“They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze;
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.
“The mariner remembers when a child,
On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink.
“Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
Year after year, through all the silent night,
Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,
Shines on that inextinguishable light!
“‘Sail on!’ it says, ‘sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!’”[62]
As a proof of the romance that formerly invested lighthouse life, we may lay before the reader one or two “true stories.”
Off the coast of Northumberland, and outside, so to speak, of the Farne Islands, lies the Longstone—a rock about four feet above high water-mark, and swept by every gale with fierce drifts of spray and foam. Here, about six miles from the shore, is planted a lighthouse, which has been found of great use to the coasting vessels navigating these dangerous waters. Two-and-thirty years ago its keeper was named Darling. He had a daughter, Grace—a quiet, modest, well-behaved girl, whose name, through one noble action, will for ever be honoured among women. On a dark night in September 1838 the Forfarshire, a Hull steamer, struck on a hidden reef called the Harcars, in the vicinity of the lighthouse. She had on board sixty-three persons, including passengers and crew. Their signals of distress were observed from the lighthouse. It was impossible for Darling, the keeper, to pull off in his boat alone; no single arm could have impelled it through the raging sea that then prevailed. With admirable courage, Grace Darling resolved to assist him on his noble errand. She sprang into the skiff, and over the bounding billows father and daughter gallantly made their way. Their lives hung upon a thread; but the weak girl never bated a jot of heart or hope, and rowed with all the vigour which a noble enthusiasm is apt to inspire. They reached the ship, and took off nine persons, with whom they contrived to regain the lighthouse. Nine more escaped in one of the steamer’s boats: all the rest perished.
Grace Darling did not live many years after the event which made her famous. She was interred in the old chapel on Holy Island, and an epitaph to her memory composed by the poet Wordsworth:—
“The maiden gentle, yet at duty’s call
Firm and unflinching, as the lighthouse reared
On the island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place;
Or like the invisible rock itself, that braves,
Age after age, the hostile elements,
As when it guarded holy Cuthbert’s cell.”
Smeaton speaks of a shoemaker who entered the Eddystone Lighthouse because he longed for a solitary life: he found himself less a prisoner on his wave-beaten rock than in his close and confined workshop. When some of his friends expressed their astonishment at his choice—“Each to his taste,” said he; “I have always been partial to independence.”
Perhaps it was the same individual who, after having served at the Eddystone upwards of fourteen years, conceived so strong an attachment to his prison that for two consecutive years he gave up his turn of relief. He would fain have continued the same course of life for a third year, but so much pressure was brought to bear upon him that he consented to avail himself of the usual privilege. All the years he had spent in the lighthouse he had been distinguished for his quiet and orderly behaviour; on land he found himself “out of his element,” and drank until he was completely intoxicated. In this condition he was carried back to the Eddystone, where, after languishing for a few days, he expired.