The mariner, in pursuit of his daily business, is exposed to dangers innumerable. In mid-ocean, for the most part, he need not fear them particularly, because he has plenty of sea-room in which to navigate his ship, and in case of thick fog he can ease up until this dreaded enemy lifts or disperses. But in crowded coastal waters his position is often precarious, for he may be menaced by lurking shoals or hidden reefs, which betray little or no indication of their whereabouts, and which may be crossed with apparent safety. If the ship blunders on in ignorance, it is brought up with a thud as it buries its nose in the sucking sand, or gives a mighty shiver as it scrapes over the rocky teeth, perhaps to be clasped as in a vice, or to be battered and broken so fearfully that, when at last it tears itself free and slips off into deep water, it can only founder immediately. Here, if fog blots out the scene, the ship is in danger of being lured to certain destruction by currents and other natural forces, since the captain is condemned to a helplessness as complete as of a blind man in a busy street.

It is not surprising, then, that the captain, as he approaches or wanders along a tortuous shoreline, scans the waters eagerly for a glimpse of the guardian monitor, which, as he knows from his reckonings and chart, should come within sight to guide him on his way. The danger-signal may be one of many kinds—a misty, star-like glimmer thrown from a buoy dancing on the waves, the radiant orb from a lightship bobbing up and down and swinging rhythmically to and fro, a fixed flare-light, or dazzling, spoke-like rays revolving across the sky. If sight be impossible owing to fog, he must depend upon his ear for the measured tolling of a bell, the shriek of a whistle, the deep blare of a siren, or the sharp report of an explosive. When he has picked up one or other of these warnings, he feels more at ease, and proceeds upon his way, eyes and ears keenly strained for warning of the next danger ahead.

The lighthouse is the greatest blessing that has been bestowed upon navigation. It renders advance through the waters at night as safe and as simple as in the brilliancy of the midday sun. But for these beacons the safe movement of ships at night or during fog along the crowded steamship highways which surround the serrated shores of the five continents would be impossible. It is only natural, therefore, that the various nations of the world should strenuously endeavour to light their coasts so adequately that the ship may proceed at night as safely and as comfortably as a man may walk down an illuminated city thoroughfare.

Whence came the idea of lighting the coastline with flaring beacons? It is impossible to say. They have been handed down to modern civilization through the mists of time. The first authentic lighthouse was Sigeum, on the Hellespont, which undoubtedly antedates the famous Pharos of Alexandria. The latter was a massive square tower, 400 feet high, and was known as one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It was built about 331 B.C. The warning light was emitted from a huge wood fire, which was kept burning at the summit continuously during the night; the illumination is stated to have been visible for a distance of forty miles, but modern knowledge disputes this range. The precise design of this wonderful tower is unknown, but it must have been a huge structure, inasmuch as it is computed to have cost the equivalent in modern money of over £200,000, or $1,000,000.

For sixteen hundred years it guided the navigators among the waters from which it reared its smoking crest, and then it disappeared. How, no one knows, although it is surmised that it was razed by an earthquake; but, although it was swept from sight, its memory has been preserved, and the French, Italian, and Spanish nations use its name in connection with the lighthouse, which in France is called phare; in the other two countries mentioned, faro.

The Romans in their conquest of Gaul and Britain brought the lighthouse with them, and several remains of their efforts in this direction are to be found in England, notably the pharos at Dover.

In all probability, however, the lighthouse in its most primitive form is at least as old as the earliest books of the Bible. Undoubtedly it sprang from the practice of guiding the incoming boatman to his home by means of a blazing bonfire set up in a conspicuous position near by. Such a guide is a perfectly obvious device, which even to-day is practised by certain savage tribes.

When the Phoenicians traded in tin with the ancient Britons of Cornwall, their boats continually traversed the rough waters washing the western coasts of Spain, where, for the safer passage of their sailors, doubtless, they erected beacons upon prominent headlands. The oldest lighthouse in the world to-day, which in some quarters is held to be of Phoenician origin, is that at Corunna, a few miles north of Cape Finisterre. Other authorities maintain that it was built during the reign of the Roman Emperor Trajan. In 1634 it was reconstructed, and is still in existence.

At the mouth of the Gironde is another highly interesting link with past efforts and triumphs in lighthouse engineering. The Gironde River empties itself into the Bay of Biscay through a wide estuary, in the centre of which is a bunch of rocks offering a terrible menace to vessels. This situation achieved an unenviable reputation in the days when ships first ventured out to sea. Being exposed to the broad Atlantic, it receives the full force of the gales which rage in the Bay of Biscay, and which make of the Gironde River estuary a fearful trap. The trading town of Bordeaux suffered severely from the ill fame attached to the mouth of the waterway upon which it was dependent, for both the sea and the roads exacted a heavy toll among the ships which traded with the famous wine capital of Gascony. How many fine vessels struck the rocks of Cordouan and went to pieces within sight of land, history does not record, but the casualties became so numerous that at last the firms trading with Bordeaux refused to venture into the Gironde unless a light were placed on the reef to guide their captains. Alarmed at the prospect of losing their remunerative traffic, the citizens of Bordeaux built a tower upon the deadly reef, with a beacon which they kept stoked with wood, four men being reserved for its service. In return the authorities exacted a tax from each vessel arriving and leaving the port, in order to defray the expense thus incurred. Probably from this action originated the custom of lighthouse dues.

This bonfire served its purposes until the Black Prince brought Gascony under his power. He demolished the primitive beacon, and erected in its place another tower, 40 feet high, on which the chauffer was placed, a hermit being entrusted with the maintenance of the light at night. Near the lighthouse—if such it can be called—a chapel was built, around which a few fishermen erected their dwellings. When the hermit died, no one offered to take his place. The beacon went untended, the fishermen departed, and the reef once more was allowed to claim its victims from shipping venturing into the estuary.

In 1584 an eminent French architect, Louis de Foix, secured the requisite concession to build a new structure. He evolved the fantastic idea of a single building which should comprise a beacon, a church and a royal residence in one. For nearly twenty-seven years he laboured upon the rock, exposed to the elements, before he (or rather his successor) was able to throw the welcome warning rays from the summit of his creation. This was certainly the most remarkable lighthouse that has ever been set up. It was richly decorated and artistically embellished, and the tower was in reality a series of galleries rising tier upon tier. At the base was a circular stone platform, 134 feet in diameter, flanked by an elegant parapet surrounding the light-keepers’ abode. This lower structure was intended to form a kind of breakwater which should protect the main building from the force of the waves. On the first floor was a magnificent entrance hall, leading to the King’s apartment, a salon finely decorated with pillars and mural sculptures. Above was a beautiful chapel with a lofty roof supported by carved Corinthian columns. Finally came the beacon, which at that date was about 100 feet above the sea-level.

Access to the successive floors was provided by a beautiful spiral staircase, the newels of which were flanked by busts of the two French Kings, Henry III. and Henry IV., and of the designer de Foix. The architect died not long before his work was completed, but the directions he left behind him were so explicit that no difficulty was experienced in consummating his ideas, and the Tour de Cordouan shed its beneficial light for the first time over the waters of the Bay of Biscay in 1611. So strongly was the building founded that it has defied the attacks of Nature to this day, although it did not escape those of the vandals of the French Revolution, who penetrated the tower, where the busts of the two Henrys at once excited their passion. The symbols of monarchy were promptly hurled to the floor, and other damage was inflicted. When order was restored, the busts were replaced, and all the carvings which had suffered mutilation from mob law were restored. At the same time, in accordance with the spirit of progress, the tower was modified to bring it into line with modern lighting principles; it was extended to a height of 197 feet, and was crowned with an up-to-date light, visible twenty-seven miles out to sea. For more than three centuries it has fulfilled its designed purpose, and still ranks as the most magnificent lighthouse that ever has been built. Its cost is not recorded, but it must necessarily have been enormous.

In Great Britain the seafarer’s warning light followed the lines of those in vogue upon the older part of the Continent, consisting chiefly of wood and coal fires mounted on conspicuous lofty points around the coast. These braziers were maintained both by public and by private enterprise. Patents were granted to certain individuals for the upkeep of beacons in England and Scotland, and from time to time the holders of these rights came into conflict with the public authority which was created subsequently for the maintenance of various aids to navigation around the coasts. In England these monopolies were not extinguished until 1836, when the Brethren of Trinity House were empowered, by special Act of Parliament, to purchase the lights which had been provided both by the Crown and by private interests, so as to bring the control under one corporation.

The chauffer, however, was an unsatisfactory as well as an expensive type of beacon. Some of these grates consumed as many as 400 tons of coal per annum—more than a ton of coal per night—in addition to vast quantities of wood. Being completely exposed, they were subject to the caprices of the wind. When a gale blew off the land, the light on the sea side was of great relative brilliancy; but when off the water, the side of the fire facing the sea would be quite black, whereas on the landward side the fire bars were almost melting under the fierce heat generated by the intense draughts. This was the greater drawback, because it was, of course, precisely when the wind was making a lee shore below the beacon that the more brilliant light was required.

When the Pilgrim Fathers made their historic trek to the United States, they took Old World ideas with them. The first light provided on the North American continent was at Point Allerton, the most prominent headland near the entrance to Boston Harbour, where 400 boatloads of stone were devoted to the erection of a tower capped with a large basket of iron in which “fier-bales of pitch and ocum” were burned. This beacon served the purpose of guiding navigators into and out of Boston Harbour for several years.

When, however, the shortcomings of the exposed fire were realized, attempts were made to evolve a lighting system, which does in reality constitute the foundation of modern practice. But the beacon fire held its own for many years after the new principle came into vogue, the last coal fire in England being the Flat Holme Light, in the Bristol Channel, which was not superseded until 1822.

In Scotland the coal fire survived until 1816, one of the most important of these beacons being that on the Isle of May, in the Firth of Forth, which fulfilled its function for 181 years. This was a lofty tower, erected in 1636, on which a primitive type of pulley was installed for the purpose of raising the fuel to the level of the brazier, while three men were deputed to the task of stoking the fire. It was one of the private erections, and the owner of the Isle of May, the Duke of Portland, in return for maintaining the light, was allowed to exact a toll from passing vessels. When the welfare of the Scottish aids to navigation was placed under the control of the Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses, this body, realizing the importance of the position, wished to erect upon the island a commanding lighthouse illuminated with oil lamps; but it was necessary first to buy out the owner’s rights, and an Act of Parliament was passed authorizing this action, together with the purchase of the island and the right to levy tolls, at an expenditure of £60,000, or $300,000. In 1816 the coal fire was finally extinguished.

The English lights are maintained by the Brethren of Trinity House, and their cost is defrayed by passing shipping. This corporation received its first charter during the reign of Henry VIII. Trinity House, as it is called colloquially, also possesses certain powers over the Commissioners of Northern Lights and the Commissioners of Irish Lights, and is itself under the sway, in regard to certain powers, such as the levy of light dues, of the Board of Trade. This system of compelling shipowners to maintain the coast lights is somewhat anomalous; it possesses many drawbacks, and has provoked quaint situations at times. Thus, when the Mohegan and the Paris were wrecked on the Manacles within the space of a few months, the outcry for better lighting of this part of the Devon and Cornish coasts was loud and bitter. The shipowners clamoured for more protection, but at the same time, knowing that they would have to foot the bill, maintained that further lighting was unnecessary.

The British Isles might very well emulate the example of the United States, France, Canada, and other countries, which regard coast lighting as a work of humanity, for the benefit of one and all, and so defray the cost out of the Government revenues. Some years ago, when an International Conference was held to discuss this question, some of the representatives suggested that those nations which give their lighthouse services free to the world should distinguish against British shipping, and levy light-dues upon British ships, with a view to compelling the abolition of the tax upon foreign vessels visiting British ports. Fortunately, the threat was not carried into execution.

The design and construction of lighthouses have developed into a highly specialized branch of engineering. Among the many illustrious names associated with this phase of enterprise—de Foix, Rudyerd, Smeaton, Walker, Douglass, Alexander, and RibiÈre—the Stevenson family stands pre-eminent. Ever since the maintenance of the Scottish coast lights was handed over to the Northern Commissioners, the engineering chair has remained in the hands of this family, the names of whose members are identified with many lights that have become famous throughout the world for their daring nature, design, and construction. Moreover, the family’s contributions to the science of this privileged craft have been of incalculable value. Robert Louis Stevenson has written a fascinating story around their exploits in “A Family of Engineers.”

It was at first intended that the great author himself should follow in the footsteps of his forbears. He completed his apprenticeship at the drawing-table under his father and uncle, and became initiated into the mysteries of the craft. At the outset he apparently had visions of becoming numbered among those of his family who had achieved eminence in lighthouse construction, and he often accompanied his father or uncle on their periodical rounds of inspection. Probably the rough and tumble life in a small tender among the wild seas of Scotland, the excitement of landing upon dangerous rocks, the aspect of loneliness revealed by acquaintance with the keepers, and the following of the growth of a new tower from its foundations, stirred his imagination, so that the dormant literary instinct, which, like that of engineering, he had inherited, became fired. Mathematical formulÆ, figures, and drawings, wrestled for a time with imagination and letters, but the call of the literary heritage proved triumphant, and, unlike his grandfather, who combined literature with lighthouse construction, and who, indeed, was a polished author, as his stirring story of the “Bell Rock Lighthouse” conclusively shows, he finally threw in his lot with letters.

The fact that for more than a century one family has held the exacting position of chief engineer to the Northern Commissioners, and has been responsible for the lights around Scotland’s troublous coasts, is unique in the annals of engineering. Each generation has been identified with some notable enterprise in this field. Thomas Smith, the father-in-law of Robert Stevenson, founded the service, and was the first engineer to the Commissioners. Robert Stevenson assumed his mantle and produced the “Bell Rock.” His son, Alan Stevenson, was the creator of the “Skerryvore.” The next in the chain, David Stevenson, built the “North Unst.” David and Thomas Stevenson, who followed, contributed the “Dhu-Heartach” and the “Chicken Rock” lights; while the present generation, David and Charles, have erected such works as “Rattray Briggs,” “Sule Skerry,” and the Flannen Islands lighthouses. In addition, the latter have developed lighthouse engineering in many novel directions, such as the unattended Otter Rock lightship, the unattended Guernsey lighthouse, and the automatic, acetylene, fog-signal gun, which are described elsewhere in this volume.

Some forty years ago the Stevensons also drew up the scheme and designed the first lighthouses for guarding the coasts of Japan. The essential optical apparatus and other fittings were built and temporarily erected in England, then dismantled and shipped to the East, to be set up in their designed places. The Japanese did not fail to manifest their characteristic trait in connection with lighthouses as with other branches of engineering. The structures produced by the Scottish engineers fulfilled the requirements so perfectly, and were such excellent models, as to be considered a first-class foundation for the Japanese lighthouse service. The native engineers took these lights as their pattern, and, unaided, extended their coast lighting system upon the lines laid down by the Stevensons. Since that date Japan has never gone outside her own borders for assistance in lighthouse engineering.