the lamplighter at home, and threatening appearances.

we turn now to a very different scene—the pier and harbour of ramsgate. the storm-fiend is abroad. thick clouds of a dark leaden hue drive athwart a sky of dingy grey, ever varying their edges, and rolling out limbs and branches in random fashion, as if they were fleeing before the wind in abject terror. the wind, however, is chiefly in the sky as yet. down below there are only fitful puffs now and then, telling of something else in store. the sea is black, with sufficient swell on it to cause a few crested waves here and there to gleam intensely white by contrast. it is early in the day, nevertheless there is a peculiar darkness in the atmosphere which suggests the approach of night. numerous vessels in the offing are making with all speed for ramsgate harbour, which is truly and deservedly named a “harbour of refuge,” for already some two dozen ships of considerable size, and a large fleet of small craft, have sought and found shelter on a coast which in certain conditions of the wind is fraught with danger. about the stores near the piers, trinity men are busy with buoys, anchors, and cables; elsewhere labourers are toiling, idlers are loafing, and lifeboat—men are lounging about, leaning on the parapets, looking wistfully out to sea, with and without telescopes, from the sheer force of habit, and commenting on the weather. the broad, bronzed, storm-battered coxswain of the celebrated ramsgate lifeboat, who seems to possess the power of feeding and growing strong on hardship and exposure, is walking about at the end of the east pier, contemplating the horizon in the direction of the goodwin sands with the serious air of a man who expects ere long to be called into action.

the harbour-master—who is, and certainly had need be, a man of brain as well as muscle and energy, to keep the conflicting elements around him in order—moves about actively, making preparation for the expected gale.

early on the morning of the day referred to, nora jones threaded her way among the stalls of the marketplace under the town-hall, as if she were in search of some one. not succeeding in her search, she walked briskly along one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and diverged into a narrow street, which appeared to have retired modestly into a corner in order to escape observation. at the farther end of this little street, she knocked at the door of a house, the cleanly appearance of which attested the fact that its owner was well-doing and orderly.

nora knocked gently; she did everything gently!

“is mrs moy at home?” she asked, as a very bright little girl’s head appeared.

no sooner was nora’s voice heard than the door was flung wide open, and the little girl exclaimed, “yes, she’s at ’ome, and daddy too.” she followed up this assurance with a laugh of glee, and, seizing the visitor’s hand, dragged her into the house by main force.

“hallo, nora, ’ow are ’ee, gal?” cried a deep bass voice from the neighbourhood of the floor, where its owner appeared to be smothered with children, for he was not to be seen.

nora looked down and beheld the legs and boots of a big man, but his body and head were invisible, being completely covered and held down by four daughters and five sons, one of the former being a baby, and one of the latter an infant.

dick moy, who was enjoying his month on shore, rose as a man might rise from a long dive, flung out his great right arm, scattered the children like flecks of foam, and sat up with a beaming countenance, holding the infant tenderly in his left arm. the baby had been cast under the table, where it lay, helpless apparently, and howling. it had passed the most tender period of life, and had entered on that stage when knocks, cuts, yells, and bruises are the order of the day.

“glad to see you, nora,” said the man of the floating light, extending his huge hand, which the girl grasped and shook warmly. “you’ll excuse me not bein’ more purlite. i’m oppressed with child’n, as you see. it seems to me as if i’d gone an’ got spliced to that there ’ooman in the story-book wot lived in the shoe, an’ had so many child’n she didn’t know wot to do. if so, she knows wot to do now. she’s only got to hand ’em over to poor dick moy, an’ leave him to suffer the consickences.—ah, ’ere she comes.”

dick rose as he spoke, and handed a chair to nora at the moment that his better, but lesser, half entered.

it must not be supposed that dick said all this without interruption. on the contrary, he bawled it out in the voice of a bo’s’n’s mate, while the four daughters and five sons, including the baby and the infant, crawled up his legs and clung to his pockets, and enacted babel on a small scale.

mrs moy was a very pretty, tidy, cheerful little woman, of the fat, fair, and forty description, save that she was nearer thirty-five than forty. it was clear at a glance that she and dick had been made for each other, and that, had either married anybody else, each would have done irreparable damage to the other.

“sit down, nora. i’m so glad to see you. come to breakfast, i hope? we’re just going to have it.”

mrs moy said this as if she really meant it, and would be terribly disappointed if she met with a refusal. nora tried to speak, but babel was too much for her.

“silence!” burst from dick, as if a small cannon had gone off in the room.

babel was hushed.

“mum’s the word for three minutes,” said dick, pointing to a huge yankee clock which stood on the chimney-piece, with a model frigate in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on one side of it, and a model light-vessel in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on the other.

there was profound wisdom in this arrangement. if dick had ordered silence for an indefinite space of time, there would have been discontent, approximating to despair, in babel’s bosom, and, therefore, strong temptation to rebellion. but three minutes embraced a fixed and known period of time. the result was a desperate effort at restraint, mingled with gleeful anticipation. the elder children who could read the clock stared eagerly at the yankee time-piece; the younger ones who couldn’t read the clock, but who knew that the others could, stared intently at their seniors, and awaited the signal. with the exception of hard breathing, the silence was complete; the baby being spell-bound by example, and the feeble remarks of the infant—which had been transferred to the arms of the eldest girl—making no impression worth speaking of.

“you are very kind,” said nora, “i’ll stay for breakfast with pleasure. grandmother won’t be up for an hour yet, and father’s not at home just now.”

“werry good,” said dick, taking a short black pipe out of his coat-pocket, “that’s all right. and ’ow do ’ee like ramsgate, nora, now you’ve had a fair trial of it?”

“i think i like it better than yarmouth; but perhaps that is because we live in a more airy and cheerful street. i would not have troubled you so early, mr moy”—(“’tain’t no trouble at all, nora; werry much the reverse”)—“but that i am anxious to hear how you got on with poor billy—”

at this point babel burst forth with redoubled fury. dick was attacked and carried by storm; the short black pipe was seized, and an old hat was clapped on his head and thrust down over his eyes! he gave in at once, and submitted with resignation. he struck his colours, so to speak, without firing a shot, and for full five minutes breasted the billows of a sea of children manfully, while smart mrs moy spread the breakfast-table as quietly as if nothing were going on, and nora sat and smiled at them.

suddenly dick rose for the second time from his dive, flung off the foam, tossed aside the baby, rescued the infant from impending destruction, and thundered “silence! mum’s the word for three minutes more.”

“that’s six, daddy!” cried the eldest boy, whose spirit of opposition was growing so strong that he could not help indulging it, even against his own interests.

“no,” said dick sternly.

“it was three minutes last time,” urged the boy; “an’ you said three minutes more this time; three minutes more than three minutes is six minutes, ain’t it?”

“three minutes,” repeated dick, holding up a warning finger.

babel ceased; the nine pair of eyes (excepting those of the infant) became fixed, and nora proceeded—

“i wanted to hear how you got on with billy. did they take him in at once? and what sort of place is the grotto? you see i am naturally anxious to know, because it was a terrible thing to send a poor boy away from his only friend among strangers at such an age, and just after recovering from a bad illness; but you know i could not do otherwise. it would have been his ruin to have—”

she paused.

“to have stopped where he was, i s’pose you would say?” observed dick. “well, i ain’t sure o’ that, nora. it’s quite true that the bad company he’d ’ave seen would ’ave bin against ’im; but to ’ave you for his guardian hangel might ’ave counteracted that. it would ’ave bin like the soda to the hacid, a fizz at first and all square arterwards. hows’ever, that don’t signify now, cos he’s all right. i tuk him to the grotto, the werry first thing arter i’d bin to the trinity ’ouse, and seed him cast anchor there all right, and—”

again babel burst forth, and riot reigned supreme for five minutes more. at the end of that time silence was proclaimed as before.

“now then,” said dick, “breakfast bein’ ready, place the chairs.”

the three elder children obeyed this order. each member of this peculiar household had been “told off,” as dick expressed it, to a special duty, which was performed with all the precision of discipline characteristic of a man-of-war.

“that’s all right; now go in and win,” said dick. there was no occasion to appeal to the yankee clock now. tongues and throats as well as teeth and jaws were too fully occupied. babel succumbed for full quarter of an hour, during which period dick moy related to nora the circumstances connected with a recent visit to london, whither he had been summoned as a witness in a criminal trial, and to which, at nora’s earnest entreaty, and with the boy’s unwilling consent, he had conveyed billy towler. we say unwilling, because billy, during his long period of convalescence, had been so won by the kindness of nora, that the last thing in the world he would have consented to bear was separation from her; but, on thinking over it, he was met by this insurmountable difficulty—that the last thing in the world he would consent to do was to disobey her! between these two influences he went unwillingly to london—for the sake of his education, as nora said to him—for the sake of being freed from the evil influence of her father’s example, as poor nora was compelled to admit to herself.

“the grotto,” said dick, speaking as well as he could through an immense mouthful of bacon and bread, “is an institootion which i ’ave reason for to believe desarves well of its country. it is an institootion sitooate in paddington street, marylebone, where homeless child’n, as would otherwise come to the gallows, is took in an’ saved—saved not only from sin an’ misery themselves, but saved from inflictin’ the same on society. i do assure you,” said dick, striking the table with his fist in his enthusiasm, so that the crockery jumped, and some of the children almost choked by reason of their food going down what they styled their “wrong throats”—“i do assure you, that it would ’ave done yer ’art good to ’ave seed ’m, as i did the day i went there, so clean and comf’r’able and ’appy—no mistake about that. their ’appiness was genooine. wot made it come ’ome to me was, that i seed there a little boy as i ’appened to know was one o’ the dirtiest, wickedest, sharpest little willains in london—a mere spider to look at, but with mischief enough to fill a six-fut man to bu’stin’—an’ there ’ee was, clean an’ jolly, larnin’ his lessons like a good un—an’ no sham neither, cos ’e’d got a good spice o’ the mischief left, as was pretty clear from the way ’ee gave a sly pinch or pull o’ the hair now an’ again to the boys next him, an’ drawed monkey-faces on his slate. but that spider, i wos told, could do figurin’ like one o’clock, an’ could spell like johnson’s dictionairy.

“well,” continued dick, after a few moments’ devotion to a bowl of coffee, “i ’anded billy towler over to the superintendent, tellin’ ’im ’ee wos a ’omeless boy as ’adn’t got no parients nor relations, an wos werry much in need o’ bein’ looked arter. so ’ee took ’im in, an’ i bade him good-bye.”

dick moy then went on to tell how that the superintendent of the grotto showed him all over the place, and told him numerous anecdotes regarding the boys who had been trained there; that one had gone into the army and become a sergeant, and had written many long interesting letters to the institution, which he still loved as being his early and only “home;” that another had become an artilleryman; another a man-of-war’s man; and another a city missionary, who commended the blessed gospel of jesus christ to those very outcasts from among whom he had himself been plucked. the superintendent also explained to his rugged but much interested and intelligent visitor that they had a flourishing ragged school in connection with the institution; also a sunday-school and a “band of hope”—which latter had been thought particularly necessary, because they found that many of the neglected young creatures that came to them had already been tempted and taught by their parents and by publicans to drink, so that the foundation of that dreadful craving disease had been laid, and those desires had begun to grow which, if not checked, would certainly end in swift and awful destruction. one blessed result of this was that the children had not only themselves joined, but had in some instances induced their drunken parents to attend the weekly addresses.

all this, and a great deal more, was related by dick moy with the wonted enthusiasm and energy of his big nature, and with much gesticulation of his tremendous fist—to the evident anxiety of nora, who, like an economical housewife as she was, had a feeling of tenderness for the crockery, even although it was not her own. dick wound up by saying that if he was a rich man, “’ee’d give some of ’is superfloous cash to that there grotto, he would.”

“perhaps you wouldn’t,” said nora. “i’ve heard one rich man say that the applications made to him for money were so numerous that he was quite annoyed, and felt as if he was goin’ to become bankrupt!”

“nora,” said dick, smiting the table emphatically, “i’m not a rich man myself, an’ wot’s more, i never ’xpect to be, so i can’t be said to ’ave no personal notions at all, d’ye see, about wot they feels; but i’ve also heerd a rich man give ’is opinion on that pint, and i’ve no manner of doubt that my rich man is as good as your’n—better for the matter of that; anyway he knowed wot was wot. well, says ’ee to me, w’en i went an’ begged parding for axin’ ’im for a subscription to this ’ere werry grotto—which, by the way, is supported by woluntary contribootions—’ee says, ‘dick moy,’ says ’ee, ‘you’ve no occasion for to ax my parding,’ says ’ee. ‘’ere’s ’ow it is. i’ve got so much cash to spare out of my hincome. werry good; i goes an’ writes down a list of all the charities. first of all comes the church—which ain’t a charity, by the way, but a debt owin’ to the lord—an’ the missionary societies, an the lifeboat institootion, an’ the shipwrecked mariners’ society, and such like, which are the great national institootions of the country that every christian ought to give a helpin’ ’and to. then there’s the poor among one’s own relations and friends; then the hospitals an’ various charities o’ the city or town in which one dwells, and the poor of the same. well, arter that’s all down,’ says ’ee, ‘i consider w’ich o’ them ere desarves an’ needs most support from me; an’ so i claps down somethin’ to each, an’ adds it all up, an’ wot is left over i holds ready for chance applicants. if their causes are good i give to ’em heartily; if not, i bow ’em politely out o’ the ’ouse. that’s w’ere it is,’ says ’ee. ‘an’ do you know, dick moy,’ says ’ee, ‘the first time i tried that plan, and put down wot i thought a fair liberal sum to each, i wos amazed—i wos stunned for to find that the total wos so small and left so werry much of my spare cash yet to be disposed of, so i went over it all again, and had to double and treble the amount to be given to each. ah, dick,’ says my rich man, ‘if people who don’t keep cashbooks would only mark down wot they think they can afford to give away in a year, an’ wot they do give away, they would be surprised. it’s not always unwillingness to give that’s the evil. often it’s ignorance o’ what is actooally given—no account bein’ kep’.’

“‘wot d’ye think, dick,’ my rich man goes on to say, ‘there are some churches in this country which are dependent on the people for support, an’ the contents o’ the plates at the doors o’ these churches on sundays is used partly for cleanin’ and lightin’ of ’em; partly for payin’ their precentors, and partly for repairs to the buildins, and partly for helpin’ out the small incomes of their ministers; an’ wot d’ye think most o’ the people—not many but most of ’em—gives a week, dick, for such important purposes?’

“‘i don’ know, sir,’ says i.

“‘one penny, dick,’ says ’ee, ‘which comes exactly to four shillins and fourpence a year,’ says ’ee. ‘an’ they ain’t paupers; dick! if they wos paupers, it wouldn’t be a big sum for ’em to give out o’ any pocket-money they might chance to git from their pauper friends, but they’re well-dressed people, dick, and they seems to be well off! four an’ fourpence a year! think o’ that—not to mention the deduction w’en they goes for a month or two to the country each summer. four an’ fourpence a year, dick! some of ’em even goes so low as a halfpenny, which makes two an’ twopence a year—7 pounds, 11 shillings, 8 pence in a seventy-year lifetime, dick, supposin’ their liberality began to flow the day they wos born!’

“at this my rich man fell to laughing till i thought ’ee’d a busted hisself; but he pulled up sudden, an’ axed me all about the grotto, and said it was a first-rate institootion, an’ gave me a ten-pun’ note on the spot. now, nora, my rich man is a friend o’ yours—mr durant, of yarmouth, who came to ramsgate a short time ago for to spend the autumn, an’ i got introdooced to him through knowin’ jim welton, who got aboord of one of his ships through knowin’ young mr stanley hall, d’ye see? that’s where it is.”

after this somewhat lengthened speech, dick moy swallowed a slop-bowlful of coffee at a draught—he always used a slop-bowl—and applied himself with renewed zest to a norfolk dumpling, in the making of which delicacy his wife had no equal.

“i believe that mr durant is a kind good man,” said nora, feeding the infant with a crust dipped in milk, “and i am quite sure that he has got the sweetest daughter that ever a man was blessed with—miss katie; you know her, i suppose?”

“’aven’t seed ’er yet,” was dick’s curt reply.

“she’s a dear creature,” continued nora—still doing her best to choke the infant—“she found out where i lived while she was in search of a sick boy in yarmouth, who, she said, was the brother of a poor ragged boy named billy towler, she had once met with. of course i had to tell her that billy had been deceiving her and had no brother. oh! you should have seen her kind face, dick, when i told her this. i do think that up to that time she had lived under the belief that a young boy with a good-looking face and an honest look could not be a deceiver.”

“poor thing,” said dick, with a sad shake of the head, as if pitying her ignorance.

“yes,” continued nora—still attempting to choke the infant—“she could not say a word at that time, but went away with her eyes full of tears. i saw her often afterwards, and tried to convince her there might be some good in billy after all, but she was not easily encouraged, for her belief in appearances had got a shake that she seemed to find it difficult to get over. that was when billy was lying ill in hospital. i have not seen much of her since then, she and her father having been away in london.”

“h’m, i’m raither inclined to jine her in thinkin’ that no good’ll come o’ that young scamp. he’s too sharp by half,” said dick with a frown. “depend upon it, nora, w’en a boy ’as gone a great length in wickedness there’s no chance o’ reclaimin’ him.”

“dick,” exclaimed nora, with sudden energy, “depend upon it that that’s not true, for it does not correspond with the bible, which says that our lord came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.”

“there’s truth in that, anyhow,” replied dick, gazing thoughtfully into nora’s countenance, as if the truth had come home to him for the first time. what his further observations on the point might have been we know not, as at that moment the door opened and one of his mates entered, saying that he had come to go down with him to the buoy-store, as the superintendent had given orders that he and moy should overhaul the old north goodwin buoy, and give her a fresh coat of paint. dick therefore rose, wiped his mouth, kissed the entire family, beginning with the infant and ending with “the missis,” after which he shook hands with nora and went out.

the storm which had for some time past been brewing, had fairly brewed itself up at last, and the wild sea was covered with foam. although only an early autumn storm, it was, like many a thing out of season, not the less violent on that account. it was one of the few autumn storms that might have been transferred to winter with perfect propriety. it performed its work of devastation as effectively as though it had come forth at its proper season. on land chimney stacks and trees were levelled. at sea vessels great and small were dismasted and destroyed, and the east coast of the kingdom was strewn with wreckage and dead bodies. full many a noble ship went down that night! wealth that might have supported all the charities in london for a twelvemonth was sent to the bottom of the sea that night and lost for ever. lives that had scarce begun and lives that were all but done, were cut abruptly short, leaving broken hearts and darkened lives in many a home, not only on the sea-coast but inland, where the sound of the great sea’s roar is never heard. deeds of daring were done that night,—by men of the lifeboat service and the coast-guard,—which seemed almost beyond the might of human skill and courage—resulting in lives saved from that same great sea—lives young and lives old—the salvation of which caused many a heart in the land, from that night forward, to bless god and sing for joy.

but of all the wide-spread and far-reaching turmoil; the wreck and rescue, the rending and relieving of hearts, the desperate daring, and dread disasters of that night we shall say nothing at all, save in regard to that which occurred on and in the neighbourhood of the goodwin sands.