The captain of the lordly liner, as he swings down Channel or approaches the English coast from the broad Atlantic, maintains a vigilant watch until the light or the slender proportions of the lonely outpost rising apparently from the ocean’s depths off the south-west corner of the Scilly Islands, become visible. This is the Bishop Rock, the western sentinel of the English Channel, mounting guard over as wicked a stretch of sea as may be found anywhere between the two Poles, where the maritime traffic is densest and where wrecks, unfortunately, are only too frequent; for the toll levied by the sea off the Cornish coast is fearful.

Among these islands was planted one of the first beacons erected off the British coasts. At the outset it was merely a wood bonfire, then a brazier, and finally a lighthouse, which crowned St. Agnes’s height, to guide the mariner on his way. But to-day the St. Agnes light is no more than a memory. Two or three years ago the keepers quenched the light in the misty grey of the dawn for the last time. The vigil which had been maintained over shipping uninterruptedly through some 230 years was ended. On a neighbouring point a superior modern light had been planted which took up the sacred duty. Although established in 1680, the St. Agnes was not the oldest light in England. This distinction belongs to the North Foreland light on the East Kentish coast, which was set going as far back as 1636. This warning was shed from a tower of timber, lath, and plaster, built by Sir John Meldrum, but it fell a victim to fire forty-seven years later. The light was reconstructed promptly, and to-day throws a red and white gleam of 35,000 candle-power, which may be picked up twenty miles away.

The south-western extremity of England, however, is far more to be dreaded than the south-eastern. Here Nature mixed land and water in an inextricable maze during her moulding process. Deep, tortuous, wide channels separate rugged granite islets, while long, ugly ridges creep stealthily out to sea beneath the pall of water, ready to trap the unsuspecting vessel which ventures too closely. If one were to take a map of this part of the country, were to dig one leg of a compass into the Lizard Head, stretching the other so as to reach the Eddystone light, and then were to describe a circle, the enclosed space would contain more famous sea-rock lights than a similar area on any other part of the globe. Within its circumference there would be the Eddystone, Bishop Rock, Wolf, and Longships, each of which lifts its cupola above a wave-swept ledge of rocks.

The need for an adequate indication of the Scillies was felt long before the Eddystone gained its ill fame. These scattered masses of granite, numbering about 140 in all, break up the expanse of the Atlantic about twenty miles south-west of the Cornish mainland. Now, the maritime traffic flowing in and out of the English Channel is divided into two broad classes—the coastal and the oversea trade respectively. The former is able to creep through the dangerous channel separating the Scillies from the mainland, but the latter has to make a dÉtour to the south. One fringe of the broken cluster is as dangerous as the other, so that both streams of trade demand protection.

On the south side the knots dot the sea in all directions. They are mere black specks, many only revealing themselves at lowest tides; others do not betray their existence even then. The outermost ledge is the Bishop Rock, where disasters have been fearful and numerous. One of the most terrible catastrophes on record happened here, when three vessels of Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s fleet went to pieces in the year 1707, and dragged 2,000 men down with them, including the Admiral himself. In more recent times, some two or three years ago, the Atlantic transport liner Minnehaha dragged her lumbering body over the selfsame attenuated rampart, and was badly damaged before she could be rescued. As may be supposed, in days gone by the awful character of the coast brought prosperity to the inhabitants of Cornwall, who reaped rich harvests from the inhuman practice of wrecking, in which horrible work the Scilly Islanders were easily pre-eminent and more successful, since they held the outer lines upon which the majority of ships came to grief.

In the forties of last century it was decided that this graveyard should be marked, but there was one great difficulty. This was the exposure of the low-lying rock to some 4,000 miles of open Atlantic, where the rollers rise and fall with a force that turns the waters for miles around into a seething maelstrom of foam and surf. The aspect presented at this spot during a stiff south-westerly or westerly gale is terrifying in the extreme, and it is not surprising that approaching vessels stand so far off that the tower is often barely discernible against the background of cloud and banks of mist caused by the spray hurled into the air from the breakers smashing on the rocks.

When it was proposed to build a lighthouse upon a crag in the heart of this vortex, many people who knew the neighbourhood shook their heads doubtfully. The ledge was so small, the force of the elements so powerful, that it appeared to be tempting Fate unduly to attempt the erection of a slim stalk of stonework thereon. Some records of the wind pressure exerted during the heaviest tempests were taken, and they showed that the pressure of the wind at times exceeded 7,000 pounds per square foot. It was decided to provide a structure which should offer the minimum of resistance to the waves. This assumed the form of the iron screw-pile tower so common in American waters. The legs were cast-iron tubes sunk into the solid granite, braced and stayed by means of wrought-iron rods. The engineers maintained that the waves would be able to roll unrestrainedly among the piles, instead of being obstructed, so that the skeleton building would escape the heavy buffetings which solid masonry would experience. But engineering science proved woefully frail when pitted against the unharnessed forces of Nature. A heavy gale sprang up one night; the waves rose and fell upon the stilts, broke them up like reeds, and carried away the whole of the superstructure. The following low-tide revealed only a few short lengths of broken and bent tubes, around which the waves bubbled and hissed as if in triumph at their victory. Thus ended the first attempt to provide the Bishop Rock with a lighthouse.

The engineer, though defeated, was not dismayed. As a skeleton structure was impotent, he would erect a massive masonry tower which not all the force of the waves could avail to demolish. Although the reef is about 150 feet in length by 52 feet in width, the engineer, James Walker, was not afforded much space upon which to place his creation. He reconnoitred the ridge, and finally chose a small lump just sufficiently large upon which to effect a foothold. The Smeaton type of tower was his model, and the surface of the rock was trimmed to receive the first blocks. This was the greatest difficulty. Unless the sea were as smooth as a millpond, he was helpless, as the lowest blocks had to be laid a foot beneath low-water mark. A heavy cofferdam was erected around the site, and the water within was pumped out, so that the masons might be able to toil upon a dry rock-face.

The exposed, isolated character of the spot rendered the housing of the workmen a problem in itself. They could not be accommodated on the site; a temporary dwelling on piles for their accommodation could not be established, as it would come down with the first gale, and housing on a tender was equally impracticable. There was a small uninhabited islet within convenient distance of the reef, and on this the living-quarters and workshops were erected, the men being transported to and fro whenever the conditions were suitable. Traces of this bygone industrial activity still remain on the island, but the sea-fowl have once more claimed it exclusively as their home. The working spells were brief, as well as being somewhat few and far between, while the base was being prepared. The granite was brought to the island depot, fashioned into shape, and then sent to the Bishop for erection. Granite was used exclusively, and in 1878, after seven years’ arduous labour, the tower, 120 feet in height, capped by a powerful light, was completed: the dreaded Bishop Rock was conquered at last.

When it was first commissioned, four men were deputed to watch this light, three being on the rock, and the fourth man on leave at St. Mary’s. The duty was for three months continuous, one man being relieved every month if possible; but, as a matter of fact, the spell on the rock often was increased, owing to the weather rendering it impossible to exchange the men. The character of their duty, under the terrible assaults of the sea, played havoc with the constitutions and nerves of the lighthouse-keepers. They became taciturn, and inevitably fell victims to neurasthenia, owing to their long periods of isolation. Accordingly the authorities gradually relaxed the spell of duty, until now it comprises a month on the rock, followed by a fortnight ashore, while six men, instead of four, are appointed to the station. The Bishop light demands watchers of iron constitution and prolonged experience of the rigours of imprisonment upon a lonely rock. The men appear to suffer most from the fear that one day the seas will regain the upper hand and carry the slender-looking shaft of masonry away. When the Atlantic is roused to fury, the din created by the waves smashing against the tower and reef is so deafening that the keepers can only converse by signs.

The attacks which this tower has to withstand are fearful. When the equinoxes are raging, it is no uncommon circumstance for the waves to roll up the side of the tower and hurl themselves clean over the lantern. The enormous force of the water was brought home very startlingly to the attendants of the light one night, when a more than usually wicked breaker slid up the curved round face and wrenched the fog-bell, weighing 550 pounds, from its fastenings on the lantern gallery. The ponderous piece of metal was dashed on to the reef and smashed to fragments. A small piece was recovered after the gale, and is now preserved in the Trinity House museum as an interesting memento of the night when the Atlantic almost got the upper hand. The nerves of the men are tried severely, also, by memories of the terrible marine disasters which have happened on or near the ridge, such as that of the German packet Schiller, which went down in 1875 with the loss of 331 lives.

It is not surprising that the ceaseless attacks of the waves should have left their traces at last. The light had been burning for about twenty years, when tremors and quakings, similar to those observed in connection with Smeaton’s Eddystone tower, were reported to the authorities. Sir James Douglass visited the rock, and made a minute inspection. It was apparent that the lighthouse demanded extensive overhauling and strengthening if it were to be preserved. In fact, this was the only feasible course of action, as there was not another suitable spot whereon a new structure could be raised. The Eddystone had been completed, and as the same tackle was available, the protective work was undertaken at once. In conjunction with this enterprise, the engineer also advocated an increase in the height of the tower.

His plans met with approval, and an ingenious means of strengthening the existing building was evolved. Virtually it comprised the erection of a new tower around the old shaft, and connected to the latter, so as to form one homogeneous structure. In order to strengthen the foundations, massive blocks of masonry were sunk into the rock, cemented, and held in position by heavy bolts. From the masons’ point of view, the task of overhauling was more exciting and dangerous than that which had attended the erection of the original tower; for the men had to toil on narrow, swinging platforms, cutting notches in the face of every stone in the existing structure to receive dovetails on the blocks of the new outer shell. Thus the latter were dovetailed to adjacent blocks on five out of their six faces. A massive chain was slung round the upper part of the tower, from which life-lines hung down to the men working below. A man was stationed as a lookout. When he saw a breaker approaching he gave a signal; each man clutched his life-rope tenaciously and retained his foothold as best he could on his perilous perch while the water swept over him. Often the men were submerged by a rushing wave, and when the water subsided shook themselves like dogs emerging from the water. But the provision of the life-ropes prevented serious injury and loss of life, although the masons at times were considerably knocked about.

The tower has been given an enormous, massive, cylindrical base, while the shaft is solid to the entrance level, except for the usual water-tanks. The attachment of the outer shell reinforced it remarkably, the walls at the entrance being increased to a thickness of 8 feet. The addition of the four extra floors elevated the light by a further 40 feet, the focal plane now being 163 feet above high-water. The light, of 622,500 candle-power, visible for eighteen miles, is a white group-flash, there being two flashes, each of four seconds’ duration, with an intervening eclipse of five seconds, while the groups are separated by intervals of forty-seven seconds.

Off the northern shores of the Scillies, standing in the strait which provides a short-cut around the toe of England, is another magnificent tower. This is the Wolf Rock lighthouse, marking the reef of that name, which lies eight miles off Land’s End in the fairway of the coastal traffic. The cluster of rocks from which it rises is just as dangerous as that to the south, and is exposed likewise to the full fury of the south-westerly gales coming in from the Atlantic. It was one of the most attractive spots to the old Cornish wreckers, for ships which lost their way during the fogs which hang about this coast invariably blundered into the reef, to be smashed to pieces within a very short time.

This spot was not so greatly feared by the seafarer when heavy gales prevailed. There was a hollow rock on the ridge, into which the waves were driven. In so doing they compressed the air within the space, which, as it escaped, produced a long, distinctive wail, recalling the cry of the wolf. It was this natural phenomenon which gave the rock its name. The harder the wind blew, and the higher the waves rose, the louder was the reverberating bellow, and, as it could be heard distinctly above the music of the storm, the navigator was able to steer clear of the formidable obstruction. On the other hand, during periods of heavy fog, when the waves were usually quiet, there was scarcely any perceptible sound.

The Wolf Rock would be growling to this day had it not been for the inhuman action of the Cornish plunderers. They detested the weird noise as cordially as the mariner blessed it. It robbed them of so many rich hauls that at last they decided to silence the rock for ever. They filled the cavity with large boulders, which were carried out in boats from the mainland and dumped overboard. Then the Cornishmen met with a spell of enhanced prosperity from the increased number of wrecks which occurred.

When the exigencies of commerce demanded that the reef should be guarded, a most fantastic device was prepared. An attempt was made to restore artificially the natural siren. A fabric wrought in copper in the form of a huge wolf with distended jaws was contrived, the designers averring that the air would rush in and produce a distinctive whistle. This grotesque danger-signal never reached its destination. It would have been absolutely useless even had it been placed over the rock, as the first lively sea would have carried it away, while the noise produced, if any, would have been inaudible more than a few feet away.

The Trinity Brethren at last took the matter up, but their investigations caused them to doubt the possibility of building a lighthouse on such a forbidding spot. They did the next best thing. They drove a thick oak joist into the rock, and attached a coloured sphere to its upper extremity. This constituted a valuable landmark by day, but was useless at night. But its life was brief. The first storm which swept the reef after the erection of the beacon tore it up by the roots. It was replaced by a heavy mast of wrought-iron, which suffered a similar fate, as did also a third iron pole 9 inches in diameter. At last a low conical stump was built upon the ridge, with the staff and sphere projecting from its centre. This defied wind and wave successfully for many years. Its permanency impressed the builders of the Bishop Rock light, who came to the conclusion that, as the small conical tower held hard and fast, a masonry tower could be given just as firm a hold.

When the engineer approached the reef to make his surveys, he found the water boiling and bubbling madly, and it was some time before he could get a foothold. He completed his examination, and then found, to his dismay, that the boat could not approach to take him off. He could not stay where he was, as the tide, which was rising, would engulf the reef within a short time, so he resorted to a bold expedient. He had taken the precaution to bring a life-line with him, so that he was in touch with the boat. He looped this round his waist securely, and then, telling the men to pull as hard as they could, he plunged into the water. In this manner he was dragged through the furious surf and pulled into the boat, thoroughly drenched, but otherwise none the worse for his adventure.

The work was begun in 1862, when the masons were despatched to the rock to prepare the face for the reception of the bottom masonry blocks. The tedious and exceptionally dangerous character of the work was emphasized very forcibly upon those engaged in the task. It was seldom that the water was sufficiently placid to enable a landing to be made. Then, as the working spell was very brief, being restricted to low-tide, the men could pause only for a few minutes at a time, and even during these were menaced by the breakers. During the first working season only eighty-three hours of labour were possible—a fact which conveys a graphic idea of the exposed character of the site, its difficulty of access, and the short time available for work between the tides. While excavations were under way, the preparation of a landing-stage was taken in hand. As only small blocks of stone could be used, naturally it occupied a considerable time. It was, however, essential, in order to permit the erection of a derrick by which the heavy blocks for the tower could be lifted from the construction boat to the rock. On the rock-face itself the masons toiled strenuously, chipping, scraping, and paring away all the faulty pieces of gneiss, so that a firm, solid foundation was secured, into which the bottom course of stones was dovetailed and anchored.

Owing to the frequency with which the rock was swept by the seas, special precautions had to be adopted to insure the safety of the workmen. Iron dogs were driven into the rock at frequent points, to which ropes were fastened and allowed to trail across the rock, each mason being urged to keep one of these life-lines always within arm’s length. As an additional precaution he was compelled to wear a lifebelt, which, although it hampered free movement somewhat, yet gave the wearer, if he lost his foothold or were thrown into the water, a chance of keeping afloat until the lifeboat standing by was able to reach him. A Cornish fisherman, who was familiar with the seas on this part of the coast, and who could judge a breaking wave from a distance, acted as a lookout. When he saw a comber about to creep over the rock, he gave a signal, when the workmen clutched their life-lines, and, with feet firmly planted and the ropes drawn taut, or throwing themselves prostrate, with heads pointed to the advancing wave, allowed the breaker to roll over them and expend its violence harmlessly. Time after time the masons were buried beneath huge tumbling hills of water. Work under such conditions was decidedly irksome, and progress was very appreciably retarded, but the safety of the workmen was, of course, the pre-eminent consideration. Curiously enough, these men who face the perils, privations, and exciting incessant dangers, incidental to lighthouse building, are extremely superstitious. If an undertaking such as the Wolf were attended by a disaster and loss of life in its initial stages, the completion of the task might be seriously jeopardized. The rock would be regarded as a “hoo-doo,” and would be shunned like a fever-stricken city. Therefore the engineer will go to any lengths to secure, so far as is humanly possible, the preservation of the lives and limbs of those in his employ. This is the chief reason why the erection of these wonderful towers has been attended by so few accidents or fatalities, while the men fitted for the task are so few that the engineer cannot afford to disturb their peace of mind.

The Wolf tower follows the generally accepted lines, and is solid at the base. It is wrought throughout of granite, the stones being joggled together. One ingenious measure was adopted in connection with the lower courses in order to prevent the action of the waves from breaking up the cement in the exposed joints and setting up disintegration. The upper surface of each stone is given a wide rabbet, and the stone above fits into the recess so that the horizontal joint between the two is covered by the outer fillet, thereby protecting it completely. This practice was followed throughout all the lower courses to a height of 39 feet, and the security thus obtained is reflected by the strength of the tower to-day after half a century’s wear.

Work proceeded so slowly in the early stages, owing to the abnormal conditions, that by the end of 1864 only thirty-seven stones in the second course of masonry were laid. In the meantime, however, the landing-stage had been practically completed, and the erection of the crane enabled the blocks for the tower to be transferred to the rock with greater ease and rapidity. The tower, 135 feet in height, was completed on July 19, 1869, while the light was brought into service early in the following year. Eight years were expended upon the enterprise, and during this period 296 landings were effected upon the rock and 1,814 hours of labour were consummated. This is equal to about 101 working days of ten hours each, or, on the average, less than one hour every day of the years occupied in the undertaking. The lantern throws a powerful white light, which in clear weather may be seen from twenty to twenty-five miles away. The cost of the enterprise was £62,726, or $313,630—nearly twice that of the first Bishop Rock light.

Another gaunt structure rears itself from a reef a few miles to the north-west of the Wolf, and a short distance off the Land’s End. This is the Longships light. The name itself suggests a light-vessel, and a stranger is surprised to learn that it is an imposing building, worthy of comparison with the two other structures already described which guard the Scillies. Although it is within a short distance of the mainland, its exposed situation rendered its construction as exasperatingly difficult as that of both the Bishop and Wolf lights. A few miles farther north another powerful light indicates the “Kingdom of Heaven,” as the black hump of Lundy Island, rising out of the Bristol Channel, is colloquially called, from the name of its clerical owner.

On the opposite side and due north of this bight, the Pembrokeshire coast breaks off abruptly at St. David’s Head, only to reappear out at sea in some twenty little rugged islets known as The Smalls. They occur some twenty-one miles off the mainland, and for years they played havoc with the shipping plying between North of England ports and the Bristol Channel. These rocks—for they are little else—were the private property of a Liverpool gentleman, who became so distracted by the frequency of disaster that, in 1773, he decided to crown them with a beacon. He selected a musical instrument manufacturer named Whiteside as his engineer, and this amateur mechanic, after an inspection, decided to place the warning light on a tiny crag which projected about 5 feet above high-water. It is somewhat strange that the adequate safeguarding of two devastating parts of the south-western coast of England should have been placed in the hands of men who were not professional engineers. Rudyerd, the silk-mercer, was responsible for the second Eddystone, and here was an instrument-maker taking over one of the most difficult enterprises it was possible to find. Yet both these amateur engineers inscribed their names ineffaceably upon two of the most evil spots around the coasts of the British Islands. Rudyerd gave us the true conical design, which has never been superseded for strength and stability; while Whiteside evolved a skeleton tower which braved the most tempestuous seas for some eighty years. In the first instance the latter carried out his work in iron, thinking that metal would prove irresistible, but within a short time he replaced it with heavy legs of oak. The frail-looking structure was submitted to storms of almost seismic violence, but it withstood them all for over half a century, when a peculiarly vicious wave, as it rolled between the supports, suddenly flew upwards, driving the floor of the keepers’ quarters into the roof. It was an exceptional accident, which no engineer could have foreseen. When the Trinity House Brethren took over the light, their chief engineer, Mr. James Walker, looked upon the erection as such a fine piece of work that the damage was repaired, and the Whiteside light gleamed for a further twenty years before it gave place to the present graceful stone building.

It was a grim episode at this light which brought about the practice of appointing three men at least to a sea light-station. When first completed, The Smalls was provided with only two keepers, and on one occasion one of the two died. His companion refrained from committing the body to the sea, lest he might be suspected of foul-play, so he constructed a rough shell, in which he placed the body of his dead chum, and stood the grisly burden on end beside his flag of distress on the gallery outside the lantern. As the spell of duty in those days was four months, it was some time before the relief came out. Then they discovered a shattered human wreck tending the lights, who had never neglected his duty under the onerous and weird conditions, but who nevertheless had become broken down and aged under the terrible ordeal. After this experience three men instead of two were placed on duty at all such exposed and inaccessible lights. It may be recalled that Alphonse Daudet tells a similar creepy story which was related to him by a light-keeper on the rugged Corsican coast, and which he narrates in the “Phares des Sanguinaires.” A similar experience is also associated with Rudyerd’s Eddystone light.

Off the North Welsh coast there are the famous lights of the South Stack and the Skerries, the latter rising out of the water on a dangerous cluster of rocks off Carmel Head. The Isle of Man also possesses a magnificent specimen of lighthouse engineering in the Chicken Rock light, the work of the brothers Stevenson, which, although in the Irish Sea, comes within the jurisdiction of the Commissioners of Northern Lights. This tower stands on a reef which is submerged by 6 feet of water even at high neap-tides. When a gale is raging and the spring-tides are at their highest, the waves frequently engulf the lantern, although it is perched 143 feet above the water. The light is of 143,000 candle-power, of the revolving type, and visible for sixteen miles in clear weather.

Entering the English Channel from the Scillies, the voyager observes the powerful Lizard light gleaming like two brilliant white stars from a prominent elevated point on the cliff. Formerly three lights were shown, but two were found to meet the necessities of the situation adequately. The steamship lane lies across the chord of the arc formed by the coastline between the Lizard and Start Point, leaving the Eddystone to the north. The next important light is the Needles, at the entrance to the Solent. A few miles farther on the brilliant spoke-light flashes of St. Catherine’s, described in another chapter, compel attention. No other light after this is seen until Beachy Head is approached. Another dreary stretch brings the vessel abeam the nose of Kentish coast known as Dungeness, a particularly notorious danger spot. Here there is a continual struggle between the engineers and the sea. While the waves gnaw into the coastline at other neighbouring places, here they surrender their capture, so that the headland is persistently creeping farther and farther out to sea. It is lighted, and has been guarded for years, but the tower is left at a constantly increasing distance from the water’s edge. The light has been moved once or twice, so as to fulfil its purpose to the best advantage, but the engineer will be kept on the alert until the currents change their courses and refrain from piling up further drift at this point. This light, coming as it does at the entrance to the bottle-neck of the English Channel, is of prime importance to navigation, because vessels, after they have rounded the South Foreland, make a bee-line for this headland.

Since the eastern coast of England is flanked by sandbanks and shoals, the lighthouse is not in powerful evidence, the aids to navigation consisting chiefly of light-vessels, which are distributed liberally so as to patrol completely a treacherous stretch of shoals. Northwards the sandy, low-lying wastes give way to towering cliffs, amongst which Flamborough Head and its light are conspicuous. At the far northern limit of the operations of Trinity House comes the Longstones, mounting guard over the terrible Farne Islands and their rocky outposts. Who has not heard of the heroism of Grace Darling, the light-keeper’s daughter, and the thrilling rescue, in the teeth of a hurricane, of the exhausted survivors of the Forfarshire?

Complaints have been made often regarding the paucity of powerful lights around the coast of England, but the criticism scarcely is deserved. All the prominent and most dangerous spots are lighted adequately, and, as may be recognized, the provision of these lights has proved an exacting and costly enterprise. What England may lack in numbers in this particular field of engineering is compensated for by the daring nature of the works completed, which are regarded throughout the world as marvellous achievements.