Of one man, in particular, it was observed, that during their hurried rush to the shore, he was, with what breath his haste allowed him, assuring the rest every moment, “she would be down before they could get there,” and heard the ejaculations of “Christ save us! don’t say that,” “No, please God, we’ll do some good,” with a laugh almost of triumph. When they arrived, this man scaled a rock at the risk of his life, caught a view of the vessel, pointed out her desperate situation to those below, and shouted, “Didn’t I tell you so? wasn’t I right?” And as the storm increased, his voice was still heard, “wasn’t I right?” And when the cries of the perishing crew were distinctly wafted to their ears, he was still heard in the interval repeating, “But wasn’t I right?” Singular sentiment of pride, that can erect its trophies amid the grave. ’Tis in this spirit we give advice to those who suffer from life, as well as from the elements; and when the heart of the victim breaks, console ourselves by exclaiming, “_Didn’t I foretell it all?_ did I not tell you how it would be?” It is remarkable that this man lost his life that very night in the most desperate and fruitless attempt to save the life of one of the crew who was swimming within six yards of him. The whole shore was now crowded with helpless gazers, every crag and cliff was manned; it seemed like a battle fought at once by sea and land, between hope and despair. No effectual assistance could be rendered,--not a boat could live in that gale,--yet still, and to the last, cheers were heard from rock to rock,--terrible cheers, that announced safety was near and--impossible;--lanthorns held aloft in all directions, that displayed to the sufferers the shore all peopled with life, and the roaring and impassable waves between;--ropes flung out, with loud cries of help and encouragement, and caught at by some chilled, nerveless, and despairing hand, that only grasped the wave,--relaxed its hold,--was tossed once over the sinking head,--and then seen no more. It was at this moment that Melmoth, starting from his trance of terror, and looking round him, saw all, to the number of hundreds, anxious, restless, and occupied; and, though obviously in vain, the sight cheered his heart. “How much good there is in man,” he cried, “when it is called forth by the sufferings of his fellows!” He had no leisure or inclination, then, to analyse the compound he called good, and resolve it into its component parts of curiosity, strong excitement, the pride of physical strength, or the comparative consciousness of safety. He had, indeed, no leisure, for just then he descried, standing a few yards above him on the rock, a figure that shewed neither sympathy or terror,--uttered no sound,--offered no help. Melmoth could hardly keep his footing on the slippery and rocking crag on which he stood; the figure, who stood still higher, appeared alike unmoved by the storm, as by the spectacle. Melmoth’s surtout, in spite