The life of the guardian of a blazing signpost of the coast is much the same the whole world over. It is unavoidably monotonous under the best conditions. Each succeeding day and night brings a similar round of toil, with very little variation. There are the same duties to be performed in strict accordance with routine, and under normal circumstances there are many idle hours which have to be whiled away as best one can. On the mainland, especially in the South of England, France, Germany, and the United States, the loneliness and monotony are not felt so keenly by the wardens of the light, as in many instances they are in close proximity to ports and towns, where a little welcome relaxation may be obtained during the rest spells; while in the summer evenings, if the lights should be only a few miles away from civilization, visitors are frequent. Again, the keepers as a rule live with their families in cosy solid buildings, and, having a stretch of garden flanking their homes, can expend their hours of leisure to advantage.

On the isolated, lonely rock, however, the conditions are vastly different. The average person, when regarding on a calm day the tall slim outlines of a tower rising from the water, is apt to regard the life of those responsible for keeping the light going as one enveloped in romance and peace, far removed from the trials and worries of the maelstrom of civilization. But twenty-four hours on one of these beacons completely dispel all romantic impression. The gilt of fascination wears away quickly, and the visitor recognizes only too forcibly the terrible desolation of it all, and admires the little band of men who watch vigilantly over the deep for the guidance of those who go down to the sea in ships. The keepers of such stations are marooned as completely as any castaway on a barren island. In many instances they cannot even signal to the shore. If anything should go wrong, they must wait until a ship comes in sight, to communicate their tidings by flag signals. If the call is urgent, say for illness, and the passing boat carries a doctor, she will heave to, and, if conditions permit, will launch a boat to carry the medical man to the rock to administer aid. If it is a matter of life or death, the ship will take the man off.

As may be imagined, upon a sea-rock, owing to the slender proportions of the tower, the quarters are inevitably very cramped, with no facilities for the men to stretch their limbs. The manner in which space is economized in the small circular apartments is astonishing. The essential furniture is built to the wall, and liberal cupboard space is provided, the governing consideration being to provide the men with as much open space as the restricted circumstances will permit. The only exercise that the men can obtain in the open air is upon the narrow shelf forming the landing platform, or the narrow gallery around the lantern. In the majority of circumstances it is less than that provided for the benefit of a prisoner in an exercise yard.

The lamp is lighted at dusk, and, unless it is a fixed white light, the clockwork driving the occulting and revolving mechanism has to be wound up. Seeing that this entails the lifting of a ton or so up the vertical cylinder in which the weight travels, this is no mean task in itself.

Unremitting vigilance has to be maintained while the lamp is burning. It demands attention from time to time, while, should anything serious go wrong, the attendant must bring the reserve lamp into service without a moment’s loss of time and without interruption of the ray.

“The light must not go out!” That is the inflexible rule of all attended lights between the two Poles. Even if it failed only for a minute, the circumstance would not escape observation. Some vessel would detect the breakdown; it would be recorded in the captain’s log-book. When he touched the first port, intimation would be sent to the organization responsible for the beacon, setting forth the fact that on such and such a night, at a certain hour, this light was not showing in accordance with the official light list, or was giving a warning different from that laid down for the guidance of the seafarer. An inquiry would be instituted immediately to ascertain the reason, and the light-keeper probably would find himself in an awkward position, although months might have elapsed since the incident.

There is nothing haphazard about the control of lights. The circumstances are too serious to permit the slightest deviation from hard-and-fast regulations. The passing mariner is entirely dependent upon these blazing guardians, maybe from a distance of fifteen miles or more. He has his chart wherewith he is able to steer his way, but he must have certain marks to guide him at night, so that he may be sure of his course and position. Accordingly, every lighthouse possesses some individual characteristic in regard to its light. As explained elsewhere, it may be a group flash, an occulting flash of a distinctive nature, a revolving light which completes a revolution once in a certain period of time, or a fixed blaze.

Fortunately, the men watching over the lights appreciate the gravity of their responsibility, and are reliable to an heroic degree. Each is a man picked for the duty, who is not appalled by loneliness, and is of unimpeachable precision. Of course, accidents will happen, but dereliction of duty is criminal, because it may bring about loss of life. Carelessness on the part of a light-keeper precipitated the loss of the steamer Victoria when crossing the English Channel from Newhaven to Dieppe on April 12, 1887. The French coast, as it was being approached, became shrouded by the inexorable fog-fiend. The captain lost his way, although he knew, from the time he had been steaming, that he must be perilously near the French shore. He listened for the droning of the fog-siren mounted on Pointe d’Ailly, but in vain. He sent to the engine-room to ascertain the number of revolutions the engines had made, and this convinced him that he must be close inshore, despite the silence of the fog-signal. Thinking that he might have strayed some distance east of Dieppe, he brought his vessel round, and then crawled slowly ahead. But he had scarcely settled into his forward stride when there was a crash—a terrible splitting and crunching. The vessel had kept a true course, and now had hit the very rocks which the captain had sought to avoid. The passengers, being ready to land, were got into the boats and pushed through the dense curtain for land, but some thirty passengers and crew were never seen again.

The subsequent inquiry revealed an amazing breach of duty on the part of those in charge of the light-station. The head lighthouse-keeper, off duty at the time, was asleep in bed, but his wife awoke him as she observed the fog settling upon the water. He dressed hurriedly, and rushed to see what his companion was doing. This official had failed lamentably in his duties. Instead of starting the boiler fires to raise the steam to work the siren upon the first signs of the approaching enemy, as he should have done, he had delayed the duty. The result was that an hour was wasted, and during this interval the unfortunate captain took his ship upon the rocks. To make matters worse, the keepers did not perceive the wreck until some two hours after the disaster, although they admitted that they heard the cries of people an hour and a half previously, but never suspected the cause of the turmoil.

The man on watch during the night maintains a keen lookout. The faintest signs of a gathering mist are sufficient to cause him to wake his assistant to manipulate the fog-signal, even if the precaution proves to be unnecessary. “It is better to be safe than sorry,” is the lighthouse-keeper’s motto; so he runs no risks.

When the gathering brightness of the dawn enables the form of the tower to be identified from a distance of several miles, the light is extinguished. Heavy curtains are drawn across the windows, not only to protect the lenses from the sun, but also to give a characteristic colour to the lantern. Thus, by daylight a lantern may appear to be a dull red or an intense black. To give a brilliant light by night and be a prominent landmark by day forms the dual duty of the guardian of the coast.

When the lantern has cooled, the keepers coming on the day shift have to clean the lamps and put them in order for service the following evening. Everything has to be overhauled and got ready for use at a moment’s notice. The oil reservoirs have to be examined and charged, and the panes of glass, with which the lantern is glazed, cleaned and brightened. The reflectors have to be polished, for they must be kept in a constant state of mirror-like brilliancy. All brasswork has to be cleaned and polished until it gleams like burnished gold, while the rooms must be washed and kept in the pink of condition, free from the smallest specks of dust.

The necessity for extreme cleanliness and spotlessness is emphasized in every lighthouse. The inspector has a highly-trained, quick eye for detecting carelessness, and he has one instinct developed peculiarly—the discovery of dust. He draws his fingers over everything, and squints quizzically at an object from all angles. Woe betide the keeper if the slightest trace of dirt is detected. Then the inspector closes the other eye, and the keeper receives a squint which does not augur well for his future. A few sharp, pointed remarks are rasped out, and it is not long before the relief-boat comes out with another man.

The engineers and other representatives of authority are remorseless. A man is judged from apparently trifling details. If he permits a door-knob to become sullied, he is just as likely to overlook the polishing of the lenses, or to perform some other vital task in a perfunctory manner.

One of the Stevensons achieved a peculiar notoriety among the Scottish keepers for his unbending attitude in this connection. He had a scent for dust and untidiness developed as keenly as that of a mouse for cheese. When his boat came alongside a light, and the keeper stepped forward to extend a helping hand, the eyes of the engineer scanned him searchingly. If the man’s appearance were not immaculate, trouble loomed ahead. This engineer maintained that if a man were indifferent to his own appearance, and permitted dust to collect upon his own clothes, he could not be trusted to maintain the delicate apparatus of a lighthouse in apple-pie order! What was more to the point, the engineer generally was correct in his deductions. He spared no effort to place the most responsible lights in the hands of men above suspicion in regard to cleanliness. Although, as this martinet confessed, nothing pained him more than to have words with any of his keepers, cleanliness had to be maintained.

When the keeper has completed his routine duties, he is at liberty to spend his leisure according to his inclinations. As a rule the men turn these periods to advantage. Reading is a popular recreation, and the authorities maintain a circulating library, the books being changed with every relief. But the men could accept twice as much literature as is available at present. Here a word should be said concerning the Lighthouse Literature Mission and its work, which is international. The idea was conceived by Mr. Samuel H. Strain, and the work is conducted from Belfast, Ireland. The most conspicuous feature of this organization is that every penny received is turned to good and useful purpose in connection with the object. The founder conducts it without monetary reward, so that the item of “operating” charges does not swamp the greater proportion of receipts, as is the case with so many so-called missions in other fields. There are few organizations which are so deserving of financial support, because this mission brings welcome relaxation to a hard-worked community whose vigil secures the safety of those who travel on the sea. The labours of Mr. Strain are highly appreciated by those who keep watch and ward in seagirt prisons, and the mission deserves far stauncher support from the philanthropic than it receives at present. Sympathizers with the loneliness of the lighthouse-keeper are prone to think that these men are in dire need of spiritual pabulum, and are apt to send literature of an emphatic goody-goody nature. But the keeper of the light is as human as the clerk in the city. He is so accustomed to the company of Nature, and has cultivated such a deep respect for the Master of the Universe during his spells of duty, that he welcomes a diversion therefrom in his hours of leisure. A humorous paper is more welcome than a tract on the evils of drink.

When the weather is favourable the men seek a little relaxation in fishing, but here again they have to suffer considerable denial, as the tackle invariably becomes inextricably entangled with the rocks, so that the losses exceed the prizes. In the United States the greater number of the keepers maintain a garden well stocked with vegetables and flowers. The tending of these charges carries the minds of the men from their work completely, and for the opportunity to practise this hobby they are indebted to the kindness of the Government, which supplies seeds free of charge.

It is when the gale is raging tumultuously that the men in the tower are compelled to realize their position. The waves pound the rock and building so ceaselessly and relentlessly that the latter trembles and shakes like a leaf. At times the din is so deafening that the men cannot converse; they are compelled to communicate with each other by signs. The waves pick up stones and hurl them with terrific force against the lantern. Occasionally the elements triumph in their assault, and the missiles shatter the glass. To step out on the gallery in the teeth of a blizzard to clear the snow away demands no little courage. As the man emerges upon the narrow platform, he is engulfed in the swirling flakes, and often is pinned against the masonry so tightly by the wind that he cannot move a limb; at other times he is swept almost off his feet. While engaged in his freezing task, he also runs the risk of being drenched by a rising comber.

The men on the lonely, exposed Tillamook Rock, off the Oregon coast, have had more than one occasion to respect the storm-fiend. One night, while a fearful gale was raging, a huge mass of rock was torn away from the islet, snatched by the waves, and thrown high into the air. It fell with terrific force upon the dome of the lantern, splintering the roof and smashing the light, so that no welcome rays could be thrown from the tower again that night. The keepers at once set to work with the fog-signal, and during the hours of darkness worked like slaves, blaring out a warning by sound which they were unable to give visually.

Fortunately, such an experience as befell the keepers of the American Thimble Shoal light is very rare. This beacon marks the shoal of that name, and is, or rather was, a screw-pile iron lighthouse, marking 11 feet of water at the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, Virginia, U.S.A. On December 27, 1909, the keepers were immersed in their tasks, when there was a terrible crash followed by a dismal rending and splitting. The building shivered from top to bottom. The keepers were thrown off their feet, and when they regained their wits they found that the schooner Malcolm Baxter Junior, while being towed by a tug, had blundered into them, and had carried a considerable portion of the building away. The impact upset the light; the scattered oil burst into flame, and within a few minutes the lighthouse was blazing like a gigantic bonfire. The keepers stuck to their posts, and endeavoured frantically to extinguish the outbreak, but their efforts were too puny to make any impression. At last, when a foothold was no longer possible with safety, and under extreme pressure, they abandoned their charge. When the flames had completed their destructive work the lighthouse presented a sorry sight, being a mass of broken and twisted ironwork. A wooden tower was erected with all despatch, and a fog-signal was installed, so that the men could carry on their duties while the reconstruction of the station was hurried forward.

The keepers turn their hands to strange occupations. Fretwork, wood-carving, poker-work, and similar hobbies, are practised freely. A few devote their leisure to intellectual improvement to fit them for other walks in life. The keeper of Windward Point, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, devoted his energies to studying, and obtaining diplomas in, mechano-therapy and suggestive therapeutics, as well as becoming proficient in Esperanto. The keepers of two other American lights set themselves to the mastery of jurisprudence, and in due course resigned their positions and rented offices in the city, where in the course of a few years they built up very remunerative legal practices. As a rule the lighthouse-keeper is an expert handy-man, as he is compelled to complete a whole list of duties in addition to maintaining the lights. In the summer the metal and wooden lights have to be given a coat of paint, while plumbing and other displays of skill in metal have to be carried out, even if only temporarily.

The calling is exceedingly healthy, which accounts for the immunity from illness which these men enjoy. Also, as a rule, the land-lights are set amidst wild romantic surroundings. Some years ago a number of American families, in the search for a quiet, health-restoring rest, were in the habit of spending their vacations at lighthouses, to the financial profit of the keepers. Eventually, however, the authorities, fearing that the keeper might be distracted from his duties, issued a summary order forbidding this practice, much to the disgust of the men, and “attractive lighthouse apartments” became a thing of the past. In Great Britain an order was issued that “no ale or other intoxicating liquor be allowed to be sold in any lighthouse.” The precise reason for this strange ordinance is not quite clear, but it is significant to note that it came into force immediately after the disastrous fire at the Leasowe lighthouse, on the Wirral shore.

The lighthouse invariably is an object of attraction among the general public, but this interest seldom goes to the length narrated by a keeper of one of the West Indian lights. One night two of the men at this particular station decided to hunt for red crabs on the beach below. They started off with a hurricane lamp, but were astonished, when they gained the foreshore, to see a large sloop hard and fast on the reef, although the night was beautifully clear and the light was burning brilliantly. With much effort the keepers got out their dory, put off to the wreck, and endeavoured to get the sloop out of her uncomfortable position, but, finding her too well fixed, took off the passengers. The survivors were housed in the keepers’ quarters until next morning, when they were succoured. The head-keeper asked the captain how he managed to get into such a position, and to his surprise learned that, as the passengers were anxious to obtain a clear close view of the light, the master had stood inshore, not knowing that the reef over which vigil was mounted ran out far into the water. That navigator paid dearly for his attempt to satisfy curiosity. His sloop broke up, since she was impaled too firmly to be salvaged.

It is not often that the utter loneliness and monotony of the daily round unhinges a keeper’s mind, but this awful fate overtook the warden of a somewhat isolated American light. The man had served with Admiral Dewey off Manila, and upon his return home the Government placed him in charge of a station as an occupation for the evening of his life, and as a recompense for faithful service. He settled down with his wife and family, but the isolation soon began to affect his brain. For days he would absent himself from the light, which would soon have failed had it not been for the unswerving devotion of his wife and the assistance of one of two friends living in the locality. They spared no effort to keep the beacon burning, lest the authorities might hear about the keeper’s strange behaviour, and deprive him of his charge, and, incidentally, of his livelihood. In due course the incident did reach the authorities, and, not knowing what was the matter with the man, they took action accordingly. As the keeper entered the station after one of his inexplicable expeditions of a fortnight’s duration, he was arrested for desertion. He was examined promptly by two doctors, who found him hopelessly insane, and was incarcerated in an asylum, where in the course of a few days he became a raving lunatic.

Often the keepers, although only condemned to imprisonment for a certain period at a time, have to tolerate a longer stay, owing to the relief-boat being unable to approach them. In some instances the delay may run into five weeks or more. During the winter the relief of the Eddystone, Longships, Wolf, Fastnet, Skerryvore, and Dhu-Heartach lights is always a matter of extreme uncertainty. Although the men have to provide themselves with supplies, a reserve is maintained at the station by the authorities for such emergencies. Even some of the land stations are not approachable readily. There is the Punta Gorda light-station on the Californian coast, the situation of which is wild and forbidding. There is a landing about eight miles above the station, but it is extremely precarious. Still, unless a certain element of risk is accepted in coming ashore here, it is necessary to face a tramp or stage journey of nearly fifty miles across country in order to gain the lighthouse.

The lighthouses in the Red Sea are, perhaps, among the most unenviable and trying in the world. This stretch of water, lying between two blistered coasts of sand, is no more or less than an oven, where even the strongest constitution finds it difficult to hold out for long. Moreover, the absence of civilization, owing to the extreme aridity of the country, renders the life exceptionally depressing. In the summer the heat is wellnigh intolerable. The thermometer hovers between 95° and 110° F. in the shade throughout the twenty-four hours, so that night brings no relief to the oppressiveness.

At some of the stations the men seek a little diversion, and incidentally add occasionally to their pocket-money, by shark-catching, which is a tolerably profitable pursuit, since these waters are thickly infested with this fish. The jawbone and backbone invariably find ready purchasers, the former being mounted as a curiosity, while the backbone forms a novel and serviceable walking-stick.

One method of trapping these monsters which affords keen delight was related to me. The requirements are an electric battery, some rope, a few feet of electric wire, a cartridge, and an empty box, with a chunk or two of bad meat. The cartridge is fitted with an electric primer, the wire of which stretches to the battery. This cartridge is buried in a hunk of meat, the whole being dangled from a box—an empty cask is better—which serves as a float, while a rope is stretched from the box to the shore, with the electric wire spirally wound round it. A short length of chain is preferable, if available, to attach the bait to the float, but a short piece of rope will do. This novel line is thrown into the water, and the man keeps his eye on the float, with one finger on the battery. The hungry shark, espying the tempting morsel, makes a grab and swallows it, but the chain prevents him tearing away with it. The pull causes the float to disappear, the man’s finger presses the button, and the trick is done. There is an explosion, and pieces of shark and showers of water fly into the air. The incident is all over too quickly for the fish to marvel about the strange indigestibility of the tainted meat he grabbed so greedily. The men enjoy this sport hugely when it can be followed, as they regard the shark with intense detestation.

Despite the vigilance of the various Powers, slave-running is still a lucrative business on these forbidding coasts. Now and again a forced labourer gets away from his taskmaster, and comes panting into the lighthouse territory. This is sanctuary to the hapless wretch, and although the keepers invariably receive a call from the runaway’s master, he meets with scant courtesy, while his demand for the surrender of the fugitive is answered by a point-blank refusal. The slave-driver may storm, threaten, and abuse, to his heart’s content, and, as he is generally a past-master in Arabian invective, the keepers have to listen to a pretty tune. But the slave is kept in the lighthouse until the relief-tender makes its periodical call, when he is taken back to Suez and liberated.

Fortunately, owing to the extreme care that is manifested by the authorities, mishaps at a lighthouse are few and far between. The men are supplied with rules and regulations which are drawn up with an eye for every possible emergency. Yet accidents will happen, due in the majority of instances to familiarity bred of contempt. The majority of these calamities occur in connection with the explosive fog-signalling apparatus, although every device is adopted to safeguard the men. At one of the Scottish stations a keeper was manipulating the fog-signal, but, flying in the face of instructions, he caused the charge to explode prematurely. The man escaped injury, but the detonation shattered several panes of glass in the lantern.

One of the keepers of the Rathlin light, on Altacarry Head, was not so fortunate. The White Star Canadian liner Megantic was rounding the corner of Ireland to enter the last lap of the homeward journey one Saturday evening, when the captain’s attention was arrested by a signal of distress flying from the lighthouse. The interpretation of the signal revealed the fact that a doctor was wanted, so, easing up the ship, he lowered a boat, and the doctor was sent away to the island. Upon landing he found one of the men in dire straits. He had been cleaning the fog-gun, when a charge, which had been left in the weapon inadvertently upon the last occasion it was used, exploded. The man’s arm had been wrenched off, and he was burned terribly. It was a stroke of luck that the liner hove in sight at the moment she did. There was no chance of extending succour to the injured man on the spot, and he would have died before a doctor could have been summoned by boat from Ballycastle, nine miles away. The surgeon bound up the man’s injuries, lowered him into his boat, and, on regaining the liner, placed him in the hospital, where he was tended until the vessel’s arrival in Liverpool, where he was landed and placed in hospital.

More remarkable was the accident which happened at the Flannen Islands light-station in 1900; it remains an unsolved mystery to this day. This is one of Scotland’s lonely lights, mounting guard over a group of islets fifteen miles off the Hebrides. On December 26 the relief-tender approached the station on her usual fortnightly visit, but, to the amazement of those on board, no signs of the keepers or the usual signals were to be seen, while the lantern was not dressed in its daylight garb. The crew landed hurriedly, wondering what was amiss. They found the lighthouse absolutely deserted; not a sign of any of the three keepers was to be seen or heard. They examined the log, and found that the light had not been burning for some days, the last entry being made about 4 a.m. nearly a week previously. The rock was searched, but yielded no clue to the mystery of the complete disappearance of the men. The light had not been abandoned; it had simply burned itself out. It was a fortunate circumstance that very little shipping frequents these seas during the winter, or there would have been one or two marine disasters, as the islands are often wrapped in fog.

It is surmised that one of the men ventured outside on to a rocky ledge in the early hours of the morning. According to the log, a vicious storm was raging at the time, and probably in the darkness the man was swept off his feet and carried into the sea. The second keeper on duty, marvelling at the non-return of his assistant, evidently had roused his other companion, and the two had instituted a search in the storm, only in turn to be caught by a wave and carried away.

In Great Britain, since 1860, men only have been employed by the Trinity House Brethren for the maintenance of the lights, but in the United States women still are engaged in this duty. Some of the British lights have been controlled by one family through two or three generations. It was only a few years ago that a Darling retired from the vigil on the Longstones of Farne Islands, the scene of Grace Darling’s heroism, while for a century and a half one family kept the South Foreland light faithfully. The Casquets light off Alderney, in the Channel Islands, was maintained by one family, some of the children spending the whole of their lives on the rock, son succeeding father at the post of duty.

On the American coast, however, women are more extensively employed. Seeing that many of the lights are burned in a low tower projecting from the dwelling-house, this circumstance may be readily understood, as the duties beyond the maintenance of the light are not exacting. One of the most notable instances, however, is the Point Pino light at the entrance to Monterey Bay, on the Californian coast, the guardianship of which has been in feminine hands for the past thirty years. For something approaching half a century a woman maintained the Michigan City harbour light on the Great Lake of that name. Indeed, the associations were so deep-rooted and long that the beacon became popularly known as “Miss Colfax’s light,” after the name of its keeper. Even when she attained the age of eighty years she was as active and attentive to her charge as on the day, in 1861, when she first assumed responsibility for its safe-keeping.

In those times there was a beacon established on the end of the wooden pier, which railed off an area of the restless lake for the purposes of the inland port. Those were strenuous days. Her home was on shore, and every night and morning she tramped the long arm of woodwork to light and extinguish the lamp. Lard-oil was used, and during the winter the food for the lamp had to be heated to bring it into a fluid condition before she set out from home. It was no easy matter struggling along on a blusterous, gusty evening, with a pail of hot oil in one hand and a lamp in the other, over a narrow plank. Often, when a gale was raging, progress was so slow that by the time the beacon was reached the oil had cooled and congealed, rendering it a difficult matter to induce the lamp to burn. Once set going, however, it was safe for the night, as the heat radiated from the burner kept the lard melted. In addition to this lamp, there was another light in the tower projecting from the roof of her house, which had to be maintained, and this, being the main light, was the more important of the two.

In 1886 the pier tower was taken out of her hands for ever. A furious gale, such as is peculiar to these inland seas, and which cannot be rivalled on the ocean for fury, was raging. At dusk she started on her usual journey. Time after time she was wellnigh swept off her feet, so that she staggered rather than walked, for the spray and sand flecking her face nearly blinded her. When she gained the tower she paused, and observed that it was trembling violently. Undismayed, she ascended, lit the light, and tramped back to the shore. Scarcely had she gained the mainland, when, glancing seawards, she saw the light sway from side to side for a second or two, and then make a dive into the water. A few moments later a crash reverberated above the noise of the storm: the decrepit pier had succumbed at last. Hers was a lucky escape, but she hurried home, and sat by the main light gleaming from her roof all that night, apprehensive that some vessel might endeavour to make the harbour and come to grief. When the pier was rebuilt, a new beacon was placed on its extremity, but its upkeep was taken over by the harbour authorities, leaving only the shore light in the trusty woman’s keeping, the wicks of which for over forty years were trimmed and lit at dusk, and extinguished with the dawn, with her own hands.

During the migratory season of the birds extraordinary sights are witnessed around the light at night. The brilliant glare attracts enormous flocks, which flit to and fro. As the monster flaming spoke swings round, the birds, evidently blinded by the glare, dash with such fury against the glass panes of the lantern as to flutter to the floor of the gallery with broken necks and wings, while large numbers, dazed or killed, fall into the water. The birds are of all species, and at times may be picked up by the basketful. Then the light-keepers are able to secure a welcome change in their dietary. Moths, too, often hover in clouds round the light, and are of such variety that an hour on the gallery would bring infinite delight and rich harvests to the youthful entomologist who has to be content to hunt around electric lamps in quiet streets at night.

While the lamp is burning, time cannot drag, owing to the multitude of details which compel the keeper’s constant attention. The official log has to be kept posted with a host of facts, such as temperature, barometric readings, weather conditions as they vary from hour to hour, behaviour of the lamps, etc.; while, when the lighthouse is a marine signal-station as well, passing ships have to be signalled and reported. The spell of labour varies from four to five hours or more. Obviously, the task is more exacting and arduous in the winter than in summer. During the former season the lamps have to be lighted as early as 3.15 p.m., and are not extinguished until eight o’clock the next morning. In the summer, on the other hand, the lamps may be required for less than six hours or so. In northern latitudes where the daylight is continuous owing to the midnight sun, the light scarcely seems necessary. Yet it is kept burning during the scheduled hours of darkness.

Thus, night in and night out the whole year round, a comparatively small band of faithful toilers keeps alert vigil over the dangers of the deep, for the benefit of those who “go down to the sea in ships, and do their business in great waters.” The safety of thousands of human lives and of millions sterling of merchandise is vested in their keeping. The resources of the shipbuilder, the staunchness of the ship, the skill and knowledge of the captain—all would count for nothing were it not for the persistent, steady glare of the fixed, the twinkling of the occulting, or the rhythmic, monotonous turning spokes of the revolving light, thrown over the waste of waters from the lighthouse and the lightship.