weed, the huge mass presented the form of
an anchor. It was accordingly shipped on
the lugger, and brought to Broadstairs, where
it now lies near the flagstaff. A gentleman
in the neighbourhood gave the boatmen five
pounds for this curiosity, and offered it to the
British Museum; his offer was declined
on the ground that room could noi be found
for it.

My reasons for concluding that this anchor
belonged to one of the ships of the Spanish
Armada, are, that no one ever saw an English
anchor of the same peculiar shape, and that
for many years past the anchors of foreign
sljips have not resembled this anchor, which
is a mass of stone, containing but a very
small quantity of iron. It must have lain in
the spot whence it was removed, for more
than two hundred years. The length of the
shank is fifteen feet. The width from flue
to flue only seven feet; the circumference of
the ring, to which the help-cable was
attached, seven feet. The opinion of several
naval officers, who have seen the anchor, is,
like mine, that it belonged to one of the large
ships of the Spanish Armada. Its weight is
about a ton and a half.

But, where are our life-boats and the
luggers? They have returned—safe, but not
sound. All of them have been damaged in
saving the ship's company, and conveying
them to Ramsgate. The Mary White has a
large hole in her bow. A sea threw her
against the wreck. An ordinary boat would
have gone down immediately; but the Mary
White was not built to sink. She was the
first to board the wreck, and her crew will
get a larger share of the prize. The reader
must understand that when a ship gets
ashore, boats from Deal and Ramsgate, as
well as from Broadstairs, put off to her assistance,
and there is in consequence a race to be
first.

The wrecked ship is a Prussian vessel of
about seven hundred tons. She is laden with
timber—spars and oak planks, and staves:
a very valuable cargo—but the hovellers
despair of saving it—the weather is so bad,
and the chances are the ship will go to pieces.
Two young men offer to sell their shares for
five shillings each; no one accepts the
offer.

On the following day the weather is
comparatively fine, though there is still a strong
breeze. The luggers are going off to the
wreck. Having nothing better to do, I go
in one of them—old Taylor having
promised me, on his solemn word and honour,
that he will bring me back again. It is
dead low water, and there is the Prussian
ship high and dry upon the sands.
What a scene! In all, some eighty men are
swarming round the wreck. Some from
Broadstairs, some from Ramsgate, some from
Deal. They have cut away the masts, in
order to lighten her, and in the hope of
eventually saving the hull of the vessel. And
now they cut a large hole in her starboard
bow, and begin to pull the timber through it.
How jauntily they work, and how willingly
the different sets of men respectively help
each other. Thus they labour until the tide
rises, and the sea gets up, when all the boats
return to their respective ports, laden with
as many planks as they could get hold of.

Day after day for twelve days this scene is
repeated. The ship holds together, but her
back is broken. She is now much lighter,
and a hope springs in every breast, that at
the full of the moon, when the tides are at
their height, they will get her off, and save,
not only the hull, but the great bulk of her
cargo, which is still in her. Should this hope
be realised, it is computed that each man
will get twenty pounds for his share; no
insignificant sum for a hoveller, in these hard
times. If she cannot be got off, the boats
employed will not pay their expenses.

The moon is at her full. It is a fine clear
night; but there is a stiff breeze. All the
boats are out watching the wreck. Hurrah!
Off she comes by herself, and, being water-
logged and full of timber, she floats! An
anchor and chain are all ready for her, and
there she rides, snugly enough.

The next morning a steamer comes from
Ramsgate, and takes the wreck in tow. As
soon as she struck on the sands, her rudder
was wrenched off and carried away; but, one
of the Broadstairs luggers, towed astern, acts
as a helm upon her. The little steamer tugs
away with all her might and main, but her
burden is so heavy, that her progress is very
very slow.

It is eleven o'clock at night, and the
steamer and the wreck are within a mile of
Ramsgate harbour. The tide is nearly at its
height, and all promises well. Suddenly the
wind increases, and in a few minutes it blows
a perfect hurricane. The little steamer tugs
away, and gets within the mouth of the
harbour—the wreck is still outside. A sea
strikes her. She touches the pier head.
The warp snaps asunder, and the wreck
comes round to the back of the pier, and
drifts upon the Ramsgate Sands. She lies on
the very spot where the visitors in summer,
at low water, sit upon benches and chairs,
and where the little children dig holes and
form castles. No vessel of that size was ever
before so close to the shore as that large
Prussian ship; and the chances are, that no
vessel of her size will ever be there again.

The sea breaks over the wreck. And now
there is a great commotion amongst the
Broadstairs hovellers. It seems that five of
their number are on board the wreck! And
their situation is awfully perilous. Some
twenty men lift the Ramsgate life-boat, and
carry it to the beach. Scarcely able to stand
—so violent is the tempest—they launch the
life-boat, and pull for the wreck. In twenty
minutes they return with the five hands,
saved.