130ft., that is, nearly double the height of Smeaton's tower. It contains nine compartments, as compared with four in Smeaton's, and all the rooms have domed ceilings, their height from floor to apex being 9ft. 9in., and the diameter 14ft., with the exception of the two oil-rooms, which are somewhat smaller.
Landing.
On learning that no journalist, intent on describing the Eddystone Lighthouse, had hitherto succeeded in landing on this most difficult rock (an achievement so frequently rendered impracticable by the violence of the waves beating upon it), my eagerness to attempt the feat was considerably emphasized. It will be imagined that it is with feelings of suppressed excitement that, armed with a special "permit" from Trinity House, I find myself (on the morning of last Whit-Monday) at Plymouth Dock, with the relief party bound for the Eddystone. The day is delightfully fine, and all doubts raised by recent storms as to the possibility of landing are quickly subdued—for weather, be it observed, plays a very important part on these occasions. The steam-tug Deerhound, specially chartered for the relief, is in readiness, and our party includes the principal light-keeper (Mr. G. W. Cooper), an assistant keeper (Mr. George Norton, who has been invalided), two skilled mechanics for lighthouse repairs, and three or four visitors who are curious to inspect the lonely sea-home for which we are bound. When stores are taken in and everybody is on board, the signal is given, and off we start in a southerly direction. Although the waves have not yet subsided after recent disturbance, there is every prospect of a successful voyage, and we feel exhilarated by the fresh breeze and the beauty of the constantly changing scene. In passing the Breakwater Light we hail the keepers, who give us a parting cheer; while further on our right we see Ram Head (the point of land nearest to the Eddystone), with the signalstation recently established by a telephone company for the purpose of signalling any vessels entering the port, or passing up or down the Channel. Our trip will take about an hour and a half, but long before that time expires we endeavour to catch a glimpse of the lighthouse.
Presently, "There she is!" becomes the cry, as soon as the keen-sighted members of our party can discern its slim proportions on the distant horizon, six or seven miles away. A nearer approach enables us to perceive, close to the lantern, the flag that is always hoisted when relief is due and feasible. Nearer yet, and the keepers themselves are visible, eagerly preparing for our arrival. At a safe distance from the reef the anchor is cast, and we, with our belongings, are transferred to a boat and rowed to within a few yards of the landing-stage. Hearty greetings pass between rock and boat as we close in, and while our stern rope and grappling hook are cast overboard, the keepers on the "set-off" (as the landing-stage is generally called) dexterously throw a couple of lines to be fastened to the prow, so that the boat may
