committee when they omitted to analyse and tabulate the evidence—a matter which has always been attended to in previous cases of a similar nature? If not, why are we not told upon what portions of the evidence the committee found their recommendations, and how is it that not one word of reprobation is uttered with regard to the terrible abuses disclosed by the witnesses?

As no steps have yet been taken in Parliament to give effect to this ill-considered report, let us hope, in the interests of morality and public decorum, that those who have so nobly distinguished themselves hitherto in promoting the well-being and welfare of their fellow-creatures will press upon Parliament the necessity for purging and purifying the evils here so briefly and feebly described, instead of silently allowing immorality, in its many guises, to clamour for fresh privileges.

IT

A WILD NIGHT AT SEA.

T was late one stormy Sunday evening early in January, 18-, that a woman, about twenty-six years of age, sat on a low chair before the fire, rocking herself to and fro in an agony of grief. As a clock outside the parlour door struck eleven, and a gust of wind swept round the house, with a weird, moaning sound, she shivered and crouched closer to the warmth. Looking at her earnest face, on which the fire-light played lovingly, you were struck rather by its variety and beauty of expression than by regularity of feature or fineness of outline. The dark eyes, the flexible mouth, the soft brown disarranged hair, the anxious brow, the pale lips, all now exhibited some agony of mind which their owner was suf fering, and instantly made you sympathise with her in her sorrow. Few, however, would have been in haste to intrude upon that lovely girl, in whom strength of character was evidently united to the sweetness that played round the lips and in the eyes occasionally, when hope gained a temporary victory over despair.

The tinkling of a bell from an upper room in the house disturbed her. She arose immediately, and walked to the apartment whence the sound had proceeded-not quickly, but with the measured steps of weariness. As she opened the door a gentle voice said kindly: 'Agnes, my dear, are you not coming to bed to-night?' There was no light in the room,

but she advanced to her mother's bedside, and, taking the hand that was extended to her, kissed it passionately without answering.

'Sit down, Agnes,' said the voice again; 'my dear child, you are looking forward to meet sorrow; is it wise?'

'It is such a night, mother,' Agnes answered, in a hollow voice; Joe's ship must be near land, and if it is, what danger! Besides,' she added, slowly, 'I have an awful presentiment that I cannot shake off, of some dire disaster to the Hamilton.'

The mother said a few words of comfort, and then there was silence for many minutes in the dark room, save for the soughing of the wind as it died away over the sea in the distance, or the loud, angry clamour of its advancing force, when the house shook and the windows rattled with its violence.

'Don't stay awake for me, mother,' said Agnes; but I can't come to bed and sleep when Joe may be.' She could not finish the sentence for the choking sensation in her throat.

'Very well, my poor darling,' replied the mother, tenderly; 'then you must keep up the fire, and take down a shawl to put round you; and if you can rest a little, lie down in the easy chair. Good night, Agnes.'

They kissed each other fondly, and long after the light step was heard descending the stairs did the fond mother stay awake, in earnest prayer for her child. After an hour or two sleep overcame her, and then the troubled girl alone kept vigil for her lover.

She made up a good fire, wrapped a plaid shawl around her, and took her seat on a low ottoman, in almost the same attitude as before. A terrible blast of wind, and the moan of distant waves beating on the sands, made her get up and look out from behind the curtains into the night. It was dark. One or two stars alone were visible as the fast-driving clouds swept across the heavens. Sleet was fast falling, and far away, when she had accustomed her eyes to the dimness, she could discern a revolving glimmer from the lighthouse on the cliff, and a white line of foam crawling along the shore. This was not the place. to which her lover's ship would be tending. A vague dread of the rock-bound coast of Cornwall haunted her thoughts-an unknown, cruel coast that so often made shipwreck of the fated vessels that were driven ashore, or whose captains were not well acquainted with its every danger. She turned from the window and sat down again, gazing intently Vol. 10.-No. 39.

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into the fire. Upon this young woman had descended a 'night of weeping' such as only earnest souls can know, or, knowing, can bear without a human presence. It was necessary to her to be alone, now that the billows swept over her soul. She groaned aloud sometimes, at others she wept, and bitterly did the remembrance of every unkindness she had shown her lover rise up in judgment against her. She took up a locket which she wore upon her bosom suspended by a short gold chain. The whole had been his last present to her before he sailed. She opened it, and gazed long and lingeringly on the bold, handsome features of the sailor; then turned her eyes again towards the fire. The bright, ruddy coals formed themselves, as they had done a hundred times before, into sweet home pictures, dissolving views, first, of their meeting again after that long, wearisome voyage; then of dear, quiet gatherings in the home that she had thought should be theirs by and bye, peopled as fancy or hope dictated, with the mother's chair beside the hearth, and sportive children in the foreground, and ever the same manly figure of her captain as the centrepiece. And from these pictures she awoke again and again, with a start and a sigh, to glance round the empty room, to see written over every picture and on every wall a sentence which haunted her- Never again in life!" "Never again in life!' No more meetings, then, on this side of the dark river of death, no more clasping of hands, no more interchange of loving thoughts and words.

And the ghosts of those unkindnesses, how they besieged her! Once she had thrown herself back with an air of almost repugnance when he had wished to kiss her, and he had expressed his surprise and annoyance. Her excuse then to herself now scarcely seemed to console her; he had been drinking, and was slightly intoxicated. It was the only time she had ever seen him so, and she had been disgusted, as a pure woman naturally would be, at the discovery of this vice in one she so fondly loved. She had thought that she refused to kiss him, in that haughty manner, to point out to him his error; but looking at the little quarrel now, Agnes only blamed herself; the peril of her lover on this stormy night, the danger to which he was constantly exposed, made her full of pity and excuse even for his gravest faults. In the other instances she recalled, she had, indeed, been to blame, and they gave her still more pain. Then she would linger dreamily and deliciously over the happy hours they had spent together, their pleasant walks, their social evenings. So, in these alternations of lamentation and recollections of the sunny memories of her life, the night wore slowly away. Every now and then

she repaired to the window. Out of doors there was little change, save that snow had taken the place of the sleet, and it drifted and was whirled about on the raging wind. Towards morning she laid herself upon the hearthrug, with her head on a sofa-cushion, and fell asleep, worn out with grief and watching; but it was only to awake, after a few minutes, with a low scream, for she had dreamed of falling into a well and was drowning. So she shook herself, stirred the fire, rose, and walked about the room.

Captain Joseph Campbell, her lover, had been brought up close to the sea. He was the son of a Scotch fisherman, and had obtained a far better education than is common amongst his class in England. At fourteen years of age he went to sea, bound apprentice to the captain of a Newfoundland trader, and he had raised himself to be boatswain, and then mate, and at length, before he was thirty years of age, captain of the fine ship Hamilton, with a crew of eighteen able-bodied seamen. The voyage from which he was daily expected had been to the West Indies, for a cargo of rum and sugar; and, from the long continuance of boisterous weather, there was ample ground for anxiety in the heart of Agnes May, if he had not yet landed.

Agnes and Captain Campbell had been engaged just after he became mate of the Hamilton; and, after his first voyage as captain, their wedding was to take place, for which, during the months of his absence, Agnes and her mother had been busily preparing.

The loud cry was

'Man the lifeboat! Man the lifeboat!' passed from one to another of a little group of hardy fishermen, who stood watching the fate of a fine ship that was fast drifting that wild night on to the rocky shores of their dangerous coast. Already the boat was on the beach, prepared for sea, and with the ready gallantry and heroism of brave men, her crew stood forward from their companions at the first summons of their captain. This was not the first time they had risked their strength and life itself to save their fellow-man; and could that glorious boat have told her tale, she might have recounted adventures almost unparalleled for instances of self-devotion and noble hardihood.

It was no easy thing, now, to push off from shore in the wildly foaming and dashing billows: whilst the extreme cold, the blinding snow, the furious, raging wind, the dark rocks. rising like black phantoms of despair on almost every hand, rendered steering a critical operation, and were enough to

deter even true-hearted men from thus adventuring themselves. Rockets already hadbeen fired from the beach, but, by some strange perversity or ignorance, though they had reached the imperilled ship, the lines had not been made use of, and the only chance of saving the crew lay in the exertions of the lifeboat!

'Pull away, my hearties,' said the captain, by name Trewin, a fine young man of good position and cheery temper, who steered the little boat. 'If we can only reach her before she sinks or goes to pieces, there'll be many hearts to bless yewives and sweethearts, and little children.' The captain's voice was raised to a shout, but it only just reached the ears of his crew over that terrific storm.

'Sure 'nuff, capen, we've got a will, never ye fear, one and all, ye knaw, and Cornish lads are the boys to work;' and a kindly laugh went round till, as they got further into the water, the snow dashed against their faces so that they could hardly see, and talking was rendered impossible.

'Get under her bow, captain, dear, out of the wind,' shouted the coxswain; 'that's our only chance of saving the dear critters alive,' he added, in the drawling tone of voice, half plaintive, half droll, which is peculiar to the inhabitants of Cornwall. With great difficulty for again and again their boat was driven from the side of the vessel by the rough waves and yet rougher wind-they placed her alongside, and shouted to the captain of the ship, which they now discovered was called the Hamilton, to accept the means of safety now within his reach. And doay be quick, my dear,' shouted the coxswain, the oldest man of the lifeboat's crew, 'for we can't bide here long.'

But now they beheld a sight that made the blood curdle in their veins the captain, a young man, stood on the deck, and, with excited gestures and pistol in hand, threatened to shoot the first sailor who dared to leave the vessel's side.

'My dear sir,' urged the captain of the lifeboat, for God's sake let the men come, and come yourself, or we shall be too late to help you. There is not a minute to be lost; your vessel has already struck; your honour in leaving her is as safe as ours in fetching you. Come along, men, at once.'

The captain of the Hamilton scowled at Captain Trewin as he spoke; but a few of the sailors skulked past the infatuated man, and dropped into the boat, whilst he still stood swearing and gesticulating as before, and repeating his commands.

'Not a moment to be lost; come, come!' shouted the crew of the lifeboat again and again; but, though now fifteen of his men were safely in the boat, he furiously forbade the mate to