weeks! The whole was completed without the slightest accident to any one; and so well were all the arrangements made, that not a minute was lost by confusion or delay amongst the workmen.

The tower measures 86 feet in height, and 26 feet in diameter at the level of the first entire course, the diameter under the cornice being only 15 feet. The first twelve feet of the structure form a solid mass of masonry,—the blocks of stone being held together by means of stone joggles, dove-tailed joints, and oaken tree-nails. All the floors of the edifice are arched; to counteract the possible outburst of which, Smeaton bound the courses of his stone-work together by belts of iron chain; which being set in grooves while in a heated state, on cooling, of course, tightened their clasp on the tower. Throughout the whole work remarkable ingenuity is displayed in obtaining the greatest amount of resistance, and combining the two great principles of strength and weight,-technically speaking, cohesion and inertia.

On the 16th October 1759 the warning light once more, after an interval of four years, shone forth over the troubled waters from the dangerous rock. But it was a feeble illumination at the best, for it came from only a group of tallow candles. It was better than nothing, certainly; but the exhibition of a few glimmering candles was surely a paltry conclusion to so stupendous an undertaking. For many years, however, no stronger light gleamed from the tower, till, in 1807, when it passed from the hands of private proprietors into the charge of the Trinity House, the candles were exchanged for Argand burners, with silvered copper reflectors.

Imperfect, however, as used to be the lighting apparatus, the Eddystone Beacon has always been a great boon to those "that go down to the sea in great ships," and has robbed these perilous waters of much of their terror. We can readily sympathize with the exultation of the great engineer who reared it, when, standing on the Hoe at Plymouth, with his telescope, he watched the enormous waves in powerless fury dash against his tower, and "fly up in a white column, inwrapping it like a sheet, rising at the least to double its height, and totally intercepting it from

sight." It is now more than a hundred years since Smeaton's Light-house first rose upon the Eddystone; but, in spite of the many furious storms which have put its stability to rude and searching proof, it still lifts its head proudly over the waves, and shows no signs of failing strength.

THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The light-house lifts its massive masonry,-
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base ;-
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremour of the face.

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

Not one alone;—from each projecting cape
And 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 stands

Upon 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 sails Gleam for a moment only on 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 same
Year after year, through all the silent night,
Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,
Shines on that unextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ;It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm

Smites it with all the scourges of the rain; And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
But hails the mariner with words of love.

"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!"

LONGFELLOW.

THE SHIP.

AND, lo! upon the murmuring waves
A glorious shape appearing !

A broad-winged vessel, through the shower
Of glimmering lustre steering!

As if the beauteous ship enjoyed
The beauty of the sea,

She lifteth up her stately head,

And saileth joyfully.

A lovely path before her lies,

A lovely path behind;
She sails amid the loveliness

Like a thing with heart and mind.
Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair,
Slowly she beareth on;

A glorious phantom of the deep,

Risen up to meet the moon.

The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings;

And the quiet voice of the rocking sea,

To cheer the gliding vision sings.

Oh! ne'er did sky and water blend
In such a holy sleep,

Or bathe in brighter quietude

A roamer of the deep.

So far the peaceful soul of heaven

Hath settled on the sea;

It seems as if this weight of calm
Were from eternity.

THE confident assurances which Griffith had given to the pilot, respecting the qualities of his vessel and his own ability to manage her, were fully realized by the result. The helm was no sooner put a-lee than the huge ship bore up gallantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked boldly into the very eye of the wind; and then, yielding gracefully to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round, as if they had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air, and in a few moments the frigate again moved with stately progress through the water, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but advancing towards those that offered equal danger on the other.

During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to howl surlily as it passed the complicated machinery that the frigate