Although by dint of great effort and the expenditure of considerable ingenuity the lighthouse engineer has succeeded in erecting a permanent masonry tower upon a foundation no more substantial than quicksand, yet the general method of indicating these menaces is by the aid of a lightship. In this way the estuaries leading to the great ports of the world, which are littered with ridges, humps, and mounds, of mud and sand brought down by the river or thrown up by the sea, are guarded very completely. There is the Nore lightship at the entrance to the Thames, the Bar and North-West lightships off the mouth of the Mersey, Fire Island near the portal to New York, and so on. Similarly, the whereabouts of huge stretches of sand lying off a coast, which either defy detection altogether or only partially expose themselves at low-water, and which constitute certain death-traps, are shown. The most striking illustrations of this application are supplied by the Goodwin Sands, the submerged sandy plateau lying off the east coast of England, and by the serried rows of ridges running seven and a half miles out to sea from Cape Hatteras, the ill-famed headland of North Carolina.

The utilization of the lightship, however, is not restricted by any means to marking shoals and sandbanks. Here and there are clusters of rocks obstructing the ocean highway, which from their extremely exposed character would offer the engineer a searching and expensive problem to solve, and which, accordingly, are protected by a floating light. But, taken on the whole, the lightship is used very sparingly. If it is at all possible to provide a permanent structure, even at an apparently prohibitive cost, upon a danger spot, this practice is followed in preference to the mooring of a light-vessel thereto. A masonry tower is stationary in its resistance to the assaults of the wildest tempest, but the lightship swings like a cork at the free end of a chain. At times it drags its anchors, and thereby unconsciously shifts its position, so that it may throw its light from some distance beyond the actual area of danger. Again, a lightship, although not costly in the first instance, is somewhat expensive to maintain. It cannot withstand the poundings of the waves and the force of the wind for long without developing some signs of weakness. It may ride over its reef or shoal for several years, but depreciation is sure to set in, so that at last it becomes too decrepit to be trusted. Moreover, the number of men required to man a lightship exceeds the force necessary to maintain a lighthouse.

Lightships follow much the same general shape and construction the whole world over. There is very little opportunity to depart from well-tried lines; the experience of a century and more has indicated conclusively the form of hull, as regards both material and shape, best adapted to the peculiar work which has to be fulfilled. The modern lightship is essentially a British idea, the first floating beacon of this description having been built and placed in the mouth of the Thames as far back as 1713. From this small beginning, which virtually was an experiment, has grown the large fleet of light-vessels scattered all over the globe.

The craft is sturdily built, and, although of clumsy appearance, is capable of withstanding the onslaughts of the fiercest gales. Internally it is made as snug as possible, but the opportunities in this direction are not very extensive, as the beacon is built primarily to protect ships and lives against accident, and comfort is necessarily made subordinate to reliability, durability, and serviceability.

A mere hulk would be the most apt description as applied to the average lightship. It is intended to cling to one spot through thick and thin, and not to move about. In the majority of instances the vessel is without any propelling or sailing accessories. If it should happen to break its leashes, it then becomes the sport of the waves, as helpless as a derelict, until its signals of distress are espied and it is picked up by a passing vessel. Although every precaution is adopted to preserve the lightship from this mishap, when the waves become exceptionally heavy and violent the strongest chains are apt to snap under the sawing and tugging of the vessel. In one or two instances lively times have been experienced by the handful of men on board, especially off the wicked stretches of the American seaboard which is exposed to the attack of hurricane and cyclone.

In her helplessness, the light-vessel depends upon the friendly aid of any craft. The rescuer may be the alert tender, which, having received intimation that the floating beacon has got adrift, raises steam in all haste, hurries out, scours the seas for the wanderer, recovers and rechains her to the danger spot below. Or it may be that a passing· steamer sights the breakaway, retrieves and restores her to the allotted position, making her temporarily secure, and reporting her condition when passing or entering a port.

The lightship may be identified easily. There is nothing inspiring about her lines. Her ugly hull, built for strength and not beauty, is painted red, black, or white, according to the colour practice of the country to which she belongs, while on her sides in huge letters, stretching almost from water-line to taffrail, is the name of her station, “Nore,” “Seven Stones,” “Norderney,” “Ruytingen,” “Fire Island,” or whatever it may be. Nor is this the sole means of identification. From afar the mariner learns her character and business by a huge skeleton sphere, a triangular cage, or some other device, carried at the top of the mast or masts. At night a lantern, entirely surrounding the mast, and large enough to enable a person to stand upright within to trim the lamps, throws its warning glare from an elevation about halfway between the deck and the mast-top with the intensity of 12,000 or more candles. Oil is the illuminant most generally employed for the purpose, although in one or two instances electric light is used.

The specific purpose of the lightship, as already mentioned, is to warn passing vessels. But the French Government, when they made an elaborate investigation of their lightship service with a view to its modernization and elaboration, discovered that at times the floating signpost fulfils another and unofficial duty. The entrance to St. Malo Harbour is flanked by an uneven group of rocks lying about midway between the French coast and the island of Jersey. Though a terrible spot for mariners, it is one of incalculable value to the sturdy French and Jersey fishermen, as in the waters around these barriers rich hauls may be made with the net; indeed, the fishing industry here affords employment for several score of persons. The French Government contemplated the withdrawal of the lightship marking the Minquiers, as these rocks are called, and the substitution in its stead of a number of powerful automatic buoys which would indicate the exact position of the most conspicuous dangers, whereas the lightship only indicated their general whereabouts, compelling mariners to calculate their distances from the peril, which, by the way, was no easy matter owing to the short range of the beacon.

Before making a decision, the Commission interviewed the French fishermen to ascertain their views upon the subject. To their intense surprise, a suggestion which they thought would be received with unmixed approval was condemned unequivocally. There was not a single fisherman who could be found to support the buoy system. The unanimity of the objection aroused suspicions, and further investigation was made to probe the cause of this unveiled hostility. The answer was found without effort. The fishermen pushed off in their boats every night to the grounds, but they did not spend the whole of their time throwing and hauling their nets. When their luck was in, or they were satisfied with the catch, one and all pulled for the lightship. There was not another cafÉ within a dozen miles, and fishing is thirsty work. So the lightship was converted into a nocturnal hostelry. The keepers charged the glasses, and the captains courageous sipped and quaffed to a whistling accompaniment, finally indulging in terpsichorean acts on the lightship’s decks, to give vent to their exuberant spirits. They did not care whether the light overhead were throwing its yellow beams over the waters or not. They made merry, and kept up the orgy until the approaching dawn or the watch showed that it was high time to pull for the shore with their catches. It was a fortunate circumstance for these happy-go-lucky spirits that the beacon was not regarded by mariners as of much utility at night, owing to the feebleness of its light. If seafarers failed to pick up the Minquiers’s shimmering star, they attributed the obscurity to the haze. That was all.

This revelation, needless to say, clinched the Commission’s decision. To-day four unattended gas-buoys mount vigil over these rocks, and the rollicking days on the floating cafÉ chantant are known no more.

The average crew for a lightship numbers some seven men under a captain and mate, who take it in turns to have charge of the vessel, the second official being responsible during the former’s spell of leave on shore. The crew is not a man too many, owing to the several and varied duties to be performed, especially when the storm-fiend is roused or fog pays a visit. The arrival of the latter demands the foghorn’s mournful dirge to penetrate the dense white curtain. Some of the vessels possess a hooter, the unmusical wail of which in its discordance is almost sufficient to put false teeth on edge, because a blast runs through the whole chromatic gamut with variations which would startle a disciple of Tschaikowsky or Wagner. But discordance in this instance is of incalculable value. The ear of the captain of a passing vessel is unconsciously arrested; he can distinguish the sound readily, and by noting its character can identify the particular light-vessel from which it proceeds, although he cannot get a glimpse of her form.

The southern coasts of England, owing to the density of the maritime traffic, especially on both sides of the bottle-neck formed by the Straits of Dover, are well patrolled by this form of warning which supplements the lighthouses. Those guarding the dreaded Goodwin Sands perhaps are the most important. The crew of a vessel in these waters is busy throughout the day and night even in calm, clear weather, and the feeling of isolation is not so pronounced, since the continuous sight of traffic dispels despondency. The Nore light is another station which encounters very few minutes of rest throughout the complete revolution of the clock hands; especially is this the case when fog settles down, rendering the Thames inapproachable, so that incoming craft have to line up in long queues, ready to dash forward directly the pall lifts sufficiently for them to see 100 yards ahead.

There have been some exciting incidents among the lights strung around the south-eastern toe of England. The vessel outside Dover harbour appears to be particularly unlucky, or to exercise such a peculiar magnetism upon passing vessels that they must needs embrace her. This is the peril that a lightship crew dreads more than any other. Certainly it seems a sorry trick of Fortune that occasionally the workers in the cause of humanity should be compelled to fight desperately for their lives from a blow inflicted by the very interests they strive might and main to protect. The Dover light was sent to the bottom twice within a very short time, and in each instance the men were rescued only in the nick of time. On another occasion a relief lightship was being towed to a station on the east coast, the acting vessel being much in need of overhaul and repair. The tug laboured through the North Sea with her charge, and just before daybreak sighted the twinkling light which was her goal. She eased up, meaning to stand by with her charge until the beacon’s round of vigilance should be over, and the light extinguished before the gathering dawn. Her crew saw the light grow dimmer, until it was no longer of sufficient power to penetrate the whitening haze. With the sun just creeping over the horizon the tug weighed anchor, and, heralding her approach vociferously on the siren, steamed slowly towards the danger spot. To the surprise of the captain, there came no answering blare. When he thought he was alongside the light-vessel he stopped, and the haze lifted. But there was no sign of the light-vessel; she had vanished completely. The captain of the tug and the master of the relief-boat wondered what had happened, but without more ado the relief-ship was moored in position, and the tug returned home empty-handed. There the crew heard one of those grim stories sometimes related in the service. The light-keepers had sighted the tug with the relief-vessel, and were anticipating keenly their return to civilization, when there was a crash! A cliff of steel reared above them like a knife-edge; a vessel had blundered into them, cutting their home in two. The next moment they were shot pell-mell into the water as their craft sank beneath their feet.

On a calm day, when the lightship is riding quietly at anchor, and the members of the crew, maybe, are beguiling the tedium by fishing, a passer-by on a liner is apt to consider the life one of quietness and enjoyment, albeit monotonous. But contrast this placidity with the hours of storm. Then the ungainly vessel writhes and twists, saws and rasps at the chains which hold her prisoner. At one moment, with bow uplifted, she is on the crest of a spray-enveloped roller; the next instant she drives her dipping nose into the hissing white and green valley, meanwhile lurching and staggering wildly as she ships a sea, first on this side and then on that.

The plight of the lighthouse-keeper in a gale is unenviable, but it is far and away preferable to that of the lightship crew under similar circumstances. The tower may bow slightly like a tree before the storm, and the waves may cause it to shiver at times, but that is the only movement. On the lightship the crew appear to be tossed, rolled, and spun, in all directions simultaneously. The deck becomes untenable, but the men in the performance of their duties have to grope and crawl from point to point, holding on grimly with both hands when an angry sea douches them. The spherical ball overhead gyrates in an amazing manner, as if it were a pendulum bob boxing the compass. The crew have a stiff struggle, to keep everything below safe and sound, while the waves, as they come aboard, thump on the deck as if determined to smash it to splinters, and to drive the whole fabric to the bottom. To be so unlucky as to be run down by a passing craft under such conditions is certain death, as there is no hope of rescue in such maddened seas.

The crew of an English ship emerged badly battered from one heavy gale. Two or three rollers got aboard, and drove their blows well home, pulverizing the lifeboat on deck, and tearing up stretches of the bulwarks by the roots. The crew were flung about like shuttlecocks. One of the hands was making his way cautiously along the deck, trying to maintain equilibrium upon an alarming incline, when a breaker struck him from behind. He grabbed the ratlins to secure himself, but his hand was wrenched away, and he was flung against the mast, where the wave left him. He was half stunned by the concussion, but a comrade, realizing his plight, dashed forward while the vessel rolled over in the other direction, grabbed the prostrate form by the collar of its coat, and dragged it into the companion-way. The man’s face was disfigured, and when bathed it was found to have been cut, or rather burst, open from the eye to the chin by the force of the blow.

Bad weather tends to make the crew despondent at times, inasmuch as its persistency holds them prisoners, so that they cannot get ashore when the relief day comes round. During some seasons of the year a delay of ten or twelve days is not uncommon, owing to the weather, but the men on the relief tender are so used to hard knocks and rough seas that they do not wait for an absolute calm to achieve their purpose. Heavy risks are incurred often in order to lighten the lives of those who guard the deep by bringing them ashore as near to the scheduled date as possible.

Another ship that has to mount guard over a dangerous corner of the coast of England is that which indicates the cluster of rocks lying between Land’s End and the Scilly Isles, about sixteen miles off the mainland. For the most part the reef is submerged, but as the water goes down seven ugly scattered pinnacles thrust themselves into the air. They are terrible fangs with which to rip out the bottom of a steamer, and they have accomplished their fell work only too often. The number of the projections has given its name to the graveyard, which is known far and wide as the Seven Stones, though the mariner refers to them simply as The Stones.

It would be difficult to say offhand which has claimed the greater number of victims from the mercantile marine—the sucking, glue-like sands of the Goodwins, or the splitting granite teeth of the Seven Stones; they run a close race for ill-fame. The latter lie right in the path of vessels rounding the western toe of England, and the sea-bed on all sides of them is littered with the shivered timbers of wooden sailing-ships, the splintered iron and steel of steamers, and the bones of scores of unfortunate passengers and crews. Although a light of 12,000 candle-power strives to warn the seafarer, now and again there is a miscalculation, and the intimation is conveyed to the mainland: “Ship and all hands lost.”

It was in 1841, owing to the frequency and severity of the disasters at this spot, that Trinity House decided to guard it with a lightship. A lighthouse would be preferable, but there is such small foothold for the engineer, and the position is so fearfully exposed, that the erection of a masonry tower would prove a costly and tedious enterprise. So the only feasible alternative was adopted, and the vessel is kept abreast of modern developments in this phase of coast lighting. Lying as it does in a somewhat narrow channel, yet open to the full roll of the terrible westerly gales, it meets the Atlantic thundering through this constricted passage with awe-inspiring violence. It has often suffered greatly from the fury of the sea. Once a wave tumbled aboard, crashed a man against the pump, knocked him half senseless; picked up the lifeboat and threw it against the deck-house, and in so doing caught another member of the crew, mauling his thigh badly in passing. Two out of the seven men forming the crew were thus put hors de combat by a single wave. The taut little vessel rides in 40 fathoms of water, about one and a half miles eastward of the danger spot, as even a lightship must not be moored too closely to a ridge, or she herself would incur the risk of being pounded to fragments.

The French lighthouse service has a magnificent lightship in the Ruytingen, which rides in 60 feet of water over a treacherous sandbank outside Dunkirk. It is a steel vessel about 100 feet in length, and displaces in loaded condition about 387 tons. It is held in position by massive umbrella-like anchors, weighing some 2 tons, which, burying themselves in the ground, refuse to drag even under the most fearful tugs and jerks imposed by a gale, while the chains which hold the ship in leash are able to give her a run of approximately 1,000 feet.

The German coast is as dangerous to approach, owing to the shoals and banks, as the eastern shores of England, and one or two magnificent lightships have been built and stationed over the most notorious danger areas, among which may be mentioned the Norderney and Eider vessels. The latter is about 133 feet in length by 24 feet wide, and is fitted with three masts. It throws a fixed white light, which may be seen on all sides from eight to eleven miles away. This boat is fitted with every modern device to increase its warning powers and service, including wireless telegraphy and the submarine bell.

These two latter inventions have improved the serviceability of the lightship to a vast degree, inasmuch as the ocean liners and many freighters are equipped with both these useful handmaids to navigation. The tolling of the bell under water may be heard for several miles, and conveys intimation of the approach to danger in foggy weather, when the siren or other fog-signal is somewhat precarious.

The Norderney lightship is probably one of the finest craft in operation upon the seven seas. Before it was designed the German engineers carried out a thorough inspection of all the most modern lightships in service in Europe, and from the results of their investigations contrived this magnificent aid to navigation. The vessel is about 150 feet in length, and is built of steel. The light is shown from a lantern fitted with a third-order pendular lens carried at the top of a hollow steel mast. The illuminant used is Pintsch’s oil-gas, with incandescent mantle, the fuel being stored in reservoirs stowed in the hold of the ship; fresh supplies are brought out by the tender at periodical intervals. Weight-driven clockwork mechanism is employed to revolve the lantern. The light is one of the most powerful in European waters, 50,000 candle-power being emitted with an incandescent gas mantle having a diameter of 30 millimetres (1¼ inches).

The vessel is also equipped with 200 horse-power oil-engines, driving an air-compressor for the operation of the fog-siren, the air being stored in reservoirs in the hold and maintained at the working pressure, so that the signal may be brought into service at a moment’s notice. The vessel is also furnished with a Pintsch submarine bell, driven by compressed air. When not required, this bell is housed amidships on the spar-deck, and when the occasion arises for its service it is lowered into the water through an open tube built in the ship for this purpose. This important light-vessel carries a full complement of thirteen men, including the captain, mate, and engineer. The arrangement is, one-third of the crew on shore-leave at a time; but this does not apply to the winter months, when the full number has to remain on board, owing to the duties being more arduous and continuous during that season of the year.

“Fire Island!” What a thrill the sound of this name sends through the floating town approaching the New World from Europe. Its effect is magical among the emigrants who scan the horizon eagerly for the first glimpse of this outpost of the new home, in which all their hopes are centred. The sullen red hull of this flush-deck, schooner-rigged steam-vessel, with her two masts, and name painted in huge white letters on her flanks, rides in 96 feet of water, nine and three-eighth miles south of Fire Island lighthouse. A few miles beyond is a similar craft marking the Nantucket Shoals, whence incoming and outgoing vessels are reported, while the end of the chain is “No. 87,” marking the Ambrose Channel off the entrance to New York.

But the light-vessel controlled by the United States which occupies the most responsible and perilous post is the Diamond Shoal, off Cape Hatteras. It throws its warning rays from a spot about four and five-eighth miles beyond the most seaward point of this terrible ocean graveyard, and is thirteen and five-eighth miles distant from Cape Hatteras light on the mainland. A long way from the actual danger spot, you say, but the little squad of men who have to maintain the light through storm and calm will tell you that the situation, in 180 feet of water, is quite as near as is pleasant when there is the ever-present danger of anchors being dragged, or of the craft breaking adrift under the force of the cyclonic disturbances which ravage this sinister coast. Even in calm weather the relief-boat has many anxious moments, owing to the swell and currents, while storms rise with startling suddenness. While the exchange of men is being made and stores are being transferred, a keen lookout is kept by the relief-boat hands so as to be ready to cut and run for the open sea the moment the clouds begin to collect ominously. In these latitudes the weather is placid one minute; the next the elements are writhing in fury.

Probably this is the most dangerous station on the whole seaboard, and if any heavy trouble is caused by the tempest, the Diamond Shoal inevitably bears grim evidence of the conflict. The skill of the engineers is taxed sorely to devise ways and means of keeping the vessel in the position she is designed to occupy, but moorings and anchors must be of great weight and strength to stand up against a wind blowing eighty miles an hour, with the waves running “mountains high” and repeatedly sweeping the vessel from stem to stern. After every battle a careful look round has to be made to determine how far the vessel has shifted. Being steam-driven, this craft is not condemned to absolute helplessness when her moorings snap. The crew get her under control and keep her head pointed in the desired direction, so as to mitigate the battering of the wind and waves, and not moving more than is essential for safety. Subsequently the vessel crawls back to her position, the bearings are taken, and she is anchored firmly once more.

One hurricane swept Cape Hatteras, and the lightship received its full energy. The boat strained and groaned at her chains. Suddenly they snapped. No steam could hold the boat against the assault. She was picked up, thrown about like an empty box, and carried inshore, luckily missing the ridges of sand. Had she plumped into one, it would have gripped her tightly while the waves pounded her to fragments. The crew were helpless and could only wonder what the end would be, as they saw the rugged coastline approach nearer and nearer. When they thought all was over and that their fate was sealed, a big incoming wave snatched the lightship, hurried her along on its bosom, and dropped her on the beach, practically uninjured, and safe from further attack.

When the crew surveyed their position, they found themselves faced with a difficult proposition. The ship was safe and sound, but on the wrong side of the shoals, and the question was how to lift her over those greedy ridges. There was only one method. That was to dig a pit around her on the beach, let in the water so that she could float, and then to cut a wide deep trench out to sea so as to regain deep water. It was feasible, and was attempted. While the pond on the beach was being dug, a powerful dredger came up, and ploughed its way through the shoals from deep water to the stranded light-vessel. When the craft was once more afloat, the dredger carved its way back again, the light-vessel being taken through the narrow, shallow ditch thus provided, which was closed up by the running sand as the two boats crept slowly forward, until at last the shoals were negotiated. The ship was taken to headquarters, the relief-vessel, which is always kept ready for an emergency, having taken up her position on the station immediately the hurricane had blown itself out.

Under these circumstances it will be realized that the maintenance of the Diamond Shoal light is by no means a sinecure. When these adversities are aggravated by the relief-boat being unable to fulfil its scheduled duty, when week after week slips by without the men receiving the welcome spell ashore, while they are suffering privations and experiencing the nerve-shattering pangs of isolation and monotony, it is not surprising that despondency shows signs of getting the upper hand among the crew. Melancholia is the malady which is feared most on a light-vessel such as this, and the men have to pull themselves together to resist its insidious grip. Probably at times there is half an inclination to desert the light, but fortunately there is little fear of this temptation succeeding. The axiom “Never abandon the light” is too deeply rooted; besides, the men are safer where they are, although it appears a crazy refuge in rough weather.

Prolonged imprisonment on the Diamond Shoal precipitated one mutiny. The crew on duty were awaiting the arrival of the reserve vessel to take them home; but the weather disposed otherwise. With that inexplicable persistence, the wind got round to a rough quarter and kept there tenaciously, never moderating for a few hours, but just blowing, blowing, blowing, getting up a nasty sea which made the lightship reel and tumble, while at intervals a comber came aboard to flush the decks.

In the course of ten days or so the crew began to fret and fume at the obstinacy of the elements; when a month slipped by without bringing any welcome relief, the mate and the engineer incurred the captain’s dire displeasure by fraternizing and playing cards with the crew, thereby creating a breach of discipline and etiquette. The offenders, somewhat overwrought by their continued incarceration, ignored the captain’s reprimand. This arrant disobedience played upon his nerves, which similarly were strung up. It did not require a very big spark to start a conflagration of tempers. The mate and engineer brooded over the captain’s remarks, and at last they waited upon him, forcibly ventilated their opinions concerning his lack of civility and of endeavours to make one and all comfortable under the trying circumstances, and expressed their determination to tolerate his overbearing manner no longer. This was the last straw from the captain’s point of view. Drawing his revolver, he growled that he was master of the lightship, and that they would have to do as he told them. There was a tussle, but the firearm was wrenched away from the master’s hands as being a somewhat too dangerous tool for a man in his overstrung condition. The crew naturally sided with the officers, and the captain was kept under surveillance until the relief-vessel came up some weeks later.

The moment the crew stepped on dry land, every man, with the exception of the mate, deserted the ship, thoroughly satiated with the uncertainty pertaining to watching the Diamond Shoals. They indulged in a hearty carousal, and were arrested. And the captain, who also was not averse to enjoyment on shore, having lodged the charge of mutiny, followed their example. An inquiry was held, and the sequel is interesting. The captain, having deserted his ship upon reaching port, was dismissed from the service; the mate, who had provoked the captain, not only was acquitted of the grave charge, but was promoted to the command of the light-vessel, because there was one outstanding feature in his favour which negatived everything else—he had stuck to his post.

Life on a lightship, although somewhat strenuous, has its interludes. In fine weather the men have considerable time on their hands, and while away the hours in various occupations. Fretwork, mat-making, carpentering, and other hobbies, are followed with keen enjoyment. Owing to the light attracting flocks of birds during the migratory seasons, the men often effect valuable captures on the deck, rare songsters and other specimens falling exhausted into their hands. Cages are contrived, and the silence of the living-quarters is relieved by the piping and trilling of the birds when once they have shaken down to their captivity. Meteorological work, which is practised in some cases, relieves the round of toil, while contributions to science are made by investigating the depths of the sea and its bed with small trawls and other devices, so as to secure data concerning life in the deep, the vagaries of currents, submarine temperatures, and so forth. The lightship, however, is both a safeguard and a menace. When she is riding quietly at the end of her chains she is an incalculable boon to the passing mariner, but after a gale the navigator and the light-keepers are suspicious. The boat may, and indeed probably has, dragged her anchors somewhat. Now, the seafarer on his chart has the precise position which the lightship should occupy. Consequently, if she has shifted and he is unaware of the error, his calculations will lead him astray. After a tempest the master of a lightship endeavours to ascertain if his craft has moved, and if he can he takes his bearings at once. If this is impossible, or if he entertains any doubt in his mind, he flies a signal, which warns the navigator that the lightship has moved. Unless the vessel is able to regain her station under her own steam, she communicates with the shore at once, and a boat is sent out to reset her. Every time the relief is effected the officer in charge takes the bearings, so that the lightship may be truly in the position she is intended to assume, and able to effect her humane work satisfactorily.

The evolution of the most efficient illuminating apparatus for the lightship has been a most perplexing problem to the lighthouse engineer. What is applicable for the masonry tower is not necessarily adapted to its floating contemporary, since the conditions are so dissimilar. The United States service has adopted electric lighting on all its steam-driven vessels, the current being easily obtainable in this instance. On the whole, however, oil is the most popular form of illuminant, the burners—there are several lamps arranged in a ring round the mast—being fitted with two circular wicks, one within the other; while behind the lamp an ordinary parabolic reflector is placed in order to increase the intensity of the light produced. These reflectors are disposed in such a manner around the mast that the concentrated beam of light from one lamp just overlaps the rays which are projected similarly from the lamp placed on either side, the result being that a fixed white light of equal luminosity throughout the circle is projected. But, unlike the illuminant in the lighthouse, the light is not stationary in its vertical plane; it is swung from side to side and up and down in rhythm with the movement of the vessel. Under these circumstances, at one moment the light would project a short ray owing to the declination of the beam in relation to the line of the water, thereby bringing it below the horizon, while the next moment, when the ship lurched in the opposite direction, the ray of light would be thrown into the air and above the horizon. The problem is to keep the light at one steady angle, irrespective of the motion of the vessel, and this end is achieved by hanging each reflector upon gimbals, so that the rolling practically is counteracted, the reflectors maintaining a constant vertical position.

Some lights are of the flashing type, and in this instance the reflectors are disposed in groups. Here the gimbals, carrying the reflectors, are mounted upon the framework which revolves around the mast by clockwork mechanism, and are so arranged as to give any type of distinguishing flash that may be desired. In the most approved types of modern lightships, however, the dioptric apparatus is incorporated, means having been discovered to avoid breakage from the rolling motion of the ship, while the risk of throwing the beam above or below the horizon according to the rolling of the boat is overcome. In this case the lamps and reflectors are disposed on a turntable in the lantern, with the dioptric apparatus mounted very carefully so as to secure a true balance upon gimbals. The apparatus for revolving the light is erected in a deck-house, the weight actuating the mechanism being permitted to rise and fall in a special tube extending from the bottom of the ship to the deck. The rotary action thus produced is transmitted from the deck to the lantern above by means of a vertical shaft and pinion. While ordinary lamps are installed as a rule in the lanterns, Messrs. Chance Brothers and Co., the Birmingham lighthouse illuminating engineers, have succeeded in adapting their incandescent oil-vapour system, which has proved so eminently successful in lighthouses, to light-vessels, with a very decided increase in the candle-power, and marked economy in oil consumption and cost of upkeep.