sea with one or more lives.  For as long as a day and a half, there were skippers who sat, unrelieved, at the tiller of their boat, an awful weight of responsibility on their shoulders, human lives depending on their nerve and skill.  Some of these men had to be carried ashore, when at length they reached safety; the legs of one were found to be so twisted and wedged in beneath his seat, that it was only with the greatest difficulty and pain that he was got out of the boat.

There was one boat that found refuge at Shields on the Sunday.  She arrived too late to permit of a telegram being sent announcing her safety, but in time to allow her crew—­or what was left of it—­to catch a late train to the north, and the solemn, echoing tramp of their heavy feet at midnight in the silent street of Eyemouth brought the stricken people from their beds with a start, and with vague apprehension of fresh disaster.  But their dread was turned to rejoicing, except for the family of that man who came home never again.  In all, on that Sunday night it was known that sixty-four of the men of Eyemouth had perished, and seventy-one were still missing.  Of these but a handful ever returned.  Eyemouth alone lost one hundred and twenty-nine—­the men of whole families, almost of clans, swept away.  Truly to her that day was as of old had been Flodden Field to Scotland.  The total number of men who perished along this coast in that hurricane was one hundred and eighty-nine.

Will the terror of that time ever be forgotten, or its horror wiped out from the town of Eyemouth?  In the face of disaster such as that, smaller happenings appear for the time almost insignificant.  Yet it was but the other year that another great gale on that coast brought disaster most pitiful.  A Danish steamer, feeling her way to the Firth of Forth in weather thick with fog and with a great gale blowing, mistaking her position, came creeping in the darkness close in to the little village of St. Abb’s.  Nearer and nearer to the people, snug in their warm, well-lit houses, came the roar of her fog-horn.  And then, from the neighbourhood of a treacherous rock—­awash at low water—­and little more than a stone’s throw from the village houses, there rushed up a rocket, and a flare was seen dimly burning.  In the heavy sea, the steamer had brought her bows with a mighty crash on to that sunken rock, and there she lay, the great seas sweeping her from stem to stern.  Rockets from the cliff that overlooked the wreck could not reach her in that fierce wind; the life-boat, when it arrived from Berwick, could not live in the broken water near to her.  All was done that man could do to rescue the perishing men in that hapless vessel; but that “all” in the end amounted to just nothing.  Helpless, the watchers listened with sick hearts to the cries of her doomed crew and to the deep baying of a great hound that was on board the doomed ship; helpless, they gazed in impotent agony at the despairing signals