The Bell Rock in a Fog—Narrow Escape of the Smeaton.  
Change of scene is necessary to the healthful working of the human mind; at least, so it is said. Acting upon the assumption that the saying is true, we will do our best in this chapter for the human minds that condescend to peruse these pages, by leaping over a space of time, and by changing at least the character of the scene, if not the locality.
 
We present the Bell Rock under a new aspect, that of a dense fog and a dead calm.
 
This is by no means an unusual aspect of things at the Bell Rock, but as we have hitherto dwelt chiefly on storms it may be regarded as new to the reader.
 
It was a June morning. There had been few breezes and no storms for some weeks past, so that the usual swell of the ocean had gone down, and there were actually no breakers on the rock at low water, and no ruffling of the surface at all at high tide. The tide had, about two hours before, overflowed the rock and driven the men into the beacon house, where, having breakfasted, they were at the time enjoying themselves with pipes and small talk.
 
The lighthouse had grown considerably by this time. Its unfinished top was more than eighty feet above the foundation; but the fog was so dense that only the lower part of the column could be seen from the beacon, the summit being lost, as it were, in the clouds.
 
Nevertheless that summit, high though it was, did not yet project beyond the reach of the sea. A proof of this had been given in a very striking manner, some weeks before the period about which we now write, to our friend George Forsyth.
 
George was a studious man, and fond of reading the Bible critically. He was proof against laughter and ridicule, and was wont sometimes to urge the men into discussions. One of his favourite arguments was somewhat as follows—
 
“Boys,” he was wont to say, “you laugh at me for readin’ the Bible carefully. You would not laugh at a schoolboy for reading his books carefully, would you? Yet the learnin’ of the way of salvation is of far more consequence to me than book learnin’ is to a schoolboy. An astronomer is never laughed at for readin’ his books o’ geometry an’ suchlike day an’ night—even to the injury of his health—but what is an astronomer’s business to him compared with the concerns of my soul to me? Ministers tell me there are certain things I must know and believe if I would be saved—such as the death and resurrection of our Saviour Jesus Christ; and they also point out that the Bible speaks of certain Christians, who did well in refusin’ to receive the Gospel at the hands of the apostles, without first enquirin’ into these things, to see if they were true. Now, lads, if these things that so many millions believe in, and that you all profess to believe in, are lies, then you may well laugh at me for enquirin’ into them; but if they be true, why, I think the devils themselves must be laughing at you for not enquirin’ into them!”
 
Of course, Forsyth found among such a number of intelligent men, some who could argue with him, as well as some who could laugh at him. He also found one or two who sympathised openly, while there were a few who agreed in their hearts, although they did not speak.
 
Well, it was this tendency to study on the part of Forsyth, that led him to cross the wooden bridge between the beacon and the lighthouse during his leisure hours, and sit reading at the top of the spiral stair, near one of the windows of the lowest room.
 
Forsyth was sitting at his usual window one afternoon at the end of a storm. It was a comfortless place, for neither sashes nor glass had at that time been put in, and the wind howled up and down the shaft dreadfully. The man was robust, however, and did not mind that.
 
The height of the building was at that time fully eighty feet. While he was reading there a tremendous breaker struck the lighthouse with such force that it trembled distinctly. Forsyth started up, for he had never felt this before, and fancied the structure was about to fall. For a moment or two he remained paralysed, for he heard the most terrible and inexplicable sounds going on overhead. In fact, the wave that shook the building had sent a huge volume of spray right over the top, part of which fell into the lighthouse, and what poor Forsyth heard was about a ton of water coming down through storey after storey, carrying lime, mortar, buckets, trowels, and a host of other things, violently along with it.
 
To plunge down the spiral stair, almost headforemost, was the work of a few seconds. Forsyth accompanied the descent with a yell of terror, which reached the ears of his comrades in the beacon, and brought them to the door, just in time to see their comrade’s long legs carry him across the bridge in two bounds. Almost at the same instant the water and rubbish burst out of the doorway of the lighthouse, and flooded the bridge.
 
But let us return from this digression, or rather, this series of digressions, to the point where we branched off: the aspect of the beacon in the fog, and the calm of that still morning in June.
 
Some of the men inside were playing draughts, others were finishing their breakfast; one was playing “Auld Lang Syne”, with many extempore flourishes and trills, on a flute, which was very much out of tune. A few were smoking, of course (where exists the band of Britons who can get on without that!) and several were sitting astride on the cross-beams below, bobbing—not exactly for whales, but for any monster of the deep that chose to turn up.
 
The men fishing, and the beacon itself, loomed large and mysterious in the half-luminous fog. Perhaps this was the reason that the sea-gulls flew so near them, and gave forth an occasional and very melancholy cry, as if of complaint at the changed appearance of things.
 
“There’s naethin’ to be got the day,” said John Watt, rather peevishly, as he pulled up his line and found the bait gone.
 
Baits are always found gone when lines are pulled up! This would seem to be an angling law of nature. At all events, it would seem to have been a very aggravating law of nature on the present occasion, for John Watt frowned and growled to himself as he put on another bait.
 
“There’s a bite!” exclaimed Joe Dumsby, with a look of doubt, at the same time feeling his line.
 
“Poo’d in then,” said Watt ironically.
 
“No, ’e’s hoff,” observed Joe.
 
“Hm! he never was on,” muttered Watt.
 
“What are you two growling at?” said Ruby, who sat on one of the beams at the other side.
 
“At our luck, Ruby,” said Joe. “Ha! was that a nibble?” (“Naethin’ o’ the kind,” from Watt.) “It was! as I live it’s large; an ’addock, I think.”
 
“A naddock!” sneered Watt; “mair like a bit o’ tangle than—eh! losh me! it is a fish—”
 
“Well done, Joe!” cried Bremner, from the doorway above, as a large rock-cod was drawn to the surface of the water.
 
“Stay, it’s too large to pull up with the line. I’ll run down and gaff it,” cried Ruby, fastening his own line to the beam, and descending to the water by the usual ladder, on one of the main beams. “Now, draw him this way—gently, not too roughly—take time. Ah! that was a miss—he’s off; no! Again; now then—”
 
Another moment, and a goodly cod of about ten pounds weight was wriggling on the iron hook which Ruby handed up to Dumsby, who mounted with his prize in triumph to the kitchen.
 
From that moment the fish began to “take.”
 
While the men were thus busily engaged, a boat was rowing about in the fog, vainly endeavouring to find the rock.
 
It was the boat of two fast friends, Jock Swankie and Davy Spink.
 
These worthies were in a rather exhausted condition, having been rowing almost incessantly from daybreak.
 
“I tell ’ee what it is,” said Swankie; “I’ll be hanged if I poo another stroke.”
 
He threw his oar into the boat, and looked sulky.
 
“It’s my belief,” said his companion, “that we ought to be near aboot Denmark be this time.”
 
“Denmark or Rooshia, it’s a’ ane to me,” rejoined Swankie; “I’ll hae a smoke.”
 
So saying, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco-box, and began to cut the tobacco. Davy did the same.
 
Suddenly both men paused, for they heard a sound. Each looked enquiringly at the other, and then both gazed into the thick fog.
 
“Is that a ship?” said Davy Spink.
 
They seized their oars hastily.
 
“The beacon, as I’m a leevin’ sinner!” exclaimed Swankie.
 
If Spink had not backed his oar at that moment, there is some probability that Swankie would have been a dead, instead of a living, sinner in a few minutes, for they had almost run upon the n............