"Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever, Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long."

And she soon learned to take her share in the household duties and difficulties. Her brothers were sent to the mainland to finish their education, and to prepare for the honourable career of hard work that was before them. But Grace could not be spared. She was so dear to her father, and so necessary to her mother, that they decided that whoever left the lighthouse-home Grace must not. She was quite willing to remain, and was contented with her lot. She followed her father's example, by doing what she could both well and cheerily. She had a good voice, and she often sang at her work, so that her joy communicated itself to others. Still it was a happy time for her when the work of the day was done, and she was able to sit down by the fireside, and read from her favourite books, while her mother worked.

One year, however, Grace had a holiday. It was beautiful weather, in the end of the summer; and some of her friends sent to tell her how lovely the corn-fields looked, and how sweet the air was on the mainland around Bamborough. And they said more than that. All hands were wanted to help with the ingathering; and as Grace was known to be a young person who had strong arms, and was not afraid to use them, if she could come and lend her assistance, she would receive a hearty welcome.

Grace much wished to go, so she proceeded to endeavour to gain the consent of her parents.

"Father, can you spare me for a holiday?"

"Why do you want a holiday, Grace?"

"The harvest is ready to be got in, and they have sent to me to go and help."

"But that would not be a holiday, my child. Harvesting is very hard work."

"It would be like a holiday to me, father. I should like to go very much. I have not seen a corn-field all the summer, and I know the country must be looking very beautiful now. I long to go. Do let me, if you can possibly spare me."

"Well; we must not be selfish, Grace. You can go if you like, only come back as soon as you can."

So Grace had her holiday that summer, nor did she return until she had won golden opinions from the friends with whom she stayed, and among whom she worked.

One old woman especially, who felt an affection for the girl, and who, while they worked together, often received kindness and consideration from her, esteemed so highly her young companion of the harvest-field, that she always remembered her with fondness, and when, afterward, she heard that she had saved the lives of some people, and made her name honoured and beloved in all parts of the land, she declared that she was not surprised, for she had known Grace Darling herself.

The girl was not allowed to remain long away, for she was wanted at home. By this time most of the members of the family were out earning their own living; and the house was quiet and desolate without Grace. When the harvest was over, therefore, and the days were growing short and dark, she returned with many a tale to tell of what she had seen and heard on the mainland, and we may be sure that, on some evenings during the next winter, her reminiscences kept the household from being dull.

Grace was now growing up into womanhood. William Howitt, who saw her afterward, thus describes her:—"She had the sweetest smile I have ever seen in a person of her station and appearance. You perceive that she is a thoroughly good creature, and that under her modest exterior lies a spirit of the most exalted devotion—so entire, that daring is not so much a quality of her nature, as that of the most perfect sympathy with suffering or endangered humanity, swallowing up and annihilating everything like fear or self-consideration."

It will be seen from this description of our heroine, that she was, in a word, a good girl. She was dutiful and loving to her parents, and kindly to all creatures. She could not see suffering without trying to alleviate it; nor could she stay to consider whether or not she was putting her own life in danger when others needed her assistance. From all that we know of this northern maiden, we conclude that Mr. Howitt was right. It was scarcely daring that prompted the heroic action that made her famous, so much as a habit of feeling the most constant and perfect sympathy with suffering.

It is not difficult to picture this girl on the rugged Farne Rocks, casting her quiet, observant eyes over the wide sea, and praying for the safety of those who were tossing about in ships. We can imagine her, in her own mind, making heroes out of very common men, and rather exaggerating than under-rating the sorrows of humanity. We are sure that no storm-distressed bird ever came to the window of the lighthouse-home for shelter and was denied by Grace, and no shipwrecked sailor, clinging for life to the rocks, would be afraid of other than most merciful treatment from the hands of such a woman. And God be thanked that there are hundreds of thousands like her, not only along our shores, but in every part of our land—women who fear God and love the right, and delight in nothing so much as self-abnegation, if only they can serve those who are needy or sad.

Let the girls of England resolve to join their ranks. It is better to be poor and noble, than rich and worthless—to be the daughter of a lighthouse-keeper, and fill the life with good deeds of diligence and faithfulness, than to be the daughter of an Earl, and of no real good to anybody. But the life of consecration to God and His service, and for His sake, to all around, is lived only by those who are thoughtful and Christian. Let the young people thus find their joy and strength in prayer, and in earnest resolve that their lives, even if quiet, shall be good, and we will not fear for the future of our world.

"Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep, bright shadows from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness—how soon her woe!

"Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour; And sunless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!

"Her lot is on you, to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be rain, Meekly to bear with wrong, and cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things—therefore pray

"And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days, fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake—oh! happy to have given Th' unbroken heart's first tenderness to heaven!"—Mrs. Hemans



CHAPTER IV.

LIGHTHOUSE HOMES.

"And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light, With strange unearthly splendour in its glare.

"Not one alone: from each projecting cape, And perilous reef, along the ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim gigantic shape, Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.

"Like the great giant Christopher, it stands Upon the brink of the tempestuous waves, Wading far out upon the rocks and sands, The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

"And the great ships sail outward, and return, Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells; And ever joyful as they see it burn, They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.

"Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same Year after year, through all the silent night, Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame— Shines on that inextinguishable light."—Longfellow.

No history of Grace Darling would be complete that did not contain some reference to lighthouses; since it was in one of them that she lived, and in association with it that her thrilling deeds were done. The lighthouse is not a modern invention, though modern science and art have brought it to its present state of perfection. The beacon-fire was known to the ancients, and the fire-towers of the Mediterranean were justly celebrated.

The first regular light seems to have been placed at the entrance to the Hellespont; but of greater notoriety was the large tower on the island of Pharos, off Alexandria, which was so ingeniously constructed that it has been a model for many a modern lighthouse. Some incredible stories are told about this light, which, it is said, could be seen over the sea for a distance of thirty-four miles! Edrisi thus describes it:—"This pharos has not its like in the world for skill of construction and solidity. It is built of excellent stones, of the kind called Kedan, the layers of which are united by molten lead, and the joints are so adherent that the whole is indissoluble, though the waves of the sea from the north incessantly beat against it. This edifice is singularly remarkable, as much on account of its height as of its massiveness: it is of exceeding utility, because its fire burns night and day for the guidance of navigators, and is visible at the distance of a day's sail. During the night, it shines like a star: by day, you may distinguish its smoke."

There was a remarkable pharos built at Ostia by the Emperor Claudius, which was erected on an artificial breakwater. Then there was the light of Puteoli, which, in the far-away days of Rome, was of service to the seamen who were seeking to enter the port. Augustus, who provided the harbour of Ravenna, enriched it with a light. Charybdis and Scylla had also their warning beacon, and Caprera too lifted its light to save ancient vessels from destruction. There was also the Timian Tower, which was erected for navigators, but its design was frustrated by wreckers, who lighted other fires, in order to mislead the seamen, and lure them to ruin and death.

There was a very ancient and remarkable light at Boulogne. It was said to have been first built by the Emperor Caligula, in order to perpetuate the victories he meant to win. It became, however, of great service as a lighthouse-tower, and it is thought that, as early as the year A.D. 191, it flashed a friendly light across the sea. Time, however, and the repeated assaults of foes, robbed it of its strength and glory. The men of Boulogne allowed it to perish, and then thought they were free of all obligation. The case, however, was tried in court, and they were sentenced either to restore it, or pay two thousand herrings, delivered fresh and dry every year. Very early, indeed, there was a light-tower in our own land, on the cliff at Dover, relics of which may even now be seen. It was built by the Romans, of very strong material, tufa, concrete, and red-tile brick. It was probably used as a lighthouse about the time of the Norman conquest, and is now devoted to purposes of government storage. The Colossus of Rhodes is said to have been used as a beacon, but there is no proof that it was so.

Englishmen are notorious for the facility they have of making money, and some enterprising men among our forefathers lighted beacons along the coast, and levied tolls upon those who benefited by their light; and James I. used to sell this privilege to his subjects. In the diary of Lord Grenville, is found this entry—"Mem. To watch the moment when the king is in a good temper to ask of him a lighthouse." This plan, however, was not very effective, and the public grew increasingly dissatisfied with it until, in the reign of William IV., the Corporation of Trinity House was empowered to buy up all lighthouses, take possession of all privileges, and have the entire control of the lighthouse system. There are between three and four hundred members of the Corporation, amongst whom are the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Edinburgh, who has the title of Master, and Mr. W. E. Gladstone. The active committees are composed of retired captains. They have to give certificates to properly-qualified pilots, attend to sea-marks, to the ballast of the Thames ships, and many other things. There are two other Corporations besides that of Trinity House—namely, the Commission of Northern Lights, and the Board of Ballast of Dublin; and all these are under the control of the Board of Trade.

The total number of lights in England is 286, in Scotland 134, and in Ireland 93. So well is our coast lighted that it is said to be impossible to arrive near a dangerous point without seeing a warning lighthouse in some direction. They are of many different kinds and colours, some being placed on towers, some on sand-banks, some in ships out at sea, some on pier-heads, and in harbours. There are five principal lights, the "fixed," the "flashing," the "revolving," the "intermittent," and the "double lights," in one tower.

Two methods of lighting have been employed—the Catoptric and the Dioptric systems. The Catoptric lights are divided into nine classes—the fixed, revolving white, revolving red and white, revolving red with two whites, revolving white with two reds, flashing, intermittent, double-fixed lights, and double-revolving white lights. Colza oil is generally used, though the electric light, by its steady brilliance, is likely to supersede all others, when very great intensity is required.

Care has to be taken in the selection of the spot where the lighthouse shall be built, for in some cases they are rendered useless by the thick fogs that for the greater part of the year obscure their light.

Some mention may here be made of the most remarkable lighthouses on our coast; and only to mention the words, is to suggest EDDYSTONE. No one who has seen these dangerous rocks, could doubt that it is most necessary to have a light fixed to them, for many a noble vessel has been destroyed by running upon the perilous reef. No one, however, had the courage or the enterprise to undertake the task, until an eccentric gentleman of Littleberry, in Essex, generously came forward and offered to do it. The work of Henry Winstanley, and his end, have been so graphically and beautifully described by Jean Ingelow, that we take the liberty to transcribe part of her poem. It tells first how the loss of the "Snowdrop" troubled Winstanley:—

"'For cloth o' gold and comely frieze,' Winstanley said, and sighed, 'For velvet coif or costly coat, They fathoms deep may bide.

"'O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, O mariners bold and true; Sorry of heart, right sorry am I; A-thinking of yours and you.'"

The loss of the "Snowdrop" is followed by that of another ship, with contents, and then—

"'I will take horse,' Winstanley said, 'And see this deadly rock,

"'For never again shall barque o' mine Sail over the windy sea, Unless, by the blessing of God, for this Be found a remedy.'"

He went to the Mayor of Plymouth—

"'Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, And a score of shipwrights free, For I think to raise a lantern-tower On this rock o' destiny.'"

"The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also, 'Ah, youth,' quoth he, 'is rash; Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out From the sea that doth it lash.'"

Brave Winstanley however, was resolved to try, and after tedious waiting, he commenced to work:—

"Then he and the sea began their strife, And worked with power and might, Whatever the men reared up by day, The sea broke down by night.

"In fine weather, and foul weather, The rock his arts did flout, Through the long days, and the short days, Till all that year ran out.

"With fine weather, and foul weather, Another year came in: 'To take his wage,' the workmen said, 'We almost count a sin!'"

They kept on, however, and at last, some sailors who returned told a wonderful tale of a house they had seen built in the sea:—

"Then sighed the folk, 'The Lord be praised!' And they flocked to the shore amain; All over the Hoe, the livelong night, Many stood out in the rain.

"It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, And the rolling fog did flee; And lo! in the offing faint and far, Winstanley's house at sea!

"In fair weather, with mirth and cheer, The stately tower uprose; In foul weather, with hunger and cold, They were content to close;

"Till up the stair Winstanley went, To fire the wick afar; And Plymouth, in the silent night, Looked out and saw her star.

"Winstanley set his foot ashore: Said he, 'My work is done; I hold it strong, to last as long As aught beneath the sun.

"'But if it fail, as fail it may, Borne down with ruin and rout, Another than I shall rear it high, And brace the girders stout.

"'A better than I shall rear it high, For now the way is plain; And though I were dead,' Winstanley said, 'The light would shine again.

"'Yet were I fain still to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep;

"'And if it stood, why, then it were good, Amid their tremulous stirs, To count each stroke, when the mad waves broke, For cheers of mariners.

"'But if it fell, then this were well That I should with it fall; Since for my part, I have built my heart In the courses of its wall.'

"With that Winstanley went his way, And left the rock renowned, And summer and winter his pilot star Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound.

"But it fell out, fell out at last, That he would put to sea, To scan once more his lighthouse-tower On the rock o' destiny.

"And the winds woke and the storm broke, And wrecks came plunging in; None in the town that night lay down, Or sleep or rest to win.

"The great mad waves were rolling graves, And each flung up its dead; The seething flow was white below, And black the sky o'erhead.

"And when the dawn, the dull grey dawn, Broke on the trembling town, And men looked south to the harbour mouth, The lighthouse tower was down!

"Down in the deep where he doth deep Who made it shine afar, And then in the night that drowned its light, Set, with his pilot star.

"Many fair tombs, in the glorious glooms At Westminster, they show; The brave and the great lie there in state, Winstanley lieth low!" [1]

Three years passed by before any other person was found willing to attempt the task of rebuilding the Eddystone lighthouse, and then Captain Lovet got a ninety-nine years lease from Trinity House; and John Rudyard, a silk-mercer of Ludgate-Hill, was engaged as the architect. His design differed very materially from that of Winstanley, and was built of Cornish granite and oak. While it was building England and France were at war with each other, and some of the workmen were carried off as prisoners. The King Louis XIV., however, ordered their immediate release, and giving them substantial presents, sent them back to their good work. This lighthouse was finished in 1709, but, in 1755, it was entirely destroyed, not by winds nor waves, but by fire. Three keepers were there at the time; and when one of them entered to snuff the candles, he found the cupola in flames. They strove to extinguish it, but their efforts were in vain. A fisherman observed the fire, and took the news ashore, when a boat came out to the assistance of the keepers. Nothing could be done, however, to stay the progress of the fire, which destroyed the edifice. One of the keepers immediately fled panic stricken, and was not heard of again, while one met his death in consequence of some melted lead dropping into his open mouth.

The third Eddystone lighthouse still rears its head, as it has done for more than a century. John Smeaton, a clever and practical mathematician, was the man to whose skill as an architect, and courage and perseverance as a man, the world is indebted for the light which still shines upon Eddystone. He was thirty-two years old at the time when this grand work was given him to do; but he had already shown that he possessed inventive genius, pluck, and perseverance, in no ordinary degree. He was quick to see that the two previous structures had not been sufficient in weight and solidity, and he resolved to build that which was committed to his care in such a way that it should be strong enough to resist the force of the winds and waves. He declared that his building should be of stone, and in shape something like the trunk of an oak. In August, 1756, the work was begun, but of course it could not be carried on in the winter. The first stone, weighing two tons and a quarter, was laid on the 12th of the following June; and the next day the first course, consisting of four massive stones, which were dovetailed into the rocks, and formed a compact mass, was completed. The courses followed each other as rapidly as possible, and by the 11th of August the sixth was done, which brought the erection so high as to be out of reach of the ordinary tides. On the 30th of September the ninth course was completed, and then the builders had to leave off work for the winter.

It is easy to conceive of the anxiety which Smeaton suffered during the months which were unusually stormy; but in May, when he and his workmen were again able to reach the rock, they found, to their great joy, that the winter's floods had rather perfected than impaired their work. They gladly commenced operations again, and by September the twenty-fourth course was completed. They had now got as far as the store-room. They worked with a will, and during the next summer the second and third floors were finished. As the building was in progress, Smeaton had inscribed on the walls these words—"Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain who build it." And after it was finished, he had the words, "Laus Deo," engraved upon the top-stone. The erection was finished, and the lantern lighted, on the 16th of October, 1769, and has remained ever since, a monument of the undaunted energy and perseverance of Englishmen.

Another celebrated lighthouse is that of "The Smalls," built on one of the dangerous rocks that lie near the entrance of Milford Haven. It was built by Mr. Phillips, who did it not for gain, but in order to save his fellow-creatures. The architect he employed was a musical instrument maker, named Whiteside. The work was begun in 1772, and persevered with until it was finished. In the beginning of the year 1777, Whiteside and his companions found themselves in great straits, and they wrote a letter and put it inside a barrel, and sent it afloat, hoping it would reach the shore:—

"THE SMALLS, Feb. 1, 1777.

"SIR—Being now in a most dangerous and distressed condition upon the Smalls, I do hereby trust Providence will bring to your hand this, which prayeth for your immediate assistance to fetch us off before next spring, or we fear we shall perish—our water all gone, and our fire quite gone, and our house in a most melancholy manner. I doubt not but you will fetch us from here as fast as possible: we can be got off at some part of the tide almost any weather. I need say no more, but remain your distressed humble servant.

"H. WHITESIDE."

"We were distressed in a gale of wind upon the 13th of January, since which have not been able to keep any light, but we could not have kept any light above sixteen nights longer for want of oil and candles, which makes us murmur, and think we are forgotten.

"EDWARD EDWARDS. "G. ADAMS. "J. PRICE.

"P.S.—We doubt not, whoever takes up this, will be so merciful as to cause it to be sent to Thomas Williams, Esq., Trelethin, near St. David's, Wales."

At one time, during a very stormy winter, the Smalls lighthouse-keepers were cut off from communication with the mainland for four months. Vessels had tried to reach them, but had been driven back by the violence of the weather. Once, however, when a ship had gone near enough to get a sight of the Smalls, it was reported that a man was seen standing in the upper gallery, and that a flag of distress was flying near him. When at last a fisherman succeeded in reaching the rock, he found that one of the keepers was dead, and the other had securely fixed the corpse in an upright position in the gallery, that the body might be preserved, and he himself not injured by contact with it. This, and a similar event that happened on the Eddystone, caused better arrangements to be made; and in future, more than two men were placed in lighthouses likely to be exposed to circumstances of equal danger.

Another marvellous lighthouse is that erected by Robert Stevenson on the Bell Rock. The most ancient light which Scotland can boast is that of the Isle of May. The tower is very old and weather-beaten, and bears date 1635. At Grass Island, and also at North Ronaldshay, lights were kindled in 1789. In 1794, Robert Stevenson saw the Skerries lighthouse completed. He also put lights on Start Point; and for the better lighting of the dangerous shore, changed the North Ronaldshay lighthouse into a beacon.

But round about the light on the Bell Rock more romance centres. This rock is a very perilous one, lying eleven miles off the coast of Forfarshire, and, if tradition may be trusted, the first attempt to rob it of some of its awful power was made by an ancient abbot, who hung a bell over it, so that the winds and waves should cause it to ring, and thus warn mariners who were in danger.

Southey's ballad of Sir Ralph the Rover tells the story of how the good abbot's design was frustrated, and how the perpetrator of a foul deed was punished:—

"The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green: Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

"He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

"His eye was on the Inchcape float. Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

"The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

"Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

"Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, He scoured the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

"So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, They cannot see the sun on high; And the wind hath blown a gale all day— At evening it hath died away.

"On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'

"'Canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.' 'Now, where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell!'

"They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock— 'O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'

"Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

"But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear— A sound as if with the Inchcape bell The devil below was ringing his knell."

Many after attempts were made to put beacons upon the Inchcape, but all were destroyed by the stormy waves, one after the other, until Robert Stevenson undertook to build a structure that should be strong enough to stand. He began on August 7, 1807, and the first thing he did, was to provide a workshop and sleeping places for the men who were to be engaged in the enterprise. It took all the summer to do this; for often, when the men were at work, there would come a big wave over the rock, and put out the fire. The smith who worked at the bellows often stood knee-deep in water, which sometimes covered the rock to the depth of twelve feet. Once, when a cargo of stores had been landed, and thirty-two men were at work, the vessel which had conveyed them, and was to take them back, and which was named the "Smeaton," broke away from the moorings and got adrift. Mr. Smeaton was almost the first to notice this, and he became very anxious as he remembered the number of men on the rock, and that they had only two boats, which were capable of carrying but eight men each. The men were at first so busy, that they did not realise the danger of their position, but presently it was found that, in consequence of the gale, the tide was coming in more rapidly than usual, and the men, after having worked three hours, left off and went to look for the boats. It was found that one of them had drifted away with the "Smeaton." The men looked at one another in silence. It seemed certain that all could not escape, and there was an awful time of suspense and despair. Stevenson felt it so keenly that when he tried to speak he found his mouth so parched that it was impossible. He stooped to moisten his lips by drinking some of the sea-water which the tide had left in holes in the rocks, and then he heard the welcome cry, "A boat! a boat!" Presently a pilot-boat came and rescued them from their perilous situation, and the lives of the brave engineer and his men were saved. For the reward of rendering this service, the pilot received a pension when too old to work.

A tremendous gale overtook the company on one occasion, which lasted ten days, and prevented them from reaching the rock. On the 6th September, a very heavy sea struck the ship, which flooded the deck and poured into the cabins below. It was thought the vessel had foundered, and that all on board would go down with her. They were in perfect darkness, and some of the men engaged in praying, some repeating hymns, and others declared that if they could only get on shore, they would never come on the water again. Stevenson made his way on deck and looked around. The billows seemed to be ten or fifteen feet high, and each appeared as if about to overwhelm the ship. One man, a black, lashed himself to the foremast, and kept watch in case the ship should break loose from her moorings. The next morning the sun rose and the gale abated, but the sea was still very rough, and at the Bell Rock the spray was thrown up to a height of forty or fifty feet. When, at last, the waters had grown calm, and Stevenson was able again to visit the rock, he found that the force of the sea had removed six immense blocks of granite twelve or fifteen paces off; and in the smith's forge the ash-pan, though it had a heavy cast-iron back, had been washed away, and was found on the opposite side of the rock. Stevenson thought there was no time to lose, so he and the men worked away at the building, which was to be a home for the workmen, and a temporary beacon. They finished the erection in about one hundred and three hours; and thinking of their heroic, courageous and persevering conduct, one is reminded of the building of Nehemiah's wall, which was even less difficult and dangerous than this work on the Bell Rock:—"So built we the wall; and all the wall was joined together unto the half thereof; for the people had a mind to work."

On the 6th day of October, the Bell Rock lighthouse builders relinquished work for that year, having done little more than erect the temporary workshops and beacon. They were still engaged, however, in preparing materials for the lighthouse; and the stones were laid down as they would be in the building. They were then carefully marked and numbered, and made all ready to be used as soon as possible. In the summer of the next year the undaunted men were on the rock again. On the 10th of July the foundation-stone was laid; on which Mr. Stevenson pronounced these words: "May the great Architect of the universe complete and bless this building!" The men then gave three cheers, and drank to the success of the lighthouse.

They worked on that year till the 21st September; and began again—the next on the 27th of May. On the 8th of July, they found to their great joy that the tide, even at high water, did not overflow the building; and so glad were they that they hoisted flags everywhere and fired a salute of three guns. By the 25th of August, it was thirty-one and a half feet above the rock. Mr. Stevenson was so anxious about his work that he paid two or three visits to the rock during the next winter. He found, however, that it was uninjured by the storms, and began to have a hope that during the coming season it would be completed. Nor were his hopes vain.

The men began work again on the 10th of May. In July they had a visit from Mrs. Dickson, the only daughter of Smeaton. On the 29th the last stone was landed upon the rock, and on the 30th the last course was laid. There had been ninety courses in all. As soon as the work was finished Stevenson reverently and thankfully offered this benediction—"May the great Architect of the universe, under whose blessing this perilous work has prospered, preserve it as a guide to the mariners."

On the 17th December in the same year, this advertisement recorded the fact of the lighthouse being finished:—"A lighthouse having been erected upon the Inchcape, or Bell Rock, situated at the Firths of Forth and Tay, in north latitude 56 degrees 29 minutes, and west longitude 2 degrees 22 minutes, the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses hereby give notice, that the light will be from oil, with reflectors, placed at the height of about one hundred and eight feet above the medium level of the sea. The light will be exhibited on the night of Friday, the first day of February 1811, and each night thereafter, from the going away of daylight in the evening until the return of daylight in the morning. To distinguish this light from others on the coast, it is made to revolve horizontally, and to exhibit a bright light of the natural appearance, and a red-coloured light alternately, both respectively attaining their greatest strength, or most luminous effect, in the space of every four minutes; during that period the bright light will, to a distant observer, appear like a star of the first magnitude, which after attaining its full strength is gradually eclipsed to total darkness, and is succeeded by the red-coloured light, which in like manner increases to full strength, and again diminishes and disappears. The coloured light, however, being less powerful, may not be seen for a time after the bright light is first observed. During the continuance of foggy weather, and showers of snow, a bell will be tolled by machinery, night and day, at intervals of half a minute."

The western coast of Scotland has its wonderful light as well as the eastern. On the Skerryvore Rock is a lighthouse erected by Alan Stevenson, raised amid much difficulty, but which was as urgently needed as any around the coast. The Skerryvore Rock, although not altogether submerged, stretches over a distance so considerable that wrecks upon it were as common as they were awful. In the year 1814, the Commissioners of Northern Lights visited the reef, accompanied by Sir Walter Scott, who declared that it was not equalled for loneliness and desolation, even by the Eddystone or Bell Rock. It was resolved to build a lighthouse, but the resolution was not carried into effect until 1834.

Mr. Alan Stevenson, to whom the honourable but difficult work was entrusted, began by building places to shelter the men; but these buildings were swept away by a storm in the winter of the same year. In the following early summer, the undaunted workers began again, and completed an erection of three storeys by September. It was forty feet above the rock; and here Mr. Stevenson and his men waited for the weather, or rested from their labours. The whole of the working season of 1849 was spent in excavating the foundation, to do which required two hundred and ninety-six charges of gunpowder. Mr. Stevenson has written an account of the Skerryvore Lighthouse, and he says that, during the first month which he and his men spent in their curious home, they suffered considerably from inundations. Once, for a fortnight, they were unable to hold communication with the mainland, and they saw "nothing but white plains of foam as far as the eye could reach." One night he was aroused by the breaking of a tremendous wave over the barrack, and all the men on the floor below uttered a terrible cry, and sprang from their beds. They believed that they were in the sea; and their thankfulness at finding it was not so, may be better imagined than described.

The foundation-stone of the Skerryvore Lighthouse was laid by the Duke of Argyle. The men who worked at it had need to be enthusiastic, for they rose at half-past three in the morning, and frequently continued toiling for thirteen or fourteen hours a day. This so wearied them, that they did not know how to keep awake; and Mr. Stevenson says they frequently went off in a profound slumber while standing or eating their meals. This solid building was finished in 1844, and its light is visible at the distance of eighteen miles.

There is a curious circumstance connected with the Sunderland Lighthouse. It formerly stood on the old pier, but when a new jetty was built, and a light added, the old one became unnecessary, and it was decided to demolish it. Mr. Murray, however, an engineer, thought it might be moved bodily, as it stood, to the place where the new lighthouse was to be erected. The distance was about four hundred and seventy-five feet, the weight of the lighthouse seven hundred and fifty-seven thousand pounds. It possesses an octagonal tower, sixty-four feet high, and fifteen feet in diameter at the base. Some openings were made at the bottom of the tower, and strong planks of oak were introduced, then the lowest part of the building was destroyed, so that the tower rested on the platform of timber planks, which itself rested on a number of cast-iron wheels made like those of a railway train, and sleepers were laid down in front and over these. The building passed a few feet at a time, while strong men drew the iron chains, which were wound upon windlasses. The work was accomplished in thirteen hours and twenty-four minutes; and that evening the lamp was lighted as usual.

Visitors to the Isle of Wight will have seen two remarkable lighthouses on its coast. That on one of the sharp rocks, called the Needles, has a light so brilliant as to be seen at sea from a distance of fourteen miles. It has a fog-bell, which rings in very stormy weather, and may be heard five miles off. There is another valuable lighthouse at St. Catherine's Point, which is an ornament to the beautiful neighbourhood. Its height is one hundred feet. In the midst of the interesting scenery of Cape Cornwall, the visitor, gazing out to sea, will observe the Longships Lighthouse. It is needed, for the rocks are most dangerous—the Armed Knight and Irish Lady being fantastic names for huge masses that would send many a splendid ship to destruction.

Then there is the Wolfs Crag Lighthouse; and the Lizard Point Lighthouse, which, with the wonderfully-marked rocks, will delight those who are seeking instruction and entertainment at the same time as they find change and rest. The North and South Forelands have lighthouses, and Holyhead throws its radiance over the waters that lave the feet of the Welsh mountains.

Altogether the Englishman has reason to be thankful that his island home, so girt about with dangerous sands and rocks, is yet so guarded by its friendly lights that the mariner, going or returning, may be warned of the hindrances to progress, and the "terror by night," which lie hidden under the pitiless, deceitful waters.

No one can consider the subject of lighthouses without thinking also of lighthouse-homes and those who inhabit them. It is a remarkable fact that there is no position so dreary or dangerous, but some one can be found to fill it. And so brave are certain individuals amongst us, that it may almost be said they covet situations where courage, endurance, and self-denial, are essential. It is necessary, indeed, that lighthouse keepers should be in many respects superior men; and he who thinks that "any one will do to light a lamp," is mistaken. Men who occupy such a high position must be well tested, faithful men. Do they not hold in their hands the lives of emigrants seeking foreign shores for work—good successful traders, bringing home their savings to make widowed mothers, or aged and infirm fathers happy—sailor lads, for whose return fair English maidens pray with love's longing, and little children, who are to grow up into statesmen, philanthropists, and deliverers? Would it do for light-house-keepers to be men who trembled at the storm, and turned pale when their tower shook, and forgot to light the lamp, when the lightning's forked tongue was darting hither and thither? May a light-house-keeper put his own life and health first, and his duty next? Must he allow anxiety for a sick child, or sorrow for a dying wife, to withdraw him for one evening from his work? No. All that is required of a faithful soldier is required, in even a greater degree, in the keeper of a lighthouse. He has therefore to receive a course of instruction, and to be subjected to strict discipline. He has to pass a medical examination, and produce unexceptionable testimonials with regard to his moral character. In a word, he must be in all respects a most trustworthy man, or he will not do for a lighthouse-keeper.

The first and chief rule for the guidance of the man to whom is allotted the post of honour and danger is this—"You are to light the lamps every evening at sunsetting, and keep them constantly burning bright and clear till sunrising." Nothing—no personal matter of sickness or sorrow, must prevent his doing this. While life is in him, and his senses continue, this injunction is to be ringing in his memory, and guiding his actions. There is plenty of other work to do besides. Every part of the building is to be kept clean, and the lightroom apparatus scrupulously so. The glass is to be washed, rubbed with a soft dry leather, and kept perfectly free from dust and all impurities.

But the chief thing after all is to light the lamp, and watch to see that it does not burn dimly, or go out. In the long nights of winter the watcher is relieved after a number of hours, but he must not leave the room on any pretence until his comrade comes to take his place. He must not sleep, nor even take his ease; his attention is to be fixed on the light alone. The night experiences of such men must sometimes be startling, and even awful. What strange noises they must occasionally hear, when the winds and waves are fighting out their battles! What fearful cries as, notwithstanding the friendly light, a vessel strikes upon the rocks, and the people are tossed into the surging waters. They have visitors too; often in the night the wild sea-birds, fascinated by the light, as the moth is by the candle, come dashing against the lantern with such violence as to break the glass. But whatever happens, close to the tower, or away over the stormy waters, the man knows his duty, and does it, by keeping the light burning brightly until the sunrising.

Life in the lighthouse must needs be very monotonous, when the house is built upon some rock, far out at sea. Then, for some weeks of the worst weather, it is not possible for the keepers to receive visitors or supplies; it is necessary therefore that an abundance of the necessaries of life should be stowed away in the building.

The men too are provided with libraries; so that if they see few faces of their fellows, they can at least hold communion with books; and it was a happy thought to send all those who live in isolated positions such companions. But these are not the only ones. Two, three, or four men, are stationed at such places as the Eddystone, so that each may take his turn in spending some time with his family on shore. Those lighthouses which are situated on the mainland are comfortable homes, with their little plot of ground to cultivate, and visitors, at least in the summer season, to talk with. It is in the winter, and when the house is inaccessible, that the men's powers of endurance are tried.

It will never happen again, as it did before the whole system had reached its present state of perfection, that one man should be left on a solitary rock, with the corpse of his comrade, while the seething waters prevented any one from coming to his assistance. But even now the life is sufficiently trying. Human nature is apt to be awkward, and it is desirable that the light-keepers should be good tempered, friendly men, who will not soon tire of each other, nor quarrel over misunderstandings and differences of opinion. It must be a happy thing for a man who is a lighthouse watcher, to be God-fearing and Christian, and have a wife and children about him. Such a lighthouse as the one in which he lives may be a Bethel, even though it be in a measure cut off from all other human habitations. And those who dwell in it may well feel that they have the especial care and sympathy of the Lord Jesus, who loved the sea, and frequented it during his stay in this world. How often must they long to hear His voice coming across the turmoil of the angry waters, and saying, "It is I, be not afraid." And how good it must be when the shadows fall, and the night with its mystery and dangers broods over the waves, for the man to give himself and his dear ones into the powerful keeping of the Prince of Peace. From such homes may well come strong brave men, and virtuous women, who shall always be on the side of right against might—goodness against evil. Such a home, we may well believe, was that of James Darling, the father of the heroic maiden of the Farne Isles.[2]



[1] "Poems by Jean Ingelow." Longmans & Co., London.

[2] The writer is indebted for much of the information contained in this chapter to a deeply interesting and excellent volume by Mr. W. H. Davenport Adams, entitled, "Lighthouses and Lightships," published by T. Nelson and Sons, London and Edinburgh.



CHAPTER V.

LIGHTHOUSE GUESTS.

"So low did her secure foundations lie; She was not humble, but humility. Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair, Or wise, beyond what other women are Or (which is better) knew, but never durst compare. For to be conscious of what all admire And not be vain, advances virtue higher. But still she found, or rather thought she found, Her own worth wanting, others to abound; Ascribed above their due to every one, Unjust and scanty to herself alone."—Dryden.

The loneliness of the Farne Islands must have been rather depressing to the young people who dwelt upon them, and when a chance wind brought to the Longstone Rock any guest to be entertained, and treated with true British hospitality, the inhabitants of the lighthouse must have been particularly thankful. Birds and fishes, winds and waves, are very well in their places, but social hearts long for something else than these, and cannot be satisfied without communion with their kind. Grace Darling's sympathy was with human life; and no one can read of her without feeling that, if she could not shine in society, she could at least be very womanly and kind with strangers, and sufficiently entertaining to those who visited the happy, homely dwelling among the rocks. She would take delight in ministering to their needs, and removing their sorrows; and we are sure that no one was shipwrecked on the island, or visited it from curiosity or for instruction, without taking away with them pleasant recollections of the gentle girl.

Lonely as the island was, and quiet as the lives of the inmates of the lighthouse must have been, they were not altogether uneventful, and they certainly were not idle. The brothers of a family always make much work, and sometimes not a little care for their sisters. A good girl cannot but be very loving toward them, and most anxious for their welfare. If the boys are away from home, the solicitude of the sister is increased; and many an earnest prayer does she send up to God during the day, and sometimes during the night, that He would bless the lads. The tender, pitiful soul of a girl clings to her brother; and sometimes, if the boys only knew how much they are beloved, they would perhaps live and act very differently. They may rest assured that no one, unless it be their mother, feels as thankful for their joy, and as grieved for their sorrow, as proud of their virtue, and as sad for their sins, as the sisters who played with them, and who always feel as if God meant them to be, in some measure, their brothers' keepers.

Grace Darling's brothers were away from the island, but they were not forgotten by Grace. Often, with a happy smile on her lips, and a loving light in her eyes, she sat and worked for them, preparing some warm garment, or pretty little gift, that should tell the boys a pleasant, though oft-repeated tale, of their sister's love.

But the best time for Grace was when the twin-brothers came home for a holiday. She kept it with them, and always took care that they should have such particularly good times that they would delight to talk of them when they were over. Every one who knows anything of boys and their ways, knows how proud and flattered they are by the attentions of a girl who is older than themselves. And Grace was charming, for she laid herself out for her brothers' pleasure. Long before they came home, she invented little surprises, in the shape of puzzles, pictures, and games. She knew that the most uncomfortable experience a boy can have is to be left alone with nothing to do, and she took care that nothing of this kind should spoil the holidays of the brothers. She joined in all their play. She ran races with them—jumped with them—sailed with them; and if they had not been too manly to cry, when the parting time came, she would have cried with them most heartily. They were golden days indeed for Grace when her brothers came home.

Nor was she scarcely less pleased when others, and strangers, paid a visit to her home.

One day in September, 1832, Grace and her mother were watching the sky and sea most anxiously. Mr. Darling had gone to North Sunderland, having sailed thither in his trusty coble. They were now expecting his return, and every five minutes seemed an hour while they waited. He was not coming alone, for his eldest son was to accompany him. The latter was at this time residing at Alnwick, but was always glad of an opportunity to go home. The two who watched for them prayed as they watched.

"I hope they will not be long, Grace. Is it not time they had arrived?" asked Mrs. Darling.

"Scarcely yet, mother," replied Grace. "Do not be anxious, so many things may have delayed them."

"But I feel sure that a storm is coming. Look at the waves out at sea—how white they are; and every hour they are becoming more so."

"But I think they will be here before the storm comes."

"I hope they may. If not, I fear that they will not be able to come at all to-night."

"There is time yet."

"But the sun is setting, Grace; already the twilight is here."

"Let us trust, mother. I think all will be well with them."

They stood looking towards the sea, and presently Grace saw that which they were looking for.

"Here they come, mother; and there are two in the boat!"

"Where, Grace? Are you sure it is they?"

"Quite! Cannot you see them?"

"Oh yes, thank God; and they are coming very quickly. They will soon be here."

"Let us go down to the beach to meet them."

Grace went joyfully down; and as their boat came ashore, she received them with thanksgiving.

"All well, Grace?"

"Yes, father. Mother has been very anxious, lest you should not be able to get here before the storm came."

"It is coming, surely. It will be a very rough night, a night to be at home rather than on the sea. Let us get indoors as soon as possible."

They had not been long within the shelter of their home before the storm burst in all its fury, and it was a storm that even they did not often witness. The wind, which at first had sighed as if in sorrow, and wailed as if for woe, now roared in wild anger, rushing hither and thither in a mad endeavour to shake and destroy all that came in its way. Rain pelted down upon the lighthouse, and hail beat against the windows, while the waves, lashed to fury by the tempestuous winds, leaped so high that they beat with violence against the lighthouse itself. All were glad and thankful to be within doors at such a time, and talked compassionately of the poor fellows who were exposed to the pitiless rigour of the elements.

Grace sat at the window watching, when presently all were startled by an exclamation of alarm which she involuntarily uttered.

"What is it, Grace!" cried her father, rising hastily, and going to her side. "See, father!" said she in answer.

The sight that met Darling's eyes was sad enough. A little yacht, quite too small to brave such weather, was seen tossing about on the angry waters. One moment it seemed to rise on the top of a wave-mountain, the next it was engulphed in the watery abyss, but all the time the wind was driving it toward the rocks.

"William, look here," said Darling to his son.

William drew a long breath.

"She is coming with all speed to the rocks," he said.

"Yes, there is not a moment to lose. Come, my son."

The young man needed no second bidding: if he had done, Grace would have added her earnest words. But she knew her father and brothers, and hastened to get their hats and jackets, and prepare them for the battle with the winds and waves.

"Is there anything more that I can do for you, father?"

"Yes, take care of your mother, and do not let her give way."

Mrs. Darling clung to her husband until he gently put her into the hands of her daughter. It is one of the trials of the wife of a lighthouse keeper, that she must often see her husband go forth to dangers which may lead him into death; and Mrs. Darling could not bear this trouble with any degree of composure. It is a singular thing that those who live by the sea are often most alarmed at its power. Mrs. Darling knew what it did with helpless men; and when her husband went out in the storm, though he had gone on an errand of mercy, she was often so anxious about him as to be quite overpowered; and while he was fighting with the elements she would remain at home in a state of insensibility, from which she was with difficulty aroused.

At such times, it is generally the case that

"Men must work, and women must weep."

And it is the women who have the worst of it. It is not so difficult for heroic men to rush into danger for the salvation of human life, as it is for loving women to sit calmly at home while the lives that are dearest to them are in jeopardy. Mrs. Browning understood this when she wrote her poem, "Parting Lovers," when Italy needed brave men to die for her:—

"Heroic males the country bears, But daughters give up more than sons; Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your heaven at once.

"But we? We empty heart and home Of life's life—love! We bear to think You're gone—to feel you may not come— To hear the door-latch stir and clink, Yet no more you!—nor sink."

Happily, however, on this occasion Mrs. Darling's suspense was not of long duration; for her husband and son managed to row to the little imperilled yacht, and succeeded, though not without danger to themselves, in rescuing its occupants. A few minutes more, and they must have perished; and their joy and thankfulness at being saved at, as it seemed to them, the eleventh hour, may be better imagined than described.

Away to the friendly lighthouse rowed Mr. Darling and his son, and in a very short space of time they were safely sheltered from the storm. On the threshold of the home, they were met by Grace, who, with her mother, eagerly and kindly welcomed them.

"Come into the light and warmth," said Mrs. Darling, "and I will find you some warm clothing. Thank God that you are saved."

"Yes, indeed; and we shall never cease to feel thankful also to our kind deliverers, for their skill and courage in saving us from death."

The party consisted of four persons—a lady, two gentlemen, and the boatman; and were quite an addition to the little household, which was, however equal to the emergency.

"Come with me," said Grace to the lady, "and I will find you some dry clothing."

"Thank you," she said. "I could not have imagined any thing like the rain and spray with which we have been drenched; my face was quite stung with them as they beat against me."

"Yes, it is something dreadful during a storm; and of course it seems worse to those who are not used to it. If you take off everything that is wet, and exchange it for dry, I hope you will take no real harm."

The wardrobe of Grace Darling was not a very extensive one, but she spread her belongings before the visitor with the utmost readiness and kindness.

"Please take any article that can be of the least use to you. I am only sorry that I have no better ones to offer."

"Pray do not speak of that. It will be most delightful to feel warm and dry once more."

In the meantime, the two gentlemen were also supplied with some clothing that belonged to the absent brothers of Grace, and presently they all appeared in the room below, and joined the family. They could scarcely repress a smile as they saw each other arrayed in such unusual attire, but it was with deep feeling that they congratulated one another on their escape. The guests then introduced themselves as Mr. and Miss Dudley, and Mr. Morrington.

"We have been spending a holiday at Tynemouth," said one, "and have been there several weeks. This morning as the sea was calm, and the weather lovely, we came out for a sail, little thinking that in a few hours the scene would be so greatly changed. It is like our treacherous English climate."

"But we came farther than we had intended, for the sea was so thoroughly enjoyable."

"And the gale came up so suddenly that we had not time to seek a place of safety, and it was so very violent that we were driven quite out of our course."

"Had you no control over the vessel?" asked Mr. Darling.

"Not the least We were quite at the mercy of the winds, and waves."

"And they are most merciless," said one of the young men.

"I do not know how to thank you enough for your great kindness, Mr. Darling," said Miss Dudley. "Words are quite too weak to express the grateful feelings of my heart; but I shall ever remember your great courage, humanity, and kindness, in attempting and accomplishing our rescue from a watery grave."

"Nay, nay," said the kind lighthouse keeper, "do not say any more on the subject. I am sufficiently rewarded for any little trouble and risk by the happiness of knowing that I have been the means of preserving your lives, by the help of God."

"Your heroic conduct ought to be reported to the authorities."

"But we are placed here to keep the lamps burning; and though we are very glad to save lives, you understand that is not the work we are paid for doing."

"You are paid though, by the consciousness of having done a good deed, and the gratitude of those whom you have rescued."

"Certainly, but you must please excuse me now, as I must relieve my son, and take my turn in watching by the beacon."

"And now," said Mrs. Darling, "I am sure you will be glad of some refreshment."

Indeed they were; and Mrs. Darling, who was a good housekeeper, and had a few delicacies in her larder, knew how to satisfy the appetites of her guests. It was a very cheerful party that gathered around the lighthouse-table that evening, and when William Darling joined them there was no lack of conversation. The guests were evidently persons of gentle birth and habits, and the Darlings knew how to appreciate such society. The social Grace was especially delighted, and almost felt thankful for the storm that had brought such interesting and agreeable guests to the lighthouse-home. The two girls, differently reared as they had been, were yet able to fraternise, and find mutual pleasure in the society of each other; and the hours passed almost unheeded, while the storm, which had abated none of its tempestuous fury, raged violently without, and failed to disturb the happiness of those who were so pleasantly occupied.

It was very late before they could bring themselves to break up the social party, and retire to rest.

"We have not a spare room to offer you. Will you mind sharing mine?" asked Grace of Miss Dudley.

"Not at all. I shall be glad to do so. I am very tired, and do not think that even the storm will keep me awake," replied Caroline Dudley.

"You will sleep in the boys' bed," said Mrs. Darling to the gentlemen. "William will watch the light to-night, and so relieve his father."

The strangers slept soundly. It seemed that the storm did but rock them to sleep, for it was not until a late hour in the morning that they awoke. Miss Dudley found that her companion had already risen, and the sun was pouring into the little room its bright unclouded glory. But the sea was very rough; and as soon as she had asked the opinion of the weather-wise lighthouse-keeper as to the possibility of returning, she found that for that day at least they must remain on the island. A bountiful breakfast of tea, coffee, fish, and eggs, had been provided by the hostess, to which the visitors did ample justice.

"I am afraid, Mrs. Darling, that we shall have to encroach still further upon your hospitality," said Dudley; "Mr. Darling informs me that we cannot leave the island to-day, as the sea continues so rough."

"I am only too glad to have you for my guests," said Mrs. Darling, heartily.

"As for me," said Grace, turning to her newly-found but already beloved friend, "I could wish that the storm might last a very long time."

"I should be glad to stay too," said Miss Dudley, "if my father only knew of our safety. He is not strong, and the suspense may do him serious injury. He will be most anxious about us, I know. He was quite aware of the kind of vessel we sailed in, and when he saw how severe the storm was, he would naturally conclude that we were lost. I am afraid of the effect that the sorrow may have upon him in his weak state."

"He will surely not lose hope for some time," said Darling; "and to-morrow, if all is well, you will be able to return to him."

"But our boat was so injured by being beaten against the rocks, that I fear it is useless," remarked one of the gentlemen.

"I will take you across in my boat," said Darling, "so you need have no anxiety on that score."

"Oh, Mr. Darling, you make us more and more your debtors."

They were consoled, however, with the thought that the suspense of Mr. Dudley would be relieved before very long; and as nothing could be done on that day, they resigned themselves to their situation, and prepared to have a delightful holiday.

When breakfast was over, Grace took Caroline to the turret of the lighthouse to enjoy the extensive view which such a point of vantage afforded. A better day for the purpose could scarcely have been chosen, for the fleecy clouds floated gracefully, the air was calm, and the sun shone forth in splendour. The ocean had not recovered from the effects of the angry storm, and the wild white waves leaped up as if they would overwhelm and altogether destroy everything that offered the least opposition.

Miss Dudley gazed spell-bound on the scene, and could not find words in which to express her admiration; while Grace, to whom it was all very familiar, confessed that even the could never look upon it without feelings of wonder and delight. She pointed out the famous Castle of Bamborough, with its battlements and towers; then Holy Island, on which could be seen the ruins of its ancient priory; and also the Cheviot hills on the north.

"Have you ever heard any of the legends of our neighbourhood," inquired Grace? "No," replied Caroline; "but it will give me very great pleasure to listen to them."

Nothing could have pleased Grace better than to pour into the willing ears of the young lady who had so strangely been brought to her, and who had so attracted her affections, the old-world stories in which she herself so greatly delighted. But to Miss Dudley the pleasure was even greater. She was naturally romantic, being possessed of a warm poetic temperament; and what treat could have been greater to such a maiden than to sit in the lonely lighthouse tower of the weird Longstone Island, and listen to the mysterious fascinating legends of Northumbria, as told in melodious accents by the lips of the enthusiastic island girl? What wonder that as she listened, and the other talked, the two young hearts were drawn to each other in trustful and admiring friendship?

They were soon recalled, however, for the three young men, Dudley, Morrington, and William Darling, wished them to join them in a walk about the islands. They strolled together along the beach; and as the tide was ebbing, the sands were firm and pleasant. The two girls kept together, and Grace pointed out to her friend those objects which were the most interesting.

"That is the island on which St. Cuthbert lived, and we can see the hermitage he built. He came here from the priory of Lindisfarne, because he thought that a monastic life provided too many luxuries and enjoyments for the good and prosperity of his soul. He thought they distracted his mind, and prevented it from dwelling sufficiently on religious subjects."

"But it is not necessary to become a recluse in order to serve God?"

"No, for He has placed us in families, and given us social duties to perform. But I suppose St. Cuthbert thought differently; and so he came to spend his days on the island. He must have found discomfort and privation enough to satisfy even him, for it is said that there was neither water nor vegetation upon the island, which was then altogether barren and uninhabitable. Besides that, it had the reputation of being haunted by malignant demons, which took up their abode there. The saint, however, was not afraid of evil spirits, nor anything else, and the spot became very dear to him."

"But how could he live if there was nothing on the island to eat and drink?"

"Oh, of course he worked some miracles, and his wants were easily supplied; at least so the legend says. I have read a description of the marvellous change which came over the island while he lived upon it. 'The flinty rock bubbled with fresh water; the once barren soil, with prolific abundance, brought forth grain; trees and shrubs, bearing fruit, decked the smiling shores; the troubled waters clapped their hands for joy; the plains assumed a mantle of green, embroidered with flowers, the evil spirits were bound in eternal darkness, and angels of light communed with the saint!' Strange, if true, was it not?"

"It was indeed! But what has become of the remarkable verdure?"

"Oh, it is said that although the demons were never again allowed to return, the island became as sterile as before when St. Cuthbert died, and no more exerted his miraculous influence on its behalf."

"Are there any relics of this wonderful saint still remaining on the islands?"

"Yes, there are the ruins of a church, and in them is a stone coffin, which at one time contained the remains of the saint."

Caroline laughingly replied, that as the restless body occupied a large number of coffins before it finally found a home in Durham Cathedral, it was only fair that the Farne Islands should have one.

"Now, let me tell you about Holy Island," said Grace. "That also has the ruins of an ancient priory, and possesses more historical associations and wonderful legends than I could possibly repeat. It is a very beautiful island, though it is in decay, and has lost its former glory and importance. As early as the Saxon Heptarchy, there was a monastery on Lindisfarne. It was pillaged and burned by the Danes, those terrible sea-kings who caused our country so much suffering in the days of old, and who seemed to be so fond of Holy Island, that they came to it again and again."

"They were wonderfully persistent, were they not?"

"They were indeed! There are many other places of interest, Warkworth and Dunstanborough among the rest."

"I shall try to persuade my father to pay a visit to those places before we leave the neighbourhood," said Miss Dudley; "and now Grace, since you have told me so much that is interesting, I will try to tell you a little about the far different scenes among which I live."

"Do," said Grace, "I shall be glad to hear anything about your life."

Caroline's story was almost as strange to Grace as Grace's had been to Caroline, for it had to do with a class of society about which the young lighthouse girl knew nothing. Miss Dudley was used to shine in circles to which Grace Darling would not have been admitted, and her description of the habits of thought and modes of life of the people among whom she associated, was graphic, piquant, and most entertaining. Like many a merry, warm-hearted girl, she cherished a half-contemptuous opinion of much that was fashionable and gay; and to hear her speak of the crowded assemblies, the dreary dinner parties, the exciting balls, and the endless morning calls, was to give Grace both surprise and amusement.

The two girls, as they thus stood, talking to each other of their lives and associations, formed a very striking contrast. Miss Dudley was tall, dark and beautiful, with classic features and graceful form. Her mother was a Spanish lady, and from her the daughter had inherited the splendid dark eyes and hair, as also the ardent and romantic nature, which had thrown such a spell round Grace. Her intellect was of the highest order, and had been most carefully cultivated, so that her natural enthusiasm had been restrained and disciplined, but not subdued or weakened. She had only just left school, which was one of the highest class, where all the modern accomplishments necessary to a refined education had been thoroughly taught her; and as she had moved always in good society, her manners had acquired that easy grace and polish which can scarcely be obtained under other circumstances.

Grace Darling, on the contrary, had, as we know, received little if any instruction beyond that which her own father had imparted. But although her opportunities had been meagre, she had made the most of them, and was at this time a well-informed girl, with good natural abilities. She was possessed of that simple courtesy which has its root in self-forgetfulness, and an earnest desire to please, and which will always prevent its owner from breaking any of those rules of etiquette which make the wheels of society run so smoothly; and there was an easy winning grace, and guileless sweetness of manner, about the simple true-hearted lighthouse maiden, that won its way to all hearts. There is no such beautifier as thoughtful goodness; and the amiable character, and clear understanding of Grace Darling, shone through her hazel eyes, and added to her loveliness.

Grace was rather beneath the ordinary stature, and her figure was slender and graceful. She had a wreath of sunny brown curls, and a delicate clear complexion, which revealed the quick emotions of joy or sorrow that moved her. She was rich, too, in having a fund of good common sense, which would enable her, with the assistance of the ready presence of mind and dauntless courage which characterised her, to be equal to all the emergencies of life.

The two girls, so differently trained and constituted, who were thus brought together, would probably be the better for the short intercourse which they had; and it is certain that both would retain pleasant memories of their walks and talks in the island.

When evening came they all sat around the lighthouse fire, and hold a pleasant conversation. Nor were they content with this, but added the delights of music to their entertainment. Miss Dudley was prevailed on to sing the following ballad;[1]—

"The 'Morning Star' Sailed o'er the bar, Bound to the Baltic Sea: In the morning grey She stretched away— 'Twas a weary day to me.

"And many an hour, In sleet and shower, By the lighthouse rock I stray, And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that's far away.

"The Castle's bound I wander round, Among the grassy graves, But all I hear Is the north wind drear, And all I see—the waves."

"Oh, roam not there, Thou mourner fair, Nor pour the fruitless tear! The plaint of woe is all too low— The dead—they cannot hear!

"The Morning Star Is set afar, Set in the Baltic Sea; And the billows spread O'er the sandy bed That holds thy love from thee."

Mr. Morrington remarked that the Tynemouth Castle grounds were used as a burial place; and then calls were made upon the other members of the party for another song.

"William can sing," remarked Grace, looking at her brother.

"Of course he can," said Mr. Dudley; "whoever knew a light-hearted man, used to the sea, who could not sing. Will you please favour us, Mr. Darling!"

William, who was anxious, like the rest of the family, to make the time of their guests pass as pleasantly as possible, at once complied with their request. He sang his song to an old border tune, originally composed to the words, "When I was a bachelor fine and brave:"—

"Harold, the minstrel, was blithe and young; Many and strange were the lays he sung; But Harold neither had gold nor fee— His wealth was his harp o' the forest tree; And little he reck'd, as he troll'd his lay— 'Clouds come over the brightest day.'

"On him young Ella, the maiden, smiled; Never were notes like his wood-notes wild, Till the baron's broad lands and glittering store Dazzled her eye, and her love was o'er; Gold hushed the praise of the minstrel lay— 'Clouds come over the brightest day.'

"From the old church-tower the joy bells rung, Flowering wreaths were before her flung; Youth was gay, but the aged sighed— 'She had better been the minstrel's bride; And Harold wept as he troll'd his lay— 'Clouds come over the brightest day.'

"Years have fled, and the moonbeams fall On the roofless towers of the baron's hall; The owl hath built in the chapel aisle, And the bat in the silent campanile, And the whispering ivy seems to say— 'Clouds come over the brightest day.'

"Years have fled, and that soft light shines On a quiet cot where the woodbine twines. A lonely heart, in a distant clime, On that sweet cot thinks, and the warning rhyme, Treasures of earth will fade away— 'Clouds come over the brightest day.'"

The next morning the sea was calm enough for to make it safe for the visitors to cross over, and they prepared to leave the island-home in which they had been so kindly and hospitably entertained. They did so with some reluctance, being sorry to lose the friends whom they had found. The parting was especially hard to Grace, who had been living in a new world during the last two days; but Miss Dudley comforted her, by expressing a hope that they would meet again.

"Will you come and stay with us, Grace, before we leave Tynemouth," she asked. "I should like to do so very much," said Grace, "if father and mother will consent."

"I will get the permission of Mr. and Mrs. Darling before I go," replied Miss Dudley.

She did so; and though the anticipations of the girls were not to be realised, the hope made the parting more easy than it would otherwise have been.

Mrs. Darling and Grace both went down to the beach to see the last of their friends, and it was not until after many loving farewells, that Miss Dudley could break away.

The two young men thanked Mrs. Darling most heartily, while they warmly shook hands with her, for her motherly care and kindness. Then Mr. Darling took his station in the boat, and William assisted the friends into it.

"Good-bye, good-bye, God bless you."

"Write to me soon, Grace."

The little boat went dancing away over the laughing waters, leaving behind—as boats so often do—loneliness and regret. Mrs. Darling went back to her work in the lighthouse, but Grace remained on the beach until the coble that bore her friend away had passed completely out of sight. She might be forgiven if, for that day, her usual cheerfulness forsook her, and she felt as if she could not settle down to the monotony of her life.

She was glad when toward evening her father and brother returned, and she could learn all the latest particulars of her friend. They described the rapturous joy of Major Dudley at the re-appearance of the son and daughter whom he had mourned as lost. At first the meeting seemed too much for him, and he trembled, and he turned pale; but afterward he caressed them most passionately, and loaded the Darlings with presents and thanks.

"When he heard of all that had been done for his son and daughter, and their friend, he would not let me come away without bringing presents for us. See," said the lighthouse keeper, exhibiting them, "this is for Mrs. Darling, and this for Grace."

"Miss Dudley has not sent a letter, I suppose, father?"

"No; but she has sent her love, and promises to write soon."

The letter came in a day or two, but it was not at all what Grace wished for. It brought the unwelcome intelligence that Major Dudley had been summoned to the south, and they were all obliged at once to accompany him thither, so that it was not possible for them to receive Grace as they had hoped to do. She therefore saw her friend no more; and for some days she could not help feeling very sad and lonely. But Mrs. Darling, sensible woman as she was, knew a good cure for melancholy.

"Grace," she said, "I want to make a few alterations in the house. One or two of the rooms must be thoroughly cleaned, and the furniture placed differently, and then I think it will be more comfortable for the winter. I shall want your help, my child."

Grace readily responded; and before very long her face grew bright under the influence of wholesome household work; and her parents were delighted to hear her clear voice once more singing her favourite airs.

When, a week later, William Darling went back to Alnwick, the lighthouse family returned to the usual quiet, even ways, which had lately been so pleasantly disturbed, and the lighthouse guests were hereafter little more than memories.

Does it seem that too much has been made of this little simple incident? Let it be remembered, that though on the mainland, in our busy towns and centres of population, the visits of strangers, and the joy of entertaining them, may be common occurrences, it was far different in the case of these dwellers on the lonely Farne Islands. We, who are used to receive the social calls of friends, and to spend many hours a week in "chit-chat," and pleasant recreation, can scarcely estimate the joy and refreshment which this episode brought to the Darlings. It was a great event to them, and was remembered and talked over for many years afterwards. Grace especially, though she never saw her friend again, never forgot her, and there is no doubt that the little intercourse she had had was not without its effects on the after-life and character of the heroic girl.

We cannot tell for what purpose in the all-wise providence of God strangers are brought to us whom we learn to love, and take to our hearts as dear friends, and who are then altogether removed from us. But we may be sure that some good end is kept in view, and perhaps hereafter that which is mysterious may be made plain.

This life is but the beginning of things, the continuation of them will be in heaven; and who knows but that it may be one of the pleasures that our Father has in store for us, that there, the old friendships may be renewed and perfected, and the scattered links all united? If it be so, perhaps Grace has already found her friend again.



[1] It was written at Tynemouth; and refers to the "Morning Star," a vessel belonging to the Tyne, which was lost, with all hands, in the Baltic.



CHAPTER VI.

CHRISTMAS AT THE LONGSTONE LIGHTHOUSE.

"It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: 'Peace on the earth, good-will to men, From heaven's all gracious King;' The world in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing."

"Yet with the woes of sin and strife The world has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong; And man at war with man, hears not The love-song which they bring— Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing."—E. H. Sears.

It does not matter very much where Christmas is kept, so long as all the family can get together, and all hearts be filled with His love, who came as a Babe in Bethlehem to bring blessings to the world. Under such circumstances, Christmas is a joyous time everywhere, and dear friends, meeting together for a few days of social intercourse, may well bless the season, and retain their old love for it.

It is interesting to think of the various scenes into which the grey head and kindly face of old Father Christmas are brought with shouts of welcome. He comes to the palace, where flowers and perfumes give him a taste of summer's months of gladness, and where men who occupy elevated positions are glad to rest them in his genial smile. He goes to the farm-house, in the country round which the bare fields lie, and the ground is as hard as if it never meant to be fruitful again; and the farmer feels the winter which has a Christmas in it is almost as good as a spring-time of promise. He goes to the tradesmen in the town, and the carol singers make even the busy streets melodious and suggestive of peace and good-will; and the shopkeeper blesses the prosperity of trade, that enables him to welcome the festive time with well-filled tables and good cheer. And best of all, he goes to ships at sea, and lonely lighthouses, and places where he is really needed, to cheer sad hearts and raise depressed spirits; and as to most places he brings the children with him, he is generally able very successfully to accomplish his kind mission.

At the Longstone lighthouse they kept Christmas most joyfully, and all the children, now growing to manhood and womanhood, came home to assist.

Great preparations were made beforehand by Mrs. Darling and Grace, that nothing might be wanting to add to the festivities of the happy re-union. If they could not deck the walls with holly and mistletoe grown on the island, they could have it brought from the mainland by the boys and girls when they came. Pictures, curtains, and books, were all made the most of; and to crown the whole, or rather, as the foundation of the whole, the house was made spotlessly clean—cleaner than usual, if that could be, for the joyous occasion.

But there was always one source of anxiety to trouble the Darlings during December. There was ever a chance that they could not travel. Such things have been heard of as coaches being snowed up, and even railways blocked with the innocent-looking snow. But when the travellers have to cross the sea in places where it is at no time very smooth, the risk of such a misfortune is always much greater. It was often utterly impossible for boats to reach the Farne Islands from the mainland; and no one could say, until the time came, that the Darlings would not be kept from home by stress of weather. It may be imagined, therefore, with what anxiety the sea was watched, and how eager they were to know which way the wind was, and what might be expected of the weather. And when, at last, the boat was seen bringing the dear ones to their home among the rocks, very deep were the thanksgivings that went up to God who had given them journeying mercies.

One Christmas they all met together, and were unusually happy.

"A week's holiday!" said one. "It will be like living at home again to be together so long."

"And to think that you are all safely here," said the mother.

"And not one of us has died during the year," added the father.

"Surely," said Grace, "we ought to be happy, if any family should, with so much to make us so."

"And we shall be," said Mary Ann; "at least I am not afraid of it myself."

There was a general smile at Mary Ann's expense. She had come home with most important news—she was going to be married, and she had already whispered to her sisters that she had heaps of things to tell about "him." It has been said that a woman has but one him (hymn), and that she is never tired of singing it! It seemed so indeed in Mary Ann's case, for she had scarcely reached home when she took her sisters Thomasin and Grace aside, and began to descant most eloquently upon the manliness and goodness, cleverness and handsomeness of her lover, whom she boldly declared to be "the best and most kind-hearted man in the world." "And I will tell you all about him," she added, "though indeed it will take the whole week to tell."

Her sisters were good-humoured and interested; and it was therefore evident that there would be no lack of conversation during those holidays.

If there had been, Elizabeth, the youngest, could have supplied it, for she had just been apprenticed; and youth always imagines its own affairs to be of most absorbing interest. Elizabeth was learning the millinery business, and though the making of hats and bonnets might seem to the general public an uninviting theme on which to dwell, anything is worth listening to that comes from lips that are beloved.

So the lighthouse-fires were kept burning brightly, and an air of comfort and neatness reigned around. The snug sitting-room, in which they had played when they were little ones, held them all now, and very delightful were the hours spent in it. Mr. and Mrs. Darling looked around on their blooming girls and manly sons, and felt that they were well repaid for all the anxiety and toil which their children had occasioned. And when in the evenings the room was cleared, and the merry games of blind-man's-buff and forfeits were engaged in, it may be questioned if any British household had lighter hearts and greater freedom from care than that of the dwellers in Longstone beacon.

"There is one thing needed to make the Christmas perfect," said Grace.

"What is that?" asked her brother William. "The presence of Miss Dudley?"

"No; I was not thinking of her. She has sent me some beautiful letters lately, and they are the most that I can expect. But I was thinking of peace and good-will to men. If we lived on the mainland, in one of the towns, we could send 'portions to those who have need!' There are no poor and helpless here. But it always seems to me that Christmas time should be filled with deeds of charity towards the suffering and poverty stricken."

"But if the weather should change, we could perhaps take our part in the works of Christian kindness, by succouring some poor shipwrecked fellow," said Mr. Darling.

"But I hope the weather will not change," said his wife, who never could quite overcome her terror of the sea when swept by tempests.

Her wish, however, was not realised, while Grace had the pleasure she wished for.

The clear frosty weather which they had enjoyed, passed away on the 27th of December, and gave place to something very different. The morning rose with clouds; the wind blew a heavy gale, and torrents of rain fell all day. The lighthouse-tower rocked before the fury of the tempest; and when the night came on, though the beacon was lighted as usual, Darling had very little hope of its being of much service, since the thick dashing rain would prevent the light from being seen. The gale did not abate during the whole night, and the wind and waves had terrific power, as they beat upon the windows and walls. William and Robert took their father's place at midnight, and watched and tended the light from that time till daylight. They looked over the sea, endeavouring to descry any vessel that might be near, but the atmosphere was so murky that they could see nothing.

A little before daybreak the violence of the storm somewhat abated, and the horizon became more distinct. The young men, keeping "a sharp look-out," thought they saw some object moving on the Naestone rock.

"It is some poor wretch shipwrecked," said William.

"Do you think it is," said Robert. "If so, we must go out and get him off, if possible. Shall I call father?"