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.