on the eighteenth of July, eighteen
hundred and fifty, to the boatmen, by Mr.
Thomas White, of the Isle of Wight, a boat-
builder; in memory of this his native place.
The Mary White is thirty feet long, six feet
four across her beam, aud twenty-eight inches
deep. She pulls six oars. Upon a brass
plate screwed to her stern locker are the
following words: " To the Crew.—Put your
trust in God, and do your best."

In the winter of eighteen hundred and
fifty, a new vessel, a brig, was wrecked on the
Godwin Sands. The Mary White, manned
by eight men—poor Chattenden among
the number—went to her assistance. This
was the first occasion on which the Mary
White was used. Seven of the brig's crew
were saved. Three were washed overboard.
Strange to say, the name of the wrecked
vessel was the Mary White! The gallant;
conduct of the Broadstairs boatmen on this
occasion was spread far and near; and it is
pleasing to reflect that Mr. Thomas White
has made a small fortune by building boats
on the model of the one which he presented
to the boatmen of his native place. Reader,
have you ever felt something like a respect
for a thing inanimate? I confess that I
never pass the Mary White, as she stands
upon our pier, without patting her on the
bow, just as one pats the neck of a favourite
horse. The men who put to sea in her
appear to love her: " She is such a darling,
and always behaves so well," they say.

But hark! There is the report of a gun;
and, behold! a rocket ascends.

"There is a ship on shore, safe enough."

"Jump in, my lads—out oars! Now then
—off she goes!"

There is a heavy sea running into the
little bay, and the surf breaks over the Mary
White; but she plunges through it, and
presently we hear them setting the sail. The
second life-boat follows the Mary White;
and now the luggers are under weigh. Save
those laid up with rheumatism, there is not
a hoveller left in Broadstairs. Why the
men employed in saving life and property
are called hovellers, I know not, and no one
here can inform me.

God speed them on their way! While
they are absent, let us afford a few particulars
touching these venturesome men. They
are, for the most part, married, and have
large families. The wives, in their way,
work as hard on shore as their husbands work
on the sea. One takes in washing and ironing;
a second, needlework: a third keeps a
small shop for the sale of ginger-bread,
ginger-beer, lollypops, &c., all of which she
makes herself; a fourth has a fruit and
vegetable shop; a fifth binds shoes; and so on.

When at home, on shore, the hoveller leads
a rather lazy life. You may see him leisurely
strolling about the pier, or up and down
Albion Street, smoking; and now and then
you may observe him slanting into the Tartar
Frigate or the Dolphin, and coming out
again after partaking of some liquid refreshment.
But, you rarely see a hoveller drunk
or noisy. The truth is, a hoveller can
carry a great deal without feeling it; and,
like a prudent man, he knows pretty well
when to bring himself up. Some of the
youngsters, after a good haul, go away, and
are no more heard of until their money is
expended; but, the bulk are men who drink
as much as they can afford at home, and are
seldom out of their houses after half-past
eight or nine o'clock, at which time, during
the winter months, they usually go to bed.
The hoveller, in short, is, to all intents
and purposes, a good member of society.
He is almost invariably a kind and
affectionate husband, an indulgent and good
father, and anything but a bad friend. As
far as I can see (and I have a very large
acquaintance with our hovellers), the wife, in
nine cases out of ten, rules the roast,
manages the household, and takes care of the
bulk of the money received for a prize.

If a hoveller has a son, he is anxious that
he should learn a trade, although he may
intend the boy for the sea eventually. One
hoveller whom I know, is by trade a
butcher; a second, a baker; a third, a blacksmith;
a fourth, a carpenter. From childhood
up, the sons of a hoveller know all
about boats, and how to manage them.

The daughters of a hoveller, as soon as they
are old enough, go into service, and are for
the most part very steady and industrious
girls.

The house of a hoveller is a curious
place. It is very clean and comfortable,
but lined with tarpaulin garments—coats,
jackets, trousers, caps. And then he has
such a propensity to pitch every outside
wall and railing, that the smell, albeit
it is very wholesome, is nevertheless
overpowering. The back-yard is even more
curious than the house. Bits of panelling
from wrecked vessels, bottles and jars of
every nation—and of every size, shape, and
colour—cooking utensils, bits of old iron, a
broken boat, an odd oar or two: each telling a
tale of some disaster on the "Gooden," where
these matters are mostly picked up. A hoveller
found there, the other day, several vases
of the best Bohemian glass and workmanship.
Sometimes a watch, or a pencil-case, will be
picked up on the sand, at low water. But
amongst the most extraordinary things found
by our hovellers on or near the Godwin Sands
was an anchor, which must have belonged to
one of the largest vessels of the Spanish
Armada. The men were out, about two
years and a half ago, grappling for a chain-
cable belonging to a ship that had gone to
pieces, and they got hold of something uncommon
heavy. They got it to the surface with
great difficulty, and, finding it covered with
shell-fish and seaweed, fancied that it was a
piece of rock. On clearing away the seaweed