BOOK VI.LIFE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE.CHAPTER I.THE LIGHTHOUSE-KEEPERS.TThelife of a lighthouse-keeper is not without a certain monotony; but it must be greatly cheered by the reflection that it is devoted to a high and holy service. There is about it a certain heroic simplicity—it is so completely separated from the commonplace aims and concerns of the work-day world; and it is characterized, moreover, by an austere regularity which reminds one of the existence formerly led in grotto and cavern by saint and hermit, though its end is much more useful, and it is in itself of far greater value to mankind.The first article of the instructions which every lighthouse-keeper is bound to obey—and to obey as implicitly as a soldier obeys the articles of war—runs thus:—“You are to light the lamps every evening at sun-setting, and keep them constantly burning, bright and clear, till sun-rising.”This is the primary condition of a lighthouse-keeper’s duty: for this he lives, for this he toils, for this he watches—that the helpful flame which has been the salvation of so many lives may steadily glow and brightly burn from sunset until sunrise.“Whatever else happens,” remarks a lively writer,[61]“he is to do this. He may be isolated through the long night-watches, twenty miles from land, fifty or a hundred feet above the level of the sea, with the winds and waves howling round him, and the sea-birds dashing themselves to death against the gleaming lantern, like giant moths against a candle; or it may be a calm, voluptuous, moonlight night, the soft air laden with the perfumes of the Highland heather or the Cornish gorse, tempting him to keep his watch outside the lantern, in the open gallery, instead of in the watch-room chair within; the Channel may be full of stately ships, each guided by his light; or the horizon may be bare of all signs of life, except, remote and far beneath him, the lantern of some fishing-boat at sea: but whatever may be going on outside, there is within for him the duty, simple and easy, by virtue of his moral method and orderly training, ‘to light the lamps every evening at sun-setting, and keep them constantly burning, bright and clear, till sun-rising.’”That this great article of the lighthouse-keeper’s faith may be the more easily carried out, he is subjected, both when on probation and afterwards, to a strict discipline, and is required to gain a thorough acquaintance with allthe materials he has to handle—lamps, oil, wicks, lighting apparatus, and revolving machinery. Before being admitted into the service, he is carefully examined as to his physical qualities by keen medical eyes; and as to his moral qualities, the best testimonials are necessary from persons in whose competency and honesty of judgment implicit confidence can be placed. He receives liberal wages, and, when past work, a fair pension; and a deduction from his pay is regularly applied to the discharge of a premium on his life insurance. He is enjoined to “the constant habit of cleanliness and good order in his own person, and to the invariable exercise of temperance and morality in his habits and proceedings; so that, by his example, he may enforce, as far as lies in his power, the observance of the same laudable conduct by his wife and family.” The utmost vigilance is expected of him when it is his turn to attend to the lantern. “He whose watch is about to end is to trim the lamps, and leave them burning in perfect order, before he quits the lantern and calls the succeeding watch; and he who has the watch at sunrise, when he has extinguished the lamps, is to commence all necessary preparations for the exhibition of the light at the ensuing sunset.” No bed, sofa, or other article on which to recline, is permitted, either in the lantern or in the apartment under the lantern known as the watch-room.From these requirements we may infer what kind of life is led by the lighthouse-keeper, and what are its leading requisites: temperance, cleanliness, honesty, conscientiousness, zeal, watchfulness. At different stations it varies considerably in its lighter occupations. In the rocklighthouse—such as the Eddystone—the keeper’s chief amusements are necessarily reading and fishing: the only capability of exercise is within the circle of the outer gallery, or on the belt of rock surrounding the lighthouse base; and the sole incidents which break up the uniformity of his daily life are the inspections of the committee, the visits of the district superintendent, or the monthly relief which takes the men back to shore. In the shore lighthouse—as at Harwich or the Forelands—there is a plot of ground to cultivate, frequent intercourse with visitors from the neighbouring watering-places, and the wider range of occupation and entertainment which necessarily can be enjoyed uponterra firma.As a rule, the public take but little interest in the economy of our lighthouses; and yet there is something singularly romantic in the idea of the lone tower encircled by boiling waters, with its warning light flashing through the deep night shadows, and the heroic men who hour after hour watch with anxious care lest its radiance should be obscured or extinguished.“And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,Through the deep purple of the twilight air,Beams forth the sudden radiance of its lightWith strange, unearthly splendour in its glare!“Not one alone: from each projecting capeAnd perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.“Like the great giant Christopher it standsUpon the brink of the tempestuous wave;Wading far out among the rocks and sands,The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.“And the great ships sail outward and return,Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells;And ever joyful, as they see it burn,They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.“They come forth from the darkness, and their sailsGleam for a moment only in the blaze;And eager faces, as the light unveils,Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.“The mariner remembers when a child,On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;And when, returning from adventures wild,He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink.“Steadfast, serene, immovable, the sameYear after year, through all the silent night,Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,Shines on that inextinguishable light!“‘Sail on!’ it says, ‘sail on, ye stately ships!And with your floating bridge the ocean span;Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!’”[62]As a proof of the romance that formerly invested lighthouse life, we may lay before the reader one or two “true stories.”Off the coast of Northumberland, and outside, so to speak, of the Farne Islands, lies the Longstone—a rock about four feet above high water-mark, and swept by every gale with fierce drifts of spray and foam. Here, about six miles from the shore, is planted a lighthouse, which has been found of great use to the coasting vessels navigating these dangerous waters. Two-and-thirty years ago its keeper was named Darling. He had a daughter, Grace—a quiet, modest, well-behaved girl, whose name, through one noble action, will for ever be honoured among women. On a dark night in September 1838 theForfarshire, a Hull steamer, struck on a hidden reef called the Harcars, in the vicinity of the lighthouse. She had on board sixty-three persons, including passengers and crew. Their signals of distress were observed from thelighthouse. It was impossible for Darling, the keeper, to pull off in his boat alone; no single arm could have impelled it through the raging sea that then prevailed. With admirable courage, Grace Darling resolved to assist him on his noble errand. She sprang into the skiff, and over the bounding billows father and daughter gallantly made their way. Their lives hung upon a thread; but the weak girl never bated a jot of heart or hope, and rowed with all the vigour which a noble enthusiasm is apt to inspire. They reached the ship, and took off nine persons, with whom they contrived to regain the lighthouse. Nine more escaped in one of the steamer’s boats: all the rest perished.Grace Darling did not live many years after the event which made her famous. She was interred in the old chapel on Holy Island, and an epitaph to her memory composed by the poet Wordsworth:—“The maiden gentle, yet at duty’s callFirm and unflinching, as the lighthouse rearedOn the island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place;Or like the invisible rock itself, that braves,Age after age, the hostile elements,As when it guarded holy Cuthbert’s cell.”Smeaton speaks of a shoemaker who entered the Eddystone Lighthouse because he longed for a solitary life: he found himself less a prisoner on his wave-beaten rock than in his close and confined workshop. When some of his friends expressed their astonishment at his choice—“Each to his taste,” said he; “I have always been partial to independence.”Perhaps it was the same individual who, after having served at the Eddystone upwards of fourteen years, conceived so strong an attachment to his prison that fortwo consecutive years he gave up his turn of relief. He would fain have continued the same course of life for a third year, but so much pressure was brought to bear upon him that he consented to avail himself of the usual privilege. All the years he had spent in the lighthouse he had been distinguished for his quiet and orderly behaviour; on land he found himself “out of his element,” and drank until he was completely intoxicated. In this condition he was carried back to the Eddystone, where, after languishing for a few days, he expired.Some men have gone mad, or nearly so, by dint of contemplating the same scenes and the same external impressions. About a mile and a quarter from the Land’s End, on a group of granite islets washed by the sea, stands theLongships Lighthouse, constructed in 1793. The particular rock on which it is built—the Carn-Bras—rises about forty-five feet above the level of low water. In winter both the rock and the building—as is the case at the Eddystone—will sometimes be covered for a few seconds by the leaping waters, which have even been known to surmount the lantern, and, on one occasion at least, to break through its crystal walls and extinguish the lamps.One day, in 1862, two black flags floated from the summit of the tower. They were evidently intended as a signal of distress. What, then, had happened?EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE IN A STORM.Of the three men who inhabited the lighthouse, the one whose turn it was to keep watch had thrust a knife into his breast. His companions attempted to stanch the blood by plugging up the wound with bits of tow. Three days passed by before the people on shore could reach the lighthouse; and the sea was then so rude and disembarkationso dangerous that the wounded man had to be lowered into the boat, suspended from a kind of impromptu crane. When he was conveyed ashore he received every attention which his condition demanded; but he lived only a few days. The jury, acting upon the evidence of his companions, declared that he had committed suicide under an attack of temporary insanity. Perhaps it is not astonishing that persons of a susceptible or excitable temperament should, under the influence of ever-murmuring seas and ever-blowing winds, and while living in a state of almost continual solitude and comparative monotony, feel the vertigo of the abyss ascend to their brain, so that the control of reason is loosened, and the mind yields to the first impulse which passes over it.Let us now take a glance at lighthouse life from a French point of view.Sagacious regulations and constant inspection have banished the dramatic and the surprising from the French as well as from the English lighthouse. Everything has been reduced to a system, and the keepers are under a discipline scarcely less rigid than that of soldiers. In France, indeed, veteran soldiers or tried seamen are generally selected to fill up any vacancies that may occur in the lighthouse administration. This is divided into two classes: the inspectors, who receive a thousand francs yearly (about £40), and are intrusted with the superintendence of several lighthouses; and the keepers, who are divided into six classes, and whose annual wages vary from 475 to 850 francs (say £18 to £34). Extra payment is awarded to those who serve in the sea lighthouses.Their number is never less than three in a lighthouse of the first class, or two in those of the second and third class lighthouses.The “code,” so to speak, from which we borrow these details is nearly the same among all maritime nations. It indicates to the keepers their duties, and prescribes to them the nature of their daily work. As for their mode of life, it is much the same everywhere, only more or less agreeable according to the stations. In France the lighthouses served by a single keeper are intrusted to married men, who live in the establishment with their family. Not only does such an arrangement ameliorate their lot, but it also gives the assurance that in case of need they will immediately be replaced in attendance on the lamp—a task so easy that it can be discharged by a woman or even by a child. The habitation allotted to them consists of one or two apartments, with a chimney, an outhouse, and sometimes a cellar. A green and a small garden are invariably attached. In some lighthouses the keeper’s house is so placed with reference to the tower that the lamp is visible from one of the windows; but in most the house is annexed to the tower, in such a manner that if the keeper is compelled to rise and attend to the lamp, at least he is not exposed, immediately after leaving his couch, to the rigour, it may be, of a winter night.In lenticular lights of the first, second, and third class, whose flame requires surveillance throughout the night, several keepers are needed, who take their watch in turn. Formerly the keepers and their families lodged together.But, unfortunately, those dissensions which seem inevitable when a colony is numerous, and not amenable to a strict discipline, were found to break out at very short intervals, and in an exceedingly disagreeable manner. The authorities, therefore, resolved only to admit their own servants into the interior of the lighthouses, leaving to them, if married, the care of securing suitable lodgings for their wives and children. To each keeper a room was allotted, and the kitchen was common to all.The result they had in view was thus obtained. But it was soon perceived that to separate the keepers from their families was to impose a heavy tax upon men whose pay was not too liberal; that to deprive them of the sweet domestic joys which are the legitimate reward of the cares and anxieties of paternity, was to increase the gloominess of their isolation, by rendering it more complete; and, finally, to expose them to the strong temptation of absenting themselves from the lighthouse at the hours their presence was most necessary. These inconveniences have been remedied by allotting to each keeper a separate house for himself and his family.It is, of course, impossible that a keeper’s family should be accommodated in a sea lighthouse, which consists of a single tower. They are, therefore, lodged on shore, near the port which keeps up the communication between the lighthouse and the mainland. In such a station life to many minds would be wearisome and monotonous. The wind sometimes blows with so much violence that the keepers can with difficulty breathe. They are then compelled to shut themselves up, as closely as possible, in a tower darkened by the wreathing fog, or by the foam of swellingwaves, which envelopes it like a rent veil. On fine summer days, like the English light-keepers, they amuse themselves with fishing. If their abode is not encircled by rocks on which they can stretch their lines, they knot around the lighthouse tower, at a certain height, and immediately above the entrance, a stout rope, suspending some forty or fifty lines, each about four feet long. When the sea rises, the fish crawl along the wall, and snapping at the bait, are immediately hooked. The tide goes down, and lo, the tower is wreathed round with a complete festoon of fish!Thus, then, the life of a lighthouse-keeper varies little, whether his post be situated on the English or the French shore, on a rock washed by English or by French waters, in the Mediterranean or the North Atlantic. It is a life not free from heavy shadows; but it is one eminently calculated to develop the patient and enduring qualities of a man, and to cultivate in him a habit of self-reflection. I do not think it should be stigmatized as dismal, though it is the fashion so to speak of it; but surely no lifecanbe dismal which is spent in the service of humanity, in steadfast devotion to the interests of others; no lifecanbe dismal which passes in constant contemplation of all the glories of the sky and all the splendours of the sea—in constant contemplation of the mightiest and sublimest of God’s works under their grandest and most solemn aspects!

BOOK VI.LIFE IN THE LIGHTHOUSE.

Thelife of a lighthouse-keeper is not without a certain monotony; but it must be greatly cheered by the reflection that it is devoted to a high and holy service. There is about it a certain heroic simplicity—it is so completely separated from the commonplace aims and concerns of the work-day world; and it is characterized, moreover, by an austere regularity which reminds one of the existence formerly led in grotto and cavern by saint and hermit, though its end is much more useful, and it is in itself of far greater value to mankind.

The first article of the instructions which every lighthouse-keeper is bound to obey—and to obey as implicitly as a soldier obeys the articles of war—runs thus:—

“You are to light the lamps every evening at sun-setting, and keep them constantly burning, bright and clear, till sun-rising.”

This is the primary condition of a lighthouse-keeper’s duty: for this he lives, for this he toils, for this he watches—that the helpful flame which has been the salvation of so many lives may steadily glow and brightly burn from sunset until sunrise.

“Whatever else happens,” remarks a lively writer,[61]“he is to do this. He may be isolated through the long night-watches, twenty miles from land, fifty or a hundred feet above the level of the sea, with the winds and waves howling round him, and the sea-birds dashing themselves to death against the gleaming lantern, like giant moths against a candle; or it may be a calm, voluptuous, moonlight night, the soft air laden with the perfumes of the Highland heather or the Cornish gorse, tempting him to keep his watch outside the lantern, in the open gallery, instead of in the watch-room chair within; the Channel may be full of stately ships, each guided by his light; or the horizon may be bare of all signs of life, except, remote and far beneath him, the lantern of some fishing-boat at sea: but whatever may be going on outside, there is within for him the duty, simple and easy, by virtue of his moral method and orderly training, ‘to light the lamps every evening at sun-setting, and keep them constantly burning, bright and clear, till sun-rising.’”

That this great article of the lighthouse-keeper’s faith may be the more easily carried out, he is subjected, both when on probation and afterwards, to a strict discipline, and is required to gain a thorough acquaintance with allthe materials he has to handle—lamps, oil, wicks, lighting apparatus, and revolving machinery. Before being admitted into the service, he is carefully examined as to his physical qualities by keen medical eyes; and as to his moral qualities, the best testimonials are necessary from persons in whose competency and honesty of judgment implicit confidence can be placed. He receives liberal wages, and, when past work, a fair pension; and a deduction from his pay is regularly applied to the discharge of a premium on his life insurance. He is enjoined to “the constant habit of cleanliness and good order in his own person, and to the invariable exercise of temperance and morality in his habits and proceedings; so that, by his example, he may enforce, as far as lies in his power, the observance of the same laudable conduct by his wife and family.” The utmost vigilance is expected of him when it is his turn to attend to the lantern. “He whose watch is about to end is to trim the lamps, and leave them burning in perfect order, before he quits the lantern and calls the succeeding watch; and he who has the watch at sunrise, when he has extinguished the lamps, is to commence all necessary preparations for the exhibition of the light at the ensuing sunset.” No bed, sofa, or other article on which to recline, is permitted, either in the lantern or in the apartment under the lantern known as the watch-room.

From these requirements we may infer what kind of life is led by the lighthouse-keeper, and what are its leading requisites: temperance, cleanliness, honesty, conscientiousness, zeal, watchfulness. At different stations it varies considerably in its lighter occupations. In the rocklighthouse—such as the Eddystone—the keeper’s chief amusements are necessarily reading and fishing: the only capability of exercise is within the circle of the outer gallery, or on the belt of rock surrounding the lighthouse base; and the sole incidents which break up the uniformity of his daily life are the inspections of the committee, the visits of the district superintendent, or the monthly relief which takes the men back to shore. In the shore lighthouse—as at Harwich or the Forelands—there is a plot of ground to cultivate, frequent intercourse with visitors from the neighbouring watering-places, and the wider range of occupation and entertainment which necessarily can be enjoyed uponterra firma.

As a rule, the public take but little interest in the economy of our lighthouses; and yet there is something singularly romantic in the idea of the lone tower encircled by boiling waters, with its warning light flashing through the deep night shadows, and the heroic men who hour after hour watch with anxious care lest its radiance should be obscured or extinguished.

“And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,Through the deep purple of the twilight air,Beams forth the sudden radiance of its lightWith strange, unearthly splendour in its glare!“Not one alone: from each projecting capeAnd perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.“Like the great giant Christopher it standsUpon the brink of the tempestuous wave;Wading far out among the rocks and sands,The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.“And the great ships sail outward and return,Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells;And ever joyful, as they see it burn,They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.“They come forth from the darkness, and their sailsGleam for a moment only in the blaze;And eager faces, as the light unveils,Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.“The mariner remembers when a child,On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;And when, returning from adventures wild,He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink.“Steadfast, serene, immovable, the sameYear after year, through all the silent night,Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,Shines on that inextinguishable light!“‘Sail on!’ it says, ‘sail on, ye stately ships!And with your floating bridge the ocean span;Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!’”[62]

“And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,Through the deep purple of the twilight air,Beams forth the sudden radiance of its lightWith strange, unearthly splendour in its glare!

“Not one alone: from each projecting capeAnd perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.

“Like the great giant Christopher it standsUpon the brink of the tempestuous wave;Wading far out among the rocks and sands,The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.

“And the great ships sail outward and return,Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells;And ever joyful, as they see it burn,They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.

“They come forth from the darkness, and their sailsGleam for a moment only in the blaze;And eager faces, as the light unveils,Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

“The mariner remembers when a child,On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;And when, returning from adventures wild,He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink.

“Steadfast, serene, immovable, the sameYear after year, through all the silent night,Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,Shines on that inextinguishable light!

“‘Sail on!’ it says, ‘sail on, ye stately ships!And with your floating bridge the ocean span;Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!’”[62]

As a proof of the romance that formerly invested lighthouse life, we may lay before the reader one or two “true stories.”

Off the coast of Northumberland, and outside, so to speak, of the Farne Islands, lies the Longstone—a rock about four feet above high water-mark, and swept by every gale with fierce drifts of spray and foam. Here, about six miles from the shore, is planted a lighthouse, which has been found of great use to the coasting vessels navigating these dangerous waters. Two-and-thirty years ago its keeper was named Darling. He had a daughter, Grace—a quiet, modest, well-behaved girl, whose name, through one noble action, will for ever be honoured among women. On a dark night in September 1838 theForfarshire, a Hull steamer, struck on a hidden reef called the Harcars, in the vicinity of the lighthouse. She had on board sixty-three persons, including passengers and crew. Their signals of distress were observed from thelighthouse. It was impossible for Darling, the keeper, to pull off in his boat alone; no single arm could have impelled it through the raging sea that then prevailed. With admirable courage, Grace Darling resolved to assist him on his noble errand. She sprang into the skiff, and over the bounding billows father and daughter gallantly made their way. Their lives hung upon a thread; but the weak girl never bated a jot of heart or hope, and rowed with all the vigour which a noble enthusiasm is apt to inspire. They reached the ship, and took off nine persons, with whom they contrived to regain the lighthouse. Nine more escaped in one of the steamer’s boats: all the rest perished.

Grace Darling did not live many years after the event which made her famous. She was interred in the old chapel on Holy Island, and an epitaph to her memory composed by the poet Wordsworth:—

“The maiden gentle, yet at duty’s callFirm and unflinching, as the lighthouse rearedOn the island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place;Or like the invisible rock itself, that braves,Age after age, the hostile elements,As when it guarded holy Cuthbert’s cell.”

Smeaton speaks of a shoemaker who entered the Eddystone Lighthouse because he longed for a solitary life: he found himself less a prisoner on his wave-beaten rock than in his close and confined workshop. When some of his friends expressed their astonishment at his choice—“Each to his taste,” said he; “I have always been partial to independence.”

Perhaps it was the same individual who, after having served at the Eddystone upwards of fourteen years, conceived so strong an attachment to his prison that fortwo consecutive years he gave up his turn of relief. He would fain have continued the same course of life for a third year, but so much pressure was brought to bear upon him that he consented to avail himself of the usual privilege. All the years he had spent in the lighthouse he had been distinguished for his quiet and orderly behaviour; on land he found himself “out of his element,” and drank until he was completely intoxicated. In this condition he was carried back to the Eddystone, where, after languishing for a few days, he expired.

Some men have gone mad, or nearly so, by dint of contemplating the same scenes and the same external impressions. About a mile and a quarter from the Land’s End, on a group of granite islets washed by the sea, stands theLongships Lighthouse, constructed in 1793. The particular rock on which it is built—the Carn-Bras—rises about forty-five feet above the level of low water. In winter both the rock and the building—as is the case at the Eddystone—will sometimes be covered for a few seconds by the leaping waters, which have even been known to surmount the lantern, and, on one occasion at least, to break through its crystal walls and extinguish the lamps.

One day, in 1862, two black flags floated from the summit of the tower. They were evidently intended as a signal of distress. What, then, had happened?

EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE IN A STORM.

Of the three men who inhabited the lighthouse, the one whose turn it was to keep watch had thrust a knife into his breast. His companions attempted to stanch the blood by plugging up the wound with bits of tow. Three days passed by before the people on shore could reach the lighthouse; and the sea was then so rude and disembarkationso dangerous that the wounded man had to be lowered into the boat, suspended from a kind of impromptu crane. When he was conveyed ashore he received every attention which his condition demanded; but he lived only a few days. The jury, acting upon the evidence of his companions, declared that he had committed suicide under an attack of temporary insanity. Perhaps it is not astonishing that persons of a susceptible or excitable temperament should, under the influence of ever-murmuring seas and ever-blowing winds, and while living in a state of almost continual solitude and comparative monotony, feel the vertigo of the abyss ascend to their brain, so that the control of reason is loosened, and the mind yields to the first impulse which passes over it.

Let us now take a glance at lighthouse life from a French point of view.

Sagacious regulations and constant inspection have banished the dramatic and the surprising from the French as well as from the English lighthouse. Everything has been reduced to a system, and the keepers are under a discipline scarcely less rigid than that of soldiers. In France, indeed, veteran soldiers or tried seamen are generally selected to fill up any vacancies that may occur in the lighthouse administration. This is divided into two classes: the inspectors, who receive a thousand francs yearly (about £40), and are intrusted with the superintendence of several lighthouses; and the keepers, who are divided into six classes, and whose annual wages vary from 475 to 850 francs (say £18 to £34). Extra payment is awarded to those who serve in the sea lighthouses.Their number is never less than three in a lighthouse of the first class, or two in those of the second and third class lighthouses.

The “code,” so to speak, from which we borrow these details is nearly the same among all maritime nations. It indicates to the keepers their duties, and prescribes to them the nature of their daily work. As for their mode of life, it is much the same everywhere, only more or less agreeable according to the stations. In France the lighthouses served by a single keeper are intrusted to married men, who live in the establishment with their family. Not only does such an arrangement ameliorate their lot, but it also gives the assurance that in case of need they will immediately be replaced in attendance on the lamp—a task so easy that it can be discharged by a woman or even by a child. The habitation allotted to them consists of one or two apartments, with a chimney, an outhouse, and sometimes a cellar. A green and a small garden are invariably attached. In some lighthouses the keeper’s house is so placed with reference to the tower that the lamp is visible from one of the windows; but in most the house is annexed to the tower, in such a manner that if the keeper is compelled to rise and attend to the lamp, at least he is not exposed, immediately after leaving his couch, to the rigour, it may be, of a winter night.

In lenticular lights of the first, second, and third class, whose flame requires surveillance throughout the night, several keepers are needed, who take their watch in turn. Formerly the keepers and their families lodged together.But, unfortunately, those dissensions which seem inevitable when a colony is numerous, and not amenable to a strict discipline, were found to break out at very short intervals, and in an exceedingly disagreeable manner. The authorities, therefore, resolved only to admit their own servants into the interior of the lighthouses, leaving to them, if married, the care of securing suitable lodgings for their wives and children. To each keeper a room was allotted, and the kitchen was common to all.

The result they had in view was thus obtained. But it was soon perceived that to separate the keepers from their families was to impose a heavy tax upon men whose pay was not too liberal; that to deprive them of the sweet domestic joys which are the legitimate reward of the cares and anxieties of paternity, was to increase the gloominess of their isolation, by rendering it more complete; and, finally, to expose them to the strong temptation of absenting themselves from the lighthouse at the hours their presence was most necessary. These inconveniences have been remedied by allotting to each keeper a separate house for himself and his family.

It is, of course, impossible that a keeper’s family should be accommodated in a sea lighthouse, which consists of a single tower. They are, therefore, lodged on shore, near the port which keeps up the communication between the lighthouse and the mainland. In such a station life to many minds would be wearisome and monotonous. The wind sometimes blows with so much violence that the keepers can with difficulty breathe. They are then compelled to shut themselves up, as closely as possible, in a tower darkened by the wreathing fog, or by the foam of swellingwaves, which envelopes it like a rent veil. On fine summer days, like the English light-keepers, they amuse themselves with fishing. If their abode is not encircled by rocks on which they can stretch their lines, they knot around the lighthouse tower, at a certain height, and immediately above the entrance, a stout rope, suspending some forty or fifty lines, each about four feet long. When the sea rises, the fish crawl along the wall, and snapping at the bait, are immediately hooked. The tide goes down, and lo, the tower is wreathed round with a complete festoon of fish!

Thus, then, the life of a lighthouse-keeper varies little, whether his post be situated on the English or the French shore, on a rock washed by English or by French waters, in the Mediterranean or the North Atlantic. It is a life not free from heavy shadows; but it is one eminently calculated to develop the patient and enduring qualities of a man, and to cultivate in him a habit of self-reflection. I do not think it should be stigmatized as dismal, though it is the fashion so to speak of it; but surely no lifecanbe dismal which is spent in the service of humanity, in steadfast devotion to the interests of others; no lifecanbe dismal which passes in constant contemplation of all the glories of the sky and all the splendours of the sea—in constant contemplation of the mightiest and sublimest of God’s works under their grandest and most solemn aspects!

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