Then think of those, who, form'd of kindred clay,
Depend upon the doles thy bounty scatters;
And God will hear them for thy welfare pray—
They are His children, though in rags and tatters.

LIGHTHOUSES AND LIGHT-BOATS.

WHEN the winter fire blazes redly on the
curtains, and the happy faces assembled in
the room; when the table is spread, and the
sofa "wheeled round," and the whistling
wind is heard without, rising to a gale,— then
may we well, as we often do, bethink ourselves
of the many anxious eyes out at sea, which
are strained to catch a glimpse of the well-
known " light " that befriends the sailor on
his pathless journey.

Our coast is so well furnished with
lighthouses that this is the first of our arrangements
which strikes foreigners with admiration as
they approach our shores; but so dangerous
is the whole navigation, so beset with rocks,
quicksands, sunken ledges, howling forelands,
"and hollow crescents full of gathered blasts,"
that the sudden withdrawal of a single "light"
from an important position would, in all
probability, be the cause of hundreds of
shipwrecks in a single night.

When there is a brisk wind, and the night
thick and hazy, with what straining eyes do
men at sea continue to gaze in the direction
where the hoped-for light is expected—and,
how often, in the wrong direction! In small
merchant crafts—a schooner, for instance—
when the number of hands amounts but to
the master, the mate, one man, and a
cabin-boy, and his other " appointments," in the
way of charts, and compasses, and anchors, is
in the same poor condition; how exciting a
time is that, when the " light " which, according
to his calculation, ought to be visible, is
nowhere apparent—his vessel running fast
through the water—the wind getting up,
perhaps to a gale, and his top-gallant sail has to
be suddenly taken in, and his top-sail reefed!
But, where is the light?—the master and the
mate cannot see it below; can the man or
the boy aloft see any signs of it ?— No, neither.
Can the wet and shivering passenger, who
had "turned in," but has come on deck, in
his drawers, to get in everybody's way—can
he see anything of the light which ought to be
somewhere out there No; he sees nothing
but haze and mist; and, in fact, his eyes are
full of salt spray. Down rushes the master
through the little hatchway, and after him
hurries the passenger, with a vague no-notion
of helping him, he knows not how, to do he
knows not what. The candle has got upset,
and all is darkness below. The lucifer-box,
of course, is not in its place—it has been
upset—the matches are lying about on the
wet floor of the cabin, and are bent and
broken in the vain attempt to ignite them.
Now, the cabin-boy comes down, and, after
his head has been well " clouted," in the dark,
he, at length, bellowingly produces a light,
by some inconceivable process, and the shapeless
mash of trodden candle is stuck upright,
somehow, and the wick lighted. The chart is
snatched from the locker—such a chart!—all
dirty, greasy, tar-bethumbed, torn, tattered,
and begrimed— and over this the captain lies
flat, with his nose almost touching it, and
seeming to assist his search quite as actively
as the brown damp finger with which he goes
poking and pointing over the paper. He
finds soon enough the dreaded Goodwin
Sands— and he finds the North Foreland
Lighthouse—on the chart; and, according to
his "reckoning," he ought now to see the
"light "—but where is it ? He rushes up on
deck. It is not yet visible. Can he see the
gleam of the Light-boats off the Goodwins?
No— no signs of them. He stares into the
compass-box, and alters the vessel's course,
in alarm— and down again he comes, almost
headlong, to work his reckoning over again;
and again to throw himself with his elbows
on the ragged chart, holding a bit of candle in
his fingers which he has snatched out of the
candle-stick, and dropping the grease all over
St. George's Channel—till the voice of the
mate, on deck, gladdens his ears with the
tidings that the "light" is visible— the
"bearings " as they had calculated— and all
right. The passenger runs up on deck, and,
shivering, in his half-attached fluttering
habiliments, descries, with joy, the large steady
"light " of the North Foreland, which forces
its beams through the mist, and tells them all
they want to know of their position.

Next morning the passenger, to his great
content, was landed; and after he had
refreshed himself during some days (and of all
passengers that need a little solace, on landing,
the passenger of a merchant schooner needs it
as much as any,) he felt a strong desire to
examine closely the arrangements of the " light,"
which had been such a source of anxiety,
and subsequent congratulation, out at sea.
He accordingly drove over to the North
Foreland Lighthouse— and was refused
admittance. He drew out his purse; but was
requested to put it in his pocket again, and go
home.

Thus disappointed and admonished, the
visitor retraced his steps, and after mature
consideration, addressed a polite note to the
proper authority at Ramsgate. From this
gentleman he received an order of admission
and the same evening he betook
himself again to the North Foreland.

The walk being gradually up-hill, all the
way, and including a bend in the road, there
was no sign of the " light," till on a sudden
turn it was discovered in all its beaming
altitude. Observing it now more narrowly as he
approached, the visitor perceived that the
glass-house, on the top of the tower,
(sometimes called the " lanthorn," and, in its shape,
closely resembling an observatory,) had two
front-faces, so to speak; the lamps being
arranged upon an obtuse angle— one set of