AN EARLY DEATH.
"Grieve not that I die young--is it not well
To pass away ere life hath lost its brightness?
Bind me no longer, sisters, with the spell
Of love and your kind words. List ye to me:
Here I am blessed, but I would more be free--
I would go forth in all my spirit's lightness.
Let me depart!
"Ah, who would linger till bright eyes grow dim,
Kind voices mute, and faithful bosoms cold?
Till carking care, and toil, and anguish grim,
Cast their dark shadows o'er this fleeting world,
Till fancy's many-coloured wings are furled,
And all, save the proud spirit, waxeth old!
I would depart!
"Thus would I pass away--yielding my soul
A joyous thank-offering to Him who gave
That soul to be, those starry orbs to roll.
Thus--thus exultingly would I depart,
Song on my lips, ecstasy in my heart.
Sisters--sweet sisters--bear me to my grave;
Let me depart!"--Lady Flora Hastings.
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 circumstances, 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 appetite, 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 principally 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 pass 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 noble and benevolent lady, the Duchess 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 Duchess 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 Duchess 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 Duchess 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 noble friend.
Grace Darling only lived ten days after her removal to Bamborough.
She was nursed with the most assiduous 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 fortitude 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 assuring 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 assurance 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 passed
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
classes 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 nobleman 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 classes 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
illustrious 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 sturdy 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.
"Trust that the Saviour was to thee
The ark upon the 'whelming wave,
The life-boat, 'mid the yawning sea
Of sin to save.
"That now, where joy, and light, and peace,
Are by His living presence poured,
Where storms are o'er and tempests cease,
Thy bark is moored."