THE STORY OF THE EDDYSTONE—THE GUILDHALL—ST. ANDREW’S
Excursion steamers in summer take thousands of visitors from the Hoe
Pier out to the Eddystone, and so in many minds renew the moving story
of that fatal reef. The existing lighthouse is the fourth to be built in
this terrible isolation, whose loneliness appeals more to the imagination
when viewing the solitary tower in the hazy distance, from the Hoe, than
when it is seen at close quarters. At a distance its puny proportions in
relation to the surrounding leagues of restless sea are realised with a
shudder at the temerity of its builders, but near at hand the massive
character of its masonry is the first thing to attract attention. If
the daring of modern engineers inspires respect, what should be those
emotions with which we look back upon the first audacious attempts to
rear a lighthouse upon the tiny foothold of the exposed Eddystone, so far
back as 1696?
It was early in 1665 that the first proposal for lighting this dangerous
reef, full in the course of ships passing up or down Channel, was made;
Sir John Coryton and one Henry Brouncker petitioning the Duke of
York, the then Lord High Admiral, for permission to build a number of
lighthouses, and, incidentally, one on the Eddystone. This proposal,
referred to the Trinity House, was eventually reduced to a scheme for the
Eddystone only, and the projectors, who were not proposing to benefit
mankind without a good profit for themselves, were to be recouped their
outlay by a charge of 2_d._ a ton on foreign shipping entering West
Country ports: English vessels to be free of charge.
Nothing more was ever heard of this early project, but in 1692 one Walter
Whitfield made a bid for a patent from the Trinity House, by which he was
to be authorised, at his own risk, to build a lighthouse, to reap the
entire profits for a term of three years, and one-half for the next fifty
years: the undertaking then to revert to the Trinity House. A patent was
granted on these terms in 1694, but no works were initiated, and even
when a revised agreement was made in 1696, it was not Whitfield, but
Winstanley, who designed and built the first Eddystone Lighthouse. Under
this compact the projector’s term of full profits was extended from three
to five years.
[Illustration: WINSTANLEY’S EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE.]
Henry Winstanley was a singular genius: very much of an artist,
something, but not much, of an engineer, and a wholly sanguine person. He
commenced operations on the rock on July 14th, 1696, his workmen being
occupied all that summer in drilling holes and fixing the iron stanchions
that were to support his building. Sometimes he and his men slept on
the rock itself, on other occasions they were rowed at nightfall to the
guardship _Terrible_, which, lent by the Admiralty, stood off and on
all day. In June 1697, the commander of this ship, one Commissioner St.
Loe, thought well to go off upon a wholly unauthorised cruise for nearly
a week, and in the meanwhile a French privateer pounced upon Winstanley
and his men, took Winstanley prisoner and, taking away the last stitch
of the workmen’s clothing, turned them adrift in their boat. To the
credit of the French government, Winstanley was speedily released, and
the too zealous captain of the privateer seems to have been reprimanded
for excess of zeal; while St. Loe was peremptorily asked by the Admiralty
for an explanation of his conduct. In the midsummer of 1698 Winstanley’s
lighthouse was completed and on November 14th, shed the first warning
gleam across the waters. It was a remarkable structure. Rising to a
height of about eighty feet to its weather-vane, it was fantastic in
outline, beautiful in colour and gilding, and adorned with devices of
the sun in splendour and the imposing inscriptions, “_Pax in terra. Post
tenebras lux. Glory be to God._” It was rather more picturesque than even
a Chinese pagoda, and offered so many angles of resistance to the wind
that we can only marvel how the elements in those four years allowed him
to complete it, and then suffered it to remain another three years. If
picturesque beauty were the sole consideration in lighthouse-building
this mingled stone and timber tower with its strange suggestions of
Wren’s City of London church steeples and the “Queen Anne” architecture
of Bedford Park, was surely the finest lighthouse ever built. It
proclaims itself in every circumstance the work of an artist, and was
to its smallest detail unpractical. Winstanley even provided a highly
picturesque means of defence against an enemy: a contrivance in an upper
gallery that would drop heavy stones upon his boats; and he designed an
elaborate room, from which, in the picture, you see him fishing, and
apparently trying to hook one of the boat’s crew pushing off from the
rock.
Many of these ornate features were found to be hazardous; the tower
itself was not sufficiently lofty, and alterations were made in 1699,
by which its height was increased to 120 feet. Remodelled, it was, in
Winstanley’s own opinion, as safe as any castle ashore, and he expressed
himself as only too eager to be in his lighthouse when the worst storm
ever known was blowing. On November 26th, 1703, he had his wish. He put
off from the Barbican at Plymouth for the Eddystone on the afternoon
of that day, when all the signs pointed to an unprecedented tempest.
That night was the night of the famous storm that levelled uncounted
trees, unroofed and wrecked many mansions, and sunk fleets of shipping.
Henry Winstanley was born at Littlebury, near Saffron Walden, but he
is not buried there, for on that night he and his lighthouse and the
lighthouse-keepers perished together. When morning dawned the rock was
bare, except for one surviving link of iron chain. Winstanley’s project
had lost considerably more than £3,000, and his widow was reduced to
seeking a pension from the Government; but a singular fascination seems
to have impelled private persons to risk their all in a work that should
have been the sole concern of the Trinity House. A certain John Lovett,
merchant, of London, was the next to enter this, as a commercial project,
and the designer of his lighthouse was Rudyerd, a Ludgate Hill silk
mercer. He began work in 1706, and by 1709 had completed a wooden tower,
which lasted nearly fifty years, and was then destroyed by fire, December
2nd, 1755. There were three keepers. Their efforts at subduing the
flames were useless, the molten lead from the roof driving them into the
crannies of the rock; where they went through such terrors of exposure
to the cold and the waves on the one hand, and the cascades of melted
lead on the other that one, raving mad, plunged to death in the sea. Two
actually survived the occasion, but one of these was thought a lunatic
by the rescuing party. He declared that while he stood looking up at the
flames, some molten lead had run down his throat. In the course of twelve
days he died, and his incredible story was proved by nearly eight ounces
of lead being found in his stomach. Incidentally, Lovett was ruined.
[Illustration: EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE.]
The third lighthouse was begun by the mortgagees of Lovett’s estate, in
June 1757. This was the famous stone structure designed and built by
Smeaton. Although the building was hindered by Smeaton’s men being every
now and again seized by the Press Gang, it was completed in October 1759,
and would probably still be standing except for the curious fact that the
rock it stood upon was showing signs of weakness. In 1807 the building
lease lapsed and the lighthouse became the property of the Trinity
House, when the tallow candles, which, up to that time had been the
sole illuminant, were exchanged for oil. A newer building, the existing
lighthouse, was decided upon in 1877, and built on an adjoining reef.
Begun in 1879, it was completed in 1882. It is circular, constructed of
Cornish granite, and rises to a height of 130 feet.
The streets of Plymouth and its sister towns are a good deal more crowded
than even those of London. It is among the busiest of places, and with
its vast naval dockyards at Devonport and Keyham, its military interests,
and its great commercial importance, is in a good many districts grim
and unlovely. The centre of Plymouth—the municipal centre—is, however,
strikingly beautiful, and is the outcome of a movement dating from
about 1867, having for its object the creation of a group of municipal
buildings worthy of a place with so long and stirring a history. What
the old Guildhall was like may still be seen, for it survives in the
dirty, dark and inconvenient building thought good enough for the Public
Library, though not for the town Councillors. It was a worthy and
brilliant idea to build a new group of Guildhall and offices for the
governance of the town; a majestic group that should harmonise with the
ancient Gothic church of St. Andrew, and form with it three sides of a
spacious square. The opening of the Guildhall took place in 1874, when
the then Prince of Wales performed the ceremony. The Great Hall, used for
concerts and public functions, is a noble building, with fine hammerbeam
roof, and an excellent range of beautiful stained-glass windows,
recounting in spirited and well-coloured designs the Departure from
Plymouth for France of the Black Prince, in 1355; the Breton raid upon
the town in 1404; the enquiry at Plympton Priory as to the incorporation
of Plymouth, 1440; the Landing of Katharine of Aragon, 1501; Captain
Fleming announcing the Armada in sight, 1588; Drake inaugurating
the Water Supply, 1592; the Arrest of Raleigh, 1618; Sailing of the
_Mayflower_, 1620; Final Repulse of the Royalists from the town, 1643;
Proclamation of William of Orange as King of England 1688; Cookworthy
and the Plymouth Club House, 1772; and Napoleon on the _Bellerophon_ at
Plymouth, 1815.
[Illustration: GUILDHALL SQUARE, PLYMOUTH.]
The series ends with a window representing the opening of the Guildhall
itself, August 15th, 1874, by the Prince of Wales, who is shown in
stained-glass, taking part in the ceremony attired in conventional
silk hat, frock coat, and lavender-coloured trousers. It is a weird
and uncanny use for stained-glass, and the thing is not less grotesque
because it thus perpetuates what now seems the ridiculous fashion in
hats, coats, and trousers obtaining in 1874. The Prince is shown holding
a wand, symbol of his then honorary office of High Steward of the borough
of Plymouth; within the other hand the key used for the opening. In the
background of this highly remarkable work of art, which would certainly
astonish the mediæval craftsmen, could they return and see it, are
represented those who strutted their little parts on the local stage in
that day. They are duly pictured in their robes as Town Councillors,
and are happier in that fact than the Prince is in his everyday gear.
Prominent among them you see a face like a Dutch cheese with whiskers;
probably intended for the mayor.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE OF WALES IN STAINED GLASS.]
St. Andrew’s Church is a striking feature in this group of municipal
buildings. It “suggested” the group: it was the keynote whence this
architectural symphony was developed, and in the continual modernising of
Plymouth, it remains one of the very few old, and characteristic Devonian
buildings in the Three Towns. The tower, built in 1460, is the latest
part of the church.
An odd punning epitaph within is worthy a note. It is to the memory of
one “Mrs. Mary Sparke,” whose light was quenched in 1665:—
“Life’s but a Sparke, a weake uncertaine breath,
No sooner kindled but puft out by Death.
Such was my Name, my frame, my fate, yet I,
Am still a living Sparke, though thus I dye,
And shine in Heaven’s orbe, a Star most bright,
Though Death on Earth so soone Eclipst my light.”
Plymouth’s other old church—although not so very old—has a romantic
story. It is one of the four churches in England dedicated to “King
Charles the Martyr.” Begun in the reign of Charles the First, it was
abandoned during the troubles that led to the execution of the king, and
was completed and dedicated in 1664.