252 THE SEA. 



feply to your inquiry for some honest fisherman who may have been your boatman 

 round the promontory, or your guide through the windings of the caves."* Many a 

 fisherman's widow or mother thinks sadly there of the husband or son who will no 

 more return. 



" Down on the sands, where the red light pales, 

 I sit and watch for the fisher's sails ; 

 And my heart throbs still with the old, old pain, 

 For the boat that will never come back again : 

 But a new world waits for my love and me, 

 A world of peace, where is no more sea. 



" For God is good, and the gift He gave 

 Is held a while by the silver wave. 

 Not lost, but hidden ; I may not weep, 

 While he is at rest in the silent deep, 

 And the voice of an angel speaks to me 

 Of the fair new home, where is no more sea." t 



Filey, a quiet watering-place, is sheltered by the above-named headland, and its 

 ^pretty terraces, squares, shrubs, trees, and flowers, its sands where a band plays daily 

 during the season, afford a strong contrast to the ofttimes turbulent ocean without. 

 The title of the place is derived from the ancient name, "The File," given to a rocky 

 tongue of land which shoots out into the sea, and serves in every respect as a breakwater 

 to the place. Outside, in heavy seas, great pieces of rock may be seen rolling and tumbling 

 ; about, swayed at the will of the waves. This is called Filey "Brig" (bridge), and the pro- 

 montory is said to have a great resemblance to the mole at Tangiers. Its extremity can be 

 reached at low water, and from thence most lovely views of Scarborough cliffs and its castle 

 and Flamborough Head are obtained. At high water the Brig is overflowed, and the waves 

 often cause a white spray against its rocks, which throw it high in the air. The effect from 

 the esplanade is, for want of a better simile, very much like a concentration of white plumes. 



One Sunday afternoon, but one on which no Sabbath bell could be heard at sea, nor on 

 the usual quiet shores of Filey, a sad event occurred. It was seven in the evening ; the wind 

 had suddenly chopped round from south to north, and now there fell, with the noise of an angry 

 sea rushing over a sandy desert, a terrific shower of hailstones, and tempestuous weather con- 

 tinued through the night. At daybreak the sea ran mountains high, and the storm continued 

 with unabated fury. The wind blew a hurricane ; the sleet came down as dense as a London 

 fog, and obscured the sea from the eyes of the anxious inhabitants of Filey, and Filey from the 

 eager eyes and listening ears of the tempest-tossed sailor. At nine o' clock the sky cleared, and 

 the people of Filey beheld a stout brig, in company with three or four more vessels, labouring 

 on in the heavy sea under close-reefed topsails, and distant scarcely three miles. 



She showed signs as if she had been in collision with some other vessel, or was terribly 

 battered and storm-riven. After getting about two miles south of the buoy, she was seen to 

 heel over on to her beam ends, stagger, struggle to right herself, and, as if aware of the entire 

 fruitlessness of the attempt, and giving up in despair, to go down with an awful suddenness, 

 taking all hands with her her name unknown, her history unrecorded. The only epitaph in 



* " Visits to the Sea Coasts," in The Shipwrecked Mariner. t Sarah Doudney. 



