Under Louis XV., in 1727, an iron structure was substituted for this stone lantern, whose masonry had been calcined by the fire, and whose broad piers, moreover, had the serious inconvenience of obscuring a very considerable portion of the light; but the furnace was kept at the same elevation; namely, about 120 feet above the level of the highest seas. This elevation, as it did not enable the light to be seen at a sufficient distance, was soon pronounced unsatisfactory. A scheme to raise it 100 feet was planned by the Chevalier de Borda, who submitted it to Teulère, the chief engineer to the city of Bordeaux. The latter pointed out that it was both imperative and possible to increase the height by 65 feet. His designs were accepted, and their successful execution, in 1788 and 1789, in spite of many dangers, procured for Teulère a reputation scarcely inferior to that of De Foix himself. The light is now placed at an elevation above high-water level of 190 feet, and above the ground of 205 feet. But, regarded from an artistic point of view, we must confess that the lighthouse has by no means gained. There is a certain dryness about the too naked forms of the modern construction, which contrasts in a manner much to be deplored with the elegance and richness of the Renaissance work. The present summit (_couronnement_) is by no means equal to that which formerly existed. Yet, as Reynaud justly observes, the first impression which the edifice produces leaves no room for regret; you are penetrated with a profound feeling of admiration the moment you find yourself in the presence of this majestic monument, towering with so sublime a boldness above the bosom of the ocean. [Illustration: PRESENT LIGHTHOUSE OF CORDOVA.] These emotions have been finely expressed by Michelet in his noble book on “the Sea.” “During our six month‘ sojourn on this shore,” he says, “our ordinary object of contemplation—I had almost said, our daily society—was Cordouan. We felt keenly how its position as guardian of the seas, as the constant watcher of the strait, made of it an individuality. Erect against the broad eastern horizon, it appeared under a hundred varied aspects. Sometimes, in a belt of glory, it triumphed under the sun; sometimes, pale and indistinct, it hovered through the mist, no augury of good. At evening, when it abruptly kindled its red light, and darted forth its glance of fire, it seemed like a zealous inspector, who watched over the waters, impressed and disquieted by his responsibility. Whatever occurred at sea was attributed to it. By illuminating the tempest, it was frequently a source of safety, and yet men ascribed to it the storm. It is thus that Ignorance too often treats Genius, accusing it of the evils which it reveals. Even we ourselves were not just. If it delayed lighting up, if bad weather came, we censured it, we growled at it. ‘Ah, Cordouan, Cordouan, thou white phantom! canst thou, then, bring us nought but storms?’”