and murdered a man last night in the street."
"What mean you?"—"I mean that the man
whom your Majesty would pardon, against
the advice of your best friends, has just
committed these acts, and all the world lays the
blame of them on your Majesty." "Ods
fish," quoth the king, "I am sorry for it;
but I will do so no more." Mercy undoubtedly
should temper justice; but it is not less
necessary to the well-being of society, that
in all dealings with crime, justice should not
leave mercy to work alone.

CHIP.

RED ROCKETS.

IF we analyse Lloyd's List, we find that
out of a gross amount of twelve thousand
casualties in four years, upwards of five
thousand vessels of all sizes were partially or
totally lost; two thousand five hundred and
sixty run into port in a sinking state after
collision; two thousand three hundred were
total wrecks; eight hundred and eighty-
three foundered at sea; six hundred and
seventy-nine were abandoned after becoming
waterlogged, dismasted, or on fire—crews
taking to boats; two hundred and four sailed
and were never heard of again; eighty-seven
were burnt; fifty-one damaged by ice; sixteen
destroyed by combustion from coals,
flax, wool, and cotton; seven were blown up
by coal-dust, four by gas, and one by gun-
powder; thirteen were plundered and
destroyed by pirates; one struck by a whale
and abandoned, and one by a waterspout.

Considered merely as so many hulls of
ships damaged and lost, this statement is
startling; but if, in addition, we reckon the
amount of their cargoes as well as the
loss of life, it becomes appalling. What
must have been the fate of the thousands of
seamen who manned this enormous fleet?
We mourned for the fate of Franklin—the
President, too. Then, so tenacious is hope,
we are now—shall we say expecting to hear
of the Pacific, or that magnificent Indiaman
the Madagascar? These are only a few of
our missing ships. Lloyd's List tells us that
in four years two hundred and four vessels
sailed and were never heard of again—being
an average of fifty a year, or about one
a week. We are anxious about the Pacific
if she is a day overdue. Her money value
keeps her before the eyes of the under-
writers: she cost one hundred and fifty
thousand pounds, to say nothing of her
cargo. But the Mayflower, of Lynn, that
sailed two years ago last Whit Monday,
bound for St. John's, never troubles the
public mind, beyond the limits of the little
port to which she and her crew belonged.
She's only worth five hundred pounds—
perhaps not that.

The remembrance of a recent disaster
smarts even now, like a green wound, in the
memory of the public. We allude to the
total loss of the Josephine Willis. Let us
step on board. Here we are, according to the
log, passing the South Foreland at ten
minutes to eight on the night of the third of
February, bound to New Zealand. Clear
night; a screw steamer, the Progress, in
company, bound to the westward. The
captains of the two vessels were school-
fellows and friends, and they consorted
together until the captain of the screw found
that it was his duty to part company with
his friend the captain of the Josephine
Willis, and proceed on his voyage alone.
The separation took place somewhere off
Dover.

The Josephine Willis is now off Folkstone,
distant about five miles, going seven knots,
when a white light is seen ahead. This was
the fatal Mangerton steamer, from Limerick
to London. Then comes a fearful crash, and
all is confusion and horror: the loss of
seventy lives takes place in a short hour
or so.

It forms no part of our scheme to enter
into any inquiry about the backing out of
the steamer and keeping aloof from the
sinking Josephine Willis; for it appeared
that, in the confusion of the moment, it was
supposed that the steamer was likely to
founder also. During her alarm she fired
rockets and burnt a blue light, which
fortunately attracted the attention of one of
those vigilant sentinels, ever on the watch,
the lugger XL. of Deal. This boat arrived
in time to rescue seven passengers from the
rigging of the top-gallant masts of the
Josephine Willis, whose hull by this time was
at the bottom of the sea, where we will leave
her for the present and go on board the
Progress. Here she is, steaming down
Channel, only about half a dozen miles off,
quite unconscious of what has happened to
the poor Josephine Willis. The captain is
down in his cabin taking a peep at his chart,
when his mate pops his head inside, and
reports that a vessel astern is firing rockets.

"Somebody wants a pilot, p'raps, for we
are in pilots' water," replied the captain;
"or expects a boat from ashore. It's
nothing."

More rockets are reported; but as they
conveyed no positive intelligence—told no
tale—they were unheeded, and the Progress
made the best of her way, and thought no
more about the signals. However, before
clearing the Channel, it was necessary for
the screw to put into one of the western
ports, and there the first newspaper the
captain took in his hands explained the meaning
of the rockets; for he learnt then, for the
first time, that the Josephine Willis and his
old schoolfellow were both at the bottom of
the sea.

Now, surely there is room for amendment
here. How is it that rockets convey no