DESCRIBES THE PRESENTATION OF A NEW LIFEBOAT TO COVELLY, AND TREATS OF
THE ROYAL NATIONAL LIFEBOAT INSTITUTION.
We must now change the scene, and beg our readers to accompany us once
more to Covelly, where, not long after the events narrated in the last
chapter, an interesting ceremony was performed, which called out the
inhabitants in vast numbers. This was the presentation of a new
lifeboat to the town, and the rewarding of several men who had recently
been instrumental in saving life in circumstances of peculiar danger.
The weather was propitious. A bright sun and a calm sea rejoiced the
eyes of the hundreds who had turned out to witness the launch. The old
boat, which had saved our heroine years before, and had rescued many
more since that day from the angry sea, was worn out, and had to be
replaced by one of the magnificent new boats built on the self-righting
principle, which had but recently been adopted by the Lifeboat
Institution. A lady of the neighbourhood, whose only daughter had been
saved by the old boat some time before, had presented the purchase-money
of the new one (400 pounds) to the Institution; and, with the
promptitude which characterises all the movements of that Society, a
fine self-righting lifeboat, with all the latest improvements, had been
sent at once to the port.
High on her carriage, in the centre of the town, the new lifeboat
stood--gay and brilliant in her blue and white paint, the crew with
their cork lifebelts on, and a brass band in front, ready to herald her
progress to the shore. The mayor of the town, with all the principal
men, headed the procession, and a vast concourse of people followed. At
the shore the boat was named the _Rescue_ by the young lady whose life
had been saved by the old one, and amid the acclamations of the vast
multitude, the noble craft was shot off her carriage into the calm sea,
where she was rowed about for a considerable time, and very critically
examined by her crew; for, although the whole affair was holiday-work to
most of those who looked on, the character of the new boat was a matter
of serious import to those who manned her, and who might be called on to
risk their lives in her every time their shores should be lashed by a
stormy sea.
Our hero, Harry Boyns, held the steering oar. He had been appointed by
the parent Institution to the position of "Local Secretary of the
Covelly Lifeboat Branch," and, of course, was anxious to know the
qualities of his vessel.
Harry, we may remark in passing, having lost his situation, and finding
that his mother's health was failing, had made up his mind to stay on
shore for a year or two, and seek employment in his native town. Being
a well-educated man, he obtained this in the office of a mercantile
house, one of the partners of which was related to his mother.
The rowing powers of the new boat were soon tested. Then Harry steered
to the pier, where a tackle had been prepared for the purpose of
upsetting her. This was an interesting point in the proceedings,
because few there had seen a self-righting boat, and, as usual, there
was a large sprinkling in the crowd of that class of human beings who
maintain the plausible, but false, doctrine, that "seeing is believing!"
Considerable difficulty was experienced in getting the boat to overturn.
The operation was slowly accomplished; and all through there appeared
to be an unwillingness on the part of the boat to upset!--a symptom
which gave much satisfaction to her future crew, who stood ready on her
gunwale to leap away from her. At last she was raised completely on one
side, then she balanced for a moment, and fell forward, keel up, with a
tremendous splash, while the men, not a moment too soon, sprang into the
sea, and a wild cheer, mingled with laughter, arose from the spectators.
If the upsetting was slow and difficult, the self-righting was magically
quick and easy. The boat went right round, and, almost before one could
realise what had occurred, she was again on an even keel. Of course she
was nearly full of water at the moment of rising; but, in a few seconds,
the discharging holes in her bottom had cleared the water completely
away. The whole operation of self-righting and self-emptying, from
first to last, occupied only _seventeen seconds_! If there was laughter
mingled with the shouts when she overturned and threw her crew into the
sea, there was nothing but deep-toned enthusiasm in the prolonged cheer
which hailed her on righting, for then it was fully realised, especially
by seafaring men, what genuine and valuable qualities the boat
possessed, and the cheers became doubly enthusiastic when the crew,
grasping the lifelines which were festooned round her sides, clambered
on board again, and were reseated at the oars in less than two minutes
thereafter.
This done, the boat was hauled up on her carriage, and conveyed to the
house near the beach which had been prepared for her reception, there to
wait, in constant readiness, until the storm should call her forth to
display her peculiar qualities in actual service.
But another, and, if possible, a still more interesting ceremony
remained to be performed. This was the presentation of the gold and
silver medals of the Institution to several men of the town, who, in a
recent storm, had rendered signal service in the saving of human life.
The zealous and indefatigable secretary of the Institution had himself
come down from London to present these.
The presentation took place in the new town hall, a large building
capable of containing upwards of a thousand people, which, on the
occasion, was filled to overflowing.
The mayor presided, of course, and opened proceedings, as many chairmen
do, by taking the wind out of the sails of the principal speaker! That
is to say, he touched uninterestingly on each topic that was likely to
engage the attention of the meeting, and stated many facts and figures
in a loose and careless way, which every one knew the secretary would,
as a matter of course, afterwards state much better and more correctly
than himself. But the mayor was a respected, well-meaning man, and,
although his speech was listened to with manifest impatience, his
sitting down was hailed with rapturous applause.
At this point--the mayor having in his excitement forgotten to call upon
the secretary to speak--a stout man on the platform took advantage of
the oversight and started to his feet, calling from a disgusted auditor
the expression, "Oh, there's that bore Dowler!" It was indeed that same
Joseph who had, on a memorable occasion long past, signed himself the
"humble" friend of Mr Webster. Before a word could escape his lips,
however, he was greeted with a storm of yells and obliged to sit down.
But he did so under protest, and remained watchful for another
favourable opportunity of breaking in. Dowler never knew when he was
"out of order;" he never felt or believed himself to be "out of order!"
In fact, he did not know what "out of order" meant _when applied to
himself_. He was morally a rhinoceros. He could not be shamed by
disapprobation; could not be cowed by abuse; never was put out by
noise--although he frequently was by the police; nor put down by
reason--though he sometimes was by force; spoke everywhere, on all
subjects, against the opinions (apparently) of everybody; and lived a
life of perpetual public martyrdom and protest.
Silence having been obtained, the secretary of the Lifeboat Institution
rose, and, after a few complimentary remarks on the enthusiasm in the
good cause shown by the town, and especially by the lady who had
presented the boat, he called Captain Harry Boyns to the platform, and
presented him with the gold medal of the Institution in an able speech,
wherein he related the special act of gallantry for which it was
awarded--telling how that, during a terrible gale, on a dark night in
December, the gallant young captain, happening to walk homewards along
the cliffs, observed a vessel on the rocks, not twenty yards from the
land, with the green seas making clean breaches over her; and how that--
knowing the tide was rising, and that before he could run to the town,
three miles distant, for assistance, the vessel would certainly be
dashed to pieces--he plunged into the surf, at the imminent risk of his
life, swam to the vessel, and returned to the shore with a rope, by
which means a hawser was fixed to the cliffs, and thirty-nine lives were
rescued from the sea!
Well did every one present know the minute details of the heroic deed
referred to, but they were glad to hear the praises of their townsman
re-echoed by one who thoroughly understood the merits of the case, and
whose comments thereon brought out more clearly to the minds of many the
extent of the danger which the gallant captain had run, so that, when
Harry stepped forward to receive the medal, he was greeted with the most
enthusiastic cheers. Thereafter, the secretary presented silver medals
to two fishermen of the Cove, namely, Old Jacobs and Robert Gaston, both
of whom had displayed unusual daring at the rescue of the young lady who
was the donor of the lifeboat. He then touched on the value of
lifeboats in general, and gave an interesting account of the origin of
the Society which he represented; but as this subject deserves somewhat
special treatment, we shall turn aside from the thread of our tale for a
little, to regard the Work and the Boats of the Royal National Lifeboat
Institution, assuring our reader that the subject is well worthy the
earnest consideration of all men.
The first lifeboat ever launched upon the stormy sea was planned and
built by a London coach-builder, named Lionel Lukin, who took out a
patent for it in November 1785, and launched it at Bamborough, where it
was the means of saving many lives the first year. Although Lukin thus
demonstrated the possibility of lives being saved by a boat which could
live under circumstances that would have proved fatal to ordinary boats,
he was doomed to disappointment. The Prince of Wales (George the
Fourth) did indeed befriend him, but the Lords of Admiralty were deaf,
and the public were indifferent. Lukin went to his grave unrewarded by
man, but stamped with a nobility which can neither be gifted nor
inherited, but only won--the nobility which attaches to the character of
"national benefactor."
The public were aroused from their apathy in 1789 by the wreck of the
_Adventure_ of Newcastle, the crew of which perished in the presence of
thousands, who could do nothing to save them. Models of lifeboats were
solicited, and premiums offered for the best. Among those who
responded, William Wouldhave, a painter, and Henry Greathead, a
boat-builder of South Shields, stood pre-eminent. The latter afterwards
became a noted builder and improver of lifeboats, and was well and
deservedly rewarded for his labours. In 1803 Greathead had built
thirty-one boats--eighteen for England, five for Scotland, and eight for
other countries. This was, so far, well, but it was a wretchedly
inadequate provision for the necessities of the case. It was not until
1822 that a great champion of the lifeboat cause stood forth in the
person of Sir William Hillary, Baronet.
Sir William, besides being a philanthropist, was a hero! He not only
devised liberal things and carried them into execution, but he
personally shared in the danger of rescuing life from the sea. He dwelt
on the shores of the Isle of Man, where he established a Sailors' Home
at Douglas. He frequently embarked in the boats that went off to rescue
lives from the wrecks that were constantly occurring on the island.
Once he had his ribs broken in this service, and was frequently in
imminent danger of being drowned. During his career he personally
assisted in the saving of 305 human lives! He was the means of stirring
up public men, and the nation generally, to a higher sense of their duty
towards those who, professionally and otherwise, risk their lives upon
the sea; and eventually, in conjunction with two Members of Parliament--
Mr Thomas Wilson and Mr George Herbert--was the founder of "THE ROYAL
NATIONAL INSTITUTION FOR THE PRESERVATION OF LIFE FROM SHIPWRECK." This
Institution--now named THE ROYAL NATIONAL LIFEBOAT INSTITUTION--was
founded on the 24th of March 1824, and has gone on progressively, doing
its noble work of creating and maintaining a lifeboat fleet, rescuing
the shipwrecked, and rewarding the rescuers, from that day to this.
When life does not require to be saved, and when opportunity offers, the
Society allows its boats to save _property_, of which we shall have
something more to say presently.
At the founding of the Institution in 1824, the Archbishop of Canterbury
of the day filled the chair; the great Wilberforce, Lord John Russell,
and other magnates, were present; the Dukes of Kent, Sussex, and other
members of the Royal family, became vice-patrons; the Duke of
Northumberland its vice-president, and George the Fourth its patron. In
1850 the much-lamented Prince Albert--whose life was a continual going
about doing good--became its vice-patron, and Her Majesty the Queen
became, and still continues, a warm supporter and an annual contributor.
Now, this is a splendid array of names and titles; but it ought ever to
be borne in remembrance that the Institution is dependent for its
continued existence on the public--on you and me, good reader--for it is
supported almost entirely by voluntary contributions. That it will
always find warm hearts to pray for it, and open hands to give, as long
as its boats continue, year by year, to pluck men, women, and children
from the jaws of death, and give them back to gladdened hearts on shore,
is made very apparent from the records published quarterly in _The
Lifeboat Journal_ of the Society, a work full of interesting
information. Therein we find that the most exalted contributor is Queen
Victoria--the lowliest, a sailor's orphan child!
Here are a few of the gifts to the Institution selected very much at
random:--One gentleman leaves it a legacy of 10,000 pounds. Some time
ago a sum of 5000 pounds was sent anonymously by "a friend." There
comes 100 pounds as a second donation from a sailor's daughter, and 50
pounds from a British admiral. Five shillings are sent as "the savings
of a child"; 1 shilling, 6 pence from another little child, in
postage-stamps; 15 pounds from "three fellow-servants"; 10 pounds from
"a shipwrecked pilot," and 10 shillings 6 pence from "an old salt."
Indeed, we can speak from personal experience on this subject, because,
among others, we received a letter, one day, in a cramped and peculiar
hand, which we perused with deep interest, for it had been written by a
_blind_ youth, whose eyes, nevertheless, had been thoroughly opened to
see the great importance of the lifeboat cause, for he had collected 100
pounds for the Institution! On another occasion, at the close of a
lecture on the subject, an old woman, who appeared to be among the
poorest of the classes who inhabit the old town of Edinburgh, came to us
and said, "Hae, there's tippence for the lifeboat!"
It cannot be doubted that these sums, and many, many others that are
presented annually, are the result of moral influences which elevate the
soul, and which are indirectly caused by the lifeboat service. We
therefore hold that the Institution ought to be regarded as a prolific
cause of moral good to the nation. And, while we are on this subject,
it may be observed that our lifeboat influence for good on other nations
is very considerable. In proof of this we cite the following facts:--
Finland sends 50 pounds to our Institution to testify its appreciation
of the good done by us to its sailors and shipping. The late President
Lincoln of the United States, while involved in all the anxieties of the
great civil war, found time to send 100 pounds to our Lifeboat
Institution, in acknowledgement of the services rendered to American
ships in distress. Russia and Holland send naval men to inspect our
lifeboat management. France, in generous emulation of ourselves, starts
a Lifeboat Institution of its own; and last, but not least, it has been
said, that "foreigners know when they are wrecked on the shores of
Britain by the persevering and noble efforts that are made to save their
lives!"
But there are some minds which do not attach much value to moral
influence, and to which material benefit is an all-powerful argument.
Well, then, to these we would address ourselves, but, in passing, would
remark that moral influence goes far to secure for us material
advantage. It is just because so many hundreds of human living souls
are annually preserved to us that men turn with glowing gratitude to the
rescuers and to the Institution which organises and utilises the latent
philanthropy and pluck of our coast heroes. On an average, 800 lives
are saved _every year_; while, despite our utmost efforts, 600 are lost.
Those who know anything about our navy, and our want of British seamen
to man our ships, cannot fail to see that the saving of so many valuable
lives is a positive material benefit to the nation. But to descend to
the lowest point, we maintain that the value of the lifeboats to the
nation, in the mere matter of saving property, is almost incredible. In
regard to these things, it is possible to speak definitely.
For instance, during stormy weather, it frequently happens that vessels
show signals of distress, either because they are so badly strained as
to be in a sinking condition, or so damaged that they are unmanageable,
or the crews have become so exhausted as to be no longer capable of
working for their own preservation. In such cases, the lifeboat puts
off with the intention, _in the first instance_, of saving _life_. It
reaches the vessel in distress; the boat's crew spring on board and
find, perhaps, that there is some hope of saving the ship. Knowing the
locality well, they steer her clear of rocks and shoals. Being fresh
and vigorous, they work the pumps with a will, manage to keep her
afloat, and finally steer her into port, thus saving ship and cargo as
well as crew.
Now, let it be observed that what we have here supposed is not
imaginary--it is not even of rare occurrence. It happens every year.
Last year thirty-eight ships were thus saved by lifeboats. The year
before, twenty-eight were saved. The year before that, seventeen.
Before that, twenty-one. As surely and regularly as the year comes
round, so surely and regularly are ships and property thus saved _to the
nation_.
It cannot be too well understood that a wrecked ship is not only an
individual, but a national loss. Insurance protects the individual, but
insurance cannot, in the nature of things, protect the nation. If you
drop a thousand sovereigns in the street, that is a loss to _you_, but
not to the _nation_. Some lucky individual will find the money and
circulate it. But if you drop it in the sea, it is lost, not only to
you, but to the nation to which you belong--ay, lost to the world itself
for ever! If a lifeboat, therefore, saves a ship worth 1000 pounds from
destruction, it literally presents that sum as a free gift to the
nation. We say a free gift, because the lifeboats are supported for the
purpose of saving life, not property.
A few remarks on the value of loaded ships will throw additional light
on this subject, and make more apparent the value of the Lifeboat
Institution. Take, first, the case of a ship which was actually saved
by a lifeboat. She was a large Spanish ship, which grounded on a bank
off the south coast of Ireland. The captain and crew forsook her, and
escaped to shore in their boats, but one man was inadvertently left on
board. Soon after, the wind moderated and shifted, the ship slipped off
the bank into deep water, and drifted to the northward. The crew of the
_Cahore_ lifeboat were on the look-out, observed the vessel passing,
launched their boat, and after a long pull against wind and sea, boarded
the vessel, and rescued the Spanish sailor. But they did more. Finding
seven feet of water in the hold, they rigged the pumps, trimmed the
sails, carried the ship into port, and handed her over to an agent for
the owners. This vessel and cargo were valued at 20,000 pounds, and we
think we are justified in saying that England, through the
instrumentality of her Lifeboat Institution, presented that handsome sum
to Spain upon that occasion!
But many ships are much more costly than that was. Some time ago a ship
named the _Golden Age_ was lost upon our shores; it was valued at
200,000 pounds. If that single ship had been one of the thirty-eight
saved last year (and it might have been), the sum thus saved to the
nation would have been more than sufficient to buy up all the lifeboats
in the kingdom twice over! But that ship was not amongst the saved. It
was lost. So was the _Ontario_ of Liverpool, which was wrecked in
October 1864, and valued at 100,000 pounds. Also the _Assaye_, wrecked
on the Irish coast, and valued at 200,000 pounds. Here are 500,000
pounds lost for ever by the wreck of these three ships alone in one
year! Do you know, reader, what such sums represent? Are you aware
that the value of the _Ontario_ alone is equal to the income for one
year of the London Missionary Society, wherewith it supports its
institutions at home and abroad, and spreads the blessed knowledge of
gospel truth over a vast portion of the globe?
But we have only spoken of three ships--no doubt three of the largest
size--yet only three of the lost. Couple the above figures with the
fact that the number of ships lost, or seriously damaged, _every year_,
on the shores of the United Kingdom is above _two thousand_, and you
will have some idea of one of the reasons why taxation is so heavy; and
if you couple them with the other fact, that, from twenty to thirty
ships, great and small, are saved by lifeboats every year, you will
perceive that, whatever amount may be given to the Lifeboat Institution,
it gives back to the nation _far more_ than it receives in _material
wealth_, not to mention human lives at all.
Its receipts in 1868 from all sources were 31,668 pounds, and its
expenditure 31,585 pounds. The lives saved by its own boats last year
were 603, in addition to which other 259 were saved by shore boats, for
which the Institution rewarded the crews with thirteen medals, and money
to the extent of above 6573 pounds, for all services.
The Lifeboat Institution has a little sister, whom it would be unjust,
as well as ungracious, not to introduce in passing, namely, the
SHIPWRECKED MARINERS' SOCIETY. They do their blessed work hand in hand.
Their relative position may be simply stated thus:--The Lifeboat
Institution saves life. Having dragged the shipwrecked sailor from the
sea, its duty is done. It hands him over to the agent of the
Shipwrecked Mariners' Society, who takes him by the hand, sees him
housed, warmed, clad and fed, and sends him home rejoicing, free of
expense, and with a little cash in his pocket. Formerly, shipwrecked
sailors had to beg their way to their homes. At first they were
sympathised with and well treated. Thereupon uprose a host of
counterfeits. The land was overrun by shipwrecked-mariner-beggars, and
as people of the interior knew not which was which, poor shipwrecked
Jack often suffered because of these vile impostors. But now there is
not a port in the kingdom without its agent of the Society. Jack has,
therefore, no need to beg his way. "The world" knows this; the deceiver
knows it too, therefore his occupation is gone! Apart from its
benignant work, the mere fact that the "little sister" has swept such
vagrants off the land entitles her to a strong claim on our gratitude.
She, also, is supported by voluntary contributions.
Turning now to another branch of our subject, let us regard for a little
the boats of the Lifeboat Institution.
"What is a lifeboat? Wherein does it differ from other boats?" are
questions sometimes put. Let us attempt a brief reply.
A lifeboat--that is to say, the present lifeboat--differs from all other
boats in four particulars:--1. It is _almost_ indestructible. 2. It is
insubmergible. 3. It is self-righting. 4. It is self-emptying. In
other words, it can hardly be destroyed; it cannot be sunk; it rights
itself if upset; it empties itself if filled. Let us illustrate these
points in succession. Here is evidence on the first point.
On a terrible night in 1857 a Portuguese brig struck on the Goodwin
Sands. The noble, and now famous, Ramsgate lifeboat was at once towed
out when the signal-rocket from the lightship was seen, indicating "a
wreck on the sands." A terrific battle with the winds and waves ensued.
At length the boat was cast off to windward of the sands, and bore down
on the brig through the shoal water, which tossed her like a cork on its
raging surface. They reached the brig and lay by her for some time in
the hope of getting her off, but failed. The storm increased, the
vessel began to break up, so her crew were taken into the boat, which--
having previously cast anchor to windward of the wreck, and eased off
the cable until it got under her lee--now tried to pull back to its
anchor. Every effort was fruitless, owing to the shifting nature of the
sands and the fury of the storm. At last nothing was left for it but to
hoist the sail, cut the cable, and make a desperate effort to beat off
the sands. In this also they failed; were caught on the crest of a
breaking roller, and borne away to leeward. Water and wind in wildest
commotion were comparatively small matters to the lifeboat, but want of
water was a serious matter. The tide happened to be out. The sands
were only partially covered, and over them the breakers swept in a
chaotic seething turmoil that is inconceivable by those who have not
witnessed it. Every one has seen the ripples on the seashore when the
tide is out. On the Goodwins these ripples are great banks, to be
measured by yards instead of inches. From one to another of these
sand-banks this boat was cast. Each breaker caught her up, hurled her
onward a few yards, and let her down with a crash that well-nigh tore
every man out of her, leaving her there a few moments, to be caught up
again and made sport with by the next billow. The Portuguese sailors,
eighteen in number, clung to the thwarts in silent despair, but the crew
of the boat did not lose heart. They knew her splendid qualities, and
hoped that, if they should only escape being dashed against the portions
of wreck which strewed the sands, all might yet be well. Thus,
literally fathom by fathom, with a succession of shocks that would have
knocked any ordinary boat to pieces, was this magnificent lifeboat
driven, during two hours in the dead of night, over two miles of the
Goodwin Sands! At last she drove into deep water on the other side; the
sails were set, and soon after, through God's mercy, the rescued men
were landed safely in Ramsgate Harbour. So, we repeat, the lifeboat is
almost indestructible.
That she is insubmergible has been proved by what has already been
written, and our space forbids giving further illustration, but a word
about the cause of this quality is necessary. Her floating power is due
to _air-chambers_ fitted round the sides under the seats and in the bow
and stern; also to empty space and light wood or cork ballast under her
floor. If thrust forcibly deep under water with as many persons in her
as could be stowed away, she would, on being released, rise again to the
surface like a cork.
The self-righting principle is one of the most important qualities of
the lifeboat. However good it may be in other respects, a boat without
this quality is a lifeboat only so long as it maintains its proper
position on the water. If upset it is no better than any other boat.
It is true that, great stability being one of the lifeboat's qualities,
such boats are not easily overturned. Nevertheless they sometimes are
so, and the results have been on several occasions disastrous. Witness
the case of the Liverpool boat, which in January 1865 upset, and the
crew of seven men were drowned. Also the Point of Ayr lifeboat, which
upset when under sail at a distance from the land, and her crew,
thirteen in number, were drowned. Two or three of the poor fellows were
seen clinging to the keel for twenty minutes, but no assistance could be
rendered. Now, both of these were considered good lifeboats, but they
were _not self-righting_. Numerous cases might be cited to prove the
inferiority of the non-self-righting boats, but one more will suffice.
In February 1858 the Southwold boat--a large sailing boat, esteemed one
of the finest in the kingdom, but _not_ self-righting--went out for
exercise, and was running before a heavy surf with all sail set, when
she suddenly ran on the top of a sea, broached-to and upset. The crew
in this case being near shore, and having on cork lifebelts, were
rescued, but three gentlemen who had gone off in her without lifebelts
were drowned. This case, and the last, occurred in broad daylight.
In contrast to these we give an instance of the action of the
self-righting lifeboat when overturned. It occurred on a dark stormy
night in October 1858. On that night a wreck took place off the coast
near Dungeness, three miles from shore. The small lifeboat belonging to
that place put off to the rescue. Eight stout men of the coastguard
composed her crew. She belonged to the National Lifeboat Institution--
all the boats of which are now built on the self-righting principle.
The wreck was reached soon after midnight, and found to have been
deserted by her crew; the boat therefore returned to the shore. While
crossing a deep channel between two shoals she was caught up and struck
by three heavy seas in succession. The coxswain lost command of the
rudder, and she was carried away before a sea, broached to and upset,
throwing the men out of her. Immediately she righted herself, cleared
herself of water, and the anchor having fallen out she was brought up by
it. The crew, meanwhile, having on lifebelts, regained the boat, got
into her by means of the lifelines hung round her sides, cut the cable,
and returned to the shore in safety!
The means by which the self-righting is accomplished are--two large
air-cases, one in the bow, the other in the stern, and a heavy iron
keel. These air-cases are rounded on the top and raised so high that a
boat, bottom up, resting on them, would be raised almost quite out of
the water. Manifestly, to rest on these pivots is an impossibility; the
overturned boat _must_ fall on its side, in which position the heavy
iron keel comes into play and drags the bottom down, thus placing the
boat violently and quickly in her proper position. The simple plan here
described was invented by the Reverend James Bremner, of Orkney, and
exhibited at Leith, near Edinburgh, in the year 1800. Mr Bremner's
aircases were empty casks in the bow and stern, and his ballast was
three hundredweight of iron attached to the keel.
This plan, however, was not made practically useful until upwards of
fifty years later, when twenty out of twenty-four men were lost by the
upsetting of the _non-self-righting_ lifeboat of South Shields. After
the occurrence of that melancholy event, the late Duke of
Northumberland--who for many years was one of the warmest supporters and
patrons of the Lifeboat Institution--offered a prize of 100 pounds for
the best self-righting lifeboat. It was gained by Mr Beeching, whose
boat was afterwards considerably altered and improved by Mr Peak.
The self-emptying principle is of almost equal importance with the
self-righting, for, in every case of putting off to a wreck, a lifeboat
is necessarily filled again and again with water--sometimes overwhelmed
by tons of it; and a boat full of water, however safe it may be, is
necessarily useless. Six large holes in the bottom of the boat effect
the discharge of water. There is an air-tight floor to the lifeboat,
which is so placed that when the boat is fully manned and loaded with
passengers it is _a very little above the level of the sea_. On this
fact the acting of the principle depends. Between this floor and the
bottom of the boat, a space of upwards of a foot in depth, there is some
light ballast of cork or wood, and some parts of the space are left
empty. The six holes above mentioned are tubes of six inches diameter,
which extend from the floor through the bottom of the boat. Now, it is
one of nature's laws that water _must_ find its level. For instance,
take any boat and bore large holes in its bottom, and suppose it to be
held up in its _ordinary_ floating position, so that it cannot sink,
then fill it suddenly quite full of water, it will be found that the
water _inside_ will run out until it is on a level with the water
_outside_. Water poured into a lifeboat will of course act in the same
way, but when that which has been poured into it reaches the level of
the water outside, _it has also reached the floor_: in other words,
there is no more water left to run out.
Such are the principal qualities of the splendid lifeboat now used on
our coasts, and of which it may be said that it has almost reached the
state of absolute perfection.
The Lifeboat Institution, which has been the means in God's hands of
saving so many thousands of human lives, is now in a high state of
efficiency and of well-deserved prosperity; both of which conditions are
due very largely to the untiring exertions and zeal of its present
secretary, Richard Lewis, Esquire, of the Inner Temple. Success is not
dependent on merit alone. Good though the lifeboat cause unquestionably
is, we doubt whether the Institution would have attained its present
high position so soon, had it not been guided thereto by the judicious
management of its committee--the members of which bestow laborious and
gratuitous service on its great and national work--aided by the able and
learned secretary and an experienced inspector of lifeboats (Captain
J.R. Ward, R.N.) both whose judgement and discretion have often been the
themes of deserved praise by the public.
That the claims of the Institution are very strong must be admitted by
all who reflect that during upwards of forty years it has been engaged
in the grand work of saving human lives. Up to the present date, it has
plucked 18,225 human beings from the waves, besides an incalculable
amount of valuable property. It is a truly national blessing, and as
such deserves the support of every man and woman in the kingdom. (See
footnote.)
But, to return from this prolonged yet by no means unnecessary
digression,--let us remind the reader that we left him at the meeting in
the town-hall of Covelly, of which, however, we will only say further,
that it was very enthusiastic and most successful. That the mayor,
having been stirred in spirit by the secretary's speech, redeemed
himself by giving vent to a truly eloquent oration, and laying on the
table a handsome contribution towards the funds of the Society. That
many of the people present gladly followed his lead, and that the only
interruption to the general harmony was the repeated attempts made by
Mr Joseph Dowler--always out of order--to inflict himself upon the
meeting; an infliction which the meeting persistently declined to
permit!
Thereafter the new lifeboat was conveyed to its house on the shore,
where, however, it had not rested many weeks before it was called into
vigorous action.
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For the sake of those who sympathise with us, and desire to give
substantial evidence of their goodwill, we would suggest that
contributions may be sent to the secretary, Richard Lewis, Esquire, 14
John Street, Adelphi, London.