CHAPTER XXX. EDDYSTONE LIGHT-HOUSE. AMONG the numerous excursions that may be made from the ancient city of Plymouth- which will always be full of the deepest interest to every son of New England one of the most attractive is that to the light-house on the Eddystone Rocks. This remote and dangerous reef, the Plymouth Rock of the Old World, was destined, like that of Massachusetts, to link its name in history with the triumphs of the human mind, and the ennobling results of unconquerable energy, far-sighted talent, and persevering toil. It has now stood for more than a century, a lonely column in a wild waste of waters, and, like a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night, has guided the wandering tribe of ocean safely to their desired haven. A prouder mausoleum than this no man could desire to leave behind him. Sir Christopher Wren, conscious of his genius, and exulting in the magnificent cathedral he was to bequeath to posterity, might well dictate the epitaph, "If you seek my monument, look around." Yet St. Paul's now serves but as a tomb for himself and the last resting-place of the nation's dead, while the simple and unadorned work of Smeaton for more than a hundred years has shed down its beneficent rays upon mankind, and, we trust, will continue so to do while time shall last. Cowley, in lines of noble and fervent meaning, inquires, "What shall I do to be forever known, Smeaton answered the question in simple hieroglyphics of massy rock, and lived to see the yearning hope of his soul become the fullness of fruition. In his narrative of the building of the light-house he tells us of the honorable confidence in the future. with which his zeal inspired him. "But in contemplating the use and benefit of such a structure as this, my ideas of what its duration and continued existence ought to be, were not confined within the boundary of an age or two, but extended themselves to look towards a possible perpetuity." That this trust was not disappointed, was due to his own heroic pluck guided by judicious talent, and that we to-day enjoy the benefits arising from it, is owing to his determination that, like Milton, he would "eternize" his name here on earth, and record it so indelibly that mankind could not let it die. To this natural strength and vitality of his character, the religious element that deeply pervaded it lent additional force. Grateful for its aid, he ever acknowledged it, and was not unwilling that the work of his hands should be an offering to God. Round the upper store-room, graven upon the stone in characters designed never to be erased, can still be seen the words from Holy Writ, "Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it.". Psalm cxxvii. Upon the last block set, over the door of the lantern, are the words, "24th August, 1759, Laus Deo." Thus did religious fervor place its final seal upon the altar it had erected in honor of the Supreme Being, and thus displayed the sincerity of its devotion, like the Pilgrims when they consecrated anew to His service their lives, their labors, and all that was theirs. The Eddystone rocks are six in number, or at least six names are applied to them, though really they all form one long ledge divided by a deep channel near the centre. At high tide, they are almost covered, except the abrupt peak upon which the light-house stands, which projects about fifteen feet above the water at its highest part. It slopes in a rather steep incline towards the southwest, and from this direction comes the full strength of the waves that dash upon and over the edifice. This latter is eighty-five feet in height above the top of the crag, into whose sloping surface it is dovetailed and mortised, so as to constitute a piece of the rock itself, as far as this can be effected by human skill. The blocks composing it are, moreover, linked together by chains running through them horizontally and imbedded in melted lead. The whole thus forms a mass of stone, with a shaft penetrating its centre, and there seems at present to be no reason why it should not last as long as the support upon which it rests. Its situation is greatly exposed, for the giant billows rolling in from the Atlantic throw their whole vehemence upon any obstacle with a fury which, it would appear to an inexperienced observer, must inevitably crush it to atoms. And yet it is not always the greatest heaps of water that test most severely the strength of the beacon, though they often leap to an elevation twice as high as its lantern. The keepers told me that these caused hardly a perceptible oscillation. It is when the tide is half high in a strong wind, and the combined surges are hurled up the sloping reef and concentrate their force upon the base of the tower, that the noise is most deafening and the motion most evident. Even under such circumstances the vibration is hardly felt, and it has never been known to exceed three inches from the perpendicular. There is an apparatus in the room immediately under the lantern, by which any movement can be measured with accuracy, and every extraordinary agitation is thus observed. The edifice is painted in alternate belts of red and white, about twenty feet in width, that it may be distinguished from other lights, and also seen from the greatest possible distance. Nothing more solitary or depressing than its position can be imagined. The nearest land is a tall promontory called Ram's Head, nine miles away, and from this it is nearly eight miles farther to Ply mouth. The depth of water between the ledge and the shore varies from two to three hundred feet. At my visit, which was made in a sail-boat from Plymouth, the approach seemed forbidding enough. Before me lay the long ragged reef, gradually rising to the sharper projection of the end on which the light-house stands. This latter is twenty-six feet in diameter at the summit, and its foundation perhaps double that. The rock was covered with barnacles and sea-weed, which rose and fell in dripping sheets with the dashing of the waves. It was clammy and dank, slippery with ooze, and affording only the most treacherous foothold. The tide at this locality ebbs and flows eighteen feet. Eight Eight or ten steps led from the door of the building to the edge of the precipice. From this point, the friendly care of the keepers extended me a rope ladder of eight rounds. Between the end of this and my craft was a vacuum of about six feet. The boat skipped nimbly about like a frisky colt, first throwing me against the dripping and greasy rock, and then pulling me away suddenly just as I felt sure of a mount. However, with the aid of the parties above and the boatmen below, I finally was hoisted and pulled into the building, where I spent the next thirty minutes in a state of what might be appropriately called half-andhalf. A moiety of intense enjoyment at the thought that I was on a spot where I had always ardently desired and never expected to be, and a moiety of apprehension as to how I could possibly get |