Ships of the seven seas

by Hawthorne Daniel

One of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and one of the first great lighthouses.

The Gironde River flows into the stormy Bay of Biscay, its wide mouth often filled with foaming waves driving in from sea, which crash upon a rocky reef that lies in the very centre of the estuary. So great a toll of passing ships was taken by these rocks that the thriving city of Bordeaux was like to lose its water-borne commerce, and to keep the trade that meant so much to the city the citizens agreed to mark the spot with a light. A simple tower was erected on this spot about the year 805. For years it served, until Edward the Black Prince, temporarily in control of the vicinity, erected a slightly greater tower. For a time this, too, was kept, but finally, an aged keeper having died, the fire was no longer lit. For many years the rocks remained unlighted, and then, in 1584, during the reign of Henry II of France, a new lighthouse was begun. For twenty-five years the work of construction was under way, and when it was completed it was the most magnificent lighthouse of all time. Nor has another been built since to equal it in magnificence. About its base a great stone breakwater was built, surmounted by a balustrade. The lowest floor of the structure contains a beautiful hall and an apartment originally intended for the king. Above is a chapel, beautifully designed and decorated, and above this stands the tower which contains the light. This, originally, placed the light about one hundred feet above the rocks. Later the tower was increased in height to 207 feet and now it is equipped with the most modern apparatus, visible in clear weather for twenty-seven miles, to take the place of the blazing log fire that for so long did its best to guide the mariners in from sea.

Until the 18th Century the fires of these beacons burned wood, and then coal came gradually into use. The objections to such fires are obvious. They had no definite range, for fires died down or burnt furiously, and when a strong wind drove in from sea the fire was often all but hidden from sight of ships as it curled around in the lee of the tower.

But America had been settled and had such lighthouses on its own coast ere other methods superseded this.

The first lighthouse in the United States was the one on Little Brewster Island on the south of the main entrance to Boston Harbour. It was built in 1716, although the lighthouse now occupying that site was erected in 1859. During the Revolutionary War the structure was destroyed and rebuilt three times. The third structure was a stone tower sixty-eight feet high, and four oil lamps were used to illuminate it.

Wood and coal fires continued to be used, here and there, until the 19th Century was well begun. The last one of these in England to give way to more improved methods was the Flat Holme Light, in the Bristol Channel, where coal was burned until 1822.

THE TILLAMOOK ROCK LIGHT STATION

This great rock, which lies about a mile off the coast of Oregon, was formerly a spot of terrible danger to ships. Great difficulties had to be overcome in order to erect this lighthouse, but now its 160,000-candle-power light is visible, in clear weather, for eighteen miles.

During the 19th Century, however, great improvements were made in lights, and equal improvements were made in the design and construction of lighthouses. The story of the development of lighthouses is one of dramatic intensity, filled with accounts of heroism, of ingenuity and perseverance. And not only in the building of lighthouses has heroism been shown. The courage of the quiet men who man them—and women, too, for there are many to whom lighthouses are entrusted—in itself is the subject for a book. Courage and unselfish devotion to duty are the fundamentals upon which keepers of lights base their helpful lives. Regardless of comfort, regardless of danger, regardless of life itself, the light must burn. No other duty or desire compares with that determination. And so in calm or gale, in summer fog or storm-torn winter night, the men who sail the sea have come to depend with simple and abiding faith upon the lights, the foghorns, and the courage of the lighthousemen. Whether the Atlantic pounds with mountainous seas the slender shaft on Bishop’s Rock, or the Pacific piles its crashing surges high at Tillamook; whether the hot winds of Arabia blister the paint on the web of steel that holds the Red Sea light of Sanganeb Reef, or ice encrusts the giant light that guards Cape Race, the light must burn, and sailors out at sea sail past almost as confident of these lights as of the stars.