(Owing to the excellent discipline which Captain Bourchier had established, and to the courage of the boys, only twelve lives were lost out of the crew of five hundred).

Let me give you an example of self-denial which comes from near home. I will speak to you of what has been done by little boys of seven, of eight, of twelve, of thirteen;—little English boys, and English boys with very few advantages of birth; not brought up, as most of you are, in quiet, orderly homes, but taken from the London workhouses. I will speak to you of what such little boys have done, not fifteen hundred, or even two hundred years ago, but last week—last Wednesday, on the river Thames.

Do you know of whom I am thinking? I am thinking of the little boys, nearly five hundred, who were taken from different workhouses in London, and put to school to be trained as sailors on board the ship which was called after the name of the giant whom David slew—the training-ship Goliath.

About eight o'clock on Wednesday morning that great ship suddenly caught fire, from the upsetting of a can of oil in the lamp-room. It was hardly daylight. In a very few minutes the ship was on fire from one end to the other, and the fire-bell rang to call the boys to their posts. What did they do? Think of the sudden surprise, the sudden danger—the flames rushing all around them, and the dark, cold water below them! Did they cry, or scream, or fly about in confusion? No; they ran each to his proper place.

They had been trained to do that—they knew that it was their duty; and no one forgot himself; no one lost his presence of mind. They all, as the captain said: "behaved like men." Then, when it was found impossible to save the ship, those who could swim jumped into the water by order of the captain, and swam for their lives. Some, also at his command, got into a boat; and then, when the sheets of flame and the clouds of smoke came pouring out of the ship, the smaller boys for a moment were frightened, and wanted to push away.

But there was one among them—the little mate: his name was William Bolton: we are proud that he came from Westminster: a quiet boy, much loved by his comrades—who had the sense and courage to say: "No; we must stay and help those that are still in the ship." He kept the barge alongside the ship as long as possible, and was thus the means of saving more than one hundred lives!

There were others who were still in the ship while the flames went on spreading. They were standing by the good captain, who had been so kind to them all, and whom they all loved so much. In that dreadful crisis they thought more of him than of themselves. One threw his arms round his neck and said: "You'll be burnt, Captain;" and another said: "Save yourself before the rest." But the captain gave them the best of all lessons for that moment. He said: "That's not the way at sea, my boys."

He meant to say—and they quite understood what he meant—that the way at sea is to prepare for danger beforehand, to meet it manfully when it comes, and to look at the safety, not of oneself, but of others. The captain had not only learned that good old way himself, but he also knew how to teach it to the boys under his charge.

Dean Stanley