torm and darkness, partly along the
shore, scrambling over rock's, and wading waist-deep through the Lyne
Burn and one or two other places where the waves had driven far up the
sands, and partly across Newbiggin Moor, where the icy wind tore at her
in her drenched clothing. She pressed on, however, and managed to reach
the coxswain's house and give her message. The lifeboat was immediately
run out, and the men reached the wreck in time to save all the crew
except one, who had been washed overboard.

On another occasion one of the fishermen, named Tom Brown, was preparing
to go out, with the help of his two sons, in his own fishing coble to
the aid of a ship in distress on the reef. A carter had come down to the
beach, the better to watch the progress of events, and, terrified by the
thundering waves, his horse took fright, and in its plunging drove the
cart against the little boat, making a hole clear through one side. "Big
Tom," as he was generally called, merely took off his coat, rolled it
into a bundle and stuffed it against the hole. Then he beckoned to
another fisherman, saying to him "Sit on that." The man clambered in,
and without the loss of another minute these four heroes set off to save
their fellow creatures' lives, with a broken and leaking boat in a heavy
sea. And they did it, reaching the brig only just in time, for it went
to pieces a few minutes after the shivering crew had been safely landed.

Incidents like these, which could be multiplied indefinitely, bring a
glow of pride to the heart, and a reassuring sense that the degeneration
of the race is not proceeding in such wholesale fashion--in the country
districts, at any rate--as the pessimists would have us believe.

At the northern extremity of Druridge Bay is the little fishing village
of Hauxley, with the chimneys and pit-head engines of Ratcliffe and
Broomhill Collieries darkening the sky to the south-west. Passing the
Bondicar rocks and rounding the point we enter the "fairway" for
Warkworth Harbour and Amble, where a brisk exportation of the coal of
the neighbourhood is carried on.

Lying out at sea, opposite Amble coastguard station, the white
lighthouse on Coquet Island keeps watch over the entrance to the
harbour. Some of the walls of the monastery, which stood on the island
in Saxon days, can now be seen forming part of the dwelling of the
lighthouse keeper. For many generations, too, hermit after hermit went
to dwell on this tiny islet