A loud cry from one of the crew startled me; I turned to the river, and beheld a man struggling in the water a short distance from our vessel.  He was a young sailor, who had fallen from the bowsprit of a ship near us.

There is something terribly exciting in beholding a fellow-creature in imminent peril, without having the power to help him.  To witness his death-struggles—­to feel in your own person all the dreadful alternations of hope and fear—­and, finally, to see him die, with scarcely an effort made for his preservation.  This was our case.

At the moment he fell into the water, a boat with three men was within a few yards of the spot, and actually sailed over the spot where he sank.  Cries of “Shame!” from the crowd collected upon the bank of the river, had no effect in rousing these people to attempt the rescue of a perishing fellow-creature.  The boat passed on.  The drowning man again rose to the surface, the convulsive motion of his hands and feet visible above the water, but it was evident that the struggle would be his last.

“Is it possible that they will let a human being perish, and so near the shore, when an oar held out would save his life?” was the agonising question at my heart, as I gazed, half-maddened by excitement, on the fearful spectacle.  The eyes of a multitude were fixed upon the same object—­but not a hand stirred.  Every one seemed to expect from his fellow an effort which he was incapable of attempting himself.

At this moment—­splash! a sailor plunged into the water from the deck of a neighbouring vessel, and dived after the drowning man.  A deep “Thank God!” burst from my heart.  I drew a freer breath as the brave fellow’s head appeared above the water.  He called to the man in the boat to throw him an oar, or the drowning man would be the death of them both.  Slowly they put back the boat—­the oar was handed; but it came too late!  The sailor, whose name was Cook, had been obliged to shake off the hold of the dying man to save his own life.  He dived again to the bottom, and succeeded in bringing to shore the body of the unfortunate being he had vainly endeavoured to succour.  Shortly after, he came on board our vessel, foaming with passion at the barbarous indifference manifested by the men in the boat.

“Had they given me the oar in time, I could have saved him.  I knew him well—­he was an excellent fellow, and a good seaman.  He has left a wife and three children in Liverpool.  Poor Jane!—­how can I tell her that I could not save her husband?”

He wept bitterly, and it was impossible for any of us to witness his emotion without joining in his grief.

From the mate I learned that this same young man had saved the lives of three women and a child when the boat was swamped at Grosse Isle, in attempting to land the passengers from the Horsley Hill.

Such acts of heroism are common in the lower walks of life.  Thus, the purest gems are often encased in the rudest crust; and the finest feelings of the human heart are fostered in the chilling atmosphere of poverty.