Last year, during a gale off shore, eleven boats of different sizes, one an iron steamer, dragged into a corner of the harbour and crunched one another into matchwood. There was no '_sea_,' only a disordered and irregular 'chop.' The 'Iris,' drawing only a few feet of water and anchored within an inch or two of the bottom, could not be approached by any dragging or sailing boat of greater draught; long before reaching her they would be fast aground. [Illustration: 'Graphic' artists at work during the gale of October 5, 1892.] In the evening, after our labours for our friends ashore had been satisfactorily completed, we pulled aboard fairly dry, and in a few moments were seated at dinner, the boat perfectly upright and immovable, with about 2 ft. 6 in. of water around us. The lamps gave a rich glow of colour and glitter to our table, all the more comfortable from the contrast with the sudden cold without and the howling and moaning of the gale. After coffee we lounged on deck, well wrapped up, to enjoy a cigar and observe the storm. The lighthouse lamps burned brilliantly, and the anchor lights of the craft in harbour flickered and struggled for a feeble existence, their movements showing that over there at any rate there was rolling and uneasiness. Here, our steadiness was enjoyable, as was also our dry deck, due to our bulwarks of over 2 ft. high. Suddenly above the breakwater appeared a black pyramid, growing bigger every moment; then another, then many. They were fishing-vessels beating for the harbour for shelter, but they slowly disappeared one by one; they had gone about on the other tack; we might shortly expect them in. Soon there struggled in the narrow mouth the shadow of a close-reefed trawler of sixty tons or so. Why does she stop? Is she on the rocks at the light? No, she has missed stays; there is not room to do more than drift astern, and she disappears in the darkness. And in less than half an hour she will try again, for the harbour has a difficult entrance. A few minutes afterwards there rushes in a more fortunate vessel; then comes another, and another--each in turn makes straight for us, but we smoke quietly; we know they cannot approach. Still they are near enough to enable us to hear, above the fighting winds, the shrill cries of the men to 'Let draw,' or 'Hold on, Pat,' the rattling of blocks, the vicious flap of the canvas and shock of the heavy boom as each vessel goes about, and soon the rattling of cables as anchors are dropped, followed by such silence as the gale permits, while the men seek some rest after a heavy battle with nature. In the meantime the occupants of the other boats at anchor have had serious moments; dangerously near came some of the fishing vessels, and even when anchors had been let go anxious eyes blinkingly peered against the salt, blinding wind to see if the trawlers' anchors held, and that the boats were not drifting down upon them with inevitable result. Skippers also watched