In this strange, lonely place, Grace Darling passed her earliest years. She was a shy and thoughtful child, and learned to take pleasure in the wild and dreary scenery around her. Shut out from the world, as she and her dear ones were, it seemed to her they were all the nearer heaven;—denied social pleasures and consolations even while living, toiling, watching for their fellow beings, she felt that God would remember them and protect them. To her the black stone hills of those desolate islands, standing bare-headed under the gray sky, were grander than towers or cathedrals could be; and the stars and the moon shone as tenderly above the wild, rough perch on the lighthouse rock, as on palaces and sweet Italian gardens.
She loved the lighthouse, the guide and saviour of tempest-tossed mariners. She loved the labors of her brave father, and the sports of her hardy brothers; she loved the shy sea-birds—some of these she tamed, by gentle advances and companionship, till they would stoop their swift wild wings to her hand. She loved the sea when it was calm—when the bright waves came running up the sandy beach, and seemed to prostrate themselves before her, caressing her small white feet with soft, cool kisses; and in storm she did not fear it. When it would break on the rocks with a hoarse, threatening sound, and dash over her a shower of angry spray, she would laugh and say, "Roar away, old sea! I am sure you wouldn't be in such a rage if the winds hadn't provoked you. By and by you will get good, and feel sorry, and creep up the sands all calm and smiling, to make friends with me again;—and I'll forgive you, you dear old sea, if you won't do any mischief now, and will leave me all the pretty shells and mosses you are tossing up on the shore."
And Grace dearly loved mosses and shells. She knew all the little caves and coves and sandy nooks where they were to be found, and the best time to look for them, and used to come home from her solitary rambles with her little apron full of treasures, dearer to her simple heart than rare exotics, or costly gems. She said the bright-colored mosses were sea-flowers, torn by the thieving waves out of the mermaids' gardens—and that the shells were the houses or pleasure-boats of the little sea-fairies.
So it was that Grace Darling was not discontented with her lot, nor with her lonely home, where love and God dwelt—did not fear tempest, nor night, nor raging seas, nor the world; but grew up courageous, trustful, unselfish, and "pure in heart."
When Grace was about eleven years old, her father removed from the lighthouse of the Brownsman to that of the Longstone, a neighboring island. And here it was, that on the 7th of September, 1838, when she was about twenty-two, she performed the heroic act which made her sweet name a blessed "household word" the world over.
The steamer Forfarshire, on her voyage from Hull to Dundee, in a terrible gale, struck on a rock amidst the Farne Islands. Immediately a portion of the crew, cowardly and selfish men, lowered the long-boat, leapt into it, and left the captain, his wife, their comrades, and all the passengers, to their fate! In a short time, a huge wave lifted up the entire vessel, then, letting it fall violently, broke it in two parts upon the sharp rock. The after part, on which were the captain, his wife, and many passengers, was carried off and soon dashed to pieces—the fore part, on which were five of the crew and four passengers, remained on the rock. In the little fore cabin, into which every now and then washed the waves, was a woman by the name of Sarah Dawson, with two young children—and piteously, hour after hour, came up to those on deck, the frightened cries of the poor creatures down there in the dark and cold alone. But by and by those cries died away and were still.
The sufferers remained on the wreck, exposed to the fury of the tempest, and expecting every minute to be washed away, all that long, long night. In the morning they were seen from the Longstone lighthouse, about a mile distant. Only Mr. Darling, his wife, and daughter Grace were at home. The storm had somewhat abated, yet the sea ran high, and the surf around the islands and hidden rocks seemed dashing up into the very clouds. It was dark and misty, and the sufferers on the wreck could be but dimly seen through the distance and the storm. Yet Grace saw them clear enough with her tender, sympathizing heart—saw all their peril, their fear, their agony, and, looking into her father's face, she said firmly—
"Papa, those poor people must be saved!"
Mr. Darling shook his head sadly, and then she added,
"You and I must do it. We will go to them in our boat—we can perhaps bring them all away in that."