We may be sure that Grace Darling"s friends greeted her birthday with the old fashioned, but significant wish, "Many happy returns of the day." She had become exceedingly dear to them, and they wanted to keep her with them. Life is not too bright at any time, but it becomes dark indeed when our friends die. There are some lives that seem necessary, not only to their own immediate circle, but to the world at large, and there are many who desire that they may live long. It was so in the case of our heroine. Wherever she appeared, she stirred men"s hearts to deeds of heroism and courage, and the world seemed to need her stay in it. Moreover, for her own sake it appeared desirable that she should linger in a state in which she received so much honour, and was so greatly and universally beloved. As yet, she scarcely knew how sincerely she was appreciated, and how much good her simple unselfishness and devotedness had done. Had she lived until the shadows of old age crept on her, and she who had helped others needed help herself, then indeed she would have known how tenderly the people of England had enshrined her in their hearts. They wished it. It is a deeply-seated belief that long life is a blessing, and that to die early is a misfortune. The belief, popular as it is, may be a mistaken one; but it dwells in almost all hearts, and it would have kept Grace Darling here had it been possible.
But it was not. A voice, very low, but so clear and distinct that it was most plainly heard, was already speaking to the very soul of the lighthouse-girl. She heard it in those quiet evenings when her eyes looked over the sea, and she often wondered what the wild waves were saying. In the busy mornings, when her hands took up the household tasks, in order to lighten her mother"s burdens, she received the summons which had surely been sent to her. And even then she prepared to go. Not for her were long years spent in the enjoyment of those comforts which kind friends had provided for her. Hers was to be the early fading of the flower, for the insidious disease which carries off so many beloved ones from our midst had already marked her for his prey. Says a writer of her--"She died in that beautiful period of her life when all seems hallowed, so that the heart turns to her in her loveliness, beauty, innocence, and purity, and venerates her as a gem of virtue and a true heroine;" and he adds, "We are apt to regret that one so deserving should be cut down so young." And all who contemplate the life of Grace Darling must feel the same. And yet we need not suppose that the prayers of her friends were unheard or unanswered. If that which we call death were really ceasing to live, then indeed we might well pray to have this life continued. But the Christian knows better; and to him there is great significance in those words written long ago--"He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest it him, even length of days for ever and ever." This life is but the beginning. It is continued under other circ.u.mstances, and in a better land; and in that land we may be sure Grace Darling has found a happy home.
She was never particularly robust. She had not a strong frame; and it will be remembered that in our description of her in these pages, it was remarked that she was of slight build, and had a clear complexion.
In the year 1851 [Transcriber"s note: 1851 is what is in the book, but since Grace Darling died in 1842, it should probably be 1841.], and when she had only for a short time enjoyed the fruit of her heroic deed, it became evident that her health was declining. There is always room for hope, however, when the patient is young, and when, as in the case of Grace, the disease is consumption. Its first attacks are so insidious that the danger is not always realised. The victim looks more lovely than ever, and so well besides, that it seems as if it cannot be anything great that is the matter. And the symptoms do not seem to be alarming. There is but a feeling of weakness and weariness--a pain in the side, not very bad, perhaps, and a cough, which may be only the result of a cold. There seems nothing to frighten one in such common-place symptoms. Only, unfortunately, these things are stubborn, and do not yield to treatment. And after a time, it is seen that the flesh wastes, the eyes become bright, and there are heavy night perspirations, especially towards morning. There is fever, loss of strength, and loss of appet.i.te, and at last the sad truth is borne in upon the shrinking mind, that it is clearly a case of consumption.
We can imagine what consternation this sad conviction brought to the inmates of the Longstone lighthouse, for it is well known that there is but little hope that consumption is ever curable. The friends of Grace did the best they could; and toward the end of the year she removed to Bamborough, her medical attendant having advised her to do so.
The removal probably prolonged her life for a season, for it was not until the autumn of the following year that she died. But although she lived on it was evident, even to herself, that no real good was being done. She stayed some time, long enough to give the thing a fair trial, hoping and patiently waiting for a change, but no change came.
Everything was done that could be to make the sufferer more comfortable, and to keep her hopeful and happy. Indeed, Grace was very tranquil, and even cheerful, though all this time she clung to life, and would gladly have prolonged it if it had been possible.
"I think," she said, "that if I could be farther away from the sea, I should perhaps get better."
"Perhaps you would," said her friends eagerly, catching at anything that was at all hopeful, and they at once made arrangements to have her removed from Bamborough to some inland place. It was decided that she should go to Wooler, and great hopes were entertained that so complete a change would be beneficial. Wooler is a small market-town in Northumberland, eighteen miles north-west of Alnwick, and is situated on the borders of the county. The scenery is very delightful, for it is in the midst of a country varied with sunny hills and picturesque glens, which belong princ.i.p.ally to the Cheviot range, the Humbleton, Hedgehope and Beamish-head hills. It will be seen, therefore, that the air is pure, and there is no doubt that the place would be life-giving to many who should seek convalescence there. But neither bracing atmosphere, nor picturesque scenery, had any effect upon Grace Darling; and it became evident to the anxious eyes that watched her most closely and fondly, that she continued to grow gradually worse.
But even then those who loved her were not willing to let her pa.s.s away without making other efforts.
"Grace," they said, "perhaps another doctor could think of some other remedy. Could you bear the journey to Newcastle! If we went there, it is possible that some of the great physicians could do you good. Are you willing to try?"
"Yes," said Grace, "I am quite willing. I think I could bear the journey, and of course, in so large a place, we could have the very best advice."
"Then we will go to Newcastle; for it may be that, after all, you will recover."
Those who so spoke, however, had no great hope, though it was only natural that they should be extremely anxious to neglect no means that could possibly be used for her recovery.
"I should like my father to go with me to Newcastle," said Grace, "and accompany me when I have to consult the doctor."
"Oh, yes; we can easily make an arrangement with father to do that. I will write to him about it."
It was settled that the Newcastle plan should be tried, and Mr. Darling arranged to meet his daughter at Alnwick.
Everything relating to the gentle heroine of the "Forfarshire" was interesting, and it was not possible for her to visit this place again without the people knowing of it. Their hearts were touched with grief at the signs of approaching dissolution which they saw in her, and many eyes were filled with tears as they beheld her thin face and wasted form. They could not help contrasting this visit with that other which we have so recently described, when soon after her heroic action, she came among them, apparently in good health, and with a long life of happiness before her. Now it was too evident that death had claimed her for his victim, and that in a very short time they would have seen the last of Grace Darling.
Again, as on her former visit, she experienced great kindness at the hands of that n.o.ble and benevolent lady, the d.u.c.h.ess of Northumberland.
No sooner did she hear of her arrival in Alnwick, than she hastened to see her; and though she endeavoured to speak cheerfully to Grace, the meeting was a very sorrowful one.
"You had better remain here," she said, "and not go on to Newcastle.
You shall have the benefit of the advice of my own medical man, who will do anything for you that can possibly be done."
This suggestion was well received, and acted upon by the afflicted family, who began to fear that the case was an utterly hopeless one.
The d.u.c.h.ess was unwearied in her kindly attentions, and immediately procured good lodgings for Grace in the best and most airy part of the town. Every invalid who goes away from home in search of health, knows how dreary a lodging seems after the familiar scenes and comfortable rooms of his own dwelling. But Grace was prevented from feeling the desolation and discomfort which so many have felt, for the d.u.c.h.ess of Northumberland herself furnished the lodgings with every requisite, thus contributing very greatly to the well-being of the invalid.
But, alas, neither medical skill nor the loving ministries of tender friends, was of any avail to Grace Darling. For a time the remedies were patiently persisted in, but every week made the conviction of their failure more overwhelming. It was seen that a stronger hand than those of the human friends around her, was gently leading her into "the valley of the shadow of death."
Mr. Darling"s trouble and anxiety were very great when he saw that she, whom he loved so dearly, must die.
"I should like her to be with the members of her own family," he said, "and we must try to remove her, if possible, to the house of her sister at Bamborough, where she will feel more at home."
It was thought that this might be done with care, and it was therefore arranged that on a certain day the removal should take place. There was a touching incident connected with this which shows how real was the kindly attachment which the d.u.c.h.ess felt to the lighthouse-maiden.
Her Grace came quiet [Transcriber"s note: quite?] unattended, and dressed in the plainest attire, to the lodging of Grace to take her last farewell. It is not too much to say that both felt the parting greatly, and Grace could not but be deeply affected by the kindly manner of her n.o.ble friend.
Grace Darling only lived ten days after her removal to Bamborough.
She was nursed with the most a.s.siduous care and tenderness--her eldest sister, Thomasin, never once leaving her through the whole of the latter part of her long illness. But the love of her dear ones, though it might soothe the last moments, could not prolong her life, and she rapidly became worse. She knew that she must die, but she was not afraid of death. She watched for the last change, knowing that it must come, and feeling no alarm at its approach. She was ready to go, and was only listening for the welcome voice of the messenger "to fly away and be at rest." Her sister says that, during the whole of her trying illness, she never once beard her murmur or complain; but with Christian fort.i.tude and trust she gently loosed her hold of earth, and turned her face to the home that had been prepared for her above.
"I should like to see my brothers and sisters before I die," she said.
"And they would be most grieved not to see you," was the a.s.suring reply.
"Some of them may not be able to come, because of the nature of their occupation," she continued, "but I feel that I have not much more time, and that all who can come should do so now."
They were accordingly summoned, and had the mournful satisfaction of hearing her last adieus.
"I wish to give you each some token of my love before I die," she said; and with her own hands, and with the most perfect calmness, she distributed her gifts among them.
As may well be supposed, their grief was very great, and they felt as if they could not bear to part from her. But she comforted them with the a.s.surance of her own sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection.
"Do not mourn for me," she said; "I am only exchanging this life for one far better. If I remained here, I should be subject to trouble and sickness, but in dying, I go to be with Christ, my Saviour."
Just before she died, she earnestly exhorted her relations to meet her in the eternal world of blessedness and peace, and then the look which they dreaded to see spread over her features, and she peacefully pa.s.sed away, "to be with Christ, which is far better." And those who looked at her could but say, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labour; and their works do follow them."
The tidings of the death of the heroine of the Farne Islands was received everywhere with the most sincere regret. People had loved, even more than they had admired her, and they had delighted to think that she would live long to enjoy the fruit of her matchless deed. It was not to be, however, and all that was left to her admirers was to show their sympathy and affection by letting her life and death teach them some salutary and valuable lessons.
She was interred in the graveyard of the ancient Church of Bamborough, on the Monday after her death, and the funeral was numerously attended by those who were anxious to render her the last tribute of respect.
The pall was borne by Robert Smeddle, Esq., of Bamborough Castle; William Barnfather, Esq., from Alnwick Castle; the Rev. Milford Taylor, of North Sunderland, and Mr. Fender, Surgeon, Bamborough. Her father and her brother William were chief mourners, and eight of her more immediate relatives followed. Mr. Evans, Officer of Customs, Bamborough, and a young man from Durham, who had most sincerely and fondly loved Grace, were also among the mourners. And after them came an immense concourse of people of all ages, and belonging to all cla.s.ses of society, many of whom were deeply affected.
It may be said, indeed, that the world which had applauded her, now mourned her loss. Death comes alike to the lowly dweller in the cottage-home and the n.o.bleman in his mansion, but it seems particularly sad when such people as Grace Darling are stricken down so early in life. But though she so soon left the world which she brightened by her presence, her good deed did not die with her, and its influence remains still. Who can tell how much Grace Darling has had to do with the change which has certainly come over people"s minds with regard to the training and education of girls? It is not now considered a thing to be proud of that a girl should be delicate and useless. Such expressions as "young ladyish" and "missish" have far less meaning now than they used to have; for girls of all cla.s.ses are more sensible, strong, and courageous, than they were at one time. Some heroic actions are performed by young women every day; and it may be they have gained their inspiration from the story of the maiden of the Farne Isles. We cannot but lament her early death; but she, "being dead, yet speaketh;" and her voice, that was so gentle and meek in her lifetime, is heard still in all lands where her name is familiar. And her quiet death-bed was so hallowed a scene, that as we turn from it we cannot but think of the home to which she has gone, where the good and ill.u.s.trious of all ages and all lands have met together. And there may it be the privilege of the writer and readers to greet her when this life is over.
We cannot better close this chapter on the death of the heroine, than by quoting some beautiful lines written by J. E. on the occasion of her death:--
"And art thou gone--the young, the brave!
The heroine of the wreck and storm!
Who manly strength and power gave To woman"s form!
"The toiling mariner to cheer, On Longstone"s height No more the careful hand shall rear The friendly light
"And "mid the shipwreck"s wild alarm, And tempest"s swell, oh! never more, By pity moved, thy st.u.r.dy arm Shall grasp the oar!
"Thou, who the elements defied!
The spoiler--invidious, slow, (He spares not youth, nor wealth nor pride), And laid thee low!
"And he who all thy perils shared, Thine aged sire, of thee bereft, To muse on all thy courage dared, Is lonely left.
"Thus, while though all the wave-washed north Is told to thrilling ears the tale, Each heart is sad, each lyre gives forth A sound of wail.
"Yet trust we to thine anxious eye Did heaven"s own beacon fire appear, To guide thee, "neath the dark"ning sky, Thy course to steer.