the following lines, and, for a reason implied,
avoided all suspicious encomium:—

"Most epitaphs are vainly wrote:
The dead to speak it can't be thought;
Therefore the friends of those here laid
Desired that this might be said.
That rose two brothers, sad to tell,
That rose in health, ere night they fell—
Fell victims to the foamy main;
Wherefore awhile they hid remain.
Friends for them sought, and much lament,
At last the Lord to those, them sent.
So child and widow may bemoan
O'er husband's and o'er father's tomb."

But Filey churchyard has touches of love
and land stories as well as of the sea. Here
is one, and a recent one too. Close on your
left hand, immediately as you enter the gate,
there is a stone by the wall bearing the names
of Elizabeth Cammish, aged twenty-one, who
died August 1848; and Robert Snarr, engineer,
aged thirty-one, who died March 1849. Elizabeth
Cammish died of consumption. She was
betrothed to Robert Snarr, whose affection for
her was so strong that he continued to regard
her parents as his own, and used to be much
with them, and also was very often seen
lingering about the grave of the lost Elizabeth.
One day he was seen very early at her grave
in the morning. He was about to quit the
place for an engagement in Northumberland.
It was a farewell visit and his last.
Elizabeth's mother had said to him, "Robert, in
my grief I have forgotten to pay the doctor
on account of Elizabeth's illness; I must go
and pay it." "It is paid, mother," replied
Robert, for he always called her mother. The
sum was upwards of twenty pounds.
Elizabeth's mother frequently insisted on his
receiving the money again from her, but he
steadily refused. And that morning, on his
return from Elizabeth's grave, the old lady
said, "Robert, you are leaving us, you don't
know what you may want. I will pay you
this money."

"Do you wish to insult me, mother?" he
replied, "Keep it, if anything happens to me,
bury me with it; but in life I will never
receive it. What is mine would have been
Elizabeth's if she had lived, and I have had a
melancholy satisfaction in paying this debt for
her." Within half-an-hour after those words
were spoken, the young man was brought
back a bloody corpse from the railway by
which he had set out on his journey; and
that money did bury him in the same grave
with Elizabeth Cammish. The romance of
life is not extinguished; even railways
contribute to it.

But for abundant and overwhelming
evidences of the dangerous life of sea-faring men,
a churchyard of a town like Scarborough is
the place. There the old Church of St. Mary,
at the foot of the Castle Hill, exhibits as
densely crowded a scene of tombstones as any
graveyard of the metropolis itself. It has
been the great depository of the dead there
for, probably, a thousand years. When the
Saxons lived on the spot, it most likely
received their remains. When the Danes, under
Regner Lodbrog scoured this coast, fortified
Flambro' Head, and built Wliitby, or Ilvitbege
—their White-town—where Pierce Gaveston
held the castle for the foolish Edward II,
when Robert Aske and his "Pilgrimage of
Grace," were its masters, and when Sir John
Meldrum, the Parliamentary general, was
killed before it. Through all these times this
thronged cemetery was receiving its generations
of the dead. Yet still how many stones
are mere memorials of those whose bones are
scattered over the wide earth, and through
the deepest depths of the sea. We can only
indicate a few of the multitude who have
perished in every imaginable region, and have
mementos here. "William Allen, drowned at
Charente, Nov. 1829, aged thirteen years; and
Joseph Allan, son of the above (sic), drowned
by the overturning of a life-boat, Feb. 17th,
1836, aged thirteen years."

There are records of three persons drowned
by the upsetting of that same life-boat. One
man was drowned in Russia, another on a
passage to New Brunswick, another on a passage
to Mauritius. Robert Scott was drowned off
Elsinore, and his son off the Cape of Good
Hope. William Ticklepenny suffered on
Osgodby Sands, Jan. 1828. Were not Osgodby
Sands always under water, and that it is added
that William Ticklepenny "lived respected
and died lamented," we might, from the
phraseology, have supposed that he was hanged.
The whole crew and passengers of the "Selina"
were wrecked on the Ram Head, drowned,
and buried at Plymouth, but have a stone of
memory here. There are various records of
persons who were drowned in the wreck of
"Betty's Delight," near Scarborough, in 1844.
Another who died at St. Domingo and is
buried at Port au Prince. Some drowned in
Lynn Deeps—on the passage to Dover—"on
the coast of France from the dreadful effects of
war"—two are there who died on board of
a man-of-war—some buried at sea—some
bound for London—some for Jamaica—in
Yarmouth Roads—off Whitby—in a yawl in
sight of the town—off Sunderland—by over-
turning of a boat at Flamborough Head—at
St. John's, New Brunswick—on the coast of
Holland—off Jersey—at Batavia—in Java—
coming from America—and one of coup de
soleil at Calcutta.

Such, and from such varied regions of
the earth are the memories of sudden death
which you meet with here. Few, indeed,
are the "water-rats," as Charles the Second
used to call them, who can place on their
head-stones so jovial a sort of even- song as
this:—

"Tho' boisterous blasts and Neptune's waves,
Have tossed me to and fro,
Yet after all, by God's decree,
I'm sheltered here below: