_VISITORS._
Into the kitchen of the old lighthouse they came trooping the next
day--Annie Fletcher, with all her winning vivacity; Jimmy Davis and his
sister Belle, Dab and John Richards, and May Tolman, with her black,
lustrous eyes, in which diamonds seemed to be dissolving continually (so
Dave thought). May Tolman was the light-keeper's granddaughter. Then
there was Mr. James Tolman, who came as skipper of the sail-boat
bringing the party. Dave and Bart joined them at the door of the
fog-signal tower; and to what a scampering, laughing, singing, and
shouting did the gray stone walls listen as this flock of young people
hurried in! Behind all was the gray-haired keeper; but no heart was
lighter than his that day. Unobserved he went to a window through which
blew the cool, sweet, strong air from the sea, and he silently thanked
God for the gift of youth renewed that day in his own soul and lifting
him on wings, so that he too wanted to sing and shout, to race up and
down the iron stairs, to clap his hands jubilantly, as from the parapet
around the lantern he saw the breakers foam below and the white
sea-gulls soar up and then down on strong, steady wing.
"Yes, bless God, I am still young--and ever shall be," thought the old
light-keeper. Ah, he had renewed his youth long ago at the fountains of
spiritual life, in the drinking of whose waters the soul becomes
perennial in a new sense.
"Now, what shall I do for all these young folks?" he said to himself.
"I will certainly do whatever I can."
He showed them the lighthouse from storeroom to lantern, and then he
carried them into the engine-room of the fog-signal tower and explained
all the machinery there.
"_If_--if--we could only hear one toot!" exclaimed Annie Fletcher.
"Maybe the fog will come," replied Toby Tolman.
"Oh, if it would!" said Annie; and--it didn't.
"Too bad," everybody said.
"What else can I do?" wondered the light-keeper. Dave reminded him of
one thing.
"Oh yes," the keeper replied. "Well, get them all together in the
kitchen."
There clustered, the keeper told them, if they would excuse it, he would
by request read them something about lighthouses.
"Don't expect much, though," he warned them, as he lifted his spectacles
and adjusted them to his sight. "I have written this off at different
times, perhaps in the evening when I have been watching, or in a storm
when I could catch a little rest from work, or when I felt a bit lonely
and wanted something to occupy me. I won't read all I have got, only
what I think will interest. I first speak of ancient lighthouses."
Hemming vigorously several times, blushing modestly behind his
spectacles in the consciousness that the world was summoning him forth
to be a lecturer, he then began:--
"I suppose the first lighthouses were very simple--that is, they were
not lighthouses at all, but men just built big fires and kept them
burning at points along an ugly shore, or to show where a harbour was.
Not long ago I was looking at a picture of a lighthouse doing work in
our day and generation in Eastern Asia. It looked like a structure of
wood. It probably had on top a hearth of some kind of earth, for there
a fire was burning away. Not far off was the water. That looked
primitive.
"If one turns to Rollin's 'Ancient History,' he will find in the first
volume an interesting account of an old lighthouse, and it was so
wonderful they called it one of the seven wonders of the world. It was
built by order of Ptolemy Philadelphus, and he laid out eight hundred
talents on it. One estimate of the value of this sum would bring it
pretty well up to L180,000. As it stood on an island called Pharos,
near Alexandria, the tower had the name of the island. That has given a
name to like towers. In French, I am told, the word _phare_ means
'lighthouse.' In Spanish, _faro_ means 'lighthouse.' In English, too,
when we say a pharos, we know, or ought to know, what it means. I can
see how useful this old lighthouse may have been. On its top a fire was
kindled. Alexandria was in Egypt, and the city is standing to-day, as
we all know. It had at that time a very extensive trade, and as the
sea-coast there is a dangerous one, it was very important that the ships
should have some guide at night. I can seem to see the old craft of
those days plodding along, the sailors wondering which way to go, when
lo, on Pharos's lofty tower blazes a fire to tell them their course.
"The architect of this tower was Sostratus, and there was an inscription
on the tower said to have read this way: 'Sostratus, the Cnidian, son of
Dexiphanes, to the protecting deities, for the use of sea-faring
people.' His master, Ptolemy Philadelphus, was thought to have been
very generous because he allowed the putting of Sostratus's name in
place of his own. But Sostratus's name seems to have been put there by
a trick, and it was finally found out. Sostratus cut in the marble this
inscription that had his name; but what did he do but cover it with
plaster! In the lime he traced the name of the king. How pleased
Ptolemy must have been to see his name there! The lime, though, crumbled
finally, and the king's name crumbled with it, and the tricky
architect's inscription came out into notice. This lighthouse was built
about three hundred years before Christ.
"In later years the tower of Dover Castle was used as a lighthouse. It
was called Caesar's Altar. Great fires of logs were kept burning on the
top. This was before the time of the Conquest, so called in English
history. Then at the end of the sixteenth century a famous lighthouse a
hundred and ninety-seven feet high was built at the mouth of the Garonne
in France.
"About fourteen miles off Plymouth are the Eddystone Rocks. They are
very much exposed to south-western seas. One light-builder was
Winstanley, and he was at his work four seasons, finishing in 1698. The
lighthouse was eighty feet high. Made stouter and carried higher
afterward, it was almost a hundred and twenty feet high. It stood until
November 20, 1703. A very fierce blow of wind occurred then, and the
tower was wrecked by the storm. Two grave mistakes were made. Its
shape was a polygon, and not circular. Waves like to have corners to
butt against, and these should therefore be avoided. It was highly
ornamented for a lighthouse, and ornaments are what winds and waves are
fond of. It gives them a chance to get a good grip on a building and
bring it down.--In 1706 one Rudyerd thought he would try his hand, and
he did much better. The tower was built principally of oak; yet when
finished it stood for forty-six years, fire bringing it down in 1755.
Its form commended it, for it was like the frustum of a cone, circular,
and was without fancy work for the waves to take hold of.--In 1756
Smeaton began to build at Eddystone his famous tower. He was the first
engineer who built a sea-tower of masonry and dovetailed the joints.
The stones averaged a ton in weight. He reduced the diameter of the
tower at a small height above the rock. He reasoned about the
resemblance of a tower exposed to the surf and an oak tree that faces
the wind. That has been shown not to be good reasoning; and looking at
the shape of his tower, I should say the idea would not stand fire--or
in this case water; for if at a small distance above the rock you reduce
the diameter of the tower very much, it gives the waves a good chance to
crowd down on the sides of the tower. However, Smeaton's tower stood a
good many years. Its very weight enabled it to offer great resistance
to the waves, and weight is one thing we must secure hi a tower,
avoiding ornament and all silly gingerbread work. In 1882 a new tower
was built in place of Smeaton's."
The light-keeper then gave some details of our lighthouse service. His
paper deeply interested his auditors.
Subsequently Annie Fletcher asked, "What is that ringing like the sound
of a little church-bell?"
"Then your ears were quick enough to catch it?" replied the keeper.
"The window, too, is up, and so you could hear it. That is a bell-buoy
at a bad ledge off in the sea."
"A bell-buoy?" asked Annie.
"Yes. It is a frame from whose top is suspended a bell. The bell is
fixed, while the tongue, of course, is movable. The buoy floats on the
water--fastened, you know, to the rocks beneath; and as the waves move
the buoy the bell moves with it, and rings also--like a cradle rocking!"
"The buoy is the cradle, and the bell is the baby in it," suggested
Dave.
"And waves are the mother's hand rocking the cradle," added May Tolman.
"Mother's hand--that is, the ocean--is pretty rough out there
sometimes," said the light-keeper. "In a storm, when the wind brings
the sound this way, the baby cries pretty loud."
"It squalls," declared Dave.
"I'd like to see that bell-buoy," said Johnny Richards.
"Should you?" replied the keeper. "Well, the sea is smooth, and we can
all go easily in two boats.--James, you manage one, and I'll cap'n the
other. It won't take more than twenty minutes to row there."
The two boats now commenced their journey.
The two boats from the lighthouse were quickly at the bell-buoy. It was
a bell hung in a frame, which was swung by the waves. It was an object
of deep interest to the visitors, and they lingered about it, and then
rowed back to the lighthouse.