specific intelligence? A rocket fired at sea
may mean a ship in danger; it may indicate
her whereabouts, recall a boat, or dispatch
one or any preconcerted signal. But to
one not in the secret, a rocket merely draws
attention. Now, suppose the captain of the
Progress had understood the meaning of the
rockets fired by the Mangerton steamer,
what might have been the result? It is
reasonable to suppose that he would have
steamed down to her and saved many lives;
for it must be remembered that the Josephine
Willis did not sink until nearly two hours
after her collision with the Mangerton, and
yet she lost seventy lives in consequence of
the confusion, or something else, that
prevailed on board the steamer. It is not
unreasonable to suppose that all hands might
have been saved if the captain of the
Progress had understood the meaning of the
rocket-signals, and run down to the assistance
of his friend, fresh and undamaged as his
vessel was. But no blame can be attached to
him; for rockets at present are only fireworks,
and convey no positive intelligence.

And is it difficult to remedy this state of
things? We think not. Without attempting
to arrange a code of night signals, by
means of rockets and blue lights, what is to
prevent the adoption of a rocket composed
of red fire, to be let off only on occasions of
imminent danger—such as the collision just
quoted—or any other disaster that may occur
at sea where instant succour is needed?

It seems reasonable that some simple
mode of conveying a positive meaning ought
to be adopted by ships when in imminent
peril. Rockets are admirable signals when
they are understood. Give them a tongue,
then; let them be made to speak as plain by
night as the Union Jack, reversed, does by
day. All the maritime world knows what
the one means: why should not the other
be equally intelligible? Let it be
understood that a red rocket or a red fire, to
distinguish it from a blue light, meant DISTRESS,
then such a dreadful calamity as that
which befel the Josephine Willis would
stand a fair chance of receiving assistance
in a crowded sea-way, and not, as was the
case of that unfortunate vessel, lose seventy
lives with a friendly steamer within signal,
and only five miles from a shore, too, covered
with the handiest and most daring boatmen
in the world.

The subject of intelligible signals of
distress at night is capable of expansion, and is
worthy of consideration. Nor is it beside
our purpose, as the greatest maritime nation,
to bestow a thought upon it. The twelve
thousand casualties reported to Lloyd's
is proof that every sort of disaster and
horror is continually happening on the high
seas, and it is fair to suppose, while rockets,
blue lights, and guns, are unintelligible, or
may be misunderstood, that in many
instances they are fired in vain. There seems
a simple remedy for this: a RED rocket,
denoting DISTRESS—simply DISTRESS—that
would at least tell its own tale.

THE NINTH OF JUNE.

IN TEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

THE spongy Scotch mist that dimmed
Mr. Nobble's buttons, darkened his blue
coat, and made a change of garments so
necessary to his companion on the road
between Nottingham and Pentridge,
soddened the roads and flooded the meadows
of the village I have called Crookston
Withers; hedges trickled a constant drain
into the ditches; cattle, having tried for
shelter under trees, returned to the open
fields, to escape heavy irregular blobs from the
branches; the stuccoed church-tower, patched
with rain, cast a sharp reflection on the
shining slate roof; the cottage-eaves
constantly dripping, dug pebbly gutters before the
doors, making the children duck their heads
every time they stepped out or stepped in; the
grey kitten from the post-office tripped lightly
across the road, on the tops of the stones, to
visit a relative at Mary Garstang's; and the
postman's terrier slunk heavily along, with
his tail jammed between his legs, and his
spirits too depressed to bark at the broods of
dirty and ruffled chickens hopping and pecking
in his way, and fluttering noisily out of
it. Very few of the human species had that
afternoon passed through the village, except
the groom from Corner Cottage (who had
been met on the grey horse going towards
Alfreton), and the post-oflice runner. The
wheels of the Nottingham waggon, which
left a couple of running gutters along the
whole of its track, were brought to a stand
opposite the Bull and Horns, the steaming
horses unwilling to give them one other turn.
The waggoner's Welsh pony—its head, its
tail, and its mane drooping and dripping—
stood in the middle of the road immoveable
and stupid. It did not wag so much as a
hair of its ear, even when the waggon-horses,
tossing up their nosebags and savagely shaking
their necks, jangled their bells with a crash
"enough," the ostler remarked, as he wantonly
dashed the dregs of a pail of water over the
wheeler's legs, "to wake a dead donkey!"
The waggoner himself leant listlessly against
one of the posts of the inn-porch, staring into
the blank and draggled prospect; staring
even while he covered his countenance with
a mug of ale; staring into the dense mist
while asking the ostler if he thought it
was ever going to leave off; staring while
telling the boy to take the band-box out
of the forewain into the post-office, and to
be sure and bring back the eightpence.

The boy was leaving the little shop with
the money in his hand, when it was knocked
out of it by the maid-servant from Corner
Cottage, who had rushed across the road—
blindly, with her apron thrown over her