The Sea-Side Churchyard

by William Howitt (uncredited).

Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.2 #37 (07 Dec 1850).

        The sea-side churchyard is a strange witness of the perilous life of the mariner and the fisherman. It is only by a walk in it that we acquire a clear conception of the real nature of that mode of livelihood which such hundreds of thousands, all round these islands, embrace, as a choice or a necessity. We resort to pleasant places in the summer time, and see the great ocean glittering and rolling in playful majesty, and our hearts leap at the sublime spectacle. We see white sails gleaming on its bosom, and steamers trailing their long clouds of smoke after them, as they busily walk the waters, bearing joyous passengers to many a new scene. We meet the hardy blue-cloth sons of ocean, on the beach and the cliff; see them pushing off their boats for a day's fishing, or coming in in the early morning with their well-laden yawls and cobbles, and the sea and its people assume to us a holiday sort of aspect, in which the labour, the watching, the long endurance of cold, the peril and the death are concealed in the picturesque of the scenery, and the frank and calm bearing of the actors themselves. What a different thing is even a fisherman's life when contemplated as a whole; when we take in the winter and the storm to complete the picture of his existence! But, as few of us can do this in reality, if we wish to know the actualities of a sea-faring life, we may get a very fair idea of them in any sea-side churchyard.
        We lately took a survey of two such on the Yorkshire coast, and the notes which we there and then jotted down will afford some notion of the strange and touching records of such a place. Our first visit was to the churchyard of Filey, a mere village, well known to thousands of summer tourists for the noble extent of its sands, and the stern magnificence of its so-called bridge, or promontory of savage rocks running far into the sea, on which you may walk, at low-water; but which, with the advancing tide, becomes savagely grand, from the fury with which the ocean breaks over it.
        In tempestuous weather this bridge is truly a bridge of sighs to mariners, and many a noble ship has been dashed to pieces upon it.
        One of the first headstones which catches your eye in the little quiet churchyard of Filey bears witness to the terrors of the bridge.—"In memory of Richard Richardson, who was unfortunately drowned December 27th, 1799, aged forty-eight years:—

                "By sudden wind and boisterous sea
                The Lord did take my life from me;
                But He to shore my body brought—
                Found by my wife, who for it sought.
                And here it rests in mother clay,
                Until the Resurrection day.

"Also of Elizabeth, wife of the above, who died January 19th, 1833, aged eighty-nine."
        This fisherman was lost on the bridge, and his wife sought his body on the bridge for eleven weeks. She was possessed with an immoveable persuasion that there some day she should find him. All through that winter, from day to day, till late in March, she followed the receding tide, and with an earnest eye explored every ledge and crevice of the rocks, every inch of the wild chaos of huge stones that storms had hurled upon the bridge, and every wilderness of slippery and tangling sea-weed. It was in vain that her neighbours told her that it was hopeless; that they assured her that she would get her death from cold; every day the solitary watcher might be seen, reckless of wind, or storm, or frost; and, at length, she did find the corpse of her husband, and saw it consigned to "mother clay." She must have had a frame as hardy as her will and strong as her affections, for she survived this strange vigil of conjugal love thirty-four years, and to the age of nearly ninety.
        Near this stands a stone in memory of a master-mariner and his wife, both lost, in a severe gale, in a passage from London to Shields; another lost on a voyage to Quebec; and two brothers, one drowned in the Thames, and the other perishing at Constantinople. In the churchyard are numbers of such records. Humble as are the epitaphs on these graves, that hold no bodies in nine cases out of ten, they have generally a touch of real nature in them compared with the hacknied lines we generally find in churchyards. One tells us, that—

                "From home he went, with mind most free,
                His livelihood to gain at sea:
                He ne'er returned, 'twos not to be—
                He ne'er returned, 'twas God's decree.
                Oh! sad to tell, a furious wave
                Cast him into a watery grave—
                A grave in motion—termed the deep."

        A boat sinking, carved on the stone, symbolises his fate; while opposite a lucky old mariner has had a boat in full sail placed on his headstone, and gives God hearty thanks for having saved his life some dozen times. Two disconsolate parents address us thus:—

                "Unfortunate parents tell
                That this our son a victim fell.
                In steering homewards they were caught,
                With gust of wind upset the boat.
                There three were cast into the sea,
                And he launched into eternity.
                He was a son both good and kind;
                May he in God a Father find."

        Some very philosophic friends have inscribed the following lines, and, for a reason implied, avoided all suspicions encomium:—

                "Most epitaphs arc 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 Whitby, 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 Ticklepeuny 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:
                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 Jolliffe 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 Dogger-bank, 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 what help was possible, or at least to give to the terrified people on board the doomed ship the satisfaction of perceiving that their more fortunate fellow-creatures on land were not indifferent to their misery.
        Hurrying, therefore, into the Ship public-house close at hand, he drank a pint of beer as he stood, took a couple of stout pieces of bread and cheese in his hand, and in the next moment was hauled up into a cart which was going off with a quantity of fisher-men on the same errand. One only of his crew accompanied him, and that was his younger brother; the three hired men declared themselves half-dead with fatigue, and staid behind.
        The cart drove along at an almost furious rate, and there were numbers of others going the same road, with the same velocity; while they could see streams of young men on foot, running along the tops of the cliffs, taking the nearest course towards the scene of the expected catastrophe. Long before George Jolliffe and those with whom he went reached the point where they left their cart, and started forward bearing coils of rope, and even warm garments with them, they heard the firing of guns of distress from the jeopardised vessel. It would seem that up to a certain moment the people on board trusted to be able to bring the ship under shelter of the land, and then get an anchorage: but the dreadful reality of their situation had now evidently burst upon them; and the crowds hastening towards the cliff, hurried forward more anxiously as the successive boomings of these melancholy guns reached their ears.
        When Jolliffe and his companions reached the crest of the cliff, and looked out on the sea, it was already drawing toward evening. The wind still blew furiously. The ocean was one chaos of tossing and rolling billows, and the thunder of their discharge on the face of the cliff, was awful. The first sight of the unhappy vessel made the spectator ejaculate "Oh Lord!" That was all that was uttered, and it spoke volumes. The throng stood staring intently down on the ship, amid the deafening thunder of the ocean, and the suffocating violence of the winds. On came the devoted vessel like a lamed thing, one of its masts already gone by the board, and but few people to be seen on the deck. These, however, raised their hands in most imploring attitude towards the people on the cliff, as if relying on them for that aid which they despaired to afford. As the helpless vessel came nearer the cliff, it encountered the refluent force of the waves that were sent with a stunning recoil from their terrible shock against the precipice. It staggered, stooped, and was turned about without power of self-guidance. One mountainous sea after another washed over her, and the few human beings disappeared with shrieks that pierced even through the turbulent dissonance of the tempest. The assembled crowd on the cliff shuddered with horror, and felt that all need of their presence was at an end. But they stood and stared as with a fascinated intensity on the vessel that now came nearer and nearer to its final catastrophe; when all at once there was discerned an old man, with bare head and white streaming hair, lashed to the main-mast. He stood with lifted hands and face gazing up to them as if clinging firmly to the hope of their saving him. A simultaneous agitation ran through the crowd. The ship was lifted high on the back of the billows, and then pitched down again within a short distance of the cliff. A few more seconds—another such a heave, and she must be dashed to pieces. At once flew out several coils of ropes, but the fury of the wind, and the depth to which they had to go defeated them. They were hurled against the crags, and came nowhere near the vessel. Again were thrown out others, and amongst these one was seized by the old man. There was a loud shout at the sight; but the moment was too terrible to allow of much rational hope. The vessel was close upon the cliff—one more pitch, and she would perish. All eyes were strained to see when the old man had secured the rope round him. He was evidently labouring to do this before he loosed himself from the mast, lest he should be washed away by the next sea. But he appeared feeble and benumbed, and several voices exclaimed, "He will never do it!" A sea washed over him. As it went by they saw the old man still stand by the mast. He passed his arm over his face as if to clear his eyes from the water—and looked up. He still held convulsively by the rope which they had thrown; but it was evident he was too much exhausted to secure it round him. At that moment the huge vessel struck with a terrific shock against the solid wall, and staggering backward, became half buried in the boiling waters. Again it was plunged forward with a frightful impetus, and the next instant the mast fell with a crash—and the whole great hull seemed to dissolve in the liquid chaos. In another moment the black stern of the ship was seen to heave from the waves, and then disappear, and anon spars and casks were seen churning in the snowy surf, and tossed as playthings by the riotous sea again and again to the annihilating wall.
        The next morning the wind had greatly abated; and, with the first peep of day, numbers of fishing-boats put out to see whether anything of value which had floated from the wreck could be picked up. George Jolliffe was amongst the earliest of these wreckers; but in his mind the face and form of that old man were vividly present. He had dreamed of them all night; and while the rest of his crew were all alert on the look-out for corks or other floating booty, he could not avoid casting a glance far and wide, to see if he could descry anything of a floating mast. Though the wind was intensely still, the sea still rose high, and it was dangerous to approach the cliff. The vessels around them were busily engaged in securing a number of articles that were floating; but George still kept a steady look-out for the mast; and he was now sure that he saw it at a considerable distance. They made all sail for it; and, sure enough, it was there. They ran their vessel close alongside of it, and soon saw, not only a sling rope encircling its lower end, but a human arm clutching fast by it. Jolliffe had the cobble soon adrift, and, with a couple of rowers, approached the floating timber. With much difficulty, from the uneasy state of the sea, he managed to secure a cord round the drowned man's wrist, and with an axe severed the rope which tied him to the mast. Presently they actually had the old man in the boat, whom they last evening saw imploring their aid from the wreck. Speedily they had him hoisted into the yawl; and when they got on board, and saw him lying at his length on deck, they were astonished at his size and the dignity of his look. He was not, as he seemed from the altitude of the cliff, a little man: he was upwards of six feet in height, of a large and powerful build; and though of at least seventy years of age, there was a nobility of feature, and a mild intelligence of expression in him, which greatly struck them.
        "That," said George Jolliffe, "is a gentleman every inch. There will be trouble about him somewhere."
        While saying this, he observed that he had several jewelled rings on his fingers, which he carefully drew off; and said to his men: "You see how many there are; "and put them into his waistcoat-pocket. He then observed that he had a bag of stout leather, bound by a strong belt to his waist. This he untied, and found in it a large packet wrapped in oil-cloth, and sealed up. There was also a piece of paper closely and tightly folded together, which being with difficulty, from its soaked state, opened and spread out, was found to contain the address of a great mercantile house in Hull.
        "These," said George Jolliffe, "I shall myself deliver to the merchants."
        "But we claim our shares," said the men.
        "They are neither mine nor yours," said George; "but whatever benefit comes of doing a right thing, you shall partake of. Beyond that, I will defend this property with my whole life and strength, if necessary. And now let us see what else there is to be got."
        The men, who looked sullen and dogged at first, on healing this resumed their cheerfulness, and were soon in full pursuit of other floating articles. They lashed the mast to the stern of their vessel, and in the course of a few hours were in possession of considerable booty. Jolliffe told them that, to prevent any interference of the police or the harbour-master with the effects of the old gentleman, he would be put out near Filey, and they must steer the yawl home. He secured the bag under his tarpaulin coat, and was soon set ashore at a part of the bay where he could make his way, without much observation, to the Hull road. He met the coach most luckily, and that night was in Hull. The next morning he went to the counting-house of the merchants indicated by the paper in the drowned gentleman's bag, and informed the principals what had happened. When he described the person of the deceased, and produced the bag, with the blotted and curdled piece of paper, the partners seemed struck with a speechless terror. One looked at the other, and at length one said, "Gracious God! too sure it is Mr. Anckersvœrd!"
        They unfolded the packet, conferred apart for some time with each other, and then, coming to Mr. Jolliffe, said, "You have behaved in a most honourable manner: we can assure you that you will not fail of your reward. These papers are of the utmost importance. We tell you candidly they involve the safety of a very large amount of property. But this is a very sorrowful business. One of us must accompany you, to see respect paid to the remains of our old and valued friend and partner. In the meantime here are ten pounds for yourself, and the same sum to distribute amongst your men."
        George Jolliffe begged the merchants to favour him with a written acknowledgment of the receipt of the packet and of the rings which he now delivered to them. This he obtained; and we may shorten our recital by here simply saying, that the remains of the drowned merchant were buried, with all respectful observance, in the old churchyard at Scarborough; a great number of gentlemen from Hull attending the funeral.
        That winter was a peculiarly severe and stormy one. Ere it was over, George Jolliffe himself had been wrecked—his "Fair Susan" was caught in a thick fog on the Filey rocks, his brother drowned, and only himself and another man picked up and saved. His wife, from the shock of her nerves, had suffered a premature confinement, and, probably owing to the grief and anxiety attending this great misfortune, had long failed to rally again. George Jolliffe was now a pennyless man serving on board another vessel, and enduring the rigours of the weather and the sea for a mere weekly pittance. It was in the April of the coming year that one Sunday his wife had, for the first time, taken his arm for a stroll to the Castle Hill. They were returning to their little house, Susan pale and exhausted by her exertions, with the two children trudging quietly behind, when, as they drew near their door, they saw a strange gentleman, tall, young, and good-looking, speaking with Mrs. Bright, their next neighbour.
        "Here he is," said Mrs. Bright; "that is Mr. Jolliffe."
        The stranger lifted his hat very politely, made a very low bow to Mrs. Jolliffe, and then, looking a good deal moved, said to George, "My name is Anckersvœrd." " Oh," said George; all that rushing into his mind which the stranger immediately proceeded to inform him.
        "I am," said he, "the son of the gentleman who, in the wreck of the 'Danemand,' experienced your kind care. I would have a little conversation with yon."
        George stood for a moment as if confused, but Mrs. Jolliffe hastened to open the door with the key, and bade Mr. Anckersvœrd walk in. "You are an Englishman?" said George, as the stranger seated himself. "No." he replied, "I am a Dane, but I was educated to business in Hull, and I look on England as my second country. Such men as you, Mr. Jolliffe, would make one proud of such a country, if we had no other interest in it." George Jolliffe blushed, Mrs. Jolliffe's eyes sparkled with a pleasure and pride that she took no pains to conceal. A little conversation made the stranger aware that misfortune had fallen heavily on this little family since George had so nobly secured the property and remains of his father.
        "Providence," said Mr. Anckersvœrd, "evidently means to give full effect to our gratitude. I was fast bound by the winter at Archangel, when the sad news reached me, or I should have been here sooner. But here I am, and in the name of my mother, my sister, my wife, my brother, and our partners, I beg, Mr. Jolliffe, to present you with the best fishing-smack that can be found for sale in the port of Hull—and if no first-rate one can be found, one shall be built. Also, I ask your acceptance of one hundred pounds, as a little fund against those disasters that so often beset your hazardous profession. Should such a day come—let not this testimony of our regard and gratitude make you think we have done all that we would. Send at once to us, and you shall not send in vain."
        We need not describe the happiness which Mr. Anckersvœrd left in that little house that day, nor that which he carried away in his own heart. How rapidly Mrs. Jolliffe recovered her health and strength, and how proudly George Jolliffe saw a new "Fair Susan" spread her sails very soon for the deep-sea fishing. We had the curiosity the other day to enquire whether a "Fair Susan" was still amongst the fishing vessels of the port of Scarborough. We could not discover her, but learnt that a Captain Jolliffe, a fine, hearty fellow of fifty is master of that noble merchantman, the "Holger-Danske," which makes its regular voyages between Copenhagen and Hull, and that his son, a promising young man, is an esteemed and confidential clerk in the house of Davidsen, Anckersvœrd and Co., to whom the "Holger-Danske" belongs. That was enough; we understood it all, and felt a genuine satisfaction in the thought that the seed of a worthy action had fallen into worthy soil, to the benefit and contentment of all parties. May the "Holger-Danske" sail ever!