Far away, during that terrible night, they had seen a faint, twinkling light. It was from a lighthouse—a sailor who was among the group of miserable creatures, told them it was the Longstone Lighthouse,—a mile away, too far for any one to see them down there on a level with the sea; and even if they were seen, there was no life-boat there, and no person but an old man and woman, with their son and daughter. _They _could never bring a boat to their deliverance.
There were fewer people than he supposed at that time in the lighthouse, for the son was absent,—the only one, it would seem, who might have had the strength and courage to venture to their assistance. Besides, what chance was there that they would be discovered?
Yet, at that very moment, clear, bright eye, looking through a telescope for signs of the storm's cruel havoc, lights on them, and takes in at once all the perils of their position. It is the eye of a girl of eighteen; she has the courage of a Roman, the compassion of a Christian. Calling to her father to accompany her, she hastens to their boat. Remonstrance is in vain. She will not listen to her parents, she will not wait a moment; all she thinks of, is those unhappy sufferers, for the returning tide must wash them off. If her father will not go, she will go alone, and, live or die, make the attempt to save them.
Her energy bears down all doubts; the boat is launched,—even the poor wife and mother helping. And, ah! think of her, as she sees it leave the rock to which it may never return. Think what she gives to the service of mercy. She must have been a worthy mother of such a daughter. Father and child, each take an oar, and pull, not for their lives, but for the lives of others.
Ah! what a struggle that was, through a mile of angry, tumbling waters, now from the crest of a wave catching a glimpse of thosethey go to rescue, now sunk in a deep hollow that threatens to engulf them. Through all, the little frail boat goes on its errand of mercy. Can we not imagine how the wife and mother watched it through the lighthouse glass? Let us take our post by her, and try to feel for a moment as she felt. From her lofty post she can mark the progress of the boat. It is slow but sure. When first it sank out of her sight in the trough of a great billow, her heart sank too; but see, rises again, and with it a prayer and thanksgiving ascend from the mother's heart. The daughter rows with a manly strength,—no signs of fatigue. Will they reach the wreck in time? Oh! the boat goes so slowly, though those two devoted ones work so hard. On, on, still on, nearer and nearer. Now comes the moment of greatest danger. Ah! they are too eager to get in,—they will swamp the boat. No, their very weakness prevents that. The stronger help the more feeble; they are all in now; all safe so far; nine human beings saved so far; but can eleven come safe to land? Once more the boat mounts on the creasts of the waves, once more she sinks into the hollows, and nearer, nearer, nearer she creeps on.
Other duties now claim the attention of the anxious watcher. Fires must be kindled, and food must be prepared, or the good work will be left unfinished; and from time to time she runs to the window to watch their progress.
The keel grates upon the beach,—voices are heard; they are all safely housed, and the loved girl comes up smiling, happy in the success of her good deed, and all unconscious that her name is henceforth famous through the world.
England need not envy France her Charlotte Corday, while the name of Grace Darling shines, in letters of gold, upon the pages of her own history.
The renowned Hugh Grotius had a wife who ought to be called the renowned Mary Grotius.
When he was condemned for his political writings, to be imprisoned for life, she accompanied him, though the hard condition was, that she too was to remain a prisoner. After a while she was allowed to go out occasionally. She borrowed books for him, which were carried to and fro, with his linen, in a chest. When long custom had made the guards careless in examining this chest, she packed her husband in it one fine day, and sent him to the wash, staying in the prison herself, and pretending that he was ill in bed.