Curiously enough, it happens that within six miles of the rock where the “Alice” struck, a splendidly brave thing was done, which serves in itself to illustrate the difference that is growing up between the race that lives by the factory and the men who earn their bread out-of-doors.  Passing southward from the Bondicar Rocks you come to a shallow stream that sprawls over the sand and ripples into the sea.  You wade this stream, and walk still southward by the side of rolling sand hills.  The wind hurls through the hollows, and the bents shine like grey armour on the bluffs of the low heights.  You are not likely to meet any one on your way, not even a tramp.  Presently the hills open, and you come to the prettiest village on the whole coast.  The green common slopes down to the sea, and great woods rustle and look glad all round the margin of the luxuriant grass-land.  Along the cliff straggle a few stone houses, and the square tower with its sinister arrow-holes dominates the row.  There is smooth water inshore; but half a mile or so out eastward there runs a low range of rocks.  One night a terrible storm broke on the coast.  The sea rose, and beat so furiously on the shore that the spray flew over the Fisher Row, and yellow sea foam was blown in patches over the fields.  The waters beyond the shore were all in a white turmoil, save where, far off, the grey clouds laid their shoulders to the sea and threw down leaden shadows.  Most of the ships had gone south about; but one little brig got stuck hard-and-fast on the ledge of rocks that runs below the village.  She had eight men aboard of her, and these had to take to the rigging; where the people on shore heard them shouting.  It is a fearful kind of noise, the crying of men in a wrecked ship.  Morning broke, and the weather was wilder than ever.  There was no lifeboat in the place, and it was plain that the vessel could not stand the rage of the breakers much longer.  It was hard to see the ship at all, the spray came in so thickly.  The women were crying and wringing their hands on the bank; but that was of small avail.  However, one little trouting-boat lay handy, and her owner determined to go off in her to the brig.  He was a fine fellow to look at—­quite a remarkable specimen of a man, indeed.  Without any flurry, without a sign of emotion on his face, he said, “Who’s coming?” His two sons stepped out, and the boat was moved towards the water’s edge.

Just then a carter came down to look at the wreck.  The carter’s mare was terror-stricken by the wrath of the sea, and galloped down the beach.  In passing the coble the mare plunged, and the axle-tree of the cart staved in the head of the boat below the water-line.  This was very bad; but the leader of the forlorn hope did not give himself time to waver.  Taking off his coat, he stuffed it into the hole; and then, calling in another volunteer, he said, “Sit against that.”  The men took their places very coolly, and the little boat was thrust out amid