CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIII.Sketches of our East Coasts:—Norfolk—Yorkshire.Harwich; its fine Harbour—Thorpeness and its Hero—Beautiful Situation of Lowestoft—Yarmouth; its Antiquity—Quays, Bridges—The Roadstead—Herring and Mackerel Fishing—Curing Red Herrings and Bloaters—A Struggle for Life—Encroachments of the Sea—A Dangerous Coast—Flamborough Head—Perils of the Yorkshire Fisherman’s Life—“The sea gat him!”—Filey and its Quiet Attractions—Natural Breakwater—A Sad Tale of the Sea—Scarborough; Ancient Records—The Terrible and the Gay—TheCouplandHelpless—Lifeboat out—Her men thrown out—Boat crushed against Sea Wall—Two Killed—Futile Attempts at Rescue—A Lady’s Description of a Scarborough Gale—Whitby—Robin Hood’s Bay—An Undermined Town.Proceeding now to the east coast of our island, we come to a series of places interesting to the men of the sea, and some of them renowned as watering-places. Leaving the mouth of the Thames, we soon arrive at Harwich, which is acquiring considerable importance in view of the Continental routes with which it is connected. It is situated on high land at the mouth of the Stour, and near the confluence of the latter with the Orwell, immediately opposite the well-known Landguard Fort. The shore is bold, and the views of the German Ocean, with its ever-shifting fleets of native and foreign vessels, are grand and extensive. It has a breakwater, dockyard, and magnificent harbour, in which, it is said, more than 100 vessels of the Royal Navy and between 300 and 400 colliers have ridden at one time. There are steamers constantly plying to Ipswich, about twelve miles up the Orwell—a river famous for the beautiful scenery of its banks. Ipswich itself, celebrated as the birthplace of Cardinal Wolsey, is the largest market town and port of Suffolk, and possesses respectable-sized docks and ship-yards, and any quantity of interesting buildings of the mediæval period.HARWICH.HARWICH.Thorpeness, a dreary little place near Aldborough, on our way up the coast, would not attract the tourist, but it was long the residence of one of Suffolk’s heroes. Joseph Chard commenced life as a carpenter, but was soon found at Thorpeness, where he lived in a little cottage built by himself, and owned an old boat, which cost him originally fifty shillings, in which he followed the calling of bumboatman, or purveyor of provisions and odds and ends to passing ships, from which he frequently conveyed messages to shore. Gradually he saved money, and, uniting his old and new trades, built a fine boat, which cost him twenty-five pounds. In three or four years more he was rich enough to purchase a fast-sailing yawl, which a gang of smugglers were obliged to relinquish about that time, and with which Chard won the prize at the next Aldborough Regatta from a host of born watermen. Not content with these successes, he bought and studied a coasting-book and chart, and soon emerged a full-fledged[pg 248]pilot for one of the most dangerous localities, the Sands of the Swin—a study almost as difficult as biquadratic equations. He assisted at various times in saving 109 lives, no less than eighty of which were rescued in his own boat, appropriately named theThorpeness Stormy Petrel.Farther north, and standing upon the most easterly point in all England, the important seaport of Lowestoft is situated. The town is placed on a lofty eminence, from which fine sea-views are obtained, and the side of the cliff descends gradually in hanging gardens or terraces covered with trees and shrubs, below which is a long line of buildings appropriated to the curing of fish. It has two harbours, with piers. The herring (more especially) and the mackerel fisheries employ from 1,500 to 2,000 men and boys, while the industries connected with the sea commence at twine and rope making and end in ship-building. There is a chapel for British and foreign sailors, six almshouses for poor master fishermen, and two lifeboats.Yarmouth next demands our attention. It derives its name from its situation at the mouth of the river Yare, and it is, as all know, both a flourishing fishing-town and a watering-place. Its antiquity is great; there are records of it anterior to Roman times. In the eleventh century, at the time of the Conquest, it was known asMoche Gærnemouth, or Great Yarmouth. In 1004, Sweyn, king of Denmark, arrived before it with a powerful fleet, and plundered and burnt the town. It soon rose again. In 1132, artisans, implements,[pg 249]and looms were brought over from the Continent, and spinning was commenced at Worstead, a small town which gave to the yarn the name it still bears. The old town of Yarmouth was formerly defended by walls of which the ruins still remain.YARMOUTH.YARMOUTH.Among the features of Yarmouth are the great broad quays, extending about a mile-and-a-quarter, the principal streets running parallel with them. There are several substantial bridges across the Yare and Bure rivers, one over the latter having been erected on the spot where nearly eighty people were suddenly precipitated into the water by the fall of the old bridge some thirty-eight years ago. There are several small docks and shipyards. Yarmouth Roads afford safe anchorage, and are constantly resorted to by vessels in distress, the captains of which do not dare to brave the elements outside. Forty thousand sail, exclusive of fishing boats, annually pass this part of the coast. The Roads are formed by several very dangerous sands, which, in foggy weather, or when heavy gales sweep the coasts, occasion many fearful shipwrecks. More than 500 vessels have been stranded, wrecked, or utterly lost off this coast in the short period of three years; as a necessary consequence, the loss of life is also considerable, and the number of shipwrecked mariners who are landed at Yarmouth year after year is very large. The Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society has an important branch there. There is a fine Sailors’ Home, which has lodged 600 to 700 poor seamen in a single year. It was established to provide a home for the mariners of all nations, when wrecked, detained by stress[pg 250]of weather, or paid off, in the latter cases giving them board and medical attendance, if required, at the lowest possible charge. It possesses a museum, library, and reading-room, and a collection of charts and nautical instruments. The two lifeboats of Yarmouth have been the means of saving several thousand lives. There is also a little church and mission for fishermen and sailors near the beach, and a mariners’ chapel.The mackerel fisheries of Yarmouth alone employ one thousand men, but the herring fishery is the most important source of revenue to the town, the produce exceeding one hundred thousand barrels per annum, or one-fifth of the entire yield of the kingdom. A large number of persons of both sexes are employed on shore in drying and curing the fish. The Yarmouth boats with two masts (three during the mackerel season) are manned by twelve or thirteen hands. They have the letters Y. H. and a number painted on the bows. They are now of about sixty-five tons builders’ measurement, many of graceful forms, and are fast sailers. A single boat will often take a hundred and twenty or thirty thousand fish in one night.In salting herrings the fish are simply gutted and placed in the barrels in alternate layers with salt. Having been allowed to remain in that condition for some few days the barrel is found to contain a quantity of floating liquid, which is poured off; more herrings and layers of salt are added. The branding consists of affixing the month and day on which they were caught and cured, the name and address of the curer, and the presence or absence of the gills and alimentary canal.“Red”herrings are made so by first being placed in salt for three or four days, then being hung on spits which hold about twenty fish apiece. These spits are plunged several times in cold water, and after being sufficiently washed, are then removed to the open air and dried. Next they are suspended from the roof of the smoking-house, which has wood fires on the floor. Those for English use are smoked for ten days or so, but those for exportation often remain as long as three weeks before being packed. As has been mentioned elsewhere, they are used by the negroes of the West Indies as a medicinal corrective to the bad effects of a constant vegetable and fruit diet. Bloaters are cured more speedily. They are placed for a few hours only in a strong brine, are then spitted and well washed in cold water, and are smoked very slightly for about eight hours only, when they are ready for packing.And now for an incident which occurred some years since, and which was indeed a“struggle for life,”although eventually the sufferer was landed at Yarmouth. It is a sad truism that danger is never so near to us as when we have least apparent cause to fear its presence, and the narrow escape of a seaman, named Charles Hayman, from a melancholy death, with his vessel in sight of his native soil, is only another of the many exemplifications of this stern truth. He belonged to the schoonerOsprey, of London, and had just made a successful passage from Lagos, on the West Coast of Africa, with a cargo of palm oil. TheOspreywas brought up and anchored off the North Foreland, when a tremendous sea rose and tore her from her anchors, driving her helpless and unmanageable into the North Sea.Those on board at once made signals of distress, which were seen by the gallant little smack,Fear Not, truly a most appropriate name, and her sturdy crew at once went to the assistance of the disabled schooner. The master of the smack offered to take the crew of theOspreyon board, and the mate of theOsprey, believing her past all power of saving, gladly accepted the generous offer. The hurricane was still raging furiously, and it was with the[pg 251]greatest difficulty that a boat could be lowered from theOsprey, but pluck and perseverance succeeded at last, and the valuables and ship’s papers were, without delay, stowed away in the boat. The mate and Charles Hayman were the first to embark in the tiny craft, which was attached to the schooner by a rope, and the remainder of the crew were about to follow them, when a heavier sea than they had had as yet to contend against snapped the line and cast the boat adrift.The waves washed over and into the boat, threatening to swamp it at any moment. Hayman and the mate failed completely to bale the water out, in spite of their incessant endeavours to do so, and Hayman, foreseeing the inevitable, stripped himself to the skin, and waited for the moment to come when the boat would capsize. He did not have to wait long in his nudity and the bitter cold; the boat spun over, and carried both men under water; however, they soon rose to the surface, succeeded in reaching the boat, which was floating bottom upwards, and clung to it with the despairing energy of drowning men. Heavy seas broke over them so persistently that scarcely a minute was allowed them for respiration, and the mate, a weakly man, with a low harrowing cry sank for the last time and for ever. Hayman battled on with the courage of a tiger. The smack bore down to him in the teeth of the gale. He was saved and succoured when death seemed about to seize him, and he was supplied with raiment and stimulants by his noble rescuers, and eventually landed at Yarmouth.The sea has made, and still makes, many encroachments on the Norfolk coasts. Thus at the not inconsiderable fishing station of Sherringham several yards of cliff have been undermined and washed away in a few years’ time; and in 1810 a large inn, placed too near the sea, was thrown in a heap of ruins on the beach. The coast onward to Cromer, a now fashionable watering-place, protected by a breakwater and sea-wall, is extremely dangerous, and between it and Yarmouth there are five lights.But we now approach a still more dangerous part of the coast—the eastern shores of Yorkshire. Flamborough Head first demands our attention.The Head is the termination of the chalky Yorkshire Wolds, and it is surrounded by islands of chalk, showing plainly that the sea has cut them off from their former connection with the land. The cliffs around Flamborough Head are riddled and tunnelled by the sea waves, and there are many arches and caverns. The“Matron of Flamborough”is a fine pyramidal“needle,”standing boldly out of the water. Under the lighthouse are some remarkable broken cliffs, and then two great pillars of chalk called the“King and Queen”arrest attention. One of the largest and most rugged caverns is called“Robin Lyth’s Hole,”and it can be easily explored from the eastern side. The Head is, therefore, specially interesting to the artist, and, for other reasons, it is equally so to the naturalist. Crowds of sea birds startle the visitor, who is doubtless regarded as an intruder, as they flock out from all the crevices of the cliffs filled with their eggs, and cover both land and sea in their circling flight. The somewhat giddy feat of descending the face of the cliff with the aid of ropes, for the sake of the eggs, is one by which the Flamborough men gain their living in the summer.“A more familiar hazard is run by the bold fishers of this coast, who, in their little cobles, set forth from the north or the south landing to visit, perhaps, the Dogger Bank, possibly to return no more.‘The sea gat him,’is too often the[pg 252]reply 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.”61Many 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 gaveIs 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 meOf the fair new home, where is no more sea.”62Filey, 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 promontory 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 continued 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[pg 253]memory of the brave fellows who had found her both their coffin and their sepulchre was that stamped indelibly upon the hearts of the loved ones they had left behind.Of Scarborough there are most ancient records. Its name is Saxon—from Scar, a rock, and Burg, a fortified place. A Northern historian records an invasion by the Danes in the ninth and tenth centuries in the following manner:—“Towards the end of the reign of Adalbricht, King of Northumberland, an army of Danes under Knut and Harold, sons of Gorin, invading England, subdued a great part of this province; upon which Adalbricht, meeting the enemy, and fighting a battle at Clifland or Cleveland, in the north, routed the Danes with great slaughter. But soon after this the Danes, leading their forces to Scardaborga, fought and obtained the victory; then marching to York, they subdued the inhabitants, and passed some time in peace.”The venerable castle dates from the reign of King Stephen.SCARBOROUGH.SCARBOROUGH.The harbour of Scarborough is the only place of refuge on a dangerous coast reaching from the Humber to Tynemouth Haven. It possesses lifeboats, mortar apparatus for aiding ships, a Seamen’s Hospital, Trinity House, and Mariners’ Asylum. The place itself has become a most fashionable watering-place. But sometimes here, as at many other seaside resorts, the terrible mingles with the gay. Such was particularly the case in November, 1861, when events occurred which threw a general gloom over both the inhabitants and visitors.[pg 254]A schooner, theCoupland, attempted the harbour during a fearful gale, but could not succeed in entering. She drifted rapidly amid foaming billows that chased each other like huge mad cataracts, until she struck immediately opposite the Spa promenade. In the meantime the lifeboat was manned, and sent out to the relief of the vessel, now in most imminent danger. The sea broke upon the sea-wall with such terrific violence that the massive stones on the parapet were dislodged. The rebound of the waves caused such a sea as no small craft but the lifeboat could have borne. Arrived at this point, she was watched, and her crew spoken to by the people on the Spa. The crew of the lifeboat seemed terror-stricken at their awful position. Suddenly a fearful lurch of the boat pitched out a veteran boatman, the leading man in her, and one of great experience and good judgment. He was quickly washed up to the Spa wall, and was saved by a life-buoy. Another of the crew was ejected a few minutes after, and was saved by the same means, after a fearful struggle. The oars were now dashed out of the hands of the lifeboatmen, and they were at once rendered powerless. The boat was washed heavily up against the wall, and nothing but her great strength and excellent qualities preserved her from being at once dashed to pieces. Ropes were thrown from the boat to the promenade, and she was drawn through the surf to a landing-place at the southern end of the wall. Here a fatal occurrence took place. Having touched the ground, the men jumped out before the water had receded, and, seeing the danger they were in, a rush down the incline was made to assist them. In the momentary confusion that ensued another run of the sea came, and nearly all the party were thrown from their feet, and were now scrambling to save their lives. Many succeeded in getting up, but another wave washed off those who were yet below. Two or three times they were carried out and back again. Among these were Lord Charles Beauclerk, two of the boat’s crew, and five or six others. A large wave was seen to lift the lifeboat with fearful force against the wall; and as the boat sank down again, it was found that Brewster, one of the crew, had been literally crushed to death between it and the stone sea-wall. Lord Charles Beauclerk experienced the same horrible fate, but was not immediately killed; he was washed to the foot of the cliff, when two gentlemen rushed to his assistance. A rope had been previously thrown to him, but he was powerless to grasp it. The gentlemen just named succeeded in fastening a rope round him, and drew him up the incline, the life just ebbing out of him. He was conveyed to the Music Hall adjoining (sad irony of fate!), where a physician pronounced him dead. Two or three others were seen under the boat, when the waves threw her up almost in the air. One of them was the son of a Scarborough banker. All these men perished.Attention was now given to the shipwrecked crew, who had been witnesses of all these horrors, and they were eventually all hauled off safely by the rocket apparatus. In the same gale fourteen poor fishermen of Scarborough lost their lives. Twenty were lost at Yarmouth, and there were wrecks strewed all over the east coast.And now for a true story with a happier ending, very graphically told by a lady visitor to Scarborough.63It occurred in the mid-winter of 1872.“I can’t write decently,”wrote she;“my hands are still trembling from the excitement of the morning, such a tremendous[pg 255]storm we have had, and a vessel lost in front of our windows again. The sea was one heaving, surging mass of foam, and the wind blowing hard from the NE. right upon this coast. Our sailor-landlord came in from a look-out seaward with the report,‘There’s a fine brig out to the north’ard, but there’s an awful heavy sea on; I’m afraid there’s no chance for her, the wind is driving her dead on shore, and I’m afraid she’ll be on the rocks before long. She’s a Spaniard, I think, by the looks on her. God help ’em!’and he took his glass and went out, the big tears standing in his eyes, great sturdy fellow as he is.“Of course our hearts were in our mouths in a moment, and with straining eyes we watched and watched. On she came; how one longed for some unseen hand to drive her back from what seemed friendly houses, and people, and land, and yet was so fatal! The snow, and hail, and rain made the air thick every now and then, and when it cleared there was the vessel being driven headlong before the wind. Would she get round the Castle rocks? That was awful excitement; if she struck there, there was no hope for the crew. An hour nearly the suspense lasted; yes, she is past! a slight lull in the fierce storm, and in that lull a fishing-smack, for which there seemed no chance, had weathered it all, got round the lighthouse pier, and was entering the harbour, a thing that, by the side of the brig, seemed a mere child’s toy on those big waves, and had been lost to sight again and again. The pier was one black mass of people, and on the sands thousands had collected, all eyes on the brig.“Now off goes the lifeboat—there is still a chance for the brig. It’s a beautiful new boat, that was recently launched, and already she has saved more lives (the sailors tell us) than the old one did all the time she was here. Her crew have confidence in her, and‘you know, miss, if her crew haven’t confidence in her, it’s all no go; they’d better by half go off in a coble, they’d liever too,’said an old sailor to me. I felt as if every one I loved in the world were in that vessel, thus tossing and struggling with the winds and waves, in uncertainty as to her fate. The lifeboat is off now, though, to the pier-head, and the rocket apparatus is fixed at a part where they think she’s coming on shore. She hasn’t enough sail on, the sailors say. Her master seems to find this out, for up go two topsails. She veers; now is her chance; if her master knows the harbour well, he may yet get her in. He doesn’t, evidently; he has gone a little too far to the south’ard, and can’t get back! One frightful gust, one awful sea, and her chance is over, and she is driving right on to the worst rocks of all, where, if she strikes, the men must perish—no lifeboat and no rocket apparatus can reach her. The lifeboat is pulling tremendously towards her now, and the sea is fearful; again she veers slightly—the moments seem hours. How those men pull! they are close to her, when one awful sea catches them, and the lifeboat is swamped. It seemed as if I felt the waves dashing over me. I gave an awful scream, and hardly dared look again; and yet I couldn’t keep my eyes away. She was all right, and eagerly I counted her men, we could see so plainly from our windows. They were all right, and now she is alongside the brig, though once or twice dashed away again. Then comes the taking of the men off. This was almost the worst moment of all, to see them one by one dropped into the lifeboat. One man is going nearly in; the lifeboat is dashed right away, and there he hangs. The sea dashes against him, injures his leg, but they get him back into the brig, and then into the lifeboat when she can get close again, and now all are in but the captain. He hesitates; almost it seems as if he would rather go down with his ship; but he passes some papers, or paper like books, into[pg 256]the lifeboat, and then he follows, and the men pull back. The crew of the brig are faint and exhausted; they have had three awful days of it, but the lifeboat lands them all safely at length at the pier. I felt as if I had been up for nights, the excitement had been so great.Ifshe hadn’t been a new ship and a good one, she would have been all to pieces long ago, the sailors say; but she’s lying almost on her beam ends and her deck to windward, with every sea dashing against her, now the tide is ebbing.”Whitby is the last point to be treated here in connection with the dangerous east coast. It is an ancient town, dating long before the eleventh century, at which latter period it had become a noted fishing-place. At the present time it possesses perhaps 500 vessels, large and small, exclusive of fishing boats. There are a great number of seamen belonging to the place who are engaged in ships on the coast, Baltic, and Indian trade, seldom returning home, but for a few weeks in winter. That the men must be generally provident is witnessed by the fact that there are 800 subscribers to the Mariners’ National Mutual Pension and Widows’ Fund, a benefit society under the auspices and management of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society.Standing on the cliff above Whitby, near the ruins of the old abbey, there is a most delightful view seawards. The town is below, mapped out in all its varieties of streets, squares, and quays; its terraces mounting one above another; its piers projecting into the sea; its lighthouses, docks, and shipyards alive with busy artisans; and a capacious harbour, divided by a bridge across the Esk, the outer part of which has accommodation for 300 sail of ships, while above there is also a large basin.“All this and much more the eye takes in from this elevated stand-point, which, in fine weather, and at high tide, is most imposing. The harbour, filled to the brim with the blue element, glitters like a polished mirror beneath the rays of the sun. The stately vessel, spreading her snowy canvas to the breeze, is seen passing from point to point along its winding shores. The maze-like coursing of the little yacht, with its slender masts and tiny sails, skimming the surface of the water like a swallow on the wing, lends animation to the scene. The cry of the sea-bird as it wheels in graceful curves, or checks its flight to pounce upon its prey in the bright flood beneath, arrests the ear; whilst the loud‘hurrah’with which the brawny shipwright greets the majestic vessel as she glides along the well-greased‘ways,’and cleaves a passage for herself into the flood which is to be her future home, re-echoes from the cliffs and shore.”Southward of Whitby lies the romantic Bay of Robin Hood,aliasRobert Earl of Huntingdon, who lived in Richard I.’s reign. Robin, it is said, when about to select a site for a marine residence, resolved to take up his abode on the first spot where the next arrow from his bow should alight, and this being the place, his name has ever since been attached to it. The little town there is one of the most irregular and comical-looking places in the world, from the ravages of the sea in undermining the cliffs. Built on the ledges of these cliffs, at all heights where foothold could be obtained, and perched on dizzy crags that overhang the sea, or hid in nooks approached by perilous paths, or tottering on the brink of cliffs that vibrate as the breakers roll with smothered sobs into the caves that perforate their base, there stand isolated houses, terraces and streets, whole sides of which have erewhile slipped into the sea below. The town itself is in a hole which cannot be seen till close upon it, being so entirely locked in by peaks and promontories.[pg 257]EARLY SWIMMING.EARLY SWIMMING.

Harwich; its fine Harbour—Thorpeness and its Hero—Beautiful Situation of Lowestoft—Yarmouth; its Antiquity—Quays, Bridges—The Roadstead—Herring and Mackerel Fishing—Curing Red Herrings and Bloaters—A Struggle for Life—Encroachments of the Sea—A Dangerous Coast—Flamborough Head—Perils of the Yorkshire Fisherman’s Life—“The sea gat him!”—Filey and its Quiet Attractions—Natural Breakwater—A Sad Tale of the Sea—Scarborough; Ancient Records—The Terrible and the Gay—TheCouplandHelpless—Lifeboat out—Her men thrown out—Boat crushed against Sea Wall—Two Killed—Futile Attempts at Rescue—A Lady’s Description of a Scarborough Gale—Whitby—Robin Hood’s Bay—An Undermined Town.

Proceeding now to the east coast of our island, we come to a series of places interesting to the men of the sea, and some of them renowned as watering-places. Leaving the mouth of the Thames, we soon arrive at Harwich, which is acquiring considerable importance in view of the Continental routes with which it is connected. It is situated on high land at the mouth of the Stour, and near the confluence of the latter with the Orwell, immediately opposite the well-known Landguard Fort. The shore is bold, and the views of the German Ocean, with its ever-shifting fleets of native and foreign vessels, are grand and extensive. It has a breakwater, dockyard, and magnificent harbour, in which, it is said, more than 100 vessels of the Royal Navy and between 300 and 400 colliers have ridden at one time. There are steamers constantly plying to Ipswich, about twelve miles up the Orwell—a river famous for the beautiful scenery of its banks. Ipswich itself, celebrated as the birthplace of Cardinal Wolsey, is the largest market town and port of Suffolk, and possesses respectable-sized docks and ship-yards, and any quantity of interesting buildings of the mediæval period.

HARWICH.HARWICH.

HARWICH.

Thorpeness, a dreary little place near Aldborough, on our way up the coast, would not attract the tourist, but it was long the residence of one of Suffolk’s heroes. Joseph Chard commenced life as a carpenter, but was soon found at Thorpeness, where he lived in a little cottage built by himself, and owned an old boat, which cost him originally fifty shillings, in which he followed the calling of bumboatman, or purveyor of provisions and odds and ends to passing ships, from which he frequently conveyed messages to shore. Gradually he saved money, and, uniting his old and new trades, built a fine boat, which cost him twenty-five pounds. In three or four years more he was rich enough to purchase a fast-sailing yawl, which a gang of smugglers were obliged to relinquish about that time, and with which Chard won the prize at the next Aldborough Regatta from a host of born watermen. Not content with these successes, he bought and studied a coasting-book and chart, and soon emerged a full-fledged[pg 248]pilot for one of the most dangerous localities, the Sands of the Swin—a study almost as difficult as biquadratic equations. He assisted at various times in saving 109 lives, no less than eighty of which were rescued in his own boat, appropriately named theThorpeness Stormy Petrel.

Farther north, and standing upon the most easterly point in all England, the important seaport of Lowestoft is situated. The town is placed on a lofty eminence, from which fine sea-views are obtained, and the side of the cliff descends gradually in hanging gardens or terraces covered with trees and shrubs, below which is a long line of buildings appropriated to the curing of fish. It has two harbours, with piers. The herring (more especially) and the mackerel fisheries employ from 1,500 to 2,000 men and boys, while the industries connected with the sea commence at twine and rope making and end in ship-building. There is a chapel for British and foreign sailors, six almshouses for poor master fishermen, and two lifeboats.

Yarmouth next demands our attention. It derives its name from its situation at the mouth of the river Yare, and it is, as all know, both a flourishing fishing-town and a watering-place. Its antiquity is great; there are records of it anterior to Roman times. In the eleventh century, at the time of the Conquest, it was known asMoche Gærnemouth, or Great Yarmouth. In 1004, Sweyn, king of Denmark, arrived before it with a powerful fleet, and plundered and burnt the town. It soon rose again. In 1132, artisans, implements,[pg 249]and looms were brought over from the Continent, and spinning was commenced at Worstead, a small town which gave to the yarn the name it still bears. The old town of Yarmouth was formerly defended by walls of which the ruins still remain.

YARMOUTH.YARMOUTH.

YARMOUTH.

Among the features of Yarmouth are the great broad quays, extending about a mile-and-a-quarter, the principal streets running parallel with them. There are several substantial bridges across the Yare and Bure rivers, one over the latter having been erected on the spot where nearly eighty people were suddenly precipitated into the water by the fall of the old bridge some thirty-eight years ago. There are several small docks and shipyards. Yarmouth Roads afford safe anchorage, and are constantly resorted to by vessels in distress, the captains of which do not dare to brave the elements outside. Forty thousand sail, exclusive of fishing boats, annually pass this part of the coast. The Roads are formed by several very dangerous sands, which, in foggy weather, or when heavy gales sweep the coasts, occasion many fearful shipwrecks. More than 500 vessels have been stranded, wrecked, or utterly lost off this coast in the short period of three years; as a necessary consequence, the loss of life is also considerable, and the number of shipwrecked mariners who are landed at Yarmouth year after year is very large. The Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society has an important branch there. There is a fine Sailors’ Home, which has lodged 600 to 700 poor seamen in a single year. It was established to provide a home for the mariners of all nations, when wrecked, detained by stress[pg 250]of weather, or paid off, in the latter cases giving them board and medical attendance, if required, at the lowest possible charge. It possesses a museum, library, and reading-room, and a collection of charts and nautical instruments. The two lifeboats of Yarmouth have been the means of saving several thousand lives. There is also a little church and mission for fishermen and sailors near the beach, and a mariners’ chapel.

The mackerel fisheries of Yarmouth alone employ one thousand men, but the herring fishery is the most important source of revenue to the town, the produce exceeding one hundred thousand barrels per annum, or one-fifth of the entire yield of the kingdom. A large number of persons of both sexes are employed on shore in drying and curing the fish. The Yarmouth boats with two masts (three during the mackerel season) are manned by twelve or thirteen hands. They have the letters Y. H. and a number painted on the bows. They are now of about sixty-five tons builders’ measurement, many of graceful forms, and are fast sailers. A single boat will often take a hundred and twenty or thirty thousand fish in one night.

In salting herrings the fish are simply gutted and placed in the barrels in alternate layers with salt. Having been allowed to remain in that condition for some few days the barrel is found to contain a quantity of floating liquid, which is poured off; more herrings and layers of salt are added. The branding consists of affixing the month and day on which they were caught and cured, the name and address of the curer, and the presence or absence of the gills and alimentary canal.“Red”herrings are made so by first being placed in salt for three or four days, then being hung on spits which hold about twenty fish apiece. These spits are plunged several times in cold water, and after being sufficiently washed, are then removed to the open air and dried. Next they are suspended from the roof of the smoking-house, which has wood fires on the floor. Those for English use are smoked for ten days or so, but those for exportation often remain as long as three weeks before being packed. As has been mentioned elsewhere, they are used by the negroes of the West Indies as a medicinal corrective to the bad effects of a constant vegetable and fruit diet. Bloaters are cured more speedily. They are placed for a few hours only in a strong brine, are then spitted and well washed in cold water, and are smoked very slightly for about eight hours only, when they are ready for packing.

And now for an incident which occurred some years since, and which was indeed a“struggle for life,”although eventually the sufferer was landed at Yarmouth. It is a sad truism that danger is never so near to us as when we have least apparent cause to fear its presence, and the narrow escape of a seaman, named Charles Hayman, from a melancholy death, with his vessel in sight of his native soil, is only another of the many exemplifications of this stern truth. He belonged to the schoonerOsprey, of London, and had just made a successful passage from Lagos, on the West Coast of Africa, with a cargo of palm oil. TheOspreywas brought up and anchored off the North Foreland, when a tremendous sea rose and tore her from her anchors, driving her helpless and unmanageable into the North Sea.

Those on board at once made signals of distress, which were seen by the gallant little smack,Fear Not, truly a most appropriate name, and her sturdy crew at once went to the assistance of the disabled schooner. The master of the smack offered to take the crew of theOspreyon board, and the mate of theOsprey, believing her past all power of saving, gladly accepted the generous offer. The hurricane was still raging furiously, and it was with the[pg 251]greatest difficulty that a boat could be lowered from theOsprey, but pluck and perseverance succeeded at last, and the valuables and ship’s papers were, without delay, stowed away in the boat. The mate and Charles Hayman were the first to embark in the tiny craft, which was attached to the schooner by a rope, and the remainder of the crew were about to follow them, when a heavier sea than they had had as yet to contend against snapped the line and cast the boat adrift.

The waves washed over and into the boat, threatening to swamp it at any moment. Hayman and the mate failed completely to bale the water out, in spite of their incessant endeavours to do so, and Hayman, foreseeing the inevitable, stripped himself to the skin, and waited for the moment to come when the boat would capsize. He did not have to wait long in his nudity and the bitter cold; the boat spun over, and carried both men under water; however, they soon rose to the surface, succeeded in reaching the boat, which was floating bottom upwards, and clung to it with the despairing energy of drowning men. Heavy seas broke over them so persistently that scarcely a minute was allowed them for respiration, and the mate, a weakly man, with a low harrowing cry sank for the last time and for ever. Hayman battled on with the courage of a tiger. The smack bore down to him in the teeth of the gale. He was saved and succoured when death seemed about to seize him, and he was supplied with raiment and stimulants by his noble rescuers, and eventually landed at Yarmouth.

The sea has made, and still makes, many encroachments on the Norfolk coasts. Thus at the not inconsiderable fishing station of Sherringham several yards of cliff have been undermined and washed away in a few years’ time; and in 1810 a large inn, placed too near the sea, was thrown in a heap of ruins on the beach. The coast onward to Cromer, a now fashionable watering-place, protected by a breakwater and sea-wall, is extremely dangerous, and between it and Yarmouth there are five lights.

But we now approach a still more dangerous part of the coast—the eastern shores of Yorkshire. Flamborough Head first demands our attention.

The Head is the termination of the chalky Yorkshire Wolds, and it is surrounded by islands of chalk, showing plainly that the sea has cut them off from their former connection with the land. The cliffs around Flamborough Head are riddled and tunnelled by the sea waves, and there are many arches and caverns. The“Matron of Flamborough”is a fine pyramidal“needle,”standing boldly out of the water. Under the lighthouse are some remarkable broken cliffs, and then two great pillars of chalk called the“King and Queen”arrest attention. One of the largest and most rugged caverns is called“Robin Lyth’s Hole,”and it can be easily explored from the eastern side. The Head is, therefore, specially interesting to the artist, and, for other reasons, it is equally so to the naturalist. Crowds of sea birds startle the visitor, who is doubtless regarded as an intruder, as they flock out from all the crevices of the cliffs filled with their eggs, and cover both land and sea in their circling flight. The somewhat giddy feat of descending the face of the cliff with the aid of ropes, for the sake of the eggs, is one by which the Flamborough men gain their living in the summer.“A more familiar hazard is run by the bold fishers of this coast, who, in their little cobles, set forth from the north or the south landing to visit, perhaps, the Dogger Bank, possibly to return no more.‘The sea gat him,’is too often the[pg 252]reply 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.”61Many 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.

“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 gaveIs 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 meOf the fair new home, where is no more sea.”62

“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.”62

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 promontory 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 continued 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[pg 253]memory of the brave fellows who had found her both their coffin and their sepulchre was that stamped indelibly upon the hearts of the loved ones they had left behind.

Of Scarborough there are most ancient records. Its name is Saxon—from Scar, a rock, and Burg, a fortified place. A Northern historian records an invasion by the Danes in the ninth and tenth centuries in the following manner:—“Towards the end of the reign of Adalbricht, King of Northumberland, an army of Danes under Knut and Harold, sons of Gorin, invading England, subdued a great part of this province; upon which Adalbricht, meeting the enemy, and fighting a battle at Clifland or Cleveland, in the north, routed the Danes with great slaughter. But soon after this the Danes, leading their forces to Scardaborga, fought and obtained the victory; then marching to York, they subdued the inhabitants, and passed some time in peace.”The venerable castle dates from the reign of King Stephen.

SCARBOROUGH.SCARBOROUGH.

SCARBOROUGH.

The harbour of Scarborough is the only place of refuge on a dangerous coast reaching from the Humber to Tynemouth Haven. It possesses lifeboats, mortar apparatus for aiding ships, a Seamen’s Hospital, Trinity House, and Mariners’ Asylum. The place itself has become a most fashionable watering-place. But sometimes here, as at many other seaside resorts, the terrible mingles with the gay. Such was particularly the case in November, 1861, when events occurred which threw a general gloom over both the inhabitants and visitors.

A schooner, theCoupland, attempted the harbour during a fearful gale, but could not succeed in entering. She drifted rapidly amid foaming billows that chased each other like huge mad cataracts, until she struck immediately opposite the Spa promenade. In the meantime the lifeboat was manned, and sent out to the relief of the vessel, now in most imminent danger. The sea broke upon the sea-wall with such terrific violence that the massive stones on the parapet were dislodged. The rebound of the waves caused such a sea as no small craft but the lifeboat could have borne. Arrived at this point, she was watched, and her crew spoken to by the people on the Spa. The crew of the lifeboat seemed terror-stricken at their awful position. Suddenly a fearful lurch of the boat pitched out a veteran boatman, the leading man in her, and one of great experience and good judgment. He was quickly washed up to the Spa wall, and was saved by a life-buoy. Another of the crew was ejected a few minutes after, and was saved by the same means, after a fearful struggle. The oars were now dashed out of the hands of the lifeboatmen, and they were at once rendered powerless. The boat was washed heavily up against the wall, and nothing but her great strength and excellent qualities preserved her from being at once dashed to pieces. Ropes were thrown from the boat to the promenade, and she was drawn through the surf to a landing-place at the southern end of the wall. Here a fatal occurrence took place. Having touched the ground, the men jumped out before the water had receded, and, seeing the danger they were in, a rush down the incline was made to assist them. In the momentary confusion that ensued another run of the sea came, and nearly all the party were thrown from their feet, and were now scrambling to save their lives. Many succeeded in getting up, but another wave washed off those who were yet below. Two or three times they were carried out and back again. Among these were Lord Charles Beauclerk, two of the boat’s crew, and five or six others. A large wave was seen to lift the lifeboat with fearful force against the wall; and as the boat sank down again, it was found that Brewster, one of the crew, had been literally crushed to death between it and the stone sea-wall. Lord Charles Beauclerk experienced the same horrible fate, but was not immediately killed; he was washed to the foot of the cliff, when two gentlemen rushed to his assistance. A rope had been previously thrown to him, but he was powerless to grasp it. The gentlemen just named succeeded in fastening a rope round him, and drew him up the incline, the life just ebbing out of him. He was conveyed to the Music Hall adjoining (sad irony of fate!), where a physician pronounced him dead. Two or three others were seen under the boat, when the waves threw her up almost in the air. One of them was the son of a Scarborough banker. All these men perished.

Attention was now given to the shipwrecked crew, who had been witnesses of all these horrors, and they were eventually all hauled off safely by the rocket apparatus. In the same gale fourteen poor fishermen of Scarborough lost their lives. Twenty were lost at Yarmouth, and there were wrecks strewed all over the east coast.

And now for a true story with a happier ending, very graphically told by a lady visitor to Scarborough.63It occurred in the mid-winter of 1872.“I can’t write decently,”wrote she;“my hands are still trembling from the excitement of the morning, such a tremendous[pg 255]storm we have had, and a vessel lost in front of our windows again. The sea was one heaving, surging mass of foam, and the wind blowing hard from the NE. right upon this coast. Our sailor-landlord came in from a look-out seaward with the report,‘There’s a fine brig out to the north’ard, but there’s an awful heavy sea on; I’m afraid there’s no chance for her, the wind is driving her dead on shore, and I’m afraid she’ll be on the rocks before long. She’s a Spaniard, I think, by the looks on her. God help ’em!’and he took his glass and went out, the big tears standing in his eyes, great sturdy fellow as he is.

“Of course our hearts were in our mouths in a moment, and with straining eyes we watched and watched. On she came; how one longed for some unseen hand to drive her back from what seemed friendly houses, and people, and land, and yet was so fatal! The snow, and hail, and rain made the air thick every now and then, and when it cleared there was the vessel being driven headlong before the wind. Would she get round the Castle rocks? That was awful excitement; if she struck there, there was no hope for the crew. An hour nearly the suspense lasted; yes, she is past! a slight lull in the fierce storm, and in that lull a fishing-smack, for which there seemed no chance, had weathered it all, got round the lighthouse pier, and was entering the harbour, a thing that, by the side of the brig, seemed a mere child’s toy on those big waves, and had been lost to sight again and again. The pier was one black mass of people, and on the sands thousands had collected, all eyes on the brig.

“Now off goes the lifeboat—there is still a chance for the brig. It’s a beautiful new boat, that was recently launched, and already she has saved more lives (the sailors tell us) than the old one did all the time she was here. Her crew have confidence in her, and‘you know, miss, if her crew haven’t confidence in her, it’s all no go; they’d better by half go off in a coble, they’d liever too,’said an old sailor to me. I felt as if every one I loved in the world were in that vessel, thus tossing and struggling with the winds and waves, in uncertainty as to her fate. The lifeboat is off now, though, to the pier-head, and the rocket apparatus is fixed at a part where they think she’s coming on shore. She hasn’t enough sail on, the sailors say. Her master seems to find this out, for up go two topsails. She veers; now is her chance; if her master knows the harbour well, he may yet get her in. He doesn’t, evidently; he has gone a little too far to the south’ard, and can’t get back! One frightful gust, one awful sea, and her chance is over, and she is driving right on to the worst rocks of all, where, if she strikes, the men must perish—no lifeboat and no rocket apparatus can reach her. The lifeboat is pulling tremendously towards her now, and the sea is fearful; again she veers slightly—the moments seem hours. How those men pull! they are close to her, when one awful sea catches them, and the lifeboat is swamped. It seemed as if I felt the waves dashing over me. I gave an awful scream, and hardly dared look again; and yet I couldn’t keep my eyes away. She was all right, and eagerly I counted her men, we could see so plainly from our windows. They were all right, and now she is alongside the brig, though once or twice dashed away again. Then comes the taking of the men off. This was almost the worst moment of all, to see them one by one dropped into the lifeboat. One man is going nearly in; the lifeboat is dashed right away, and there he hangs. The sea dashes against him, injures his leg, but they get him back into the brig, and then into the lifeboat when she can get close again, and now all are in but the captain. He hesitates; almost it seems as if he would rather go down with his ship; but he passes some papers, or paper like books, into[pg 256]the lifeboat, and then he follows, and the men pull back. The crew of the brig are faint and exhausted; they have had three awful days of it, but the lifeboat lands them all safely at length at the pier. I felt as if I had been up for nights, the excitement had been so great.Ifshe hadn’t been a new ship and a good one, she would have been all to pieces long ago, the sailors say; but she’s lying almost on her beam ends and her deck to windward, with every sea dashing against her, now the tide is ebbing.”

Whitby is the last point to be treated here in connection with the dangerous east coast. It is an ancient town, dating long before the eleventh century, at which latter period it had become a noted fishing-place. At the present time it possesses perhaps 500 vessels, large and small, exclusive of fishing boats. There are a great number of seamen belonging to the place who are engaged in ships on the coast, Baltic, and Indian trade, seldom returning home, but for a few weeks in winter. That the men must be generally provident is witnessed by the fact that there are 800 subscribers to the Mariners’ National Mutual Pension and Widows’ Fund, a benefit society under the auspices and management of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society.

Standing on the cliff above Whitby, near the ruins of the old abbey, there is a most delightful view seawards. The town is below, mapped out in all its varieties of streets, squares, and quays; its terraces mounting one above another; its piers projecting into the sea; its lighthouses, docks, and shipyards alive with busy artisans; and a capacious harbour, divided by a bridge across the Esk, the outer part of which has accommodation for 300 sail of ships, while above there is also a large basin.“All this and much more the eye takes in from this elevated stand-point, which, in fine weather, and at high tide, is most imposing. The harbour, filled to the brim with the blue element, glitters like a polished mirror beneath the rays of the sun. The stately vessel, spreading her snowy canvas to the breeze, is seen passing from point to point along its winding shores. The maze-like coursing of the little yacht, with its slender masts and tiny sails, skimming the surface of the water like a swallow on the wing, lends animation to the scene. The cry of the sea-bird as it wheels in graceful curves, or checks its flight to pounce upon its prey in the bright flood beneath, arrests the ear; whilst the loud‘hurrah’with which the brawny shipwright greets the majestic vessel as she glides along the well-greased‘ways,’and cleaves a passage for herself into the flood which is to be her future home, re-echoes from the cliffs and shore.”

Southward of Whitby lies the romantic Bay of Robin Hood,aliasRobert Earl of Huntingdon, who lived in Richard I.’s reign. Robin, it is said, when about to select a site for a marine residence, resolved to take up his abode on the first spot where the next arrow from his bow should alight, and this being the place, his name has ever since been attached to it. The little town there is one of the most irregular and comical-looking places in the world, from the ravages of the sea in undermining the cliffs. Built on the ledges of these cliffs, at all heights where foothold could be obtained, and perched on dizzy crags that overhang the sea, or hid in nooks approached by perilous paths, or tottering on the brink of cliffs that vibrate as the breakers roll with smothered sobs into the caves that perforate their base, there stand isolated houses, terraces and streets, whole sides of which have erewhile slipped into the sea below. The town itself is in a hole which cannot be seen till close upon it, being so entirely locked in by peaks and promontories.

EARLY SWIMMING.EARLY SWIMMING.

EARLY SWIMMING.

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