IN A LIGHTHOUSE.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 3107, 16 March 1883, Page 2

IN A LIGHTHOUSE.

(“ Saturday Review.) The tenancy of a lighthouse or lightship must appear to the uninitiated sufficiently dreary. It is true that in recent times things have been changed greatly for the better. There are horrible stories told of former days, when, a couple of men being on duty on some isolated rock, one of them happened to die suddenly in rough weather ; when the survivor, fearful of being charged with a crime, remained shut up in the closest proximity of the corpse of his comrade, till the lull of the storm brought relief and opportunity of explanation. This very week we hear of a case which might well seem incredible, were it not amply authenticated. The watchmen of the Wolf Bock, opposite the Cornish coast, were cut off from all communication with their kind through the two dreariest months of the winter ; and it was nearly the middle of January when relief reached them at last. Nowadays, however, the light warders in similar circumstances invariably consist of three at the least; and both on the light towers and in the lightships the men are surrounded by all manner of material comforts. They have rooms as snug as the limited structural arrangements will admit; they have ample rations of excellent food, nor are the needs of their minds by any means neglected. Still it must be an unnatural life at the best, and one that is perilously fitted to nourish sombre fancies: We may conceive that in the men who take most kindly to the occupation, the imagination is seldom strongly developed ; but nevertheless they must be quick and intelligent. Generally speaking, some moderate amount of exercise is believed to be indispensable to preserving the balance of the bodily and mental powers; and in the dullest routine of drudgery there are usually occasional changes of scene and company. But in many a lighthouse the occupants are held fast by the legs, for exercise becomes something more than an effort when it is reduced to practising the treadmill upon the steps of a corkscrew staircase, or to taking half a dozen steps upon a slimy rock at low water. The crews of the lightships are somewhat more favorably circumstanced in this respect, since they can do their walking on a more or less roomy deck, and they enjoy besides a greater variety of company. But the life in both cases must be intolerably monotonous, and to a landsmen there would be little to choose between the terrors of the one and the other, when the sea is wrapped in impenetrable fogs, or is being lashed into fury by howling tempests. In a storm the lighthouse is in reality the safer residence of the two, for, thanks to the skill of our modean engineers, it is most unlikely that another Eddystone will be swept away. Yet, as the waves rush up the sloping sides of the tower, and toss their tons of seething green water against the lower courses of masonry, seeming to shake the massive structure from the light-room to the foundation, it must need nerve and long habit to resist the belief that the violence of the elements may bring about a catastrophe. As for the lightships, being moored in shallow water, they may be less exposed to the extreme fury of the storms, though there is always a chance of their being torn from their anchorage. But, on the other hand, in even moderately bad weather, they must be eminently disagreeable places of abode. The peculiar jerking motion, when the natural heaving of the ship is being checked by the straining cables, is said to be trying to the most seasoned of mariners, and to be one of those inconveniences to which no custom can reconcile one. It is much of course, to have good pay and abundant food, with fuel, light, and lodging, and the prospect of a snug pension. Yet, on the whole, we confess we are surprised that the Trinity Board should find it so easy as they probably do to recruit their light-staffs satisfactorily.