Grace Darling, Eva Hope [free ebook reader for pc TXT] 📗

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