AUGUST MONK'S PLEASURES.
"There was not on that day a speck to stain
The azure heaven, the blessed sun alone,
In unapproachable divinity,
Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light.
How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky
The billows heave, one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embathed in emerald glory! All the flocks
Of ocean are abroad. Like floating foam
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves.
With long protruding neck the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft; and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart
A summer feeling. Even the insect swarms,
From their dark nooks and coverts, issued forth
To sport through one day of existence more.
The solitary primrose on the bank
Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its brief Autumnal birth. The rocks and shores,
The forest and the everlasting hills,
Smiled in that joyful sunshine; they partook
The universal blessing."--Southey.
Grace expected company!
What that meant to the lonely lighthouse-maiden, those young people who
can meet their friends every evening cannot imagine. They do not like
to be solitary, even for a week, but if, instead, it should be--not a
week, but months and years--then the pining for companionship would
indeed be intense. It has already been mentioned that, on one
occasion, Grace went to the mainland to help some friends with the
ingathering of the harvest. These friends were the Herberts, who lived
near Bamborough, in a pleasant farmstead, and it was them whom she was
expecting.
The joyous excitement of such a remarkable event, as the arrival of
guests, was enough to wake the heroine of the lighthouse early in the
morning. It was the first of August, and the day dawned brightly, the
sun looking like a mass of burnished gold. Grace rose and cast her
eyes anxiously over the sea. It was as calm as a lake, and looked as
if it might be trusted to bring her friends safely to her side. There
was plenty to do that day, for the lighthouse-home was to be set in
order, and everything made to look its best. Grace, therefore, was up
betimes, and busily at work in the rooms. But ever and anon she turned
her beautiful hazel eyes to the opposite shore, searching for an object
to appear like a speck upon the waters. Presently she saw what she
looked for, and her heart leaped for joy.
"Mother, mother, they are coming!"
"They cannot be here yet, though," said Mrs. Darling, who saw how far
away they were still.
"They will come rapidly, I know; for they are as anxious to be here as
I am to see them," said Grace.
Presently they had come over the glittering sea, and were near the
island. Handkerchiefs were waved then, and Grace went down to the
beach to greet them as they arrived.
They were her friends, Ellen and Mary Herbert, and their brothers,
Henry and George.
Grace had a warm welcome for the girls, and to the young men she held
her outstretched hand.
"Now, Grace," said George, laughingly, "why are you so partial? I have
as much right to a welcome as my sisters have," and with that he
stooped to kiss her.
"Now, George, I am afraid you have not improved."
"No, indeed; why should I! I have been good enough always. You are
not offended with me, are you, Grace?"
"With you? No, indeed! Whoever thought enough of George Herbert to be
offended with him!"
"Grace, you are incorrigible; and very much too hard on a poor fellow,
who has not the courage to take his own part."
Grace turned from the good-humoured and merry banter of the young man
to his more serious elder brother, who stood by his side, waiting for
her greeting. She held out her hand to him, and he took it, bowing
respectfully, but holding it warmly in a clasp that brought a deepened
colour to the cheeks of the lighthouse-girl.
"Come into the house; father and mother are waiting for you. Is not
the morning lovely? I am so glad it is. I assure you I have been
watching the weather most anxiously," said Grace.
"So have we. But it is a lovely August, and Grace, you must make up
your mind to return with us. We do not intend to go home without you.
So you had better promise at once, unless you wish us to become
residents of the lighthouse."
"But I should rather like you to reside here," said Grace; "what a nice
party we should make."
Mr. and Mrs. Darling received the young folks most kindly, giving them
a hearty welcome, and expressing a hope that they would stay as long as
possible, and have a good time.
"We shall," said Mary Herbert. "We are always happy in the Longstone
lighthouse."
The father of the Herberts was Mr. Darling's friend, so that the
children did but cement the friendship which the elders entertained for
each other. The Misses Herbert were Grace's nearest and dearest
friends, and the young people came oftener perhaps than any others to
spend a few days on the island.
They had not been long in the house before Mr. Darling made a
suggestion, which delighted them.
"To-morrow," said he, "I have a leisure day; and I should like to join
you in an excursion. What do you say to going over to Lindisfarne?"
"I say, let us go by all means," said Mary. "If the day is as lovely
as this has been, it will be a splendid opportunity for a pic-nic. Do
you not all think so?"
"I do," said George; "and let us be up early, so as to have a long day.
When I go to visit ruins, I do not like to be hurried.
"You will not have to wait for the girls," said Mrs. Darling. "Grace
is an early riser."
"It is well to rise early, but that is not better than to spend the day
well. I knew a man who was fond of praising himself, and blaming
others. When he rose betimes he used to rebuke us with the words--'It
is the early bird that picks up the worm;' but when he had laid longer
than he intended, he excused himself by saying, 'It is not altogether
the early rising, but the well spending of the day, that is of the
highest importance.' Whatever he did was right in his own eyes."
"But we will do both on our holiday," said Henry; "we will rise early,
and also spend the day well."
The weather on the following morning was all that could be desired.
The young people were animated and merry, and there was nothing to
bring a cloud over the day. They were soon among the romantic ruins on
the Holy Island, having had a most enjoyable sail across the blue water.
"I think I should never tire of visiting these old places," said Henry
Herbert. "They are so venerable, and therefore dear to me. Do you
like them, Grace?"
"Yes, they are sombre and melancholy, but, to my mind, it is much more
interesting to live amongst them than in new places. One cannot help
thinking of the past, and the strange scenes that were enacted in it."
"Do you understand much about ancient architecture?"
"No, I know almost nothing of it."
"I have always been fond of it, and I think I can give you some
explanation of these walls and relics."
"I shall be glad if you will," said Grace, whom nothing could delight
more than the acquirement of fresh knowledge.
She spent a very pleasant time listening to the young man while he
described the different characteristics of the antiquities that were
before them.
"We had better seek the others," said Grace presently; "they will be
wondering what has become of us."
At that moment, looking up, they saw that a stranger was passing the
archway.
Excursionists were not so many in those days as they are In these, and
Grace was surprised. Henry Herbert, however, looking intently at the
new comer, said to his companion, "I believe it is an old school-fellow
of ours, who is now studying in the University of Durham. Yes, indeed,
it is he!"
The young men greeted each other with evident satisfaction, and the
stranger was soon introduced to the others. He was quite an
acquisition to the party, whom he was only too glad to join, as he was
taking his holiday alone. They were all sorry when the pleasant day at
Lindisfarne was over, and it was time to return to the Longstone
lighthouse, where, however, an evening spent in the genial society of
each other fitly closed the delightful day.
The next morning all rose early; and so soon as breakfast was
concluded, they were eager to be afloat on the blue sea.
"George and I will each take an oar," said Henry, "and our friend will
attend the ladies."
"With pleasure," replied the student, as he took his seat.
"Tell us about your foreign travels, and give us a description of the
places you have visited," said Mary.
"Yes, please do," added Grace, eagerly; "that will make the time pass
pleasantly indeed."
"What will you hear about--France and Paris, or Italy and Rome? Shall
I describe to you my journey over the mountains, or my voyage up the
Rhine?"
"Tell us anything and everything you can remember,"
"That will be said more easily than done; but I will try to tell you a
few of my experiences."
Soon the pleasant sound of merry laughter floated over the sunny water,
for the student was a good talker, and he gave most lively descriptions
of people and places. He talked about gay Paris, until the girls
wanted to go there; and of beautiful Italy and Switzerland, until their
faces glowed, and their pulses beat more quickly. He told of the
fortresses on the Rhine, of the pleasant holiday resorts, whose names
are even more familiar to us than they were to his listeners, and for a
time they almost fancied themselves sailing on other than British seas,
and about to visit places which, in reality, their feet might never
tread.
They were not sorry, however, to come back to Northumbria, and the
resorts to which they were really going.
"Our destination is Warkworth, is it not?" asked Mary, after a time,
during which the student's narrative had not been interrupted.
"Yes, we are about to enter the Coquet now."
"Where does the Coquet rise?"
"In the Cheviot hills; and it flows for forty miles through well-wooded
scenery, which is called Coquetdale, and then falls into the German
Ocean, below Alnwick Bay."
"You must have been studying a gazetteer lately."
"I have been; and can tell you something more of the Coquet which is
interesting."
"Pray, do so."
"I know a little about it. It is famous for its salmon and trout, for
which it is greatly esteemed by anglers," said one.
"Among the pebbles which it washes up, cornelians, agates, and mountain
crystals, are sometimes found," said another.
"I wonder if we shall be fortunate enough to discover any of these
treasures!"
"I do not care to look for them; for when there are old castles to be
visited, I think a few little pebbles need not expect to be noticed."
Presently they came to the bottom of the hill on which the famous
fortress of Warkworth formerly stood, and there, at the landing-place,
they fastened the boat. The hill was steep, but the young people
enjoyed the fun of climbing it all the more for that; when they reached
the top, they were well repaid for their trouble.
"What a magnificent view!" exclaimed the student.
"Do you say so," cried Grace, "who have seen the beautiful spots in so
many countries? I am myself very proud of our Northumberland, but that
you should show any delight, is almost a surprise to me."
"Nay, why should it be? 'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;' but the
joy is still greater when the beautiful objects are our own."
"What splendid old ruins they are!" exclaimed Ellen.
"Yes," said George; "although the keep remains, all the rest being in
ruins, it has a most imposing appearance."
"How grand it must have been before its glory passed away!"
"Yes, it must indeed! Even now it is not so gloomy as many ruins are."
"Perhaps that is because the stones keep their natural colour."
"To whom does it belong?"
"To the Percy family. We shall find their arms on several parts of the
'keep.'"
"That must have been restored, since it alone remains."
"Yes, it has been; and, indeed, it was well worthy of preservation."
"We must visit the tower, the chapel, and the baronial hall, each of
which will reward inspection."
They looked at each in turn, and their admiration expressed itself in
appreciative words. It would not have been satisfactory had they not
visited also some of the subterranean cells.
"You must come and see the donjon keep, girls," said George.
But the girls could not repress a shudder, as they did so, for their
sympathetic spirits felt for the poor prisoners who ages ago had been
incarcerated in the terrible dungeon.
"You see it has no means of admission," explained the student, "but by
a very narrow aperture; so that the prisoners had to be lowered into it
by ropes."
"And how could they ever get back again when their term of imprisonment
was over?"
"I am afraid few, if any, ever did come back again."
"How glad we ought to be that we live in times that are so very
different."
"Indeed, we ought. It seems as if it can scarcely be the same world
when we contrast the past with the present," said Grace.
They examined the castle very carefully, and then went to the
hermitage. To reach this they had to cross the river, as it is on the
opposite side.
There were wonders to delight them all; for the hermitage includes a
room and chapel, cut in the solid rock. It contains the effigies of a
lady and a hermit. It has been immortalised by Dr. Percy's beautiful
ballad--
"Dark was the night, and wild the storm,
And loud the torrent's roar,
And loud the sea was heard to dash
Against the distant shore."
"How are we to get to the hermitage?" inquired the student.
"We have to walk along this narrow footpath, close to the river."
"It is quite a romantic path."
Indeed it was; for on one side were high perpendicular rocks, on the
top of which was a grove of oaks, and on the other side the pretty
river.
"These oaks are very valuable, not only because of the beauty they lend
to the scene, but also because they make a shelter from the sun."
"Yes, and from the wind too, in winter."
"Do you not feel as if you are treading on hallowed ground, Grace? I
experience emotions among ruins felt nowhere else."
Both she and Henry Herbert felt a delight in being there, and the
former especially tried to people the scene as it was of old, and
realise the days of the far-away time which it represented.
"There is a spring issuing from a rock, and the water is cool and most
delicious. Try it for yourselves."
They found it very refreshing; and having drunk some, they entered the
chapel. It is very beautiful, decorated like a cathedral, and almost
perfect.
"Each proper ornament was there
That should a chapel grace,
The lattice for confession framed,
And holy water vase."
"Is it not a wonderful place?" exclaimed the girls; "it is all in good
condition--the altar is quite entire."
"And so is the monument to Isabel Widdrington."
It was with difficulty that they could bring themselves to leave a
place so interesting on account of its hallowed associations; but as
they wished also to visit Dunstanborough, they could not delay their
departure.
Dunstanborough Castle stands upon a bold basaltic rock, and is thirty
feet above the sea-level It is supposed to have been built by the
Lancaster family, in the year 1315, and the Yorkists destroyed it after
the battle of Hexham. It has never been rebuilt, and nothing is left
of it but its outer walls.
"It looks a very melancholy place," was the opinion expressed by the
holiday folks, "and very fierce and warlike."
"Perhaps that is partly because of the black frowning rock on which it
stands," suggested one.
"How very rugged the shore is; and what a quantity of sea-weed," said
Ellen Herbert; and, indeed, it was not easy to move over the broken
cliffs, since the accumulation of wrack made it dangerous.
"We must go and see the Rumble Churn," said one, who knew what a treat
it would be to those who had never seen it.
"It is an immense chasm, four hundred feet in length and fifty in
depth," continued the informant.
They regarded it with awe and wonder. The sea came rushing in with a
tremendous roar, bursting and boiling into foam, and seeming as if it
would leap over the tower, and submerge the hill altogether. It has
been said of it--"The breaking of the waves into foam over the extreme
points of the rocks, the heavy spray, the noise of the disturbed
waters, and the foam whose echo returns through the towers, are most
awful and sublime."
Of course, such ruins as those of Northumbria could not exist without
having many interesting legends attached to them; and with one of these
the student was acquainted, and this he resolved to narrate to the
party.
When the young people had been sufficiently awed by looking into Rumble
Churn, it was time for them to partake of refreshment and rest.
"Shall I tell you the legend of the Wandering Knight of Dunstanborough
Castle?" then asked the student, to which inquiry a chorus of eager
voices responded in the affirmative--the girls declaring that to hear
it there, among the very ruins, would be most delightful.
"In ages gone by," then began the young man, "a Red Cross Knight,
returning from the holy land, sought shelter from the storm beneath the
ruined archway of the castle--
"A braver knight ne'er trod afar
The hallowed fields of Salem's war."
Suddenly there fell upon his ear the tolling of a convent bell; and
scarcely had the sound died away, ere a long loud shriek proceeded from
the ponderous walls of the castle. The startled knight grasped his
ready sword--the gates flew open, and a light appeared from a lamp held
by a shadowy hand. A hollow voice addressed the awe-struck knight,
conjuring him, if his heart were inaccessible to fear, and if unmoved
he could look upon danger's wildest form, to follow; for within the
desolated castle a lovely maid was spell-bound, and his might be the
power to break the enchantment which bound her there.
"Lead on," the gallant knight replied. Preceded by the magic lamp, the
knight passed through the silent court, the chapel, and at last the
vaults where reposed the ashes of the departed dead. They entered a
magnificent hall, lighted with bright burning lamps, outvieing in
number the stars of heaven. A hundred columns descended from the lofty
roof, and to each of these was tied a bronze charger, mounted by a
marble warrior, fully armed. In the centre of the apartment was a
mystical altar, composed of emeralds, and inlaid with diamonds, and
upon this stood a crystal globe, encircled with a wreath of coral.
Kneeling within the circle was a youthful maiden, surpassing in
loveliness the brightest imagery of Eastern poets.
"Long gazed the knight on this captive bright,
And thus at length began--
'O, Lady, I'll dare for thee whatever
May be done by mortal hand!'"
Not a word in reply proceeded from the lips of the beauteous lady. At
length the hollow tone of the awe-inspiring guide broke upon the
death-like stillness, revealing that the lady should not be freed from
the spell that bound her till some daring hand should unsheathe the
magic sword, or blow the mystic horn worn by a giant warrior, who kept
guard by the magic vase. If the Red Cross Knight would attempt the
deed, the choice of drawing the sword, or blasting the horn; was left
to himself; but on whichever he decided, on no account must he cast it
from him, or a dark and fearful doom would be his fate.
"After a momentary hesitation, the knight drew from its scabbard the
ponderous sword; but scarcely had he done so than upsprung the giant of
marble, and blew a blast so loud and fearful as to awaken a thousand
echoes. With a deafening noise each sable charger pawed the pavement,
and the riders, unsheathing their glittering brands, rushed on to
attack the single warrior, who, with shuddering horror, beheld the
magic sword had become a living serpent. Forgetful of his guide's
commands, he flung it from him, and drew forth his own well-tried
blade. In a moment the lights faded into total darkness, and the
haunted hall became as silent as a grave. A groan of anguish first
broke upon the stillness, and next a voice of anger, in hollow murmurs,
spoke--
"'Devoted wretch! whose coward hand
Forsook the consecrated brand,
When one bold thrust, or fearful stroke,
At once the powerful spell had broke,
And silently dissolved in air
The mock array of warriors there--
Now take thy doom, and rue the hour
Thou look'dst on Dunstanborough tower!
Be thine the canker of the soul,
That life yields nothing to control!
Be thine the mildew of the heart,
That death alone can bid depart!
And death--thine only refuge--be
From age to age forbidden thee!'"
"A blow from the giant then stretched the pale warrior senseless upon
the marble floor. In that deep trance he remained till the dawn of
morning; and when he awoke, all the pageantry of the previous evening
was gone, and he lay beneath the ruined portal--himself arrayed in
wretched weeds, and his gallant courser, which had borne him unharmed
amid the din of battle, gone. Centuries have passed by, yet still the
wandering knight lingers amid the desolate towers of Dunstanborough,
vainly attempting to gain an entrance to the enchanted hall."
They all thanked the student, as they rose to leave, and one of the
girls remarked that she wished she could see the wandering knight.
It was now time to return home, and they all walked down to the boat,
the student keeping by the side of Grace, and enjoying an earnest
conversation, which left pleasant memories on the minds of both to
recall and dwell upon in after-days. Neither did they soon forget the
sail over the water. The moon was shining brightly, and threw its path
of light across the rippling sea. There was no fun, and but little
conversation, for all were tired; but there was not one of them but
would be the better for the peaceful hours thus spent.
The next day the Herberts went home; but the holidays and pleasant
social intercourse did not even then come to an end.
"You know you are to return with us, Grace," said Miss Herbert.
"I should like to do so, for some reasons very much, but"--
"But what!"
"I do not care to leave home, and be away from my father and mother,"
said Grace.
"Now, Grace, you must not be foolish. You will appreciate your home
all the more for having been absent from it for a time," said Miss
Herbert.
"And a change will be good for you," urged her sister.
"Besides, you can help us very much with the harvest again this year.
We shall begin to-morrow," said George.
Grace hesitated; and it was not until her parents, though admitting
that they would miss her very much, and that the lighthouse would be
most lonely when she had gone, yet pressed her to go for a few days,
that she consented.
She found the "adieus" very difficult to utter, when she went away, for
she was a home-loving girl.
"You will be sure to send for me, mother dear, if you should
particularly want me," she said.
"Yes, Grace, you may be sure of our doing so."
"When the last moment really came, she was even then half inclined to
go back to the lighthouse instead of into the boat, which was waiting
for her, though she knew that she would greatly enjoy the visit.
"You will have to put Grace into the boat yourself, Mr. Darling," said
Mary. "Here is room for her beside me."
Mr. Darling took the hint, and lifted his daughter in his arms and
seated her by the side of Miss Herbert; and the next moment the boat
was dancing merrily over the waves.
The warm welcome which our heroine received from Mr. and Mrs. Herbert,
showed that they cherished a kindly affection for her. She was made to
feel indeed how glad they were to receive her as their guest, by the
care which they exhibited to make her thoroughly happy and comfortable,
In this they were seconded by all the members of their family, among
whom the gentle lighthouse-maiden was a decided favourite.
"You have come from play to work, Grace," they said, "for we shall
begin harvest operations to-morrow."
But Grace replied that such work would be as good as play to her. At
least they would be carrying on the pleasures which they had begun on
the Farne Islands, and in the neighbourhood; for if they could not take
excursions, they would all be together, and their work at any rate
would be done merrily enough. There was one missing, however; for, on
the night of their arrival at Mr. Herbert's, the young student left
them for the Highlands of Scotland, where he intended to spend part of
his vacation. Grace did not forget him, for he was one of whom she
often spoke pleasantly as long as she lived; and such a holiday as they
had spent together, though short, had been very delightful, and would
be sure to be remembered by one whose life was on the whole very
uneventful, until the great event occurred.
The harvest fields of the Herberts presented a most lively appearance;
for a large number of country girls, and active young men, were engaged
in them. They reaped the fields in those days with the sickle; and had
not come to our own times, when the work is mostly done by a machine,
and all the music, poetry, and pleasure, seem to have gone out of the
operation. Harvest-time used to be of all the year the most merry and
joyous. Masters and men were then on the best of terms, and worked
together in harmony. Friendship seems too often quite left out of the
contract now, when people do their work by steam, and have not time, as
they seem to think, to cultivate good fellowship.
In Grace Darling's time, as we have said, there were merry days in the
harvest-field, and she herself very gladly helped. Indeed, all hands
had to assist, and it was only by so doing that the harvest could be
gathered in time. But the reaping, and binding into sheaves, and
carrying home, as well as the gleaning, were done with so much
merriment that it was like a pic-nic out of doors. Good bread and
cheese, and brown ale, would be served to the labourers, and they would
see by many signs that their employers felt a kindly sympathy with
them, as well as a personal, and not altogether disinterested
solicitude in their work.
And so the good harvest was gathered in, and then, when the last sheaf
was set up, and the laden waggon went slowly away from the bare fields,
the harvest-home was celebrated.
Who that has lived a country life for many years, does not remember
with pleasure those merry feasts? The Herberts had one of the best,
and really old-fashioned kind. Everybody was invited, and nobody
thought of declining that invitation. Master and men met together as
equals, and the tables were heaped with good cheer. No slow and solemn
feasts were those of the harvest homes. Laughter, loud and long, was
heard continually, and the hilarity became somewhat tumultuous as the
evening advanced. Mr. Herbert's granary was taken possession of, and
the party adjourned there for a dance. The two best fiddlers of the
neighbourhood were engaged for the occasion, and they struck up a
lively reel The young people were quite ready for a good country dance,
and they indulged in it to their heart's content. Dance succeeded
dance, until it was wonderful that they could longer continue, even at
that pleasant pastime. But had they grown tired a new impetus would
have been given to the festivities by the appearance of Mrs. Herbert,
with her daughters and Grace. At the moment when they entered, George
was leading to her seat a pretty rosy-cheeked girl, with whom he had
been dancing, but, on seeing the lighthouse-maiden, he went immediately
to her side, and solicited her to become his partner for the rest of
the evening. After that the villagers began again, and kept up the
mirth until late at night, when they returned to their homes much
gratified with their pleasant entertainment.
Every girl has a romance, and Grace had her's. The attentions of
George Herbert had been those of a brother, but during this visit they
partook of a warmer character. He lingered by her side, occasionally
pressing her hand with a warmth that brought the blood to her cheeks,
and made her turn away from his glances. She understood what was
meant; and it is almost certain that her heart was in a measure touched
by that which she saw in him. But she did not mean to yield. She
loved her home and her parents; and knowing what she was to them, she
resolved not to encourage the attentions of any lover. George Herbert
was generous and kind--too generous and kind for her to wish to give
him pain, and she therefore contrived, as most women can, and all
gentle and modest women will, if possible, under such circumstances, to
prevent him from acknowledging his love. She must have refused him had
he made a declaration; but he was her friend, and she did not wish to
wound him. She therefore showed unmistakably that his feeling for her
was not returned, and the young man was not slow to take the hint.
At length the holiday was over, and the time came for Grace to return
home. She knew that her father would bring the boat over for her, and
she therefore went down to the shore to meet him. When she saw him
tears of joy came into her eyes; and as soon as he stepped on the
beach, she clung to him with fondest emotion.
"Are you ready to come home, Grace?" he asked.
"Yes, father, quite ready. I have had a very happy time, but there is
no place like home. How is mother, and has the time seemed long to her
as to me?"
"She is well, but is wishing for your return. Are Mr. and Mrs. Herbert
at home?"
"Yes, and they are both waiting to receive you. Come with me."
He went, leaning on his daughter's arm, and feeling the exquisite
pleasure of a parent whose children are lovely and good, and loving and
beloved. When he reached the house, he was most warmly welcomed by the
Herberts, who told him, however, that they did not like to spare Grace
so soon; but as her father had the greatest right to her, they supposed
they must submit.
"Come and look at my stacks, Darling," said Mr. Herbert; and the two
men had a walk together. The lighthouse-keeper greatly enjoyed an
opportunity of holding intercourse with his fellow men, and was not
sorry to have this errand. George was busy preparing his fowling-piece
for the next day, for it was the 12th of August, and he was much
gratified at Mr. Darling's admiration of his spaniels, two beautiful
creatures, that fawned about their master, and showed their attachment
to him by caresses. George was unusually gay--too gay, indeed, to be
quite natural and Grace sighed, as she saw him.
"There is nothing like shooting," he said; "I shall have some most
happy hours on the moors with my gun and dog. There is nothing like a
free unfettered life, such as the sportsman loves. I delight in it,
and would exchange it for no other.
"He is not in the least distressed at my going away," thought Grace;
"and yet he seemed to care for me. If he did, his love is not worth
having; for if he were sincere and faithful, he could not so soon cast
me off. I am glad I do not care for him, if such is his character."
But Grace sighed as she said it, even to herself. In thus judging,
however, she did him great injustice; for a closer observer might have
seen that his spirits were forced, and his gaiety assumed. He did
feel, and most acutely; but he was a manly young fellow, and did not
intend his heart to be broken by any girl. Therefore, not seeing that
his affections were reciprocated, he determined, with a decision of
character that was peculiar to him, to overcome the feelings that could
only be productive of pain. He was resolved, too, that he would
conceal from her the fact that he was affected by her indifference. He
could not quite do as he wished, however, for he was too honest to be a
good dissembler, and his voice faltered, and his hand trembled, as he
uttered a hurried good-bye. His emotions imparted the most painful
regret to Grace, whose eyes filled with tears when she turned to bid
farewell to the rest. They--Ellen, Mary, and Henry, went down to the
water, and there affectionately parted from their friend. Long after
the boat had left the shore, she saw them watching its progress over
the waves. But though she looked eagerly for George, she could not see
him. Immediately after uttering his adieus he hastily disappeared; and
though she would like to have had one more look, it was not to be.
That Grace was disappointed was evident from the deep sigh that escaped
her; but like a sensible girl, she turned her thoughts away from this
painful subject to the home-love that was waiting for her.
"I think, father," said she, "that our home on the Longstone rock, is
the very best and loveliest that any one could have; and that I should
be quite content to stay in it always."
"I am glad you feel so, Grace, for we do not want to lose you," said
her father, fondly.
Assuredly that bright little island, which lay like a gem in the midst
of the sunny ocean, was an object which was calculated to awaken
admiration in a less partial and enthusiastic mind than that of Grace
Darling. The laughing waves were flowing with a soft and tranquil
motion, and gently laving the pebbly shore. Sea-birds were skimming
the waves, their graceful plumage gilded by the setting sun, and ever
and anon darting beneath the waters. The sky was serene and beautiful,
tinged with the rich and glorious hues of a summer's evening; and the
orb of light was retiring to rest, reflecting a bright and splendid
halo around him.
The feelings of Grace became so animated and joyous as she neared home,
that it was with difficulty that she could keep her seat. When at last
she reached the shore, she bounded up the ragged pathway with a light
step, and was soon within the well-known walls. She had never before
thought her home looked so bright and cheerful; so true is it that
there is a charm about the place where we dwell with our own kindred,
however humble, which is never experienced anywhere else, even among
the most beautiful and picturesque scenery.
"There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief.
"Then dost thou sigh for pleasure?
Oh do not wildly roam;
But seek that hidden treasure
At home--dear home!"
It is a great safeguard to girls to love their homes. If they find
their highest delight in contributing to the pleasure of brothers and
sisters, and the comfort of those who have tended their infant years,
it is a good sign. But those maidens who are impatient of the family
restraints, and who cannot be happy unless they are enjoying the
excitements of society, are in danger of losing the winning graces of
true womanhood. It is at home that there is opportunity for the
display of all that is sweet and good in the female life and character;
and it is there that true goodness shines the most brightly. Let
English girls remain attached to their own home-circles, and deserve
such praise as the wise man gives to the excellent woman--"Many
daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all."