with every sea. They kept his head
from the water, which was knee-deep on the
raft; but he seemed to be dying. Every wave
now washed one or more survivors from the
poop. The platform on which the wheel was
soon sank into the water, fastened only by
cordage, which the Liverpool pilot and six
other survivors severed. They then floated
clear. There were on this raft, only three
square yards wide, a lady, four gentlemen, the
pilot, and the sailor's son.

While all this was passing in the stern, there
were terrible scenes also in other parts of the
vessel. A musician and another man clambered
into the dickey of Mr. Forster's carriage.
They were opposing a third man, who had
just got a seat, when a wave swept the carriage
into the sea. The last comer, a Mr. Hammond,
got astride of a plank, which was, however,
instantly seized by another drowning man. For
half an hour these two men silently struggled
for the plank, the success of the one always
unseating the other. The second man at last
grew worn-out, fainted, fell off the plank, and
was seen no more. Mr. Hammond then