Produced by Clare Boothby, Jim Wiborg and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
On the stern, pine-clad southern coast of Norway, off thepicturesquely-situated town of Arendal, stand planted far out into thesea the white walls of the Great and Little Torungen Lighthouses, eachon its bare rock-island of corresponding name, the lesser of whichseems, as you sail past, to have only just room for the lighthouse andthe attendant's residence by the side. It is a wild and lonelysituation,—the spray, in stormy weather, driving in sheets against thewalls, and eagles and sea-birds not unfrequently dashing themselves todeath against the thick glass panes at night; while in winter allcommunication with the land is very often cut off, either by drift orpatchy ice, which is impassable either on foot or by boat.
These, however, and others of the now numerous lights along thatdangerous coast, are of comparatively recent erection. Many persons nowliving can remember the time when for long reaches the only lighting wasthe gleam of the white breakers themselves. And the captain who hadpassed the Oxö light off Christiansand might think himself lucky if hesighted the distant Jomfruland up by Kragerö.
About a score of years before the lighthouse was placed on LittleTorungen there was, however, already a house there, if it could bedignified by that name, with its back and one side almost up to the eaveof the roof stuck into a heap of stones, so that it had the appearanceof bending forward to let the storm sweep over it. The low entrance-dooropened to the land, and two small windows looked out upon the sea, andupon the boat, which was usually drawn up in a cleft above the sea-weedoutside.
When you entered, or, more properly speaking, descended into it, therewas more room than might have been expected; and it contained sundryarticles of furniture, such as a handsome press and sideboard, which noone would have dreamt of finding under such a roof. In one corner therestood an old spinning-wheel covered with dust, and with a smoke-blackenedtuft of wool still hanging from its reel; from which, and from othersmall indications, it might be surmised that there had once been a womanin the house, and that tuft of wool had probably been her last spin.
There sat now on the bench by the hearth a lonely old man, of aflint-hard and somewhat gloomy countenance, with a mass of white hairfalling over his ears and neck, who was generally occupied with somecobbling work, and who from time to time, as he drew out the thread,would make some remark aloud, as if he thought he still had the partnerof his life for audience. The look askance over his brass spectacleswith which he greeted any casual stranger who might come into the househad very little welcome in it, and an expression about his sunken mouthand sharp chin said plainly enough that the other might state hisbusiness at once and be gone. He sought no company; and the only time hehad ever been seen at church was when he came rowing over to Tromö withhis wife's body in her coffin. When the pastor sprinkled earth upon it,it was observed that the tears streamed down his cheeks, and it was longafter dark before he quitted the churchyard to