they could get, but nobody troubled themselves for the lives of these miserable creatures.” “Those sons of plunder are below my pen, Because they are below the names of men; Who from the shores presenting to their eyes The fatal Goodwin, where the wreck of navies lies, A thousand dying sailors talking to the skies, From the sad shores they saw the wretches walk; By signals of distress they talk: Here with one tide of life they’re vext, For all were sure to die the next. The barbarous shores with men and boats abound, The men more barbarous than the shores are found. Off to the shatter’d ships they go, And for the floating purchase row. They spare no hazard, or no pain, But ’tis to save the goods, and not the men; Within the sinking suppliants’ reach appear, As if they mock’d their dying fear, Then for some trifle all their hopes supplant With cruelty would make a Turk relent.” And thus, with indignation, he concludes: “If I had any satire left to write, Could I with suited spleen indite, My verse should blast that fatal town, And drowned sailors’ widows pull it down. No footsteps of it should appear, And ships no more cast anchor there. The barbarous hated name of Deal shou’d die, Or be a term of infamy. And till that’s done, the town will stand A just reproach to all the land.” A bright contrast was afforded by the noble conduct of the Mayor of Deal, one Thomas Powell, a slop-seller, who appealed successfully to these callous wretches’ hopes of gain by offering five shillings a head for every life saved. He had in the first instance entreated the Customs House officials to put out to save them, but without success, and the boats were refused; whereupon he and his mercenaries took them by force. More than two hundred of the shipwrecked were thus rescued; but even when brought ashore there was no shelter or food to be procured for them by appealing to officials, and the generous Powell was at the costs and charges of feeding, sheltering, and clothing the castaways. Further, he buried those who died, and paid the travelling expenses to Gravesend of the survivors. Defoe’s biting indictment came home to the inhabitants of Deal, and, after a considerable time for thinking it over, they grew angry and resentful about it, in proportion to the truth of the charges. Thus we find them on June 21st, 1705, despatching the following letter: