The last sentence the captain spoke was to give the order for a boat to take up Mr. Brodie, whom he saw fighting with the waves. When the vessel was gone from under him, he was seen making his way to a block of woodwork, which was floating near; but a clumsy log bearing heavily towards him stunned him, and he at once disappeared. Colonel Seton also made his grave with the brave troops he had commanded. Captain Wright and a few others managed to keep their heads above water by clinging to a drifting spar, and about two hundred men for a time held on to pieces of the wreck, part of the mainmast supporting a great number. The principal portion of the deck being undestroyed, it served as a raft for those who could reach it, but the numbers were thinning rapidly, as one after another became exhausted and sank; and three boats were carried away, bottom uppermost.

Cornet Bond, having with him a life-preserver, succeeded in filling it with air, and by its aid reached the land in safety. Drowning men were struggling in all directions, and their groans and cries were fearfully appalling. Two men, who were cleaving the water finely, not far distant from him, Mr. Bond perceived to go under all in a moment shrieking, being seized by the voracious sharks which abound on that coast. The cornet had two miles to swim, which he accomplished with difficulty. As he neared the shore, he found himself caught in a forest of tangled sea-weed, from which he at last extricated himself after severe exertion. Having achieved his own preservation he looked round for some trace of life, and was surprised to find his own horse as the first object he should meet with in his strange and perilous situation.

As soon as morning dawned, Mr. Bond sought the place where he had effected his landing to help nine of his companions, who were nearing the shore on the raft. He climbed over the crags in search of a favourable place to approach, where he assisted them in gaining a footing. They were almost in a state of nudity, having been compelled to rush from their berths without waiting to attire themselves. They observed three others in a like condition, floating in by the aid of a spar, and sent up to heaven an earnest petition that they might have the power to rescue them, and eagerly waited their chance. The three men had no control whatever over the spar; it was as much as they could do to preserve their hold. Washed about backwards and forwards, their peril seemed imminent; but at last a fortuitous wave carried them on to the rocks amid the rejoicings of their compatriots. Captain Wright and five others drifted towards Point Danger, where they encountered serious obstacles to their landing in the immense growths of seaweed, and the wall of surf that spanned the beach. In order to lighten the weight depending on the fragment of wreck that had sustained them until now, Wright separated from it, trusting to his own prowess to reach the shore. Several others followed his example, and all were successful in their endeavours; and after walking a little way up the country, they fell in with Captain Wright and his company. During the day they lighted on a fisherman's hut, but nothing was available there, so Mr. Wright trudged off to a farm-house, about a couple of leagues distant, where he procured and forwarded articles of food to those he had left half-famished in the hut. The following day, waifs from the wreck being continually helped ashore by those already landed, the number amounted to sixty-eight men, including eighteen sailors, and these all found temporary refuge at Captain Small's farm.

But coming back to the scene of the disaster, it will be remembered that the women and children were packed carefully in the cutter, under the superintendence of Mr. Richards, and ordered to keep within a restricted limit of the wreck. As it disappeared, the boat was rowed up to take in as many as possible, but then numbers more were left straining with wistful eyes after the heavily-freighted craft, as she slowly receded. It was with bitter pangs that Mr. Richards was obliged to refuse the help he could not give to the poor drowning wretches, for the boat was near swamping with the burden she already bore. Here, again, the breakers threatened to prevent a landing. Vast flakes of foam were hurled over the boat, as she fought her way against the tide. Seeing, therefore, that the waves formed an invincible barrier at the point they were striving to reach, Mr. Richards drew back into the open, and signalling to the other boats to keep clear also, he rowed for several miles along the coast in hopes of finding a smoother sea, but to no purpose.

Break of day showed them, in easy distance, a schooner, which was followed by the indefatigable commander; but as they could not succeed in making themselves observed, and a favourable wind springing up, the schooner soon shot further ahead, and was lost to sight. Again, however, it appeared, and another effort was made to attract attention by elevating a shawl, which happily served to arrest its progress. The helpless company were received on board the "Lioness" of Cape Town, having suffered terribly during the twelve hours they had been tossing in their little open bark on the sea. They had neither eaten nor drunk of anything since their departure from the ship, and their depression of spirits had been considerably increased by the uncertain fate of their friends. Thirty-six men had already been taken up and provided for by Captain Ramsden and his wife, whose ready sympathy and care were warmly appreciated by the suffering men.

Mr. Richards and Mr. Renwick, being assured by the captain that he would await their return, started out again in the cutter to the scene of the wreck, hoping to find that some of the passengers and crew had managed to survive, but no human form was to be seen in any direction, and they reluctantly retraced their journey. The number of souls saved by the schooner amounted in all to one hundred and sixteen. Many who had held on to floating timbers, lost their hold, as strength ebbed away. Others, who perseveringly clung till morning, seeing no prospect of help, struck out for land, which the greater part were enabled to reach, while the remainder either became powerless by long exposure and over-exertion, or were seized and devoured by the ravenous sharks. The purser of the "Birkenhead," with several companions, were drifting on one piece of wreck, when they observed a portion of a boat that was floating towards them, just under the surface of the water. They became filled with eager anticipations. But release was not to come just yet, for the boat slowly passed them, never coming within reach, and they were forced again to wait in hope of another opportunity. Happily, this erelong presented itself, in the identical schooner which had preserved the lives of so many of their comrades.

Captain Small having promised to do his best for the comfort of the men who had thus unexpectedly invaded his farm, Captain Wright set out again for the shore, wandering along, for several days, in order that he might rescue any poor fellow that had perchance reached the land, in all probability to perish there without assistance. Here he was aided by the crew of a whale-boat, who coasted along with him inside the line of the sea-weed barrier. They came upon two men clinging to pieces of wood amongst the slippery weeds, just in time to save them from the jaws of death; and two others were discovered by Captain Wright, lying in holes of the rock, where they had crawled, too faint to move any farther. These four, owing to the kindness and attention of the captain, were shortly and fully restored.

Again, one or two officers returned to renew the quest, but their efforts were fruitless. Corpses they found washed ashore for burial, but no more living men were seen. As soon as intelligence of the catastrophe was received at Cape Town, a steamer, "Rhadamanthus," was dispatched to take a survey of the spot. Captain Small was relieved by this vessel of the unfortunate men who had been thus necessarily quartered upon him; and they were conveyed to Simon's Bay, touching there on Monday, March 1st. The "Rhadamanthus" having thoroughly explored the coast where the wreck had occurred, was able to state with certainty that not one person living had been left behind of those who had formed the passengers and crew of the "Birkenhead."

Captain Wright, an officer of capacity and experience, accustomed to the strictest forms of martial order and law, felt bound to say that the power of discipline in the troops, and their quick obedience to command, was greater than he had deemed possible, and excited the more astonishment as the men were principally new to the service. Each one acted promptly on the judgment, and at the order of his superior officer, and not a sound of murmuring escaped a man until the waters engulphed him. "All officers received their orders, and had them carried out, as if the men were embarking instead of going to the bottom; there was only this difference, that I never saw any embarkation conducted with so little noise and confusion."

The "Birkenhead" started for Algoa Bay, bearing a freight of six hundred and thirty persons, out of which number, one hundred and ninety-two alone reached their destination. A court-martial was held for inquiry, when it was admitted that the vessel should have been kept farther out at sea, so as not to have incurred the dangers of that rocky coast; but appended to the verdict was the following remark—"If such be the case, the court still are not precluded from speaking with praise of the departed, for the coolness which they displayed in the moment of extreme peril, and for the laudable anxiety shown for the safety of the women and children, to the exclusion of all selfish considerations."

On the 26th October, 1859, was lost the "Royal Charter," in which four hundred and fifty-nine persons perished. This vessel was on a return voyage from Melbourne, Australia, and was conveying men and women, who had once been emigrants, back to their native land. Steering carefully round Cape Horn, the captain skilfully avoided those huge blocks of ice which carry destruction to the unwary sailor. Nearing the south, they encountered a violent storm, which the vessel outrode, receiving little or no damage. As the gale subsided, the spirits of the company rose, and all became intent upon getting as much enjoyment as possible out of a smooth passage. Looking forward to a speedy disembarkation, valuable presents were given to Captain Taylor for his capable management of the vessel, and assiduity in securing the comfort of the passengers, and to the Rev. Mr. Hodge, who had performed the service of chaplain at their request. Several passengers landed at Queenstown. The owners of the vessel having received news of its arrival, publicity was made to the announcement, so that many who were expecting long absent friends hastened to Liverpool for an early greeting.

The "Great Eastern" being at anchor in the waters off Holyhead, the passengers of the "Royal Charter" pressed Captain Taylor to steer as closely as possible to the coast, in order to afford them a glimpse of its bulky dimensions. This he readily complied with, and they were soon skirting the rock-bound shores of Cardigan Bay.

As the day proceeded the wind increased; gathering such force, as darkness settled, that the passengers became filled with nervous apprehensions. The ship's speed decreased suddenly. Almost touching the Isle of Anglesea, the captain endeavoured to procure assistance by the firing of rockets; but no one appears to have observed them. Anchors were cast two hours before midnight, and the passengers grew still more alarmed. A few hours more, and this magnificent vessel, the "Royal Charter," was a complete wreck.

Many of the passengers had not attempted to take their usual repose. The vessel dashing on to a rock brought every man on deck in an instant. Captain Withers was heard to exclaim, "Come, directly; we are all lost! I will take your child; come along." A heart-rending scene followed, last embraces were fervently given and returned, and dismal shrieks penetrated the atmosphere. The Rev. Mr. Hodge, calm in the "full assurance of faith," lifted up an earnest petition to Him who is mighty to save. Soon the noise of the water pouring on deck became audible to those below. Several of the officers endeavoured to inspire the women with courage and hope, saying that the vessel was only beaching herself on a sandy bed, but a few yards distant from the land. Morning, however, failed to verify this statement: they were decidedly too far away from the shore to reach it without aid. A Welshman, looking seaward at early dawn, discovered the sad plight of the sinking ship, and hastily ran for help. During his absence the ship again collided, with greater force.

Eventually, an immense wave, breaking on deck, snapped the iron-work and timbers asunder, as though they had been brittle as glass. Many people, gathered in the centre of the vessel, were literally smashed. The greater part escaped the agonies of a protracted struggle, owing to the floating timbers and numerous crags that abounded; many received from one or the other a fatal blow.

The men of the Welsh coast waded in as far as they dared, to help all who were thrown within their reach, and not a few were saved in this way. The bodies of those who had perished, being washed ashore, were shrouded, and laid in rows in a neighbouring churchyard, awaiting recognition. Many harrowing tales are told of scenes witnessed there, as the anxious searchers discovered, in some mutilated remains, traces of a well-loved friend.

The "Royal Charter" was laden with gold to the amount of 70,000 pounds, the principal part of which was brought up by divers.

On the 11th January, 1866, the "London" foundered and sank, in the Bay of Biscay, carrying down with her two hundred and thirty-six people. Sailing from Gravesend, she was making her way to Australia. At starting, many indications were noted of foul weather ahead. The sea became so rough that, on approaching the Nore, anchors were cast; but the weather clearing, and prospects generally brightening, an early opportunity was taken for clearing the Channel. The Bay of Biscay was reached on Monday, where the vessel, being badly constructed, exhibited many extraordinary freaks, and shipped a vast quantity of water. One of the mariners observed, "She frightens me; I do not know what to make of her."

Serious damage being done by the heavy seas that continually washed over the vessel, it was thought wise to return. The force of the winds increasing caused the vessel to rear over, first on one side, and then on the other, sucking up a vast quantity of water each time. Bedding, wearing apparel, food, and fruit, were floating together in strange confusion. All the men were told to cluster on the poop, to ease the ship, the tumultuously-upheaving waves threatening instant submersion. Many people congregated in the cuddy, listening to the fervent exhortations of the Rev. Mr. Draper. Devout and earnest prayers were offered by this good man, which never failed to soothe and strengthen the most timid and distressed. The ladies seconded the men in all their efforts to keep the vessel under control. When it became evident that nothing could save her, the captain's announcement of the fact was received with calmness and resignation. Beyond a smothered sob, or a heart-broken—"Oh, pray with me, Mr. Draper!" no audible sound rose above the noise of the storm. Families grouped themselves together, enfolding each other in a last loving embrace. Men were discovered, in various parts of the ship, with their Bibles open.

Some of the crew were observed tapping casks of grog, several being intoxicated. The captain instantly came to them, and implored them to prepare for death in a better way than that.

At two o'clock P.M., on the 11th January, several of the sailors resolved upon attempting to launch a small boat, in which to make their escape from the vessel. The endeavour was attended with considerable danger, and the men knew it. Compasses, oars, and other useful articles, were lowered with the boat, and many of the passengers eagerly sought this one remaining chance. A young lady of remarkable beauty promised to give 500 pounds to whoever would save her. Another, leaning over the vessel, beseechingly urged a young man to rescue her. This he promised to do if she would leap into the boat; but fear restrained her, and she was unwillingly left behind.

A description of the sinking of the vessel, given by an eye-witness, is as follows:—"The sun just shone out at that time, which made the scene appear worse to me. I thought dark and gloom more suitable for such a sad moment, and most in keeping with the feelings of those on board. The foresail was still standing, also half of the maintopsail. The mizen yards were swinging about, not braced; the wreck of the foretopmast still hanging and swinging to and fro; the gangways knocked out; the bulwarks all standing as good as when she left the docks. The stern very low in the water, the bows pretty well out of it, so that we could see the red-painted bottom, or coloured iron by rust; the jibboom gone. Soon we ran down in the trough of a large sea, and were hid from sight of her. When we came up, we could see she had changed her position very much; we could not see the after-part of the vessel—whether under water, or hid by a sea, I cannot tell; her bows were high out of the water; and by the pitch or rake of the mast, we could see that she was at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Soon another wave came, and we ran down in the trough of another sea; when we came up, there was nothing to be seen of the 'London.'"

On the 7th September, 1870, foundered the "Captain" off Cape Finisterre, in which five hundred lives were sacrificed.

The "Captain" was built for the purpose of illustrating a new principle, that of the modern turret, and said to surpass the "Monarch," as yet considered the nearest approach to perfection in shipbuilding.

On the 6th of September, 1870, several vessels of the British fleet were cruising together off the coast of Spain, the "Captain" being amongst the number. Although the clouds to the west looked sombre and heavy, there was no apparent signs of a storm; but during the night the barometer fell and the winds arose. The "Captain" was observed by the crew of the "Lord Warden," following a north-west passage. A white squall battled for a couple of hours with the vessels, damaging each to a considerable extent. When morning dawned, the "Captain" was missed. It was supposed, however, that she had merely sailed out of sight, but daylight showed the awful fact that the ship had gone down. Portions of wreck were seen floating on the tide, and recognised as having belonged to the "Captain."

The details of the sad event became known when the few survivors reached England. Captain Burgoyne was on deck when the catastrophe happened, remaining there as the night grew stormy. The middle watch was mustered duly at midnight, and the former one retired. Immediately after a wave, curling over the vessel, flooded her decks and turned her completely on her side. The next instant, and the sails went under, nothing but the ship's keel being visible. The men of the watch, after recovering the shock of the sudden immersion, perceiving a life-boat drifting keel upward, instantly made for her. By means of this, many were enabled to support themselves for a considerable time. After floating a while in this way, a boat was observed coming towards them, in which were seated a couple of men. As soon as it was within reach most of the men sprang gratefully in; but before Captain Burgoyne and a seaman, named Heard, had time to leap, their chance was gone—a huge wave washing the boat apart.

One amongst the number of the saved said that the men were literally carried wholesale from the decks by the huge seas that swept over them. A man, named Hirst, after being carried down with the vessel, rose and succeeded in grasping a piece of the wreck, to which he lashed himself with a handkerchief. Drifting along in this manner he came across the boat and its unfortunate occupants, who speedily hauled him in.

A memorial window may now be seen in Westminster Abbey, to the five hundred men who perished thus in their country's service.

More recently still was the wreck of the "Northfleet," off Dungeness, on the 22nd of January, 1873, run down, while lying at anchor, by the carelessness of a foreign sea captain. Many accounts of the sad event, elicited from the survivors, were given in the journals of that date. An abridged copy of one is as follows:—

"The pilot passed the word to drop anchor off Dungeness. Here we lay snug enough, and at eight o'clock the watch was set, Frank Sealove and John Gunstaveson being on deck, and on the watch. They died doing their duty. I went down to my berth, and was soon fast asleep. I don't know how long I had slept, when I was nearly shaken out of my hammock by a fearful crashing or a staggering over the ship. Before I knew where I was—being awoke so suddenly—I heard the boatswain sing out, 'All hands on deck to the pumps.' I was not long in jumping into my boots I can tell yon, and all in the forecastle ran upstairs pell-mell. When we got there, we could not see much, for the night was dark, but there was light enough to see a half-dressed crowd come rushing madly up from the steerage passenger berths, and you didn't want any light to hear the shrieks of the women and the crying of the children.

"There was a terrible panic I can tell you, amongst the strong, rough men, when it became apparent that the vessel was sinking. To tell the truth, there was that much confusion on board that I really did not know what was going to be done. By this time about a dozen women had got on to the deck. I could hear the captain's voice, now and then, above the praying and crying, but I don't know that any one was paying any attention to him. In the midst of the din and confusion the captain's wife was being lowered into the boat on the starboard side. She had been aroused by her husband, who assisted her to dress, and as a precaution against sinking she put on a cork belt. As she was descending, the Captain waved his hands, and said, 'Good-bye, my dear, good-bye;' and his wife replied, 'Good-bye, my love; I don't expect to see you any more.' One poor fellow who jumped with me on to the tops of the pile of boats, said, 'My last minute's come; if you should live to get ashore tell mother I was thinking of her when I went down.' 'All right, old chap,' I said, 'I will; it I should go and you should get ashore, tell my mother likewise that my last thought was of her.'

"In another minute I saw the sea come up to the level of the poop, and the crowd, which stood shrieking there, seemed to mingle with it, and all go away into white foam. Then I myself was struggling in the water, and was just thinking to myself what a long time I was being drowned, when I came up, and feeling out with my hands, got hold of some rigging. I stuck to it; to my surprise I found it did not sink; and presently others came and got hold of it. Eventually a pilot boat came alongside and took us all off."

The "Murillo," a Spanish screw steamer, was adjudged to have been the offender in the case; but, as it could not be legally proved, the captain escaped punishment.

Very shortly after the sinking of the "Northfleet," news came of another calamity, which stirred the heart of the country with pity. On the 1st of April, 1873, the "Atlantic" foundered off the coast of Nova Scotia, burying with her under the waves four hundred and eighty-one people.

Sailing from Liverpool on the 20th of March, she was bound for America with a burden of nine hundred and thirty-one souls, principally emigrants. The equinoctial gales were blowing, and Captain Williams thought it wise to make for the Harbour of Halifax, Nova Scotia. Arrived off Lake Prospect on the 31st, the vessel was expected, very shortly, to be safe in port; but drifting somewhat out of her proper direction she ran on to a submerged reef. All hands were immediately on deck, and every endeavour was made to launch the boats, but they were prevented by the sudden turning over of the vessel. Many of the passengers clung to the rigging, believing that to be their best chance of escape. Five lines were attached, by the crew, to a rock lying some distance from the vessel, and another line was carried from the rock to the shore. Many of the passengers, who had the courage to pass over the comparatively slender rope spanning the watery abyss, were saved. By reason of the extreme cold several lost their hold on the ropes and fell into the sea. The captain was indefatigable in his efforts to preserve life. A vast number of passengers died in their berths; many who had managed to reach the deck were swept away by the immense waves that flooded it. One sharp cry was wafted on the chill night air, and a deadly silence prevailed, except for the fitful roaring of the sea.

Early in the morning, many who had spent the hours of darkness on the rock, were rescued by a boat sent from Meagher's Island. Captain Williams maintained his position on the wreck until the effect of the cold on him had made his presence useless, when he was carried off in one of the boats. Mr. Firth, after being many hours in the rigging was assisted from his precarious situation by the Rev. Mr. Ancient, a clergyman. A Spaniard remarked that the scene on board the sinking ship was one of awful confusion. A crowd of terror-stricken human beings were swaying hither and thither, in vain hopes of meeting with some way of escape, shrieking and begging for aid; a moment after, when he looked from his perch in the rigging, not a soul of them was to be seen.

Emulated by the courageous example of the Rev. Mr. Ancient, the fishermen of Meagher's Island did all in their power for the shipwrecked people. One boy, whose friends had perished, was saved by trying to creep through a porthole, but not having sufficient strength, a boatman seized him by the hair and drew him out, depositing him in the boat.

The vessel soon snapped asunder, and many of her stores were recovered by the divers. Corpses were every now and then thrown up in vast numbers by the raging sea, to be reverently laid with their kindred dust, in the churchyard mould.

Many other stories might be told, as they have been most graphically, in "Notable Shipwrecks," lately published by Cassell, Petter, & Galpin, to which the writer is indebted for much information, but these will be sufficient to remind the reader of the perils of the sea. Scope, indeed, for the exercise of the truest heroism is given in such disasters; but one cannot read of the sacrifice of brave lives without a shudder. And yet, why should it be so?

"To every man upon the earth, Death cometh soon or late;"

and to go down into the waves, with the consciousness of rising to immortal life directly, cannot be very sad after all. If only the soul be prepared for the change, nothing else signifies much. It does not matter whether the body rests beneath the flowers in the cemetery, or in the ocean-beds. The repose will be as tranquil either way. "Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him."

"Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown— But all is not thine own!

"To thee the love of woman hath gone down. Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown. Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee: Restore the dead, thou sea!"—Mrs. Hemans.



CHAPTER XI.

THE WRECK OF THE "FORFARSHIRE."

"Never bronze, nor slab of stone, May their sepulchre denote: O'er their burial place alone Shall the shifting sea-weed float.

"Not for them the quiet grave Underneath the daisied turf; They rest below the restless wave, They sleep below the sleepless surf.

"O'er them shall the waters wrestle With the whirlwind from the land, But their bones will only nestle Closer down into the sand;

"And for ever, wind and surge, Loud or low, shall be their dirge; And each idle wave that breaks Henceforth upon any shore, Shall be dearer for their sakes, Shall be holy evermore."—E. H. O.

Only they who have had to brave the dangers of the deep for many years, can understand what its perils really are. Unfortunately, as the reader knows, these are so great and frequent, that to describe a wreck is but to take one of many which have been still more sad and disastrous. But as the wreck of the "Forfarshire" deserves especial mention, because of the heroic conduct of the lighthouse-girl, it will be necessary that we should become acquainted with as many of its details as have been preserved.

The "Forfarshire" steamer was a vessel of about three hundred tons burden, and it was under the command of one, John Humble, who had formerly been master of the "Neptune," of Newcastle. The "Forfarshire" was to go from Hull to Dundee, with a valuable cargo of bale goods and sheet iron; and she sailed from Hull on Wednesday evening, September 5th, 1838, at about half-past six o'clock. Two other vessels left at the same time, the "Pegasus" and "Inisfail," both bound for Leith. The vessel might almost have been called a new one, for she was but two years old, but her boilers were in a very bad state of repair. They were examined before the ship left Hull; and a small leak which was detected was closed up, and it was hoped that the vessel had been made safe. Sixty-three persons sailed in her, including twenty passengers in the cabin, and nineteen in the steerage, Captain Humble, his wife, fourteen seamen, four firemen, two coal trimmers, and two stewards. Several persons noticed an unusual bustle on board, and found, on inquiring, that it was caused by the state of the boilers. This very naturally occasioned great anxiety on the part of those who were to sail in her, and one of the steerage passengers, Mrs. Dawson, was heard to say, that if her husband came down to the steamer in time, she would return with him, and not sail in the vessel at all.

Off Flamborough Head the leakage was again detected, and continued for six hours; but it did not appear to be very serious, inasmuch as the pumps were able to keep the vessel dry. Still it was enough to cause some alarm, for two of the fires were extinguished by it, and had to be relighted when the boilers had been temporarily repaired. Things were not very encouraging, since the vessel could only move slowly; and before she had proceeded more than a little way on her course, three other steamers passed her.

It would have been only wise and right if, under such circumstances, the vessel had not attempted to pursue her course, but had put into the nearest port. Such was not the case, however, and though she was known to be in a most inefficient state, she proceeded on her voyage. It was about six o'clock on Thursday evening when the "Forfarshire" passed through the Fairway, the water which lies between the Farne Island and the mainland. It was night when she entered Berwick Bay, and at that time the wind was blowing strong from the north, and the sea was running very high. Naturally enough the strain upon the vessel, caused by its greatly increased motion on account of the violence of the weather, widened the leak. The firemen reported that they could not keep the fires burning, as the leakage had increased to such an extent that the water put them out. The captain ordered two men to be employed in pumping water into the boilers, but no good came of that, for as fast as they pumped the water in it escaped again through the leak.

The storm continued to rage with unabated fury, and it was felt by all on board that they were in imminent danger. The captain strove to keep up the courage of the men and passengers, but their anxious faces told too surely of the sinking hearts within.

"Where are we now?" was the question asked at ten o'clock; and those who asked, would have given not a little to be in happy British homes, safe from the fury of the winds and sea.

"We are off St. Abb's Head," was the reply, shouted at the top of the man's voice, that it might be heard, for in the din and roar it was difficult to make each other understand.

Presently the enginemen, working hard at their engines, found that their efforts were entirely vain. They persevered until it was evident that perseverance was useless and then they represented the case to the captain.

"The engines will not work, sir," they said, "though we have done our best to make them."

The captain looked, and felt extremely anxious, for he knew that a terrible danger menaced the vessel, and all on board.

"Hoist the sails fore and aft," was the order, for it was well known that there was great probability of their drifting ashore. The vessel was put about, and every endeavour made to keep her before the wind, and away from the rocks. It was thought by some that an attempt would be made to anchor, but it was not so. The vessel was not long before it had become perfectly unmanageable; and those who were helpless to guide her felt, with dismay, how near they were to destruction and death. The tide was setting in to the south, and the ship drifted in that direction.

All this time it was raining heavily, and the fog was so thick that nothing could be distinctly seen. It was impossible to tell where they were; and in darkness and uncertainty, fearing the worst, and quaking with terror, the unhappy passengers and crew waited for their doom, as men and women have done so often under circumstances similarly appalling. There was nothing they could do but wait and pray; and they were the happiest who could keep alive in their bosoms the faintest spark of hope, and who, being ready either to live or die, had confidence in the strong arm and watchful care of Him who holds the waters in the hollow of His hand.

At length there was a startled cry, "Breakers to leeward!" and that discovery increased the excitement and terror a hundredfold. All eyes were strained in the endeavour to ascertain something of their position, and presently the Farne Lights became visible. After a moment's consultation, the awful truth made the men desperate. There was no doubt as to the imminent and immediate peril in which they were, for the dangerous character of the coast of the islands was well known. The captain and men, aroused to almost superhuman effort by the awful catastrophe that was coming upon them, tried to avert what seemed almost inevitable, by endeavouring to run the vessel through the channel that lies between the Farne Islands and the mainland. But the gloomy apprehensions of all who understood the state of the case were rather increased than diminished by the attempt; for the vessel would not answer her helm; and the furious, turbulent sea tossed her hither and thither, making her the sport of its own awful will.

It was between three and four o'clock when, with her bow foremost, the "Forfarshire" struck on the rock.

Those who are not acquainted with the Farne Islands can scarcely form an idea of the ruggedness of those rocks, which stand up in the ocean as if intent on destroying all that comes near them. The rock on which the "Forfarshire" struck is so sharp and rugged that it is scarcely possible for persons to stand erect upon it, even when it is dry, and it descends sheer down into the water more than a hundred fathoms deep.

The shock, therefore, and the awful scene that followed, may be imagined, but cannot be described. The night was round about the helpless passengers, and added to their danger and dismay. The sea was tremendously high, and the waves seemed to be so many graves rising to receive the bodies that must shortly drop into them. The noise and tumult were so great as to bewilder those who listened. The wind howled in its rage, and mingled with the thunder of the waters. The sea-gulls screamed as they flew madly about the ship, and towards the shore. The women shrieked so piercingly that their voices could be heard above all other sounds, and were by far the maddest and most mournful of all. Nor was this surprising, for the great vessel was lifted up by the action of the water, and again forced upon the jagged rock, while the beams and timbers gave way, and that to which the passengers and sailors had trusted their lives proved itself little better than a grave.

The bustle and confusion on board were naturally very great at this juncture. All tried to find their way on deck, but some did not live to reach it. Others, as soon as they had gained that which they hoped was a place of safety, were at once swept off into the great deep below.

At this time some of the crew, eager to save themselves, lowered the larboard quarter-boat, and sprang into it. Among these were James Duncan, the first mate, to whom some blame seems to have been attached, and Mr. Ruthven Ritchie, of Perthshire. It is little wonder that in such a crisis all should do what could be done to save themselves. But we have some memorable instances of unselfish heroism on the part of British sailors, who have even lost their own lives in saving those of others.

"It is the signal of death," was the hurried conclusion to which many came when they felt the shock of the vessel on the rock. Then followed a most heart-rending scene. The master lost all self-control in his anguish and terror; but, perhaps, that is not surprising when it is remembered that he had on board his own wife. It is so natural for a woman to think that her husband can save her from everything; and this woman clung to the master, and looked into his face with imploring eyes, "Oh, save me! save me! Surely you can do something! Do not let me drown. Oh, my beloved, will you not save me?" she cried, holding him in her arms, while the tears ran down her white face.

"Would to God that I could, my darling," was all the man could say, as he felt his utter helplessness to protect her, or any of those who had been committed to his care. Other women there were who called upon him, and upon the sailors, and most of all upon God, though their cries seemed altogether unavailing. The men were more quiet. They looked death in the face calmly, though still they clung to the doomed vessel, hoping against hope to the very last.

Many of the passengers were asleep in their berths when the vessel first struck. The steward ran down to give the alarm without loss of time.

"For God's sake, get up, all of you. The vessel is on the rocks, and we shall all be drowned."

What a terrible awakening it was for those who had gone calmly to sleep the night before! No warning had been given to them. They little knew how the angels wrote above their cabin, "There is but a step between thee and death." With busy brains, planning all sorts of work for future years, and dreaming of worldly success and prosperity, they laid down to sleep. While the night yet lasted came the terrible cry, "Behold, the bridegroom cometh: go ye forth to meet Him." And what terror and affright the message caused, only He knew who looked down from Heaven into the souls of the men and women. Was it not a pity that they had not thought of this before? If only they had been His friends, they would not have feared to see His face. But to those who had persistently turned deaf ears to His invitations, the cry, "Prepare to meet thy God," sounded like a summons to eternal doom.

To others, however, it was not so. They looked across the waters to another shore, where the lights are always burning, and where shining ones stand to welcome the weary voyagers who would safely gain it. As they saw the danger they knew that the shore they loved was not far away; and when they cried in strong faith, "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly," they heard the still small voice of their God saying, "It is I, be not afraid." Death by drowning was for them only a short swift passage to the heavenly land, where "there shall be no more sea." And though life must have been dear to them—for every one had some tie to keep him below—still, there was not one Christian but would be willing "to depart and be with Christ, which is far better," and the summons, though it was brought by seething waters and howling winds, could not be unwelcome. For a few seconds there would be nothing but darkness, pain and bewilderment, but then all would be over, and their day would begin. "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more. The Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of water, and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes." Happy, indeed, are they, for they "have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb; and they shall serve Him day and night in His temple."

But what of them who have always been His despisers? In the days of their health they cried—"We will not have this man to reign over us;" and now, what could He be to them but a judge whom they feared? To them death by drowning was a very different thing from that which it was to those who were his friends. It gave them too little time to prepare. They wanted to pray, but the waters were over their heads, and in the darkness they could not find Him. They wanted to repent, but no space for repentance was given to them then. It was too late—too late! They had had time. For months and years the patient Spirit had been striving with them; but they had resisted Him. Christ had been saying—not as a judge, but as a pleading Saviour—"Come unto me, all ye that labour, and I will give you rest." "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If any man will hear me, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me." But it had been no use. Deaf ears, that would not hear His voice, blind eyes, that saw no beauty in Him that they should desire Him, unresponding lips that would give Him no invitation—these were all that the Lord had met with. And now it was too late, for that storm had burst, and the ship was settling down, and there remained for the rejecters of Christ nothing but hopeless desolation!

Does not this, and every shipwreck, cry aloud to the sons of men to be wise? "Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation." "To day, if ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts." Death must come soon, and it may come any night, and, rousing the sleeper, may hurry him into eternity. Is it not folly to remain unprepared?

The "Forfarshire," soon after the first shock, was struck by a powerful wave, which lifted her for a moment off the rock, but only to dash the doomed ship on it again with greater violence than before. On this occasion, the sharp edge of the rock struck the vessel about midships aft of the paddle-boxes. Then the survivors rushed on deck, and about three minutes later, another shock cut the vessel completely in halves.

The part containing the stern, quarter-deck and cabin, was instantly carried away, with all who were upon it, and went rushing into the terrible current, known by the name of the "Piper Gut." This current is so tremendously strong, that, even in calm weather, it runs between the islands at the rate of six miles an hour; and the fate of those who, in a hurricane, were borne through the rapids, is indeed terrible to contemplate.

It has been said that the larboard quarter-boat was launched by the chief mate, James Duncan. Only one passenger was, however, saved—namely, Mr. Ritchie. He heard the steward's cry of alarm; and immediately sprang from his berth, and, seizing his trousers, rushed upon deck. He noticed that some of the sailors were leaping into a boat, and without loss of time, and with great presence of mind, he at once seized a rope, and by a marvellous effort swung himself into it. He afterwards looked upon his escape as nothing short of miraculous. Just as the boat was leaving the ship, two persons made frantic efforts to detain it. They were the aunt and uncle of Mr. Ritchie. They endeavoured to seek his place of safety, but perished in the attempt, for, instead of gaining an entrance into the boat, they fell into the water, and perished before the eyes of their nephew, who was powerless to aid them.

Those in the boat had a narrow escape. The night was dark and cold, but Mr. Ritchie had nothing on excepting his shirt and trousers. All the time he was in the boat he was occupied in baling out the water with a pair of shoes, for if this had not been perseveringly done, the boat would have sunk, and all in her have perished. No one knew how to steer; but Providence guided the men rightly, for there was but one means of escape from the dangerous breakers, which must have dashed the boat against the rocks. Not one of them could say where this outlet was; but they were guided through it unawares. Surely every man must have felt grateful to Him who had taken them safely through such dangerous waters! About eight o'clock on Saturday morning, they were picked up by a Montrose sloop, bound for Shields; and the whole nine who had embarked in the boat were saved. Mr. Ritchie had some money in his pocket, with which he was able to buy necessary food and clothing.

Those who had been left on the wreck were less fortunate. It has been stated that the fore-part of the vessel remained on the rock; but the situation of the poor wretches thus exposed was most perilous. Gigantic waves kept dashing over them; and one of these swept the captain and his wife away into the boiling sea. He had not been able to save her; but he died with her, as a brave man would do. Let us hope that they went together to the rest and joy in Heaven.

There were only nine left on the wreck which still stuck to the rock—four of the passengers, and five of the crew. Words cannot describe their sufferings while they held on for dear life; the waves, which had hurried away so many of their companions, continually rising, as if in a malicious endeavour to secure them also for their prey. While strength remained, they cried and screamed for help, though even as they did so, their hearts sank within them, for it seemed utterly vain to hope that their shrieks would be heard above the awful clamour of the winds and waves. Now and then they died into complete silence, and then one of the number would shout for help, while the others feebly, but with all their strength, seconded his endeavours. They were half-frozen by the cold; and the heavy seas that washed over them tore off their clothing, leaving them nearly naked. They made frantic exertions to hold on, and resist the fury of the waves, but, as the night wore slowly away, these endeavours quite exhausted the sufferers, and left them almost prostrate.

One spectacle was particularly agonising. It has been mentioned that Mrs. Dawson, one of the passengers, had declared before the vessel started, that, if she could, she would leave it, and would not sail. But her husband did not come in time, and she had therefore gone with the rest. She was among the number of those who were in the fore-part of the vessel, and which clung to the rock. She had with her two children, a boy and a girl, aged respectively eight and eleven years. She held them firmly, one by each hand, resolved to save them if a mother's love could do it. But they were delicate, and could not endure the continued buffeting of the waves. They were so beaten and battered by being thrust to and fro against the rock that they both died; but even after they were dead, Mrs. Dawson refused to believe it, and still held them firmly by the hand. The mother's heart might have broken quite had she known, but as it was she was eventually saved.

Scarcely less wonderful was the escape of a man named Donovan, one of the firemen of the ill-fated vessel. He lay on the rock for three hours in the greatest suffering, being beaten by the terrible waves as they washed over him, stripping him by the force of their blows. But all that time he held on to a strong spike-nail; and though his hands were bleeding, and almost raw, he would not let go, for he knew that if he did he would lose his only chance of safety.

So they waited and prayed for deliverance, while the terrible moments wore into hours. It must have seemed to them that God had forgotten to be gracious, and that they were forsaken both by Him and their fellow men. But many an agonising prayer rose to heaven, and at last, though they little expected it, succour was nigh. It is true that it came by a maiden's hands, but God was, indeed, the deliverer. His time often seems very late, and His coming long delayed, but, after all, He knows the right moment, and those who put their trust in Him will not be confounded. Over the stormy water came a little boat on an errand of mercy; and He, without whom not a sparrow can fall, was Himself in it, aiding and blessing His servants. Let us see how wonderfully He had cared for the few survivors on the Farne rocks, and by what enthusiastic heroism He had filled the breast of the youthful lighthouse-girl. And let us learn from it to trust in Him when our times of need come.

"Say not my soul, 'From whence Can God relieve my care?' Remember that Omnipotence Has servants everywhere."



CHAPTER XII.

GRACE TO THE RESCUE.

"Thus her compassion woman shows, Beneath the line her acts are these; Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows, Can her warm flow of piety freeze. From some sad land the stranger comes, Where joys like ours are never found, Let's soothe him in our happy homes, Where freedom sits with plenty crowned.

"Man may the sterner virtues know, Determined justice, truth severe; But female hearts with pity glow, And women holds affliction dear; For guiltless woes her sorrow flows, And suffering vice compels her tear; 'Tis hers to soothe the ills below, And bid life's fairer views appear.

"To woman's gentle kind we owe What comforts and delights us here; They, its gay hopes on youth bestow, And care they soothe, and age they cheer."—Crabbe.

That night Grace could not sleep. Had she been any other girl, indeed, there would have been nothing remarkable in that, for the storm was tremendous. But dwellers in lighthouses are so used to storms, that generally they take but little notice of them; and the fact that this storm really sent a thrill of solicitude to the hearts of the Darlings, is enough to convince us that it must have been of an unusually furious nature.

On this memorable 6th of September, 1838, when the "Forfarshire" sailed, a fisher boat came from North Sunderland to the Longstone rock, bringing packets and letters for the Darling family. At that time the weather was comparatively fine and the sea calm; and there wore no particular signs to warn them of any material change in the atmosphere. The day passed much as usual, but towards evening heavy masses of clouds collected, and those who were weather-wise knew that it was likely to become tempestuous. These surmises soon became certainties; and presently a tremendous wind arose, and beat around the rocks and the lighthouse that was upon them; and a deluge of rain began to fall. The storm grew worse every half-hour until even the calm spirit of Mr. Darling was perturbed.

"Oh, hark at the winds! I do not know when they have blown with so much fury," he said.

Mrs. Darling's face was pale, and Grace found it quite impossible even to concentrate her thoughts upon her favourite books, while the tumult raged outside.

"I hope it will soon be more quiet," she said. "Nobody could sleep in such a storm as this."

"May God have mercy upon the poor fellows at sea tonight," said her father; "for many a one is in great danger because of this gale."

"The wind seems to sigh in every cleft of the rocks tonight," said his wife. "I hope we are safe, William."

"Our tower will not be blown down," said her husband, smiling away her fears. "I wish all the sailors were as safe as we are."

"I am not afraid," said Grace; "but no one can listen to this awful wind without feeling some emotion and awe."

"It is, indeed, an awful wind," said Darling, "and one does not care to hear it, though his own home be as firm as a rock."

They sat together, scarcely speaking, until a late hour; but as the night advanced, the storm raged yet more furiously.

"It seems as if the very spirit of mischief is abroad," remarked Grace.

"But as we can do no good by staying up," said her mother, "we had better retire to rest."

Grace, however, was strangely loth to do so; and when, at last, she went to her own room, she could not sleep. Even when she was sinking into a doze, a terrible gust of wind would beat against the wall, and make the girl's heart leap within her, and cause her to listen in breathless attention to the mighty battle that was raging without. So she lay for several hours; and even when at last she fell asleep, her slumbers were very disturbed, and her dreams most uneasy.

In the morning, before daylight dawned, something awoke her. She rose hastily in bed, with wide-opened eyes, that seemed to listen intently.

"What was it that awoke me, I wonder! It might have been the wind; and yet it seemed to me more than the wind. It must have been human cries, but cries uttered in the most awful distress, or they could not have been heard above the gale."

So she said to herself, as with white face, and trembling pulses, she listened, and scarcely dared to breathe.

"Perhaps, after all, I was dreaming," she thought, as for a few moments she did not hear the sound she waited for. "The wailings of the winds might have deceived me, though I should not have thought they could do so, since I am so used to hear them."

Again she listened; and presently she heard piercing, penetrating cries of those whose agony had become almost unbearable.

Then she sprang out of bed, with some such thought as this—"O God, help me, and show me what is right to do." With trembling, agitated fingers, she hastened to dress, and then, without losing a moment needlessly, she hurried to her father.

"Why, Grace, what is the matter, child!" said he.

"Oh, father, I feel sure there has been a wreck near! I have heard the most awful shrieks that I ever in my life heard before; and I am sure some poor wretches are drowning."

"Nonsense, Grace! You were very nervous last night, and you look as if you have not slept. Your fears have mastered you. That which you thought a cry was only the wind. At least we may hope so; for I do not think you could hear screams, or anything else, in such a storm."

"But, father, I am sure that the cries came from human beings in extremity. Do believe me, for I know it is the truth, and not any foolish fancy of mine. Listen for yourself."

"It is no use, Grace; nothing can be heard but the wind."

"But, father, I know there is a wreck not far from the island."

Mr. Darling shook his head, and tried to appear indifferent.

"Even if it is so, Grace, we can do nothing," said he.

"Oh, yes, father, we must go to their rescue," replied his daughter.

"What is the use of your talking like that, Grace? If your brothers were at home, we might attempt it; but now it is altogether out of the question."

"No, indeed, father, it must not be out of the question. Can we let our fellow creatures perish without making an effort to save them? If we did so, I am sure we should never, either of us, be happy again. Do let us go, father! I can help you in the rowing of the boat, and God will protect us. Only think what it would be to save the lives of those poor half-drowned men and women?"

"But I don't think it can be right, Grace."

"Oh, father, why do you lose time? It cannot be right to hesitate," said the girl, in convincing tones.

Mr. Darling looked anxiously through his telescope. It was scarcely light, and there was a heavy mist hanging over the island. The wind was not as violent as it had been, but the sea was still very furious. William Darling strained his eyes as he looked through the good glass, and presently he saw that which he looked for. About half-a-mile away, there were the shipwrecked sufferers, still clinging to their only hope, the broken pieces of the ship. He thought for a moment or two, and Grace's earnest pleading prevailed. He knew that she never before had been called upon to render such assistance; but he knew too, that she was a brave girl, and would do her best.

"Very well, Grace; I will let you persuade me, though it is against my better judgment."

Grace joyfully kissed her father, and he began to prepare.

"What will your mother say, Grace?" he asked the next moment.

The loving girl dreaded her more than the waves. Mrs. Darling, when she heard of it, could not give her consent.

"Oh, William, I cannot believe that you will be so mad! If there has been a shipwreck, and lives lost, what is the use of your adding your own death to the number? Nothing can save you. The boat will not live ten minutes in such a sea."

"Oh yes, my dear; I think we will come back again all right. Don't make yourself miserable for nothing," said her husband.

"Do you not care, William, that you leave me a desolate widow, with none to provide for me? You are wicked to go. It is tempting Providence, and you ought to be afraid to do it," said the wife, through her tears.

"Hush! mother dear," said Grace. "Indeed, we must go. How can we remain quietly here, while our fellow creatures are crying out for help?"

"Grace, you are a foolish girl; you ought not to urge your father to lose his life, nor to be so willing to risk your own. Think of me, and what I shall do if both of you are drowned."

It was, after all, the natural cry of such a woman as Mrs. Darling. It is not every body that can bear to risk a beloved life, that the lives of strangers may be saved. The wife of the lighthouse-keeper was very sorry for the poor wretches who were clinging to the rock in the cold and rain; but why should her own home be put in jeopardy that they might be rescued! How many women, the wives of soldiers, or sailors, or missionaries, have felt the same? And yet it is generally the cause of right and humanity that wins the day.

Mrs. Darling clung to her husband as if she would not let him go, but Grace remained true and steadfast to her noble purpose, and only waited till the mother grew a little more calm, to press the matter again, and before long they could see that she half-yielded. That was enough!

"Good-bye, mother. God will bring us back to you in safety, never fear; and no doubt we shall bring some poor half-drowned creatures with us, so you had better get the beds warmed and have everything comfortable," said Grace, in strong, cheering tones.

Mrs. Darling found that all her beseeching was in vain; and she could only hope for the best, and keep herself as quiet as possible. She was, however, half-frantic with fear, as she bade them good-bye, and then watched, with streaming eyes, the fragile little boat venture out upon the awful waters. And yet she could not but feel that they were doing rightly, and at the last she had herself helped to launch the boat. But she wrung her hands as she saw them go, and prayed earnestly to God that he would indeed take care of them, and bring them safely back to her.

It is said that Grace was the first to seize an oar, and spring into the boat; but her father, who was a brave man, quickly followed, and the two were soon working together in harmony. They scarcely spoke at first, William Darling only giving Grace a few directions with regard to the management of the boat, and then both used their utmost endeavours to propel her towards the desired spot.

One moment we must linger to look at the heroic girl as she sits firmly in the boat, with a steady light in her eyes, lips firmly compressed, and strong brave heart. Could we have seen Grace Darling in more attractive guise? The thunderous waves were leaping and foaming around the little boat; the dark clouds were lowering, and the winds blowing furiously. The afrighted sea-birds looked at them, and screamed shrilly as they saw the boat rocked to and fro, now leaping on the top of a wave that tossed it high, and now sinking down, down, as if it were going to the very bottom of the deep. But Grace was not afraid. She scarcely thought of the danger; for her heart and sympathy were with those who were on the rock. Long before she got to them, her imagination pictured the patient faces, full of pain, which would grow bright when they saw her; and as she thought of them, her arm gained new strength, and she went on again more energetically than before. Was she, indeed, a girl? Had she sisters, who cried out if a pain touched them, and who were always helplessly appealing to men for help? Did she know what fear was? Yes; she knew that she would always be afraid of her own thoughts, if she did not what she could to rescue the shipwrecked strangers.

On they went, over the stormy waters, every minute being nearer their goal. The foam dashed in the face of the intrepid girl, and the salt water made her eyes smart; but she did not relax her efforts, but kept nobly and steadily at her work. Her father could not but admire her courage; and the sight of it gave him even more determination to succeed.

"Are you getting tired, my girl?" he asked presently.

"Not very, father. We shall do it," she replied.

"Yes, I really hope we shall. There they are, poor wretches, glad enough to see us, I know. It is a good thing it is an ebb tide. If it had not been, we could not have passed between the islands. It will be flowing when we come back; and if there are no sailors to help us, we may as well make up our minds to stay on the rocks with the others, for we shall not be able to get home again."

"Do not let us meet trouble half-way, father; the sailors will be able to help us."

They pulled hard a little longer, and then contrived to reach the rock on which the sufferers were waiting.

"Pray, take care, Grace."

"All right, father. Do not be afraid. I will not risk all by my mismanagement."

"If the coble is beaten against the rocks, she will be smashed to pieces."

"I will take care, father. Cannot you land now? See, there is a chance. Now, father!"

With a tremendous effort, Darling got on the rock, and immediately Grace rowed the boat back so as to keep her afloat on the water, and free of the dangerous reefs.

In the meantime, the sufferers on the rock had taken hope.

"There is a boat coming," one had shouted to the rest; and the very words had a miraculously quickening force in them. They looked eagerly out, but could scarcely believe that it would be in the power of those two occupants to rescue them.

"One is a woman," said a sailor, with moisture in his eyes. "God bless her; she is an angel sent from Heaven to succour us."

This man let the tears stream down his weather-beaten cheeks, while he watched the girl's heroic efforts, and prayed fervently that God would bless and prosper them.

William Darling could scarcely help weeping, too, while he looked at the sufferers, for their state was truly dreadful. They had strength enough left, however, to cry to him, and bless him and his; and he was thankful to find the sailors not so utterly exhausted, but that they were able to render some assistance.

"Who is to be the first?" cried Darling. "The boat is ready, and by God's help we shall save you all. Cheer up. Hope for the best, and help yourselves as much as possible."

His cheery words had a magic effect upon the sufferers, who immediately "took heart again," and rose to their feet in faith and hope.

The greatest care and caution were necessary, in order to get the survivors safely into the boat. Poor Mrs. Dawson, we may be sure, was one of the first, who, in a half-fainting, and very weak condition, and bemoaning the loss of her children, was safely placed in the coble by the kind assistance of Grace, her father, and the sailors. The bereaved mother found a friend and sympathiser in Grace, whose womanly pity flowed in tears, and whose kind heart was greatly touched by the signs of suffering that she saw. At present, however, she had no leisure to express her pity; for all her care was needed to assist in the escape of the others. As one by one they entered the little boat, and thanked God for their deliverance, Grace could not quite keep the tears of joy from her eyes.

"God bless you; but ye're a bonny English girl," said one poor fellow, as he looked most wondering at her; and the praise of the half-drowned man, whose life she had saved, was dearer to Grace Darling than any of the praises that were afterwards heaped upon her. Her young arms ached, and her back was full of pain, when the last sufferer was safely in the boat, and they prepared to row back to the land; but little cared she for that, since God had given her the joy she craved.

The return was even more perilous than the outward journey had been. The coble was full of precious human beings; but the sea abated none of its fury, that it might ride the more safely. But divine strength was behind that of the slender arms of William Darling's daughter, and the girl's matchless heroism did not fail her now. Her powers of endurance were great, her purpose good, and her devotion strong; and she did not relax her efforts until their own loved Longstone rock was reached.

Mrs. Darling, whose face bore signs of the most intense anxiety, went to the beach to meet them on their return, and eagerly embraced her husband and child, when they stepped from the boat. Surely, if ever a mother had reason to be proud of her daughter, it was the mother of Grace Darling.

"You are back in safety, then," said she, while the tears of welcome sprang to her eyes.

"Certainly, mother. Did I not tell you that God would take care of us! And see, we have brought nine persons from the rock."

"And saved nine lives!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling.

"That depends a little upon your nursing, mother. We have taken them from the rocks, but they are in a most deplorable condition," said Grace.

They were indeed; but the hospitable lighthouse-home was ready to receive them, and thither they were all conveyed.

At first, they were so hungry and tired, so bruised and broken, that they could not talk much. Besides, they had—many of them, at least—lost their friends and personal belongings, and were feeling sad and miserable enough. But Grace, though her limbs must have been aching, and she must have felt weary and exhausted, began to minister to their wants as soon as they were safely in her father's house; and for the next three days and three nights she found plenty of delightful occupation in soothing their sorrow, and nursing them back to health and strength. As these returned, the survivors became more and more conscious of the great debt which they owed to Grace Darling. They told her what their feelings were when they saw the boat coming toward them, and Grace herself, like an angel of mercy, in it. And Mrs. Darling explained that, but for Grace, their rescue would not have been attempted, since even the brave heart of her husband failed before the awful possibilities of venturing on such a sea with only two pair of hands. How must they, who owed their lives to the undaunted heroism of the kindly maiden, have loved and almost worshipped her, as they saw her moving, in most beautiful simplicity and modest unostentation, among them in her own home!

As for Grace; it may safely be said that she did not know that she had done anything at all remarkable until the world told her so. It is almost certain that she did it because she could not help it. We are sure that it did not enter into her mind to suppose that she was performing a deed of heroism for which all mankind would bless and laud her memory. She simply could not know of her fellow creatures in peril, without attempting to rescue them. Their sorrows and distresses found a ready echo in her own heart, and she must almost have wished for wings that she might fly at once to their succour.

And the maiden had her reward long before her deed of heroism had been published in the papers, and brought upon her the thanks and praises of the whole land. In the quiet recesses of her girl's loving heart there was great joy that night. She did not care whether or not anybody heard of her or her deeds. Nine persons had been saved from a watery grave through her strong persistance and courage. Nine lives were saved for usefulness and pleasure. Perhaps nine homes were preserved from sorrow and darkness, because an intrepid girl had ventured out upon the stormy sea. And as she thought of this, it was in no spirit of boasting, but rather in that of thankful humility, which drew her down to her knees, while she offered her devout prayer to God who had thus prospered her work. And surely, to complete her joy, there must have come to her before-hand the loving words of Him whose example Grace Darling had but copied. Did not the Master of all faithful souls come to "seek and to save that which was lost?" And would not He say to her, "Well done, good and faithful servant," and of her, "She hath done what she could?"

We cannot but praise her. Knowing what epithets of adulation were lavished upon her, we yet cannot help feeling that she deserved all the honest commendation which she received. It was a sublime deed of heroism; a splendid example of womanly unselfishness and love. That a timid girl should thus brave danger, by cleaving her way through the seas which she had thus grave reason to fear, with none but her father by her side, was indeed a matchless achievement. Grace Darling forgot herself, or she could not have done it. And she showed, on that day, how weakness can become strong, and timidity courageous; and it is little wonder, indeed, that even the cold world should have been stirred to give her most loyal admiration and praise.

Long, very long, indeed, may it be before the memory of the gallant deed shall die out! May hundreds of thousands of girls, alike in humble or lofty positions, be taught by it to be self-forgetful, brave, and eager to save others. And may many noble Englishwomen arise who shall have reason to thank God for the lesson which they learnt from the life of the heroine of the Farne Isles, Grace Darling!

It may be that to those who read these pages such an opportunity as that afforded to the lighthouse-maiden may never come. But none the less does every woman's life need the same qualities that she possessed; for courage, intrepidity, self-forgetfulness, and tender sympathy for the suffering, are the needs of each day.

"The trivial round, the common task, Will furnish all we ought to ask: Room to deny ourselves—a road To bring us daily nearer God."

And it is those who cultivate these higher qualities that will have presence of mind when any emergency arises to do promptly the very best that can be done. Only let our women simply do their duty, looking to Heaven for guidance, and if they are not Grace Darlings, they will be as true and good, and perhaps almost as useful as she.



CHAPTER XIII.

AFTER THE EVENT.

"Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. "She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms. "She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy. "Strength and honour are her clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come. "She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness. "Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. "Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. "Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates."—Solomon.

It was not possible for Grace to carry out the Scriptural injunction, and not let her right hand know what her left hand did, for no sooner was the account of the wreck published in the newspapers, than the most intense excitement was created, and a whole stream of admiration and praise set in the direction of the lighthouse-girl. Such an occurrence would naturally arouse the enthusiasm of our countrymen and countrywomen, who would consider that they could not too strongly express their feelings of delight.

All thoughts were immediately turned to the wreck, and great interest was felt in the survivors. Inquiries were at once made, in order to ascertain the number of those who were lost in the "Forfarshire." It was not possible to do so, however, for no entries had been made at the time of embarkation, so that it was never certainly known how many had perished. It was supposed that the passengers numbered more than fifty, and the crew about twenty. Many of the sufferers were Scotch, and some came from a long distance. One gentleman lost his wife, son and grandson; another his mother and brother. The captain, and his wife, as has been already stated, were both drowned.

Many people visited the wreck, some from curiosity and some because they had a good purpose in view. The wreck consisted of the forecastle, part of the engine, paddle-wheels, anchor, cable, foremast, and rigging. Two of the boilers were broken on the rock, and the others were washed out to sea. Search was made for the missing bodies, with partial success; but the cargo, which was of great value, could not be restored. Parts of the wreck were brought by the waves to different places, such as Hauxley, Amble, Hartley, and other parts of Northumberland. The fishermen and revenue officers made every effort, and rendered all possible assistance, but nothing of much value could be recovered.

While this was going on, the Longstone lighthouse became the centre of a marvellous fascination to thousands of people. The story of the girl going out in the boat over a stormy sea, and succeeding in saving a number of lives that were in jeopardy, thrilled the hearts of all who read, and made them eager to know more of the wonder. Nor was simple curiosity all that was excited. It was felt that such a deed deserved most substantial reward, and a public subscription was at once set on foot. To this the bank-notes and gold of the wealthy, the silver of the middle classes, and the coppers of the poor, were willingly given; and in a short space of time Grace was presented with the splendid sum of 700 pounds.

"The Royal Humane Society" could not allow such an act to pass by without notice, but forwarded a very expressive and flattering vote of thanks to her. As if this were not enough, the President of the Society presented her with a very handsome silver teapot, in generous acknowledgment of her service. Money, indeed, flowed in as well as congratulation and praises. From Sunderland a cheque was sent by Mr. Kidson; and we are able to give Grace's reply:—

"To Mr. Kidson, Sutherland.

"Kind Sir—I acknowledge the receipt of yours of yesterday, with the cheque for 15 pounds, 2 shillings, for which I trust you will return my sincere thanks to the subscribers. At the same time, I should feel much additional gratification if you could, without much trouble, send me the names of the same, which I wish to preserve.

"I remain, Sir, "Your very obliged servant, "G. H. DARLING.

"Longstone Light, January 22nd, 1839."

At Newcastle, as was only to be expected, the greatest enthusiasm prevailed, and in that town alone the sum subscribed reached the amount of 280 pounds, 10 shillings, 3 pence. Of this Grace herself received 160 pounds, while a present of 58 pounds was made to her father, and 35 pounds to the North Sunderland boatmen.

A statement of the amount of subscriptions having been forwarded to her in a letter, Grace was so affected by the perusal of its contents, that, as she noted the sympathising language in which it was couched, she shed tears of pleasure so exquisite as are rarely shed by mortals. In the reply, after expressing, in natural and unstudied language, the grateful sense entertained by her of the kindness of her friends in that town, she solicited the names of the subscribers. It was only natural she should wish to know and preserve them, for they were those of her really warm friends and admirers. This request was unhesitatingly complied with, and the sheet has been carefully preserved in the lighthouse, where we suppose it may still be seen. Amongst the list occur the Trinity House, the Corporation, T. E. Headlam, Esq., (that year mayor), Richard Clayton, Matthew Bell, M.P., George Hawks, Joseph Cowen, and a great many others.

An additional pleasure, as gratifying as any previously received, was the following letter, addressed by the hero of Navarino to the Editor of the "Sun":—

"SIR—As I do not know where to send the enclosed subscription for Grace Darling, I shall feel obliged by your forwarding it to the committee.

"I earnestly hope that the amount collected may be commensurate with the extraordinary deserts of that heroic girl, whose conduct in such a perilous and almost hopeless undertaking, does honour to humanity.—I remain, &c.

"E. CODRINGTON."

"The Royal National Institution for the Preservation of Life from Shipwreck" voted the silver medal of the Institution to Mr. Darling and his daughter, and also subscribed the sum of 10 pounds in aid of the Darling Fund.

The Directors of the "Glasgow Humane Society" sent to Grace their honorary medal, to mark the high sense entertained by them of her meritorious conduct. It bears the following inscription:—

"Presented by the Glasgow Humane Society to Miss Grace Horsley Darling, in admiration of her dauntless and heroic conduct in saving (along with her father) the lives of nine persons from the wreck of the 'Forfarshire' Steamer, 7th September, 1838."

The money was most freely and lavishly contributed, every one appearing to feel it an honour to testify their appreciation of the heroism and simple courage of Grace Darling in every conceivable way. His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland, exhibited a very kindly interest in all that was being done, not only giving a handsome subscription towards the testimonial himself, but taking charge of the moneys that were collected. Nor did his kindness end even here; for with a sincere desire that the greatest possible advantage should be gained from the contributions of the public to the maiden for whom they were sent, he advised her as to the best means of disposing of the sums.

If she had chosen, Grace might have made very considerable profit out of the deed. Of course, her portrait was taken, and copies of it sold with astonishing rapidity. Pictures were painted and printed, and the members of every household appeared to wish to possess one. Seeing the furore which the girl had excited, one enterprising manager of a theatre conceived the idea of having the occurrence represented on the stage, and offered her 800 pounds for merely sitting in a boat, so that all eyes might see her. She, however, was too modest a girl to take delight in anything of the kind. "She was glad to have saved lives at the risk of her own," she declared, "and would most willingly do it again if opportunity should occur, but she could not feel that she had done anything great; and certainly she did not wish for the praise that was bestowed upon her. As to going to the theatre to receive the plaudits of a curious crowd, that was the last thing she desired!"

She was very nearly being caught in a trap however, which was rather cleverly laid for her. When receiving congratulations and being interviewed was the order of the day, and therefore excited no suspicion, a stranger came to the lighthouse, who announced himself as a friend of Mr. Batty, the proprietor of an equestrian circus, which was then exhibiting at Edinburgh. Mr. Batty had given an entertainment for the benefit of Grace, and had thereby brought an overflowing audience to his theatre. The stranger who came was welcomed as usual by the Darlings, who gave him all the hospitable attentions that were in their power, as indeed was their custom. They could not help being pleased with him, for his manners were courteous, his conversation lively, and he evidently had a great desire to ingratiate himself into their favour. He held frequent talks with Grace, whom he flattered warmly, though so respectfully that he did not give offence, and after a time he contrived to insinuate a hint of his plan.

"The people of Edinburgh admire you exceedingly, Miss Darling. I cannot imagine anything that would give them greater pleasure than to see you, if you would visit their beautiful city."

"I should like to see it very much, but I do not care to be looked at by the curious eyes of strangers," said Grace.

"Indeed, if the people are strangers, they would be more friendly than curious, and you know how sincere is their admiration of your heroic act," said the man.

"I know they are much more kind than I deserve; and really I am not sure but that it would make me happy to shake the hands of some of them who are, though I have never seen them, my friends."

"I wish you would come while Mr. Batty's company is there, Miss Darling. It would give me great pleasure to show you any of the lions of Edinburgh, or indeed to serve you in any way I could."

"You are very kind; I will think about it."

"Cannot you decide while I am here? Mr. Batty would himself be most delighted to see you! May I not say that we shall have the pleasure?

"Perhaps you may. I almost think I will accept the kind invitation."

"Thank you. It will give me the most intense satisfaction, you may be quite sure of that."

Before the gentleman went away, he said something which Grace seemed to consider in the light of a joke about her presenting herself in Mr. Batty's circus. But the young woman did not of course seriously consider such a thing, nor even look at it in the light of a proposition.

Before he left the visitor handed a paper to Grace, requesting her to sign it. She ought to have read it, but not being well versed in the ways of the world, did not consider it necessary to do so; and only glanced at a word or two before writing her name, imagining that she was simply sending an acknowledgment of the money that Mr. Batty had forwarded.

Then the man left; but if he had only honestly declared his true errand, his reception would have been very different.

What this really was came to light a few days later, when an old and valued friend of the family visited the lighthouse. Grace went forward to greet him with a smile of warm welcome, when she was suddenly chilled by his very grave and cold manner.