Where I do safe at anchor ride,
With many of our fleet,
Who once again must all set sail,
Our Saviour, Christ, to meet.''

If you turn from the churchyards to the
histories of these places, you are met again by
the records of terrible wrecks and disasters at
sea. The "Glory," of Yarmouth, perishes with
all hands; "Betsy and Ann" find the waves as
faithless and fickle as their namesakes find their
crews on land. The "Friendship" is broken
on the rocks; "Hope" slips her anchor in the
imminent moment; and even the "Happy
Return" finds no guarantee for ever reaching
home again in so auspicious a name. You
would imagine any man mad, from all that
you see around you, who would think of trusting
himself to the ocean: but you look in the
weatherbeaten faces that you meet, and there
is no melancholy, no despair there. The tar
is still the jolly tar; you have the cheerful
Yo hevo! sung out heartsomely from the
port, and the sailor bound for the most
treacherous coasts, or on the most dangerous
service, even in quest of the useless and
impracticable North-West Passage, satisfies
himself with the threadbare saw, that "we must
all die some time."

It was precisely on the 5th of November,
1821, that a terrible gale from the north-west
set in. It rose very early in the morning,
and blew hurricanes all day. There was a
hasty and precipitate running and crowding
of fishing-boats, colliers, and other vessels into
the friendly ports of Scarborough and Filey,
for these once past, excepting Burlington,
which is far less sheltered, there is no place of
refuge nearer than the Humber to flee to. As
the morning broke dark and scowling, the
inhabitants looking from their windows saw
whole fleets of vessels thronging into the port.
Men were seen on the heights, where the
wind scarcely allowed them either to stand
or breathe, looking out to descry what vessels
were in the offing, and whether any danger
were threatening any of them. Every one
felt a sad certainty, that on that bleak coast,
where this wind, when in its strength, drives
many a luckless ship with uncontrollable force
against the steep and inaccessible cliffs, such a
day could not go over without fearful damage.
Before noon the sea was running mountains
high, and the waves were dashing in snowy
foam aloft against the cliffs, and with the
howling winds filling the air with an awful
roar. Many a vessel came labouring and
straining towards the ports, yet by all the
exertions of the crews, kept with difficulty
from driving upon the inevitable destruction
of the rocky coast.

Amongst the fishing-vessels which made the
Bay of Filey in safety, was one belonging to a
young man of the name of George Jolliffe.
By his own active labours, added to a little
property left him by his father, also a
fisherman, George Jollifte had made himself the
master of a five-man-boat. and carried on a
successful trade. But the boat was his all,
and he sometimes thought, with a deep
melancholy, as he sate for hours through long
nights looking into the sea, where his nets
were cast,—what would become of him if any
thing happened to the "Fair Susan?" The
boat was christened after his wife; and when
George Jolliffe pictured to himself his handsome
and good Susan, in their neat little home,
in one of the narrow yet clean little lanes of
Scarborough, with his two children, he was
ready to go wild with an inward terror at the
idea of a mishap to his vessel. But these
were but passing thoughts, and only made
him the more active and vigilant.

He had been out some days at the Doggerbank,
fishing for cod, and had taken little,
when the sky, as he read it, boded a coming
storm. He immediately hauled his nets,
trimmed his sails, and made for home with all
his ability. It was not long before he saw his
own belief shared by the rest of the fishermen
who were out in that quarter; and from whom
all sail was bent landward. Before he caught
sight of land, the wind had risen to a violent
gale; and as he drew nearer the coast, he
became quite aware that he should not be
able to make his own port, and must use all
energy to get into Filey. In the afternoon of
this 5th of November, he found himself, after
stupendous labour, and no little anxiety, under
shelter of the land, and came to anchor in a
crowd of other strange vessels.

Wearied, drenched with wet, and exhausted
by their arduous endeavours to make this
port, as he and his four comrades ascended
the steps to Filey village, their attention
was soon excited by the crowds of sailors and
fishermen who were congregated at the foot
of the signal-house, and with glasses and an
eager murmur of talk were riveting their
attention on something seaward. They turned,
and saw at once the object of it. A fine
merchant vessel, under bare poles, and apparently
no longer obeying the helm, was labouring
in the ocean, and driving, as it appeared,
hopelessly towards that sheer stretch of sea-wall
called the Spectan Cliff—against which so
many noble ships had been pitched to
destruction.

"Nothing can save her! " said several
voices with an apparent calmness which would
have struck a landsman as totally callous and
cruel. Already there might, however, be
seen a movement in the crowd, which George
Jolliffe and his comrades knew from
experience, meant that numbers were going off
to assist, if possible, in saving the human life
on board the vessel, which itself no power on
earth could save. Little hope, indeed, was
there of salvation of life, for the cliff was
miles in extent, and for the whole distance
presented a perpendicular wall of two hundred
feet in altitude, against which the sea was hurling
its tremendous billows to a terrific height.
But wearied as George Jolliffe was he instantly
resolved to join in the endeavour to afford