"The ravages occasioned by this tremendous tempest, were by no means confined to the Eddystone. In London, the loss sustained by it was calculated at one million sterling, and upwards of eight thousand persons were supposed to be drowned in the several inundations it occasioned. On one level, fifteen thousand sheep were lost; and a person counted seventeen thousand trees blown up by the roots, in Kent alone. What a happy thing is it for us, my dear sister, that these dreadful convulsions of nature are not more frequent in our favoured island. "Three years after the destruction of Mr. Winstanley's work, a similar one was undertaken by a Mr. Rudyerd. It was built of wood and upon a plan very different from the former, without any unnecessary ornament, and well calculated to resist the fury of the waves.
"Mr. Dormer related to me an anecdote of Louis the Fourteenth, king of France, which, as I think his conduct on the occasion much to his credit, I shall send to you. He was at war with the English at the time this building was begun; during its progress, a French privateer took the men at work on the rock prisoners, together with their tools, and carried them to France. The captain, no doubt, expected a handsome reward for his achievement. Whilst the captives lay in prison, the transaction reached the ears of Louis: he immediately ordered the prisoners to be released, and the men who had captured them to be put in their place, declaring, that although he was at war with England, he was not at war with all mankind. He therefore directed the men to be sent back to their work with presents; observing, that the Eddystone Lighthouse was so situated, as to be of equal service to all nations who had occasion to navigate the channel which divides England from France.
"I do not know, my dear Emily, whether you will feel as much interested as myself, in the fate of this lighthouse; but I scarcely ever recollect to have been more delighted, than with this ornament, and well calculated to resist the fury of the waves. "Mr. Dormer related to me an anecdote of Louis the Fourteenth, king of France, which, as I think his conduct on the occasion much to his credit, I shall send to you. He was at war with the English at the time this building was begun; during its progress, a French privateer took the men at work on the rock prisoners, together with their tools, and carried them to France. The captain, no doubt, expected a handsome reward for his achievement. Whilst the captives lay in prison, the transaction reached the ears of Louis: he immediately ordered the prisoners to be released, and the men who had captured them to be put in their place, declaring, that although he was at ware with England, he was not at war with all mankind. He therefore directed the men to be sent back to their work with presents; observing, that the Eddystone Lighthouse was so situated, as to be of equal service to all nations who had occasion to navigate the channel which divides England from France.
"I do not know, my dear Emily, whether you will feel as much interested as myself, in the fate of this lighthouse but I scarcely ever recollect to have been more delighted, than with this expedition, notwithstanding my having been in considerable danger, as I shall tell you in its proper place. The dread of that is, however, now over, and the information I have gained, upon subject of which I was before totally ignorant, will, I think, be a constant source of pleasure to me. I shall venture to give you another anecdote or two respecting the lighthouse; for as our tastes are, on many subjects, very similar, I am inclined to hope my account will not weary your patience, though I sometimes fear, the lively little Louisa may think I might have chosen a more interesting topic.
"But to proceed with my relation. For many years after the establishment of the second lighthouse, it was attended by two men only; and, indeed, the duty required no more. This duty consisted in watching, alternately, four hours, to snuff and renew the candles. But it happened that one of the men was taken ill and died, and notwithstanding the Eddystone flag was hoisted as a signal of distress, yet the weather was so boisterous for some time, as to prevent any boat from getting near enough to speak to them. In this dilemma, the living man found himself in a very awkward situation, being apprehensive, that if he committed the dead body to the deep, (the only way in which he could dispose of it,) he might be charged with his murder. This induced him, for some time, to let the corpse remain, in hopes that the boat might be able to land, and relieve him from his distress. In the mean time, the body became, as it might naturally be supposed that it would do, extremely offensive, and the poor man's sufferings were, as you may imagine, very great. He, however, bore it till some sailors effected their landing, when, with their assistance, it was committed to the waves. This unpleasant circumstance induced the proprietors afterwards to employ a third man; so that in case of any future accident of the same nature, there might be constantly one to supply his place. I should not much like a life of such confinement, where the troubled waves must be almost one's only companion. The tastes of mankind are, however, various, and it is very well they are so:—'Many men, many minds,' as our copy says. Ferdinand wanted an explanation of its meaning the other day. I can tell him a little anecdote, very much to my present subject, and to that point also.
"A skipper was once carrying out a shoe-maker in his boat, to be a light-keeper at the Eddystone. 'How happens it, friend,' said he, 'that you should choose to go out to be a light-keeper, when you can, on shore, as I am told, earn half-a-crown or three shillings a day, by making leathern pipes; whereas, the light-keeper's salary is but twenty- five pounds a year, which is scarcely ten shillings a week.' To this the shoemaker replied: 'I am going, bcause I don't like confinement:' Thus you see, my dear Ferdinand, what different ideas different people attach to the same word.
"I am now coming to a very melancholy part of my narrative, which is, the fatal catastrophe that occasioned the destruction of this celebrated building.
"About two o'clock in the morning, on the second of December, 1755, when one of the light-keepers went into the lantern to snuff the candles, as usual, he found the whole in a smoke, and upon opening the door of the lantern into the balcony, a flame instantly burst from the inside of the cupola. He immediately endeavoured to alarm his companions; but they being in bed and asleep, were some time before they came to his assistance.
"There were always some leathern buckets kept on the spot, and a tub of water in the lantern. He therefore attempted to extinguish the flames in the cupola, by throwing water from the balcony, upon the outside cover of lead. As soon as his companions came to his assistance, he encouraged them to fetch up water in the leathern buckets from the sea; which, you may suppose, they could not do very quickly, as the fire was at so great a height. You may judge of their horror, in perceiving that the flames gained strength every moment, in spite of all their efforts to extinguish them. The poor men were obliged to throw the water full four yards higher than their heads, to render it of the least service. A most remarkable accident put an end to the exertions of the unfortunate man who first discovered the calamity. As he was looking very attentively, with his mouth a little way open, a quantity of lead, melted by the heat of the flames, suddenly rushed like a torrent from the roof, and fell, not only upon his head, face, and shoulders, but even down his throat, and into his stomach. This increased the terror and dismay of these wretched men, who now saw no means of escaping. They found it impossible to subdue the raging element, and, in dreadful alarm, retreated from the immediate scene of horror, into one of the rooms below; and continued descending, from room to room, as the fire, with constantly increasing fury, advanced over their head. Early in the morning, the conflagration was perceived by some fishermen in Plymouth Sound, who soon spread the alarm: boats were instantly sent out to the relief of the unhappy sufferers at the Eddystone. They were almost stupified with terror, and were discovered sitting in a hole under the rock. All three were conveyed in safety to the shore; but the poor man who had swallowed the melted lead, continued to grow worse and worse, and in ten or eleven days, he expired in great agonies. Although he had always himself been positive that he had actually swallowed the melted metal, his physician could scarcely believe it possible. After his death, his body was opened, in order to ascertain the fact, and a large lump of lead, weighing seven ounces and five drams, was actually found in his stomach. It is a most extraordinary circumstance, but Mr. Dormer says it is so well attested, as to be beyond all possibility of doubt.
"The present lighthouse, the sight of which has afforded me so much pleasure, was begun in 1756, by Mr. Smeaton, and completed in little more than three years. It is built of stone, and is reckoned quite a master-piece of architecture. Hitherto it has resisted the utmost violence, both of the winds and waves, and seems likely to stand so long as the rock itself endures.