SOME FAMOUS LIGHTS OF ENGLAND
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.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
THE “BISHOP,” THE WESTERN OUTPOST OF ENGLAND.
This tower marks a treacherous reef, rising from the depths of the
Atlantic off the Scilly Islands. Its slim proportions are familiar to
Transatlantic passengers.]
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.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
THE WOLF ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.
One of the famous lights of England. Owing to the rocks being exposed
to the full fury of the Atlantic, its erection was attended with
prodigious difficulty.]
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.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
THE LONGSHIPS LIGHT.
In the background is the forbidding iron-bound Cornish coast, where
wrecks unfortunately are frequent.]
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.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
THE GODREVY LIGHT, SCILLY ISLANDS.
It marks a forbidding clump of rocks, landing on which is always
exciting.]
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.
[Illustration:
_By courtesy of Messrs. D. and C. Stevenson._
THE CHICKEN ROCK LIGHTHOUSE, OFF THE ISLE OF MAN.
It marks a dangerous reef. The revolving light of 143,000 candle-power
is visible for sixteen miles. Although the lantern is 143 feet above
the water, the waves frequently engulf it.]
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.
[Illustration:
_By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission._
HOW THE SKERRYVORE IS BUILT.
In the centre, a vertical section. At sides, transverse sections at
different masonry courses, showing method of laying the stones.]
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.