Soon after a lighthouse had been built at the Lizard, the dangers of the Wolf Rock, that lies between that point and the Land’s End attracted the attention of the Trinity House. The rock takes its name from the wolf-like howling of the waves that once washed through it—noises that were silenced, years before the lighthouse was proposed there, by the superstitious fishermen, who, caring not for such uncanny music, filled up the cavity with stones. At first the idea of a lighthouse on the Wolf seemed impossible; the Eddystone lighthouse had been difficult enough to erect, and here were far greater difficulties to be encountered—less space on which to build, and less capability of landing materials. It was therefore proposed to fix on the rock the copper figure of a wolf, which was to be so constructed that the air passing through it would produce the howling sounds which in times past had, to a certain extent, acted as a safeguard to mariners by warning them of the presence of danger. The figure was duly constructed, but the force of the waves that, even in smooth weather, broke over the rock, rendered all efforts to fix it ineffectual, and the idea had to be abandoned.

Then a bell-buoy—similar to that which the venerable abbot had placed on the Inchcape Rock—was suggested for the Wolf. But the fishermen did not like this; it would, they said, frighten the fish, and they threatened, were it put there, to cut it away. The fact is, the fishermen at the Land’s End were, like their neighbours at the Lizard, not over anxious for any indication of danger—anything that would prevent shipwreck.

So the idea of marking the Wolf was, for a while, abandoned; but the progress in the science of lighthouse construction made during the early years of this century, and Robert Stevenson’s successful erection on the Bell Rock, suggested that perhaps, after all, a lighthouse might be built on the Wolf. Stevenson was asked to consider the matter, and after doing so he undertook to put one there at a cost of £150,000. Why his offer was not accepted we do not know; possibly the figure was too high. At all events, instead of a lighthouse, a beacon—first of oak and then of wrought iron—was the only indication of this treacherous rock till the year 1860, when the Trinity House, unwilling that the dangers of the Wolf should only be indicated by day, set about erecting the lighthouse that now stands there, and which rises to the height of 110 feet.

It took nine years to finish, and certainly the task of building it did not prove less difficult than was anticipated. Every variety of engineering trouble presented itself, but only to be overcome by those entrusted with the work. The ordinary reader could not grasp all these, even were they set out before him; but he can at least realize that, as but two feet of the Wolf Rock are dry, even at dead low water, the lighthouse builders can, at the commencement of their operations, have had but a remarkably short time each day available for work.

Earlier by far than any idea of placing a lighthouse on the isolated Wolf, was that for building one at the Land’s End. This place was talked of as a western harbour for England in 1702, and an estimate for making one there, at the cost of £30,000, included the expenses of erecting a lighthouse. But nothing came of this harbour scheme, and three years later, high and low lighthouses were proposed at Porthdenack Point and on one of the headlands—probably that on the north—of Whitsand Bay. These also were never actually commenced. Perhaps it was felt that, whilst the Carn Bras—a mile to the west of the Land’s End—and the group of rocks around it remained unmarked, to build lighthouses at the Land’s End would not have been of much service. And who, in those opening years of the eighteenth century, would have suggested a lighthouse on the Carn Bras? True, Winstanley had placed such a building on the Eddystone; but the storm had soon blown it bodily into the sea, and the stability of the second lighthouse there was still untried.

So the dangers of the western extremity of Old England were left to do their worst for home-coming ships for nearly a hundred years more; then the Carn Bras was marked by the now famous ‘Longships’ lighthouse.

This rock stands over seventy feet above the sea at low water, and the lighthouse upon it is, to the top of the lantern, fifty-two feet. The light, a flashing or revolving light, is produced by nineteen oil lamps, fitted with Argand burners, and there is in connection with the building a fog-bell and fog-explosive.

The situation of the Cam Bras is lonely in the extreme, but, so far as care and forethought can make it so, residence there is really comfortable. Besides the lantern, the lighthouse consists of three stories—the lowest for coals, water, provisions, and stores; on the second is the living-room and kitchen, and the third is the keepers’ sleeping apartment. Three men are always in residence on the rock, whilst a fourth—regularly employed by the Trinity House—resides in one of the neatly kept cottages at Sennan Cove, set apart as homes for the keepers. This fourth man is in readiness to go at once to the rock in the event of his services being needed, to replace a keeper seized with illness or injured. No keeper is supposed to stay on the Carn Bras more than four weeks in succession, though it often happens, especially in winter-time, that the ‘guard’ cannot be regularly ‘relieved.’

This uncertainty in the communication necessitates keeping at the lighthouse a considerable store of provisions; more indeed—so, on one occasion, thought an economically minded and newly appointed inspector—than was actually necessary. A fortnight’s provision on a place only a few miles from shore! The thing was ridiculous. He had come out to the Longships on a fine, bright morning, when the sea was docile as a tame cat, and had reached the lighthouse without difficulty or discomfort; had he possessed a little more experience, he would have known that the sea thereabouts soon loses its temper, that its smiles quickly change into angry scowls. As it was, he bought his experience that day, for whilst he looked carefully round the building, and lectured the keepers for their extravagance in demanding stores for so long a time, the sunshine of the morning was hidden, and the wind began to freshen. At first it only whistled through the lighthouse, and made louder speaking necessary, but soon it ruffled the surface of the water, so that the waves beat against the rock and the spray from them was driven up to the windows of the living-room. This did not look like getting back to Sennan Cove by noon, as Mr. Inspector had intended, and ere long it was blowing a gale of wind. Then his heart sank. As for the keepers—well, history does not record their feelings; but as even officials are human, they must surely have chuckled (inwardly, of course) at the demonstrative lesson their recent lecturer was receiving as to the uncertainty of communication with the Longships.

Needless to say, the Sennan boat did not return for him that day, nor that evening; no, nor not on the next, nor the next, nor the next. Not till a week had run did the weather allow a boat of any kind to get near the Cam Bras. Poor man! let us hope he made the best of his incarceration; any way, it is recorded that he was not afterwards heard to complain of the keepers’ foresight in ordering in a good stock of provisions at a time, a store that would leave a little margin in case of accident.

Those who have read James Cobb’s fascinating story, The Watchers on the Longships, will notice how strangely the present orderly management of the lighthouse, and of everything connected with it, contrasts with the happy-go-lucky arrangements for maintaining the light that existed in the lawless days when first it was established. The philanthropic schoolmaster who lived hard by the Land’s End, and by whose exertions the Longships lighthouse was established, was no creature of the author’s imagination; and, with the recollection of Killegrew’s struggle against popular prejudice fresh in our minds, we can well believe that Cobb’s powerful picture of life and sentiment amongst the Cornish wreckers is not over-painted.

No man did more to fight against this terrible ‘custom’ than the late Rector of Morwenstow, a desolate seaside village on the coast of North Cornwall. When he came there some sixty years ago, he found that not only the fishermen, but the small farmers whose farms lay near the coast, looked to the wrecks that happened to supply them, to a great extent, with food and household necessaries, and they regarded anything which would lessen shipwreck more or less as an interference with their just rights and privileges. Worse than this, they did not hesitate to procure shipwreck. The men and women of Morwenstow were wreckers, and nothing better. It was right, they argued, to till their ground to get as fat a harvest as they might, and it was fair to lure ships to destruction, so as to make the most of the harvest the sea would bear them.

The rector’s servants had a good store of wrecking and smuggling stories to tell; some of them not reflecting too much credit on his predecessors in the rectory. Here is one of them:—

At Morwenstow and many other seaside parishes in Cornwall it was the rule, if a shipwreck happened near by in service time, to bring word of it to the parson, who generally announced the fact to the congregation, and they, be it said, did not remain much longer to worship.

There was one parson who did not think this hasty departure quite fair on him, hampered as he was by his clerical robes. One day a piece of paper was handed to him as he read the service, on which was written news of a vessel driving towards the rocks below. The parson finished the prayers, but instead of going to the pulpit walked towards the font. The congregation never stirred; they only thought their minister was about to perform a christening. The sound of the parson’s voice coming from the west end of the church made them turn round, and there they saw him in outdoor attire, his clerical garb laid aside, and not at the font but at the door, his hand upon the handle. ‘My Christian brethren,’ said the reverend gentleman, ‘there’s a ship wrecked upon the rocks below; this time we’ll all start fair;’ and so saying, off he ran towards the rocks, his flock, you may believe it, following him pretty closely!

You could not get a Cornishman to look on wrecking as a crime. ‘I don’t see, sir,’ said a very pious old parish clerk one day, ‘why there’s no prayers for foul weather; we always prays for fair weather, but the foul makes us richer.’ How can you wonder at such a sentiment when Cornwall, or rather the Scilly Islands, had a good saint, St. Warna, who sent wrecks in time of distress, and to whom the people would pray for a demonstration of her mercy in exceptionally bad seasons!