grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray
clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch like gray figures. The
sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a
roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost
in a gray mist. All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant
rocks, and there is a `brool' over the sea that sounds like some
passage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there,
sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem `men like trees
walking'. The fishing boats are racing for home, and rise and dip
in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the
scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me,
and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to
talk.
I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.
When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want
to say something to you, miss."
I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled
hand in mine and asked him to speak fully.
So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary,
that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I've been
sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past, but I didn't
mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We aud
folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal,
don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel
scart of it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so
that I'd cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I
ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't want to die if I can
help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a
hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And I'm so nigh it
that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I can't
get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once. The chafts
will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death willwill wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will
sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my
deary!"—for he saw that I was crying— "if he should come this very
night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all,
only a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and death
be all that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's
comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we
be lookin' and wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea
that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad
hearts. Look! Look!" he cried suddenly. "There's something in that
wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes,
and smells like death. It's in the air. I feel it comin'. Lord,
make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up his arms
devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were
praying. After a few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with
me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all
touched me, and upset me very much.
I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass
under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but
all the time kept looking at a strange ship.
"I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look
of her. But she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't
know her mind a bit. She seems to see the storm coming, but can't
decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look
there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind
the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff of wind. We'll
hear more of her before this time tomorrow."(PASTED IN MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL)
From a correspondent.
Whitby.
One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been
experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather
had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the
month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known,
and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits
to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood's Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes,
and the various trips in the neighborhood of Whitby. The steamers
Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there
was an unusual amount of `tripping' both to and from Whitby. The
day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips
who frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from the commanding
eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east,
called attention to a sudden show of `mares tails' high in the sky
to the northwest. The wind was then blowing from the southwest in
the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked `No. 2,
light breeze.'
The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old
fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch on
weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner
the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very
beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly coloured clouds,
that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in
the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below
the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western
sky, its downward was was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset
colour, flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of
gold, with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly
absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as
colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters,
and doubtless some of the sketches of the `Prelude to the Great
Storm' will grace the R. A and R. I. walls in May next.