"No; do not disturb him until we are quite certain. It will soon be light enough for us to see."

"I can see now! I am sure it is a man moving. It will not be a very safe undertaking, though."

"That does not matter. We cannot leave the poor fellow there to perish."

"Call father up, then. By the time he is ready, it will be safe to extinguish the light, and we can all go out together."

When Mr. Darling was awake, he did not hesitate for a moment.

"Get the coble ready, and we four will man it. It will be hard if we do not bring the poor fellow back to have a little of our Christmas cheer."

In a few minutes Darling and his three eldest sons were in the boat, and moving away.

"Pray, take care," shouted Grace. "It is a very perilous attempt to make."

"We know it," said Darling. "Pray for us, and have no fear."

The girl felt that to have no fear was more than could be expected of her; but she did her best to support and comfort her mother and sisters.

"Now, my lads," said Darling to his sons, "this will require all the nerve and courage we have. Are you ready?"

"Aye, ready," was the cheery answer; and then all hands set to work to propel the boat to the Naestone rock, on which the waves were leaping with awful fury.

"Hold hard, my boys."

The injunction was more easily uttered than obeyed. The young men could scarcely keep their seats, and were in momentary danger of being swept altogether from the boats.

"Why, there are two of them!"

Through the spray they could now see the Naestone; and there they saw two objects—one standing, earnestly watching the efforts of the Darlings to reach them, the other lying helplessly on the rocks, apparently benumbed.

The brave men put forth all their strength, and presently managed to bring their boat near the rock, then suddenly a tremendous wave dashed them back again, and they were almost buried beneath the waters. The boat rose, however, and the men, nowise daunted by the danger and difficulty, again strained every nerve to reach the rock. But a terrible billow again came over them, and this time two of their oars were snapped to pieces. Soon after a receding wave left a space around the rock uncovered, and Robert, eager to reach the sufferers, leaped across. But just then another huge wave swept the boat back, and Mr. Darling's fears were aroused lest they should not be able to get him off again. They made a most strenuous effort once more to get near the rock; and presently, while the perspiration was pouring from their faces, and their arms and backs were aching from fatigue, and they were feeling that they could not keep on much longer, they managed to get near enough to enable Robert, by plunging in the sea, to reach them, the brothers in the boat with great difficulty hauling him in.

"Did you speak to the men, Robert?" asked Mr. Darling, when the young man had a little recovered himself.

"I spoke to one, father; the other is dead!"

"There is but one to save, then?"

"That is all."

"Come my lads, we must get him off, if possible."

"The tide is making fast. If he is not away in an hour or two, his chances will all be gone, for the rock will lie under deep water."

They tried again and again to get near enough to the rock to allow of the man's escape, but they could not succeed.

"Throw him a rope! We can do nothing else."

After several vain attempts, they succeeded in throwing a rope to reach him. The man was so feeble that he seemed scarcely to understand what was going on.

"Lash yourself to it, man!"

"He has not strength to do it. Look at him! He is half-dead."

The Darlings shouted a word of cheer, and presently the man roused himself to his task. He was so weak that his hands could scarcely do the work; but after a time, his friends saw, with joy, that he had fastened the rope round his body.

"He has no power to help himself. We must drag him in."

"Now then, steadily."

They were afraid that he would get beaten against the rocks and destroyed; but, as carefully as they could, they dragged him into the boat. No sooner was he there, however, than he fell down in a state of complete exhaustion.

"Now for home."

But it seemed at least, doubtful whether they would ever get there, for the sea was so turbulent that their strength was as nothing to it; and the difficulty was greatly increased by the loss of the oars, which had been broken. They made the best use of the two remaining, and they hoisted their small sails, but the wind was against them; and if their hearts had not been very brave, they must have quailed then. But there was One who watched them, as long ago He watched His followers "toiling in rowing," and He cared for the courageous men who had gone out over the waters to save human life, and He helped them in this hour of their need. After a severe struggle, they reached the shore; and never were weary mariners more thankful to feel the friendly land under their feet than they were.

Mrs. Darling, Grace, and the others, had been watching them with intense anxiety, and they were on the beach, ready to welcome their return.

"We have brought the poor fellow off the rock, and landed him safely; but there is not much life left in him, I fancy," said Robert.

"I hope we may restore him. Bring him in carefully," said Grace. "He may have been sent to us for our help and compassion—a Christmas stranger!"

Did she think how, in return for their hospitality, the Saviour would himself say, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto Me!"

The sailor was soon laid in a warm bed, and restoratives were given to him. For a long time, however, the Darlings feared that their efforts would be in vain, but, after much patience and perseverance, he began to revive. The women of the household had now plenty of occupation, and Grace was one of the chief nurses of the forlorn shipwrecked man. Every kindness and attention was heaped upon him; and the festive season received just the pathetic touch it always wants to bring out the love of happy hearts towards those who are sad and wretched.

The Christmas was over, and the brothers and sisters had gone back to their various situations and occupations on the mainland before the man was sufficiently recovered to leave his temporary home on the Longstone. When he began to recover he had a relapse, and a low fever set in, which lasted for some time. As soon as he was able to give an account of himself he related a most pathetic tale, which quite touched the heart of the gentle, humane Grace, who had questioned him.

"My name, Miss? It is Logan, and I was born at Nithdale, in Scotland. I think no man has been more unfortunate than I. I have been shipwrecked several times—once, only a few weeks ago, at Sunderland. The whole crew would have been lost then, only that the Sunderland life-boatmen came out and rescued us. Soon after that, I got a situation as mate on board the 'Autumn,' but my usual fate overtook me. We were going to Peterhead, but had only been a day or two at sea, when a gale came on. The master made every effort to guide the vessel, but it was of no use, and at last she was dashed among the breakers. Then we tried to launch the boats, but could not do it, and, as a last resource, I and one other man clung to the mast for safety. We were in that situation for four hours."

"Four hours!" exclaimed Grace.

"Yes; and at last, when the tide went out, we found the Naestone rock uncovered, and the mast hanging over it, so we dropped on the rock. We had not much bettered our condition, however, for a heavy sea swept over the mast, and we could not see a vestige of it, though our only hope of safety depended upon it. I tried to get up a joke with my mate, but I could see that he was losing all hope. I told him that perhaps we should be discovered, but he only shook his head in despair. He talked about being resigned to his fate. 'I feel that I am dying,' said he. 'If you should be fetched off the rock, go and see my father and mother, and tell them how I died. Tell my mother that my last prayer was for her; and may God Almighty bless and comfort her.' 'Cheer up, man,' says I, 'you're not dead yet.' But he was too far gone to be consoled; and before he had been more than two hours on the rock, he died."

"Poor fellow!" said Grace, who was weeping tears of sorrow and sympathy. "Did you not feel worse still after he was gone?"

"Yes, indeed, I felt despairing, for all my hope died when my comrade died. The wind was still blowing furiously, and the spray kept dashing over me. I saw the tide getting higher and higher, and coming nearer and nearer, and wondered how long I had to live. At last the waves washed the place on which I stood, and I thought my last moments had come. But just then I saw your boat! I thought I should have gone frantic with joy; I did not know how to contain my feelings. Oh! Mr. Darling, God bless you and your family for your goodness to a poor shipwrecked sailor. May He reward you, for I am sure I never can."

The man broke down and could say no more, while Mr. Darling wrung his hand, and told him, what was the truth, that there was no greater joy than to rescue those who were in danger of death.

A day or two after Logan felt better and wished to say good-bye to his kind friends.

"I will go with you to Bamborough," said the lighthouse keeper. "If you go to Lord Crewe's institution, they will help you!"

"What sort of place is that, then?"

"A sailor's home, among other things. Bamborough Castle once belonged to him; and when he died, he left an immense fortune to be applied to good purposes. It is a splendid place. There are schools for educating children. There is a large library of books that are lent out to the people who live near. Goods are sold at a cheap rate to the poor. There is an infirmary, where thousands have been relieved, and besides all this, there are rooms for shipwrecked sailors. There is always a reward given to the first boat that puts off to the wreck; and those who have been ship-wrecked have money and clothing given to them, if they are destitute."

"There is some hope for me, then?"

"Yes, indeed."

"But you had better stay here until you are quite well," said Grace.

"Thank you, Miss! You are very kind, but I must go, for I am anxious to get settled again. I shall never forget the happy hours I have spent under this roof though, nor your great kindness to me."

He was not to be persuaded to remain, so Mr. Darling took him across to the castle, where he received the ship-wrecked sailor's relief. The governors gave to Darling the usual reward for saving the life of Logan, but that the generous lighthouse-keeper put into the sailor's bundle which he was carrying for him.

Mr. Darling accompanied Logan a few miles along the Berwick road, to which place Logan wished to go, and then they parted.

Grace Darling was right! Christmas is not all that it might be if it brings no opportunities of exercising Christian charity. Did not the Son of Man come as a stranger to this world, finding no room in the inn. But since He has made all our homes bright by the free salvation which is His gift, shall not we, in return, look after the homeless and comfortless ones, who it is never very difficult to find? It seems as if the angel's prophetic song is not yet fulfilled, for not yet is the earth filled with peace and good-will to men. But if we do only a little, by saving a shipwrecked mariner, or a destitute child, something at least is gained, and He receives it, who said of the loving woman, "She hath done what she could."



CHAPTER VII.

A WEDDING IN THE FAMILY.

"Deal gently with her; thou art dear Beyond what vestal lips have told, And, like a lamb from fountains clear, She turns confiding to thy fold. She, round thy sweet domestic bower, The wreath of changeless love shall twine, Watch for thy step at vesper hour, And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

"Deal gently thou, when far away 'Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender care decay— The soul of woman lives in love. And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear Unconscious from her eyelids break, Be pitiful, and soothe the fear That man's strong heart may ne'er partake."—Mrs. Sigourney.

The members of the Darling family began to perceive that they had a sister of whom they might justly be proud. She had endeared herself to them all by many tender ministrations of love; and whenever they thought of home, they thought of Grace also. And when they were away from home, pursuing their different avocations on the mainland, it occurred to them that it would give Grace pleasure, and show their appreciation of her kindness, if they sent her an occasional present. Nor was there any need to hold a consultation as to what form the gift should take.

"Nothing will please Grace so much as a book," one and all would have said, had their opinion been asked.

Grace's fondness for reading was indeed well known, as also her preference for poetry. But hitherto she had been obliged to content herself with the ballads of Bamborough and the surrounding neighbourhood. Now, however, her brothers sent her such books as she could revel in—namely, the poetic works of Goldsmith, Cowper, Milton, and Shakespeare. She especially enjoyed her favourite author, Goldsmith, and passed many a pleasant hour in the lonely lighthouse-tower, reading the "Traveller" and the "Deserted Village."

But in the midst of her reading-delights, there occurred the first wedding in the family.

"Grace, will you be my bridesmaid!" was the request which Mary Ann sent to her sister, and of course it was one that could not be resisted. Was there ever a girl who did not feel delighted to attend a wedding? And the bridesmaids sometimes have the best of it; for it is not to them so solemn an occasion as it is to the bride. They are not entering upon a new and untried sphere, nor seeking to fulfil a position which may be, and is very delightful, but which carries with it a large amount of responsibility. The duties of a bridesmaid are altogether easy and pleasant, and Grace had no difficulty in consenting to take them upon herself.

But Mary Ann was not easily satisfied. "I want Grace for a week," she said. "She can help me to do many things toward getting my new home in order, and helping me with the necessary preparations with my own dress; and I am sure that a week is none too long for so much."

"Would you like to go for a week, Grace!" asked her mother.

"I never like being away from home," replied Grace, "but, upon such an occasion as this, I think Mary Ann ought to have her own way."

Everybody thought the same, and Grace accordingly arranged to go. But so endeared was the lighthouse-home to Grace Darling, and so dear was she to the hearts of the dwellers there, that although her absence was to be only a short one, yet, when she received the parting kiss of her mother, and the blessing of her father, the affectionate girl shed tears of regret at having to leave them.

Grace, however, never forgot the week that followed, nor the happy time that she spent with her sister. She listened with hearty interest and sympathy to all the hopes of the bride—to the plans that she had formed, and the resolutions she had made. She heartily entered into all that concerned Mary Ann, and was not sorry to have so good an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with her brother-in-law, whom she soon learned to love and respect. A man must need be worthy, if a loving girl is willing to give her dear sister into his keeping, and in this case Grace was not afraid. He took his new sister into his confidence, and showed her the neat and comfortable home which he had prepared for his bride, and which altogether pleased her.

"And you must come to see us as often as you can, Grace. Remember there will always be a welcome for you, come when you may."

"Thank you," said Grace. "I cannot get away from home very often, but I will come when I can. At all events I am most glad to be here now; and I know mother will be delighted to hear all that I shall have to tell. She will want to know full particulars about every table and chair in Mary's Ann's new home."

"Then you must describe everything to her; and tell her we shall not be satisfied until she and Mr. Darling have both been to see for themselves."

The looked-for day came at last; and Grace's eyes sought the face of the young man to whom her sister had given her love, and spoke to him most eloquently. "Be kind to her—she is giving up everything for your sake," said those speaking eyes. Indeed, this is what should be so whispered as to sink into the heart of every bridegroom. A woman's happiness is so entirely in the care of her husband that, if he should betray the trust, there is nothing but sorrow for her. It is well when the man realises this, and prayerfully resolves that, God helping him, he will make, and not mar the joy of the heart that loves him.

This is what the young man meant to do who married the sister of Grace Darling; and there was every probability that they would be happy.

"If you love each other and love God, you need not fear for the future," said a wise old man once to a married couple. "If troubles come, bear them together as cheerfully as you can. If pleasures come, share them with each other, and so double them. In all things acknowledge God, and keep Him before you, and all will be well."

And she whom Grace left tearfully, and with many prayers for her happiness, doubtless found the truth of this in her own experience.

Mr. and Mrs. Darling were very glad to welcome their daughter home again, and she was quite as glad to return. She found, as she expected, that the mother had many questions to ask.

"Tell me some more about Mary Ann, Grace," said she many times; and as the days were dull and wet, and there was nothing else to do, these two had leisure to talk together, and Mrs. Darling was satisfied.

She felt as all mothers do, when their daughters have left the parental roof and chosen for themselves one who shall take the place of the dear old home friends, that little remained for her to do now but to pray. Happily for us all, however, there is a power in prayer that makes it worth more to the beloved ones than any gift. And those who pray bring down blessings upon the household, though far away from it in body. One is always near; and the Father of the human family is a prayer-answering God.



CHAPTER VIII.

"PREVENTION BETTER THAN CURE."

"What might be done, if men were wise, What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, Would they unite In love and right, And cease their scorn of one another!

"Oppression's heart might be imbued With kindling drops of loving kindness, And knowledge pour, From shore to shore, Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

"All slavery, warfare, lies and wrongs, All vice and crime, might die together; And wine and corn To each man born Be free, as warmth in summer weather."—C. Mackay.

To attend to one's own business, and leave other people's alone, is a maxim that should perhaps generally be obeyed; but not always. It happens sometimes that, wrapping the cloak of selfishness about us, we not only lose an opportunity of doing good, and so forfeit our right to the joy that such an action always brings, but we are also the indirect means of bringing sorrow upon our fellow creatures. Let not that man who sees another going to destruction, either through ignorance, or weakly yielding to temptation, say calmly—"It is no business of mine to interfere." It is everybody's business to care for his brother, and by all possible means help him. It is true that he who thus acts will often find that the world is against him. He will meet with scorn and abuse where he expected thanks; and even those who trust him most may not understand him, or approve of his actions. But his duty is, nevertheless, plain—he is to be a helper of mankind. So at least thought the lighthouse-keeper, one day when his philanthropy was put to the test.

Grace was looking from the window of their sitting-room across the sea, when she saw a sight that interested her. All sorts of vessels came within sight of the Farne Islands; but it was very seldom indeed that she saw such a one as that on which her eyes delighted to gaze on this occasion. She thought, indeed, that she had never seen so stately a ship sailing on the waters, with sails all spread, and graceful motion, and a look of wealth about every part of her.

"Father, see!" she cried. "Is not this East Indiaman a magnificent ship? She sails along like a swan."

Mr. Darling looked, but just for a moment.

"Oh, what can they be thinking about!" he cried, in great consternation. "That splendid vessel, Grace, is on the point of destruction. In an hour's time there will not be water in the channel to float her, and she will be stranded on the rocks."

He was right. Unless something could be done, and that quickly, the ship was doomed; for she lay in a narrow channel which passes between the islands, and which is covered with rocks, and has no great depth of water.

Mr. Darling did not lose a moment, but hurried down to the beach, sprang into his boat, and was soon sailing over the sea on his errand of mercy. As he rowed towards the ship, he could not but admire her noble build and stately bearing. "She is riding in proud security upon the waves," he said to himself, "but, in a few minutes, she might be a wreck, lying helplessly among the flinty rocks."

There was no sign of these rocks now, however, for they were covered by the water; and when he neared the ship, it was plain to see that all the crew were comfortable and happy, believing that things were right. As soon as the lighthouse-keeper was observed, a rope was thrown to him, with which he secured his boat, and then sprang upon deck.

"Can I speak to the captain?"

"No; he is engaged."

"But it is something of importance that I wish to communicate."

"You must wait, then, for he will not listen to you at present."

Darling waited what seemed to him a very weary time before he could get the attention of the captain. At length the gentleman motioned to him to come forward.

"Well?"

Darling lifted his hat, and spoke to the captain most respectfully. "Will you excuse me, sir. You do not, perhaps, know the dangerous character of this coast as well as I do; but your magnificent vessel is in imminent peril."

"What do you mean?"

"There will not be water in another half-hour to float her. This is a rocky channel, and the ship will be wrecked, unless you get her out into the open sea while you have time."

The colour came into the captain's face, and an angry light into his eyes, and he immediately began pouring upon the lighthouse-keeper a volley of abuse.

"Be off, out of this ship at once, or I will have you thrown overboard! Why do you come here, telling such lies for the sake of a reward? I will report you to the authorities, my man, and make you wish you had minded your own business. Get away, I tell you, or it will be the worse for you."

For a moment, Darling was tempted to do as the captain told him; but the man's love of duty and conscientiousness was strong within him. He knew that the vessel, worth probably a hundred thousand pounds, would certainly go to destruction if left to pursue its course, and how could he, as a humane and honest man, allow that to occur because a captain had abused him?

He waited until the wrath of the captain had spent itself, and then, lifting his honest eyes to his face, he said—"Indeed, sir, you have mistaken your man; but I do not ask you to act on my word alone. If you examine the chart, or take soundings, I am sure you will be convinced. I hope you will be so kind as to do so, if only to prove to yourself that I am speaking the truth."

It was so reasonable, and the man seemed so much in earnest, that the captain could not well refuse to accede to this request, so he gave the order.

Darling, looking on, saw a change come over his face. He came to the lighthouse-keeper to apologise.

"I see that you were right," he said, "and beg your pardon for my rudeness. There is no time to lose; and as you are so well acquainted with the shore, will you pilot us into safe water!"

"Certainly; I will do so with pleasure."

"Of course, you will be rewarded for your trouble."

Darling was glad to help in this emergency, and he had the great joy of saving the ship and cargo. No man likes to see a valuable thing destroyed, and it may safely be said that the lighthouse-keeper experienced a most exquisite pleasure as he felt that he had been the means of preventing a terrible catastrophe. It is well, however, that 'virtue is its own reward,' for he had very little beside.

When his work was done, he went to the captain again. "She is all right now, sir, and there is no further danger, for the way is clear."

"Very good."

The captain then took from his pocket half-a-crown, and gave it as a reward to the lighthouse-man for his solicitude and trouble!

One of the rules for the regulation of lighthouse-work is that the keeper should record the particulars of all occurrences in a journal which is provided for the purpose. Mr. Darling entered a full account of the aid he had rendered to this vessel in his book; but it shows the kindly character of the man that he did not say a word about the abuse, or the meanness of the East Indiaman's captain.

William Darling was fitted to be the father of a heroine, for he longed to do good for its own sake, and not for selfish reward. He minded his own business well; but when he saw other people in danger, he could not help wishing and trying to save them. He knew that "Prevention is better than cure," and that to save a vessel from going on the rocks was a far nobler thing to do than to assist in getting her off again, and looking after the salvage. Nor was he to be deterred from his humane and kindly purpose by scorn and lack of appreciation in others. And this little incident is worthy of record, for it shows his character, and teaches lessons to us all—lessons which, in these times of eager ambition and selfishness, are very necessary. Let us go and do likewise. If we cannot save a ship we can perhaps save a soul, if only we are patient, persevering, and filled with a loving and Christian sympathy. It is just this desire for usefulness, this willingness to be servants or ministers, and to spend and be spent for others, that the world wants now. It can do without many great men, but it needs more than ever a multitude of kindly hearts, loving spirits, and willing hands. Who will help to swell the number?

"Howe'er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood."



CHAPTER IX.

AUGUST MONK'S PLEASURES.

"There was not on that day a speck to stain The azure heaven, the blessed sun alone, In unapproachable divinity, Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light. How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky The billows heave, one glowing green expanse, Save where along the bending line of shore Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, Embathed in emerald glory! All the flocks Of ocean are abroad. Like floating foam The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves. With long protruding neck the cormorants Wing their far flight aloft; and round and round The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. It was a day that sent into the heart A summer feeling. Even the insect swarms, From their dark nooks and coverts, issued forth To sport through one day of existence more. The solitary primrose on the bank Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn Its brief Autumnal birth. The rocks and shores, The forest and the everlasting hills, Smiled in that joyful sunshine; they partook The universal blessing."—Southey.

Grace expected company!

What that meant to the lonely lighthouse-maiden, those young people who can meet their friends every evening cannot imagine. They do not like to be solitary, even for a week, but if, instead, it should be—not a week, but months and years—then the pining for companionship would indeed be intense. It has already been mentioned that, on one occasion, Grace went to the mainland to help some friends with the ingathering of the harvest. These friends were the Herberts, who lived near Bamborough, in a pleasant farmstead, and it was them whom she was expecting.

The joyous excitement of such a remarkable event, as the arrival of guests, was enough to wake the heroine of the lighthouse early in the morning. It was the first of August, and the day dawned brightly, the sun looking like a mass of burnished gold. Grace rose and cast her eyes anxiously over the sea. It was as calm as a lake, and looked as if it might be trusted to bring her friends safely to her side. There was plenty to do that day, for the lighthouse-home was to be set in order, and everything made to look its best. Grace, therefore, was up betimes, and busily at work in the rooms. But ever and anon she turned her beautiful hazel eyes to the opposite shore, searching for an object to appear like a speck upon the waters. Presently she saw what she looked for, and her heart leaped for joy.

"Mother, mother, they are coming!"

"They cannot be here yet, though," said Mrs. Darling, who saw how far away they were still.

"They will come rapidly, I know; for they are as anxious to be here as I am to see them," said Grace.

Presently they had come over the glittering sea, and were near the island. Handkerchiefs were waved then, and Grace went down to the beach to greet them as they arrived.

They were her friends, Ellen and Mary Herbert, and their brothers, Henry and George.

Grace had a warm welcome for the girls, and to the young men she held her outstretched hand.

"Now, Grace," said George, laughingly, "why are you so partial? I have as much right to a welcome as my sisters have," and with that he stooped to kiss her.

"Now, George, I am afraid you have not improved."

"No, indeed; why should I! I have been good enough always. You are not offended with me, are you, Grace?"

"With you? No, indeed! Whoever thought enough of George Herbert to be offended with him!"

"Grace, you are incorrigible; and very much too hard on a poor fellow, who has not the courage to take his own part."

Grace turned from the good-humoured and merry banter of the young man to his more serious elder brother, who stood by his side, waiting for her greeting. She held out her hand to him, and he took it, bowing respectfully, but holding it warmly in a clasp that brought a deepened colour to the cheeks of the lighthouse-girl.

"Come into the house; father and mother are waiting for you. Is not the morning lovely? I am so glad it is. I assure you I have been watching the weather most anxiously," said Grace.

"So have we. But it is a lovely August, and Grace, you must make up your mind to return with us. We do not intend to go home without you. So you had better promise at once, unless you wish us to become residents of the lighthouse."

"But I should rather like you to reside here," said Grace; "what a nice party we should make."

Mr. and Mrs. Darling received the young folks most kindly, giving them a hearty welcome, and expressing a hope that they would stay as long as possible, and have a good time.

"We shall," said Mary Herbert. "We are always happy in the Longstone lighthouse."

The father of the Herberts was Mr. Darling's friend, so that the children did but cement the friendship which the elders entertained for each other. The Misses Herbert were Grace's nearest and dearest friends, and the young people came oftener perhaps than any others to spend a few days on the island.

They had not been long in the house before Mr. Darling made a suggestion, which delighted them.

"To-morrow," said he, "I have a leisure day; and I should like to join you in an excursion. What do you say to going over to Lindisfarne?"

"I say, let us go by all means," said Mary. "If the day is as lovely as this has been, it will be a splendid opportunity for a pic-nic. Do you not all think so?"

"I do," said George; "and let us be up early, so as to have a long day. When I go to visit ruins, I do not like to be hurried.

"You will not have to wait for the girls," said Mrs. Darling. "Grace is an early riser."

"It is well to rise early, but that is not better than to spend the day well. I knew a man who was fond of praising himself, and blaming others. When he rose betimes he used to rebuke us with the words—'It is the early bird that picks up the worm;' but when he had laid longer than he intended, he excused himself by saying, 'It is not altogether the early rising, but the well spending of the day, that is of the highest importance.' Whatever he did was right in his own eyes."

"But we will do both on our holiday," said Henry; "we will rise early, and also spend the day well."

The weather on the following morning was all that could be desired. The young people were animated and merry, and there was nothing to bring a cloud over the day. They were soon among the romantic ruins on the Holy Island, having had a most enjoyable sail across the blue water.

"I think I should never tire of visiting these old places," said Henry Herbert. "They are so venerable, and therefore dear to me. Do you like them, Grace?"

"Yes, they are sombre and melancholy, but, to my mind, it is much more interesting to live amongst them than in new places. One cannot help thinking of the past, and the strange scenes that were enacted in it."

"Do you understand much about ancient architecture?"

"No, I know almost nothing of it."

"I have always been fond of it, and I think I can give you some explanation of these walls and relics."

"I shall be glad if you will," said Grace, whom nothing could delight more than the acquirement of fresh knowledge.

She spent a very pleasant time listening to the young man while he described the different characteristics of the antiquities that were before them.

"We had better seek the others," said Grace presently; "they will be wondering what has become of us."

At that moment, looking up, they saw that a stranger was passing the archway.

Excursionists were not so many in those days as they are In these, and Grace was surprised. Henry Herbert, however, looking intently at the new comer, said to his companion, "I believe it is an old school-fellow of ours, who is now studying in the University of Durham. Yes, indeed, it is he!"

The young men greeted each other with evident satisfaction, and the stranger was soon introduced to the others. He was quite an acquisition to the party, whom he was only too glad to join, as he was taking his holiday alone. They were all sorry when the pleasant day at Lindisfarne was over, and it was time to return to the Longstone lighthouse, where, however, an evening spent in the genial society of each other fitly closed the delightful day.

The next morning all rose early; and so soon as breakfast was concluded, they were eager to be afloat on the blue sea.

"George and I will each take an oar," said Henry, "and our friend will attend the ladies."

"With pleasure," replied the student, as he took his seat.

"Tell us about your foreign travels, and give us a description of the places you have visited," said Mary.

"Yes, please do," added Grace, eagerly; "that will make the time pass pleasantly indeed."

"What will you hear about—France and Paris, or Italy and Rome? Shall I describe to you my journey over the mountains, or my voyage up the Rhine?"

"Tell us anything and everything you can remember,"

"That will be said more easily than done; but I will try to tell you a few of my experiences."

Soon the pleasant sound of merry laughter floated over the sunny water, for the student was a good talker, and he gave most lively descriptions of people and places. He talked about gay Paris, until the girls wanted to go there; and of beautiful Italy and Switzerland, until their faces glowed, and their pulses beat more quickly. He told of the fortresses on the Rhine, of the pleasant holiday resorts, whose names are even more familiar to us than they were to his listeners, and for a time they almost fancied themselves sailing on other than British seas, and about to visit places which, in reality, their feet might never tread.

They were not sorry, however, to come back to Northumbria, and the resorts to which they were really going.

"Our destination is Warkworth, is it not?" asked Mary, after a time, during which the student's narrative had not been interrupted.

"Yes, we are about to enter the Coquet now."

"Where does the Coquet rise?"

"In the Cheviot hills; and it flows for forty miles through well-wooded scenery, which is called Coquetdale, and then falls into the German Ocean, below Alnwick Bay."

"You must have been studying a gazetteer lately."

"I have been; and can tell you something more of the Coquet which is interesting."

"Pray, do so."

"I know a little about it. It is famous for its salmon and trout, for which it is greatly esteemed by anglers," said one.

"Among the pebbles which it washes up, cornelians, agates, and mountain crystals, are sometimes found," said another.

"I wonder if we shall be fortunate enough to discover any of these treasures!"

"I do not care to look for them; for when there are old castles to be visited, I think a few little pebbles need not expect to be noticed."

Presently they came to the bottom of the hill on which the famous fortress of Warkworth formerly stood, and there, at the landing-place, they fastened the boat. The hill was steep, but the young people enjoyed the fun of climbing it all the more for that; when they reached the top, they were well repaid for their trouble.

"What a magnificent view!" exclaimed the student.

"Do you say so," cried Grace, "who have seen the beautiful spots in so many countries? I am myself very proud of our Northumberland, but that you should show any delight, is almost a surprise to me."

"Nay, why should it be? 'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;' but the joy is still greater when the beautiful objects are our own."

"What splendid old ruins they are!" exclaimed Ellen.

"Yes," said George; "although the keep remains, all the rest being in ruins, it has a most imposing appearance."

"How grand it must have been before its glory passed away!"

"Yes, it must indeed! Even now it is not so gloomy as many ruins are."

"Perhaps that is because the stones keep their natural colour."

"To whom does it belong?"

"To the Percy family. We shall find their arms on several parts of the 'keep.'"

"That must have been restored, since it alone remains."

"Yes, it has been; and, indeed, it was well worthy of preservation."

"We must visit the tower, the chapel, and the baronial hall, each of which will reward inspection."

They looked at each in turn, and their admiration expressed itself in appreciative words. It would not have been satisfactory had they not visited also some of the subterranean cells.

"You must come and see the donjon keep, girls," said George.

But the girls could not repress a shudder, as they did so, for their sympathetic spirits felt for the poor prisoners who ages ago had been incarcerated in the terrible dungeon.

"You see it has no means of admission," explained the student, "but by a very narrow aperture; so that the prisoners had to be lowered into it by ropes."

"And how could they ever get back again when their term of imprisonment was over?"

"I am afraid few, if any, ever did come back again."

"How glad we ought to be that we live in times that are so very different."

"Indeed, we ought. It seems as if it can scarcely be the same world when we contrast the past with the present," said Grace.

They examined the castle very carefully, and then went to the hermitage. To reach this they had to cross the river, as it is on the opposite side.

There were wonders to delight them all; for the hermitage includes a room and chapel, cut in the solid rock. It contains the effigies of a lady and a hermit. It has been immortalised by Dr. Percy's beautiful ballad—

"Dark was the night, and wild the storm, And loud the torrent's roar, And loud the sea was heard to dash Against the distant shore."

"How are we to get to the hermitage?" inquired the student.

"We have to walk along this narrow footpath, close to the river."

"It is quite a romantic path."

Indeed it was; for on one side were high perpendicular rocks, on the top of which was a grove of oaks, and on the other side the pretty river.

"These oaks are very valuable, not only because of the beauty they lend to the scene, but also because they make a shelter from the sun."

"Yes, and from the wind too, in winter."

"Do you not feel as if you are treading on hallowed ground, Grace? I experience emotions among ruins felt nowhere else."

Both she and Henry Herbert felt a delight in being there, and the former especially tried to people the scene as it was of old, and realise the days of the far-away time which it represented.

"There is a spring issuing from a rock, and the water is cool and most delicious. Try it for yourselves."

They found it very refreshing; and having drunk some, they entered the chapel. It is very beautiful, decorated like a cathedral, and almost perfect.

"Each proper ornament was there That should a chapel grace, The lattice for confession framed, And holy water vase."

"Is it not a wonderful place?" exclaimed the girls; "it is all in good condition—the altar is quite entire."

"And so is the monument to Isabel Widdrington."

It was with difficulty that they could bring themselves to leave a place so interesting on account of its hallowed associations; but as they wished also to visit Dunstanborough, they could not delay their departure.

Dunstanborough Castle stands upon a bold basaltic rock, and is thirty feet above the sea-level It is supposed to have been built by the Lancaster family, in the year 1315, and the Yorkists destroyed it after the battle of Hexham. It has never been rebuilt, and nothing is left of it but its outer walls.

"It looks a very melancholy place," was the opinion expressed by the holiday folks, "and very fierce and warlike."

"Perhaps that is partly because of the black frowning rock on which it stands," suggested one.

"How very rugged the shore is; and what a quantity of sea-weed," said Ellen Herbert; and, indeed, it was not easy to move over the broken cliffs, since the accumulation of wrack made it dangerous.

"We must go and see the Rumble Churn," said one, who knew what a treat it would be to those who had never seen it.

"It is an immense chasm, four hundred feet in length and fifty in depth," continued the informant.

They regarded it with awe and wonder. The sea came rushing in with a tremendous roar, bursting and boiling into foam, and seeming as if it would leap over the tower, and submerge the hill altogether. It has been said of it—"The breaking of the waves into foam over the extreme points of the rocks, the heavy spray, the noise of the disturbed waters, and the foam whose echo returns through the towers, are most awful and sublime."

Of course, such ruins as those of Northumbria could not exist without having many interesting legends attached to them; and with one of these the student was acquainted, and this he resolved to narrate to the party.

When the young people had been sufficiently awed by looking into Rumble Churn, it was time for them to partake of refreshment and rest.

"Shall I tell you the legend of the Wandering Knight of Dunstanborough Castle?" then asked the student, to which inquiry a chorus of eager voices responded in the affirmative—the girls declaring that to hear it there, among the very ruins, would be most delightful.

"In ages gone by," then began the young man, "a Red Cross Knight, returning from the holy land, sought shelter from the storm beneath the ruined archway of the castle—

"A braver knight ne'er trod afar The hallowed fields of Salem's war."

Suddenly there fell upon his ear the tolling of a convent bell; and scarcely had the sound died away, ere a long loud shriek proceeded from the ponderous walls of the castle. The startled knight grasped his ready sword—the gates flew open, and a light appeared from a lamp held by a shadowy hand. A hollow voice addressed the awe-struck knight, conjuring him, if his heart were inaccessible to fear, and if unmoved he could look upon danger's wildest form, to follow; for within the desolated castle a lovely maid was spell-bound, and his might be the power to break the enchantment which bound her there.

"Lead on," the gallant knight replied. Preceded by the magic lamp, the knight passed through the silent court, the chapel, and at last the vaults where reposed the ashes of the departed dead. They entered a magnificent hall, lighted with bright burning lamps, outvieing in number the stars of heaven. A hundred columns descended from the lofty roof, and to each of these was tied a bronze charger, mounted by a marble warrior, fully armed. In the centre of the apartment was a mystical altar, composed of emeralds, and inlaid with diamonds, and upon this stood a crystal globe, encircled with a wreath of coral. Kneeling within the circle was a youthful maiden, surpassing in loveliness the brightest imagery of Eastern poets.

"Long gazed the knight on this captive bright, And thus at length began— 'O, Lady, I'll dare for thee whatever May be done by mortal hand!'"

Not a word in reply proceeded from the lips of the beauteous lady. At length the hollow tone of the awe-inspiring guide broke upon the death-like stillness, revealing that the lady should not be freed from the spell that bound her till some daring hand should unsheathe the magic sword, or blow the mystic horn worn by a giant warrior, who kept guard by the magic vase. If the Red Cross Knight would attempt the deed, the choice of drawing the sword, or blasting the horn; was left to himself; but on whichever he decided, on no account must he cast it from him, or a dark and fearful doom would be his fate.

"After a momentary hesitation, the knight drew from its scabbard the ponderous sword; but scarcely had he done so than upsprung the giant of marble, and blew a blast so loud and fearful as to awaken a thousand echoes. With a deafening noise each sable charger pawed the pavement, and the riders, unsheathing their glittering brands, rushed on to attack the single warrior, who, with shuddering horror, beheld the magic sword had become a living serpent. Forgetful of his guide's commands, he flung it from him, and drew forth his own well-tried blade. In a moment the lights faded into total darkness, and the haunted hall became as silent as a grave. A groan of anguish first broke upon the stillness, and next a voice of anger, in hollow murmurs, spoke—

"'Devoted wretch! whose coward hand Forsook the consecrated brand, When one bold thrust, or fearful stroke, At once the powerful spell had broke, And silently dissolved in air The mock array of warriors there— Now take thy doom, and rue the hour Thou look'dst on Dunstanborough tower! Be thine the canker of the soul, That life yields nothing to control! Be thine the mildew of the heart, That death alone can bid depart! And death—thine only refuge—be From age to age forbidden thee!'"

"A blow from the giant then stretched the pale warrior senseless upon the marble floor. In that deep trance he remained till the dawn of morning; and when he awoke, all the pageantry of the previous evening was gone, and he lay beneath the ruined portal—himself arrayed in wretched weeds, and his gallant courser, which had borne him unharmed amid the din of battle, gone. Centuries have passed by, yet still the wandering knight lingers amid the desolate towers of Dunstanborough, vainly attempting to gain an entrance to the enchanted hall."

They all thanked the student, as they rose to leave, and one of the girls remarked that she wished she could see the wandering knight.

It was now time to return home, and they all walked down to the boat, the student keeping by the side of Grace, and enjoying an earnest conversation, which left pleasant memories on the minds of both to recall and dwell upon in after-days. Neither did they soon forget the sail over the water. The moon was shining brightly, and threw its path of light across the rippling sea. There was no fun, and but little conversation, for all were tired; but there was not one of them but would be the better for the peaceful hours thus spent.

The next day the Herberts went home; but the holidays and pleasant social intercourse did not even then come to an end.

"You know you are to return with us, Grace," said Miss Herbert.

"I should like to do so, for some reasons very much, but"—

"But what!"

"I do not care to leave home, and be away from my father and mother," said Grace.

"Now, Grace, you must not be foolish. You will appreciate your home all the more for having been absent from it for a time," said Miss Herbert.

"And a change will be good for you," urged her sister.

"Besides, you can help us very much with the harvest again this year. We shall begin to-morrow," said George.

Grace hesitated; and it was not until her parents, though admitting that they would miss her very much, and that the lighthouse would be most lonely when she had gone, yet pressed her to go for a few days, that she consented.

She found the "adieus" very difficult to utter, when she went away, for she was a home-loving girl.

"You will be sure to send for me, mother dear, if you should particularly want me," she said.

"Yes, Grace, you may be sure of our doing so."

"When the last moment really came, she was even then half inclined to go back to the lighthouse instead of into the boat, which was waiting for her, though she knew that she would greatly enjoy the visit.

"You will have to put Grace into the boat yourself, Mr. Darling," said Mary. "Here is room for her beside me."

Mr. Darling took the hint, and lifted his daughter in his arms and seated her by the side of Miss Herbert; and the next moment the boat was dancing merrily over the waves.

The warm welcome which our heroine received from Mr. and Mrs. Herbert, showed that they cherished a kindly affection for her. She was made to feel indeed how glad they were to receive her as their guest, by the care which they exhibited to make her thoroughly happy and comfortable, In this they were seconded by all the members of their family, among whom the gentle lighthouse-maiden was a decided favourite.

"You have come from play to work, Grace," they said, "for we shall begin harvest operations to-morrow."

But Grace replied that such work would be as good as play to her. At least they would be carrying on the pleasures which they had begun on the Farne Islands, and in the neighbourhood; for if they could not take excursions, they would all be together, and their work at any rate would be done merrily enough. There was one missing, however; for, on the night of their arrival at Mr. Herbert's, the young student left them for the Highlands of Scotland, where he intended to spend part of his vacation. Grace did not forget him, for he was one of whom she often spoke pleasantly as long as she lived; and such a holiday as they had spent together, though short, had been very delightful, and would be sure to be remembered by one whose life was on the whole very uneventful, until the great event occurred.

The harvest fields of the Herberts presented a most lively appearance; for a large number of country girls, and active young men, were engaged in them. They reaped the fields in those days with the sickle; and had not come to our own times, when the work is mostly done by a machine, and all the music, poetry, and pleasure, seem to have gone out of the operation. Harvest-time used to be of all the year the most merry and joyous. Masters and men were then on the best of terms, and worked together in harmony. Friendship seems too often quite left out of the contract now, when people do their work by steam, and have not time, as they seem to think, to cultivate good fellowship.

In Grace Darling's time, as we have said, there were merry days in the harvest-field, and she herself very gladly helped. Indeed, all hands had to assist, and it was only by so doing that the harvest could be gathered in time. But the reaping, and binding into sheaves, and carrying home, as well as the gleaning, were done with so much merriment that it was like a pic-nic out of doors. Good bread and cheese, and brown ale, would be served to the labourers, and they would see by many signs that their employers felt a kindly sympathy with them, as well as a personal, and not altogether disinterested solicitude in their work.

And so the good harvest was gathered in, and then, when the last sheaf was set up, and the laden waggon went slowly away from the bare fields, the harvest-home was celebrated.

Who that has lived a country life for many years, does not remember with pleasure those merry feasts? The Herberts had one of the best, and really old-fashioned kind. Everybody was invited, and nobody thought of declining that invitation. Master and men met together as equals, and the tables were heaped with good cheer. No slow and solemn feasts were those of the harvest homes. Laughter, loud and long, was heard continually, and the hilarity became somewhat tumultuous as the evening advanced. Mr. Herbert's granary was taken possession of, and the party adjourned there for a dance. The two best fiddlers of the neighbourhood were engaged for the occasion, and they struck up a lively reel The young people were quite ready for a good country dance, and they indulged in it to their heart's content. Dance succeeded dance, until it was wonderful that they could longer continue, even at that pleasant pastime. But had they grown tired a new impetus would have been given to the festivities by the appearance of Mrs. Herbert, with her daughters and Grace. At the moment when they entered, George was leading to her seat a pretty rosy-cheeked girl, with whom he had been dancing, but, on seeing the lighthouse-maiden, he went immediately to her side, and solicited her to become his partner for the rest of the evening. After that the villagers began again, and kept up the mirth until late at night, when they returned to their homes much gratified with their pleasant entertainment.

Every girl has a romance, and Grace had her's. The attentions of George Herbert had been those of a brother, but during this visit they partook of a warmer character. He lingered by her side, occasionally pressing her hand with a warmth that brought the blood to her cheeks, and made her turn away from his glances. She understood what was meant; and it is almost certain that her heart was in a measure touched by that which she saw in him. But she did not mean to yield. She loved her home and her parents; and knowing what she was to them, she resolved not to encourage the attentions of any lover. George Herbert was generous and kind—too generous and kind for her to wish to give him pain, and she therefore contrived, as most women can, and all gentle and modest women will, if possible, under such circumstances, to prevent him from acknowledging his love. She must have refused him had he made a declaration; but he was her friend, and she did not wish to wound him. She therefore showed unmistakably that his feeling for her was not returned, and the young man was not slow to take the hint.

At length the holiday was over, and the time came for Grace to return home. She knew that her father would bring the boat over for her, and she therefore went down to the shore to meet him. When she saw him tears of joy came into her eyes; and as soon as he stepped on the beach, she clung to him with fondest emotion.

"Are you ready to come home, Grace?" he asked.

"Yes, father, quite ready. I have had a very happy time, but there is no place like home. How is mother, and has the time seemed long to her as to me?"

"She is well, but is wishing for your return. Are Mr. and Mrs. Herbert at home?"

"Yes, and they are both waiting to receive you. Come with me."

He went, leaning on his daughter's arm, and feeling the exquisite pleasure of a parent whose children are lovely and good, and loving and beloved. When he reached the house, he was most warmly welcomed by the Herberts, who told him, however, that they did not like to spare Grace so soon; but as her father had the greatest right to her, they supposed they must submit.

"Come and look at my stacks, Darling," said Mr. Herbert; and the two men had a walk together. The lighthouse-keeper greatly enjoyed an opportunity of holding intercourse with his fellow men, and was not sorry to have this errand. George was busy preparing his fowling-piece for the next day, for it was the 12th of August, and he was much gratified at Mr. Darling's admiration of his spaniels, two beautiful creatures, that fawned about their master, and showed their attachment to him by caresses. George was unusually gay—too gay, indeed, to be quite natural and Grace sighed, as she saw him.

"There is nothing like shooting," he said; "I shall have some most happy hours on the moors with my gun and dog. There is nothing like a free unfettered life, such as the sportsman loves. I delight in it, and would exchange it for no other.

"He is not in the least distressed at my going away," thought Grace; "and yet he seemed to care for me. If he did, his love is not worth having; for if he were sincere and faithful, he could not so soon cast me off. I am glad I do not care for him, if such is his character."

But Grace sighed as she said it, even to herself. In thus judging, however, she did him great injustice; for a closer observer might have seen that his spirits were forced, and his gaiety assumed. He did feel, and most acutely; but he was a manly young fellow, and did not intend his heart to be broken by any girl. Therefore, not seeing that his affections were reciprocated, he determined, with a decision of character that was peculiar to him, to overcome the feelings that could only be productive of pain. He was resolved, too, that he would conceal from her the fact that he was affected by her indifference. He could not quite do as he wished, however, for he was too honest to be a good dissembler, and his voice faltered, and his hand trembled, as he uttered a hurried good-bye. His emotions imparted the most painful regret to Grace, whose eyes filled with tears when she turned to bid farewell to the rest. They—Ellen, Mary, and Henry, went down to the water, and there affectionately parted from their friend. Long after the boat had left the shore, she saw them watching its progress over the waves. But though she looked eagerly for George, she could not see him. Immediately after uttering his adieus he hastily disappeared; and though she would like to have had one more look, it was not to be. That Grace was disappointed was evident from the deep sigh that escaped her; but like a sensible girl, she turned her thoughts away from this painful subject to the home-love that was waiting for her.

"I think, father," said she, "that our home on the Longstone rock, is the very best and loveliest that any one could have; and that I should be quite content to stay in it always."

"I am glad you feel so, Grace, for we do not want to lose you," said her father, fondly.

Assuredly that bright little island, which lay like a gem in the midst of the sunny ocean, was an object which was calculated to awaken admiration in a less partial and enthusiastic mind than that of Grace Darling. The laughing waves were flowing with a soft and tranquil motion, and gently laving the pebbly shore. Sea-birds were skimming the waves, their graceful plumage gilded by the setting sun, and ever and anon darting beneath the waters. The sky was serene and beautiful, tinged with the rich and glorious hues of a summer's evening; and the orb of light was retiring to rest, reflecting a bright and splendid halo around him.

The feelings of Grace became so animated and joyous as she neared home, that it was with difficulty that she could keep her seat. When at last she reached the shore, she bounded up the ragged pathway with a light step, and was soon within the well-known walls. She had never before thought her home looked so bright and cheerful; so true is it that there is a charm about the place where we dwell with our own kindred, however humble, which is never experienced anywhere else, even among the most beautiful and picturesque scenery.

"There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief.

"Then dost thou sigh for pleasure? Oh do not wildly roam; But seek that hidden treasure At home—dear home!"

It is a great safeguard to girls to love their homes. If they find their highest delight in contributing to the pleasure of brothers and sisters, and the comfort of those who have tended their infant years, it is a good sign. But those maidens who are impatient of the family restraints, and who cannot be happy unless they are enjoying the excitements of society, are in danger of losing the winning graces of true womanhood. It is at home that there is opportunity for the display of all that is sweet and good in the female life and character; and it is there that true goodness shines the most brightly. Let English girls remain attached to their own home-circles, and deserve such praise as the wise man gives to the excellent woman—"Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all."



CHAPTER X.

THE PERILS OF THE OCEAN.

"Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell; Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave; Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawned around her like a hell, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And tries to strangle him before he die.

"And first one universal shriek there rushed, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gushed, Accompanied by a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony."—Byron.

It seems a sudden transition to turn from summer pic-nics to shipwrecks; but every reader knows how often, even in the midst of the world's pleasures and gaieties, mankind is startled by thrilling stories of the tragic experiences of some of the great human family.

It has already been said that Grace Darling, in her lonely life upon the Longstone rocks, surrounded only by the changeful elements, must often have found in them her unconscious tutors. Who has not felt his soul expand under the influence of a boundless ocean-prospect! But it is the sea in storms, when it tosses about the ships which have dared to invade it, as an angry child throws away its toys, that it is most grand and awful. And this object is the one that is often present to those who live by it. It may be that the best lessons which the sea taught the lighthouse girl were those connected with its angry hours; and that the repetition of startling casualties which she witnessed, or of which she heard, may have played an important part in schooling her to that degree of coolness and intrepidity which were necessary for the sublime act which made her famous.

It is only natural that, in our island, great interest should be manifested with regard to those who "go down to the sea in ships," and it may not therefore be deemed out of place to make in this book a reference to some of the most remarkable, and saddest, of the marine disasters which have occurred to make the people of our nation mourn. Every one who is at all acquainted with wreck returns will know how impossible it would be to notice, in the space available, more than a hundredth part of such occurrences. But two or three examples will suffice.

The name of the "Royal George" will at once suggest itself to the reader's memory. On August 29th, 1782, this ship, with many hundred souls aboard, sunk, at anchor, in the broad glare of day and in full sight of all on land, in the roadstead at Spithead. The British sailors were exceedingly proud of this vessel, and amongst her commanders had been such men as Admirals Anson, Boscawen, Rodney, and Howe, and although she was not considered equal in appearance to many others, she was believed to outrival them in her powers of sailing. The "Royal George" had seen very active service, and there had been some thought of putting her out of commission, and the officers of the Admiralty decided upon keeping her in dock for the winter, but during the August of 1782 she underwent repairs, with a view to sending her out once more. Accordingly, on Thursday morning, the 29th of the same month, the ship moored slowly out of harbour, bearing a freight of eight hundred men, with wives, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, besides those who had been permitted to remain on board for a part of the day. It was a pleasant scene on deck, and the happiness and gaiety of the company seemed in harmony with the beauty of the morning. The mid-day meal was made ready and begun, when a quick movement was felt, and a flood of salt water came pouring through a port-hole that had been most carelessly left unclosed. A stiff breeze caught her broadside, and the "Royal George" turned slowly over and sank. As soon as the disaster was perceived, an officer ran to the ship's captain to inform him that it was capsizing. Kempenfelt, the admiral, was at his desk below deck; his coxswain, notwithstanding the danger, attempted to reach him, but unsuccessfully, for the waters had already engulphed him. His loss was deplored in all the land; he was generally esteemed, and his great abilities were acknowledged by the State. And now the dauntless sea-warrior, who had met and repulsed many a foe, and had looked upon death in a variety of forms, found his own end, not in the force of the enemy's bullet, nor in the violence of the storm, but in a calm sea, on a bright August morning. A reward of one hundred pounds was offered for the body, but it was never recovered. An old journal, which appeared a few days after, in this way concludes the announcement of it—"Thus perished one of the most brave and amiable characters that ever filled either a private or public situation."

A few minutes after the "Royal George" sank, only her topmasts were visible. The greater part of the (one thousand two hundred) people, and chiefly the women and children, were in the cabins, and therefore immediately perished; but of over two hundred on deck, the majority were rescued. The efforts put forth to save the drowning were marked by another calamity. A victualling sloop, which had gone with other vessels to the rescue, was drawn into the vortex of a whirlpool caused by the sudden submersion of the "Royal George."

Many heart-rending accounts have been given on the Hard at Portsmouth, and by boatmen at Southsea, of the saddening spectacle around the ship as she sank. Human forms were discovered in every direction, and seen to sink, to rise no more. Many managed to keep afloat for a time, but having their strength buffetted out by the waves, threw up their hands in terror, and disappeared. Screams for aid mingled with wild prayers for mercy. Seventy are believed to have been picked up and saved by the boats. For days after corpses were seen, carried along by the tide, and secured, to be decently buried.

The news did not arrive in London until the day after, as in those times, there were no other means of transporting messages than the ordinary mail. Intelligence was received at the Admiralty with the deepest regret, and throughout the country a thrill was felt at the announcement. Subscription lists were immediately opened for the benefit of those who survived. We give a copy of one of the numerous appeals framed for assistance:—

"ROYAL GEORGE."

"Whereas, by the truly deplorable and hapless loss of His Majesty's ship, the 'Royal George,' wherein about seven hundred officers and sailors of heroic soul, Britain's pride, have shared an equal fate, it cannot but be that many widows and children are reduced to the most poignant distress. In order, therefore, to relieve in part their pangs of misery and despair, and actuated by that humanity which has ever characterised this nation, the gentlemen that frequent the 'Barley Mow' in Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, have entered into a voluntary subscription, in the hope that so laudable an example will soon be extended into every part of His Majesty's dominions.

"A subscription book will be kept open for two months at the bar of the 'Barley Mow,' in Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, and at Mr. Mazzingby's, No 17, Chancery Lane; at the expiration thereof the money so subscribed shall be paid to the committee now appointed at 'New Lloyd's' Coffeehouse, and by them appropriated to so charitable a plan."

Before long, rumours were heard, declaring the vessel to have been mismanaged, and Captain Waghorne was ordered to attend a court-martial on the 9th of the succeeding September, to be held on board the "Warspite." One of the ship's carpenters explained that he had just time enough to warn his brother before he made his own escape through a port-hole, and affirmed that the vessel was really unfit for service; but as its condition was not the immediate cause of the catastrophe, the charge against the captain was dismissed.

Hopes were still entertained that the ship might yet be restored, and made fit for service again. One man guaranteed to raise her for 20,000 pounds. But for years she remained in her watery bed, until, by reason of the obstruction caused to the passage of other vessels, the matter again called for attention, and, in 1817, the divers concluded a protracted inspection. The decks were completely dislodged; and, in fact, all that remained of the once magnificent man-of-war, was a pile of disjointed and sodden timbers. All hopes of her restoration were abandoned after the accounts given by the divers of their survey; and the ruins were eventually dispersed by the force of powder.

Another memorable wreck was that of the "Halsewell," off Dorsetshire, January 6, 1786, by which one hundred and sixty-six lives were sacrificed. Belonging to the East India Company, she was one of the finest and best of merchant men, made to carry seven hundred and fifty-eight tons, and under command of Mr. Richard Pierce. At the time of the disaster, she was making her third voyage out. A valuable cargo was taken in, as usual, at Gravesend, and she cleared the Downs on the first day of the New Year, bearing with her about four hundred and forty passengers, amongst whom were a few ladies. With the captain were his two daughters, and two other young ladies connected with the family. Other ladies, who had been sent to England on account of their health, being restored, were about to return to their friends in India. Some had just left school, some were going to seek a home abroad, and others a wider field of labour. A Mr. Schutz was intent upon gathering an accumulation of wealth, which he had acquired there previously, intending, on his return, to spend the rest of his days in quietness and comfort. As is generally the case with these vessels, the scarlet uniform of the military shone conspicuously, and the soldiers' wives and families contributed a large part of the total number of passengers.

The day after starting a breeze sprang up, and an endeavour was made, by drawing in towards shore, to gain the beach for the pilot boat. The air became misty, and the winds blew contrary. As night drew on, with no fairer prospect, anchor was dropped, and every sign of a storm was visible—snow descended over the almost stationary vessel, and the sails could scarcely be furled by reason of the frost. At four o'clock in the morning, a hurricane blew. The vessel drove, and the command was given to weigh anchor, and steer for the open sea. The pilot, unable to be landed the preceding day, was now passed over to a homeward bound brig, and the "Halsewell" proceeded on her perilous voyage, when she was met by a new gale from the south, and a deal of water was shipped, and, worse than all, a leak was found to have been made, which soon filled the vessel to the depth of five feet. Every pump was set to work, but mishaps followed one another, and the stream increased to such an extent that another two feet of water was rapidly made. It was a fearful condition to be in—in a treacherous channel, with a high wind, and vessel pretty well beyond control. The possibility of striking on one of the numerous rocks was obvious. In tearing away the masts, five of the seamen fell overboard and were drowned. About breakfast-time order began to be restored on the ship, and she managed to get into the wind's course, where she remained for a couple of hours, giving the terrified people courage to hope for the best, especially as they learned that the water in the hold was decreasing. The ship was, however, rapidly losing all power to withstand the elements, and it was settled to sail back to Portsmouth.

The gale increased on Thursday night, and with more serious effect. Notwithstanding the combined endeavours of the men, the ship still rode for the shore, when, discovering their dangerous proximity to St. Alban's Head, they dropped the anchor, and it became necessary to let fall another to hold the ship. Again she drove, when Captain Pierce, and Mr. Meriton, the chief officer, decided that all hope of saving her must be abandoned, and the best means were considered for preserving the lives of the passengers. The captain, consumed with anguish as he thought of his own two daughters, begged Mr. Meriton to contrive some way of escape. The chief officer, having no particular interest to disengage him from the contemplation of what was his duty, replied that nothing could be done, until the emergency became inevitable and present. The captain, glancing up to heaven, avowed his readiness to follow the chief officer's advice, hoping that daylight might discover a more favourable state of affairs.

St. Alban's Head is so dangerous a reef that no vessel meeting it in collision could stand the shock. Immediately after the hurried conference before mentioned, the "Halsewell" ran violently up against the rock. The passengers, who had been waiting together for death for some time, became excessively agitated, and many a shriek rose over the disturbed waters. Every soul rushed on deck, almost unable to distinguish the face of a friend in the dark gloom of that fearful morning. The sides of the vessel were being completely stove in as she was repeatedly beaten upon the rocks. The chief officer retained his presence of mind to the end; he proposed that all should keep to the side that presented itself to the shore, so that at any possible moment they might leap over in an endeavour to gain it. The ladies were discovered in the round-house, and the officers, exhibiting true manliness of character, strove to alleviate their sufferings, ignoring their own danger. The steep snowy cliffs that sparkle in the clear rays of the sun like crystal, and the bold promontories that inspire one with awe and delight, viewed from a safe point, were looked upon with dismay and terror by the occupants of the doomed ship. The light of another day broke, when the vessel was seen to be blocking up the entrance to a large cave scooped out by the continued force of the waves. With that gregarious feeling always experienced in times of danger, the people gathered silently and sadly together in the roundhouse, now and then disturbed by a piercing wail from one of three negresses who had sought refuge there. Various articles of furniture and other effects were strewed about in all directions. Such a picture greeted Mr. Meriton on leaving the deck. He at once struck a light, and sat down in their midst, until the issues of the morning should decide him on a course of action. Never oblivious of the comfort of others, while forgetful of his own, he managed to procure a few oranges to refresh the ladies.

Above deck many were leaving the ship, and trusting to the waves casting them on the contiguous shore. A sudden lurch, accompanied by a breaking up of the deck, and ominous creaking of adjacent timbers, confirmed the distressing conviction that all would soon be over. Looking up, Mr. Meriton perceived that the vessel had literally snapped asunder. Whatever might be accomplished, now was the time to attempt it. Seeing a plank, reaching, as he supposed, to the shore, he ventured upon it, only to find out that he had laboured under a mistake. He was immediately projected into the sea, and carried with the tide into the cavern; but succeeding in clasping a jagged spar of elevated rock, he gained by its aid a place of temporary safety. It is impossible to tell how many were killed by being thrown against these rocks by the relentless waves, but that numbers were, is certain.

In the blackness of night, the last despairing cry of many expiring souls filled the ears of the survivors, acute with terror, until they, in turn, becoming exhausted, would unresistingly glide into the seething foam, to be swallowed up by the remorseless ocean.

Yearning for the dawn, these wretched people hailed its early glimmer, only to sink into a lower state of despair, as its light plainly showed them to be even in a worse situation than they had imagined. They were completely shut in one great overhanging enclosure of rocks, entirely hidden from the land, and from which escape seemed to be impossible. In such a condition one would suppose that any ray of hope which might previously have existed would have died out, yet, with the persistent courage and sanguine temperament of the sailors, they dared to believe in the possibility of escape; and with this forlorn hope, attempted to gain the summit of the cliffs, which a few effected in a very wonderful manner. The quarter-master and cook, succeeding first, gave the alarm, when a number of quarrymen, together with a Mr. Garland, hastened down to the beach to render assistance.

The chief officer, never losing spirit for one instant, although considerably wounded by contact with the rocks, managed to grasp with his hands a shelving piece of rock, which had afforded foothold to a solitary soldier, who, nevertheless, was trembling in the expectation of it giving way at any moment. Mr. Meriton, who was looking for the same mishap, observed with joy the end of a rope coming towards them. This the soldier eagerly embraced, and was drawn up in safety. At the same time, the narrow ledge that was supporting Mr. Meriton gave way, but providentially another end of rope was in view, and this, with a dexterous spring, he managed to obtain.

Meanwhile, Captain Pierce and the young ladies still remained in the round-house, remarking, sorrowfully, the absence of the chief officer. Mr. Rogers, who was third mate, replied that he had gone aloft to see how matters stood with them. The captain, sorely distressed on account of his daughters, took a calm and lengthy survey, to see if any chance might present itself to him for their safety; but all he could discover before him was an extensive front of perpendicular rock, so he and the third officer returned, to prepare the ladies for the worst. The captain, drawing his daughters to him, held them firmly in each arm, and thus together they went down, and so death found them! The third officer, a midshipman, and one of the passengers, determined, at any risk, to leave the ship, as they were well aware that to remain in her was inevitably to perish. Accordingly they hastened on to the poop. A moment later, and they must have been swept away by a gigantic wave, that reared itself over the vessel, and which half-drowned, in the noise of its descent, the screams that rose from the cabin below. A hencoop, which had been grasped by a couple of passengers, landed them in an exhausted condition upon a rock. Mr. Schutz and the midshipman had both disappeared. Twenty-seven men gained access to a rock, but seeing that, as the tide flowed, they would stand in danger of being swept off, they strove to make for the cavern, but all, except eight, were drowned in the attempt. Messrs. Rogers and Brimer, who were among the number, succeeded in approaching the cavern, and ensconced themselves on shelving ledges worn by the action of the sea; and this fearful situation they were compelled to retain, witnessing the fruitless and violent efforts of their expiring companions, while their ears were filled with their stifled cries. Mr. Rogers saw Mr. Meriton on the rock, a few feet from himself, and they congratulated one another upon their escape, and together watched the final plump of the "Halsewell" into the depths of the ocean. A distressing fact was, that some of the men, even at the moment when succour was near, unable to hold out any longer, were precipitated into the sea. Owing to the brave and humane conduct of the quarrymen, those who had survived were placed in comfortable quarters before night; but these were a small minority of those who started gaily out in that ill-fated ship.

On the 26th February, 1852, the "Birkenhead" went down off the Cape of Good Hope, carrying with her four hundred and thirty-eight souls. The noble example of our British heroes, who found a watery grave by the sinking of the above-named vessel, will never be forgotten. It is unsurpassed in all the annals of our country's history. The ship was sent out at the time of the Caffre war. It was a fine evening, and there was land ahead, toward which the "Birkenhead" was steering at ordinary speed. She was splendidly built, and had conveyed a large band of soldiers and their families from Cork—had left a few troops at Cape Town, and was now proceeding to Algoa Bay with a few detachments of the 12th, 74th, and 91st regiments, and from thence to Buffalo River with others. The total number of troops amounted to something over five hundred; and in addition to these, were the wives and children of some of the men, and one hundred and thirty-two of the ship's crew. Nearly all of these were asleep in their cabins. Captain Wright, of the 91st, was on deck, with an officer of the watch, and they held a short argument concerning a light which was visible on the port side. They could not agree as to which beacon it was, but they were convinced it was to mark a point of danger.

About two o'clock A.M., on the 26th, they unconsciously ran the vessel on a bed of rock, which was covered by the sea to a sufficient depth to hide it from sight. The shock was followed by such a tide flowing in at the opening thus effected, that many of the slumberers must have passed from one sleep into another with scarcely any knowledge of the passage. The awakened troops, with their officers, immediately rushed on deck—the captain, Mr. Salmond, being among the first to arrive there. The steam was turned off, the small anchor cast, and boats lowered, in case there should be any necessity for using them. Colonel Seton gathered the officers together, and begged them to see that order and silence were maintained in their respective regiments. Captain Wright was asked to work with the commander. Without the slightest apparent emotion, the men went about their work as calmly as they would have executed an ordinary practiced manoeuvre. No signs of fear were evident, but discipline was strictly regarded. Sixty men, in successive lots of twenty, worked at the chain pumps, and another sixty looked after the boat tackles; while all who were not needed in the management of the vessel stood in marching order on the poop for ballast. The horses were all pitched out, and some of them turned their heads for the land, which could be plainly distinguished in a starry night, about sixteen furlongs off. A boat was prepared for the women and children, who awaited it in breathless silence, and all were carefully disposed of in its capacious sides. They had but just moored off when the vessel struck again, making another breach for a swifter flood, both shocks coming within fifteen minutes of each other. The bow snapped from the foremast, the bowsprit flew through the air up to the foretopmast, and the funnel, toppling overboard, dragged in its rear the starboard paddle-box and boat. The second boat had reached the waves bottom upmost, and notwithstanding there was another in the middle of the ship, she could not be reached. The water speedily put out the fires, compelling the engine-drivers to leave their station and ascend to the upper deck. It was known to be a certainty that the vessel must sink, and that very shortly, nevertheless there was no setting aside the tasks they had received orders to perform, although they were well aware that everything they did was useless, so far as the righting of the ship was concerned. Still every man kept to his post, even though he were overtaken by the waters and overwhelmed by them. Many, indeed, must have perished at the pumps, while others, keeping by the tackle, were struck down by falling timbers.

When the funnel was lost, every man was on the poop; three boats were afloat, containing all the women and children. The decisive moment having arrived, when all must be committed to the waves, the commander advised all who could to swim to the boats; but as in all probability this would lead to their being sunk, on account of the vast numbers requiring accommodation, several officers, in the face of this order, implored the men to stay in their present position, rather than sacrifice the women and children in attempting to save themselves. One or two had already started at the captain's bidding; but the majority waited behind, with the officers standing firmly and in orderly rank, in calm expectation of a speedy dissolution, uttering no repining, no words of mourning for their fate, or expressions of fear, but each man, in his loyalty to duty, quietly and inwardly prepared to meet his death! It is a touching and inspiring picture, that may well emulate every bosom to deeds of heroism. The stern of the vessel, which had reared as the bow descended, gave a sudden plunge and went under also, and those who had swarmed its deck felt the force of the waters uplifting them as their footing sank beneath them, and they were left to struggle as they might with the briny element.