Grace Darling by Eva Hope (people reading books .txt) 📕

a light fixed to them, for many a noble vessel has been destroyed by running upon the perilous reef. No one, however, had the courage or the enterprise to undertake the task, until an eccentric gentleman of Littleberry, in Essex, generously came forward and offered to do it. The work of Henry Winstanley, and his end, have been so graphically and beautifully described by Jean Ingelow, that we take the liberty to transcribe part of her poem. It tells first how the loss of the "Snowdrop" troubled Winstanley:—

"'For cloth o' gold and comely frieze,'
Winstanley said, and sighed,
'For velvet coif or costly coat,
They fathoms deep may bide.

"'O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind,
O mariners bold and true;
Sorry of heart, right sorry am I;
A-thinking of yours and you.'"

The loss of the "Snowdrop" is followed by that of another ship, with contents, and then—

"'I will take horse,' Winstanley said,
'And see this deadly rock,

"'For never again shall barque o' mine
Sail over the windy sea,
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this
Be found a remedy.'"

He went to the Mayor of Plymouth—

"'Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor,
And a score of shipwrights free,
For I think to raise a lantern-tower
On this rock o' destiny.'"

"The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also,
'Ah, youth,' quoth he, 'is rash;
Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out
From the sea that doth it lash.'"

Brave Winstanley however, was resolved to try, and after tedious waiting, he commenced to work:—

"Then he and the sea began their strife,
And worked with power and might,
Whatever the men reared up by day,
The sea broke down by night.

"In fine weather, and foul weather,
The rock his arts did flout,
Through the long days, and the short days,
Till all that year ran out.

"With fine weather, and foul weather,
Another year came in:
'To take his wage,' the workmen said,
'We almost count a sin!'"

They kept on, however, and at last, some sailors who returned told a wonderful tale of a house they had seen built in the sea:—

"Then sighed the folk, 'The Lord be praised!'
And they flocked to the shore amain;
All over the Hoe, the livelong night,
Many stood out in the rain.

"It ceased, and the red sun reared his head,
And the rolling fog did flee;
And lo! in the offing faint and far,
Winstanley's house at sea!

"In fair weather, with mirth and cheer,
The stately tower uprose;
In foul weather, with hunger and cold,
They were content to close;

"Till up the stair Winstanley went,
To fire the wick afar;
And Plymouth, in the silent night,
Looked out and saw her star.

"Winstanley set his foot ashore:
Said he, 'My work is done;
I hold it strong, to last as long
As aught beneath the sun.

"'But if it fail, as fail it may,
Borne down with ruin and rout,
Another than I shall rear it high,
And brace the girders stout.

"'A better than I shall rear it high,
For now the way is plain;
And though I were dead,' Winstanley said,
'The light would shine again.

"'Yet were I fain still to remain,
Watch in my tower to keep,
And tend my light in the stormiest night
That ever did move the deep;

"'And if it stood, why, then it were good,
Amid their tremulous stirs,
To count each stroke, when the mad waves broke,
For cheers of mariners.

"'But if it fell, then this were well
That I should with it fall;
Since for my part, I have built my heart
In the courses of its wall.'

"With that Winstanley went his way,
And left the rock renowned,
And summer and winter his pilot star
Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound.

"But it fell out, fell out at last,
That he would put to sea,
To scan once more his lighthouse-tower
On the rock o' destiny.

"And the winds woke and the storm broke,
And wrecks came plunging in;
None in the town that night lay down,
Or sleep or rest to win.

"The great mad waves were rolling graves,
And each flung up its dead;
The seething flow was white below,
And black the sky o'erhead.

"And when the dawn, the dull grey dawn,
Broke on the trembling town,
And men looked south to the harbour mouth,
The lighthouse tower was down!

"Down in the deep where he doth deep
Who made it shine afar,
And then in the night that drowned its light,
Set, with his pilot star.

"Many fair tombs, in the glorious glooms
At Westminster, they show;
The brave and the great lie there in state,
Winstanley lieth low!" [1]

Three years passed by before any other person was found willing to attempt the task of rebuilding the Eddystone lighthouse, and then Captain Lovet got a ninety-nine years lease from Trinity House; and John Rudyard, a silk-mercer of Ludgate-Hill, was engaged as the architect. His design differed very materially from that of Winstanley, and was built of Cornish granite and oak. While it was building England and France were at war with each other, and some of the workmen were carried off as prisoners. The King Louis XIV., however, ordered their immediate release, and giving them substantial presents, sent them back to their good work. This lighthouse was finished in 1709, but, in 1755, it was entirely destroyed, not by winds nor waves, but by fire. Three keepers were there at the time; and when one of them entered to snuff the candles, he found the cupola in flames. They strove to extinguish it, but their efforts were in vain. A fisherman observed the fire, and took the news ashore, when a boat came out to the assistance of the keepers. Nothing could be done, however, to stay the progress of the fire, which destroyed the edifice. One of the keepers immediately fled panic stricken, and was not heard of again, while one met his death in consequence of some melted lead dropping into his open mouth.

The third Eddystone lighthouse still rears its head, as it has done for more than a century. John Smeaton, a clever and practical mathematician, was the man to whose skill as an architect, and courage and perseverance as a man, the world is indebted for the light which still shines upon Eddystone. He was thirty-two years old at the time when this grand work was given him to do; but he had already shown that he possessed inventive genius, pluck, and perseverance, in no ordinary degree. He was quick to see that the two previous structures had not been sufficient in weight and solidity, and he resolved to build that which was committed to his care in such a way that it should be strong enough to resist the force of the winds and waves. He declared that his building should be of stone, and in shape something like the trunk of an oak. In August, 1756, the work was begun, but of course it could not be carried on in the winter. The first stone, weighing two tons and a quarter, was laid on the 12th of the following June; and the next day the first course, consisting of four massive stones, which were dovetailed into the rocks, and formed a compact mass, was completed. The courses followed each other as rapidly as possible, and by the 11th of August the sixth was done, which brought the erection so high as to be out of reach of the ordinary tides. On the 30th of September the ninth course was completed, and then the builders had to leave off work for the winter.

It is easy to conceive of the anxiety which Smeaton suffered during the months which were unusually stormy; but in May, when he and his workmen were again able to reach the rock, they found, to their great joy, that the winter's floods had rather perfected than impaired their work. They gladly commenced operations again, and by September the twenty-fourth course was completed. They had now got as far as the store-room. They worked with a will, and during the next summer the second and third floors were finished. As the building was in progress, Smeaton had inscribed on the walls these words—"Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain who build it." And after it was finished, he had the words, "Laus Deo," engraved upon the top-stone. The erection was finished, and the lantern lighted, on the 16th of October, 1769, and has remained ever since, a monument of the undaunted energy and perseverance of Englishmen.

Another celebrated lighthouse is that of "The Smalls," built on one of the dangerous rocks that lie near the entrance of Milford Haven. It was built by Mr. Phillips, who did it not for gain, but in order to save his fellow-creatures. The architect he employed was a musical instrument maker, named Whiteside. The work was begun in 1772, and persevered with until it was finished. In the beginning of the year 1777, Whiteside and his companions found themselves in great straits, and they wrote a letter and put it inside a barrel, and sent it afloat, hoping it would reach the shore:—

"THE SMALLS, Feb. 1, 1777.

"SIR—Being now in a most dangerous and distressed condition upon the Smalls, I do hereby trust Providence will bring to your hand this, which prayeth for your immediate assistance to fetch us off before next spring, or we fear we shall perish—our water all gone, and our fire quite gone, and our house in a most melancholy manner. I doubt not but you will fetch us from here as fast as possible: we can be got off at some part of the tide almost any weather. I need say no more, but remain your distressed humble servant.

"H. WHITESIDE."

"We were distressed in a gale of wind upon the 13th of January, since which have not been able to keep any light, but we could not have kept any light above sixteen nights longer for want of oil and candles, which makes us murmur, and think we are forgotten.

"EDWARD EDWARDS.
"G. ADAMS.
"J. PRICE.

"P.S.—We doubt not, whoever takes up this, will be so merciful as to cause it to be sent to Thomas Williams, Esq., Trelethin, near St. David's, Wales."

At one time, during a very stormy winter, the Smalls lighthouse-keepers were cut off from communication with the mainland for four months. Vessels had tried to reach them, but had been driven back by the violence of the weather. Once, however, when a ship had gone near enough to get a sight of the Smalls, it was reported that a man was seen standing in the upper gallery, and that a flag of distress was flying near him. When at last a fisherman succeeded in reaching the rock, he found that one of the keepers was dead, and the other had securely fixed the corpse in an upright position in the gallery, that the body might be preserved, and he himself not injured by contact with it. This, and a similar event that happened on the Eddystone, caused better arrangements to be made; and in future, more than two men were placed in lighthouses likely to be exposed to circumstances of equal danger.

Another marvellous lighthouse is that erected by Robert Stevenson on the Bell Rock. The most ancient light which Scotland can boast is that of the Isle of May. The tower is very old and weather-beaten, and bears date 1635. At Grass Island, and also at North Ronaldshay, lights were kindled in 1789. In 1794, Robert Stevenson saw the Skerries lighthouse completed. He also put lights on Start Point; and for the better lighting of the dangerous shore, changed the North Ronaldshay lighthouse into a beacon.

But round about the light on the Bell Rock more romance centres. This rock is a very perilous one, lying eleven miles off the coast of Forfarshire, and, if tradition may be trusted, the first attempt to rob it of some of its awful power was made by an ancient abbot,