Light-houses, beacons, warning-bells, and the like, are among the most
indispensable adjuncts of maritime conveyance; without them, indeed, it
would be utterly impossible to conduct it with anything like regularity
or safety; and if there be one thing more than another that has given me
pleasure while writing these pages, it is that of recording _three
light-houses_ (viz., South Stack, Skerries, and Holyhead) connected with
the thriving Port of Holyhead. If it would not be deemed too figurative
and fanciful, I should denominate these light-houses—BRILLIANT EYES
LOOKING OUT FOR THE RETURN OF THE WEATHER-BEATEN SONS OF THE OCEAN. What
vast improvements have been made in this, as well as in other departments
of nautical affairs! Humanity, as well as interest, led to the adoption
of light-houses, both as beacons and guides; and it speaks well for the
sympathy and benevolence of Britons that there are on and about the
British coasts upwards of 200 light-houses, which are classed as “harbour
lights” and “general lights.”
The first attempts were rude; common fires, first of wood, and then of
coals, were originally used to furnish light. A coal fire was employed
for this purpose in the Isle of Man for 180 years (as late as the year
1816). Tallow candles succeeded;—candles fastened on wooden rods were
burnt in the Eddystone light-house for 40 years after it was completed by
Smeaton; then came lamps with twisted cotton wicks. The glimmering lamps
of by-gone days have disappeared, and are superseded by Argand lamps,
with lenses and reflecting prisms. The hand of science has extinguished
the faint splendours of the last century, and lighted up midnight suns,
fixing them in their furbished orbits, on elegant structures, high in
aerial heaven, whose reflected rays mingle together, so as to form one
concentrated blaze of light, intense and beautiful, illuminating and
adorning the shore and rock.
One of the most remarkable light-houses in England is the Eddystone,
erected on a solitary rock, opposite the coast of Plymouth: it has
withstood many a terrific tempest, and appears likely to stand firm amid
the elemental wars for years to come. Not unfrequently, at the mouth of
harbours, as at Harwich, two light-houses are erected, one more elevated
than the other; one to guide the vessels in their approach to the coast,
and the other to direct them in their entrance to the harbour.
Not far from the room where I am now writing, break the waves of St.
George’s Channel. I hear the roar—it is, indeed, a stormy night—wild
blows the wind,—
I think of the mariner tossed on the billow,
Afar from the home of his childhood and youth;
No mother to watch o’er his sleep-broken pillow,
No father to counsel—no sister to soothe! {33}
A tide of joy rises in my soul at the thought that, close to my own door,
I can gaze upon two light-houses, one of which is, mid the foaming deep,
presenting a brilliant point of light—a distinct and striking
object—though some nine miles of waters are rolling between us. It is
the _Skerries Light-house_. I love to look at it. Its _constancy_ and
_fixedness_ interest me. No sooner are the last rays of the sun retiring
from land and sea, than the watchful keeper hastens to kindle the beacon.
If to the midnight hour I protract my musings, and cast a glance upon the
sea, there shines the light. If long before the dawn of day I have
arisen to my labours, there it still shines. The week, the month, the
year rolls round, and there is no failure. What deeply interesting facts
are announced by that brilliant light; it is as if an angel of mercy,
with a voice of thunder, stood and announced what part it was of a
dangerous coast to which the mariner was most contiguous, and in which
direction he must look for shoal and breaker. He is kindly told when
there is peril, and when safety. There is language in that radiance
which streams far forth upon the dark, deep sea. Facts of highest moment
are announced by it. The whole surrounding region of shore and sea is
suggested to the sailor by that welcome light. There it stands—a beacon
against danger, and a guide to the desired haven. For the erection and
maintenance of light-houses, a rate is levied on all vessels passing them
within certain limits, this rate varying from one farthing to one penny
per ton for each light so passed.
Let the reader picture to himself the advantage of light-houses, when the
storm is up—when the bright beacons send forth their refulgent beams
through the blackness of tempest, on the dark winter night. Who can say
how many mariners owe their lives to their friendly warnings. The
vessels that are wrecked through want of light-houses are recorded; but
there is no record of the greater number which, no doubt, light-houses
have saved. Melancholy indeed would be the consequences were all the
lighthouses to be extinguished. What would become of our ships and our
sailors? How dreary a scene would be presented,—the hope of the sailor
would be wrecked, and dismal despair would sit on the countenances of the
navigators of the sea. The swift ship approaches—the mariner looks for
the friendly beacon; but it is gone! There is no voice to announce the
presence of peril, and, for want of it, the noble vessel strikes the
rock, and all the horrors of shipwreck ensue. Shine on, thou brilliant
beacon of the perilous path of the mariner! Thou canst not rival the
bright luminary of the sky, but a noble office canst thou do for
seafaring men.
I love the light that streams afar to save
The storm-tossed seaman from the ’whelming wave;
The ocean-beacon and the river-ranger,
That lures from evil, and that warns from danger.