The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism. Volume 4

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Title: The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism. Volume 4
Author: Whymper, Frederick
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism. Volume 4" ***

[Illustration: A “WHITE STAR” LINER CROSSING THE ATLANTIC.]

THE SEA:

_Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism._

F. WHYMPER,
AUTHOR OF “TRAVELS IN ALASKA,” ETC.

_ILLUSTRATED._

*
* *
*

CASSELL, PETTER, GALPIN & CO.:
_LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK_.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
THE GREAT ATLANTIC FERRY. PAGE
The “Grand Tour” of Former Days—The only Grand Tour left—Round 1
the World in Eighty Days—Fresh‐water Sailors and Nautical
Ladies—Modern Steamships and their Speed—The
_Orient_—Rivals—Routes round the Globe—Sir John Mandeville on the
Subject—Difficulties in some Directions—The Great Atlantic
Ferry—Dickens’s Experiences—Sea Sickness—Night at Sea—The Ship
Rights—And then Wrongs—A Ridiculous Situation—Modern First‐class
Accommodation—The Woes of the Steerage—Mark Tapley—Immense
Emigration of Third‐class Passengers—Discomfort and
Misery—Efforts to Improve the Steerage—“Intermediate”—Castle
Garden, New York—Voyage Safer than by the Bay of Biscay—The
_Chimborazo_ in a Hurricane
CHAPTER II.
OCEAN TO OCEAN—THE CONNECTING LINK.
The Great Trans‐Continental Railway—New York to Chicago—Niagara 14
in Winter—A Lady’s Impressions—A Pullman Dining Car—Omaha—“The
Great Muddy”—Episodes of Railway Travel—Rough Roads—Indian
attempts at catching Trains—Ride on a Snow Plough—Sherman—Female
Vanity in the Rocky Mountains—Soaped Rails—The Great
Plains—Summer and Winter—The Prairie on Fire—A Remarkable
Bridge—Coal Discoveries—The “Buttes”—The City Gates of
Mormondom—Echo and Weber Cañons—The Devil’s Gate—Salt Lake—Ride
in a “Mud Waggon”—The City of the Saints—Mormon Industry—A
Tragedy of Former Days—Mountain Meadow Massacre—The “Great Egg‐
shell”—Theatre—The Silver State—“Dead Heads”—Up in the Sierra
Nevada—Alpine Scenery—The Highest Newspaper Office in the
World—“Snowed‐up”—Cape Horn—Down to the Fruitful Plains—Sunny
California—Sacramento—Oakland and the Golden City—Recent Opinions
of Travellers—San Francisco as a Port—Whither Away?
CHAPTER III.
THE PACIFIC FERRY—SAN FRANCISCO TO JAPAN AND CHINA.
The American Steamships—A Celestial Company—Leading 31
Cargoes—Corpses and Coffins—Monotony of the Voyage—Emotions
Caused by the Sea—Amusements on board—“Chalked”—Cricket at
Sea—Balls Overboard—A Six Days’ Walking
Match—Theatricals—Waxworks—The Officers on Board—Engineer’s
Life—The Chief Waiter—“Inspection”—Meeting the
_America_—Excitement—Her subsequent Fate—A Cyclone—At
Yokohama—Fairyland—The Bazaars—Japanese Houses—A Dinner
_menu_—Music and Dancing—Hong Kong, the Gibraltar of
China—Charming Victoria—Busy Shanghai—English Enterprise
CHAPTER IV.
THE PACIFIC FERRY—ANOTHER ROUTE.
The Hawaiian Islands—King and Parliament—Pleasant Honolulu—A 45
Government Hotel—Honeysuckle‐covered Theatre—Productions of the
Islands—Grand Volcanoes—Ravages of Lava Streams and
Earthquakes—Off to Fiji—A rapidly Christianised People—A Native
Hut—Dinner—Kandavu—The Bush—Fruit‐laden Canoes—Strange Ideas of
Value—New Zealand—Its Features—Intense English Feeling—The New
Zealand Company and its Iniquities—The Maories—Trollope’s
Testimony—Facts about Cannibalism—A Chief on
Bagpipes—Australia—Beauty of Sydney Harbour—Its
Fortifications—Volunteers—Its War‐fleet of One—Handsome
Melbourne—Absence of Squalor—No Workhouses Required—The
Benevolent Asylums—Splendid Place for Working Men—Cheapness of
Meat, &c.—Wages in Town and Country—Life in the Bush—“Knocking
Down One’s Cheque”—Gold, Coal, and Iron
CHAPTER V.
WOMAN AT SEA.
Poets’ Opinions on Early Navigation—Who was the First Female 56
Navigator?—Noah’s Voyage—A Thrilling Tale—A Strained Vessel—A
Furious Gale—A Birth at Sea—The Ship Doomed—Ladies and Children
in an Open Boat—Drunken Sailors—Semi‐starvation, Cold, and
Wet—Exposed to the Tropical Sun—Death of a Poor Baby—Sharks
about—A Thievish Sailor—Proposed Cannibalism—A Sail!—The Ship
passes by—Despair—Saved at Last—Experiences of a
Yachtswoman—Nearly Swamped and Carried Away—An Abandoned Ship—The
_Sunbeam_ of Service—Ship on Fire!—Dangers of a Coal Cargo—The
Crew taken off—Noble Lady Passengers—Two Modern Heroines and
their Deeds—The Story of Grace Darling—The Longstone Light and
Wreck of the _Forfarshire_—To the Rescue!—Death of Grace Darling
CHAPTER VI.
DAVY JONES’S LOCKER AND ITS TREASURES.
Clarence’s Dream—Davy Jones’s Locker—Origin of the Term—Treasures 66
of the Ocean—Pearl Fishing—Mother o’ Pearl—Formation of
Pearls—Art and Nature combined—The Fisheries—The Divers and their
_modus operandi_—Dangers of the Trade—Gambling with Oysters—Noted
Pearls—Cleopatra’s Costly Draught—Scottish Pearls very
Valuable—Coral—Its Place in Nature—The Fisheries—Hard Work and
Poor Pay—The Apparatus Used—Coral Atolls—Darwin’s
Investigations—Theories and Facts—Characteristics of the
Reefs—Beauty of the Submarine Forests—Victorious Polyps—The
Sponge a Marine Animal—The Fisheries—Harpooning and Diving—Value
of Sponges
CHAPTER VII.
DAVY JONES’S LOCKER AND THOSE WHO DIVE INTO IT.
Scientific Diving—General Principles—William Phipps and the 79
Treasure Ship—Founder of the House of Mulgrave—Halley’s Wooden
Diving‐Bell and Air Barrels—Smeaton’s Improvements—Spalding’s
Death—Operations at Plymouth Breakwater—The Diver’s Life—“Lower
away!”—The Diving‐_Belle_ and her Letter from Below—Operations at
the Bottom—Brunel and the Thames Tunnel—The Diving
Dress—Suffocation—Remarkable Case of Salvage—The “Submarine
Hydrostat”—John Gann of Whitstable—Dollar Row—Various
Anecdotes—Combat at the Bottom of the Sea—A Mermaid Story—Run
down by the _Queen of Scotland_
CHAPTER VIII.
THE OCEAN AND SOME OF ITS PHENOMENA.
The Saltness of the Sea—Its Composition—Tons of Silver in the 90
Ocean—Currents and their Causes—The Great Gulf Stream—Its
Characteristics—A Triumph of Science—The Tides—The Highest Known
Tides and Waves—Whirlpools—The Maelström—A Norwegian
Description—Edgar Allan Poe and his Story—Rescued from the
Vortex—The “Souffleur” at the Mauritius—The Colour of the Sea—Its
Causes—The Phosphorescence of the Ocean—Fields of
Silver—Principally Caused by Animal Life
CHAPTER IX.
DAVY JONES’S LOCKER—SUBMARINE CABLES.
The First Channel Cable—Now‐a‐days 50,000 Miles of Submarine 98
Wire—A Noble New Englander—The First Idea of the Atlantic
Cable—Its Practicability admitted—Maury’s Notes on the Atlantic
Bottom—Deep Sea Soundings—Ooze formed of Myriads of
Shells—English Co‐operation with Field—The First Cable of
1857—Paying Out—2,000 Fathoms Down—The Cable Parted—Bitter
Disappointment—The Cable Laid and Working—Another Failure—The
Employment of the _Great Eastern_—Stowing Away the Great Wire
Rope—Departure—Another Accident—A Traitor on Board—Cable Fished
up from the Bottom—Failure—Inauguration of the 1866
Expedition—Prayer for Success—A _Lucky_ Friday—Splicing to the
Shore Cable—The Start—Each Day’s Run—Approaching Trinity
Bay—Success at Last—The Old and the New World bound together
CHAPTER X.
THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS.
Perfection in Nature’s smallest Works—A Word on Scientific 111
Classification—Protozoa—Blind Life—Rhizopoda—Foraminifera—A
Robbery Traced by Science—Microscopic Workers—Paris
Chalk—Infusoria—The “Sixth Sense of Man”—Fathers of
Nations—Milne‐Edwards—Submarine Explorations—The Salt‐water
Aquarium—The Compensating Balance required—Brighton and
Sydenham—Practical Uses of the Aquarium—Medusæ: their Beauty—A
Poet’s Description—Their General Characteristics—Battalions of
“Jelly‐fish”—Polyps—A Floating Colony—A Marvellous Organism—The
Graceful Agalma—Swimming Apparatus—Natural Fishing Lines—The
“Portuguese Man‐of‐War”—Stinging Powers of the Physalia—An Enemy
to the Cuttle‐fish
CHAPTER XI.
THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (_continued_).
The Madrepores—Brain, Mushroom, and Plantain Coral—The Beautiful 122
Sea‐anemones; their Organisation and Habits; their Insatiable
Voracity—The Gorgons—Echinodermata—The Star‐fish—Sea
Urchins—Wonderful Shell and Spines—An Urchin’s Prayer—The Sea
Cucumber—The Trepang, or Holothuria—Trepang Fishing—Dumont
d’Urville’s Description—The Commerce in this Edible—The
Molluscs—The Teredo, or Ship‐worm—Their Ravages on the Holland
Coast—The Retiring Razor‐fish—The Edible Mussel—History of their
Cultivation in France—The Bouchots—Occasional Danger of Eating
Mussels—The Prince of Bivalves—The Oyster and its
Organisation—Difference in Size—American Oysters—High Priced in
some Cities—Quantity Consumed in London—Courteous Exchange—Roman
Estimation of them—The “Breedy Creatures” brought from
Britain—Vitellius and his Hundred Dozen—A Sell: Poor Tyacke—The
First Man who Ate an Oyster—The Fisheries—Destructive
Dredging—Lake Fusaro and the Oyster Parks—Scientific Cultivation
in France—Success and Profits—The Whitstable and other
Beds—System pursued
CHAPTER XII.
THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (_continued_).
The Univalves—A Higher Scale of Animal—The 139
Gasteropoda—Limpets—Used for Basins in the Straits of
Magellan—Spiral and Turret Shells—The Cowries—The Mitre
Shells—The Purpuras—Tyrian Purple—The Whelk—The Marine
Trumpet—The Winged‐feet Molluscs—The Cephalopodous Molluscs—The
Nautilus—Relic of a Noble Family—The Pearly Nautilus and its
Uses—The Cuttle‐fish—Michelet’s Comments—Hugo’s Actual
Experiences—Gilliatt and his Combat—A Grand Description—The
Devil‐Fish—The Cuttle‐Fish of Science—A Brute with Three
Hearts—Actual Examples contrasted with the Kraken—A Monster
nearly Captured—Indian Ink and Sepia—The Argonauta—The Paper
Nautilus
CHAPTER XIII.
THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (_continued_).
The Crustaceans, a Crusty Set—Young Crabs and their 150
Peculiarities—Shells and no Shells—Powers of Renewal—The Biter
Bit—Cocoa‐nut‐eating Crabs—Do Crabs like Boiling?—The Land Crab
and his Migrations—Nigger Excitement—The King Crab—The Hut Crab—A
True Yarn—The Hermit or Soldier Crab—Pugnaciousness—Crab War and
Human War—Prolific Crustaceans—Raising Lobster‐pots—Technical
Differences—How do Lobsters shed their Shells?—Fishermen’s
Ideas—Habits of the Lobster—Its Fecundity—The Supply for
Billingsgate—The Season—“Lobster Frolics” in British North
America—Eel‐grass—Cray‐fish, Prawns, and Shrimps
CHAPTER XIV.
OCEAN LIFE—THE HARVEST OF THE SEA.
Fishes and their Swimming Apparatus—The Bladder—Scientific 159
Classification—Cartilaginous Fish—The Torpedo—A Living Galvanic
Battery—The Shark—His Love for Man in a Gastronomic Sense—Stories
of their Prowess—Catching a Shark—Their Interference with
Whaling—The Tiger‐Shark—African Worship of the Monster—The Dog‐
fish—The Sturgeon—Enormous Fecundity—Caviare—The Bony Fishes—The
Flying Fish: its Feats; its Enemies—Youth of a Salmon—The Parr,
the Smolt, and the Grilse—Flourishes in the See—The Ponds at
Stormontfield—The Salmon’s Enemies—The Ettrick Shepherd—Canned
Salmon, and where it comes from—The Fish a drug in N. W.
America—Canoes impeded by them—The Fisheries of the Columbia
River—The Fishing Season—Modes of Catching Salmon—The Factories
and Processes employed
CHAPTER XV.
OCEAN LIFE—THE HARVEST OF THE SEA (_concluded_).
The _Clupedæ_—The Herring—Its Cabalistic Marks—A Warning to 168
Royalty—The “Great Fishery”—Modes of Fishing—A Night with the
Wick Fishermen—Suicidal Fish—The Value of Deep‐sea
Fisheries—Report of the Commissioners—Fecundity of the Herring—No
fear of Fish Famine—The Shad—The Sprat—The Cornish Pilchard
Fisheries—The “Huer”—Raising the “Tuck”—A Grand Harvest—Gigantic
Holibut—Newfoundland Cod Fisheries—Brutalities of Tunny
Fishing—The Mackerel—Its Courage, and Love of Man—Garum Sauce—The
formidable Sword‐fish—Fishing by Torchlight—Sword through a
Ship’s side—General Remarks on Fish—Fish
Life—Conversation—Musical Fish—Pleasures and Excitements—Do Fish
sleep?
CHAPTER XVI.
MONSTERS OF THE DEEP.
Mark Twain on Whales—A New Version of an Old Story—Whale as 178
Food—Whaling in 1670—The Great Mammal’s Enemy the “Killer”—The
Animal’s Home—The so‐called Fisheries—The Sperm
Whale—Spermaceti—The Chase—The Capture—A Mythical Monster—The
Great Sea Serpent—Yarns from Norway—An Archdeacon’s
Testimony—Stories from America—From Greenland—Mahone Bay—A
Tropical Sea Serpent—What is the Animal?—Seen on a Voyage to
India—Off the Coast of Africa—Other Accounts—Professor Owen on
the Subject—Other Theories
CHAPTER XVII.
BY THE SEA‐SHORE.
English Appreciation of the Sea‐side—Its Variety and 190
Interest—Heavy Weather—The Green Waves—On the Cliffs—The Sea from
there—Madame de Gasparin’s Reveries—Description of a Tempest—The
Voice of God—Calm—A Great Medusa off the Coast—Night on the
Sea—Boating Excursion—In a Cavern—Colonies of Sea‐anemones—Rock
Pools—Southey’s Description—Treasures for the Aquarium—A Rat
Story—Rapid Influx of Tide and its Dangers—Melancholy Fate of a
Family—Life under Water
CHAPTER XVIII.
BY THE SEA‐SHORE (_continued_).
A Submerged Forest—Grandeur of Devonshire Cliffs—Castellated 199
Walls—A Natural Palace—Collection of Sea‐weeds—The Title a
Miserable Misnomer—The Bladder Wrack—Practical Uses—The Harvest‐
time for Collectors—The Huge Laminaria—Good for Knife‐
handles—Marine Rope—The Red‐Seeded Group—Munchausen’s Gin Tree
Beaten—The Coralline a Vegetable—Beautiful Varieties—Irish
Moss—The Green Seeds—Hints on Preserving Sea‐weeds—The Boring
Pholas—How they Drill—Sometimes through each other—The Spinous
Cockle—The “Red‐noses”—Hundreds of Peasantry Saved from
Starvation—“Rubbish,” and the difficulty of obtaining it—Results
of a Basketful—The Contents of a Shrimper’s Net—Miniature Fish of
the Shore
CHAPTER XIX.
SKETCHES OF OUR COASTS—CORNWALL.
The Land’s End—Cornwall and her Contributions to the Navy—The 207
Great Botallack Mine—Curious Sight Outwardly—Plugging Out the
Atlantic Ocean—The Roar of the Sea Heard Inside—In a Storm—The
Miner’s Fears—The Loggan Stone—A Foolish Lieutenant and his
Little Joke—The Penalty—The once‐feared Wolf Rock—Revolving
Lights—Are they Advantageous to the Mariner?—Smuggling in
Cornwall—A Coastguardsman Smuggler—Landing 150 Kegs under the
Noses of the Officers—A Cornish Fishing‐town—Looe, the
Ancient—The Old Bridge—Beauty of the Place from a Distance—Closer
Inspection—Picturesque Streets—The Inhabitants—Looe Island and
the Rats—A Novel Mode of Extirpation—The Poor of Cornwall Better
Off than Elsewhere—Mines and Fisheries—Working on
“Tribute”—Profits of the Pilchard Season—Cornish Hospitality and
Gratitude
CHAPTER XX.
SKETCHES OF OUR COASTS—CORNWALL (_continued_).
Wilkie Collins’s Experiences as a Pedestrian—Taken for “Mapper,” 218
“Trodger,” and Hawker—An Exciting Wreck at Penzance—The Life‐line
sent out—An Obstinate Captain—A Brave Coastguardsman—Five
Courageous Young Ladies—Falmouth and Sir Walter Raleigh—Its Rapid
Growth—One of its Institutions—A Dollar Mine—Religious
Fishermen—The Lizard and its Associations for Voyagers—Origin of
the Name—Mount St. Michael the Picturesque—Her Majesty’s Visit—An
Heroic Rescue at Plymouth—Another Gallant Rescue
CHAPTER XXI.
SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS—SOUTHAMPTON.
Southampton: its Antiquity—Extensive Commerce—Great Port for 225
Leading Steamship Lines—Vagaries of a Runaway Steamer—The Isle of
Wight—Terrible Loss of the _Eurydice_—Finding of the Court‐
martial—Raising Her from the Bottom—“London by the
Seaside”—Newhaven and Seaford—Beachy Head—An Attempt to Scale
it—A Wreck there—Knowledge Useful on an Emergency—Saved by
Samphire—The Coast‐guard: Past and Present—Their Comparatively
Pleasant Lot To‐day—The Coast‐guard in the Smuggler
Days—Sympathies of the Country against them
CHAPTER XXII.
SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS (_concluded_).
Eastbourne and its Quiet Charms—Hastings—Its Fishermen—The Battle 235
of Hastings—Loss of the _Grosser Kurfürst_—The Collision—The
Catastrophe—Dover—The Castle—Shakespeare’s Cliff—“O’er the Downs
so free”—St. Margaret’s Bay—Kingsdown—Deal—A Deed of
Daring—Ramsgate and Margate—The Floating Light on the Goodwin
Sands—Ballantyne’s Voluntary Imprisonment—His Experiences—The
Craft—The Light—One Thousand Wild Ducks caught—A Signal from the
“South Sand Head”—The Answer—Life on Board
CHAPTER XXIII.
SKETCHES OF OUR EAST COASTS:—NORFOLK—YORKSHIRE.
Harwich; its fine Harbour—Thorpeness and its Hero—Beautiful 217
Situation of Lowestoft—Yarmouth; its Antiquity—Quays, Bridges—The
Roadstead—Herring and Mackerel Fishing—Curing Red Herrings and
Bloaters—A Struggle for Life—Encroachments of the Sea—A Dangerous
Coast—Flamborough Head—Perils of the Yorkshire Fisherman’s
Life—“The sea gat him!”—Filey and its Quiet Attractions—Natural
Breakwater—A Sad Tale of the Sea—Scarborough; Ancient Records—The
Terrible and the Gay—The _Coupland_ Helpless—Lifeboat out—Her men
thrown out—Boat crushed against Sea Wall—Two Killed—Futile
Attempts at Rescue—A Lady’s Description of a Scarborough
Gale—Whitby—Robin Hood’s Bay—An Undermined Town
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE ART OF SWIMMING—FEATS IN NATATION—LIFE SAVERS.
Lord Byron and the Hellespont—The Art of Swimming a Necessary 257
Accomplishment—The Numbers Lost from Drowning—A Lamentable
Accident—Captain Webb’s Advice to Beginners—Bold and Timid
Lads—Best Places to Learn in—Necessity of Commencing Properly—The
Secret of a Good Stroke—Useful and Ornamental
Natation—Diving—Advice—Possibilities of Serious Injury—Inventions
for Aiding Swimming and Floating—The Boyton Dress—Matthew
Webb—Brave Attempt to Save a Comrade—The Great Channel
Swim—Twenty‐Two Hours in the Sea—Stung by a Jelly‐Fish—Red Light
on the Waters—Cape Grisnez at Hand—Exhaustion of the
Swimmer—Fears of Collapse—Triumphant Landing on Calais
Sands—Webb’s Feelings—An Ingenious Sailor Saved by Wine‐
bottles—Life Savers—Thomas Fowell Buxton—Ellerthorpe—Lambert—The
“Hero of the Clyde”—His Brave Deeds—Funny Instances—The Crowning
Feat—Blinded and Neglected—Appreciation at Last
CHAPTER XXV.
THE HAVEN AT LAST—HOME IN THE THAMES.
The “Mighty Thames”—Poor Jack Home Again—Provident Sailors—The 272
Belvedere Home and its Inmates—A Ship Ashore—Rival
Castaways—Greenwich Pensioners—The Present System Compared with
the Old—Freedom Outside the Hospital—The Observatory—The
Astronomer Royal—Modern Belief in Astrology—Site of Greenwich
Park—Telescopes and Observations—The Clock which Sets the Time
for all England—Sad Reminiscences—The Loss of the _Princess
Alice_—The Old _Dreadnought_—The Largest Floating Hospital in the
World—The Trinity House: Its Constitution, Purposes, and
Uses—Lighthouses and Light‐vessels—Its Masters
CHAPTER XXVI.
WHAT POETS HAVE SUNG OF THE SEA, THE SAILOR, AND THE SHIP.
The Poet of the Sea still Wanting—Biblical Allusions—The 290
Classical Writers—Want of True Sympathy with the Subject—Virgil’s
“Æneid”—His Stage Storms—The Immortal Bard—His Intimate
Acquaintance with the Sea and the Sailor—The Golden Days of
Maritime Enterprise—The _Tempest_—Miranda’s Compassion—Pranks of
the “Airy Spirit”—The _Merchant of Venice_—Piracy in
Shakespeare’s Days—A Birth at Sea—_Cymbeline_: the Queen’s
Description of our Isle—Byron’s “Ocean”—Falconer’s
“Shipwreck”—His Technical Knowledge—The “True Ring”—The
Dibdins—“Tom Bowling”—“The Boatman of the Downs”—Three Touching
Poems—Mrs. Hemans, Longfellow, and Kingsley—Browning’s “Hervé
Riel”—The True Breton Pilot—A New Departure—Hood’s “Demon
Ship”—Popular Songs of the Day—Conclusion
GENERAL INDEX 305

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE
A “White Star” Liner crossing the Atlantic. _Frontispiece._
The Steerage of an Atlantic Steamship Forty Years ago 4
At Dinner in the First‐class Dining Saloon of an 9
Atlantic Steamship during a Storm
New York Bay, looking across to Staten Island 12
A Pullman Railway Car 16
Madison Street, Chicago 17
On the Pacific Railway: a Scene in the Sierra Nevada 20
Mountains
Camp Douglas Garrison, near Salt Lake City 24
A Street in Salt Lake City 25
On the Pacific Railway; the Interior of a Snow‐Shed 29
in the Sierra Nevada
A Cricket‐match on Board Ship 33
Leaving the Coast of California 36
A Street in Japan 41
The Custom House, Shanghai 44
View of Honolulu, Sandwich Islands _To face page_ 45
The Volcanoes of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, Sandwich 49
Islands (from the Sea)
View in Collins Street, Melbourne, Australia 53
“The passengers were let down by ropes” 57
The Rescue from the St. Lawrence River 60
Pearl Oyster (_Meleagrina margaritifera_) 68
Diving for Pearls 69
Coral 72
Coral Island 72
Coral Fishing 73
Sponge Fishing off the Coast of Greece. _To face page_ 77
Sponge, Growing 77
A Diver at Work (with Submarine Lamp) 80
Divers Attacked by a Sword Fish 84
Divers at Work 85
Chart of the Atlantic Ocean 88
Waves off the Cape of Good Hope 89
Whirlpool of Corrievreckan, off the Hebrides 93
“The Souffleur,” Island of Mauritius 96
A Ship Sailing in Phosphorescent Sea. _To face page_ 97
Phosphorescence on the Surface of the Sea 97
Section of the First Atlantic Cable 100
Exterior and Section of the 1865 Atlantic Cable 101
The Paying‐out Machinery on Board the _Great Eastern_ 104
The _Great Eastern_ Laying the Atlantic Cable 109
Foraminifera in Piece of Rock 112
Propagation of an Infusorian by Spontaneous Division 113
Inhabitants of the British seas
Kondylostoma Patens (magnified 300 times) 113
Medusæ 116
Praya Diphyes 117
Agalma Rubra (three‐fifths natural size) 120
Physalia Antarctica 121
Madrepores 124
Sea Anemones 125
Star‐fish 128
Urchins in a Rock 128
Sea Cucumber (_Holothuria tubulosa_) 128
The Razor Fish (_Solen ensis_) 129
The Mussel (_Mytilus edulis_) 129
Isolated Piles covered with the Spawn of Mussels 132
Oysters (_Ostrea edulis_) 133
Dredging for Oysters 137
The Scallop (_Pecten_) 140
The Limpet (_Patella_) 140
Spondylus 140
Turbo 141
Trochus 141
Voluta 141
Conus 141
The Cowrie (_Cypræa tigris_) 141
Strombus 144
Murex 144
Triton 144
Harpa 145
Purpura Lapillus 145
Cleodora 145
The Octopus (_Octopus vulgaris_) 148
The Common Nautilus (_Nautilus pompilius_) 149
Crabs (_Cancer pagurus_) _To face page_ 153
“The West Indian Land Crab (_Gecarcinus ruricola_) 153
The Hermit Crab (_Pagurus Bernhardus_) 156
Lobster (_Homarus vulgaris_) and Prawns (_Palæmon 157
serratus_)
The Common Shark (_Carcharias vulgaris_) 161
The Dog‐fish (_Acanthias vulgaris_) 164
The Globe‐fish (_Tetrodon_) and Sun‐fish 164
(_Orthagoriscus mola_)
The Pipe‐fish (_Syngnathus acus_) 165
The Flying‐fish (_Exocœtus exiliens_) 165
The Salmon (_Salmo salar_) 168
The Herring (_Clupea harengus_) 169
Herring Fishing 172
The Pilchard (_Clupea pilchardus_) 173
The Cod (_Morrhua vulgaris_) 176
The Mackerel (_Scomber scombrus_) 176
Fishing for Tunny off the Coast of Provence 177
Fishing for Sword‐fish 180
The Northern Whale (_Balina mysticetus_) 181
Cutting up the Whale 184
The Great Sea‐serpent when first seen from H.M.S. _To face page_ 186
_Dædalus_
Head of Sea Serpent 189
On the Sea‐shore: Calm and Storm 192
Sea Anemones 196
Delesseria 200
Laminaria 200
Bladder Wrack (_Fucus vesiculosus_) 201
Ulva 201
Pholades in a Block of Gneiss 204
Spinous Cockle (_Cardium edule_) 204
The Weaver‐fish (_Trachinus communis_) 205
The Devil’s Frying Pan, Coast of Cornwall. _To face page_ 207
The Lizard Light 208
The Loggan Stone 208
The Botallack Mine, Cornwall 209
Looe 212
View on the Cornish Coast 217
Rocket Line Thrown to a Wreck near Penzance 220
Life‐boat Going to a Wreck on Doom Bar, Padstow 221
Wreck of a Steamship near Lizard Point 224
The _König Wilhelm_ entering Portsmouth Harbour after _To face page_ 239
the Collision
Southampton 225
H.M.S. _Eurydice_ on her Beam‐ends just after the 228
Squall
Brighton 232
Discovering the Samphire on the Rock 233
The last of the _Grosser Kurfürst_ 237
Dover 240
Ramsgate 241
The Gulf Stream Light Vessel on the Goodwin Sands 244
Harwich 248
Yarmouth 249
Scarborough 253
Captain Boyton attacked by a Dog‐fish in the Straits _To face page_ 262
of Messina
Early Swimming 257
Diving 261
Captain Webb. (_From a Photograph by Albert 265
Fradelle_)
Captain Webb’s Arrival at Calais 268
The Home for Aged Merchant Seamen, Belvedere, Kent 273
Greenwich Hospital 276
Greenwich Pensioners 277
The Great Equatorial Telescope in the Dome, Greenwich 281
Observatory
Collision of the _Bywell Castle_ and the _Princess 284
Alice_
Trinity House, London 288
The Siren Fog‐horn, for Warning Ships off the Coast _To face page_ 289
The Storm 292
After the Storm 293
“He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 296
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown”
“Deep on her side the reeling vessel lies” 297
“At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, 300
A fisherman stood aghast,”
“Three Fishermen sailed away to the West” 301

[Illustration]

THE SEA.

CHAPTER I.

THE GREAT ATLANTIC FERRY.

The “Grand Tour” of Former Days—The only Grand Tour left—Round the
World in Eighty Days—Fresh‐water Sailors and Nautical
Ladies—Modern Steamships and their Speed—The
_Orient_—Rivals—Routes round the Globe—Sir John Mandeville on the
Subject—Difficulties in some Directions—The Great Atlantic
Ferry—Dickens’s Experiences—Sea Sickness—Night at Sea—The Ship
Rights—And then Wrongs—A Ridiculous Situation—Modern First‐class
Accommodation—The Woes of the Steerage—Mark Tapley—Immense
Emigration of Third‐class Passengers—Discomfort and Misery—Efforts
to Improve the Steerage—“Intermediate”—Castle Gardens, New
York—Voyage safer than by the Bay of Biscay—The _Chimborazo_ in a
Hurricane.

“Come, all ye jovial sailors,
And listen unto me,
While I do sing the _troubles_
Of those that plough the sea.”

We all know what the “Grand Tour” meant a few generations ago, and how
without it no gentleman’s education was considered complete. Now‐a‐days
the journey can be made by almost any one who can command thirty or forty
pounds, and the only really grand tour left is that around the world. M.
Verne tells us—inferentially, at all events—that it can be made in eighty
days, while Puck, as we know, speaks of putting a “girdle round the earth
in forty minutes.” But this statement of the popular French author, like
many others put forth in his graphic and picturesque works, must be taken
_cum grano salis_. It _could_ be, undoubtedly, but it is very questionable
whether any one has yet accomplished the feat. Could one ensure the
absolute “connection” as it is technically termed, of all the steamship
lines which would have to be employed it might be done; or better, one
vessel with grand steaming and sailing qualities might perform the “Voyage
Round the World” in the given time. But M. Jules Verne, it will be
remembered, paints his hero as landing at various points, and as
performing acts of bravery and chivalry _en route_, such as the episode of
rescuing a Hindoo widow from the Suttee; finding time to lounge and drink
in San Francisco “saloons,” and being attacked by Indians, who would wreck
the overland train; and still, with all delays, he is able to reach London
in time to win his wager. The very idea of describing a journey round the
world as an act of eccentricity is peculiarly French. The Englishman who
can afford to make it is especially envied by his friends, and not
considered mildly mad. We have before us a list of books of travel, all
published within the last few years, and in circulation at the ordinary
libraries. Thirteen of these works describe voyages round the world, and
they are mostly the productions of amateur rather than of professional
writers. So easy, indeed, is the trip now‐a‐days, that two of these
records are modestly and deprecatingly described as “Rambles,” while one
of the best of them is the work of a clever and enthusiastic lady,(1)
whose excellent husband, in and out of Parliament, has earnestly and
persistently studied “poor Jack’s” best interests. This lady is evidently
no fresh‐water sailor, and would put to shame the land‐lubber described in
a very old song:—

“A tar, all pitch, did loudly bawl, sir,
‘All hands aloft!’—‘Sweet sir, not I.
Though drowning I don’t fear at all, sir,
I hate a rope exceedingly.’”(2)

Another work, by a young lady in her teens, is entitled, “By Land and
Ocean; or, the Journals and Letters of a Young Girl who went to South
Australia with a Lady, thence _alone_ to Victoria, New Zealand, Sydney,
Singapore, China, Japan, and across the Continent of America.” Perhaps the
most remarkable, however, of modern female travellers is a German lady,(3)
who left Paris with only seven and a half francs in her pocket, and yet
managed to go round the entire globe. It must be admitted that she had
many friends abroad who helped her, and passed her on to others who could
and did assist her in every way. Still, the voyages and travels she made
denote the possession of a goodly amount of pluck.

The item of speed is of great importance, and may well be considered in
connection with a voyage round the globe. Verne’s title would have been
deemed the raving of a lunatic had it been published before the age of
steam, while in the first days of that great power which has now
revolutionised the world it would have been regarded as absurd. The wooden
Cunarder which, forty years ago, conveyed Charles Dickens on his first
trip to America took double the ordinary time occupied now in making the
voyage; and as a journalist has said, between such a vessel “and such
ships as the _Arizona_ (Guion line), the _Germanic_ (White Star line), the
_City of Berlin_ (Inman line), and the _Gallia_ (Allan line), there is
undoubtedly not less difference than between the Edinburgh or Glasgow
mail‐coaches and a modern express train.” The _Arizona_ has made the
_round_ trip—that is, the voyage from Queenstown, Ireland, to Sandy Hook,
New York, and back again—in fifteen days. The Inman line has been
specially celebrated for quick passages, whilst their “crack” steamer, the
_City of Berlin_, has made the single trip outwards in seven days,
fourteen hours, and twelve minutes, and inwards in seven days, fifteen
hours, and forty‐eight minutes. The _City of Brussels_ and the _City of
Richmond_ have done nearly as well, while other steamships of the same
line have made the trip in a very few hours and minutes more time. Think
of considering minutes in a voyage of 3,000 miles! The magnificent
steamship named after the Orient Company has made the voyage from England
to Australia in thirty‐seven and a half days, or not very far from half
the time occupied by other steamships a few years ago. This grand vessel
is said to be only exceeded in size by the _Great Eastern_; she has a
displacement of 9,500 tons and indicated horse‐power of 5,400, and carries
coal enough for her entire voyage—some 3,000 to 4,000 tons. But she is not
to remain unchallenged, for, at the time these pages are being written,
the Barrow Shipbuilding Company is constructing for the Inman line
Atlantic service a still larger iron vessel, with engines of 8,500 horse‐
power, capable of propelling her at the rate of sixteen or seventeen
knots; she will have four masts and three funnels. And yet another vessel
of equal or greater power has been put on the stocks for the Cunard
Company. Again, the largest _steel_ steamship, or ship of any kind, has
been launched at Dumbarton. She is intended largely for the cattle trade
between the River Plate, Canada, and England. She is over 4,000 gross
tonnage, and has been christened the _Buenos Ayrean_. The sums of money
invested in the construction of these superb vessels are enormous. The
_Orient_ is said to have cost, _without_ her fittings, little less than
£150,000, her engines alone involving the expenditure of one‐third of that
amount. And yet a third‐class or steerage ticket to the Antipodes by her
costs only fifteen guineas, while the emigrant can go out to the United
States or Canada by almost any one of the finest steamships of the various
Atlantic services for six guineas.

Many routes might, of course, be taken round the world, England being the
eventual goal in all cases. As quaint Sir John Mandeville says, in the
first chapter of his “Travels”:—“In the Name of God Glorious and
Allemyghty, he that wil passe over the See to go to the City of Jerusalem,
he may go by many Weyes, bothe on See and Lande, aftre the Contree that
hee cometh fro: manye of hem comen to an ende. But troweth not that I wil
telle you alle the Townes and Cytees and Castelles that Men schaslle go
by: for then scholde I make to longe a Tale; but alle only summe Contrees
and most princypalle Stedes that Men schulle gone thorgh, to gon the
righte Way.”

“Although,” says Mr. Simpson, the popular artist, in his work entitled
“Meeting the Sun,” “the reference here is to Jerusalem only, yet in the
Prologue he states that he was born in the ‘Town of Seynt Albanes,’ and
‘passed the See in the Yeer of Lord Jesu Christ MCCCXII, in the Day of
Seynt Michelle, and hidne to have ben longe tyme over the See, and have
reign and gon thorgh manye diverse Landes and many Provynces and Kingdomes
and Iles, and have passed throghe Tartarye, Percye, Ermonye, the litylle
and the gret; throghe Lybye, Caldee, and a gret partie of Ethiope, throghe
Amazoyne, Inde the lasse and the more, a gret partie; and thorghe out many
others Iles, that ben abouten Inde; where dwellen many dyverse Folkes, and
of dyverse Maneres and Lawes, and of dyverse Schappes of Men.’” He adds
further on in his “Boke” that going all round the world was not unknown
even before his time.

“The world is wide,” yet the practical lines for a journey of this sort
are very limited. There is the Siberian overland route, leading by St.
Petersburg, Moscow, from which it goes about straight east through Siberia
to Lake Baikal; and then there is about a month’s journey south, over the
Mongolian Desert to Peking; or it may be varied by descending the great
Amoor River, on which the Russians have a number of steamers, to
Nicolaiefsk; thence sailing to San Francisco, and home by America and the
Atlantic. “When,” says Mr. Simpson, “the Shah and Baron Reuter have made
railways through Persia it may add slightly to the choice; perhaps when
Russia civilises the whole of Central Asia it may open up a new route as
far as China; but till that happy period, unless the traveller is willing,
and at the same time able, to become a dervish, or something of that sort,
like M. Vambéry, he had better not take the chance of risk in these
regions. Many attempts have been made to pass from India to China, and
_vice versâ_, but as yet no one has succeeded. The difficulties of such an
enterprise are very great, not so much from the races of people as from
the physical character of that region of the earth. These difficulties
can, however, be overcome; and in evidence of this, we have perhaps one of
the most wonderful expeditions of modern times in the journey of the two
Jesuit missionaries, Huc and Gabet, from Peking to Lhassa. When they were
ordered to leave the capital of the Great Lama, they wished to do so in
the direction of Calcutta, as being by far the nearest, and, at the same
time, the easiest way; but in vain. By a policy rigidly insisted upon by
the Chinese Government, no one is allowed to pass anywhere along the
frontiers between China and India.” This writer adds, that when travelling
in Tibet he heard of many parties who wished to cross the frontier in that
quarter, with the purpose only of having a few days’ shooting of some
particular animal which they wanted to bring home; but he never knew of
any one who was able to gratify his wish. One man told him that he had
taken some pieces of very bright red cloth and other tempting bribes for
the officials on the Chinese side, but it was all to no purpose. “It is
not easy to understand why this intense jealousy should exist, but about
the fact there can be no doubt.”

But dismissing any and all ideas of journeying by land through Europe,
Asia, or Africa, our trip will be almost entirely by sea, the trans‐
continental route across America being excepted. Practically that route is
to‐day the best if you would reach quickly and pleasantly any part of the
Pacific. The great railway is an enormous link binding the Atlantic and
Pacific Oceans together. The Suez Canal and the Panama route have been
mentioned in these pages—the first very fully; and place must certainly be
had for a description of a railroad which is so intimately connected with
the sea. But first we must reach it.

The passage across the “Great Atlantic Ferry” is now one of ease, and in
the case of first‐class passengers almost luxury. How different was it
about forty years ago, even on the best steamships of that period! Charles
Dickens has graphically described his experiences on board the
_Britannia_, one of the earliest of the Cunard fleet, in one of his least‐
read works(4)—at least in the present generation. The little cupboard
dignified by the name of “state‐room;” the dingy saloon likened “to a
gigantic hearse with windows in the sides;” the melancholy stove at which
the forlorn stewards were rubbing their hands; the stewardess, whom
Dickens blesses “for her piously fraudulent account of January voyages;”
the excitement before leaving the dock; the captain’s boat and the dapper
little captain; the last late mail bags, and the departure, are all
sketched from nature, as the great novelist alone could depict them. And
now they are off.

“‘The sea! the sea! the open sea!
That is the place where we all wish to be,
Rolling about so merrily!’
So all sing and say, by night and by day,
In the _boudoir_, the street, at the concert, and play,
In a sort of coxcombical roundelay.
You may roam through the City, transversely or straight,
From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland Gate,
And every young lady who thrums a guitar,
Every mustachioed shopman who smokes a cigar,
With affected devotion, promulgates his notion,
Of being a “Rover” and “Child of the Ocean”—
Whate’er their age, sex, or condition may be,
They all of them long for the “Wide, wide sea!”
But however they dote, only set them afloat,
In any craft bigger at all than a boat,
Take them down to the Nore, and you’ll see that before
The “wessel” they “woyage” in has made half her way
Between Shellness Point and the pier at Herne Bay,
Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree,
They’ll be all of them heartily sick of the sea!”

So says “Ingoldsby,” and it is, no doubt, true of some London Jack Tars
and Cheapside buccaneers, who, on leaving port, are much more nautically
“got up” than any of the crew. These stage sailors become very limp when
the sea‐water takes the starch out of them. Barham tells us of one Anthony
Blogg:—

“So I’ll merely observe, as the water grew rougher
The more my poor hero continued to suffer,
Till the sailors themselves cried, in pity, ‘Poor buffer!’”

The great steamships of most lines running to distant foreign parts are
_comparatively_ easy and steady in their motions, and there is really more
chance of being attacked by the _mal de mer_ on an English or Irish
Channel boat than there is on the voyage across the Atlantic. The waves in
such channels are more cut up and “choppy” than are those of the broad
ocean. The employment of the twin‐boat, _Calais‐Douvres_, has mitigated
much of the horrors of one of our Channel lines. It is curious to note the
fact that Indians often use a couple of canoes in very much the same
manner as did the designer of the doubled‐hulled vessel just mentioned.
The writer has seen, in the Straits of Fuca, natives conveying all their
possessions on the top of planks, placed over and lashed to two canoes.
One suggestion for the improvement of the steamboat service across the
Channel to France is to construct an enormous vessel, 650 feet long and
150 wide, a ship as long as the _Great Eastern_ and twice her beam, to be
propelled by both paddles and screws. She is to be capable of carrying
several trains, and is to have a roofed station on board, with all the
necessary saloons. Floating platforms are to connect this great steam
ferry‐boat with the shore rails, so that it can start or arrive at any
time of the tide.

“Are you a good sailor?” asks one passenger of another just after leaving
Liverpool. “Oh, I suppose I’m no worse than anybody else,” is, perhaps,
the answer; while some are bold enough to answer, “Yes.” But Dickens
noticed that the first day very few remained long over their wine, and
that everybody developed an unusual love of the open air. Still, with the
exception of one lady, “who had retired with some precipitation at dinner‐
time, immediately after being assisted to the finest cut of a very yellow
boiled leg of mutton with very green capers,” there were few invalids the
first night.

The subject of sea sickness is an unpleasant one, and cannot occupy much
space here. Every old and many a new traveller has a remedy for it, so
possibly the mention of our mode of prevention may be permitted here. It
is simply for the sufferer to wear a very tight belt round the waist. It
has been recommended to many fellow‐passengers, and its use has proved
invariably beneficial. The unusual motion, and sometimes the smells of the
vessel, are the cause of the nausea felt. The tightened belt steadies the
whole body, and, provided the sufferer be not bilious, soon braces him up
corporally and mentally. If he _is_ bilious (which he often is on account
of leave‐takings and festivities prior to his departure) the worst thing
possible is generally recommended him—the ordinary brandy on board. _Very_
fine old liqueur cognac in small doses can, however, be taken with
advantage. An authority (Dr. Chapman) recommends the application of ice,
enclosed in an india‐rubber bag, to the spinal cord. In various
travellers’ works, marmalade, cayenne pepper, port wine, chutnee, and West
India pickles, are prescribed for the malady. The invalid would do much
better by eating fresh or canned fruits of a cooling nature. But to return
to the voyage. Dickens describes the first night at sea in feeling
language.

“To one accustomed to such scenes,” says he, “this is a very striking time
on shipboard. Afterwards, and when its novelty had long worn off, it never
ceased to have a peculiar interest and charm for me. The gloom through
which the great black mass holds its direct and certain course; the
rushing water, plainly heard, but dimly seen; the broad white glistening
track that follows in the vessel’s wake; the men on the look‐out forward,
who would be scarcely visible against the dark sky but for their blotting
out some score of glistening stars; the helmsman at the wheel, with the
illuminated card before him shining, a speck of light amidst the darkness,
like something sentient and of Divine intelligence; the melancholy sighing
of the wind through block and rope and chain; the gleaming forth of light
from every crevice, nook, and tiny piece of glass about the decks, as
though the ship were filled with fire in hiding, ready to burst through
any outlet, wild with its resistless power of death and ruin.”

Irresistibly comic, as well as true, is his description of the ship during
bad weather. “It is the third morning. I am awakened out of my sleep by a
dismal shriek from my wife, who demands to know whether there’s any
danger. I rouse myself and look out of bed. The water‐jug is plunging and
leaping like a lively dolphin; all the smaller articles are afloat, except
my shoes, which are stranded on a carpet‐bag, high and dry, like a couple
of coal‐barges. Suddenly I see them spring into the air, and behold the
looking‐glass, which is nailed to the wall, sticking fast upon the
ceiling. At the same time the door entirely disappears, and a new one is
opened in the floor. Then I begin to comprehend that the state‐room is
standing on its head.

“Before it is possible to make any arrangement at all compatible with this
novel state of things the ship rights. Before one can say ‘Thank Heaven!’
she wrongs again. Before one can cry she _is_ wrong, she seems to have
started forward, and to be a creature actively running of its own accord,
with broken knees and failing legs, through every variety of hole and
pitfall, and stumbling constantly. * * * And so she goes on staggering,
heaving, wrestling, leaping, diving, jumping, pitching, throbbing,
rolling, and rocking, and going through all these movements sometimes by
turns, and sometimes all together, until one feels disposed to roar for
mercy.”

Dickens gives a droll account of a ridiculous situation in which he was
placed. “About midnight we shipped a sea, which forced its way through the
skylights, burst open the doors above, and came raging and roaring down
into the ladies’ cabin, to the unspeakable consternation of my wife and a
little Scotch lady—who, by the way, had previously sent a message to the
captain by the stewardess, requesting him, with her compliments, to have a
steel conductor immediately attached to the top of every mast and to the
chimney, in order that the ship might not be struck by lightning. They and
the handmaid before‐mentioned, being in such ecstasies of fear that I
scarcely knew what to do with them, I naturally bethought myself of some
restorative or comfortable cordial; and nothing better occurring to me at
the moment than hot brandy‐and‐water, I procured a tumblerful without
delay. It being impossible to stand or sit without holding on, they were
all heaped together in one corner of a long sofa—a fixture extending
entirely across the cabin—where they clung to each other, in momentary
expectation of being drowned. When I approached this place with my
specific, and was about to administer it, with many consolatory
expressions, to the nearest sufferer, what was my dismay to see them all
roll slowly down to the other end! And when I staggered to that end, and
held out the glass once more, how immensely baffled were my good
intentions by the ship giving another lurch, and their all rolling back
again! I suppose I dodged them up and down this sofa for at least a
quarter of an hour, without reaching them once; and by the time I did
catch them the brandy‐and‐water was diminished by constant spilling to a
tea‐spoonful.”

What a difference to the accommodations and comfort of most modern
steamships, with their luxurious saloons placed amidships, where there is
least motion; their spacious and airy state‐rooms, warmed by steam, water
laid on, and fitted with electric bells; their music‐room with piano and
harmonium, their smoking‐room, bath‐rooms, library, and even barber’s
shop. The table is as well served as at the best hotel ashore, and the
_menu_ for the day is as extensive as that of a first‐class restaurant,
while everything that may be required in the drinkables, from modest
bottled beer to rare old wine, is to be obtained from the steward. And
provided that the passengers assimilate reasonably well, there will be
enjoyable games, music, and possibly private theatricals and other
regularly organised entertainments. The idea of a “Punch and Judy” in the
middle of the Atlantic seems rather funny; but we have known of an
instance in which even this form of amusement has been provided on board a
great steamship! On long voyages it is not by any means uncommon for some
one to start a MS. daily or weekly journal, to which many of the
passengers contribute. Such have often been published afterwards for
private circulation, as affording reminiscences of a pleasant voyage.

Then there is the pleasure of discovering “a sail in sight,” and of
watching it grow larger by degrees as the vessels approach each other. The
“look out” is kept by some passengers almost as persistently as by the
sailors detailed for the purpose. Perhaps, again, the captain or officers
have let out the fact that they should pass one of their own or some rival
company’s vessel that day. How many eyes are strained after that first
mere thread of smoke on the horizon! What ringing cheers as the two great
steamships near each other! What an amount of anxious enthusiasm when it
is known that a boat is coming off from the other vessel, and what
feverish excitement to learn all the news! They may have been seven or
eight days without any, and in that time what may not have occurred in the
history of nations!

Then, again, the sea itself, in its varying beauty or grandeur, has for
most travellers a great interest. Is there not a chance of seeing an
iceberg, a whale, or even the great sea serpent?

In March‐April, 1869, the writer crossed the Atlantic in splendid weather.
The ocean was, for the ten days occupied on the passage, almost literally
as calm as a lake; even the lady passengers emerged from their cabins two
or three days before they would otherwise have ventured forth. Among them
was one lady seventy‐five years of age, who was running away—so she
informed the passengers—from her husband, and going to join her children
in the States. This female had “stood it” for fifty years, but now, she
said, she was going to end her days in peace. Here was a champion of
“woman’s rights!” Alas! on arrival in New York there was no one to receive
her, and she was taken back on board the steamer. What became of her
afterwards we know not.

[Illustration: THE STEERAGE OF AN ATLANTIC STEAMSHIP FORTY YEARS AGO.]

The woes of steerage passengers have been graphically described by Charles
Dickens. He tells us that “unquestionably any man who retained his
cheerfulness among the steerage accommodations of that noble and fast‐
sailing packet, the _Screw_, was solely indebted to his own resources, and
shipped his good humour like his provisions, without any contribution or
assistance from the owners. A dark, low, stifling cabin, surrounded by
berths filled to overflowing with men, women, and children, in various
stages of sickness and misery, is not the liveliest place of assembly at
any time; but when it is so crowded, as the steerage cabin of the _Screw_
was every passage out, that mattrasses and beds are heaped on the floor,
to the extinction of everything like comfort, cleanliness, and decency, it
is liable to operate not only as a pretty strong barrier against
amiability of temper, but as a positive encourager of selfish and rough
humours.” Dickens follows with a dismally correct picture of the
passengers, with their shabby clothes, paltry stores of poor food and
other supplies, and their wealth of family. He adds that every kind of
suffering bred of poverty, illness, banishment, and tedious voyaging in
bad weather was crammed into that confined space, and the picture, almost
revolting in its naked truthfulness, was not overdrawn in those days. It
could not be written, however, of any steerage whatever in our times, for
partly from governmental care, partly from the general improvement in
means of travel, partly from competition and the praiseworthy desire of
the owners to earn a high character for their vessels’ accommodations, the
steerage of to‐day is _comparatively_ decent; although it is not yet that
which it should be, nor has the progress of improvement kept anything like
pace with railway accommodation of the cheaper kind. Yet one would think
it to the interest of owners(5) to make the steerage an endurable place of
temporary abode.

In 1879 nearly 118,000 steerage passengers left the port of Liverpool for
the United States. It should be noted that this was from _one_ port,
undeniably the principal one for emigration, but still by no means the
only British one used for that purpose. Observe further that it was for
America alone that these emigrants were bound. According to the United
States census of 1870, there were at that time 5,600,000 human beings in
the country who were foreign born, and this number has since gone on
increasing to a very large extent. Nine‐tenths of them at the least
crossed the Great Ferry in ships bearing the Union Jack, and of these,
three‐fourths or more crossed as steerage passengers. Hence the importance
of the question.

Latterly a considerable amount of attention has been given to the sub‐
division of the steerage space, so that, when practicable, friends and
families may remain together. Married people and single women have now
separate quarters. The sleeping accommodations are the weak point. They
are simply rough wooden berths, and the passenger has to furnish his own
bedding, as well as plate, mug, knife, fork, spoon, and water‐can. The
provisions are now‐a‐days generally ample, and on some lines are provided
_ad libitum_. The bill of fare is pretty usually as follows. Breakfast:
coffee, fresh bread or biscuit, and butter, _or_ oatmeal porridge and
molasses; Dinner: soup, beef or pork, and potatoes—fish may be substituted
for the meat; on Sunday pudding is often added; Tea: tea, biscuit and
butter. Three quarts of fresh water are allowed daily. A passenger who has
a few shillings to spend can often obtain a few extras from the steward,
and many, of course, take a small stock of the minor luxuries of life on
board with him.

To those of small means who are contemplating emigration, the
“Intermediate” (second‐class) on board some of the Atlantic steamers to
the States and Canada can be commended. For a couple of guineas over the
steerage rates, excellent state‐rooms, generally with four to six berths
in each, furnished with bedding and lavatory arrangements, are provided.
The intermediate passenger has a separate general saloon, and the table is
well provided with good plain living. As the steerage passenger has to
provide so many things for himself, it is almost as cheap to travel
second‐class.

[Illustration: AT DINNER IN THE FIRST‐CLASS DINING SALOON OF AN ATLANTIC
STEAMSHIP DURING A STORM.]

Almost every reader will remember Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley on
board the wretched _Screw_. How, for example, “the latter awoke with a dim
idea that he was dreaming of having gone to sleep in a four‐post bedstead
which had turned bottom upwards in the course of the night,” for which
there seemed some reason, as “the first objects he recognised when he
opened his eyes were his own heels looking down at him, as he afterwards
observed, from a nearly perpendicular elevation.” “This is the first time
as ever I stood on my head all night,” observed Mark.

The lesson taught by Dickens regarding the necessity of keeping up one’s
spirits on board ship, and better, of helping to keep up those of others,
as exemplified by poor Tapley, is a very important one. If anything will
_test_ character, life on board a crowded ship will do it. Who that has
read can ever forget Mark, when he calls to the poor woman to “hand over
one of them young ’uns, according to custom.” “‘I wish you’d get
breakfast, Mark, instead of worrying with people who don’t belong to you,’
observed Martin, petulantly.” “‘All right,’ said Mark; ‘_she’ll_ do that.
It’s a fair division of labour, sir. I wash her boys and she makes our
tea. I never _could_ make tea, but any one can wash a boy.’ The woman, who
was delicate and ill, felt and understood his kindness—as well she might,
for she had been covered every night with his great coat, while he had for
his own bed the bare boards and a rug.” “If a gleam of sun shone out of
the dark sky,” continues Dickens, “down Mark tumbled into the cabin, and
presently up he came again with a woman in his arms, or half‐a‐dozen
children, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or a basket, or something
animate or inanimate that he thought would be the better for the air. If
an hour or two of fine weather in the middle of the day tempted those who
seldom or never came on deck at other times to crawl into the long‐boat,
or lie down upon the spare spars and try to eat, there in the centre of
the group was Mr. Tapley, handing about salt beef and biscuit, or
dispensing tastes of grog, or cutting up the children’s provisions with
his pocket‐knife for their greater ease and comfort, or reading aloud from
a venerable newspaper, or singing some roaring old song to a select party,
or writing the beginnings of letters to their friends at home for people
who couldn’t write, or cracking jokes with the crew, or nearly getting
blown over the side, or emerging half‐drowned from a shower of spray, or
lending a hand somewhere or other: but always doing something for the
general entertainment.”

[Illustration: NEW YORK BAY, LOOKING ACROSS TO STATEN ISLAND.]

Dickens drew his picture from life, and although an extreme case, there
are many Mark Tapleys yet to be met. And indeed, unless the emigrant can
remain happy and jovial amid the unmistakable hardships of even the best
regulated steerage, he had better have stopped at home. If he can stand
them well, he is of the stuff that will make a good colonist or settler,
ready to “rough it” at any time. Before leaving the subject of steerage
passengers and emigrants, it may be well to note that the United States
Government does all in its power on their arrival in New York to protect
them from imposition and furnish them with trustworthy information. At the
depôt at Castle Gardens, where third‐class passengers land, there are
interpreters, money‐changers, railway‐ticket offices, and rooms for their
accommodation; and it is very much their own fault if they slide into the
pitfalls of New York—for New York _has_ pitfalls, like every other great
city.

The risks of the voyage across the Atlantic are not really as great as
those of ships passing southwards through the Bay of Biscay, which is the
terror of passengers to Australia, India, China, and other points in the
Orient. At the beginning of 1880 the fine S.S. _Chimborazo_ returned with
difficulty to Plymouth, three persons having been washed overboard, and
one killed from injuries received on board. Off Ushant a formidable gale
arose, and the vessel began to roll heavily, while on the following
morning the storm had become a hurricane, and the water was taken on board
and below in volumes, threatening a fate similar to that experienced by
the _London_. Just before 9 A.M. an enormous sea broke over the ship,
heeling her over and washing the deck with resistless force. The steam
launch, six heavy boats, the smoking room, saloon companion, and
everything on the spar deck, were in three seconds carried overboard among
the breakers as though they were mere children’s toys, while, in addition
to the losses of life already mentioned, seventeen other passengers were
more or less injured. Just before the ship was struck the smoking‐room was
full of passengers, who were requested by the captain to leave it to give
place to some helpless sheep who were floundering about, and to this fact
they owed their lives. “As,” said a leading journal, “the stricken ship
entered Plymouth Harbour on Tuesday morning, her shattered stanchions and
skylights, her damaged steering apparatus, and the heap of wreckage lying
upon her deck, proclaimed the fury of the tremendous ordeal through which
she had passed, and awakened many a heartfelt and silent prayer of
gratitude among her rescued passengers, as they contemplated the evidences
of the peril from which they had so narrowly escaped.” It is in moments
such as these that the poverty of human words is keenly felt. There can be
no doubt that, but for the excellent seamanship displayed by Captain
Trench and his officers there would have been a sadder story to relate.

CHAPTER II.

OCEAN TO OCEAN.—THE CONNECTING LINK.

The Great Trans‐Continental Railway—New York to Chicago—Niagara in
Winter—A Lady’s Impressions—A Pullman Dining Car—Omaha—“The Great
Muddy”—Episodes of Railway Travel—Rough Roads—Indian Attempts at
Catching Trains—Ride on a Snow Plough—Sherman—Female Vanity in the
Rocky Mountains—Soaped Rails—The Great Plains—Summer and
Winter—The Prairie on Fire—A Remarkable Bridge—Coal
Discoveries—The “Buttes”—The Gates of Mormondom—Echo and Weber
Cañons—The Devil’s Gate—Salt Lake—Ride in a “Mud Waggon”—The City
of the Saints—Mormon Industry—A Tragedy of Former Days—Mountain
Meadow Massacre—The “Great Egg‐shell”—Theatre—The Silver
State—“Dead Heads”—Up in the Sierra Nevada—Alpine Scenery—The
Highest Newspaper Office in the World—“Snowed up”—Cape Horn—Down
to the Fruitful Plains—Sunny California—Sacramento—Oakland and the
Golden City—Recent Opinions of Travellers—San Francisco as a
Port—Whither Away?

Sufficient mention of New York has already been made in this work. The
tourist or traveller bound round the world, viâ the great trans‐
continental railway and San Francisco, has at starting from the commercial
metropolis of America, and as far as Omaha, a choice of routes, all the
fares being identical for a “through ticket” to the Pacific. You may go
among the Pennsylvanian mountains and valleys, and catch many a glimpse of
the coal and coal “ile” fields; the country generally being thickly
wooded. The Pennsylvania, Pittsburg, and Fort Wayne Railway passes through
really grand scenery, and the construction of the road has been a work of
great difficulty, involving extensive cuttings and embankments and long
tunnels. The road takes a serpentine course among the mountains, and at
one point, known as the “Horse‐shoe Bend,” the line curves round so much
that it almost meets itself again. A train following your own appears to
be going in the opposite direction. The only city of any importance on
this route, before Chicago is reached, is Pittsburg, the busy, coaly,
sooty, and grimy—a place reminding one of Staffordshire, and abounding in
iron and cutlery works. It is situated among really charming scenery, near
where the Monongahela, Alleghany, and Ohio rivers meet, and is an ugly
blot among the verdant and peaceful surroundings. After leaving Pittsburg
the railroad passes through a charmingly fresh and fruitful country,
watered by the Ohio. “Long stretches of green meadows, shut in by hill and
dale, shady nooks, cosy farm‐houses, and handsome villas, steamers,
barges, boats, and timber‐rafts—almost as large as those famous Rhine
rafts—on the river, make up a varied and most attractive scene.” Next you
reach Indiana, a country of fairly good soil, bad swamps, fearful fever
and ague, and an indolent and shiftless people. In general terms it is a
good country to leave.

But the tourist’s popular route from New York to Chicago is that briefly
known as “The Great Central.” At Niagara it passes over a bridge spanning
the river below the great Falls, where a tolerable view is obtainable.
Most tourists naturally stop a day or two at the Falls, where there are
fine hotels. They have been so often described that every schoolboy knows
all about them. They are especially worth seeing under their winter
aspect, when miniature icebergs and floes are falling, crashing, and
grinding with the water. Below the Falls these will bank up to a
considerable height, and the river is in places completely frozen over.
From the rocks huge stalactites of hundreds of tons of ice depend. The
contrast of the dashing green waters with the crystal ice and virgin snow
around is very beautiful. Some idea of the volume of water may be gathered
from this fact: the Niagara River a mile and a half above the Falls is two
and a half miles wide, and is there very deep. At the Falls all this water
is narrowed to about 800 yards in breadth. A traveller already
mentioned(6) thus describes her impressions:—

“Nor do I think that the most powerful imagination can, with its greatest
effort, attain even an approximate notion of the awful sublimity of this
natural wonder. Like all other stupendous things which the mind has been
unaccustomed to measure and to contemplate, Niagara requires time to grow
upon one. The mind also demands time to struggle up to its dimensions, and
time to gather up its harmonies into the mighty tones which finally fill
the soul with their overwhelming cadences, and whose theme, ever‐varying
but still the same—as in the hands of a Handel or a Beethoven—thunders
through the whole extent of one’s being—‘Almighty Power!’

“The chief impression produced upon the mind by Niagara is the perpetuity
of immeasurable force and grandeur. This it is which lends such a strange
fascination to the Falls; however pressingly one is desirous of getting
away, one is obliged to turn back again, and yet again, like the disturbed
needle to the magnetic pole. There is nothing in the way of natural
scenery which has stamped itself so clearly, indelibly, and awfully on my
mind as this gigantic magnificence; as this mighty body of waters, gliding
stealthily but rapidly on its onward course above the Falls, springing
forward more wildly, more exultingly, as it nears the brink, until it
leaps over into the abyss to swell the mighty canticle, which, for
thousands and thousands of years, by day and by night, through every
season, has ascended in tones of subdued thunder to the Creator’s throne.”

Passing over all intermediate points, the traveller at length reaches the
Garden City, Chicago. This, which used to be counted a western city—it is
900 miles west of New York—is now considered almost an eastern one. And it
must be remembered that this place of half a million souls is a port.
Large sailing‐vessels and steamers enter and leave it daily, and through
Lake Michigan and the chain of other lakes can reach the ocean direct.
There are miles on miles of wharfs, and it is generally considered one of
the “livest” business places in America. Handsomely laid‐out and built,
the city now hardly bears a trace of the terrific conflagration which in
1871 laid three‐fourths of the finest streets in ruins.

From Chicago to Omaha the various routes have little to interest the
ordinary traveller, and so, while speeding on together, let us dine in a
Pullman hotel car. On entering you will be presented with a bewildering
bill of fare, commencing with soups and finishing with ice‐cream and black
coffee. The dinner is served on little separate tables, while the purity
of the cloths and table napkins, the brightness of the plate, and the
crystal clearness of the glass‐ware, leave nothing to desire. You can have
a glass of iced water, for they have an ice‐cellar; you can obtain
anything, from a bottle of beer to one of Burgundy, port, or champagne;
and cigars are also kept “en board;” while at the particular point
indicated you will not pay more than seventy‐five cents (about three
shillings) for the dinner. It must be admitted that the liquid
refreshments are generally very dear: a “quarter” (_i.e._, twenty‐five
cents, the fourth of a dollar) for any small drink, fifty cents for a very
small bottle of Bass, and wines expensive in proportion. Still you dine at
your ease and leisure, instead of rushing out with a crowd at the “eating
stations,” where the trains usually stop three times a day. We have the
authority of Mr. W. F. Rae for stating that “no royal personage can be
more comfortably housed than the occupant of a Pullman car, provided the
car be an hotel one.”(7)

[Illustration: A PULLMAN RAILWAY CAR.]

At Omaha, on the Missouri, the Pacific Railway _proper_ commences,
although the various New York and other lines, as we have seen, connect
with it. The river, irreverently known on the spot as “The Great Muddy,”
from the colour of its water and its numerous sand and mud banks, is
crossed at this point by a fine bridge. _Apropos_ of the said banks, which
are constantly shifting, a story is told of a countryman who, years ago,
before the age of steam ferries, wanted to cross the Missouri near this
point. He did not see his way till he observed a sand‐bank “washing‐up,”
as they call it, to the surface of the water near the shore on which he
stood. He jumped on it, and it shifted so rapidly that it took him clear
across the river, and he was able to land on the opposite side! The story
is an exaggerated version of fact. The shifting sand‐banks make navigation
perilous, and good river pilots command a high figure.

The literature of the railway has hardly yet been attempted. It is true
that scarcely a day passes without something of interest transpiring in
connection therewith: now some grand improvement, now a terrible accident
or narrow escape, and now again the opening of some important line. The
humours of railroad travel—good and bad—often enliven the pages of our
comic journals, while the strictly mechanical aspect of the subject is
fully treated in technical papers. But the facts remain that all this is
of a transient nature, and that the railway can hardly be said yet to have
a literature of its own.

[Illustration: MADISON STREET, CHICAGO.]

The following episodes mainly refer to the grand railway under notice,
which is by all odds the longest direct road on the surface of the globe.
From New York to San Francisco the distance by this railway is 3,300
miles, and the ticket for the through journey is about two feet long! This
would be more justly described as a series of tickets or coupons. The
writer has crossed the American continent twice by this route, his first
trip having been made on its completion in 1869, when, as correspondent of
a daily journal, he had ample facilities for examining it in detail. In
Chicago he had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Pullman, who kindly furnished
him with information which in those days, at all events, was new to the
British public. He was even then trying to get his famous carriages
introduced into England; as events proved, it took him several years to
get them even tested. In this connection he is credited with a _bon mot_.
He was speaking of our land in the highest terms, but, like many
Americans, did not think we adopted new ideas with sufficient readiness.
“It is a grand country,” said he, “a grand country. But you have to be
born _very_ young there;” meaning that otherwise you might grow grey in
the consummation of even a promising scheme.

When the writer first crossed the continent the railway was very much in
the rough. Rails laid at the rate of seven, and, on one occasion, _ten_
miles a day, can hardly be implicitly relied upon; much of the road was
flimsily ballasted, and many of the bridges were temporary wooden
structures of a shaky order. The train had sometimes to literally crawl
along; passengers would often get off and walk some distance ahead, easily
beating the locomotives, and be found seated on the boulders at the side
of the road, having had time for a quarter of an hour’s smoke. Mr. James
Mortimer Murphy, in his “Rambles in Northwestern America,” gives some
similar experiences on a still rougher line on which he travelled from
Wallula, on the Columbia River, to a point in Washington Territory. The
railroad was only fifteen miles long, and had wooden rails. Having secured
an interview with the president, secretary, conductor, and brakesman of
the road—represented by one and the same individual—he was booked as a
passenger, and placed on some rough iron in an open truck, with
instructions to cling to the sides, and be most careful not to stand on
the floor if he cared anything about his limbs. The miserable little
engine gave a grunt or two, several wheezy puffs, a cat‐like scream, and
finally got the train under weigh, proceeding at the headlong speed of two
miles an hour, “rocking,” says the narrator, “like a canoe in a cross sea.
The gentleman who represented all the train officials did not get on the
train, but told the engineer to go on, and he would overtake him in the
course of an hour. Before I had proceeded half a mile I saw why I was not
permitted to stand on the floor of the truck, for a piece of hoop‐iron,
which covered the wooden rails in some places, curled up into what is
called a ‘snake head,’ and pushed through the wood with such force that it
nearly stopped the train. After this was withdrawn the engine resumed its
course, and at the end of seven hours hauled one weary passenger, with
eyes made sore from the smoke, and coat and hat nearly burnt off by the
sparks, into a station composed of a rude board shanty, through whose
apertures the wind howled, having made the entire distance of fifteen
miles in that time.” The drivers of the passing “prairie schooners,” as
the waggons drawn by eight or more pairs of mules or oxen are called,
occasionally challenged the president of the line to run a race with them
in his old machine; but he scorned their offers, and kept quietly walking
beside his train. This eccentric railway has since been superseded by one
much more desirable, while in justice to the great line referred to, it
must be said that it is now, and long has been, in admirable condition,
and that it is crossed by numerous express, emigrant, and freight trains
daily.

The Indians have never given the trans‐continental railway companies much
trouble since the completion of the lines. Early in its history a story is
told, however, of the Chien or Dog Indians, from whom the town of Cheyenne
takes its name. They had a strong prejudice against the iron horse with
the fiery eyes, and determined to vanquish him. Some thirty of them
mounted their ponies, and urging them up the line, valiantly charged a
coming train. It is perhaps unnecessary to state that fragments of defunct
red men were found shortly afterwards strewed about the road, and that the
tribe has not since repeated the experiment. Perhaps better is the true
story of the Piute Indians of Nevada, who tried to catch a train, and
found that they had “caught a Tartar” instead. Annoyed by the snorting
monster, they laid in ambush, and as it approached dexterously threw a
lasso, such as is used for catching cattle, over the “smoke stack,” or
funnel of the locomotive, while a number of them held on to the other end
of the rope. The engine went on its way unharmed; but it is said that the
eccentric gymnastics performed by the Indians, as they were pulled at
twenty‐five miles an hour over the rocks and boulders at the side of the
track, were more amusing to the passengers than to themselves.

Most readers will have heard of the celebrated “Cape Horn,” high up among
the Sierra Nevada mountains, where the Central Pacific Railway rounds the
edge of a fearful cliff. The traveller is there between six and seven
thousand feet above the sea level; and at the particular point of which
mention is now made there is a precipice descending almost perpendicularly
to a depth of fifteen hundred feet. Above, again, rise the walls of the
same rocky projection to a still greater height. The sublimity of the spot
is undoubted, but as regards the passengers, the ridiculous too often
appears upon the scene. Most ladies and many timid men audibly shudder at
this juncture, and after taking a hasty glance downwards at the turbulent
Truckee River dashing round the base of the precipice, retire to the other
side of the carriage, where there is nothing but the prospect of a rough‐
hewn rocky wall a foot or so off the carriages. Is it with the idea of
ballasting the train? Perhaps like the ostrich, they think themselves out
of danger, when danger is hidden!

Not very far from the above spot, on the western side of the mountains,
where the grades are particularly steep, an accident occurred a few years
ago which had more of the comic element than the serious. A train,
proceeding at a rapid rate, broke in two, the locomotive and several
carriages dashing on, while the second half of the train followed at
slower speed. At length the foremost car of this part of the train left
the rails, and breaking off from the couplings, turned bottom upwards on
the embankment, just coming to an anchor at the edge of a ravine, into
which, had it fallen, no one could have been saved. A husband of
Falstaffian proportions was in one of the foremost carriages which had
proceeded with the locomotive, and as soon as they stopped he scrambled
off, running back to the scene of the accident, hurrying and stumbling and
shinning himself on and over the rough roadway and obtrusive sleepers, for
his wife was in one of the hindmost cars, and he feared the worst. At last
he approached the wreck, where his wife was seen standing, calmly waving a
handkerchief, she having climbed out through one of the windows, almost
unhurt. She had just been tending the one damaged person of the whole
number. That individual, in his anxiety to grasp something as the carriage
overturned, had seized on the hot stove, and was badly, though not
seriously, burned.

Not altogether a nuisance is an institution inseparably connected with
American trains—the peripatetic boy who offers you one minute a newspaper,
the next a novel, and then anything from a cigar or a box of sweetmeats to
a “prize package.” These latter are of all values, from a twenty‐five cent
package of stationery to a bound book at a dollar and a half, about one in
a hundred of which may possibly contain a money prize. The writer had been
a good customer as regards paper‐covered novels, and his plan was to sell
the books back at half‐price, then purchasing a new story, and this, of
course, suited the boys well enough. In consequence of these and other
purchases, he was one day allowed to win a five‐dollar “greenback” in a
prize package. He was somewhat annoyed afterwards to find that he had been
used really as the “decoy duck.” The news of his winnings flew through the
carriage, and even through the train, and the enterprising youngster soon
sold a dozen or so of the same packages, and, it may be added, the same
number of purchasers. There were no more prizes that day!

[Illustration: ON THE PACIFIC RAILWAY: A SCENE IN THE SIERRA NEVADA
MOUNTAINS.]

A newspaper is published regularly on the overland trains of the Pacific
Railway. There are telegraph stations everywhere on the route, and the
latest news is handed “aboard” to the editor, leader‐writer, compositor,
and pressman—represented by, or condensed into, one and the same
individual—as soon as the train arrives, and is immediately “set up” and
printed. Thus “specials,” “extra specials,” and “special extra specials”
follow one another in rapid succession, and keep the train alive with
excitement.

A term which has come into vogue here originated on the Pacific Railway
during the writer’s stay in California. A terrible accident occurred near
Oakland, in which one train of the long cars usual in the United States
met and literally “telescoped” another. The expression was used in a
rather curious way in San Francisco for some time afterwards. If a
business man in a hurry ran into another person—say, for example, coming
round a corner—the latter would ejaculate, “Hi! are you trying to
_telescope_ a fellow?”

The writer will not soon forget his ride from Laramie to Sherman, a
station on one of the ridges of the Rocky Mountains, which the Pacific
Railway crosses at an altitude of over 8,000 feet. Armed with a pass from
the company, the courteous station‐master at the former place made no
objection to his accompanying a locomotive with a snow‐plough attached in
front, then starting ahead of the regular train. The plough was a rough
specimen of its kind, in form not greatly unlike the ram of an ironclad,
and was constructed of sheet‐iron, covering a strong wooden frame. But it
did its work efficiently, scattering the soft snow on either side in waves
and spray, reminding one of the passage of some great ocean steamship
through the billows. The snow had drifted in places till it was five or
six feet deep on the road, but this proved child’s play to the plough, and
the services of the navvies, who, seated on the coal, were swinging their
legs over the side of the tender, were not required. The greatest danger
on the line, now so amply protected by great snow sheds—literally wooden
tunnels—and snow fences, arises from snow which has thawed, frozen, re‐
thawed, and re‐frozen until it is literally packed ice. The wheels of a
locomotive, arrived at such a point, either revolve helplessly, without
progressing, or run clean off the metals.

The mention of the effect of ice on the rails recalls a story told by
Colonel Bulkley, when the latter was chief of the Russo‐American Telegraph
Expedition. The colonel during the civil war in the States was at the head
of a constructing party, who built temporary lines of telegraph to follow
the advancing northern army. The driver of a train which passed through
the district in which they were engaged had been ordered to stop nightly
and pick the party up, but one night neglected to do so, and the weary
constructors had to tramp a dozen miles in the dark to the nearest
village. The men naturally determined that this should not occur again,
and so next morning armed themselves with several boxes of bar soap. What
for? To soap the rails! Colonel Bulkley tells gleefully how they rubbed it
on for about a quarter of a mile, how the train arrived at the place, and
after gliding on a certain distance, from the momentum it had acquired,
came nearly to a standstill, and how the men jumped on and told the joke
to everybody. The engineer next day did not forget to remember them.

“Some writers strongly advise the traveller to make a halt at Sherman
station,” says Mr. Rae. “The inducements held out to him are mountain
scenery, invigorating air, fishing and hunting. A sojourn among the peaks
of the Rocky Mountains has the attraction of novelty to recommend it. Life
there must be, in every sense of the word, a new sensation. But some
sensations are undesirable, notwithstanding their undoubted freshness.
That splendid trout swarm in the streams near Sherman admits of no
dispute. Yet the disciple of Isaak Walton should not be tempted to indulge
rashly in his harmless and charming sport. It is delightful to hook large
fish; but it is less agreeable to be pierced through by arrows. Now, the
latter contingency is among the probabilities which must be taken into
consideration. A few weeks prior to my journey, one of the conductors of
the train by which I travelled, learned, by practical experience, that
fishing among the Rocky Mountains has palpable and painful drawbacks.
Having taken a few days’ holiday, he went forth, fishing‐rod in hand, to
amuse himself. While whipping the stream in the innocence of his heart, he
was startled to find himself made the target for arrows shot by wild
Indians. He sought safety in flight, and recovered from his wounds, to the
surprise as much as to the gratification of his friends. His story did not
render me desirous of sharing his fate.”

The Great Plains, over which the “prairie schooners”(8) toil, and the
trains now fly, have a dreary interest of their own. In summer they are
hot and dusty, and the contemplation of nearly unlimited sage‐brush, and
the occasional prairie dog or hen, is not enlivening; while the constant
recurrence of skeletons bleaching in the sun—skeletons of overworked
mules, horses, and oxen, and sometimes of the human animal—is apt to make
one melancholy. But on a winter moonlight evening, when covered with snow,
which has thawed in the day, and become _glacé_ at night, they resemble
one vast glittering lake, with the brush‐covered hillocks standing for
islands. The buffaloes, once so common, are rarely or never seen near the
railway. In that more fertile portion of the plains nearer the Missouri,
in Nebraska and adjoining states, it is also possible that the oft‐times
grand sight of the prairie on fire may be witnessed from the train. The
writer was, one evening in May, 1868, in company with others, in a Pullman
car, when huge massive clouds of smoke hanging over the horizon appeared
in view. Soon it became evident, as the train approached the spot, that
the prairie was on fire for miles, although fortunately at some distance
from the line. The flames rose fiercely to the peaceful, starlit sky; the
homesteads of settlers, trees, and hillocks stood out black against the
line of destroying fire; while over all a canopy of smoke hung heavily,
affording a scene not soon to be forgotten.

Westward from the high point where Sherman stands, the railway line makes
a rapid descent to the Laramie Plains, the trains going down, not merely
by their own weight, but with brakes tightly screwed down. At Dale Creek,
on this section of the line, a wonderful bridge is crossed. It is 650 feet
long, and in the centre of the deep ravine it bridges is 126 feet high. It
is built entirely of wood, was erected in thirty days, and is a perfect
puzzle of trestle‐work. “More than one passenger,” says Mr. Rae, “who
would rather lose a fine sight than risk a broken neck, breathes more
freely, and gives audible expression to his satisfaction, when once the
cars have passed in safety over this remarkable wooden structure.” Now the
train is again proceeding rapidly; in twenty miles, the descent of 1,000
feet is accomplished. Next, Laramie City is reached, round which is a good
grazing country. This is succeeded by the plains known as “The Great
American Desert,” another barren sage‐brush‐covered stretch of country.
And yet—in addition to the fact that even sage‐brush is good for
something, a decoction of it being recommended in cases of ague—the desert
has been proved to contain its treasures. At Carbon, and other stations on
the line, fine deposits of coal have been found, and are worked to
advantage. It was at first feared that all the coal for the railway would
have to be transported from far distant points.

Among the wonders of the plains are the huge rocks and bluffs known as the
“Buttes,” which often rise from comparatively level ground, and in
detached spots. Seen in the gloaming, their often grotesque forms appear
weird and unearthly, and the effect is increased by the fact that all
around is silent and desolate, and their mocking echoes to the snorting
iron horse are the only sounds that are heard. Some of these rock‐masses
are columnar, and others pyramidal, in form; some assume the shape of
heads, human or otherwise. Now they rise in huge walls, with as wonderful
colouring as have the cliffs at Alum Bay in the Isle of Wight; they are
often several hundred feet in height. One, particularly noted by the
writer, had almost the exact form of an enormous dog seated on its
haunches.

As the train approaches the confines of Mormondom some specially grand
scenery is met and passed. The stern and rugged ravine known as Echo
Cañon(9) is shut in by abrupt and almost perpendicular sandstone and
conglomerate cliffs, with many a crag standing sentinel‐like, and rising
high towards heaven, over the impetuous, brawling Weber river. Close to
the Mormon town of Echo there is a cliff 1,000 feet high, which _overhangs
its base_ fifty feet. There is also a rock known as “The Sphinx of the
Valley,” from a resemblance to the original. Weber Cañon succeeds the
first‐named, and in this is to be noted a remarkable and nearly
perpendicular cleft in the cliff—well known as “The Devil’s Slide.”
Further on, and the train arrives at “The Devil’s Gate,” where the stern
rock‐walls narrow, and the dark hills approach each other closely. Here
the river becomes a boiling and furious rapid, white with foam, hurrying
onward with terrible impetuosity, and rolling _tons_ of boulders before
its resistless course. Some of the early railway bridges were quite washed
away by it, and many difficulties were met in the construction of the
line, heavy tunneling almost obviously having been necessary in some
places. But all obstacles were successfully overcome. Emerging from the
gloomy, rugged cañon, the more or less fertile and cultivated Weber valley
is, by contrast, a perfect glimpse of Paradise.

Few travellers, however much they may have to hurry, will pass through
Utah without a flying visit to Salt Lake City, now a very different place
from what it was when Captain Burton wrote his “City of the Saints.” The
Mormon capital is not on the main line of the Pacific Railway, but is
connected with it by a short branch of forty miles in length. Ogden is the
“junction” for Salt Lake, and has a very tolerable station, with dining‐
rooms, book‐stands, and other conveniences. The last time the writer
passed through this part of Utah in winter, the (spirit) thermometer on
the platform at Ogden marked ‐16° Fahr., or 48° below the freezing‐point
of water. On the first visit, the branch railway was barely commenced, and
he proceeded to the “city” in a “mud‐waggon,” a kind of packing‐case on
wheels—for he can hardly say on springs—which was driven at a furious
rate. How many miles he travelled perpendicularly—in jolts—he knows not,
but he was very tired on arrival at his destination. Yet the journey had
much of interest in it. There was, for instance, almost all the way in
sight, and sometimes within a few hundred yards, the Great Salt Lake—the
Dead Sea of America—whose waters are said to be one‐third salt. This is
probably an exaggeration, but its shores are white with a mineral
efflorescence, and it took the Mormons years to irrigate much of the
surrounding land, and thus literally wash the salty deposits out of it.
The fresh water for the purpose had to be diverted and brought in hill‐
side ditches, &c., in many cases from a considerable distance. The result
has repaid them, for the road from Ogden to Utah passes through several
prosperous towns, and by scores of pleasant homesteads embowered in
gardens and orchards of peach and apple trees, the marks of industrious
farm cultivation being everywhere apparent.

[Illustration: CAMP DOUGLAS GARRISON, NEAR SALT LAKE CITY.]

At one period there was some opposition among the Mormons to the
construction of the trans‐continental railway through their territory, as
they feared that influx of strangers which has actually come to pass. The
late Brigham Young, however, was either more enlightened, or saw that it
was no use fighting against the inevitable, and actually took contracts to
assist in making the railroad, besides afterwards building the branch line
to the city. It was cleverly said by the _New York Herald_ that “railway
communications corrupt good Mormons,” to which President Young is stated
to have replied that “he did not care anything for a religion which could
not stand a railroad.” And in fact, up to a comparatively recent date,
several thousand fresh recruits, principally from Great Britain and the
northern nations of Europe, have been conveyed over it annually.

This is not the place for any discussion of the Mormon mystery. It is easy
to laugh at it, and say with Artemus Ward that, “While Brigham’s religion
was singular, his wives were plural.” The fact remains that, in hundreds
of cases, Mormons had and have but one wife; although, theoretically, they
approve of polygamy. The further point remains that no Mormon was allowed
to have more than one helpmeet unless he could prove that his means were
amply sufficient for her support. Industry was the keystone of Brigham
Young’s teachings, however otherwise mixed with fanaticism and
superstition, and the result has been that thousands of people, mostly
poor, who settled in an unpromising‐looking country, have now homes and
farms of their own, and that by sheer hard work the desert has been made
literally “to blossom as the rose.”

[Illustration: A STREET IN SALT LAKE CITY.]

Salt Lake City has been laid out with care, and the streets are wide and
well kept; while, excepting those of a small business centre, every house
has a very large garden attached. The days of the “avenging angels,” or
Danites, is over, and every man’s life and property are nowadays safe
there, although at one time many suspected or obnoxious persons were, as
our American cousins say, “found missing.” On one terrible occasion—the
Mountain Meadow massacre—a whole train of emigrants who, on their way to
California, had encamped near the city, were murdered by Indians, whom,
there is no doubt, the Mormons had incited to the deed. A dignitary of the
Mormon Church, Bishop Lee, suffered the death‐penalty at the hands of the
United States authorities for his share in the transaction. The emigrants,
then passing with their families by the hundred, had, there is no doubt,
much aggravated the Mormons by jeering and mockery, and sometimes by
purloining their cattle and goods. There has been for many years a
garrison of United States troops kept at Camp Douglas, a short distance
from Salt Lake City, for the protection of Gentiles,(10) and the
regulation of affairs generally.

One of the best features of this strange community is the marked absence
of drunkenness and profligacy. Most Mormons are teetotallers, and drink
little more than tea or coffee, or the crystal water which runs in deep
brooks through every street, and has its birth in the heights of the
beautiful snow‐clad Wahsatch Mountains, which are a great feature in the
scenery of Salt Lake Valley. Salt Lake City has a remarkable building,
known by the faithful as “The Tabernacle,” and by the irreverent as the
“Big Egg‐shell,” from the oval form of its roof. It holds 8,000 persons,
or, under pressure, even more. It has an organ in point of size the second
in America. The writer attended a service there, given in honour of some
missionary Mormons who were about to part for Europe. The Salt Lake
theatre is another feature of the place, and has a good company of Mormon
amateur actors and actresses. We once saw there some twenty‐five of
Brigham Young’s family in the front rows of the pit. Formerly, it is said,
payment at the doors was taken “in kind,” and a Mormon would deposit at
the box‐office a ham, a plump sucking‐pig—not alive—a bag of dried
peaches, or a dozen mop‐handles, maybe, for his seats!

Taking a last glimpse of the great Salt Lake, passing Corinne, where, when
it was only six weeks old, a bank and a newspaper office, both in tents,
had been established, the train proceeds through a more or less barren
district on its way to Nevada, the Silver State, a country where, for the
most part, life is only endurable when one is making money rapidly. Those
who would see some of the silver mines with comparative ease “get off” the
train at Reno, thence proceeding by branch rail to Virginia City and Gold
Hill, places where that form of mining life may be studied to perfection.
So great has been the yield of the Nevada and other silver mines of
adjoining territories, that, as most of us know, the value of silver has
actually depreciated. Some of the millionaires of San Francisco gained
their wealth in Nevada.

In the United States the distances between leading places is so great that
the fares charged, albeit generally moderate, cannot suit slender purses,
while empty pockets are nowhere. In consequence many attempt to smuggle
themselves through. The writer remembers, in about the part of the route
under notice, a “dead‐head” who had for several stations managed to elude
the notice of the guard, but who was at last detected, and put off at a
point a dozen or more miles from the nearest settlement. The “dead‐head,”
like the stowaway on board ship, of whom as many as fourteen have been
concealed on a single vessel, and not one of them discovered by the proper
authorities till far out at sea, is an unrecognised institution on the
railways of the United States. Perhaps because our ticket system is more
rigidly enforced, few attempt to take a free passage on English railways,
although it is stated that a sailor was found, some little time since,
asleep _under_ a carriage, his arms and legs coiled round the brake‐rods,
having succeeded in nearly making the trip from London to Liverpool
undiscovered. But, then, sailors are hardened to jars and shocks and
noises, by being accustomed to the warring of the elements and so forth.
The reader may remember that when, some few years ago, a Great Western
train intersected and completely cut in two another which crossed its
path, a sailor was found asleep on the seat of a _half_ third‐class
carriage, and that he was quite angry when awoke and told of his narrow
escape. All this bears a strong resemblance to digression, so let us
return to our subject—“dead heads.” Examples of this tribe have boasted
that they have travelled all over the States for nothing. Good‐natured
guards—always “conductors” in America—will often wink at his presence, but
more rigid officials have been known to stop the train outside a long
tunnel, or on one side of a dangerous open trestle‐work bridge, and
peremptorily tell the vagrant to “get!” He has often worked his way clear
across the American continent. Turned off one train, kicked off another,
left in the snow half‐way between far distant stations, charitably allowed
a short ride on an open freight car, walking where he may not ride,
stealing where it is easier than begging, and _vice versâ_, he has at last
arrived in California, where, to do a glorious country and a generous
people justice, not even a tramp is allowed to starve. After all, does not
the vagabond deserve something for his enterprise? Perhaps in that land,
now far more of corn and hops and wine than of gold, he may, under more
auspicious circumstances, become a better and more prosperous man.

Few tourists or travellers of leisure will fail to pay a flying visit to
the grand and beautiful lakes and tarns lying among the eternal snows of
the Sierra Nevada mountains, which separate the Silver from the Golden
State, and are crossed by the Pacific Railway at an elevation of 7,042
feet above the sea level. From the Summit and Truckee stations there are
all necessary facilities for reaching Donner, Tahoe, and other lakes, and
for a stay among some of the grandest scenery in the world. The space
occupied by this chapter would not describe in the barest details the
grand mountain peaks, in one case rising to an altitude of 14,500 feet;
the forests of magnificent trees; the quieter valleys “in verdure clad;”
the waterfalls and cataracts and torrents of this Alpine region, which is
within half a day’s journey of San Francisco, and but three or four hours
from districts which for eight months of the year have the temperature of
Southern Italy. Sufficiently good coaches convey you to leading points,
where there are comfortable inns, or, in the summer months, travellers can
do a little tent‐life and open‐air camping with advantage, the climate
among the mountains being pure, bracing, and yet warm. On the leading
lakes there are boats to be had, and on one or two there are small
steamers plying regularly. Fishing and hunting can be indulged in to the
heart’s content. The Sierra mountain trout is unsurpassed anywhere; while
the sportsman can bag anything from a Californian quail to a grizzly
bear—the latter, more especially, _if he can_. At most of the ordinary
places of resort he will get the morning papers of San Francisco the same
day, while Truckee boasts of a journal of its own, published, be it
observed, 7,000 feet up the mountains!(11)

One of the writer’s recollections of the Sierra region is not so pleasant,
but then it was under its winter aspect. He had been warned on leaving San
Francisco that the railway might be “snowed up,” as it was in 1871‐2, when
for several weeks there was a blockade, and he was recommended to go to
New York _viâ_ Panama. That voyage he had once made, and, besides, had a
desire to see the continent in winter, when the journey from the Sierra
Nevada Mountains to New York is made through 3,000 miles of snow. So he
started, and for twelve hours or so all went well; but at the very
“summit” of the railway line, _i.e._, its highest point among the Sierra
Nevada, and near the station of the same name, the train came suddenly to
a standstill in the gloom of a long “snow‐shed” tunnel. Worse, as it
seemed to some, the engine deserted it, and ran away, while the conductor
was also absent for a long time. The carriages were not too well lighted,
although quite warm enough, thanks to the glowing stoves, while memories
of former blockades and half‐starved passengers did not aid in reassuring
the frozen‐in travellers. Few slept that night, and, indeed, in one
carriage, where there were several squalling babies and scolding females,
it would have been difficult. Some of the older travellers, who had
something of Mark Tapleyism about them, did their best to cheer the rest,
and passed their wicker‐covered demijohns—flasks are hardly enough for a
seven days’ journey, which might be indefinitely extended—to those who had
not provided themselves; one individual did his best to relieve the
monotony with a song; but it fell rather flat, and melancholy reigned
supreme.(12) But not for long. About seven next morning there was a
commotion; a whistle in the distance; another nearer, which, hoarse as it
was, sounded like heavenly music; and in a few minutes the good locomotive
arrived, coupled with the train, and took it to the nearest station, where
breakfast was ready for all who would partake. And that breakfast! Trout,
chicken, venison, hot bread, buckwheat cakes, and molasses, and all the
usual, and some other of the unusual, adjuncts of a regular American meal.
The traveller must not expect all these luxuries at places nearer the
centre of the continent, where, in some cases, all that you will get are
beans and bacon, hot bread, tea or coffee, and perhaps stewed (dried)
apples or peaches. At such places the excuse is sufficient, for everything
is brought from a considerable distance, while the stations themselves
have only been erected for the railway, and sometimes do not boast a
single dwelling other than those immediately connected with it.

[Illustration: ON THE PACIFIC RAILWAY: THE INTERIOR OF A SNOW‐SHED IN THE
SIERRA NEVADA.]

And so we descend, first to the foot‐hills, and then to the plains of
sunny California. Evidences of mining, past and present, are to be often
seen: flumes and ditches through which the water is rushing rapidly, old
shafts, and works, and mills, and boarding‐houses. But the glory is
departed, or rather changed for the more permanent vineyard and grain‐
field and orchard. Some of the finest wines and fruits are raised among
these said foot‐hills. And now we cross the American river, and are in
Sacramento, the legislative capital of the State, a city surrounded by
pleasant suburbs, handsome villas, and splendid mansions. Thence to San
Francisco there is the choice of a ride on the Sacramento River to the
Bay, or one of two railways—once so near the Bay City, few care to delay,
and so press on. The railway bears you through a highly‐cultivated country
to Oakland, the Brooklyn of San Francisco, and place of residence for many
of its merchant princes. Here all the year round flowers are in full
bloom. When leaving California in winter we noted roses, daisies,
verbenas, pansies, violets, hollyhocks, calla lillies, and camellias, all
growing in the open‐air. This is not particularly surprising, for in our
own country, in Devonshire and Cornwall, particularly at Penzance, a
modified statement of the same nature might be made. At Oakland the
railway runs out on a wooden pier or bridge, one mile and a quarter long,
to the bay.

Of San Francisco and its glorious bay these pages have already furnished
some account. It is the grand depôt for all that concerns commerce and
travel between every part of America and much of Europe and the Pacific
generally. The successful miner, trader, or farmer, from Nevada, Oregon,
Colorado, and all outlying territories, spends his money there; as the
metropolis of the coast‐trade of all kind _centres_ there. Hence its
success and cosmopolitan character.

In speaking of the cosmopolitan characteristics of the Golden City, a
traveller (Mr. Carlisle), says that one of the good points, coming, as did
he, from the remoteness of Japan, is the proximity of the city to Europe
as regards the receipt of news.

“The city of San Francisco is eight hours behind London in the matter of
time, and one turns this to good advantage. When her corn‐merchants go
down to their offices in the morning they find on their desks a report of
the Liverpool market of that morning; each morning paper has two or three
columns filled with telegrams of the preceding evening from all parts of
Europe, and not unfrequently there appears among these telegrams a notice
of the following kind:—‘The _Times_ of to‐day has an article in which it
says,’ &c., &c., giving the substance of that morning’s leader.” The
present writer can illustrate this point by an actual occurrence in his
own experience. Every reader will remember the terrible explosion in the
Regent’s Park, which did so much damage, and which happened about half‐
past three in the morning. He was then occupying the post of “telegraphic
editor,” &c., on the staff of the _Alta California_, the oldest journal
published on that coast. The news of the explosion reached him by telegram
at 11.30 the _evening before_, that is, _apparently_, before it happened!
The _Alta_ therefore was able to give the sad intelligence to all its
readers—some few of them as early as four o’clock—the next morning, while
the London newspapers of the early editions could naturally have nothing
about it, as they were printed before its occurrence.

Mr. W. F. Rae, a writer before quoted in regard to the character which the
city unfortunately acquired in early days, says of it:—“From being a bye‐
word for its lawlessness and licentiousness, the city of San Francisco has
become in little more than ten years as moral as Philadelphia, and far
more orderly than New York.” The fact is that one must obtain a “permit”
to carry a revolver at all, and that permission cannot properly be
obtained by anyone of dissipated or dangerous character. A heavy fine is
inflicted on any one wearing a pistol without having secured the necessary
authority. The same writer says:—“That the Golden State is of
extraordinary richness is well known to every traveller. To some, as to
me, it may have been a matter of rejoicing to discover that California is
also a land teeming with unexpected natural beauties and rare natural
delights.” He quotes approvingly Lieutenant‐Governor Holden’s speech at a
festive meeting held in Sacramento, California, on the completion of the
Pacific Railway. “Why, sir,” said the Lieutenant‐Governor, a gentleman who
had himself done much towards the successful consummation of that grand
enterprise, “we have the bravest men, the handsomest women, and the
fattest babies of any place under the canopy of heaven!” Baron Hübner, in
his published work,(13) says of the climate, “It is a perpetual spring;”
and then, alluding to the decreased yield of gold, remarks truly, “Its
real riches lie in the fertility of the soil.” And once more, Margharita
Weppner, the German lady‐traveller before mentioned, says, speaking of a
fruit‐show she visited:—“What I saw there could only be found in
California, for I have never seen anything to equal it, even in the
tropics.” She adds, enthusiastically:—“This beautiful city of the golden
land I prefer to any other in America. My preference is due to the
agreeable kind of life which its people lead, and to the extraordinary
salubrity of the climate.” The present writer has preferred to collate
from these independent sources rather than from his own long experience;
but he can testify to the truth of every one of the above statements. One
of the grandest features in San Francisco’s present and assured future
success is the fact that the steamship companies of the whole Pacific make
it their leading port.

From San Francisco the traveller bent on seeing the world can proceed to
New Zealand and Australia, calling at Honolulu in the Hawaïan Islands, and
Fiji, on the way; _or_ he can make his way to China, calling at Japan, in
steamships having perhaps the most roomy accommodation in the world; _or_
he can reach Panama and South American ports, calling at Mexican ports _en
route_, by steamships which pass over the most pacific part of the Pacific
Ocean; _or_, again, he can make delightful trips northwards to Californian
and Oregonian and British Columbian ports; _or_, once again, southwards to
ports of Southern California. These lines are running constantly, and the
above list is far from complete. Whither away?

CHAPTER III.

THE PACIFIC FERRY—SAN FRANCISCO TO JAPAN AND CHINA.

The American Steamships—A Celestial Company—Leading
Cargoes—Corpses and Coffins—Monotony of the Voyage—Emotions Caused
by the Sea—Amusements on Board “Chalked”—Cricket at Sea—Balls
Overboard—A Six Days’ Walking Match—Theatricals—Waxworks—The
Officers on Board—Engineer’s Life—The Chief
Waiter—“Inspection”—Meeting the _America_—Excitement—Her
Subsequent Fate—A Cyclone—At Yokohama—Fairy Land—The
Bazaars—Japanese Houses—A Dinner _Menu_—Music and
Dancing—Hongkong, the Gibraltar of China—Charming Victoria—Busy
Shanghai—English Enterprise.

A very ordinary trip now‐a‐days for those rounding the world is that from
San Francisco to China, calling at Japan on the way. The steamships of the
Pacific Mail Company are those principally employed, and a voyage on such
a vessel as the _China_, which is one of the crack vessels of the service,
is one almost invariably of pleasure. The _China_ is a steamship of over
4,000 tons, and cost 800,000 dollars, or, roughly, £160,000 sterling. She
will often carry 2,000 tons of tea on a return voyage, to say nothing of
perhaps from five to fifteen hundred Chinamen. A traveller(14) already
referred to states, that with only 580 on board half a ton of rice had to
be served out daily, with a modicum of meat and vegetables. One of the
leading cargoes on the outward trip from San Francisco is corpses and
coffins, few Chinamen being ever buried out of their native land. In the
splendid and roomy saloons of these steamers there are always Chinese
waiters, who are said to be most obliging, and noiseless in their motions.
Negro waiters are civil and assiduous enough in their attendance, but are
always fussy; in this respect “John” is a great improvement on “Sambo.”

“An additional proof,” said a leading journal “of the new vitality infused
into that long inert mass, the Chinese Empire, has just been supplied from
San Francisco,” and the writer goes on to describe a new development of
their mercantile enterprise. It seems that there has been in existence for
some time past an association termed the Chinese Merchants’ Steamship
Company, the stockholders of which are wealthy native merchants and
mandarins, who own many coasting steamers. The company is now about to
start a line from China to the Sandwich Islands and San Francisco, and it
is not improbable that the Chinese emigrants may prefer these steamers to
any other. The manager of this Celestial “P. and O.” is one Tong Ken Sing,
a shrewd native of Singapore; and, continues the writer, “under the
enlightened control of this man of his epoch, who is equally at home with
tails and taels, the company is sure to succeed.”

After leaving the “Golden Gate,” the entrance to the Bay of San Francisco,
and passing the rocky Farralones, islands whence a company brings a
million of sea‐birds’ eggs to the city yearly, the voyager by this route
will not see land till Japan is reached. The steamships stop nowhere _en
route_. The passengers must depend on their own resources aboard for
amusement, and every passing sail becomes an object of greatest interest.
Yet still there is always the sea itself, in its varying aspects of placid
or turbulent grandeur. “The appearance of the open sea,” says Frédol, “far
from the shore—the boundless ocean—is to the man who loves to create a
world of his own, in which he can freely exercise his thoughts, filled
with sublime ideas of the Infinite. His searching eye rests upon the far‐
distant horizon; he sees there the ocean and the heavens meeting in a
vapoury outline, where the stars ascend and descend, appear and disappear
in their turn. Presently this everlasting change in nature awakens in him
a vague feeling of that sadness ‘which,’ says Humboldt, ‘lies at the root
of all our heartfelt joys.’” When the Breton fisherman or mariner puts to
sea, his touching prayer is, “_Keep me, my God! my boat is so small, and
Thy ocean so wide!_” “We find in the sea,” says Lacepède, “unity and
diversity, which constitute its beauty; grandeur and simplicity, which
give it sublimity; puissance and immensity, which command our wonder.”
That immense expanse of water is no mere liquid desert; it teems with
life, however little that life may be visible. The inhabitants of the
water through which the good ship ploughs her way are as numerous as those
of the solid earth; although, unless the great sea‐serpent makes its
fitful appearance, the experience of a traveller over the Pacific by this
route will be repeated. Says he:—

“Few signs of life are visible outside the vessel. Occasionally a whale is
reported in sight, but for many days most of the passengers are inclined
to think it is only something very ‘like one,’ till, as the days pass,
every person has caught a glimpse of a spout of water suddenly shooting up
from the sea without any apparent reason, or of a black line cutting
through the blue surface for a moment, and then disappearing to unknown
depths. Occasionally, too, one or more sea‐birds are seen following in the
vessel’s wake, sweeping gracefully across and again across the white band
of foam, and with difficulty keeping down their natural pace to that of
the steam‐driven monster. These birds are of two kinds only: the ‘Mother
Carey’s Chicken,’ and another, called by the sailors the ‘Cape Hen’—a
brown bird, rather larger and longer in the wing than a sea‐gull. Both
birds are visible when we are in mid‐ocean, 1,000 miles at least from the
nearest dry land.” The writer of these pages has seen whales, in the North
Pacific, keep up with the vessel on which he was a passenger for half an
hour or more together. On one occasion a large whale was swimming abreast
of the steamer so closely that rifle and pistol shots were fired at it,
some undoubtedly hitting their mark, yet the great mammal did not show the
slightest symptoms of even temporary annoyance, and there is reason to
believe was not much more hurt by the shots than would the targets at
Wimbledon be affected by a shower of peas.

Occasionally a little diversity and profit are got out of passengers by
the sailors when they go for the first time on the fo’castle. The latter
draw on the deck a chalk line quickly round the former, and each visitor
so “chalked,” as it is called, must pay a fine in the shape of a bottle of
rum. This secures one, however, the freedom of the ship ever after.

[Illustration: A CRICKET‐MATCH ON BOARD SHIP.]

One of the deck games popular on long voyages is a form of quoits, played
with rings and chalked spaces, or, in some cases, on a spike driven into
the deck. A traveller(15) gives an amusing account of a cricket club
formed on the vessel in which he was a passenger. Fancy playing cricket at
sea! He says:—“The _Lord Warden_ cricket‐ground is on the main deck, and,
owing to the somewhat limited space at the disposal of the ten members,
single‐wicket matches are the invariable rule. The stumps, which are fixed
in a frame so as to remain steady on the deck, are about two feet in
height, and of course bails are provided, but never used. Of bats the club
boasts not a few, of varied construction. Of these the majority are
fashioned out of a thick deal plank, and soon go to pieces; but one of
elm, which was christened off Cape de Verde, survived many weeks of hard
usage, and was more precious to the club than the most expensive of
Cobbett’s productions. It was fully intended by a member of the Marylebone
Club to obtain for this tough little piece of elm a final resting‐place in
the Pavilion at Lord’s, but unfortunately the ‘leviathan hitter,’ in
attempting a huge drive, let it slip out of his hands, and it is lost to
us for ever.” The boatswain furnished spun‐yarn balls at sixpence each,
but these seldom had a long life, four or five being frequently hit
overboard in the course of an afternoon’s play; nearly 300 were exhausted
on the voyage. “The wicket,” continues the narrator, “is pitched just in
front of the weather poop‐ladder, the bowling‐crease being thirteen yards
further forward, by the side of the deck‐house. Behind the bowler stands
an out‐field, while mid‐on or mid‐off, according to which tack the ship is
on, has his back to the midshipmen’s berth, and has also occasionally to
climb over the boom‐board above it, and search for a lost ball among a
chaos of boats and spare spars.... Run‐getting on board ship is a matter
of difficulty, the ball having the supremacy over the bat, which is
exactly reversed on shore. A cricketer who thinks but little of the side‐
hill at Lord’s would find himself thoroughly non‐plussed by the incline of
a ship’s deck in a stiff breeze. A good eye and hard straight driving
effected much, but a steady defence and the scientific ‘placing’ of the
ball under the winch often succeeded equally well, especially on a wet
wicket. The highest score of the season was eighteen, which included two
hits on to the forecastle, feats of very rare occurrence.” The games were
highly popular, and were watched by appreciative assemblages of the
passengers. On the same vessel a glee club was organised, and an evening
in Christmas week was devoted to theatricals, by the “Shooting Stars of
the Southern Seas.” Dancing is common enough on board, and, of course, is
often pursued under difficulties; a sudden lurch of the ship may throw a
number of couples off their feet or tumble them in a chaotic heap.

Another traveller(16) gives us some amusing notes on the private
theatricals performed on board the famous old steamship _Great Britain_.
He was stage manager, and says:—“I had a great deal to do, as I was
responsible for dresses, and had to see that everybody was ready. I had
among other things to procure a chignon. I was in a dilemma, as I did not
like to ask a lady for the loan of one, even where no doubt existed as to
her wearing false hair; so at last I procured some oakum from the
carpenter, and made three large sausages, and it was pronounced a success.
The stage is erected in the saloon, and we had footlights, with a gorgeous
screen of flags, &c.” Special prologues were written for these
entertainments, one of which, on the occasion of performing the “Taming of
a Tiger” and the “Area Belle,” ran as follows:—

“Far from Australia or from British home,
Across wide ocean’s trackless breast we roam;
And though our ship both swift and steady speeds,
Yet dreary week to dreary week succeeds.
Our joys restricted, and our pleasures few,
We all must own the prospect’s rather blue.
At such a time to fill the vacant place,
A chosen few have taken heart of grace,
And tho’ unused the actor’s part to fill,
Will show, if not the deed, at least the will.”

Then came mention of some of the amateurs who had already played before
the passengers:—

“Yet not all novices—the veteran Flood
You’ve seen before, and you’ve pronounced him good;
The modest Griffiths, and the blushing Lance,
Joy of the fair and hero of the dance;”

and so forth. The performance took place while the vessel was constantly
rolling. Mr. Laird says that he had to think almost as much of his
equilibrium as of anything else; but as he had always to appear trembling
before the presence of his master in the piece, it did pretty well, except
in one lurch, when he went flying in an undignified manner across the
stage into the arms of the prompter.

On another occasion an entertainment, entitled “Mrs. Jarley’s Waxworks,”
was presented. Five children were dressed up to represent different
characters, and pretence was made of winding them up to make them go. The
best was a cannibal, converted to be a missionary; another personated Fair
Rosamond; and a third the Marquis of Lorne. The missionary handed tracts
about, and Queen Eleanor alternately presented a dagger and a cup of cold
poison to Fair Rosamond. A regularly‐organised concert followed, while a
farce and spoken epilogue concluded this, the last performance on board
the _Great Britain_. After speaking of the voyage and the fun on board, it
continued:—

“And now our sweet communion must shortly see its close,
And never more, till next time, shall we share in joys like those;
No more the fragrant sea‐pie or delectable burgoo,
No more on the same plate be seen fish, cheese, and Irish stew.
* * * * * * *
No longer Mrs. Jarley’s works our mimic stage shall grace,
Or the little missionary‐eater show his little face.
Of Mrs. J. I would not say one harsh word if I could;
No use to tread upon her toes, because they’re only wood.
No more the sailor’s plaintive song with tears our eyes shall dim,
No more on Sunday morning shall we sing the Evening Hymn;”

the fact being that a clergyman on board had once inadvertently chosen the
latter for morning service! The epilogue concluded by wishing good luck to
all the officers and men and to the good old ship.

[Illustration: LEAVING THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA.]

Baron Hübner has given us, in his published work before quoted, some
interesting reminiscences of, and graphic notes on, his voyage to Japan
from San Francisco. A few extracts may be permitted.

“_July 4._—The sky is pearly grey. The vessel is all painted white: masts,
deck‐cabins, deck, tarpaulins, benches—all are white. This deck, from poop
to prow, is all in one piece, and makes a famous walk. Almost all the
morning I am alone there. The first‐class passengers get up very late; the
second‐class—that is, the Chinese—not at all. They go to bed at San
Francisco, and never leave their berths till they reach their destination.
You never see one of them on deck. The sailors, having done their duty,
disappear likewise. And how easy that duty is in such weather! On leaving
the Golden Gate the sails were hoisted, and have remained untouched ever
since. The breeze is just strong enough to fill them and keep us steady.
The result is a complete calm. The smoke ascends up to heaven in a
straight line. So the sailors have a fine time of it. They sleep, smoke,
or play down‐stairs with their companions. The two men at the helm—these
two are Americans—are equally invisible, for a watch‐tower hides them from
sight, as well as the rudder and the officer of the watch. I have thus got
the deck of this immense ship entirely to myself. I pace it from one end
to the other, four hundred feet backwards and forwards. The only
impediment is a transverse bar of iron, as high as one’s head, which binds
in the middle the two sides of the ship. It is painted white, like all the
rest, and is difficult to see. In every position in life there is always
the worm in the bud or thorn in the flesh—or, at any rate, some dark spot.
On board the _China_ the dark spot for me is that detestable white bar.
Not only am I perpetually knocking my head against it, but it reminds me
unpleasantly of the frailty of human things. It is very thin, and yet, if
I am to believe the engineer, it is this bar alone which, in very bad
weather, prevents the enormous shell of the boat from breaking in half.
There are moments when one’s life hangs on a thread; here it hangs on an
iron bar. That is better, perhaps, but it is not enough.”

The fine vessels of the company then running were, although perhaps the
most commodious in the world, hardly the safest. The distance between San
Francisco and Japan is 5,000 miles, and, barring a few hundred miles on
the coasts of the latter, the ocean is almost one grand calm lake. But
cyclones occur in the Japanese seas when the high‐built American boats are
not safe.

Baron Hübner gives us some notes on the passengers on board, which
included nine nationalities. Among them was a dignified and venerable
Parsee merchant, a merchant prince in his way, who had wished to study
European manners, and so had proceeded as far as San Francisco. What he
saw there impressed him so unfavourably, that he immediately took passage
back again. What he observed, indeed, filled him with disgust. “The men,”
said he, “what a lack of dignity! Never in the streets of our towns will
you be shocked by the sight of drunkards and bad women.”

Hübner gives also some sketches of the officers on board. The chief
engineer is described as a thoughtful and meditative man—a Roman Catholic,
deeply imbued with the spirit of religious fervour, and spending his time
in the alternate study of theology and practical mechanics. His cabin,
opening on the one side to the deck and on the other to the machinery,
contained a well‐selected, though small, library of scientific and
classical books, and was adorned by pots of flowers, which he managed to
keep alive by constant care, in spite of the sea‐breezes, for they had
been given to him by his young and beautiful wife, whose portrait hung
upon the wall. For a couple of weeks only in each three months could he
see his better half.

“Sweetly blows the western wind
Softly o’er the rippling sea,
And thy sailor’s constant mind
Ever turns to thee.
Though the north wind may arise,
And the waves dash madly by,
Though the storm should rend the skies,
And vivid lightnings round me fly;
Then I love thee more and more,
Then art thou more dear to me,
And I sigh for that dear shore
Distant o’er the sea.”

The Baron describes the waiters on board as follows:—“The head waiter is a
native of Hamburg. He and his white comrade lead an easy life; they
confine their labours to overlooking the Chinese men, and pass the rest of
their time in flirting with the ladies’‐maids. These are the only two
idlers in the service. Thirty‐two Chinamen do the duties of waiters on the
passengers and at table. Although short, they look well enough with their
black caps, their equally black pig‐tails, which go down to their heels,
their dark‐blue tunics, their large white trousers, their gaiters or white
stockings, and their black felt shoes with strong white soles. They form
themselves into symmetrical groups, and do everything with method. Fancy a
huge cabin, in which the small table of twenty‐two guests is lost, with
all these little Chinamen fluttering round them and serving them in the
most respectful manner, without making any noise. The Hamburg chief, idly
leaning against a console, with one hand in his trousers’ pocket, directs
with the forefinger of the other the evolutions of his docile squadron.”
The daily inspection, common on all well‐regulated passenger ships, is
thus described:—

“_July 6._—Every day, at eleven o’clock in the morning and at eight
o’clock in the evening, the captain, followed by the purser, makes the
rounds of the ship. In that of the morning all the cabin‐doors are opened,
only excepting those of the ladies; but the moment these have gone out the
captain visits them with equal care. If any matches are discovered they
are pitilessly confiscated. This morning the captain invited me to
accompany him, and I could convince myself with my own eyes of the perfect
order and discipline which reign everywhere. Nothing was more tempting
than that department which one greatly avoids, the kitchens. The head cook
and his assistants, all Germans, did the honours of their domain. Every
man was at his post, and only anxious to show the visitors the most secret
corners of his department. It was like an examination of conscience
carefully made. The provision and store‐rooms were admirable. Everything
was of the first and best quality; everything was in abundance; everything
was classed and ticketed like the drugs in a chemist’s shop. The Chinese
quarter is on the lower deck. We have about 800 on board. They are all in
their berths, smoking and talking, and enjoying the rare pleasure in their
lives of being able to spend five weeks in complete idleness. In spite of
the great number of men penned into so comparatively small a space, the
ventilation is so well managed that there is neither closeness nor bad
smells. The captain inspects every hole and corner, literally
everything—and everywhere we found the same extraordinary cleanliness. One
small space is reserved for the opium‐eaters or smokers; and we saw these
victims of a fatal habit, some eagerly inhaling the poison, others already
feeling its effects. Lying on their backs and fast asleep, their deadly‐
pale features gave them the look of corpses.”

A common occurrence, but always of great interest to the passengers, is
thus described:—

“_July 7._—Contrary to our usual sleepy habits, we are all to‐day in a
state of excitement and agitation. The _China_ is to come to the point
where it ought to meet the _America_, which was to leave Hong‐Kong five‐
and‐twenty days ago. Our top‐sails are filled with little Chinamen, whose
eager eyes are fixed on the horizon. The captain and officers are standing
close to the bowsprit, their telescopes pointed in the same direction.
Even my Spanish friend has left his engine, his flower‐pots, and his
wife’s portrait, to gaze at the blue sea, slightly rippled, but, as usual,
without a speck of a sail. No _America_! The captain’s heart is in his
shoes. He consults his charts, his instruments, his officers, all in vain.
The day passes without the steamer being signalled. The dinner is silent
and sad. Every one seems preoccupied, and the captain is evidently
anxious. It seems that the directors of the company make a point of their
two boats meeting. It is to them a proof that their captains have followed
a straight course, and that the San Francisco boat has crossed, without
any accident, a third of the Pacific. The passengers gladly avail
themselves of this precious opportunity to write to their friends. For the
captains themselves it is a question of honour. They like to show their
skill in this way, and their cleverness in being able, despite the
variable and imperfectly‐understood currents of the Pacific, to make a
straight course across this enormous sheet of water.

“_July 8._—At five o’clock in the morning the second officer rushed into
my cabin—‘The _America_(17) is in sight!’ I throw on my clothes and tumble
on deck. The morning is beautiful, and this colossal steamer, the largest
after the _Great Eastern_, draws near majestically. The usual salutes are
exchanged, and the _America’s_ gig brings us an extract from their log,
the list of the passengers, the newspapers from Hong‐Kong, Shanghai, and
Yokohama, and, which is essential, takes charge of our letters for America
and Europe. A few moments after she resumes her course. What a grand and
imposing sight! At six o’clock she has already disappeared behind the
horizon. At the moment of meeting we had run exactly 1,500 miles—that is,
half the distance between England and New York.”

The _China_ encountered a cyclone, or rather the outer edge of one, which
is graphically described by Hübner. He says:—“At this moment the ocean was
really magnificent. In the boiling sea the foam was driven horizontally
towards the east. The water was positively inky, with here and there
whitish gleams of light. The sky was iron‐grey; to the west a curtain of
the same colour, but darker. The thermometer was still falling rapidly. In
the air above the waves I suddenly saw a cloud of white flakes; they were
little bits of Joss paper which the Chinese were throwing into the sea to
appease their gods. I passed before the open door of the engineer; he was
watering his plants. The passengers were all gathered together in the
saloon. Some of them were moved almost to tears. At twelve o’clock the sky
cleared a little, and the faces brightened considerably. I have often
remarked that people when in danger, whether real or imaginary, are like
children; the slightest thing will make them laugh or cry. The Bombay
master‐baker, the Chinese merchant, and the two Japanese, struck me by
their imperturbability. The first whispered in my ear, ‘The company is
very unwise to have a Chinese crew; the Malays are much better. Chinese
sailors are scared at the least danger, and would be the first to make off
in the lifeboats.’ Fung‐Tang has an equally bad opinion of his fellow‐
countrymen. He says to me, ‘Chinese good men, very good; bad sailors, very
bad!’ I reply, ‘If we go to the bottom, what will become of Fung‐Tang?’ He
replies, ‘If good, place above; if bad, _below stairs_, punished.’

“_July 20._—In the middle of the night the ocean suddenly calmed. The
_China_ has got out of the region of the cyclone. The weather is
delicious; the sea like glass. But at four o’clock in the afternoon we
suddenly find ourselves amidst colossal waves; and yet there is not a
breath of wind. They tell us that this was probably yesterday the centre
of the typhoon. It has exhausted itself or gone elsewhere; but the sea
which it lashed into fury is still agitated, like the pulse of a fever
patient after the fit is over.”

Yokohama, whose very name signifies “across the sea and shore,” has been
before briefly described in these pages. Travellers have given some
interesting accounts of it, and as in a tour round the world it would form
one of the leading stopping‐places, some further allusion to it may be
permitted.

Baron Hübner says in effect that at every step one takes there one asks if
it be not all a dream, a fairy tale, a story of the thousand‐and‐one
nights. Arriving there from San Francisco, the step from American to
Oriental civilisation is particularly noticed. The Baron refers
particularly to the courtesy and extreme cleanliness of the people. Even
the coolies, bearing great cases or baskets slung on bamboos resting on
their athletic shoulders, stop to chatter and laugh so pleasantly that
labour seems to have lost half its curse. “Misery,” says he, “is unknown
amongst them; so also is luxury.” If the Japanese have arrived at this
happy mean it would be a great pity to disturb their peaceful condition by
the introduction of a so‐called civilisation, and its attendant expenses
and new wants.

“What adds to the charm of the scene,” says the same authority, “is the
smiling look of the country, and the intense beauty, at this season
(summer), of the setting sun. The sky is positively crimson, with great
clouds of Sèvres blue; the long promontory of Thanagawa is inundated with
mother‐of‐pearl; and on the purpled violet sea the pale shadows of the
ships and junks stand out against the sky, the one rocked by the swell,
the others gliding across the water like phantoms.” The winter in Japan is
cold enough, as Mrs. Brassey discovered;(18) for icicles were hanging from
the shrouds and riggings of the _Sunbeam_.

Mrs. Brassey gives some life‐like pictures from Yokohama.

“Having landed,” says she, “we went with the Consul to the native town to
see the curio shops, which are a speciality of the place. The inhabitants
are wonderfully clever at making all sorts of curiosities, and the
manufactories of so called ‘antique bronzes’ and ‘old china’ are two of
the most wonderful sights in Yokohama. The way in which they scrape,
crack, chip, mend, and colour the various articles, cover them with dust,
partially clean them, and imitate the marks and signatures of celebrated
makers, is more creditable to their ingenuity than to their honesty.
Still, there are a good many genuine old relics from the temples and from
the large houses of the reduced Daimios to be picked up, if you go the
right way to work, though the supply is limited.

“Dealers are plentiful, and travellers, especially from America, are
increasing in numbers. When we first made acquaintance with the shops we
thought they seemed full of beautiful things, but even one day’s shopping,
in the company of experienced people, has educated our taste and taught us
a great deal; though we have still much to learn. There are very
respectable‐looking lacquer cabinets, ranging in price from 5s. to £20.
But they are only made for the foreign market. No such things exist in a
Japanese home.”

A really fine piece of old lacquer is often worth a couple of hundred
pounds.

“It is said that the modern Japanese have lost the art of lacquer‐making;
and as an illustration I was told that many beautiful articles of lacquer,
old and new, had been sent from this country to the Vienna Exhibition in
1873, but the price put on them was so exorbitant that few were sold, and
nearly all had to be sent back to Japan. Just as the ship with these
things on board reached the Gulf of Jeddo, she struck on a rock and sank
in shallow water. A month or two ago a successful attempt was made to
raise her and to recover the cargo, when it was found that the new lacquer
had been reduced to a state of pulp, while the old was not in the least
damaged. I tell you the tale as it was told to me.

[Illustration: A STREET IN JAPAN.]

“After a long day’s shopping, we went to dine, in real Japanese fashion,
at a Japanese tea‐house. The establishment was kept by a very pleasant
woman, who received us at the door, and who herself removed our
exceedingly dirty boots before allowing us to step on to her clean mats.
This was all very well, as far as it went; but she might as well have
supplied us with some substitute for the objectionable articles, for it
was a bitterly cold night, and the highly‐polished wood passages and steep
staircase felt very cold to our shoeless feet. The apartment we were shown
into was so exact a type of a room in any Japanese house that I may as
well describe it once for all. The wood‐work of the roof and the framework
of the screens were all made of a handsome dark polished wood, not unlike
walnut.

“The exterior walls under the verandah, as well as partitions between the
other rooms, were simply wooden lattice‐work screens covered with white
paper, and sliding in grooves, so that you could walk in or out at any
part of the wall you chose, and it was, in like manner, impossible to say
whence the next comer would make his appearance; doors and windows are by
this arrangement rendered unnecessary, and do not exist. You open a little
bit of your wall if you want to look out, and a bigger bit if you want to
step out. The floor was covered with several thicknesses of very fine
mats, each about six feet long by three broad, deliciously soft to walk
upon. All mats in Japan are of the same size, and everything connected
with house‐building is measured by this standard. Once you have prepared
your foundations and wood‐work of the dimensions of so many mats, it is
the easiest thing in the world to go to a shop and buy a house ready‐made,
which you can then set up and furnish in the scanty Japanese fashion in a
couple of days.

“On one side of the room was a slightly raised daïs, about four inches
from the floor. This was the seat of honour. On it had been placed a
stool, a little bronze ornament, and a china vase, with a branch of
cherry‐blossom and a few flag‐leaves gracefully arranged. On the wall
behind hung pictures, which are changed every month, according to the
season of the year. There was no other furniture of any sort in the room.
Four nice‐looking Japanese girls brought us thick cotton quilts to sit
upon, and braziers full of burning charcoal to warm ourselves by. In the
centre of the group another brazier was placed, protected by a square
wooden grating, and over the whole they laid a large silk eider‐down
quilt, to retain the heat: this is the way in which all the rooms, even
bed‐rooms, are warmed in Japan, and the result is that fires are of very
frequent occurrence. The brazier is kicked over by some restless or
careless person, and in a moment the whole place is in a blaze.”

The following gives a description of a Japanese meal:—“Presently the
eider‐down and brazier were removed, and our dinner was brought in. A
little lacquer table, about six inches high, on which were arrayed a pair
of chop‐sticks, a basin of soup, a bowl for rice, a saki cup, and a basin
of hot water, was placed before each person, whilst the four Japanese
maidens sat in our midst, with fires to keep the _saki_ hot and to light
the tiny pipes with which they were provided, and from which they wished
us to take a whiff after each dish. Saki is a sort of spirit distilled
from rice, always drunk hot out of small cups. In this state it is not
disagreeable, but we found it exceedingly nasty when cold.

“Everything was well cooked and served, though the ingredients of some of
the dishes, as will be seen from the following bill of fare, were rather
strange to our ideas. Still, they were all eatable, and most of them
really palatable.

Soup.
Shrimps and Seaweeds.
Prawns, Egg Omelette, and Preserved Grapes.
Fried Fish, Spinach, Young Rushes, and Young Ginger.
Raw Fish, Mustard and Cress, Horseradish, and Soy.
Thick Soup of Egg, Fish, Mushrooms, and Spinach; Grilled Fish.
Fried Chicken and Bamboo Shoots.
Turnip‐Tops and Root, Pickled.
Rice _ad libitum_ in a large bowl.
Hot Saki, Pipes, and Tea.

“The meal concluded with an enormous lacquer box of rice, from which all
our bowls were filled; the rice being thence conveyed to our mouths by
means of chop‐sticks. We managed very well with these substitutes for
spoons and forks, the knack of using which, to a certain extent, is soon
acquired. The long intervals between the dishes were beguiled with songs,
music, and dancing, performed by professional singing and dancing girls.
The music was somewhat harsh and monotonous, but the songs sounded
harmonious, and the dancing was graceful, though it was rather posturing
than dancing, great use being made of the fan and the long trailing
skirts. The girls, who were pretty, wore peculiar dresses to indicate
their calling, and seemed of an entirely different stamp from the quiet,
simply‐dressed waitresses whom we found so attentive to our wants. Still,
they all looked cheery, light‐hearted, simple creatures, and appeared to
enjoy immensely the little childish games they played amongst themselves
between whiles.

“After dinner we had some real Japanese tea, tasting exactly like a little
hot water poured on very fragrant new‐mown hay. Then, after a brief visit
to the kitchen, which, though small, was beautifully clean, we received
our boots, and were bowed out by our pleasant hostess and her attentive
handmaidens.”

Recommending the perusal of the interesting works last quoted, let us
finish our trip on paper at its natural termination, so far as the route
from San Francisco is concerned, in China, to which country the American
vessels take us in a week or so.

Hong Kong is a commercial port of the first order, but has not come up to
the expectations once made of it. It has not progressed in the same ratio
as has Shanghai. Its situation is picturesque. “Fancy to yourself the rock
of Gibraltar, on a large scale, looking to the north. There facing us is
_terra firma_. Let us scramble up to the flag‐staff, proudly standing on
the highest peak of the mountain. The sun, which is already low, bathes
sky, earth, and sea in crude, fantastic, exaggerated lights. Woe be to the
painter who should dare reproduce such effects! Happy would he be if he
could succeed!

“Towards the south, the sun and the fogs are fighting over the islands,
which at this moment stand out in black groups on a liquid gold ground,
framed in silver. Towards the north we look over the town, officially
called Victoria, and vulgarly Hong Kong. It is stretched out at our feet,
but we only perceive the roofs, the courts, and the streets; further on
the roadstead is crowded with frigates, corvettes, gun‐boats, steamers
belonging to the great companies, and an infinity of smaller steam and
sailing vessels of less tonnage. In front of us, at three or four miles
distance, is a high chain of rocks, bare and rugged, but coloured by the
setting sun with tints of rose colour and crimson, resembling a huge coral
bracelet. That is the continent. Towards the west are the two passages
which lead to Canton and Macao; to the north‐east is a third passage, by
which we ourselves have come. The sea here is like a lake, bordered on one
side by the rocks of _terra firma_, and on the other by the peaks and
summits of the Hong Kong cliffs. I have seen in many other lands softer
and more harmonious effects of light, but I never saw any so strange.

“Victoria is charming, sympathetic, and imposing: English and yet
tropical—a mixture of cottages and palaces. Nowhere can be found a happier
combination between the poetry of nature and the prose of commercial life;
between English comfort and the intoxicating exuberance of the south. The
streets, which are well macadamised, well kept, and beautifully clean, run
in a serpentine fashion along the rock, sometimes between houses, of which
the rather pretentious façades are coquettishly veiled by the verandahs,
sometimes between gardens, bamboo hedges, or stone balustrades. It is like
Ventnor or Shanklin seen through a magnifying‐glass and under a jet of
electric light. Everywhere there are fine trees—banians, bamboos, and
pines. One may go on foot from one end of Hong Kong to the other, and yet
always be in the shade. No one dreams of walking. Nothing is to be seen
but chairs or palanquins. The coolies, their heads sheltered by enormous
straw hats, carry you at a rattling pace. Nothing can be more delicious
than a night promenade in an open sedan‐chair. In the lower part of the
town the scene is most animated and busy; officers and soldiers in red
uniforms and with swarthy complexions (Sepoys), Parsees, Hindoos, Chinese,
Malays, European ladies in elegant toilets, and men and women with
yellowish skins, dressed like Europeans (half‐caste Portuguese). The
higher you climb the quieter you find it. Insensibly the town turns into
country. Scramble up still a little higher, and you are in the middle of
rocks, bare of trees, but covered with odoriferous shrubs, and traversed
by a fine macadamised road, with glimpses of views here and there of
marvellous beauty.”(19)

[Illustration: THE CUSTOM HOUSE, SHANGHAI.]

Shanghai, as another leading port, would naturally be visited by the
tourist of leisure, and it affords a wonderful example of English
enterprise. It is by nature the port of Suchow, ninety miles up the great
Yang‐tse‐Kiang river. Near the city its flat, green, cultivated banks
recall the Humber in Yorkshire. The port is crowded with foreign shipping:
great American steamships, the boats of the English P. and O. Company,
those of the French “Messageries,” merchant steamers straight from London,
Liverpool, and Glasgow, and sailing vessels in numbers. In a picturesque
point of view the place has little to recommend it, but commercially it is
a lively place, nine‐tenths of the capital employed being English, and the
white population counting at least six Englishmen to all the rest of the
foreigners put together. There are three “concessions,” _i.e._, tracts
ceded by the Chinese to the English, French, and Americans, for commercial
purposes. Stone being scarce, these concessions are fringed by enormous
wooden wharves, slips, and piers, outside the warehouses, depôts, and
stores. There are streets of well‐filled shops, where everything is to be
obtained that could be bought in the Strand or Oxford Street. In this
point of view, Hübner tells us, neither Yokohama nor any other European
town in Asia, saving Calcutta and Bombay, can bear a comparison with
Shanghai. The Chinese do not adopt numerals for their shops and
warehouses, but use mottoes and descriptive titles, and the great English
houses have adopted the custom of the country. Messrs. Dent & Co. have for
their _nom de maison_, “Precious and Obliging,” while Messrs. Jardine &
Co. are known, not as number 45, or what‐not, but as “Honest and
Harmonious.”

[Illustration: VIEW OF HONOLULU, SANDWICH ISLANDS.]

CHAPTER IV.

THE PACIFIC FERRY.—ANOTHER ROUTE.

The Hawaiian Islands—King and Parliament—Pleasant Honolulu—A
Government Hotel—Honeysuckle‐covered Theatre—Productions of the
Islands—Grand Volcanoes—Ravages of Lava Streams and
Earthquakes—Off to Fiji—A Rapidly Christianised People—A Native
Hut—Dinner—Kandavu—The Bush—Fruit‐laden Canoes—Strange Ideas of
Value—New Zealand—Its Features—Intense English Feeling—The New
Zealand Company and its Iniquities—The Maories—Trollope’s
Testimony—Facts about Cannibalism—A Chief on
Bagpipes—Australia—Beauty of Sydney Harbour—Its
Fortifications—Volunteers—Its War‐fleet of One—Handsome
Melbourne—Absence of Squalor—No Workhouses Required—The Benevolent
Asylums—Splendid Place for Working Men—Cheapness of Meat,
&c.—Wages in Town and Country—Life in the Bush—“Knocking Down
One’s Cheque”—Gold, Coal, and Iron.

A popular route now to New Zealand and Australia is that _viâ_ San
Francisco, Honolulu, and Fiji, the bulk of the voyage being usually over
the quieter parts of the Pacific; it takes the passenger, of course,
through the tropics.

Honolulu, the capital of the Hawaiian or Sandwich Islands, is now a
civilised and pleasant city, while the natural attractions of the islands
themselves are many and varied. One need not now fear the fate of poor
Captain Cook. Most of the natives, of whom there are 50,000, are clothed
in semi‐European style: the men in coats and trousers of nankeen, and the
women more picturesquely clad in long robes fastened round the neck, and
pretty often of pink or some other bright colour. There is a white
population of some 10,000 souls scattered over the islands, a large
proportion of whom are English and American. Honolulu is the Government
centre and residence of King Kalakau, who used to be called “Calico” in
the United States, and who, in fact, is a very slightly tinted, good‐
looking, and most intelligent gentleman. The Ex‐Queen Emma, who visited
England some years ago, has a villa beautifully situated a few miles out
of town. The king devotes his energies to bettering the condition of his
people, and some few years ago, when the money was voted to build a new
palace, declined to accept it, at least for two years. The Hawaiian
Parliament consists of a House of seventeen nobles and twenty‐eight
commoners, who, strange to say, sit in the same hall, their votes being of
equal weight. There are always several Europeans or Americans in this
council.

Mr. Guillemard thus describes Honolulu(20):—“The town, which is built on
the low land bordering the shore—partly, indeed, on land reclaimed from
the sea, thanks to the industry of the architects of the coral reef—looks
mean and insignificant from the harbour, but on going ashore to breakfast
we get glimpses of fine public buildings and numerous shops and stores, of
neat houses nestling among bowers of shrubs and flowers, and evidences of
a busy trade and considerable population. The streets are narrow, and the
houses built of wood, without any attempt at decoration or even
uniformity. In the by‐streets or lanes pretty verandah‐girt villas peep
out from shrubberies of tropical foliage, honeysuckle, roses, lilies, and
a hundred flowers strange to English eyes. Tiny fountains are sending
sparkling jets of water up in the hot, still air; and other music is not
wanting, for here and there we hear the tinkle of a distant piano, telling
us that early rising is the rule in Honolulu, and suggesting as a
consequence a _siesta_ at mid‐day.

“But here we are at the grand Hawaiian Hotel, a fine verandahed building,
standing back from the road in a pretty garden, the green lawn, cool deep
shade, and trickling fountain of which are doubly grateful after the glare
of the scorching sunlight, scorching even though it is not yet seven a.m.
The theatre, half‐hidden by its wealth of honeysuckle and fan‐palm, is not
fifty yards distant, but is quite thrown into insignificance by the hotel.
This was built by Government, at a cost of £25,000, and is admirably
planned and appointed.” Its large airy rooms and cool verandahs, shaded
with masses of passion flowers, its excellent food and iced American
drinks, all combine to make it a capital resting‐place.

In the streets Mr. Guillemard noted bevies of gaily‐attired girls on
horseback, their robes being gathered in at the waist with bright scarves,
which fling their folds far over the horses’ tails. Their jaunty straw
hats were wreathed with flowers, and now and then some dark‐eyed beauty
would be found wearing a necklace of blossoms. The girls rode astride up
and down the main streets, making them ring again with their merry
laughter. Mosquitoes were abundant, and, as some compensation, so also
were delicious melons, guavas, mangoes, bananas, and commoner fruit.

The sugar‐cane was first grown on these islands in 1820; now over
20,000,000 pounds of sugar are produced annually by the aid of Hawaiian
and Chinese labour and steam‐mills. Not a quarter of the land suitable for
this purpose is yet under cultivation, though some of the plantations are
of thousands of acres in extent. Hides and wool are staple exports.

A few hours’ sail from Honolulu some of the largest and most wonderful
volcanoes in the world are to be found. Two of them, Mauna Loa and Mauna
Kea, are each over 13,000 feet in elevation. The eruptions from the great
crater of Kilauea, which is _ten miles_ in circumference, are something
fearful. One explosion ejected streams of red mud three miles, killing
thirty‐one people and 500 head of cattle. This was followed by several
earthquakes, which destroyed a number of houses. These, again, were
succeeded by a great earthquake wave, during the continuance of which
three villages were swept away and seventy people killed. Next a new
crater formed upon Mauna Loa, from which rose four fountains of red‐hot
lava to a height of 600 feet. A lava stream, eight to ten miles long, and
half a mile wide in some places, carried all before it. In one place it
tumbled, in a molten cataract of fiery liquid, over a precipice several
hundred feet in height. The interior of Hawaii is a vast underground lake
of fire, and were it not for the safety‐valves provided by Nature in the
form of craters, it would be shaken to pieces by successive earthquakes.

[Illustration: THE VOLCANOES OF MAUNA LOA AND MAUNA KEA, SANDWICH ISLANDS
(FROM THE SEA).]

And now the passenger has before him a fortnight of the most tranquil part
of the ocean called the Pacific. He must not be surprised if the heat
rises to 90° or so in the saloon. The distance from San Francisco to
Sydney direct is 6,500 miles, and Fiji is naturally _en route_; the detour
to New Zealand considerably increases the length of the voyage. It will be
remembered that these islands were formally annexed to Britain in 1874,
after vain attempts at a mixed native and European government. The
population was then 140,000; in a year or two afterwards 40,000 of the
poor natives fell victims to the measles, another of the importations
apparently inseparable from civilisation. The Wesleyan missionaries, in
particular, have worked with so much zeal in these islands that more than
half the people are Christians. There are 600 chapels in the 140 islands
comprising the Fiji group. Formerly the natives were the worst kind of
cannibals. They not merely killed and ate the victims of their island
wars, but no shipwrecked or helpless person was safe among them. Numbers
were slain at the caprice of the chiefs, especially at the building of a
house or canoe, or at the reception of a native embassy. Widows were
strangled at the death of their husbands, and slaves killed on the decease
of their masters. The introduction of Christianity and partial
civilisation has changed all that for the better; and the natives of to‐
day are described as mild and gentle, and little given to quarrelling.
Among their customs is that of powdering the hair (always closely cropped)
with lime, which is often coloured. Their huts are of dried reeds, lashed
to a strong framework of poles, and have lofty arched roofs, but are
without windows or chimneys. Each has two low doors, through which one
must crawl. The best native huts have a partition between the dwelling and
bed room, and all are carpeted with mats. The only furniture consists of
one article, a short piece of wood on two small legs, used for a pillow!
Clay pots are used for cooking their principal diet, yams and fish. Many
of them nowadays have houses well furnished with mats, curtains, baskets,
jars, &c.

Mr. Guillemard describes a tropical dinner, served to himself and
companions in one of these huts. A couple of banana‐leaves formed the
dishes, on which boiled fish and half a dozen yams, or sweet potatoes,
were offered. A large block of rock‐salt was handed them to use _à
discretion_. Then followed ripe cocoa‐nuts. Dried leaves of somewhat
tasteless wild tobacco, rolled up rapidly and neatly, and tied round with
a fibre, formed the post‐prandial cigars, which were lighted by the women
at the fire, and passed from their lips to the guests’.

The natural productions of this group are extensive, and comprise bread‐
fruit, taro, cocoa‐nuts, yams, bananas, plantains, guavas, oranges and
lemons, wild and cultivated tobacco, sugar, cotton, and coffee. The india‐
rubber tree is cultivated, and among the leading exports are dried cocoa‐
nut and pearl‐shell. As there are at the present time comparatively few
white settlers—perhaps not over 2,500 in all the islands—there are
innumerable openings for settlement, and Fiji, with many other
neighbouring islands, will doubtless soon afford fresh examples of British
enterprise.

The point touched by the steamers is Kandavu, on one of the southernmost
islands, where Mount Washington, a fine mountain, rears its head 3,000
feet into the clouds. A visitor says:—“From the eastern point of land run
out miles of coral reef, on which the ocean rollers are breaking grandly,
and outside this barrier we take our pilot on board. The entrance to
Kandavu harbour is narrow and intricate, and here the _Macgregor_, one of
the mail steamers, struck on a submerged reef, and remained for several
days hard and fast aground.” The passage has been properly buoyed and
lighted, and the New Company have built offices and stores, and
established a coaling station here.

“The view of Port Ugaloa from the entrance is very beautiful. On our left
the coral reef encloses a still lagoon of the softest, lightest green;
before us hills and mountains, covered from base to summit with the
richest vegetation, are tipped with fleecy cloud; and on our right,
dividing the waters of the bay, is Ugaloa Island, its slopes feathery with
the foliage of the cocoa‐palm and banana, half hidden in which appear here
and there the low brown huts of the natives.... The brothers L. accompany
me ashore on Ugaloa, landing close to a small collection of huts scattered
about just above the coral‐strewn beach. It is Sunday afternoon, and a
native missionary is preaching to some fifty men, women, and children,
squatting on their hams on the mat‐covered floor of a neat, white‐washed
mission house. Amongst the congregation is a tall native, with a thick
cane, keeping silence by tapping the heads of the inattentive. The
preacher is eloquent and energetic in gesture; but Fiji is hardly a pretty
language to listen to, being decidedly characterised by queer guttural
sounds, and spoken very fast. The sermon over, a hymn is read out and sung
to a rather monotonous dirge‐like chant, and the congregation disperse. We
are at once surrounded by an olive‐skinned crowd; the ladies’ dresses are
minutely examined, for a white lady has scarcely been seen in Kandavu
before the present year. The gentlemen have to display their watches and
chains, and by means of shouting and signs every one is soon carrying on a
vigorous conversation. Why is it that one always elevates the voice when
trying to make one’s native tongue intelligible to a foreigner?

“We wander away into the bush, and are soon lost in a wilderness of ferns,
creepers, bananas, cocoa‐palms, and chestnut‐trees. We meet with a young
native, and make signs to him that we are thirsty, and wish to refresh
ourselves with the juice of a green cocoa‐nut. Clutching the trunk with
both hands, he almost runs up a palm, and our wants are soon plentifully
supplied. He receives his _douceur_ with apparent nonchalance, and
proceeds to tie it up in a corner of his sulu with a fibre of banana bark.

“Monday morning breaks fine and clear, and our slumbers are early
disturbed by the chattering of a hundred natives, a whole squadron of
whose fruit‐laden canoes are alongside the steamer. Queer crank‐looking
craft are these, roughly dug out of the trunk of a tree, and kept steady
on the water by an outrigger consisting of a log half the length of the
canoe, attached to it amidships by a few light poles projecting some four
or five feet from its side. They are usually propelled by means of a long
oar worked between the poles, after the fashion of sculling a boat from
the stern; but sometimes we see the ordinary short paddle being plied at
bow and stern. Some of the larger craft hoist a large long sail, but they
do not seem very weatherly under canvas, which they use but little
compared with the Society Islanders.

“The scene on deck is amusing enough. Forward, fifty natives, their olive
skins blackened and begrimed with dust, are hard at work replenishing the
coal bunkers from the hold, and thoroughly earning their shilling a day;
on the poop as many more, laden with lemons, huge bunches of bananas,
cocoa‐nuts, shells, coral, matting, tappa—a soft, white fabric, called by
the natives ‘marse’—and a few clubs and other weapons, are driving a brisk
trade with the passengers. Everything is to be had for a shilling.
‘Shillin’ is the only English word that all the natives understand; in
fact, this useful coin seems to be the ‘almighty dollar’ of Kandavu. You
take a lemon, and ask, ‘How much?’ ‘Shillin’ is the reply; but you can
obtain the man’s whole stock of sixty, basket and all, for the same
money!”

Our next stopping place is one of particular interest to the British
colonist. New Zealand, albeit one of the youngest, is now among the most
promising of England’s outposts. Auckland, in the North Island, is the
port at which the steamers touch. The harbour is very fine, and residents
compare it to the Bay of Naples.

Every schoolboy knows that New Zealand includes two large and one small
island, respectively known as North, Middle, and Stewart’s Island. One
great feature of the coast line consists of its indentations; the colony
is rich in fine natural harbours and ports. The area of the islands is
nearly as great as that of Britain and Ireland combined, and about half of
that area consists of excellent soil. The climate is that of England, with
a difference: there are many more fine days, while winter is not so cold
by half. The islands are volcanic; on the North Island, Mount Ruapahu, a
perpetually snow‐capped peak, rises to a height of 9,000 feet, while in
the same range, the Tongariro mountain, an active volcano, rises to a
height of 6,000 feet. The highest mountain range is on the Middle Island,
where Mount Cook rises to a height of 14,000 feet. One can understand that
in such a country there should be an abundance of evergreen forests of
luxuriant growth. These are interspersed with charming fern‐clad slopes
and treeless grassy plains. Water is everywhere found; but none of the
rivers are navigable by large vessels for more than fifty miles or so. One
great advantage found in the country is the absence of noxious reptiles or
insects: of the latter there is not one as offensive as an English wasp.
The pigs, introduced by Captain Cook, run wild over the island, and there
is plenty of large and small game: the red and fallow deer, the pheasant,
partridge, and quail. Everything that grows in England will thrive there,
while the vine, maize, taro, and sweet potato grow in many districts. A
traveller(21) says of the (Thames) gold fields:—“Mines here, like
everywhere else, are now dull. At one time there was a population of
22,000, but now this is only 13,000. Everybody one sees seems to have lost
in the gold‐diggings, and it is a mystery to me who is the lucky person
that wins—one never seems to meet him.” This somewhat random statement may
be taken _cum grano salis_, as the gold‐fields have yielded largely at
times. Nevertheless, mining is always more or less a lottery.

Mr. Anthony Trollope testifies to the intense British feeling in New
Zealand, where he felt thoroughly at home. Australia he found tinged with
a form of boasting Yankeeism. “The New Zealander,” says he,(22) “among
John Bulls is the most John Bullish. He admits the supremacy of England to
every place in the world, only he is more English than any Englishman at
home.”

Discovered by Tasman in 1642, England only commenced to take an interest
in the islands more than a century and a quarter later, when Cook surveyed
the coasts. The missionaries came first, in 1814, and a British Resident
was appointed in 1833. All this time a desultory colonisation was going
on, and the natives were selling parcels of their best lands for a few
cast‐iron hatchets or muskets, shoddy blankets, or rubbishy trinkets. In
1840 a Lieutenant‐Governor was appointed from home, and his presence was
indeed necessary. The previous year a corporation, calling itself the New
Zealand Company, had made pretended purchases of tracts of the best parts
of the country, amounting to _one‐third_ of its whole area! The
unscrupulous and defiant manner in which this company treated the natives
and the Government brought about many complications, and led to very
serious wars with natives not to be trifled with. The New Zealand Company
was “bought out” by the Government in 1852 for £268,000. During 1843‐7,
and in 1861 and after, England had to fight the Maories—foes that she
learned to respect. At last, weary of war, all our troops were withdrawn,
and the colonists, who of course knew the bush and bush life better than
nine‐tenths of the soldiers, were left to defend their homes and property,
and in the end to successfully finish the fight. The natives now are
generally peaceful and subdued, while many are even turning their
attention to agriculture and commerce. Nine years ago they numbered
37,500, but are fast dying out.

Physically and intellectually, the Maories are the finest semi‐savage
natives on the face of the earth. Mr. Trollope is an author and traveller
whose words carry weight, and he has given us the following concise
summary of their qualities and character:—“They are,” says he, “an active
people, the men averaging 5 feet 6½ inches in height, and are almost equal
in strength and weight to Englishmen. In their former condition they wore
matting; now they wear European clothes. Formerly they pulled out their
beards, and every New Zealander of mark was tattooed; now they wear
beards, and the young men are not tattooed. Their hair is black and
coarse, but not woolly like a negro’s, or black like a Hindoo’s. The nose
is almost always broad and the mouth large. In other respects their
features are not unlike those of the European race. The men, to my eyes,
were better‐looking than the women, and the men who were tattooed better‐
looking than those who had dropped the custom. The women still retain the
old custom of tattooing the upper lip. The Maories had a mythology of
their own, and believed in a future existence; but they did not recognise
one supreme God. Virtue with them, as with other savages, consisted
chiefly in courage and a command of temper. Their great passion was
revenge, which was carried on by one tribe against another to the extent
sometimes of the annihilation of tribes. The decrease of their population
since the English first came among them has been owing as much to civil
war as to the injuries with which civilisation has afflicted them. They
seem from early days to have acquired that habit of fighting behind
stockades or in fortified pahs which we have found so fatal to ourselves
in our wars with them. Their weapons, before they got guns from us, were
not very deadly. They were chiefly short javelins and stones, both flung
from slings. But there was a horror in their warfare to the awfulness of
which they themselves seem to have been keenly alive. When a prisoner was
taken in war he was cooked and eaten.

“I do not think that human beings were slaughtered for food in New
Zealand, although there is no doubt that the banquet when prepared was
enjoyed with a horrid relish.

“I will quote a passage from Dr. Thompson’s work in reference to the
practice of cannibalism, and will then have done with the subject.
‘Whether or not cannibalism commenced immediately after the advent of the
New Zealanders from Hawaiki, it is nevertheless certain that one of
Tasman’s sailors was eaten in 1642; that Captain Cook had a boat’s crew
eaten in 1774; that Marion de Fresne and many other navigators met this
horrible end; and that the pioneers of civilisation and successive
missionaries have all borne testimony to the universal prevalence of
cannibalism in New Zealand up to the year 1840. It is impossible to state
how many New Zealanders were annually devoured; that the number was not
small may be inferred from two facts authenticated by European witnesses.
In 1822, Hougi’s army ate three hundred persons after the capture of
Totara, on the River Thames, and in 1836, during the Rotura war, sixty
beings were cooked and eaten in two days.’ I will add from the same book a
translation of a portion of a war‐song:—‘Oh, my little son, are you
crying? are you screaming for your food? Here it is for you, the flesh of
Hekemanu and Werata. Although I am surfeited with the soft brains of Putu
Rikiriki and Raukauri, yet such is my hatred that I will fill myself
fuller with those of Pau, of Ngaraunga, of Pipi, and with my most dainty
morsel, the flesh of the hated Teao.’”

Mr. Laird testifies to their cleanliness, but states that they are, like
most savages, and for that matter, most white men, very improvident. If a
bad potato or other crop occurred, they would eat it all at once, and half
starve afterwards.

The same author tells a good story of the nonchalance of a leading Maori
chief who was invited to dinner at Government House during the visit of
H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh. After dinner the Duke’s chief bagpiper came
in and played. The chief was asked how he liked the music. He replied
briefly: “Too much noise for me; but suit white man well enough.”

And now we are approaching that great continent which has had, has, and
will increasingly have, so much interest for the emigrant, who must be,
more or less, a voyager and man of the sea. Australia, a country nearly as
large as the United States, must be for many a day to come a very Paradise
for the poor man.

The American steamers from San Francisco land one at Sydney, of which
charming place Mr. Trollope says:—“I despair of being able to convey to my
readers my own idea of the beauty of Sydney Harbour;” he considers that it
excels Dublin Bay, Spezzia, and New York. And the colonists, left to
themselves—for England maintains no troops there now—have fortified it
strongly. Mr. Trollope tells us of five separate armed fortresses, with
Armstrong guns, rifled guns, guns of eighteen tons’ weight, with loopholed
walls and pits for riflemen, as though Sydney was to become another
Sebastopol. “It was shown,” says he, “how the whole harbour and city were
commanded by these guns. There were open batteries and casemated
batteries, shell‐rooms and gunpowder magazines, barracks rising here and
trenches dug there. There was a boom to be placed across the harbour, and
a whole world of torpedoes ready to be sunk beneath the water, all of
which were prepared and ready for use in an hour or two. It was explained
to me that ‘they’ could not possibly get across the trenches, or break the
boom, or escape the torpedoes, or live for an hour beneath the blaze of
the guns. ‘They’ would not have a chance to get at Sydney. There was much
martial ardour, and a very general opinion that ‘they’ would have the
worst of it.” New South Wales and Victoria have about 8,000 volunteers and
a training‐ship for sailor boys; while an enormous monitor, the
_Cerberus_, presented by the mother country, forms its war‐fleet of one.

[Illustration: VIEW IN COLLINS STREET, MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA.]

Of Melbourne, Victoria, mention has already been made. There are many
cities with larger populations, but few have ever attained so great a size
with such rapidity. Though it owes nothing to natural surroundings, “the
internal appearance of the city is,” Mr. Trollope assures us, “certainly
magnificent.” It is built on the Philadelphian rectangular plan; it is the
width of the streets which give the city a fine appearance, together with
the devotion of large spaces within the limits for public gardens. “One
cannot walk about Melbourne without being struck by all that has been done
for the welfare of the people generally. There is no squalor to be
seen—though there are quarters of the town in which the people no doubt
are squalid.... But he who would see such misery in Melbourne must search
for it specially.” There are no workhouses; their place is supplied in the
colony of Victoria generally by “Benevolent Asylums.” In Melbourne about
12,000 poor are relieved yearly, some using the institution there as a
temporary, and others as a permanent place of refuge. These places are
chiefly, but not entirely, supported by Government aid. “Could a pauper,”
says Trollope, “be suddenly removed out of an English union workhouse into
the Melbourne Benevolent Asylum, he might probably think that he had
migrated to Buckingham Palace,” so well are the inmates fed and cared for.
There are no workhouses proper in any part of Australia, and the charity
bestowed on these asylums is not given painfully or sparingly.

The wideness of the streets, however, and grandeur of general dimensions,
have their drawbacks, among which the time consumed in reaching distant
parts of the city counts first. Melbourne has a fine and entirely free
Public Library and a University, as, indeed, has Sydney. Melbourne is the
centre of a system of railways, and the well‐to‐do people all live out of
town; in the south and east of the city there are miles of villas and
mansions.

Mr. Trollope says:—“There is perhaps no town in the world in which an
ordinary working man can do better for himself and for his family with his
work than he can at Melbourne.” The rates of wages for mechanics are
slightly greater than at home, and all the necessaries of life are
cheaper. With meat at 4d. per pound, butter from 6d. upwards, bread, tea,
and coffee about the same prices or rather under, coals the same or a
trifle higher, potatoes, vegetables, and fruits generally considerably
cheaper, all can live well and plentifully. Meat three times a day is
common all over Australia, and in some parts the price is as low as 1½d.
or 2d. per pound. Wages for good mechanics and artisans average about 10s.
a day; gardeners receive about 50s., and labourers about 30s. per week;
men‐servants, in the house, £40 to £50 per annum; cooks, £35 to £45 per
year; girls, as housemaids, &c., 8s. or 10s. per week. It is usual to hire
the last named by this short term. Some of these prices rule all over the
country, but are liable to rule lower, rather than higher, outside of
Melbourne.

In the country sheep‐shearers can earn 7s. to 14s. per day for about four
months in the year; shepherds, £30 to £40 per year, with rations. The
common labourer can count on 15s. to 20s. per week, with rations: these
consist generally of 14 lbs. meat (usually mutton), 8 lbs. flour, 2 lbs.
sugar, and a quarter of a pound of tea. Of course, where fruit or
vegetables are plentiful they would be added. The meat, bread, and tea
diet, however, is that characteristic of the whole country. In the great
sheep runs and cattle ranges(23) it would be the shepherd’s diet
invariably.

Mr. Trollope advises the poor man to save for three or four years, and
then invest in land, which in some places is to be had at 3s. 9d. an acre,
payable to the Government in five instalments of ninepence per acre. Of
course, he would require money for the erection of a house, farm
implements, &c. The great trouble with most men working in the bush as
shepherds or shearers, or at the mines, or elsewhere at distant points, is
that the enforced absence from civilisation and social life makes them
inclined for reckless living when they have accumulated a sum of money.
The tavern‐keepers of the nearest town or station reap all the benefit,
and there are numbers of men who, for ten or eleven months of the year
perfectly steady and sober, periodically give themselves up to drink until
their earnings are melted, it is called “knocking down” one’s cheque, and
it is a common practice for them to hand such cheque to the publican, who
lets them run on recklessly in drink and food until _he_ considers it
exhausted. A good story is told by Mr. Trollope of a man who had been
accustomed to do this at regular intervals, but who on one occasion,
having some loose silver, “planted” his cheque in an old tree, and
proceeded to the usual haunt, where he set to work deliberately to get
drunk. The publican showed evident doubt as to the propriety of supplying
him freely. Why had not the man brought his cheque as usual? The tavern‐
keeper at last put him to bed; but the man, though drugged and stupefied,
had his wits about him sufficiently to observe and remember that the host
had examined his clothes, his hat, and boots, for the lacking cheque. Next
morning he was ignominiously expelled from the house, but he didn’t mind:
the cheque was found by him safely in the tree by the roadside, and he
surprised his master by returning to the station a week or two before he
was expected richer than he had ever come home before. Let us hope he was
cured of that form of folly for ever.

The gold yield of Australia for the twenty years between 1851 and 1871 was
50,750,000 ozs. But gold‐fields die out sooner than most mines, and
Australia has a more permanent source of prosperity for the future in its
coal and iron‐fields, which are in close proximity to each other. The coal
is already worked to great profit, and is one of the principal steamship
fuels of the Pacific.

The steamship route homeward from Australia is that by the Indian Ocean
(usually touching at Ceylon), then reaching the Mediterranean _viâ_ the
Red Sea and Suez Canal. These points of interest have already been fully
described in early chapters of this work.

CHAPTER V.

WOMAN AT SEA.

Poets’ Opinions on Early Navigation—Who was the First Female
Navigator?—Noah’s Voyage—A Thrilling Tale—A Strained Vessel—A
Furious Gale—A Birth at Sea—The Ship Doomed—Ladies and Children in
an Open Boat—Drunken Sailors—Semi‐starvation, Cold, and
Wet—Exposed to the Tropical Sun—Death of a Poor Baby—Sharks
about—A Thievish Sailor—Proposed Cannibalism—A Sail!—The Ship
passes by—Despair—Saved at Last—Experiences of a
Yachtswoman—Nearly Swamped and Carried Away—An Abandoned Ship—The
_Sunbeam_ of Service—Ship on Fire!—Dangers of a Coal Cargo—The
Crew Taken off—Noble Lady Passengers—Two Modern Heroines and their
Deeds—The Story of Grace Darling—The Longstone Light and Wreck of
the _Forfarshire_—To the Rescue!—Death of Grace Darling.

“Hearts sure of brass they had who tempted first
Rude seas that spare not what themselves have nursed.”

So sings Waller, and his words are only the repetition of a sentiment much
more grandly expressed by Horace, who wrote now near two thousand years
ago:—“Surely oak and threefold brass surrounded his heart who first
trusted a frail vessel to the merciless ocean.” And once more, just to
show the unanimity of the poets on this point, Dr. Watts has said:—

“It was a brave attempt! advent’rous he
Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea.”

Now, if all this is said of man, what shall be said of the woman who first
trusted herself on the great deep? Who was she? It would be most difficult
to satisfactorily answer this question, but there can be no doubt that
“Noah’s wife, and the three wives of his sons,” whose voyage and enforced
residence in the ark lasted no less than twelve months and three days(24)
are the earliest females on record who embarked in a great vessel on a
boundless expanse of waters.

These pages have already presented episodes in the lives of many seafaring
ladies, but till now no chapter has been specially devoted to the subject.
In these days of general travel ladies make, as we have often seen, long
voyages to and from far distant parts. One of them, some nineteen years
ago, underwent the horrors of shipwreck, and her subsequent sufferings
were admirably told by her under the title of “Ten Terrible Days.” The
account, which should be read in its entirety, is here, for obvious
reasons, considerably condensed.

One day late in the year 1861 a grain‐laden vessel, a fine clipper, might
have been seen slowly and gracefully sailing out of the noble bay of San
Francisco. On her as passengers were two or three ladies with children,
among them Mrs. William Murray, the authoress, who had been recommended to
take the long voyage home in a roving clipper, in preference to taking a
passage in the over‐crowded steamers running to Panama and New York. Let
her open the story. “The sun,” says she, “was shining as it always does in
California, until the sea and the rocks and the vast city seemed literally
glittering with sunlight. One long look back to the happy home of the last
six years, to the home still of the husband and brothers obliged to remain
behind, and at last I had only the sea that parted us to look at through
my tears. Our friends had seen us set sail in what seemed a gallant ship.
It had been chosen from all others as the one to send us home in for its
show of perfectness. There were men in San Francisco who knew that the
ship was unseaworthy (having been frightfully strained in her last voyage
to China), and that she was in no fit condition to be trusted with the
lives of helpless women and children, yet they let us sail without a word
of warning.”

The dreaded Horn had been easily rounded in good weather, and on the
evening of January 4th, 1862, they had been eighty‐six days out; in ten
more they expected to be in England. The sailors had predicted a stormy
night, and a terrific gale followed closely on that prophecy. The wind
increased in fury, and the ship rolled till those on board were often
thrown from their feet. That night a child was born on board, and the
kindly lady passengers did all in their power for the poor mother.

“At dawn,” says Mrs. Murray, “taking my little girl by the hand, I went on
deck. The storm had in some measure abated, but the sea looked black and
sullen, and the swell of the vast heavy waves seemed to mock our frailty.
The sailors had been up all night, and were as men playing at some
ferocious game: some working in desperation at the pumps, and singing at
the pitch of their voices wild sea‐songs to time their common efforts;
others employed in throwing hundreds of bags of grain into the sea, that
they might thus lighten the ship. This, I think, more than all, showed me
our peril. I wandered about, too miserable to remain in any one spot, till
the captain assembled us all once more in the cabin to get some food,
saying that it was impossible to save the ship, and that we should have
need of all our fortitude. I remembered my own vain attempt to eat some
bread, but the poor little children took their breakfast and enjoyed it.

“We were then each provided with a large bag made of sailcloth, and were
advised by the captain to fill it with the warmest articles of clothing we
possessed.

“All my worldly possessions were on board, comprising many memorials of
dear friends, portraits of loved ones I shall never see again, and my
money loss I knew would be no trifle. In perfect bewilderment I looked
round, and filled my bag with stockings and a couple of warm shawls. On
the top of a box I saw a little parcel that had been entrusted to me by a
lady in California to deliver to her mother in Liverpool. I put that in my
bag, and she got it.... There had been no thought of removing the
breakfast, and with the rolling of the ship, which was every moment
becoming worse, everything had fallen on the floor, and was dashing about
in all directions. Boxes, water‐jugs, plates, dishes, chairs, glasses,
were pitching from one end of the saloon to the other. Children screaming,
sailors shouting and cursing, and loud above all there was the creaking of
timbers, and the sullen sound of water fast gaining upon us in the hold of
the ship, which groaned and laboured like a living thing in agony.”

How the ridiculous will intrude even at such times is shown in the
following. A little boy was discovered helping himself out of the
medicine‐chest, particularly busy with the contents of a broken calomel
bottle! Lamp‐oil served as an emetic in this emergency, and the
youngster’s life was saved. And now the first mate, upon whose decision
and firmness much depended, having lost his presence of mind, had drunk
deeply of whisky. He was intoxicated, and so, too, were many of the
sailors, who had followed his example. The captain, meantime, had been
busily employed in ordering out food and water to supply the boats,
collecting the ship’s papers, &c. The lowering of the boats he had
entrusted to his officers. On hearing of the drunkenness on deck, his
first thought was to get the women and children off at once, for should
the sailors seize the boats, what would become of them? Two boats had
already been smashed whilst lowering them into the sea, and there were
only two remaining. Forty‐seven people to cram into two frail boats,
fifteen hundred miles from land: delicately‐nurtured women, helpless
children, drunken and desperate men.

[Illustration: “THE PASSENGERS WERE LET DOWN BY ROPES” (_p. 58_).]

By the help of the most sober of the sailors, the captain’s own boat was
lowered; some small mattresses, pillows, blankets, a cask of water, sacks
of biscuit, and nautical instruments, were first put in; then the
passengers were let down by ropes. “It seems marvellous,” says Mrs.
Murray, “when I think of it now, that in our descent we were not dashed to
pieces against the ship’s side. We had to wait for each descent a
favourable moment while she was leaning over. Then the word of command was
given, and we were slung down like sheep. My heart stood still whilst my
little one was going down, and then I followed. It was a terrible sight
for a woman to see that poor creature whose baby was born the night
before, looking like a corpse in a long dressing‐gown of white flannel,
with the poor little atom of mortality tightly clasped in her arms. I
thought she would die before the day was over.”

At last they were all in the boat: four women, five children, the second
mate, and sixteen sailors. The captain stayed on the ship, providing for
the safety of the drunken creatures who could not take care of themselves,
and then he came off. How small the boat looked by the side of the tall
ship! And they had to get quickly out of her reach, for she was rolling so
heavily that the waters near her boiled up like a maelström.

Away they drifted, a mere speck upon the ocean. Before night there came a
storm of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, that lasted through the
darkness, and by which they were drenched through and through. “I sat up,”
says the narrator, “for some twelve or fourteen hours on a narrow plank,
with my child in my arms, utterly miserable, cold, and hopeless, soaked to
the skin, blinded by the salt spray, my face and hands smarting
intolerably with the unusual exposure.”

During the storm and confusion the greater part of their biscuit had been
soaked with salt water, and made useless. It was also discovered that the
food collected for the captain’s boat had been thrown by mistake into the
other, therefore it was necessary at once to put them on allowance: half a
pint of water and half a biscuit a day to each person. Except the biscuit,
there were only a few small tins of preserved strawberries and Indian
corn, and these were given to the ladies. “How the poor children cried
with hunger as the days dragged on!”

The boat leaked from the beginning, and the sailors by turns baled the
water out in little cans. Exposed to the glare of a tropical sun for hours
together, nearly mad with thirst, bearing her child in her weak arms, for
she was too much exhausted to stand, Mrs. Murray says that often she would
sit for hours without any thought at all, vacantly gazing on the ocean.

“We had,” says she, “three days of dead calm. The sun glared down upon us
pitilessly, and I thought how pleasant it would be to throw myself into
the sea, and sink calmly to death beneath its waves. I lost all wish to
live—for life seemed horrible. I cannot describe the days as they passed
separately, one by one; when I look back upon them, they all seem to have
been one misery. I remember that on the third day out poor Kitty’s baby
died—indeed, it had been dying from the first. It never had a chance of
living, for it had no fit attention and no sustenance. The poor mother
cried bitterly when at last it became cold on her bosom, but its death was
a merciful release. Wrapped in a shawl of bright colours, it was thrown
overboard, but was so light that it could not sink, and floated for hours
on a sea so calm in the hot sun that scarce a ripple could be seen. At
last it disappeared suddenly, the prey of some hungry shark, and when
afterwards the horrid monsters crowded round our boat they added to our
misery. Hitherto the children had been plunged into the sea every morning
to preserve them in health, but we dared not continue this practice with
those horrid creatures on our lee.... I must not forget one incident,
trifling in itself, but which might have caused the death of one of the
sailors. On the day of the wreck I had caused two or three bottles of ale
and one of claret to be put in the boat, thinking it might be of great use
to us. On the third or fourth night out, when we were shivering helplessly
after a drenching shower of rain, we thought that a bottle of ale should
be opened for the women and children, but not a bottle of any sort was to
be found.” The rage of the captain was awful, and but for the intercession
of the ladies, he swore that he would have thrown the man overboard.

It was on the morning of the tenth day that the frightful thought of
eating the children came into the heads of three or four desperate men,
and the captain and a few trustworthy companions had made up their minds
to slay the would‐be murderers that very night in their sleep. The last
and fatal hour of their great agony seemed to be come. On the morning of
the tenth day a sail was reported, and a white towel hoisted to attract
her attention. She came near enough for the captain to make out that she
carried the Hamburg flag, and then “passed by on the other side.” Curses
loud and deep came from the sailors’ lips. Then the women looked into each
other’s faces and the children cried, and the wolfish eyes of the would‐be
cannibals were again fixed upon them.

But Heaven was merciful, and again a sail was reported. Nearer and nearer
she came, faster rowed the hungry sailors, when there rose a wild shout,
“She has stopped!” and surely there she was at rest in the water, waiting
to see what manner of beings they were. “Row faster, my men, and keep down
the women and children,” sang out the captain, for he was fearful that if
their number was discovered the vessel might pass them, as had that seen
in the morning.

“Oh, what a lovely afternoon,” says Mrs. Murray, “that was when we were
saved—such a blaze of sunshine, such blue skies, such a glistening,
glowing sea, as if even the treacherous ocean were rejoicing with us. At
length we were close alongside of the ship, and saw crowds of human beings
clustering about to look at us—dark, swarthy faces, for they were all
Spaniards, but full of pity, wonderment, and horror. They took us all in,
one by one, and when they saw the women and little children they wept.
They could not speak our language, and looked upon us with bewilderment,
but when I (who fortunately could speak Spanish), kneeling down on deck,
said ‘Gracias a Dios’ (Thank God), their tongues were loosened, and there
was a flood of questions and crowding round us, with weeping and laughing
and shaking of hands. How good were those kind‐hearted men! How I thank
them all, every one, now as I write, from the worthy captain down to the
lowest of his crew. And they brought us bread and wine and water—precious
water, how good it was!”

A few of Mrs. Brassey’s experiences on her husband’s yacht will be read
with interest. One day, after their five o’clock dinner, she and some of
her children very nearly met with a most serious accident. “We were all
sitting,” writes that lady, “or standing about the stern of the vessel,
admiring the magnificent dark blue billows following us, with their
curling white crests mountains high. Each wave, as it approached, appeared
as if it must overwhelm us, instead of which it rushed grandly by, rolling
and shaking us from stem to stern, and sending fountains of spray on
board.... A new hand was steering, and just at the moment when an
unusually big wave overtook us he unfortunately allowed the vessel to
broach to a little. In a second the sea came pouring over the stern, above
Allnut’s head. The boy was nearly washed overboard, but he managed to
catch hold of the rail, and with great presence of mind stuck his knees
into the bulwarks. Kindred, our boatswain, seeing his danger, rushed
forward to save him, but was knocked down by the return wave, from which
he emerged gasping.

“The coil of rope on which Captain Lecky and Mabelle were seated was
completely floated by the sea. Providentially, however, he had taken a
double turn round his wrist with a reefing point, and, throwing his other
arm round Mabelle, held on like grim death; otherwise, nothing could have
saved them. She was perfectly self‐possessed, and only said quietly, ‘Hold
on, Captain Lecky, hold on!’ to which he replied, ‘All right.’ I asked her
afterwards if she thought she was going overboard, and she answered, ‘I
did not _think_ at all, mamma, but felt sure we were gone.’ Captain Lecky,
being accustomed to very large ships, had not in the least realised how
near we were to the water in our little vessel, and was proportionately
taken by surprise. All the rest of the party were drenched, with the
exception of Muriel, whom Captain Brown held high above the water in his
arms, and who lost no time in remarking, in the midst of the general
confusion ‘I’m not at all wet, I’m not!’ Happily, the children don’t know
what fear is. The maids, however, were very frightened, as some of the sea
had got down into the nursery, and the skylights had to be screwed down.
Our studding‐sail‐boom, too, broke with a loud crack when the ship
broached to, and the jaws of the fore‐boom gave way.

“Soon after this adventure we all went to bed, full of thankfulness that
it had ended as well as it did; but also not, so far as I am concerned, to
rest in peace. In about two hours I was awakened by a tremendous weight of
water suddenly descending upon me and flooding the bed. I immediately
sprang out, only to find myself in another pool on the floor. It was pitch
dark, and I could not think what had happened; so I rushed on deck, and
found that, the weather having moderated a little, some kind sailor,
knowing my love of fresh air, had opened the skylight rather too soon, and
one of the angry waves had popped on board, deluging the cabin.”

The _Sunbeam_ encountered a wreck, and the account given of its inspection
will be read with interest. Mrs. Brassey says:—“When I went on deck, at
half‐past six, I found a grey, steamy, calm morning, promising a very hot
day, without wind.

“About 10.30 a.m. the cry of ‘Sail on the port helm!’ caused general
excitement, and in a few minutes every telescope and glass in the ship had
been brought to bear upon the object which attracted our attention, and
which was soon pronounced to be a wreck. Orders were given to starboard
the helm and to steer direct for the vessel; and many were the conjectures
hazarded and the questions asked of the fortunate holders of glasses.
‘What is she?’ ‘Is there any one on board?’ ‘Does she look as if she had
been long abandoned?’ Soon we were near enough to send a boat’s crew on
board, whilst we watched their movements anxiously from the bridge. We
could now read her name—the _Carolina_—surmounted by a gorgeous yellow
decoration on her stern. She was of between two and three hundred tons
burden, and was painted a light blue with a red streak. Beneath her white
bowsprit the gaudy image of a woman served as a figure‐head. The two masts
had been snapped short off about three feet from the deck, and the
bulwarks were gone, only the covering board and stanchions remaining, so
that each wave washed over and through her. The roof and supports of the
deck‐house and the companions were still left standing, but the sides had
disappeared, and the ship’s deck was burst up in such a manner as to
remind one of a quail’s back.... We saw the men on board poking about,
apparently very pleased with what they had found; and soon our boat
returned to the yacht for some breakers, as the _Carolina_ had been laden
with port wine and cork, and the men wished to bring some of the former on
board. I changed my dress, and putting on my sea‐boots, started for the
wreck.

“We found the men rather excited over their discovery. The wine must have
been very new and very strong, for the smell from it as it slopped about
all over the deck was almost enough to intoxicate anybody. One pipe had
already been emptied into the breakers and barrels, and great efforts were
made to get some of the casks out whole; but this was found to be
impossible, without devoting more time to the operation than we chose to
spare. The men managed to remove three half empty casks with their heads
stove in, which they threw overboard, but the full ones would have
required special appliances to raise them through the hatches. It proved
exceedingly difficult to get at the wine, which was stowed underneath the
cork, and there was also a quantity of cabin bulkheads and fittings
floating about under the influence of the long swell of the Atlantic. It
was a curious sight, standing on the roof of the deck‐house, to look into
the hold, full of floating bales of cork, barrels, and pieces of wood, and
to watch the sea surging up in every direction through and over the deck,
which was level with the water’s edge. I saw an excellent modern iron
cooking‐stove washing about from side to side; but almost every other
movable article, including spars and ropes, had apparently been removed by
previous boarders.” It would have delayed them too long to tow her into
port, or they might have recovered some £1,500 as salvage, while to blow
her up would have required more powder than they had on board. So she was
left helplessly drifting about, a danger to any vessel running into her
full steam or sail almost as great as a sunken rock.

Later, the owner of the _Sunbeam_ was of real service, for a fine vessel
was encountered, under full sail and on fire, her cargo being smelting
coal. Her red Union Jack was upside down, while her signals read the
terrible announcement, “Ship on fire!” These were followed by the signal,
“Come on board at once,” and a boat’s crew was at once despatched to the
rescue. They were purposely well armed, and for the sufficient reason that
there was little sign of fire or smoke on board, and it was thought that
there might be a mutiny on board. In a few minutes the boat returned with
the chief mate, a fine‐looking Norwegian, who reported his vessel the
_Monkshaven_, sixty‐eight days from Swansea, and bound for Valparaiso. The
fire had been discovered five days previously, and the morning following
the first day the crew had got all their clothes and provisions on deck,
and had thrown everything of a combustible nature—tar, oil, pitch, spare
spars, and so forth—overboard. The hatches had then been battened down,
but all efforts to subdue the fire were unavailing. The officers and men
had been living on deck under a canvas screen, the water being a foot deep
even there. When the hatches were opened for a moment, dense clouds of
hot, suffocating yellow smoke immediately poured forth, driving back all
who approached. In such cases it is often difficult to find the location
of the fire, which may at any time burst open the deck or burn a hole
through the hull. The dangerous nature of such cargoes may be inferred
from the fact that of every three vessels going out to Valparaiso or
Callao, one catches fire, although, of course, the flames are often got
under control. They had encountered a terrific gale, and while burning had
signalled a large American steamship, which had contemptuously steamed
away from them. When the men had all been transferred to the yacht—for it
was found impossible to save the barque—the poor fellows were almost wild
with joy and excitement. Soon after the fated vessel was blazing like a
tar‐barrel, and the yacht steamed round her near enough for all on board
to feel the heat. Fifteen extra mouths to feed was a serious addition to
the passengers and crew of the _Sunbeam_, and the water ration had to be
cut down, but otherwise they had all they could wish, and a week later
were transferred to the Pacific Company’s mail steamer _Illimani_, then
homeward bound. The satisfaction which must have been felt by Mr. and Mrs.
Brassey at having the ability as well as the will to save fifteen lives
may well be imagined.

One of woman’s noblest attributes is her readiness to help in the hour of
need, and its exercise has been by no means confined to the land. Late in
1879 the British India Steam Navigation Company’s steamer _Eldorado_ had a
hairbreadth escape from destruction in the Bay of Biscay. The rascally
Lascar crew abandoned their posts and gave themselves up to despair, and
the passengers “passed” coal to the stoke‐hole and worked hard at baling;
many ladies even volunteered to assist, and two American ladies acted as
stewardesses and dispensed coffee and provisions to the rest.

[Illustration: THE RESCUE FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER.]

How often of late years have female swimmers saved life? The case to be
cited, and which occurred in fresh water, is only one of scores that might
be recorded here. On the 5th December, 1879, two men had to cross the St.
Lawrence River, from La Rue Island to a wharf on the main shore. It was an
intensely cold day, and a heavy gale was blowing strongly from the north‐
east up the river. The men loaded their punt with a sleigh, and had
managed to reach the middle of the channel, when a sudden and violent gust
of wind swamped the punt and turned her over. The men clung to her while
bottom upward, and tried to “tread” the water so as to get her to the
shore, but in vain; the cold was so intense that their legs were benumbed
above the knees, and they gave themselves up for lost. They remained in
this perilous position for a considerable time, shouting loudly for help
till their throats were sore. Making a final effort, they shouted again,
and this time their cries were heard at the house of a Mr. Darling, who,
with his family, resided close to the shore. That gentleman was ill in
bed, but his wife and daughters, Maggie and Jessie, were at home, the men
and boys being at work in the fields at a distance. On hearing the last
painful shout of the drowning men, they quickly opened the door, to see
them struggling in the great river—a stream the width and volume of which
surpass anything in Europe. The first suggestion from the mother was to
fetch the men from the fields, but before this could be done brave Maggie
and Jessie—the latter a girl of sixteen years—had, without a word,
launched the skiff, and were rowing with all their strength through the
troubled waters and driving storm. They had the greatest difficulty in
reaching the exhausted and helpless men, but at last their noble effort
was rewarded, and in ten minutes the poor fellows were being chafed and
warmed by their father’s fire. Brave Maggie and Jessie! worthy successors,
indeed, to your namesake, the heroine of the Longstone Light!

The story of Grace Darling must be familiar to our readers. The
circumstances which called forth her courage and humanity were as follow:—

The _Forfarshire_, a steamer of moderate size, left Hull for Dundee on the
evening of September 5th, 1838, having on board a considerable amount of
freight and sixty‐three passengers and crew. Soon after leaving the Humber
the boilers began to leak, and on Thursday morning the weather became very
tempestuous, while a thick mist enveloped the vessel. The steamer managed
to pass the Fern Islands, on the way north, early on Thursday evening, but
had all she could do to make headway in a very heavy sea, while the
alarming fact was discovered that her boilers’ leakage was increasing. As
the night advanced the weather became more and more boisterous, and
somewhere off Berwick it was found that the water from above was deluging
the furnace fires. Off St. Abb’s Head, the engineer reported that the
machinery would work no longer; the sails were accordingly set, and the
vessel allowed to drive before the wind, which took her southward. Before
daybreak on Friday morning the roar of breakers near at hand was heard;
and the captain tried hard to avert the appalling catastrophe which seemed
inevitable, and steer the vessel between the islands and the mainland,
through a channel known as the Fair Way. But the _Forfarshire_ would not
answer her helm, and was driven hither and thither by a furious sea. The
scene at this juncture baffles description. Utter darkness enveloped the
doomed vessel, over which the sea broke in tremendous waves, and the noise
of which almost drowned the agonising shrieks of the passengers. The
vessel, a few minutes later, struck a rock, her bows banging and crashing
upon it. At this moment a rush was made by eight of the crew to a boat,
which they lowered successfully, one almost naked and frenzied passenger
jumping into it after them. The ship was now at her last extremity.

“Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.”

A moment or two after the first shock, another great sea struck her,
raising her high in the air and then bringing her down with a terrific
crash on the jagged reef, and with a shock so tremendous that she
literally broke in two. The whole of the upper part of the vessel,
including the chief cabin, filled with passengers, was swept away, and
sank almost immediately. Every soul on that part of the vessel was
engulfed in an ocean grave. Good George Herbert says truly, “He that will
learn to pray, let him go to sea.”

The fore part of the vessel remained spitted on a rocky projection; and
had the _Forfarshire_ drifted a few yards further to the south‐west she
would have escaped her terrible fate, as the rock there descends almost
precipitously into deep water. Meantime, at the Fern Lighthouse, a mile
off, nothing had been seen of the actual occurrence, but at seven o’clock
the vessel was noticed lying on the rock. The weather was so bad that the
lighthouse‐keeper, Mr. Darling, doubted the possibility of rendering
assistance. But his daughter Grace entreated her father to go off in the
boat at all risks, and offered herself to take one oar. Mr. Darling, thus
urged, though knowing the danger of the attempt, agreed, and mother and
daughter aided him in launching the boat. After a hard pull through the
boiling foam, they reached the rock, where they found nine persons
shivering in the cold and wet, and trembling for their lives. As
illustrative of the heroism displayed in this rescue, it may be mentioned
that had it not been ebb tide the boat could not have passed between the
islands; and Darling and his daughter knew that the tide would be flowing
on their return, and that their united strength would have been quite
insufficient to pull back to the lighthouse. But for the assistance of the
survivors all would have had to remain on the fatal rock. The joy of the
rescued people may well be imagined, and their surprise, and indeed
amazement, at finding that one of their deliverers was a young girl. At
the lighthouse food and warmth soon restored their exhausted powers. Among
those rescued was a bereaved mother, who had seen her two only children
perish before her eyes.

Grace Darling’s name and fame are historic; she lived but a short time
after the tragic event just recorded, but long enough to receive the
honours due to her for an act of unparalleled heroism, even receiving the
acknowledgments of the Queen and a handsome sum of money from the public.

“She who amid the tempest shone,
The angel of the wave,”

was not, as might be supposed, a robust girl, but, on the contrary, quite
delicate. Her spirit peacefully passed away a few months after the event
above recorded.

CHAPTER VI.

DAVY JONES’S LOCKER AND ITS TREASURES.

Clarence’s Dream—Davy Jones’s Locker—Origin of the Term—Treasures
of the Ocean—Pearl Fishing—Mother o’ Pearl—Formation of Pearls—Art
and Nature Combined—The Fisheries—The Divers and their _modus
operandi_—Dangers of the Trade—Gambling with Oysters—Noted
Pearls—Cleopatra’s Costly Draught—Scottish Pearls very
Valuable—Coral—Its Place in Nature—The Fisheries—Hard Work and
Poor Pay—The Apparatus Used—Coral Atolls—Darwin’s
Investigations—Theories and Facts—Characteristics of the
Reefs—Beauty of the Submarine Forests—Victorious Polyps—The Sponge
a Marine Animal—The Fisheries—Harpooning and Diving—Value of
Sponges.

“I saw a thousand fearful wracks:
A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon:
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept,
As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered there.”

So dreamed Clarence on a memorable night, and, indeed, what treasures,
known and unknown, must not the ocean cover!

The well‐known term which forms the heading of this chapter, with its
popularly‐understood meaning, is familiar to every schoolboy, yet its
origin is most obscure. Mr. Pinkerton, an ingenious correspondent of that
valuable medium of inquiry, _Notes and Queries_,(25) argues as follows,
and his opinion is entitled to respect. He says:—“I have arrived at the
conclusion that the phrase is derived from the Scriptural account of the
prophet Jonah. The word _locker_, on board ship, generally means the place
where any particular thing is retained or kept, as ‘the bread locker,’
‘shot locker,’ &c. In the ode in the second chapter of the Book of Jonah,
we find that the prophet, praying for deliverance, describes his situation
in the following words:—‘In the midst of the seas; and the floods
compassed me about; the depth closed me round about; the earth with her
bars was about me.’

“The sea, then, might not misappropriately be termed by a rude mariner
Jonah’s locker: that is, the place where Jonah was kept or confined.
Jonah’s locker, in time, might readily be corrupted to _Jones’s_ locker,
and Davy, as a very common Welsh accompaniment of the equally Welsh name
Jones, added; the true derivation of the phrase having been forgotten.”

However this may be, it is of the hidden treasures of the ocean locker and
its explorers we would now speak. And first let us take a glance at the
pearl, coral, and sponge fisheries,(26) as they are somewhat incorrectly
called, inasmuch as it will pave the way to the subject of divers and
diving.

The pearl oyster (_Meleagrina margaritifera_) is the most valuable and
interesting of all the nacre (mother‐of‐pearl) bearing shells. The shell
is nearly round, and greenish in colour on the outside; it furnishes at
once the finest pearls, under favourable circumstances, and the nacre so
useful in many industrial arts. Fine pearl and nacre have, in short, the
same origin. The nacre invests the whole interior of the shell, being the
same secretion which, in the pearl, has assumed the globular form; in one
state it is deposited as nacre on the walls of the bivalve, in the other
as a pearl in the fleshy interior of the animal. Between nacre and pearls,
therefore, there is only the difference of the form of the deposition. The
finest pearls—“solidified drops of dew,” as the Orientals poetically term
them—are secretions of nacrous material spread over foreign bodies which
have accidentally got beneath the mantle of the mollusc. The animal, if
irritated by the intrusion of only a grain of sand, and being unable to
remove it, covers it with a natural secretion, and the pearl gradually
grows in size. Almost invariably some foreign body is found in their
centre, if broken, which has served as a nucleus to this concretion, the
body being, perhaps, a sterile egg of the mollusc, the egg of a fish, or a
grain of sand, round which has been deposited in concentric layers the
beautiful and much prized gem.

The Chinese and other Eastern nations turn this fact in the natural
history of this bivalve to practical use in making pearls and cameos. By
introducing into the mantle of the mollusc, or into the interior of its
body, a round grain of sand, glass, or metal, they induce a deposit which
in time yields a pearl, in the one case free, and in the other adhering to
the shell.

Pearls are sometimes produced in whole chaplets by the insertion of grains
of quartz connected by a string into the mantle of a species of
_Meleagrina_; in other cases, a dozen enamelled figures of Buddha seated
have been produced by inserting small plates of embossed metal in the
valves of the same species. The pearls are very naturally small at first,
but increase by the annual layers deposited on the original nucleus, their
brilliancy and shade of colour varying with that of the nacre from which
they are produced. Sometimes they are diaphanous, silky, lustrous, and
more or less iridescent; occasionally they turn out dull, obscure, and
even smoky.

The pearl oyster is met with in very different latitudes. They are found
in the Persian Gulf, on the Arabian coast, and in Japan, in the American
seas, and in the islands of the South Sea; but the most important
fisheries are found in the Bay of Bengal, Ceylon, and other parts of the
Indian Ocean. The Ceylon fisheries are under Government inspection, and
each year, before the fisheries commence, an official inspection of the
coast takes place. Sometimes the fishing is undertaken on account of the
State, at other times it is let to parties of speculators. In 1804 the
pearl fishery was granted to a capitalist for £120,000; but, to avoid
impoverishing all the beds at once, the same part of the gulf is not
fished every year; and, indeed, sometimes the oysters disappoint the
scientists and practical finders by migrating.

[Illustration: PEARL OYSTER (_Meleagrina margaritifera_).]

The great fishery for mother‐o’‐pearl takes place in the Gulf of Manaar, a
large bay to the north‐east of Ceylon. It occupies 250 boats, which come
from different parts of the coast; they reach the ground at daybreak, the
time being indicated by a signal gun. Each boat’s crew consists of twenty
hands and a negro. The rowers are ten in number. The divers divide
themselves into two groups of five men each, who labour and rest
alternately; they descend from forty to fifty feet, seventy being about
the utmost they can accomplish, and eighty seconds the longest period the
best diver can remain under water, the ordinary period being only thirty
seconds. In order to accelerate their descent a large stone is attached to
a rope. The oars are used to form a stage, across which planks are laid
over both sides of the boat; to this stage the diving‐stone is suspended.
This stone is in the form of a pyramid, weighing thirty or more pounds;
the cord which sustains it sometimes carries in its lower part a sort of
stirrup to receive the foot of the diver. At the moment of his descent he
places his right foot in this stirrup, or, where there is no such
provision, he rests it on the stone with the cord between his toes. In his
left foot he holds the net which is to receive the bivalves; then seizing
with his right hand a signal cord conveniently arranged for this purpose,
and pressing his nostrils with the left hand, he dives, holding himself
vertically, and balancing himself over his foot. Each diver is naked,
except for a band of calico which surrounds his loins. Having reached the
bottom, he withdraws his foot from the stone, which ascends immediately to
the stage. The diver throws himself on his face, and begins to gather all
the proper shells within his reach, placing them in his net. When he
wishes to ascend he pulls the signal cord, and is drawn up with all
possible expedition. A good diver seldom remains more than thirty seconds
under water at one time, although some can remain considerably longer, but
he repeats the operation three or four, and, in favourable circumstances,
even fifteen or twenty times. The labour is extremely severe, and they are
short‐lived. On returning to the boat they sometimes discharge water
tinged with blood by the mouth, nose, and ears. They are also exposed to
great danger from sword‐fish and sharks, which lie in wait for and
frequently devour the unhappy victim. They continue to fish till mid‐day,
but are expected to return long before dark. Mrs. Brassey explains that
when a boat with pearls reaches the shore the shells are divided into
equal heaps, one‐fourth going to the boat’s crew and three‐fourths to the
Government inspector. They keep whichever heap he chooses to kick, so
that, being uncertain in which heap the best pearls are, the chances are
good enough. The heaps are then divided and sold by auction in thousands,
and then sub‐divided again. Gambling is such an Oriental proclivity that
the merest beggar will buy a few of the shells, hoping to find a pearl of
great value; and should he fail to do so, he still has got his oyster!
“Some of the oysters are taken in sealed‐up sacks to Colombo, Kandy, and
other inland places, in order to enable people to indulge their love of
gambling and speculation.” Sir Emerson Tennant tells us that the depleted
pearl oyster‐shells of the Condatchy fisheries, which date back two
thousand years, form an immense bank on the beach, extending for miles. In
past times the Ceylon fisheries were more valuable than at present. In
1797 they are said to have produced £144,000, and in 1798 as much as
£192,000. In 1802 the fisheries were farmed for £120,000; but for many
years the banks have been less productive, and are now said to yield only
the sum of £20,000 per annum.

[Illustration: DIVING FOR PEARLS.]

The natives of the Bay of Bengal, those of the Chinese coast, of Japan,
and the Indian Archipelago, all devote themselves to the pearl fishery,
the produce being estimated to realise at least £800,000. Fisheries
analogous to those of Ceylon take place on the Persian coast, on the
Arabian Gulf, along the coast of Muscat, and in the Red Sea. Arrived on
their fishing‐ground, the fishermen of the Red Sea range their barques at
a proper distance from each other, and cast anchor in water from eight to
nine fathoms deep. The process is pursued here in a very simple manner.
When about to descend, the divers pass a cord, the extremity of which
communicates with a bell placed in the barque, under the armpits; they put
cotton in their ears, and press the nostrils together with a piece of wood
or horn; they close their mouths hermetically, attach a heavy stone to
their feet, and at once sink to the bottom of the sea, where they gather
indiscriminately all shells within their reach, which they throw into a
bag suspended round their haunches. When they require to breathe they
sound the bell, and immediately they are assisted in their ascent. On the
oyster‐banks off the isle of Bahrein the pearl fishery produces about
£240,000; and if we add to this the product of the other fisheries in the
neighbourhood, the sum total yielded by the Arabian coast would probably
not fall short of £350,000. In South America similar fisheries exist.
Before the Mexican conquest the pearl fisheries were located between
Acapulco and the Gulf of Tchuantepic; subsequently they were established
round the islands of Cubagua, Margarita, and Panama. The results became so
full of promise that populous cities were not slow to raise themselves
round these several places. Under the reign of Charles V. America sent to
Spain pearls valued at £160,000; in the present day the annual yield is
estimated to be worth £60,000.

Pearls form, of course, the most important product of the animal. When
they are adherent to the valves they are detached with pincers; but as a
rule they are found in the oyster’s soft tissues. In this case the
substance is boiled, and afterwards sifted, in order to obtain the most
minute of the pearls; for those of considerable size are sometimes
overlooked in the first operation. Months after the mollusc is putrefied
miserable Indians may be observed busying themselves with the corrupt
mass, in search of small pearls which may have been overlooked by the
workmen.

The pearls adherent to the valve are more or less irregular in their
shape; they are sold by weight. Those found in the body of the animal, and
isolated, are called _virgin pearls_. They are globular, ovoid, or
pyriform, and are sold by the individual pearl. In cleaning them, they are
gathered together in a heap in a bag, and worked with powdered nacre, in
order to render them perfectly pure in colour and round in shape, and give
them a polish; finally, they are passed through a series of copper sieves,
in order to size them. These sieves, to the number of a thousand, are made
so as to be inserted one within the other, each being pierced with holes,
which determine the size of the pearl and the commercial number which is
to distinguish it. Thus, the sieve No. 20 is pierced with twenty holes,
No. 50 with fifty holes, and so on up to No. 1,000, which is pierced with
that number of holes. The pearls which are retained in Nos. 20 to 80, said
to be _mill_, are pearls of the first order; those which pass and are
retained between Nos. 100 and 800 are vivadoe, or pearls of the second
order; and those which pass through all the others, and are retained in
No. 1,000, belong to the class _tool_, or seed pearls, and are of the
third order. They are afterwards threaded; the small and medium‐sized
pearls on white or blue silk, arranged in rows, and tied with ribbon into
a top‐knot of blue or red silk, in which condition they are exposed for
sale in rows, assorted according to their colours and quality. The small
or seed pearls are sold by measure or weight.

We cannot wonder at the estimation in which these beautiful productions of
nature have always been held. Our Lord speaks of “a merchantman seeking
goodly pearls,” and once of a “pearl of great price.” The ancients held
them in great esteem. Ahasuerus had a chamber with tapestry covered with
valuable pearls. Julius Cæsar offered to Servilia, the mother of Brutus,
an “Orient pearl,” valued at money representing a million sesterces;(27)
Cleopatra’s expensive draught is estimated by Pliny at the equivalent of
£80,729; Lollia Paulina, wife of Caligula, used to put on about £200,000
sterling’s worth of them on high days and holidays.

In our own country Sir Thomas Gresham powdered up a pearl worth £65,000,
in Queen Elizabeth’s time, and drank it up _à la_ Cleopatra, excepting
only that he took it in wine instead of in vinegar. It was done in vain‐
glory to outshine the Spanish ambassador, with whom he had wagered to give
a more expensive entertainment than he could.

Scottish pearls, which are slightly bluish in tint, were much celebrated
in the Middle Ages, and were sent to London from the rivers Tay and Isla;
the trade carried on in the present century, the Rev. Mr. Bertram tells
us, has become of considerable importance.

The pearl, according to the same authority, is found in a variety of the
mussel which is characterised by the valves being united by a broad hinge.
“The pearl fisheries of Scotland,” he adds, “may become a source of wealth
to the people living on the large rivers, if prudently conducted.” Mr.
Unger, a dealer in gems in Edinburgh, having discerned the capabilities of
the Scotch pearl as a gem of value, has established a scale of prices
which he gives for them, according to their size and quality; and the
beautiful pearls of our Scottish streams are now admired beyond the Orient
pearl. Empresses and queens, and royal and noble ladies, have made large
purchases of these gems. Mr. Unger estimates the sum paid to pearl‐finders
in the summer of 1864 at £10,000. The localities successfully fished have
been the classic Doon, the Forth, the Tay, the Don, the Spey, the Isla,
and most of the Highland rivers of note.

Passing on to another of ocean’s beautiful treasures, coral, it must be
understood that the valuable coral of commerce used for purposes of
ornament has little in common with that of the coral islands, while in a
scientific point of view it does not come under the same classification at
all. The coral used in jewellery, carvings, and ornaments belongs to the
group _Corallinæ_, of the order _Gorgonidæ_, while that of the reefs or
islands belongs to the large group of Madrepores.

[Illustration: CORAL.]

[Illustration: CORAL ISLAND.]

The coral was long considered a sea‐plant, but what was once taken for a
flower is, in fact, a kind of polyp, which lives in colonies. A branch of
living coral is an aggregation of animals united among themselves by a
common tissue, yet seemingly enjoying a separate existence. The branch
undoubtedly owes its origin to an egg, and consists of two distinct
parts—the one hard, brittle, and stony; the other external, and soft and
fleshy. The latter is a united family of polyps, animals having feelers or
tentacles, and very sensitive, and further, possessing generative or
budding powers. The subject is, however, of a nature too scientific to be
fully treated here. The Greeks called it a “daughter of the sea,” and as
in so many other things, they were right. The fisheries are principally
confined to the Mediterranean, and the fishing is conducted mainly by
sailors from Genoa, Leghorn, and Naples. It is so fatiguing that it is a
common saying in Italy that a sailor obliged to go to the coral fishery
must either be a thief or an assassin. The saying conveys a good idea
enough of the occupation. The best men can only earn four to six hundred
francs (£16 to £24) in the season of six months. They work eighteen hours
per diem, and are allowed very little more rations than unlimited biscuit
and water. “The barques sent to the fishing range from six to fifteen
tons; they are strong, and well adapted for the labour; their rig is a
great lateen sail and a jib or staysail. The stern is reserved for the
capstan, the fishers, and the crew; the fore part of the vessel is
reserved for the requirements of the padrone or master.

“The lines, wood, and irons employed in the coral fisheries are called the
engine; it consists of a cross of wood formed of two bars strongly lashed
or bolted together at their centre; below this a great stone is attached,
which bears the lines, arranged in the form of a sac. These lines have
great meshes, loosely knotted together, resembling the well‐known swab.

[Illustration: CORAL FISHING.]

“The apparatus carries thirty of these sacs, which are intended to grapple
all they come in contact with at the bottom of the sea. They are spread
out in all directions by the movement of the boat. The coral is known to
attach itself to the summit of a rock, and to develop itself, forming
banks there, and it is to these rocks that the swab attaches itself so as
to tear up the precious harvest. Experience, which in time becomes almost
intuitive, guides the Italian fisher in discovering the coral banks....

“When the padrone thinks he has reached a coral bank, he throws his engine
overboard. As soon as the apparatus is fairly at the bottom the speed of
the vessel is slacked, the capstan is manned by six or eight men, while
the others guide the helm and trim the sails. Two forces are thus brought
to act upon the lines, the horizontal action of the vessel and the
vertical action of the capstan. In consequence of the many inequalities of
the rocky bottom, the engine advances by jerks, the vessel yielding more
or less according to the concussion caused by the action of the capstan or
sail. The engine seizes upon the rugged rocks at the bottom, and raises
them to let them fall again. In this manner the swab, floating about,
penetrates beneath the rocks where the coral is found, and is hooked on to
it. To fix the lines upon the coral and bring them home is a work of very
great labour. The engine long resists the most energetic and repeated
efforts of the crew, who, exposed half naked to the burning sun of the
Mediterranean, work the capstan to which the cable and engine are
attached, while the padrone urges and excites them to increased exertion;
the sailors meanwhile trim the sails, and sing with a slow and monotonous
tone a song, the words of which improvise in a sort of psalmody the names
of the saints most revered among the seafaring Italian population.

“The lines are finally brought home, tearing or breaking blocks of rock,
sometimes of enormous size, which are brought on board. The cross is now
placed on the side of the vessel, the lines are arranged on the deck, and
the crew occupy themselves in gathering the results of their labour. The
coral is gathered together, the branches of the precious alcyonarian are
cleansed and divested of the shells and other parasitic products which
accompany them; finally, the produce is carried to and sold in the ports
of Messina, Naples, Genoa, or Leghorn, where the workers in jewellery
purchase them. Behold, fair reader, with what hard labour, fatigue, and
peril, the elegant bijouterie with which you are decked is torn from the
deepest bed of the ocean.” Coral is worth from as little as two or three
shillings a _ton_ to as high as £10 sterling per pound.

Although the corals of the so‐called coral islands are merely good as
curiosities, they are very interesting in a scientific and artistic point
of view. Darwin(28) has reasoned very conclusively on the formation of the
reefs. He says:—“The earlier voyagers fancied that the coral‐building
animals instinctively built up their great corals to afford themselves
protection in the inner parts; but so far is this from the truth, that
those massive kinds to whose growth on the exposed outer shores the very
existence of the reef depends cannot live within the lagoon, where other
delicately‐branching kinds flourish.” Moreover, in this view, many species
of distinct genera and families are supposed to combine for one end; and
of such a combination not a single instance can be found in the whole of
Nature. The theory that has been most generally received is that atolls
are based on submarine craters, but when the form and size of some of them
are considered this idea loses its plausible character. Thus, the Suadiva
atoll is forty‐four geographical miles in diameter in one line by thirty‐
four in another; Rimsky is fifty‐four by twenty miles across; Bow atoll is
thirty miles long, and, on an average, six miles broad. This theory,
moreover, is totally inapplicable to the Northern Maldivian atolls in the
Indian Ocean, one of which is eighty‐eight miles in length, and between
ten and twenty in breadth.

The various theories which had been propounded as to the existence of the
coral islands being unsatisfactory, Mr. Darwin was led to re‐consider the
whole subject. Numerous soundings taken all round the Cocos atoll showed
that at ten fathoms the prepared tallow in the hollow of the sounding rod
came up perfectly clean, and marked with the impression of living polyps.
As the depth increased these impressions became less numerous, but
adhering particles of sand succeeded, until it was evident that the bottom
consisted of smooth mud. From these observations it was obvious to him
that the utmost depth at which the coral polyps can construct reefs is
between twenty and thirty fathoms. Now, there are enormous areas in the
Indian Ocean in which every island is a coral formation, raised to the
height to which the waves can throw up fragments and the winds pile up
sand; and the only theory which seems to account for all the circumstances
embraced is that of the subsidence of vast regions in this ocean. “As
mountain after mountain and island after island slowly sank beneath the
water,” he says, “fresh bases could be successively afforded for the
growth of the corals. I venture to defy any one to explain in any other
manner how it is possible that numerous islands should be distributed
throughout vast areas, all the islands being low, all built of coral,
absolutely requiring a foundation within a limited depth below the
surface.”

Darwin’s description of the island of Cocos, or Keeling, is as
follows:—“The ring‐formed reef of the lagoon island is surmounted in the
greater part of its length by linear islets. On the northern or leeward
side there is an opening through which vessels can pass to the anchorage
within. On entering, the scene was very curious and rather pretty; its
beauty, however, entirely depended on the brilliancy of the surrounding
colours. The shallow, clear, and still water of the lagoon, resting in its
greater part on white sand, is, when illuminated by a vertical sun, of the
most vivid green. This brilliant expanse, several miles in width, is on
all sides divided, either by a line of snow‐white breakers from the dark
heaving waters of the ocean, or from the blue vault of heaven by the
strips of land crowned by the level tops of the cocoa‐nut tree. As a white
cloud here and there affords a pleasing contrast to the azure sky, so in
the lagoon bands of living coral darken the emerald‐green water.

“The next morning I went ashore on Direction Island. The strip of dry land
is only a few hundred yards in width; on the lagoon side there was a white
calcareous beach, the radiation from which, under this sultry climate, was
very oppressive. On the outer coast, a solid, broad, flat coral rock
served to break the violence of the open sea. Excepting near the lagoon,
where there is some sand, the land is entirely composed of rounded
fragments of coral. In such a loose, dry, stony soil, the climate of the
intertropical regions alone could produce so vigorous a vegetation.

“On some of the smaller islets nothing could be more elegant than the
manner in which the young and full‐grown cocoa‐nut trees, without
destroying each other’s symmetry, were mingled into one wood. A beach of
glittering white sand formed a border to those fairy spots.”

Mrs. Brassey writes enthusiastically of some coral fields in the South
Pacific. “It is really impossible to describe the beauty of the scene
before us. Submarine coral forests of every colour, studded with sea‐
flowers, anemones, and echinidæ, of a brilliancy only to be seen in
dreamland; shoals of the brightest and swiftest fish darting and flashing
in and out; shells, every one of which was fit to hold the place of honour
in a conchologist’s collection moving slowly along with their living
inmates: this is what we saw when we looked down from the side of the boat
into the depths below. The surface of the water glittered with every
imaginable tint, from the palest aquamarine to the brightest emerald, from
the pure light blue of the turquoise to the deepest dark blue of the
sapphire, and was dotted here and there with patches of red, brown, and
green coral, rising from the mass below. Before us, on the shore, there
spread the rich growth of tropical vegetation, shaded by palms and cocoa‐
nuts, and enlivened by the presence of native women in red, blue, and
green garments, and men in motley costumes, bringing fish, fowls, and
bunches of cocoa‐nuts, borne, like the grapes brought back from the land
of Canaan by the spies, on poles.

“At 5 p.m. we went for a row in the _Glance_ and the _Flash_ to the coral
reef, now illumined by the rays of the setting sun. Who can describe these
wonderful gardens of the deep, on which we now gazed through ten and
twenty fathoms of crystal water! Who can enumerate or describe the strange
creatures moving about and darting hither and thither amid the masses of
coral forming their submarine home! There were shells of rare shape,
brighter than if they had been polished by the hand of the most skilful
artist; crabs of all sizes scuttling and sliding along; sea‐anemones
spreading their delicate feelers in search of prey, and many other kinds
of zoophytes crawling slowly over the reef, and scarlet, blue, yellow,
gold, violet, spotted, striped, and winged fish, short, long, pointed, and
blunt, of the most varied shapes, were darting about like birds among the
coral trees.”

Darwin speaks of the grandeur of the outer shore of these lagoon islands.
He says:—“There is a simplicity in the barrier‐like beach, the margin of
green bushes and tall cocoa‐nuts, the solid flat of dead coral rock,
strewed here and there with great loose fragments, and the line of furious
breakers all rounding away towards either hand. The ocean, throwing its
waters over the broad reef, appears an invincible, all‐powerful enemy; yet
we see it resisted, and even conquered, by means which at first seem most
weak and insufficient. It is not that the ocean spares the rock of coral;
the great fragments scattered over the reef and heaped on the beach whence
the tall cocoa‐nut‐trees spring plainly bespeak the unrelenting power of
the waves. Nor are any periods of repose granted; the long swell caused by
the gentle but steady action of the trade‐winds, always blowing in one
direction over a wide area, causes breakers almost equalling in force
those during a gale of wind in the temperate regions, and which never
cease to rage. It is impossible to behold these waves without feeling a
conviction that an island, though built of the hardest rock—let it be
porphyry, granite, or quartz—would ultimately yield and be demolished by
such an irresistible power. Yet these low, insignificant coral islets
stand, and are victorious; for here another power, as an antagonist, takes
part in the contest. The organic forces separate the atoms of carbonate of
lime one by one from the foaming breakers, and unite them into a
symmetrical structure. Let the hurricane tear up its thousand huge
fragments, yet what will that tell against the accumulated labour of
myriads of architects at work night and day, month after month? Thus do we
see the soft and gelatinous body of a polyp, through the agency of the
vital laws, conquering the great mechanical power of the waves of an ocean
which neither the art of man nor the inanimate works of nature could
successfully resist.” The poet summed the matter rightly when he wrote:—

“Millions of millions thus, from age to age,
With simplest skill and toil unwearyable,
No moment and no movement unimproved,
Laid line on line, on terrace terrace spread,
To swell the heightening, brightening, gradual mound,
By marvellous structure climbing towards the day....
I saw the living pile ascend,
The mausoleum of its architects,
Still dying upward as their labour closed....
Frail were their frames, ephemeral their lives,
Their masonry imperishable. All
Life’s needful functions, food, exertion, rest,
By nice economy of Providence
Were overruled to carry on the process
Which out of water brought forth solid rock.”

And now we arrive at the last of the valuable fisheries in which divers
are concerned—that of the sponge. The ancients recognised the fact that
the sponge exhibited vitality, but were rather undecided as to whether it
should be counted animal or vegetable. Rondelet—the friend of the
celebrated Rabelais, whom the merry curate of Meudon designated under the
name of _Rondibilis_—himself a physician and naturalist of Montpellier,
long promulgated the idea that these productions belonged to the vegetable
kingdom. Linnæus late in life withdrew the sponges from among the
vegetables, for he had satisfied himself, in short, that they fairly
belonged to the animal kingdom. Sponges live at the bottom of the sea in
from 500 to 1,250 fathoms of water, among the clefts and crevices of the
rocks, always adhering and attaching themselves, not only to inorganic
bodies, but even growing on algæ and animals, spreading, erect, or
pendent, according to the body which supports them and their natural
habit.

Figuier tells us that all naturalists are now satisfied of the animal
nature of sponges, although they once were thought to represent the lowest
and most obscure grade of animal existence, and that so close to the
confines of the vegetable world that it was considered difficult to some
species to determine whether they were on the one side or the other.
“Several of them, however,” says Mr. Gosse, “if viewed with a lens under
water while in a living state, display vigorous currents constantly
pouring forth from certain orifices, and we necessarily infer that the
water thus ejected must be constantly taken in through some other channel.
On tearing the mass open, we see that the whole substance is perforated in
all directions by irregular canals leading into each other, of which some
are slender, and communicate with the surface by minute but numerous
pores, and others are wide, and open by ample orifices; through the former
the water is admitted, through the latter it is ejected.”

[Illustration: SPONGE FISHING OFF THE COAST OF GREECE.]

At the present time sponge fishing takes place principally in the Grecian
Archipelago and the Syrian coasts. The Greeks and Syrians sell the product
of their fishing to the western nations, and the trade has been immensely
extended in recent times. Fishing usually commences towards the beginning
of June on the coast of Syria, and finishes at the end of October. But the
months of July and August are peculiarly favourable to the sponge harvest,
if we may use the term. Latakia furnishes about ten boats to the fishery,
Batoum twenty, Tripoli twenty‐five to thirty, Kalki fifty, Simi about 170
to 180, and Kalminos more than 200. The boat’s crew consists of four or
five men, who scatter themselves along the coast for two or three miles,
in search of sponges under the cliffs and ledges of rock. Sponges of
inferior quality are gathered in shallow waters. The finer kinds are found
only at a depth of from twenty to thirty fathoms. The first are fished for
with three‐toothed harpoons, by the aid of which they are torn from their
native rock, but not without deteriorating them more or less. The finer
kinds of sponges, on the other hand, are collected by divers; aided by a
knife, they are carefully detached. Thus the price of a sponge brought up
by diving is much more considerable than that of a harpooned sponge. Among
divers, those of Kalminos and of Psara are particularly renowned. They
will descend to the depth of twenty‐five fathoms, remain down a shorter
time than the Syrian divers, and yet bring up a more abundant harvest. The
fishing of the Archipelago furnishes few fine sponges to commerce, but a
great quantity of very common ones. The Syrian fisheries furnish many of
the finer kinds, which find a ready market in France; they are of medium
size. On the other hand, those which are furnished from the Barbary coast
are of great dimensions, of a very fine tissue, and much sought for in
England. Sponge fishing is carried on at various other stations in the
Mediterranean, but without any intelligent direction, and in consequence
it is effected without any conservative foresight. At the same time,
however, the trade in this product goes on yearly increasing; but it is
only a question of time when the trade shall cease, the demand which every
year clears the submarine fields of these sponges causing such destruction
that their reproduction will soon cease to be adequate.

The finer varieties of toilet sponge produce a high price, often as much
as forty shillings the pound weight for very choice specimens, a price
which few commercial products obtain, and which prohibits their use, in
short, to all but the wealthy. It is, therefore, very desirable that
attempts should be made to carry out the submarine enterprise of M.
Lamiral. With the assistance of the Acclimatisation Society of Paris, some
experiments have already been made in this direction.

[Illustration: SPONGE, GROWING.]

On the Bahama banks and in the Gulf of Mexico the sponges grow in water of
small depth. The fishermen—Spanish, American, and English—sink a long mast
or perch into the water moored near the boat, down which they drop upon
the sponges; by this means they are easily gathered.

The fine, soft Syrian sponge is distinguished by its lightness, its fine
flaxen colour, its form, which is that of a cup, its surface convex,
voluted, pierced by innumerable small orifices, the concave part of which
presents canals of much greater diameter, which are prolonged to the
exterior surface in such a manner that the summit is nearly always pierced
throughout in many places. This sponge is sometimes blanched by the aid of
caustic alkalies; but this preparation not only helps to destroy its
texture, but also changes its colour. This sponge is specially employed
for the toilet, and its price is high. Specimens which are round‐shaped,
large, and soft, sometimes produce very large prices. There are many other
varieties known to the commercial world.

CHAPTER VII.

DAVY JONES’S LOCKER, AND THOSE WHO DIVE INTO IT.

Scientific Diving—General Principles—William Phipps and the
Treasure Ship—Founder of the House of Mulgrave—Halley’s Wooden
Diving‐bell and Air Barrels—Smeaton’s Improvements—Spalding’s
Death—Operations at Plymouth Breakwater—The Diver’s Life—“Lower
away!”—The Diving‐_Belle_ and her Letter from Below—Operations at
the Bottom—Brunel and the Thames Tunnel—The Diving
Dress—Suffocation—Remarkable Case of Salvage—The “Submarine
Hydrostat”—John Gann of Whitstable—Dollar Row—Various
Anecdotes—Combat at the Bottom of the Sea—A Mermaid Story—Run down
by the _Queen of Scotland_.

The art of unassisted diving having been considered, the reader’s
attention is invited to divers and diving aided by scientific appliances.
But for these developments, how could one hope to recover anything large
or valuable that had once disappeared beneath the waves? How properly
build gigantic breakwaters, piers, and bridges, or examine and clear
choked ports and channels?(29) Some of the grandest achievements of modern
practical science would have been impossible without their aid.

Every reader understands the general principle involved in the
construction of the diving‐bell. Invert a tumbler in a deep vessel of
water, and the liquid will only ascend to a certain height inside, however
far down you place the glass. Insert a tube in a hole drilled in your
tumbler, and blow downwards, and the water recedes still lower. This is
what happens when the air is pumped down into the modern diving‐bell. In
descending in a diving‐bell and remaining under water you will feel a
slight inconvenience in breathing, and perhaps a tingling in the ears;
this comes, not from scarcity of air, but from the fact that the
atmosphere of the interior of the bell is really _denser_ than it is
outside; the air, forced downwards by the powerful air‐pump, is pressed
_upwards_ by the water. Readers may remember that Robert Fulton and his
friends remained under water in his submarine boat for over two hours, the
air in that case being supplied from a large globe containing highly
condensed air, which was allowed to escape as required. The foul air
passed off from tubes in bubbles to the surface.

[Illustration: A DIVER AT WORK (WITH SUBMARINE LAMP).]

As early as the year 1663 an Englishman named William Phipps, the son of a
blacksmith, invented a plan for recovering from the bottom of the sea the
treasures out of a Spanish vessel which had sunk on the coast of
Hispaniola. Charles II. lent him a ship and all that was necessary for his
enterprise, but the matter did not turn out successfully, and William
Phipps fell into a state of the greatest poverty. Notwithstanding this
nothing could discourage his ardour, and to set himself afloat again he
opened a subscription list in England, of which the Duke of Albemarle was
one of the subscribers. In 1667 Phipps embarked in a ship of 200 tons
burden, having undertaken beforehand to divide the profits between the
twenty shareholders who represented the associated capital. At first
starting his search proved altogether unavailing, and he was just
beginning to despair, when he fell in with the golden vein. The fortunate
diver returned to England with £200,000; £20,000 he kept for himself, and
no less than £90,000 came to the share of the Duke of Albemarle. Phipps
was knighted by the king, and became the founder of the noble house of
Mulgrave, which has played no inconsiderable part in the affairs of the
United Kingdom.

It is little more than a century and a half ago since the celebrated
astronomer, Halley—about the first to commence those experiments in
submarine exploration which have been continued to the present
epoch—descended to a depth of fifty feet in a diving‐bell which he had
constructed. It was built of wood, and covered with sheet lead. The air
that was vitiated by respiration escaped from the chamber through an air‐
cock, while the pure element was supplied by barrels, which descended and
ascended alternately on both sides of the bell, like buckets in a well.
These barrels, lined with metal, each contained some thirty‐six gallons of
condensed air; they were connected with the interior of the bell by
leathern tubes. As soon as one of these air receptacles was exhausted
another was let down. Halley himself relates that in 1721, by the aid of
this apparatus, he was able to descend with four other persons to a depth
of nine or ten fathoms, and to remain under water an hour and a half.

It is to Smeaton, the celebrated engineer of the famed Eddystone
Lighthouse, that the diving‐bell owes its leading characteristics, as he
was the first to abolish Halley’s rather clumsy contrivance and apply the
power of the air‐pump; he also constructed the first cast‐iron bell. In
1779 he made use of the diving‐bell to repair the piles of Hexham Bridge,
in the north of England, the foundations of the structure having been
undermined by the violence of the current. A few years after a sad
accident occurred from the use of Halley’s barrel apparatus.

In 1783, Mr. Spalding, of Edinburgh, who had made some improvements upon
the mechanical arrangements of Halley’s bell, but had retained the barrel
air service, engaged to recover some of the cargo of an East‐Indiaman
which had been sunk on the Kish Bank, Ireland. He and his assistant went
down, and after the first supply of air was exhausted the barrels were
sent down as usual. No signal having been given for some time, the bell
was drawn up, and Mr. Spalding and his assistant were found to be dead. It
is supposed that by some means they failed to discharge the air from the
barrels into the bell, and were consequently suffocated. The barrel
service was always more or less dangerous, from its liability to get out
of gear, and if Spalding had adopted the invention of Smeaton, he would
not have lost his life in the manner he did.

The improved diving‐bell was soon generally adopted by engineers, and
played an important part in the works which have so altered the port of
Ramsgate. The great engineer Rennie made constant use of the diving‐bell
in fixing the foundations of the eastern jetty, and in protecting it in
parts against the attacks of the sea by a shield of solid masonry. It was
extensively used in the construction of the Plymouth Breakwater. M.
Esquiros, who visited the divers during the progress of that great work,
gave an interesting account of their _modus operandi_:—

“But we now,” says he, “approached the breakwater—that causeway of
giants—by the side of which we soon discovered an old dismasted ship. This
vessel is rough in appearance, and covered over with a kind of pent‐house
roof. In it live, as in a floating house, the operatives who are still
working at the breakwater. They pass, alternately, one month on board ship
and one month on shore. One of their little sources of profit consists in
the sale of small fancy articles, which they say that they cut out with
the blades of their pocket‐knives from the rocks which they bring up from
the bottom of the sea. Very soon I heard the loud throbbing of machinery,
snorting and puffing like so many marine monsters; it was the wheezy noise
of the air‐pumps which supply the bells when buried under water....

“I then noticed a small boat managed by a sailor rowing it, which glided
under the mouth of the bell, and from this hollow I saw emerge a pair of
large loose boots, reaching above the knees, which, being followed by
another pair of large boots, convinced me that two men were jumping down
into the skiff. The boat itself, in fact, at once got clear of the dome,
under which it had been half hidden, and I saw it come back to the vessel
with two workmen on board, wet up to the waist and covered with mud. They
had just finished making their half‐day under the water, and appeared to
be fatigued. Their swarthy complexions were tinged on the cheeks and
forehead with a bright sanguine hue. The position of the bell was not at
all altered; it was as if they wished to give it an opportunity to dry
itself and breathe a little fresh air. It was then dinner hour for the men
employed at the works. I had just been a spectator of the process of
raising the bell to the surface; I now had to see it let down again to the
bottom of the sea.

“The same little boat which brought the two workmen to the great floating
house took them back again, after an hour’s rest, to the vicinity of the
diving‐bell, which, hung just over the water, looked very much like an
immense iron box open at the bottom. The procedure in making ready for the
descent has really something rather imposing about it, and to an excited
imagination might very well suggest the preparations for the execution of
a sentence of death. Nothing is wanting for the purpose; the scaffold, the
secret cell, and the gulf of the menacing waves are all there. The divers,
thank goodness! do not in the least anticipate such a fate, but, on the
contrary, seem proud to walk safely over the bottom of the sea, where so
many others have found their grave. Be this as it may, the boat soon
places itself underneath the bell, raised as it is three or four feet
above the surface. The two workmen climb one after the other up into the
inside, helped by an iron ring hung to the arched roof, which can easily
be laid hold of by the hands. They take their places on two wooden benches
fixed at a certain height in the hollow of the bell. Sometimes four, or
even six, workmen have to find seats in this curious vehicle. When all
this is done the boat goes away, and in another moment the voice of the
foreman gives the order, ‘Lower away.’...

“In places where the water is troubled by sand, the diver often passes
through a kind of twilight or submarine fog, which compels him to light
his lamp. More often, on the contrary, the light is sufficiently strong to
enable him to read a newspaper in small type. A story is told even of a
lady who wrote a letter in the diving‐bell, and dated it thus: ‘16th June,
18—, at the bottom of the sea.’ Her courage obtained for her among the
divers the _sobriquet_ of the Diving _Belle_.

“I also wished to make my mind easy as to the lot of the poor workmen whom
I had seen descending in the bell. The foreman assured me that they
enjoyed every comfort in it. Have they not seats to rest themselves on, a
wooden ledge on which to place their feet, an assortment of tools and
necessary utensils suspended on a cord or hooked on to the walls of their
hut, which is nearly as well furnished as that of Robinson Crusoe’s? From
all this explanation I was bound to conclude, unless the foreman was
mixing up a little irony in what he told me, that the divers were quite
‘at home’ in the bell. The fact is, that really they pass in it a great
part of their existence. Almost all of them suffer a great deal at first
from a violent pain, which they themselves define as ‘a toothache gone
into the ears,’ and they have a humming in the head, ‘as if some one had
let fly a swarm of bees there;’ but these troublesome symptoms disappear
after the second or third descent. Their confidence in this dry chamber,
almost isolated in the midst of the turmoil of the ocean, approaches
sometimes to temerity. In 1820, Dr. Collodon, of Geneva, who had gone down
in a diving‐bell on the coast of Ireland, bethought himself that at the
depth at which he then was, a stone, or any other trifling cause
obstructing the action of the air‐valve, would be sufficient to enable the
water to invade the bell. He confided this not very reassuring reflection
to one of the divers who was with him. The latter, smiling, answered him
by merely pointing out with his finger one of the glazed loopholes which
were over their heads. The doctor examined it attentively, and
ascertained, in fact, that the glass was cracked sufficiently to allow
bubbles of air to escape pretty freely. This was a very different and more
serious cause of uneasiness than the rather improbable contingency of an
obstruction of the air‐valve. The diver was well aware of the cracked
glass, and cared nothing about it.”

Some time since, when the present writer descended in the diving‐bell
exhibited in London, a seal which then disported in the tank would rub its
nose outside against the little glass windows, and look in, as though
wondering what on earth a visitor was doing there in _his_ element! The
same poor animal afterwards came to grief in a very sad way. When the
water was drained off out of the tank the seal got into the pipes below,
and thence to the sewers. It was found, still alive, some time after, in
the sewers of the Euston Road, a considerable distance away, but succumbed
later to the mephitic influences of the filthy stream.

M. Esquiros continues:—“‘They are just beginning to work’ was soon
remarked to me by the superintendent, who followed, even under the waves,
every movement of his labourers. The nature of their operations varies, of
course, very much according to the undertaking in which they are engaged.
The two divers who had just gone down had for their task to clear away
round the adjacent portion of the foundation of the breakwater. As soon as
they reach the bottom they jump off their seat, and, armed with a pickaxe,
begin to dig into the moist sand in order to get out the stones. It often
happens that the movement of the tide or some other cause disturbs the
water round the rocky base of the breakwater. The workmen have then much
trouble in seeing clearly, and complain that ‘the water is muddy.’
Generally, however, the water is so transparent, that even a cloud passing
across the sky is visible at the bottom of the sea. The workmen also can
labour with nearly as much ease and quite as much energy as if they were
on land. The movements they themselves make in conjunction with the
circumstances which surround them occasionally cause something like a
thick mist to rise before their eyes, hiding from them the nearest
objects; they get quit of it by calling for an ‘air bath.’ The air‐pump
redoubles its pace in working, and sends down to them through the pump an
extra current of air, which soon blows away the mist.

“I was very soon enabled to judge for myself as to their industry; sacks
which they had filled with muddy sand, and buckets laden with stones, came
up to the surface every moment, drawn by cords. One might have fancied it
to be the mouth of a mine, to which invisible arms were constantly sending
up fragments of rock; but here the mine was the sea. The nature of their
digging did not allow them to work very long together in the same place.
The divers had already requested by signal to have their position shifted
on the bed of the sound. How would they manage to comply with their wish?
As regards air and locomotion, the men shut up in the bell depend entirely
on the apparatus working on the surface. The chief organ of movement is a
sort of _traveller_ on four wheels, running over two tramways, allowing it
to come and go in every direction. Immediately on the signal being given
from below, the bell was raised from the bottom of the sea, like a heavy
balloon. This operation was, of course, carried out by means of chains,
and the diving‐bell remained for a minute or two motionless in mid‐water,
like the pendulum of a stopped clock. But the traveller begins to move,
and as it also acts as a crane, the pulley on the surface and the bell
under water shift their position at the same time. The divers call this
‘travelling.’ They can thus move from north to south, from east to west,
backwards and forwards. As they are in motion, if they come upon a piece
of rock which encumbers the bed of the sound, they give the signal to
stop, and the bell becomes stationary, and then descends again slowly
towards the block of stones. If they have been carried on a little too
far, and want to retrace their steps, they communicate afresh with the men
working on the surface, and the obliging machinery soon brings them to the
exact point desired.”

The diving‐bell has many times rendered service to engineers, by enabling
them to descend and ascertain the nature of damages going on, which might
otherwise have ruined their work. When Brunel was building the famous
Thames Tunnel, and the current had broken through its arched roof, he went
down in a diving‐bell to see for himself the extent of the disaster. After
a descent of nearly thirty feet, he reached a serious opening in the
masonry, but the hole was too narrow to allow the bell to enter. It was
therefore necessary for some one to dive into it, and brave Brunel
immediately declared his intention of doing it. Taking hold of the end of
a rope, he plunged into the hole, where it is said he remained nearly two
minutes, mentally noting the damage done. So intent was he on this
examination that he let go the rope just as his companions above, alarmed
at his long stay below, were hauling it up. He had just time to catch hold
of it again, and was happily drawn safely into the bell.

[Illustration: DIVERS ATTACKED BY A SWORD‐FISH.]

The diving dress was a later development, and owed much of its present
practical shape to French men of science. The object of the dress, which
is of canvas or india‐rubber and metal, is, of course, to give each
individual wearing it the utmost liberty of motion, while having at the
same time a proper supply of vital air. The condensed air‐reservoir is
made of steel, and capable of resisting great pressures. The diver carries
this apparatus on his back; from it a respiratory tube issues, and is
terminated by an india‐rubber mouth‐piece, which is held between the lips
and teeth of the diver.

The diver’s is a rough life, most assuredly. During the diving business on
the _Royal George_, Private John Williams, early in the season, tore his
hands very severely in attempting to sling a mass of the wreck with jagged
surfaces and broken bolts. After a few days’ rest he reappeared in his
submarine habit, and dived as before, but from excessive pain in the ears
was again _hors de combat_ till the 11th of July, when, on re‐descending,
he was grievously injured by the bursting of his air‐pipe a few inches
above the water. This casualty was indicated by a loud hissing noise on
deck. A few seconds elapsed before the rupture could be traced and the
opening temporarily stopped. With great alertness he was drawn up, and on
being relieved of his helmet, presented a frightful appearance. His face
and neck were much swelled and very livid, blood was flowing profusely
from his mouth and ears, and his eyes were closed and protruding. Though
partially suffocated, he possessed sufficient sensibility to speak of the
mishap. A sudden shock, it seems, struck him motionless, and then followed
a tremendous pressure, as if he were being crushed to death. A month in
the Haslar Hospital restored him to health, and on returning to the wreck
he at once recommenced his laborious occupation.

[Illustration: DIVERS AT WORK.]

The following is a remarkable example of a salvage effected by the help of
divers. “The packet boats _Ganges_ and _l’Impératrice_ came into collision
in the outer port of Marseilles. The _Impératrice_ had one of her wheels
broken and the officers’ quarters damaged. One of the cabins contained a
chest full of gold, which fell into the thick mud which forms the bottom
of the port of Marseilles. It was important that this precious package
should be recovered the next day. The sea was rough, and the exact spot
where the accident occurred unknown. The box was not strong; its colour
was black. At the supposed spot a plumb of sixty kilogrammes was sunk.
This plumb carried two cords divided into metres; two divers dragged them
in separate directions, and taking each the knot corresponding to one
metre, they described consecutive circles, examining the ground at each
step. After searching three hours, the gold was found, and restored to its
owner, who had watched the operations with intense anxiety. This salvage
was effected on February 19th, 1867, by M. Barbotin, contractor for
submarine work at Marseilles.”

The diving‐bell proper has been much improved by another Frenchman, M.
Payerne. His “Submarine Hydrostat” will descend or fall at the will of
those inside. Thirty men may work in it with ease for a number of hours
without inconvenience. It is, therefore, of great service in clearing
ports, and in facilitating the execution of other submarine work. “The
principle of the machine is very ingenious. Externally, it has the
appearance of one large rectangular box, surmounted by another smaller
one, completely closed in except at the bottom. The interior consists of
three principal compartments. The _hold_ communicates by a large shaft
with the upper compartment. Between these is a third compartment, or
_orlop deck_, which only communicates with the others by means of stop‐
cocks. The hydrostat is twenty feet in height, and its base, which has the
bottom of the sea for a floor, covers an area of 625 square feet. It may
be made to rise and fall at will, and it will readily float about like a
raft.” This ingenious machine has proved of much service. The port of
Fécamp was choked up with shingle, which closed it against all vessels
beyond a certain tonnage. The hydrostat was employed, and the port
cleaned, and again opened to commerce.

The old divers are fond of recounting the glories of their craft, and are
specially impressed with any information as to the fate of the vessels of
the Armada. This spirit has been fostered no less by the successes of the
ancestor of the Mulgraves than by the good fortune of John Gann, of
Whitstable. The old diver was, many years since, employed on the Galway
coast, and used to pass his evenings in a public‐house frequented by
fishermen. One of these men, repeating a tradition which had long existed
in the district, told Gann that one of the Spanish vessels had been
wrecked not far from that coast, and intimated that he himself could point
out the spot. Gann, having finished his special job, made terms with the
fisherman, and they were both out for many weeks dragging the spot
indicated for any traces of the wreck. They were at last rewarded by
coming upon obstructions with their grapnels. Gann brought out his diving
apparatus, and sure enough the truth of the tradition was vindicated by
the finding of a number of dollars, which had originally been packed in
barrels. The barrels, however, had rotted away, and left the gold stacked
in barrel shape. With the money so recovered John Gann built at
Whitstable, his native place, a row of houses, which, to commemorate the
circumstance, he called Dollar Row.

Corporal Harris, almost entirely by his own diligence, removed in little
more than two months the wreck of the _Perdita_, mooring lighter, which
was sunk in 1783, in the course of Mr. Tracy’s unsuccessful efforts to
weigh the _Royal George_. It was about sixty feet in length, and embedded
in mud fifty fathoms south of that vessel. The exposed timbers stood only
two feet six inches above the level of the bottom, so that the exertions
of Harris in removing the wreck were Herculean. Completely overpowered by
fatigue, he claimed a respite for a day or two to recruit his energies,
and then resumed work with his accustomed assiduity and cheerfulness.

There was a sort of abnegation, an absence of jealousy, in the character
of Harris which, as the rivalry among the divers made them somewhat
selfish, gave prominence to his kindness. He met a comrade named Cameron
at the bottom, who led him to the spot where he was working. For a
considerable time Cameron had fruitlessly laboured in slinging an awkward
timber of some magnitude, when Harris readily stood in his place, and in a
few minutes, using Cameron’s breast‐line to make the necessary signals,
sent the mass on deck. It was thus recorded to Cameron’s credit; but the
circumstance, on becoming known, was regarded with so much satisfaction
that honourable mention was made of it in the official records.

Lance‐Corporal Jones, engaged on the wreck of the _Royal George_, one day
lodged on deck from his slings a crate containing eighty 12‐pounder shot.
With singular success he laid the remainder of the kelson open for
recovery, and then, sinking deeper, drew from the mud, in two hauls,
nearly thirty‐five feet of the keel. He also weighed a small vessel of six
tons burden, belonging to a Mr. Cussell, which drove, under a strong
current, upon one of the lighters. Becoming entangled, the craft soon
filled and foundered, grappling, in her descent, with the ladder of one of
the divers, grounding at a short distance from the interval between the
lighters. Jones was selected to try his skill in rescuing her. At once
descending, he fixed the chains under her stern, and while attempting to
hold them in position, by passing them round the mast, the tide turned,
the vessel swung round, and the mast fell over the side, burying Jones
under her sails and rigging. Perilous as was his situation, his
fearlessness and presence of mind never for a moment forsook him. Working
from under the canvas, and carefully extricating himself from the crowd of
ropes that ensnared him, he at last found himself free. A thunderstorm now
set in, and, obedient to a call from above, he repaired to the deck; but
as soon as the squall had subsided he again disappeared, and cleverly
jamming the slings, the boat was hove up; but she had become a complete
wreck, and was taken on shore.

A dangerous but curious incident occurred on the _Royal George_ diving
operations between Corporal Jones and Private Girvan, two rival divers,
who, in a moment of irritation, engaged in a conflict at the bottom of the
sea, having both got hold of the same floor timber of the wreck, which
neither would yield to the other. Jones, at length, fearful of a collision
with Girvan, who was a powerful man, got his bull‐rope fast, and attempted
to escape by it, but before he could do so Girvan seized him by the legs
and tried to draw him down. A scuffle ensued, and Jones succeeded in
extricating himself from the grasp of his antagonist. He then took a
firmer hold of the bull‐rope and gave a kick at Girvan, which broke one of
the lens of Girvan’s helmet, and as water instantly rushed into his dress,
he was likely to have been drowned, had he not at once been hauled on
board. Two or three days, however, at Haslar Hospital restored him; and
the two submarine combatants resumed work together with the greatest
cordiality.

A diver’s “Nursery Tale” must not be omitted. The hero, “Jack” (this is
the name of a diver who “lived once upon a time”), had been busy for some
weeks in gathering up the relics of a shipwreck, when on a certain day he
saw appear at one of the windows of his bell the pale face of a woman,
with long hair intertwined with sea‐weed. He had often heard tell of the
beauty of mermaids, who are, as every one knows, lovelier than the most
lovely of women; but Jack never believed that any creature so perfect as
this could have existed. With a voice softer than the murmuring of the
waves under a gentle breeze, she said to him, “I am one of the spirits of
the sea. On account of your kind disposition I have marked you out among
the rest of your companions, and I will protect you, but on one condition
only, and that is, that you shall be sure to recognise me under any shape
into which I may be pleased to change myself.” The beautiful spirit
disappeared, and Jack remained very much surprised, but with a strong
feeling of joy thrilling within him. He prospered exceedingly in all that
he undertook. But at last prosperity spoiled him. He kicked and ill‐
treated a polyp, a kind of devil‐fish, but still an animal, and one that
had done him no harm, not knowing that the beautiful spirit was disguised
under that mass of ugliness. A few days afterwards an accident occurred
and Jack was drowned. Moral: Take the advice of kindly mermaids—when you
meet them.

And now for our last yarn, a true one. Some years ago a large vessel,
having on board a valuable cargo, including gold bars, was run down and
sunk by a steamship in the Thames between Northfleet and Gravesend. She
was afterwards successfully raised by Captain George Wilson, of Milton,
the famous oyster place, near Sittingbourne, in Kent, and which is also
famous for its divers. It is principally, however, to the names of the
vessels concerned that attention is directed. The _United Kingdom_ was run
down by the _Queen of Scotland_!

CHAPTER VIII.

THE OCEAN AND SOME OF ITS PHENOMENA.

The Saltness of the Sea—Its Composition—Tons of Silver in the
Ocean—Currents and their Causes—The Great Gulf Stream—Its
Characteristics—A Triumph of Science—The Tides—The Highest Known
Tides and Waves—Whirlpools—The Maelström—A Norwegian
Description—Edgar Allan Poe and his Story—Rescued from the
Vortex—The “Souffleur” at the Mauritius—The Colour of the Sea—Its
Causes—The Phosphorescence of the Ocean—Fields of
Silver—Principally Caused by Animal Life.

Many features and phenomena of the ocean have been incidentally noted in
the foregoing pages; but there are points, hitherto untouched, which
deserve our attention.

Its saltness is due, not merely to the presence of chloride of sodium, or
what we call common salt, but to a large number of other minerals,
including the chlorides of magnesium and potassium, the sulphates of
magnesia and lime, carbonate of lime, sulphuretted hydrogen, bromide of
magnesia, hydrochlorate of ammonia, iodine, iron, copper, and even silver,
varying in proportion according to locality. The copper plates of a ship
examined at Valparaiso showed unmistakable traces of silver deposits.
Calculations have been made showing that the ocean contains 2,000,000 tons
of silver. In 1,000 grains of sea‐water there are thirty‐eight grains of
these ingredients and some little organic matter. The saltness of the sea
is generally greater towards the poles, but to this statement there are
exceptions. In parts of the Irish Channel the water contains salts equal
to the fortieth of its weight, the saline matter rising to one‐sixteenth
of its weight off the coast of Spain. In many places the ocean is less
salt at the surface than at the bottom. Its saltness increases its density
and its buoyancy.

Maury, a recognised authority, finds in the saline properties of the sea
one of the principal forces from which the currents in the ocean proceed.
“The brine of the ocean,” says he, “is the ley of the earth; from it the
sea derives dynamical powers, and the currents their main strength.” Let
us suppose a long tank or, say, swimming‐bath, divided in the middle by a
water‐tight wall, on one side of which should be fresh and on the other
salt water, at equal levels. It is obvious that were the division removed
the waters would not stand side by side as before, for the denser water
would have a tendency not merely to mingle with the lighter, but to form a
current _under_ it. So salt waters of different densities.

[Illustration: CHART OF THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.]

“The ocean,” says Figuier, “is a scene of unceasing agitation; ‘its vast
surface rises and falls,’ to use the image suggested by Schleiden, ‘as if
it were gifted with a gentle power of respiration; its movements, gentle
or powerful, slow or rapid, are all determined by differences of
temperature.’” Heat increases its volume, and therefore lightens it; cold
increases its density, and it will naturally descend. These are, then,
among the obvious reasons of its currents. The duration and force of winds
and the tides are both disturbing influences. Such an oceanic marvel as
the great _Gulf Stream_ could only be explained after a careful study of
all the operating causes of its existence. Dr. Maury has well described
it. He says:—“There is a river in the bosom of the ocean: in the severest
droughts it never fails, and in the mightiest floods it never overflows;
its banks and its bottom are of cold water, while its current is of warm;
it takes its rise in the Gulf of Mexico, and empties itself into the
Arctic seas; this mighty river is the Gulf Stream. In no other part of the
world is there such a majestic flow of water; its current is more rapid
than the Amazon, more impetuous than the Mississippi, and its volume is
more than a thousand times greater.” This great current of water
particularly influences the climates of Northern Europe, and especially
those of Britain and Ireland.

The Gulf Stream, as it issues from the Florida Channel, has a breadth of
thirty‐four miles, a depth of 2,200 feet, and moves at the rate of four
and a half miles an hour. “Midway in the Atlantic, in the triangular space
between the Azores, Canaries, and Cape de Verd Islands, is the great
Sargassum Sea, covering an area equal to the Mississippi Valley; it is so
thickly matted over with the Gulf weed (_Sargassum bacciferum_) that the
speed of vessels passing through it is actually retarded, and to the
companions of Columbus it seemed to mark the limits of navigation: they
became alarmed. To the eye, at a little distance, it seemed sufficiently
substantial to walk upon.” The difference of temperature between the Gulf
Stream and the waters it traverses constantly gives birth to tempests and
cyclones. In 1780 a terrible storm ravaged the Antilles, in which 20,000
persons perished. The ocean quitted its bed, and inundated whole cities;
the trunks of great trees and large parts of buildings were tossed wildly
in the air. Numerous catastrophes of this kind have earned the Gulf Stream
the title of the “King of the Tempests.” So well had Maury studied the
Gulf Stream and its storms, that he was enabled to point out the exact
position of a vessel overtaken by a terrible gale. “In the month of
December, 1859,” says Figuier, “the American packet _San Francisco_ was
employed as a transport to convey a regiment to California. It was
overtaken by one of these sudden storms, which placed the ship and its
freight in a most dangerous position—a single wave, which swept the deck,
tore out the masts, stopped the engines, and washed overboard 129 persons,
officers, and soldiers. From that moment the unfortunate steamer floated
upon the waters, a waif abandoned to the fury of the wind. The day after
the disaster the _San Francisco_ was seen in this desperate situation by a
ship, which reached New York, although unable to assist her. Another ship
met her some days after, but, like the other, could render no assistance.
When the report reached New York two steamers were despatched to her
assistance; but in what direction were they to go? what part of the ocean
were they to explore? The authorities at the Washington Observatory were
appealed to. Having consulted his charts as to the direction and limits of
the Gulf Stream at that period of the year, Dr. Maury traced on a chart
the spot to which the disabled steamer was likely to be driven by the
current, and the course to be taken by the vessels sent to her
assistance.” The steamers went straight to the exact spot, and found the
wreck; and although by that time the crew and passengers had been taken
off by three passing vessels, it was certainly a triumph of science.

[Illustration: WAVES OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.]

The tides are produced by two pairs of great waves which travel round the
earth each day—a greater pair caused by the attraction of the moon, a
lesser pair caused by the sun. The moon, by reason of its nearness to the
earth, produces by far the greater influence, but the tides are also
subject to all kinds of local influences. The eastern coast of Asia and
western side of Europe are exposed to extremely high tides; while in the
South Sea Islands they scarcely reach the height of twenty inches. There
is hardly any tide in the Mediterranean, separated as it is from the ocean
by a narrow strait. “The highest tide which is known occurs in the Bay of
Fundy, which opens up to the south of the isthmus uniting Nova Scotia and
New Brunswick. There the tide reaches forty, fifty, and even sixty feet,
while it only attains the height of seven or eight in the bay to the north
of the same isthmus. It is related that a ship was cast ashore upon a rock
during the night so high, that at daybreak the crew found themselves and
their ship suspended in mid‐air, far above the water.” The winds have an
immense influence on the height of tides, and also on the waves. The
highest known waves are found off the Cape of Good Hope (p. 89) at the
period of high tide, under the influence of a strong north‐west wind which
has traversed the Atlantic, pressing its waters round the Cape. “The
billows there,” says Maury, “lift themselves up in long ridges, with deep
hollows between them. They run high and fast, tossing their white caps
aloft in the air, looking like the green hills of a rolling prairie capped
with snow, and chasing each other in sport. Still, their march is stately
and their roll majestic. Many an Australian‐bound trader, after doubling
the Cape, finds herself followed for weeks at a time by these magnificent
rolling swells, furiously driven and lashed by the ‘brave west winds.’
These billows are said to attain the height of thirty, and even forty
feet; but no very exact measurement of the height of waves is recorded.”
Those off Cape Horn are rather less in height. _Spray_ is dashed over the
Eddystone Light, 130 feet high. After a great storm in Barbadoes in 1780,
some old and heavy cannons were found on the shore, which had been thrown
up from the bottom of the sea. If waves in their reflux meet with
obstacles, whirlpools result, such as those in the Straits of Messina,
between the rocks of Charybdis and Scylla made famous by Homer, Ovid, and
Virgil, and once much dreaded, but now little feared.

The best known whirlpool, the Maelström, off Lofoden, in Norway, is the
result of opposing currents. One of the most circumstantial accounts of it
is that of a Norwegian, Jonas Ramus, who calls it the Moskoe‐strom
(channel or stream):—“Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” says he, “the depth of
the water is between thirty‐six and forty fathoms; but, on the other side,
towards Ver (Vurrgh), this depth decreases so as not to afford a
convenient passage for a vessel without the risk of splitting on the
rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood the
stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous
rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarcely
equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts, the noise being heard
several leagues off; and the vortices or pits are of such an extent and
depth that if a ship comes within its attraction it is inevitably absorbed
and carried down to the bottom, and there beaten to pieces against the
rocks; and when the water relaxes the fragments thereof are thrown up
again. But these intervals of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb
and flood and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its
violence gradually returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its
fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norwegian
mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not
guarding against it before they were within its reach. It likewise happens
frequently that whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by
its violence, and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and
bellowings, in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear
once attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream
and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore.
Large stocks of firs and pine‐trees, after being absorbed by the current,
rise again, broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew upon
them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among
which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the flux
and reflux of the sea, it being constantly high and low water every six
hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it
raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses
on the coast fell to the ground.” Kuchu and others promulgated the idea
that the maelström is a watery abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in
some very remote part. This is the view held by most of the Norwegian
peasantry and fishermen to‐day.

Who that has read the works of Edgar Allan Poe will ever forget his
thrilling and detailed story of a descent into the maelström?(30) It bears
the impress of close study, and is founded largely on recorded facts. Two
brothers, the most daring fishermen of their coast, were accustomed to
fish in closer proximity to the maelström than all the rest, because,
although a desperate speculation, they would get more fish in a day than
the others could at the distant fishing grounds in a week. The risk of
life stood for labour, and courage for capital.

In a terrible hurricane they were driven through the surf into the inner
circle of the whirlpool, where (as is likely to be the case in actual
fact) the wind nearly ceased, the surface of the water being lower than
that of the surrounding ocean. “If you have never been at sea in a heavy
gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind
and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away
all power of action or reflection.” Now the two fishermen brothers were in
a measure respited, as death‐condemned felons in prison are allowed petty
indulgences forbidden them while their doom is yet uncertain. Round and
round the belt the vessel flew rather than floated, getting nearer and
nearer to the fatal inner vortex, and making wild lurches towards the
abyss. “The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon
the interior surface of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in
depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for
ebony, but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun round, and
for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth as the rays of the
full moon ... streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls,
and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss.” Round and round
they swept in dizzying swings and jerks. Above and below them were
whirling fragments of vessels, timbers, boxes, barrels, and trunks of
trees. And now a hope arose from the recollection of one circumstance:
that of the great variety of buoyant matter thrown up by the moskoe‐strom
on the coast of Lofoden, some articles were not disfigured or damaged at
all. Further, light and cylindrical articles were the least likely to be
absorbed into any watery vortex: for the last statement there are good
scientific reasons. “I,” says the survivor, “no longer hesitated what to
do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the water‐cask upon which I now
held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw myself with it into
the water. I attracted my brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the
floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power to make
him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he
comprehended my design, but whether this was the case or not, he shook his
head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ring‐bolt.
It was impossible to reach him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and
so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to
the cask by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and
precipitated myself with it into the sea without another moment’s
hesitation.” The smack soon after made a few gyrations in rapid
succession, then sank to the bottom for ever, bearing with it the
unfortunate brother. “The barrel to which I was attached had sunk very
little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and
the spot at which I leaped overboard before a great change took place in
the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel
became momentarily less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew
gradually less and less violent.” By degrees the waters rose, and he found
himself in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where
the pool of the moskoe‐strom _had been_. He was picked up by a boat; those
on board were old mates and daily companions, but they knew him no more
than they would have known a traveller from the spirit‐land. His hair,
which had been raven black the day before, was now as white as snow.

Thus far Poe. It shows how the vivid imagination of a great poet, dealing
with facts, can put those facts before the reader in artistically life‐
like and graphic form.

[Illustration: WHIRLPOOL OF CORRIEVRECKAN, OFF THE HEBRIDES.]

Another remarkable whirlpool is that of Corrievreckan, off the Hebrides,
in the south of Scotland, shown in an illustration on page 93.

A phenomenon of another character is exhibited on the south side of the
Mauritius, at a point called “The Souffleur,” or “The Blower.” “A large
mass of rock,” says Lieutenant Taylor, of the United States navy, “runs
out into the sea from the mainland, to which it is joined by a neck of
rock not two feet broad. The constant beating of the tremendous swell
which rolls in has undermined it in every direction, till it has exactly
the appearance of a Gothic building with a number of arches. In the centre
of the rock, which is about thirty‐five or forty feet above the sea, the
water has forced two passages vertically upward, which are worn as smooth
and cylindrical as if cut by a chisel. When a heavy sea rolls in, it of
course fills in an instant the hollow caverns underneath; and finding no
other egress, and being borne in with tremendous violence, rushes up these
chimneys, and flies, roaring furiously, to a height of full sixty feet.
The moment the wave recedes, the vacuum beneath causes the wind to rush
into the two apertures with a loud humming noise, which is heard at a
considerable distance.

“My companion and I arrived there before high water; and, having climbed
across the neck of rock, we seated ourselves close to the chimneys, where
I proposed making a sketch, and had just begun, when in came a thundering
sea, which broke right over the rock itself, and drove us back much
alarmed.

“Our negro guide now informed us that we must make haste to re‐cross our
narrow bridge, as the sea would get up as the tide rose. We lost no time,
and got back dry enough; and I was obliged to make my sketches from the
mainland.

“In about three‐quarters of an hour the sight was truly magnificent. I do
not exaggerate in the least when I say the waves rolled in, long and
unbroken, full twenty‐five feet high, till, meeting the headland, they
broke clear over it, sending the spray flying over to the mainland; while,
from the centre of this mass of foam, the Souffleur shot up with a noise
which we afterwards heard distinctly between two and three miles. Standing
on the main cliff, more than a hundred feet above the sea, we were quite
wet.”

[Illustration: “THE SOUFFLEUR,” ISLAND OF MAURITIUS.]

To the combined influences of tides and waves may also be attributed the
monsoon hurricanes which so often visit the Indian Ocean. The air may have
been just previously without a breath, when immense waves, accompanied by
whirlwinds, come rolling in. “At the period of the changing monsoons, the
winds, breaking loose from their controlling forces, seem to rage with a
fury capable of breaking up the very foundations of the deep,” and ships
are often literally whirled round, or bodily lifted up, their crews being
utterly impotent.

Turning to another subject, partially discussed before—the colour of the
sea—it may be remarked that by itself as sea water it is really
colourless. Its varying colours are caused by reflection, by the varied
bottoms it covers, or by the presence of actual animal, vegetable, and
mineral bodies. The ocean,

“When winds breathe soft along the silent deep,”

is azure blue or ultramarine, becoming greener in‐shore. There are some
days when it is generally green, others sombre and grey. A bottom of white
sand will give a greyish or apple‐coloured green; of chalk, a pure clear
green; if the bottom is brownish‐yellow sand, the green is naturally
duller in character. In the Bay of Loango the waters appear of a deep red,
from the red bottom. The Red Sea owes its colour to actual floating
microscopic algæ and to red coral bottoms. Sea water, concentrated in the
salt marshes of the south of France by the heat of the sun, is also red:
this is due to the presence of a red‐shelled animal of microscopic size.
These minute creatures do not appear till the salt water has attained a
certain concentration, while they die when it has reached a further
density. Navigators often traverse patches of green, red, white, or
yellow‐coloured water, their coloration being due to the presence of
microscopic crustaceans, medusæ, zoophytes, and marine plants.

[Illustration: A SHIP SAILING IN PHOSPHORESCENT SEA.]

The pleasing phenomenon known as the phosphorescence of the sea is
generally, though by no means entirely, due to myriads of minute globular
creatures, called _Noctiluca_. Captain Kingman reported having traversed a
zone twenty‐three miles in length, and so filled with phosphorescent
matter that during the night it presented the appearance of a vast field
of snow. “There was scarcely a cloud in the heavens,” he tells us; “yet
the sky for about 10° above the horizon appeared as black as if a storm
were raging; stars of the first magnitude shone with a feeble light, and
the ‘milky way’ of the heavens was almost entirely eclipsed by that
through which we were sailing.” Several varieties of molluscs and
acalephes shine by their own light, while phosphorescence is often due to
the decomposition of animal matter.

[Illustration: PHOSPHORESCENCE ON THE SURFACE OF THE SEA.]

A French author thus describes the effect produced by the molluscs known
to scientists as _Pyrosoma_, on a voyage to the Isle of France. He
says:—“The wind was blowing with great violence, the night was dark, and
the vessel was making rapid way, when what appeared to be a vast sheet of
phosphorus presented itself, floating on the waves, and occupying a great
space ahead of the ship. The vessel having passed through this fiery mass,
it was discovered that the light was occasioned by organised bodies
swimming about in the sea at various depths around the ship. Those which
were deepest in the water looked like red‐hot balls, while those on the
surface resembled cylinders of red‐hot iron. Some of the latter were
caught; they were found to vary in size from three to seven inches. All
the exterior of the creatures bristled with long thick tubercles, shining
like so many diamonds, and these seemed to be the principal seats of their
luminosity. Inside also there appeared to be a multitude of oblong narrow
glands, exhibiting a high degree of phosphoric power. The colour of these
animals when in repose is an opal yellow, mixed with green; but on the
slightest movement the animal exhibits a spontaneous contractile power,
and assumes a luminous brilliancy, passing through various shades of deep‐
red, orange‐green, and azure‐blue.” A ship plunging through these
phosphorescent fields seems to advance through a sheet of white flame, a
field of luminous silver, scattering a spray of sparks in all directions.

CHAPTER IX.

DAVY JONES’S LOCKER.—SUBMARINE CABLES.

The First Channel Cable—Nowadays 50,000 Miles of Submarine Wire—A
Noble New Englander—The First Idea of the Atlantic Cable—Its
Practicability Admitted—Maury’s Notes on the Atlantic Bottom—Deep
Sea Soundings—Ooze, formed of Myriads of Shells—English Co‐
operation with Field—The First Cable of 1857—Paying Out—2,000
Fathoms down—The Cable Parted—Bitter Disappointment—The Cable Laid
and Working—Another Failure—The Employment of the _Great
Eastern_—Stowing Away the Great Wire Rope—Departure—Another
Accident—A Traitor on Board—Cable Fished up from the
Bottom—Failure—Inauguration of the 1866 Expedition—Prayer for
Success—A _Lucky_ Friday—Splicing to the Shore Cable—The
Start—Each Day’s Run—Approaching Trinity Bay—Success at Last—The
Old and the New World Bound Together.

In the year 1850 a copper wire, insulated with gutta‐percha, was submerged
between England and France, and that connecting link between the two
greatest countries of Europe was the first considerable success of its
kind. To‐day Great Britain is connected with the European continent by a
dozen cables, and there are over 50,000 miles of submerged wires silently
conveying their messages over the face of the globe. Thirty years of
practical scientific labour has united the whole world. You can telegraph
or “wire” your commands to distant China or Japan; you can ask the market
rates of wheat in the farthest west of the New World; you can correspond
with your wife in England if you are at the Antipodes. Puck’s idea of
putting the “girdle round the earth” has been more than accomplished. The
story of the successes won at the very bottom of the ocean would take long
to tell; here we can only follow the story of one of the grandest—that of
the Atlantic cable.

In the month of November, 1819, a noble American, whose career deserves to
be put on record, first saw the light. Cyrus W. Field has deservedly
earned an honourable and honoured name in two worlds for indomitable
perseverance and pluck.(31)

The New Englander has to‐day, and has always had, many of the best
qualities of the Old Englander. In Field they were conspicuously
displayed. In his “bright lexicon” there was—

“No such word as _fail_,”

for the worst disappointment only stirred him to fresh exertion.

“’Tis not in mortals to command success;
But we’ll do more, Sempronius—we’ll deserve it.”

Field was born in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, a rural village nook which
lies calmly and peacefully cradled among the green Berkshire hills, a spot
which would delight the eyes of a true artist. He was the son of a country
pastor, who, in spite of a paltry stipend of a hundred and fifty pounds a
year, and thanks to the scholastic advantages offered to every one in the
United States, gave nine children a superior education. Several of these
children distinguished themselves in after life, but none more than the
subject of this sketch.

While to this energetic man is due the actual success, it is to Professor
Morse, who had said that “telegraphic communication might with certainty
be established across the Atlantic Ocean,” and to an excellent Roman
Catholic bishop, that the idea is to be fairly credited. Bishop Mullock,
of Newfoundland, while lying becalmed in his yacht off Cape North, the
extreme point of the province of Cape Breton, bethought himself how his
poor neglected island might reap some advantage from being taken into the
track of communication between Europe and America, for he saw that Nature
had provided an easy approach to the mainland for a cable. Fired with the
idea, he wrote to one of the St. John’s papers, and his letter is to‐day a
model of lucid explanation. About the same time Mr. Frederick N. Gisborne,
a practical telegraph operator, promulgated the idea of connecting St.
John’s with the mainland, and one evening interested Mr. Cyrus Field, then
just retired from business on a competency, in his scheme. “After he
left,” writes his brother, “Mr. Field took the globe which was standing in
the library, and began to turn it over. It was while thus studying the
globe that the idea first occurred to him that the telegraph might be
carried further still, and be made to span the Atlantic Ocean.” Maury, the
distinguished marine scientist, and Professor Morse, had also come to the
same conclusion, and at about the same time as had others in England. The
history of the financial difficulties and ultimate triumphs connected with
the inauguration of the first cable would not interest the reader; suffice
it to say that half‐a‐dozen New York millionaires subscribed the first
capital—a million and a half dollars. The cable across the Gulf of St.
Lawrence was successfully laid in 1856, after one previous failure.

And now Field began to clear the way by consulting the highest scientific
authorities on both sides of the Atlantic. Was it possible to carry a
cable across the ocean? If laid, would it be able to convey messages? The
first query related to mechanical difficulties only, such as the depth of
the ocean, the nature of the ocean bed, the influence of currents and
winds. The second referred to pure science and the conditions under which
the electric fluid acts—Would the lightning flash from shore to shore
across an intervening waste of sea? The answer to the first question was
supplied by Maury, who pointed out that between Ireland and Newfoundland
the bottom of the sea formed a plateau, or elevated table‐land, which, as
he said, seemed to have been placed there especially for the purpose of
supporting the wires of an electric telegraph, and protecting them from
injury. Its slope, he said, was quite regular, gradually increasing from
the shores of Newfoundland to the depth of from 1,500 to 2,000 fathoms as
you approach the Irish coast. It was neither too deep nor too shallow:
deep enough to protect the cable from danger by ships’ anchors, icebergs,
and currents; shallow enough to secure that the wires should be readily
lodged upon the bottom. From Professor Morse an equally satisfactory
answer was obtained. He declared his faith in the undertaking as a
practicable one: that it might, could, and would be achieved.

The Company undertook to make a series of careful soundings to ascertain
the exact nature of the ocean bottom over which the cable connecting
Newfoundland with Ireland would have to be laid. Mr. Field applied for
this purpose to the American Government, who immediately despatched the
_Arctic_, under Lieutenant Berryman, on this useful and most necessary
service. She sailed from New York on the 18th of July, 1856; and on the
following day Mr. Field left in the steamship _Baltic_ for England, to
organise the Atlantic Telegraph Company. The _Arctic_ proceeded to St.
John’s, and thence went on her way across the deep, in three weeks
reaching the coast of Ireland, and clearly demonstrating, as the result of
her survey, the existence of a great plateau under the ocean, extending
all the way from the New World to the Old. To make assurance doubly sure,
Mr. Field solicited the British Admiralty “to make what further soundings
might be necessary between Ireland and Newfoundland, and to verify those
made by Lieutenant Berryman.” In response to this appeal the Admiralty
sent out the _Cyclops_, under Lieutenant Dayman, a very capable officer,
who executed his task with great zeal and success. He showed that the
depth of the water on the so‐called telegraphic plateau—the elevated
table‐land which Providence had raised between the two continents—nowhere
exceeded 2,500 fathoms, or 15,000 feet. Such a depth is almost trivial
compared with the enormous depths in other parts of the Atlantic, where
you might hide from all human eyes the loftiest snow‐clad peak of the
Himalayas, yet no inconsiderable depth if you reflect that the peak of
Teneriffe, were it here “cast into the sea,” would sink out of sight,
island, mountain, and all; and even the coloured crest of Mont Blanc would
rise but a few hundred feet above the waves. The single exception to this
uniform depth occurs about 200 miles off the Irish coast, where within an
area of about a dozen miles the depth sinks from 550 to 1,750 fathoms. In
14° 48’ W., says Dayman, we have 550 fathoms rock, and in 150° 6’ W. we
have 1,750 fathoms ooze. In little more than ten miles of distance a
change of depth takes place amounting to fully 7,200 feet. It was supposed
that this tremendous declivity would be the chief point of danger in
laying down the cable; and to remove, if possible, the anxiety which
existed, Lieutenant Dayman made a further survey. The result showed that
the dip was not a sudden one; the precipitous bank or submarine cliff
turned out to be a gradual slope of nearly sixty miles. Over this long
slope, said a writer in the _Times_, the difference between its greatest
height and greatest depth is only 8,760 feet, so that the average incline
is, in round numbers, about 145 feet per mile. A good gradient on a
railway is now generally considered to be 1 in 100 feet, or about 53 feet
in a mile; so that the incline on this supposed bank is only about three
times that of an ordinary railway. It was found upon these surveys that
the ocean bed consisted of a soft ooze, as soft as the moss which clings
to old damp stone on the river’s brink. And of what does this ooze
consist? The microscope revealed the astonishing fact that it is made up
of myriads of shells, too minute to be discovered by the naked eye, yet
each perfect in itself, unbroken and uninjured. These organisms live near
the surface of the water, but in death sink down to the bottom, and there
find a calm and peaceful resting‐place. Well has it been said that a
mighty work of life and death has for ages been going on in the tranquil
bosom of ocean. Myriads upon myriads, ever since the morning of creation,
have been falling—falling like snow‐flakes, till their remains cover with
a thick stratum of beautiful organisms the ocean bed. “The bearing of this
discovery,” says Dr. Field, “on the problem of a submarine telegraph was
obvious. For it, too, was to lie on the ocean bed, beside and among those
relics that had so long been drifting down upon the watery plain. And if
these tiny shells slept there unharmed, surely an iron cord might rest
there in safety. There were no swift currents down there; no rushing waves
agitated that sunless sea. There the waters moved not, and there might
rest the great nerve that was to pass from continent to continent. And so
far as injury from the surrounding elements was concerned, there it might
remain, whispering the thoughts of successive generations of men, till the
sea should give up its dead.” Everything showed that the project of an
Atlantic cable was feasible. All that remained was to raise the capital
necessary for its development. But this could be done only by the
formation of a large and influential company, the enterprise having
outgrown the resources of Mr. Field and his little band of New York
merchants. While engaged in submitting his scheme to the consideration of
the capitalists of London, Mr. Field found counsel and encouragement from
many men distinguished in the world of science, and among his principal
supporters had the good fortune to rank Glass and Elliot, now so well
known as manufacturers of sea‐cables, and the celebrated engineers whose
names are associated with the scientific marvels of the age—Brett, Bidder,
Robert Stephenson, and Brunel. The last‐named was then building the
colossal ship afterwards called the _Great Eastern_; and one day taking
Mr. Field down to see her gigantic hull as it lay in the yard at
Blackwall, he exclaimed—and, as results have proved, prophetically—“There
is the ship to lay your Atlantic cable!”

[Illustration: SECTION OF THE FIRST ATLANTIC CABLE.]

The Atlantic Telegraph Company was formed; and 2,500 miles of cable were
manufactured and stowed on board the English naval vessel _Agamemnon_ and
the United States ship _Niagara_. It was on the evening of August 7th,
1857, that the squadron sailed; and according to arrangement the _Niagara_
at once began to pay out the cable very slowly; but before five miles had
been accomplished the heavy shore end of the cable got entangled with the
machinery through the carelessness of one of the men in charge, and
parted. The _Niagara_ put back, and the cable was “under run” the whole
distance. At last the end was raised from the water and “spliced” to the
gigantic coil, and as it dropped safely to its resting‐place among the
“salt sea ooze” the noble ship once more went on her way. Saturday, we are
told, was a day of beautiful weather. The squadron made good progress at a
rate of from four to five miles an hour, and the cable was paid out at a
speed somewhat exceeding that of the ship, to allow for any irregularities
of surface on the bottom of the sea. Meantime a constant communication was
kept up with the land. Every moment the electric fluid flashed between
ship and shore. Not only did the electricians wire back to Valentia the
progress they were making, but the officers on board sent messages to
their friends in America to go out by the steamer from Liverpool. The very
heavens seemed to regard the enterprise with favour. All went merrily as a
marriage bell. Without a kink the coil came up from the vessel’s hold, and
unwinding easily, passed over the stern into the sea. Once or twice,
however, a momentary alarm was caused by the cable being thrown off the
wheels, an accident due to the insufficient width and depth of the sheaves
and to the fact that they were filled with tar, which hardened in the air.
This defect was remedied in later expeditions. Still it worked well, and
as long as the terrible brakes withheld their iron grasp might work
through to the end. On the following day, Sunday, the course of affairs
was not less smooth; and on Monday the expedition was upwards of 200 miles
from land. The shallow water of the coast had been safely traversed. The
ships had passed over the submarine declivity which has been already
described, and had reached the deeper waters of the Atlantic, where the
cable sank to a depth of not less than 2,000 fathoms. Still the iron cord
buried itself in the profound silence, and every instant the flash of
light in the telegraph room recorded the continuous passage of the
mysterious electric current. About four o’clock on Tuesday morning,
however, a sudden interruption occurred. It seems from the published
narrative that the cable was running cut fully at the rate of six miles an
hour, while the ship was making only four. To check this waste, the
engineer applied the brakes very firmly, with the effect of stopping the
machine. Hence a heavy strain told on the submerged portion of the cable.
The stern of the ship was down in the trough of the sea, and as it rose
upward on the swell the pressure became too great, and the cable parted.
Instantly a cry of grief and dismay ran through the ship. She was checked
in her onward career, and in five minutes all gathered on deck with
feelings which can be better imagined than described. One who was present
wrote:—“The unbidden tear started to many a manly eye. The interest taken
in the enterprise by all—every one, officers and men—exceeded anything I
ever saw, and there is no wonder that there should have been so much
emotion at our failure.” Captain Hudson says:—“It made all hands of us
through the day like a household or family which had lost their dearest
friend, for officers and men had been deeply interested in the success of
the enterprise.” The cable broke in 2,000 fathoms water, when about 330
nautical miles were laid, at a distance of 280 miles from Valentia. This
was the first of a series of disappointments, ending, however, in eventual
triumph.

The same vessels sailed again in June of the next year, and as arranged
before starting, reached a point of junction in mid‐stream, where the ends
of the two cables were spliced, and the ships parted, the _Agamemnon_
steering for Valentia, and the _Niagara_ for Trinity Bay, Newfoundland.
Both vessels arrived at their ports of destination on August 5th, and the
fact of the completion of the enterprise was for the first time “cabled”
under the wide Atlantic two days later, to the great rejoicing, it may
fairly be said, of two worlds. Congratulatory messages were flashed from
either end, and success seemed secured. Alas! less than a month later all
communication ceased; the electric current would not pass through the
great wire‐rope; there was a leakage somewhere. But it had been shown
conclusively that messages _could_ be transmitted under the given
conditions. This was something.

Passing over all the financial arrangements connected with a new attempt,
which was not made till 1865, we find Brunel’s prediction fulfilled. The
largest ship in the world was chartered to lay another cable.

[Illustration: EXTERIOR AND SECTION OF THE 1865 ATLANTIC CABLE.]

The work of stowing away the cable on board the _Great Eastern_, where it
was coiled up in three immense tanks—one aft, one amidships, and one
forward—began in January and was not completed until June. It will give
the reader an idea of the enormous size and capacity of the _Great
Eastern_ when he is told that though the cable measured 2,700 miles, a
visitor to the mammoth ship was at first unaware of its being on board!
Here is the account given by a writer who went to see the ship and its
novel cargo. Its details are interesting. “It is time,” he says, after a
general survey of the wonders of the huge vessel—“it is time we should
look after what we have mainly come to see—the telegraph cable. To our
intense astonishment we beheld it—nowhere, although informed that there
are nearly 2,000 miles of it already on board, and that the remaining
piece, which is long enough to stretch from Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s,
is in course of shipment. We walk up and down on the deck of the _Great
Eastern_ without seeing this chain which is to bind together the Old World
and the New, and it is only on having the place pointed out to us that we
find out where the cable lies.” The writer then describes the process of
taking it on board:—“On the side opposite to where we landed, deep below
the deck of our giant, is moored a vessel surmounted by a timber structure
resembling a house, and from this vessel the wonderful telegraph cable is
drawn silently into the immense womb of the _Great Eastern_. The work is
done so quietly and noiselessly, by means of a small steam‐engine, that we
scarcely notice it. Indeed, were it not pointed out to us, we would never
think that that little iron cord, _about an inch in diameter_, which is
sliding over a few rollers and through a wooden table, is a thing of
world‐wide fame—a thing which may influence the life of whole nations,
nay, which may affect the march of civilisation. Following the direction
in which the iron rope goes, we now come to the most marvellous sight....
We find ourselves in a little wooden cabin, and look down over a railing
at the side into an immense cavern below. This cavern is one of the three
‘tanks’ in which the two‐thousand‐mile cable is finding a temporary home.
The passive agent of electricity comes creeping in here in a beautiful
silent manner, and is deposited in coils, layer above layer. It is almost
dark at the immense depth below, and we can only dimly discern the human
figures through whose hands the coil passes to its bed. Suddenly, however,
the men begin singing. They intone a low, plaintive song of the sea,
something like Kingsley’s

“Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west, as the sun went down,”

the sounds of which rise up from the dark deep cavern with startling
effect, and produce an indescribable impression. We move on; but the song
of the sailors who are taking charge of the Atlantic telegraph cable is
haunting us like a dream. In vain that our guide conducts us all over the
big ship, through miles of galleries, passages, staircases, and
promenades; through gorgeous saloons full of mirrors, marbles, paintings,
and upholstery, made ‘regardless of expense’; and through buildings
crowded with glittering steam apparatus of gigantic dimensions, where the
latent power of coal and water creates the force which propels this
monster vessel across the seas. In vain our attention is directed to all
these sights; we do not admire them; our imagination is used up. The echo
of the sailors’ song in the womb of the _Great Eastern_ will not be
banished from our mind. It raises visions of the future of the mystic iron
coil under our feet: how it will roll forth again from its narrow berth;
how it will sink to the bottom of the Atlantic or hang from mountain to
mountain far below the stormy waves; and how two great nations, the
offspring of one race and the pioneers of civilisation, will speak through
this wonderful coil, annihilating distance and time. Who can help dreaming
here on the spot where we stand? For it is truly a marvellous romance of
civilisation, this _Great Eastern_ and this Atlantic telegraph cable. Even
should our age produce nothing else, it alone would be the triumph of our
age.”

[Illustration: THE PAYING‐OUT MACHINERY ON BOARD THE “GREAT EASTERN.”]

The _Great Eastern_ left the Thames on July 13th, 1865. After sundry
mishaps, she turned her mighty prow towards the sunset, and proceeded on
her stately way. All went well until the 29th of July, when a little after
noon a new cry of alarm was raised. And well it might be, for the
insulation was completely destroyed and the electric current overflowing
uselessly into the sea. As the faulty piece had gone overboard, it was
necessary once more to reverse the vessel’s course, and haul in the cable
until the defective part was recovered. This was a difficult task, for
they were in water two miles deep. Difficulties did not, however, daunt
the pioneers of this great enterprise, and after working all the
afternoon, the injured cable was got on board about ten o’clock at night.
It was at once stowed away, and the next morning, Sunday, was welcomed
with an eager feeling of relief and delight after the suspense of the
preceding four‐and‐twenty hours. On Monday the miles of cable which had
been hauled up and were coiled in huge heaps upon the deck were closely
examined to discover the origin of the mischief. This was soon detected.
Near the end a piece of wire was thrust through the very core, as if
driven into it. The recurrence of such a mishap actually suggested
suspicions of treachery. It was observed that the same gang of workmen
were in the tank as at the time of the first fault. Mr. Canning sent for
the men, and showing them the cable and the wire, asked for an
explanation. All replied that it must have been done intentionally, and
regretted that there was a traitor among them—the unknown traitor, of
course, being one of those who thus expressed their sorrow. It seemed
difficult to believe that any person could be base enough to plot in this
stealthy way against the success of a beneficent enterprise, but such a
thing had been done before in a cable in the North Sea, when the
perpetrator of the crime was discovered and punished. In the present case
there were not wanting motives to prompt the commission of such an act.
The fall in the stock, we are told, on the London Exchange, caused by a
loss of the cable, could hardly be less than half a million sterling. It
was, however, found impossible to fix the deed on any one, for nothing was
proved; and the instigator and the perpetrator both remaining unknown, of
course a painful feeling of suspicion was left in the minds of Mr. Field
and his colleagues. They saw that they must be on their guard; and it was
agreed, therefore, that the gentlemen on board should take turn in keeping
watch in the tank. The _Great Eastern_ continued her voyage, and for three
days, during which they accomplished 500 miles, no further trouble
occurred. A few days later, however, a defect was found in the cable, and
it became necessary to haul in a short portion of that last paid out.
Unfortunately the machinery proved too weak for the purpose, and a breeze
springing up, the cable chafed until it snapped right asunder. With one
bound it flew through the stoppers, and plunged into the sea. “The shock
of the instant,” Dr. Russell tells us, “was as sharp as the snapping of
the cable itself,” so great was the disappointment felt on board.

The apparently wild attempt was immediately made to _recover_ the cable.
It was settled that the _Great Eastern_ should steam to windward, and
eastward of the position she occupied when the cable went down, lower a
grapnel, and slowly drift across the track in which the lost treasure was
supposed to be lying. So the leviathan ship stood away some thirteen or
fourteen miles, and then lay‐to in smooth water. The grapnel consisted of
two five‐armed anchors, of several hundredweight, one of which was
shackled and secured to wire rope, of which there were five miles on
board, and committed to the deep. “Away slipped the rope, yard after yard,
fathom after fathom; ocean, like the horse‐leech’s daughter still crying
for ‘more’ and ‘more,’ still descending into the black waste of waters.
One thousand fathoms—still more! One thousand five hundred fathoms—still
more! Two thousand fathoms—more, still more! Two thousand five hundred
fathoms (15,000 feet)—aye, that will do; the grapnel has reached the bed
of the Atlantic; the search has commenced.” Next morning these efforts
bore fruit, for the great sea‐serpentine cable was caught, and raised
seven hundred fathoms (4,200 feet), towards the surface, unhappily to
again fall to the bottom. A second attempt resulted in raising it a mile
and a half, when a swivel gave way, and it again sank to the bottom. These
experiments had used up a considerable quantity of the wire rope, and
every expedient had to be adopted to patch up and strengthen the fishing
apparatus, which gave full employment to the mechanics on board. Great
forge‐fires were made on deck, which at night illumined the ocean for a
distance round, and helped to make a striking and effective scene. A third
and fourth attempt was made to raise the cable; but in spite of the
indomitable perseverance of Field and his associates, without success, and
the bows of the great ship were sorrowfully directed towards home.

In spite of these failures no abatement of public confidence in the
eventual success of the enterprise was shown on the return of the
expedition to England. Nearly a quarter of a million pounds sterling was
subscribed _privately_ towards the next attempt, and when the subscription
books were thrown open to the public, the whole capital required was
furnished in a fortnight. Some minor improvements were introduced in the
successful 1866 cable; among other points, it was galvanised.

When the day arrived for the final great effort, the undertaking was
inaugurated solemnly by special prayer and supplication. Dr. Field says of
that moment:—

“Was there ever a fitter place or a fitter hour for prayer than here, in
the presence of the great sea to which they were about to commit their
lives and their precious trust? The first expedition ever sent forth had
been consecrated by prayer. On that very spot, nine years before, all
heads were uncovered and all forms bent low at the solemn words of
supplication; and there had the Earl of Carlisle—since gone to his
honoured grave—cheered them on with high religious hopes, describing the
ships which were sent forth on such a mission as ‘beautiful upon the
waters as were the feet upon the mountains of them that publish the gospel
of peace.’

“Full of such a spirit, officers and directors assembled at Valentia on
the day before the expedition sailed, and held a religious service. It was
a scene long to be remembered. There were men of the closet and men of the
field, men of science and men of action, men pale with study and men
bronzed by sun and storm. All was hushed and still. Not a single gun broke
the deep silence of the hour, as, with humble hearts, they bowed together
before the God and Father of all. They were about to ‘go down to the sea
in ships,’ and they felt their dependence on a higher Power. Their
preparations were complete. All that man could do was done. They had
exhausted every resource of science and skill. The issue now remained with
Him who controls the winds and waves. Therefore was it most fit that
before embarking they should thus commit themselves to Him who alone
spreadeth out the heavens and ruleth the raging sea.

“In all this there is something of antique stamp, something which makes us
think of the sublime men of an earlier and better time: of the Pilgrim
Fathers kneeling on the deck of their little ship at Leyden, as they were
about to seek a refuge and a home in the forests of the New World, and of
Columbus and his companions celebrating a solemn service before their
departure from Spain. And so with labour and with prayer was this great
expedition prepared to sail once more from the shores of Ireland, bearing
the hopes of science and of civilisation, with courage and skill looking
out from the bows of the ship across the stormy waters, and a religious
faith, like that of Columbus, standing at the helm.

“On Friday the 13th of July, 1866, the fleet finally bade adieu to the
land. Was Friday an unlucky day? Some of the sailors thought so, and would
have been glad to leave a day before or after. But Columbus sailed on
Friday, and discovered the New World on Friday; and so this expedition put
to sea on Friday, and, as a good Providence would have it, reached land on
the other side of the Atlantic on the same day of the week! As the ships
disappeared below the horizon, Mr. Glass and Mr. Varley went up on their
watch‐tower, not to look, but to listen for the first voice from the sea.
The ships bore away for the buoy where lay the end of the shore line, but
the weather was thick and foggy, with frequent bursts of rain, and they
could not see far on the water. For an hour or two the ships went sailing
round and round, like sea‐gulls in search of prey. At length the _Medway_
caught sight of the buoy tossing on the waves, and firing a signal gun,
bore down straight upon it. The cable was soon hauled up from its bed, 100
fathoms deep, and lashed to the stern of the _Great Eastern_; and the
watchers on shore, who had been waiting with some impatience, saw the
first flash, and Varley read, ‘Got the shore‐end all right; going to make
the splice.’ Then all was still, and they knew that that delicate
operation was going on. Quick, nimble hands tore off the covering from a
foot of the shore‐end and of the main cable till they came to the core,
then swiftly unwinding the copper wires they laid them together as closely
and carefully as a silken braid. Then this delicate child of the sea was
wrapped in swaddling clothes, covered up with many coatings of gutta‐
percha and hempen rope and strong iron wires, the whole bound round and
round with heavy bands, and the splicing was complete. Signals are now
sent through the whole cable on board the _Great Eastern_ and back to the
telegraph house at Valentia, and the whole length, 2,440 nautical miles,
is reported perfect, and so with light hearts they bear away. It is nearly
three o’clock. As they turn to the west, the following is the ‘order of
battle’: the _Terrible_ goes ahead, standing off on the starboard bow, the
_Medway_ is on the port, and the _Albany_ on the starboard quarter. From
that hour the voyage was a steady progress. Indeed, it was almost
monotonous from its uninterrupted success. The weather was variable,
alternating with sunshine and rain, fogs and squalls; but there was no
heavy sea to interrupt their course, and the distance run was about the
same from day to day, as the following table will show:—

Distance Run. Cable Paid Out.
Miles. Miles.
Saturday, 14th 108 116
Sunday, 15th 128 139
Monday, 16th 115 137
Tuesday, 17th 117 138
Wednesday, 18th 104 125
Thursday, 19th 112 129
Friday, 20th 117 127
Saturday, 21st 121 136
Sunday, 22nd 123 133
Monday, 23rd 121 138
Tuesday, 24th 120 135
Wednesday, 25th 119 130
Thursday, 26th 128 134
Friday, 27th 100 104.”

This table shows the speed of the ship to have been exactly according to
the “running time” fixed before she left England. On the last voyage it
was thought that she had once or twice run too fast, and thus exposed the
cable to danger. It was therefore decided to go slowly but surely. Holding
her back to this moderate pace, her average speed from the time the splice
was made until they saw land was a little less than five nautical miles an
hour, while the cable was paid out at an average of not quite five and
half miles. Thus the total slack was about eleven per cent., showing that
the cable was laid almost in a straight line, allowing for the swells and
hollows at the bottom of the sea. “Friday, July 27.—Shortly after 2 p.m.
yesterday two ships, which were soon made out to be steamers, were seen to
the westward; and the _Terrible_, steaming on ahead, in about an hour
signalled to us that H.M.S. _Niger_ was one of them, accompanied by the
_Albany_. The _Niger_, Captain Bunce, sent aboard to the _Terrible_ as
soon as he came up with her. The _Albany_ shortly afterwards took up her
position on our starboard quarter, and signalled that she spoke the
_Niger_ at noon, bearing E. by N., and that the _Lily_ was anchored at the
station in the entrance of Trinity Bay, as arranged with the Admiral. The
_Albany_ also reported that she had passed an iceberg about sixty feet
high. At twenty minutes after 4 p.m. the _Niger_ came on our port side,
quite close, and Captain Bunce, sending the crew into the rigging and
manning the yards, gave us three cheers, which were heartily returned by
the _Great Eastern_. She then steamed ahead towards Trinity Bay. The
_Albany_ was signalled to go on immediately to Heart’s Content, clear the
N.E. side of the harbour of shipping, and place a boat with a red flag for
Captain Anderson to steer to for anchorage. Just before dinner we saw on
the southern horizon, distant about ten miles, an iceberg, probably the
one that the _Albany_ had met with. It was apparently about fifty or sixty
feet in height. The fog came on very thickly about 8 p.m., and between
that and 10 we were constantly exchanging guns and burning blue lights
with the _Terrible_, which, with the _Niger_, went in search of the _Lily_
station‐ship. The _Terrible_ being signalled to come up and take her
position, informed us that they had made the _Lily_ out, and that she bore
then about ENE., distant about four miles. Later in the night Captain
Commerell said that if Captain Anderson would stop the _Great Eastern_ he
would send the surveyor, Mr. Robinson, R.N., who came up in the _Niger_,
aboard of us; and about 3 the engines were slowed, and the _Terrible_
shortly afterwards came alongside with that officer. Catalina Light, at
the entrance of Trinity Bay, had been made out three hours before this,
and the loom of the coast had also been seen. Fog still prevailing!
According to Mr. Robinson’s account, if they had got one clear day in
seven at the entrance of Trinity Bay they considered themselves fortunate.
Here we are now (6 a.m.) within ten miles of Heart’s Content, and we can
scarcely see more than a ship’s length. The _Niger_, however, is ahead,
and her repeated guns tell us where we are with accuracy. Good fortune
follows us, and scarcely has 8 o’clock arrived, when the massive curtain
of fog raises itself gradually from both sides of Trinity Bay, disclosing
to us the entrance of Heart’s Content, the _Albany_ making for the
harbour, the _Margaretta Stevenson_, surveying vessel, steaming out to
meet us, the pre‐arranged pathway all marked with buoys by Mr. T. H. Kerr,
R.N., and a whole fleet of fishing boats fishing at the entrance. We could
now plainly see that Heart’s Content, so far as its capabilities
permitted, was prepared to welcome us. The British and American flags
floated from the church and telegraph station and other buildings. We had
dressed ship, fired a salute, and given three cheers, and Captain
Commerell, of H.M.S. _Terrible_, was soon on board to congratulate us on
our success. At 9 o’clock, ship’s time, just as we had cut the cable and
made arrangements for the _Medway_ to lay the shore end, a message
arrived, giving us the concluding words of a leader in this morning’s
_Times_: ‘It is a great work, a glory to our age and nation, and the men
who have achieved it deserve to be honoured amongst the benefactors of
their race.’ ‘Treaty of peace signed between Prussia and Austria!’ It was
now time for the chief engineer, Mr. Canning, to make preparations for
splicing on board the _Medway_. Accompanied by Mr. Good, M.P., Mr.
Clifford, Mr. Willoughby Smith, and Messrs. Temple and Deane, he went on
board; the _Terrible_ and _Niger_ having sent their paddle‐box boats to
assist. Shortly afterwards the _Great Eastern_ steamed into the harbour
and anchored on the NE. side, and was quickly surrounded by boats laden
with visitors. Mr. Cyrus Field had gone on shore before the _Great
Eastern_ had left the offing, with a view of telegraphing to St. John’s to
hire a vessel to repair the cable unhappily broken between Cape Ray, in
Newfoundland, and Cape North, in Breton Island. Before a couple of hours
the shore end will be landed, and it is impossible to conceive a finer day
for effecting this our final operation. To‐morrow Heart’s Content will
awaken to the fact that it is a highly‐favoured place in the world’s
esteem, the western landing‐place of that marvel of electric communication
with the eastern hemisphere which is now happily, and we hope finally,
established.” The foregoing simple record tells the great story of this
memorable voyage. In England the progress of the expedition was known from
day to day, but on the American side of the ocean all was uncertainty.
Some had gone to Heart’s Content hoping to witness the arrival of the
fleet, but not so many as the year before, for the memory of the last
failure was too fresh, and they feared another disappointment. But still a
faithful few were there who kept their daily watch. The correspondents of
the American papers reported only a long and anxious suspense till that
morning when the first ship was seen in the offing. And now the hull of
the _Great Eastern_ looms up all glorious in that morning sky. They are
coming! Instantly all was wild excitement on shore. Boats put off to row
towards the fleet. The _Albany_ was the first to round the point and enter
the bay. The _Terrible_ came close behind. The _Medway_ stopped an hour or
two to join on the heavy shore end, while the _Great Eastern_, gliding
calmly in as if she had done nothing remarkable, dropped her anchor in
front of the telegraph house, having trailed behind her a chain of two
thousand miles, to bind the Old World to the New. That same afternoon, as
soon as the shore end was landed, Captain Anderson and the officers of the
fleet went in a body to the little church of Heart’s Content to render
thanks for the success of the expedition. A sermon was preached on the
text, “There shall be no more sea,” and all joined in the sublime prayers
and thanksgivings of the Church of England. Thus the voyage ended as it
began.

[Illustration: THE “GREAT EASTERN” LAYING THE ATLANTIC CABLE.
(_From Cassell’s “Illustrated History of England.”_)]

Although the expedition reached Newfoundland on Friday the 27th, yet as
the cable across the Gulf of St. Lawrence was broken, the news was not
received in New York until the 29th. It was early Sunday morning, before
the Sabbath bells had rung their call to prayer, that the tidings came.
The first announcement was brief—“Heart’s Content, July 27th.—We arrived
here at nine o’clock this morning. All well. Thank God the cable is laid,
and is in perfect working order.—CYRUS W. FIELD.” Soon followed the
despatch to the Associated Press, giving the details of the voyage, and
ending with a just tribute to the skill and devotion of all who had
contributed to its success. Said Mr. Field: “I cannot find words suitable
to convey my admiration for the men who have so ably conducted the
nautical, engineering, and electrical departments of this enterprise,
amidst difficulties which must be seen to be appreciated; in fact, all on
board of the telegraph fleet, and all connected with the enterprise, have
done their best to have the cable made and laid in a perfect condition.”
Other despatches followed in quick succession, giving the latest events of
the war in Europe. All this confirmed the great triumph, and filled the
breasts of many with wonder and gratitude that Sabbath day as they went up
to the house of God and rendered thanks to Him who is Lord of the earth
and sea.

CHAPTER X.

THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS.

Perfection in Nature’s Smallest Works—A Word on Scientific
Classification—Protozoa—Blind Life—Rhizopoda—Foraminifera—A
Robbery Traced by Science—Microscopic Workers—Paris
Chalk—Infusoria—The “Sixth Sense of Man”—Fathers of Nations—Milne‐
Edwards’ Submarine Explorations—The Salt‐water Aquarium—The
Compensating Balance Required—Brighton and Sydenham—Practical Uses
of the Aquarium—Medusæ: their Beauty—A Poet’s Description—Their
General Characteristics—Battalions of “Jelly‐fish”—Polyps—A
Floating Colony—A Marvellous Organism—The Graceful Agalma—Swimming
Apparatus—Natural Fishing Lines—The “Portuguese Man‐of‐
War”—Stinging Powers of the Physalia—An Enemy to the Cuttle‐fish.

Pliny says that “Nature is nowhere more perfect than in her smaller
works.” How gradually, yet beautifully, do the lower forms of life ascend
to the higher! Here we may well remember the following: Scientific
naturalists, men of logical minds arranging the facts of Nature with
methodical and almost mathematical precision, have distributed the forms
of animal life into divisions, classes, orders, families, genera, and
species. These divisions, however convenient, are, it must be noted,
merely of human invention, subject to alteration as knowledge
increases—subject even to positive mistake. Linnæus tells us that _Natura
non facit saltus_—Nature does not jump or leap from one stage to another,
but passes almost insensibly, life merging into other life.

A word commonly employed in connection with the lower forms of marine life
also requires some passing notice. The term _zoophyte_, derived from two
Greek words signifying respectively _animal_ and _plant_, would seem
appropriate enough in describing generally many of the organisms found in
the great deep. But the term as now used signifies an animal, and nothing
but one, however plant‐like it may appear.

The simplest forms of marine animal life are found in the extensive group
known as the Protozoa. Varied as they are, they may be generally described
as devoid of articulate skeleton, or nervous system; they are animals, a
large part of them microscopic, with a vegetative existence. “In their
obscure and blind life,” says Figuier, “have they consciousness or
instinct? Do they know what takes place at the three‐thousandth part of an
inch from their microscopic bodies? To the Creator alone does the
knowledge of this mystery belong.”

The limits of this work preclude the possibility of details. To the
division Protozoa belong the sponges, already described, the Rhizopods
(_Rhizopoda_), _root‐footed_ animals, and the _Infusoria_, animalcules so
small that a drop of water may contain millions.

The Rhizopods are found both in fresh and salt water, but the marine forms
are by far the more numerous. They are simply minute lumps of diaphanous
jelly, the quantity of matter in them being so infinitesimal, and their
transparency so great, that the eye, assisted by the powers of the
microscope, can only take cognisance of them by the most careful
arrangement of light. But for all that, they are known to have feet or
feelers, to have digestive apparatus—some of them being, for their size,
quite voracious feeders—which may be seen stuffed with microscopic _algæ_,
or sea‐weeds. It is believed that they are multiplied by parting with
portions of their bodies, which become separate beings.

The _Reticulosa_, or _Foraminifera_, form an order of this group. They are
small calcareous shells, as a rule, nearly invisible to the naked eye, and
enclosing, or once having enclosed, a living organism. The sand of the
sea‐shore is often one‐half composed of them. M. d’Orbigny found in three
grammes (forty‐six grains troy) of sand from the Antilles no less than
440,000 of these minute shells. Ehrenberg, the German microscopist, was
once invited by the Prussian Government to assist in tracing the robbery
of a special case of wine. It had been packed in sand only found in an
ancient sea‐board of Germany, and from this fact and knowledge of locality
the thief was detected. The _Foraminifera_, small as they are, have helped
to form enormous deposits, obstruct navigation in gulfs and straits, and
fill up ports, as may be seen at Alexandria. In various geological strata
they are found; they exist in immense quantities in the chalk cliffs of
this country. In the Paris chalk their remains are so abundant that a
block of little more than a cubic yard has been computed to contain _three
thousand millions_! “As,” says Figuier, “the chalk from these quarries has
served to build Paris, as well as the towns and villages of the
surrounding departments, it may be said that Paris, and other great
centres of population which adjoin it, are built with the shells of these
microscopic animals.”

[Illustration: FORAMINIFERA IN A PIECE OF ROCK.]

The _Infusoria_ almost baffle the attempts of naturalists to classify
them, while their very existence would have escaped us but for the
discovery of the microscope, “the sixth sense of man,” as Michelet happily
termed it. In the tropics, water collected at a great depth was found to
contain 116 species; in the Antarctic regions the very ice was found to
contain nearly fifty different species. The very largest kinds can hardly
be seen by the naked eye. They are generally nearly colourless, but some
of them are nevertheless green, blue, red, brown, and even blackish. Some
of those most commonly noted, on account of their superior size, are
furnished with hairy _cilia_, which act as paddles, while certain of them
appear to be employed in conveying food to the mouth.

[Illustration: INHABITANTS OF THE BRITISH SEAS.

1. Pilot fish,
2. Piper,
3. Eagle Ray,
4. Oysters,
5. Spotted Ray,
6. Star fish,
7. Hermit Crab,
8. Common shore Crab,
9. Common Lobster,
10. Sea Anemones (various)
11. Corals,
12. Conger Eel,
13. Octopus,
14. Sea weeds.]

The _Infusoria_ reproduce their species in several ways: by a kind of
budding, like plants, by sexual reproduction, and by fission—_i.e._, the
spontaneous division of the animal into two parts. “By this mode of
propagation,” says Dujardin, “an Infusorian is the half of the one which
preceded it, the fourth of the parent of that, the eighth of its
grandparent, and so on.” The process is represented in the accompanying
figures, A and B being the adult, C the same in course of separation, and
D after completion. “This mode of generation, however,” says Figuier,
“enables us to comprehend the almost miraculous multiplication of these
beings. The amount defies calculation, if we wished to be at all precise.
We may, however, arrive at a proximate estimate of the number which may be
derived from a single individual by this process of fission. It has been
found that at the end of a month two _Stylonichiæ_ would have a progeny of
more than 1,048,000 individuals, and that in a lapse of forty‐two days a
single _Paramecium_ could produce much more than 1,364,000 forms like
itself.” In a year it would have the proud satisfaction of being the
father of an Infusorian nation!

[Illustration: PROPAGATION OF AN INFUSORIAN BY SPONTANEOUS DIVISION.]

Many of the _Infusoria_ are subject to metamorphoses, while others can
remain long periods, and in a dried and torpid state, and then awake to
action. One of the largest of these curious organisms, which sometimes
actually attains to the size of the twelfth of an inch, is the
_Kondylostoma patens_, remarkable for its voracity. It lives upon sea‐
weed, and is common to every shore, from the Mediterranean to the Baltic.

[Illustration: KONDYLOSTOMA PATENS (MAGNIFIED 300 TIMES).]

The inhabitants of the sea are, there can be no doubt, much more numerous
than those of the earth. Charles Darwin has remarked that our terrestrial
forests do not maintain nearly so many living beings as do marine forests
in the very bosom of the ocean. Its surface and its depths, its plains and
its mountains, its valleys and precipices, teem with organisms, the like
of which have no counterpart on the land, and which are only partly
understood to‐day, although the invention and adoption of the aquarium
have greatly facilitated the study of them.

Many years ago Dr. Milne‐Edwards, in a voyage round the coast of Sicily,
employed a diver’s apparatus to enable him to descend and examine the
bottom of the sea. It included a metallic casque and helmet, with visor or
window of glass fitting closely by means of water‐tight packing round the
neck. It communicated with an air‐pump above by a flexible tube; the diver
had a rope attached by which he could be hoisted immediately, and a signal
cord to give alarm in case of need; he wore heavy lead shoes, which gave
him steadiness and enabled him to maintain his upright position in the
water. Milne‐Edwards made the descent in several fathoms of water, and
with perfect safety. Ariel’s song had not to be applied to him:—

“Full fathoms five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea change”—

for he was enabled safely and successfully to examine in the most hidden
recesses and retreats of the rocks and sea many wonderful creatures, the
knowledge of which had been hitherto hidden from the scientific world.

The invention, or introduction rather, of the salt‐water aquarium enables
any one nowadays to study in comfort and at leisure the habits and
peculiarities of marine animals. There is a drawing extant of an aquarium
bearing the date 1742. Sir John Graham Dalyell, a well‐known author, had a
modest one early in this century. A sea‐anemone taken from the sea in
1828, and placed in this glass tank, was, according to his biographer,
alive and well in 1873; so that M. Figuier in claiming its first
suggestion for M. Charles des Moulins is wrong. The fact is that the
ancients kept, not for scientific, but for gastronomic purposes, fish and
molluscs in tanks, and fed and studied their habits and needs in order to
fit them for the table. These were practical aquaria.

M. des Moulins, however, and, in our own country, Gosse and Warington,
deserve full credit for advocating the establishment of these beautiful
sources of rational pleasure and improvement, and for showing how they
might best be kept in working order. To Des Moulins is also due the
proposition that the animal life therein required the presence of
vegetable life to keep it in natural condition. In the fresh‐water
aquarium duckweed was found to act efficiently, and a similar idea is now
adopted in regard to marine plants in the salt‐water aquarium. Sea‐weeds
do not usually bear transplanting, but sea water is so impregnated with
seeds or germs, that by placing a few stones or rocks in the tank a crop
of marine vegetation is ensured.

“On shell or stone is dropped the embryo seed,
And quickly vegetates a vital breed.”

Our own fish‐houses at the Zoological Gardens were first opened in 1853,
while those of the French Acclimatisation Society in the Bois de Boulogne
were inaugurated in 1861. Now almost every capital possesses one on a
grand scale. That at Naples is especially noted. At the Continental
fishery exhibitions, held at Amsterdam, The Hague, Boulogne, Havre,
Arcachon, &c., temporary aquaria always form part of the attractions.

The dimensions of the great aquarium at Brighton are as follows: Its area
is 716 feet by 100 feet, the great tank alone containing 110,000 gallons
of water, and having a plate glass front 130 feet long, through which the
habits of very large fish may be studied. The rock‐work of the tanks is
artificial, and admirably adapted to give shelter to the fish and
crustaceans which disport in them. The management of a large aquarium
involves constant care, and it is quite possible to kill its inhabitants
by too frequently changing the water—by over‐kindness, in fact.

The aquaria at Brighton and the Crystal Palace are very differently
constructed and managed. At the former there is no actual circulation of
water from one tank to another, but it can, if necessary, be renewed from
the sea; the mass of the water in the reserve tanks is small as compared
with that in the show tanks, and aëration is effected by pumping air into
the tanks through tubes of large diameter. At the Crystal Palace aquarium
a constant circulation is maintained from one tank to another; the bulk of
water in the reservoir is five times as much as that in the show tanks,
while aëration is accomplished by carrying a main over their entire
length, from which, under pressure, a small stream of water pours from a
tap into each, breaking the surface of the water, and carrying down to the
bottom of the tanks and distributing over the body of their contents
myriads of minute bubbles of air, which present an enormous oxydising
surface to the water, rendering it bright and sparkling. It does not
answer to change the water too constantly, while some obnoxious specimens,
like the flat‐fish, foul it greatly, the remedy for which is found in
putting animals in who in the economy of Nature act as scavengers. Various
small animals have to be supplied as food for the larger ones. “As the
animal life and vegetable life mutually support each other, the kind of
material necessary for maintaining the ‘compensating system’ must be
watchfully supplied. Mr. W. R. Hughes, of Birmingham, recommends the
growth of sea lettuce (_Alva latissima_) in tanks, as suitable both for
oxygenating the water and for food for the fishes; the stock plants being
introduced in the autumn months, when they are loaded with spores.” The
writer of the article in the “Encyclopædia Britannica,” from which most of
the above is taken, ventures to hope that the aquarium may become useful
in a practical sense, and may determine many questions in regard to fish
life and growth concerning which we are ignorant to‐day. “It would,” says
he, “tend to the better regulation of our fisheries and to the
augmentation of our food supplies, if we knew as much about the herring or
the haddock as we do about the salmon.” It is well known that fish,
valuable as food, are too often captured at improper seasons and in a
wasteful manner.

Passing on to higher forms of animal life, the polyps and acalephæ of the
older authors, now classified as the _Cœlenterata_, we find creatures of a
superior organisation to those lately under notice. Regarded generally,
their bodies are soft and gelatinous, they possess alimentary canals and
digestive apparatus, and in nearly all cases the sexes are separate,
generation being sometimes sexual and sometimes by gemmation or budding.
This brief introduction to the subject must be taken only in a general,
not a special sense, for there are numerous exceptions to be found among
the animals classified as Cœlenterata.

“The sub‐kingdom Cœlenterata naturally divides itself into two groups—that
of the _Hydrozoa_, and that of the _Actinozoa_. The fresh‐water hydra will
serve as an example of the first, and the common sea‐anemone of the second
group. The essential difference between the two is, that in the former the
stomachal cavity is not separated from the general cavity of the body, and
the reproductive buds are external; while in the latter the stomachal
cavity is let down, as it were, as a partially‐closed sac, into the
general cavity of the body, and the reproductive buds make their
appearance between the walls of the general cavity of the alimentary or
stomachal sac, and consequently internally. But in both there is a free
communication between these two cavities—a communication obvious in the
Hydrozoa, and which may be often verified in the case of the sea‐anemones,
by the young anemones making their appearance at the mouth of the parent
anemone, having just escaped from the general cavity out into the
alimentary cavity of its body.”

[Illustration: MEDUSÆ.]

The class Hydrozoa includes seven orders, first and principally of which
let us speak of the Medusæ, of which the ordinary “jelly‐fish” is a
familiar example. This great order (_Medusidæ_) is characterised by having
a disc, more or less convex above, resembling a mushroom or expanded
umbrella, the edges of the umbrella, as well as the mouth and suckers,
commonly having tentacula, or feelers, and cilia. Taken from the sea, a
Medusa weighing fifty ounces will rapidly dissolve away to a few grains of
solid matter. These floating umbrellas or mushrooms, as they might be
termed, are of many forms, but they are all to be counted among the most
beautiful works of the Creator. Sometimes the animal is transparent as
crystal, sometimes opaline, now of a delicate rose or azure‐blue colour,
now yellow, now violet, and now, again, reflecting the prismatic colours.
“The Medusæ are animals without much consistence, containing much water,
so that we can scarcely comprehend how they resist the agitation of the
waves and the force of the currents; the waves, however, float without
hurting them, the tempest scatters without killing them. When the sea
retires, or they are withdrawn from their native waters, their substance
dissolves, the animal is decomposed, they are reduced to nothing; if the
sun is strong this disorganisation occurs in the twinkling of an eye, so
to speak.” If they are touched ever so lightly while swimming, they
contract their tentacula, fold up their umbrella, and sink into the depths
of the sea. At one period of the year the Medusæ are charged with numbers
of minute eggs, which are suspended in festoons—crystalline roes they
might be termed—from their bodies, and which in due time become living
organisms.

After all, it is to the poets we must go if we would describe the beauties
of Nature aright. Michelet, speaking of the Medusa, says:—“Why was this
name, of terrible associations, given to a creature so charming? Often
have I had my attention arrested by these castaways, which we see so often
on the shore. They are small, about the size of my hand, but singularly
pretty, of soft light shades, of an opal‐white, where it lost itself as in
a cloud of tentacles; a crown of tender lilies—the wind had overturned it;
its crown of lilac hair floated about, and the delicate umbel, that is,
its body proper, was beneath; it had touched the rock—dashed against it;
it was wounded, torn in its fine locks, which are also its organs of
respiration, absorption, and even of love.... The delicious creature, with
its visible innocence and the iridescence of its soft colours, was left
like a gliding, trembling jelly. I paused beside it, nevertheless; I
glided my hand under it, raised the motionless body cautiously, and
restored it to its natural position for swimming. Patting it in the
neighbouring water, it sank to the bottom, giving no sign of life. I
pursued my walk along the shore, but at the end of ten minutes I returned
to my Medusa. It was undulating under the wind; it had really moved
itself, and was swimming about with singular grace, its hair flying round
it as it swam; gently it retired from the rock, not quickly, but still it
went, and I soon saw it a long way off.”

The Medusæ are found in all seas, and usually inhabit the depths, although
often seen on the surface. They voyage usually in considerable battalions,
and sometimes cover miles and miles of sea. They constitute one of the
principal supports of the whale. They are themselves singularly voracious,
and snap up their prey—small molluscs, young crustaceans, and annilids—at
a mouthful. Their mouths are in the centre of the lower side of the
umbrella. They vary from a very small size to as much as a yard in
diameter, while to describe the known varieties would occupy the remainder
of this volume, so numerous are they. It has been ascertained that these
jelly‐like creatures breathe through the skin, have a distinct circulation
and some nervous sensations. Most of them produce a stinging pain when
they touch the human body, and until lately they were, adopting Cuvier’s
classification, designated _Acalephæ_, or “sea‐nettles,” in consequence.

[Illustration: PRAYA DIPHYES.]

Nearly all the other Hydrozoa are marine productions, and comprise among
them numerous beautiful forms. Take, for example, the polyp known as
_Praya diphyes_, a double, bell‐shaped body, with a long tail, as it were,
of feelers, a floating fishing‐line; or, another delicate organisation of
the same family, _Galeolaria aurantiaca_, the orange galeolaria. Here are
_two_ floating bladders with a connecting _chain of polyps_; the floats
aiding to support, as it were, a whole colony! But the large order
_Physophoridæ_ deserves more than a mere passing notice, on account of the
graceful forms of delicate tissue and colour which are included under it.

These inhabitants of the sea are essentially swimmers, having mostly true
swimming bladders, more or less numerous and of varied form; they always
float on the surface. M. de Quatrefages, the distinguished French
naturalist, describing one of these organisms, _Apolemia contorta_, tells
the reader “to figure to himself an axis of flexible crystals, sometimes
more than a mètre (forty inches) in length, all round which are attached,
by means of long peduncles or footstalks equally transparent, some
hundreds of bodies, sometimes elongated, sometimes flat, and formed like
the bud of a flower. If we add to this garland of pearls of a vivid red
colour and infinity of fine filaments, varying in thickness, and giving
life and motion to all these parts, we have even now only a very slight
and imperfect idea of this marvellous organism.”

The _Agalma rubra_ is thus described by Vogt, a great authority. “I know,”
says he, “nothing more graceful than this agalma, as it floats near the
surface of the waters, its long, transparent, garland‐like lines extended,
and their limits distinctly indicated by bundles of a brilliant vermilion
red, while the rest of the body is concealed by its very transparency; the
entire organism always swims in a slightly oblique position near the
surface, but is capable of steering itself in any direction with great
rapidity. I have had in my possession some of these garlands more than
three feet in length, in which the series of swimming‐bladders measured
more than four inches, so that in the great vase in which I kept them the
column of swimming‐bladders touched the bottom, while the aërial vesicle
floated on the surface. Immediately after its capture the columns
contracted themselves to such a point that they were scarcely perceptible,
but when left to repose in a spacious vase, all its shrunken appendages
deployed themselves round the vase in the most graceful manner imaginable,
the column of swimming‐bladders removing, immovable in their vertical
position, the float at the surface, while the different appendages soon
began to play. The polyps, planted at intervals along the common trunk, of
rose‐colour, began to agitate themselves in all directions, taking a
thousand odd forms; ... but what most excited my curiosity was the
continuous action of the fishing‐lines, retiring altogether sometimes with
the utmost precipitation. All who have witnessed these living colonies
withdraw themselves reluctantly from the strange spectacle, where each
polyp seems to play the part of the fisherman who throws his line,
furnished with baited hooks, withdrawing it when he feels a nibble, and
throwing again when he discovers his disappointment.” The agalma is
described as well armed; its tendrils have enormous stinging powers.

[Illustration: AGALMA RUBRA (THREE‐FIFTHS NATURAL SIZE).]

One family of the Physophoridæ includes the interesting creature known as
the “Portuguese man‐of‐war,” from a slight resemblance to a small vessel
with a sail up; it is also known among sailors as the sea‐bladder. The
bladder is eleven or twelve inches long, and from one to three broad. Its
appearance is glassy and transparent, and of a purply tint. Above the
bladder is a crest, limpid and pure as crystal, and veined in purple or
violet; it is the crest which the sailors believe fulfils the office of a
sail. “This bladder‐like form, with its aërial crest, is only a
hydrostatic apparatus, whose office is to lighten the animal and modify
its specific gravity.” From the bottom of the bladder a crowded mass of
organs, most of which take the form of very slender, highly contractile,
movable threads, depend; they are often several feet, and occasionally
several yards, long. Their stinging powers are great; these elegant
creatures are terrible antagonists. One French writer says that, “One day,
when sailing at sea in a small boat, I perceived one of these little
galleys, and was curious to see the form of the animal; but I had scarcely
seized it when all its fibres seemed to clasp my hand, covering it as with
bird‐lime, and scarcely had I felt it in all its freshness (for it is very
cold to the touch), when it seemed as if I had plunged my arm up to the
shoulder in a cauldron of boiling water. This was accompanied with a pain
so strange, that it was only with a violent effort I could restrain myself
from crying aloud.” Another traveller,(32) while bathing and swimming in
the surf of the Antilles, was attacked by one. “I promptly detached it,”
says he, “but many of its filaments remained glued to my skin, and the
pain I immediately experienced was so intense that I nearly fainted.” In
this case no very serious damage resulted, but during the voyage of the
_Princess Louise_ round the world a seaman was nearly killed by one.
Frédol, the historian of the expedition, says that one of the officers
noticed a magnificent Physalia, which was floating near the ship. “A young
sailor leaped naked into the sea to seize the animal. Swimming towards it,
he seized it; the creature surrounded the person of its assailant with its
numerous thread‐like filaments, which were nearly a yard in length; the
young man, overwhelmed by a feeling of burning pain, cried out for
assistance. He had scarcely strength to reach the vessel and get aboard
again before the pain and inflammation were so violent that brain fever
declared itself, and great fears were entertained for his life.” It is a
disputed point whether the Physalia is poisonous or not when eaten. It was
a commonly‐received idea in the Antilles that they are, and that the
negroes sometimes made use of them, after being dried and powdered, to
poison both men and animals. The fishermen there believe that fish which
have eaten parts of the Physalia become unfit for human food. A French
physician, M. Ricord‐Madiana, settled in Guadaloupe, made many experiments
to attempt the settlement of the question. He found that ants and flies
partook of them with impunity; a dog, a puppy, and a fowl, swallowed parts
of them nearly with impunity, the first named only seeming to have
severely felt the sting in his mouth, but recovering perfectly soon after.
The ardent experimentalist next ate, and caused his servant to eat, the
chicken which had fed on Physalia, and no inconvenience followed;
subsequently he ate twenty‐five grains of the dried and powdered animal in
a little bouillon, and he was unharmed. Yet there is some evidence on the
other side which would indicate that on occasions, at least, it is
poisonous.

The habits of the Physalia are only known in part, though they have been
studied by many scientists. Among the many denizens of the ocean, “none,”
says Gosse,(33) “take a stronger hold on the fancy of the beholder;
certainly none is more familiar than the little thing he daily marks
floating in the sun‐lit waves, as the ship glides swiftly by, which the
sailor tells him is the ‘Portuguese man‐of‐war.’ Perhaps a dead calm has
settled over the sea, and he leans over the bulwarks of the ship,
scrutinising this ocean‐rover at leisure, as it hastily rises and falls on
the long, sluggish heavings of the glassy surface. Then he sees that the
comparison of the stranger to a ship is a felicitous one, for at a little
distance it might well be mistaken for a child’s mimic boat, shining in
all the gaudy painting in which it left the toy‐shop.

“Not unfrequently one of these tiny vessels comes so close alongside that
by means of the ship’s bucket, with the assistance of a smart fellow who
has jumped into the ‘chains’ with a boat‐hook, it is captured and brought
on deck for examination. A dozen voices are, however, lifted, warning you
by no means to touch it, for well the experienced sailor knows its
terrible powers of defence. It does not now appear so like a ship as when
it was at a distance. It is an oblong bladder of tough membrane, varying
considerably in shape, for no two agree in this respect; varying also in
size, from less than an inch to the size of a man’s hat. Once, on a voyage
to Mobile, when rounding the Florida reef, I was nearly a whole day
passing through a fleet of these little Portuguese men‐of‐war, which
studded the smooth sea as far as the eye could reach, and must have
extended for many miles.” It is often to be seen on the coasts of Devon
and Cornwall, brought thither by the Gulf Stream.

[Illustration: PHYSALIA ANTARCTICA.]

The Physalia is the natural enemy of the cuttle‐fish and the flying‐fish.
One an inch in length will numb and kill a fish larger than a herring.
“Each tentacle, by a movement as rapid as a flash of light, or sudden as
an electric shock, seizes and benumbs them, winding round their bodies as
a serpent winds itself round its victim.” Mr. Bennet, who accompanied the
expedition under Admiral Fitzroy as naturalist, describes them as seizing
their prey by means of the tentacles, which are alternately contracted to
half an inch, and then shot out with amazing velocity to several feet,
dragging the helpless and entangled prey to the sucker‐like mouth and
stomach‐like cavities among the tentacles. Others have observed bold
little fish unharmed among the feelers, a proof that even a Physalia can
be good‐natured sometimes.

An attendant satellite of the Physalia is the Velella, a smaller animal of
the same family, especially abundant in tropical seas, but often seen
elsewhere. It also possesses stinging powers.

It is to the moderns we must look for anything like scientific study of
these lower forms of Nature. The later poets, too, have caught the spirit
of the age, and in some phases their utterances are artistically truer,
and therefore truer to nature, than those of the merely _hard_ scientists.
Crabbe has beautifully described this boon of our age, the study of Nature
aided by the light of science. It is nowadays the privilege as well as it
is to the profit of any intelligent person—

“The ocean’s produce to explore.
As floating by, or rolling on the shore,
Those living jellies which the flesh inflame,
Fierce as a nettle, and from that their name:
Some in huge masses, some that you may bring
In the small compass of a lady’s ring;
Figured by hand Divine—there’s not a gem
Wrought by man’s art to be compared to them;
Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow,
And make the moonbeams brighter where they flow.
Involved in sea‐wrack, here you find a race
Which science doubting, knows not where to place.
On shell or stone is dropped the embryo seed,
And quickly vegetates a vital breed;
While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect
Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (_continued_).

The Madrepores—Brain, Mushroom, and Plantain Coral—The Beautiful
Sea‐anemones; their Organisation and Habits; their Insatiable
Voracity—The Gorgons—Echinodermata—The Star‐fish—Sea
Urchins—Wonderful Shell and Spines—An Urchin’s Prayer—The Sea
Cucumber—The Trepang, or Holothuria—Trepang Fishing—Dumont
d’Urville’s Description—The Commerce in this Edible—The
Molluscs—The Teredo, or Ship‐worm—Their Ravages on the Holland
Coast—The Retiring Razor‐fish—The Edible Mussel—History of their
Cultivation in France—The Bouchots—Occasional Danger of Eating
Mussels—The Prince of Bivalves—The Oyster and its
Organisation—Difference in Size—American Oysters—High Priced in
some Cities—Quantity Consumed in London—Courteous Exchange—Roman
Estimation of them—The “Breedy Creatures” brought from
Britain—Vitellius and his Hundred Dozen—A Sell: Poor Tyacke—The
First Man who Ate an Oyster—The Fisheries—Destructive
Dredging—Lake Fusaro and the Oyster Parks—Scientific Cultivation
in France—Success and Profits—The Whitstable and other Beds—System
pursued.

Among the interesting and comparatively familiar forms of ocean’s
treasures must be counted the Madrepores, often regarded as corals, but
quite distinct as a scientific group from the precious coral of commerce.
The Madreporidæ are very numerous, and are formed by colonies of polyps.
The poet has truly described them:—

“I saw the living pile ascend
The mausoleum of its architects,
Still dying upward as their labour closed:
Slime the material, but the slime was turned
To adamant by their petrific touch.”

The polyps of the madrepores resemble flowers when their upper disc is
expanded and their feelers are out in the water. When contracted, they are
concealed from sight in the calcareous cells, which have grown with
themselves, and form part of the madrepora. These beautiful and curious
natural productions assume many distinct forms. Some of them are
arborescent, as in _Stylaster flabelliformis_, which puts forth a perfect
forest of trunks and branches. Others are star‐like in shape; many are
more or less cylindrical and oval, as in the well‐known “Brain coral”
(_Meandrina cerebriformis_). Another genus is entitled _Fungia_, from a
supposed resemblance to the mushroom, there being this difference between
terrestrial and marine mushrooms—that the former have leaflets below, and
the latter have them above. One of the most pleasing forms is found in the
Plantain Madrepore, where the polyps are arranged in tufts.

[Illustration: MADREPORES.]

The Sea‐anemones (_Actinidæ_) will be now, thanks to the popularity of the
aquarium, tolerably familiar to most readers. Although undoubtedly animal,
they much more resemble flowers. They are to be found of the most
brilliant colours and graceful forms.

The body of the Sea‐anemone is “cylindrical in form, terminating beneath
in a muscular disc, which is generally large and distinct, enabling them
to cling vigorously to foreign bodies. It terminates above in an upper
disc, bearing many rows of tentacles, which differ from each other only in
their size. These tentacles are sometimes decorated with brilliant
colours, forming a species of collar, consisting of contractile and
sometimes retractile tubes, pierced at their points with an orifice,
whence issue jets of water, which are ejected at the will of the animal.
Arranged in circles, they are distributed with perfect regularity round a
central mouth. These are their arms.” The stomach of the sea‐anemone is
both the seat of digestion and of reproduction. The young are actually
ejected from the mouth with the rejecta of their food. “The daisy‐like
anemones in the Zoological Gardens of Paris,” Frédol tells us, “frequently
throw up young ones, which are dispersed, and attach themselves to various
parts of the aquarium, and finally become miniature anemones exactly like
the parent. An actinia, which had taken a very copious repast, ejected a
portion of it about twenty‐four hours later, and in the middle of the
ejected food were found thirty‐eight young individuals.” According to one
author, an accouchement is here a fit of indigestion! Sea‐anemones may be
mutilated, cut limb from limb, or torn to pieces, and each piece will
become a new anemone in the end. “They adhere,” says Dr. Johnson, “to
rocks, shells, and other extraneous bodies by means of a glutinous
secretion from their enlarged base, but they can leave their hold and
remove to another station whensoever it pleases them, either by gliding
along with a slow and almost imperceptible movement (half an inch in five
minutes), as is their usual method, or by reversing the body and using the
tentacula for the purpose of feet, as Reaumur asserts, and as I have once
witnessed; or, lastly, inflating the body with water, so as to render it
more buoyant, they detach themselves, and are driven to a distance by the
random motion of the waves. They feed on shrimps, small crabs, whelks, and
on very many species of shelled mollusca, and probably on all animals
brought within their reach whose strength or agility is insufficient to
extricate them from the grasp of their numerous tentacula.... The size of
the prey is frequently in unseemly disproportion to the preyer, being
often equal in bulk to itself. I had once brought me a specimen of
_Actinia crassicornis_ that might have been originally two inches in
diameter, which had somehow contrived to swallow a valve of _Pecten
maximus_ of the size of an ordinary saucer. The shell, fixed within the
stomach, was so placed as to divide it completely into two halves, so that
the body, stretched tensely over, had become thin and flattened like a
pancake. All communication between the inferior portion of the stomach and
the mouth was, of course, prevented; yet, instead of emaciating and dying
of atrophy, the animal had availed itself of what undoubtedly had been a
very untoward accident to increase its enjoyment and its chance of double
fare. A new mouth, furnished with two rows of numerous tentacula, was
opened up on what had been the base, and led to the under stomach; the
individual had, indeed, become a sort of Siamese Twin, but with greater
intimacy and extent in its unions.” The Actinia are at once gluttonous and
voracious. They seize even mussels and crabs, and when they want to eject
the hardest parts of the latter can turn their stomachs inside out, as one
might turn out one’s pocket! Their tentacles can act on the offensive; the
hand of the man who has touched them becomes inflamed, and small fish are
literally killed by contact with them.

In Provence, Italy, and Greece, some varieties are used for food, the
Green Actinia being in special repute.

[Illustration: SEA‐ANEMONES.
1. _Actinoloba dianthus_. 2. _Cereus gemmaceus_. 3. _Actinia bicolor_. 4.
_Sagartia viduata_. 5. _Cereus papillossus_. 6. _Actinia picta_. 7.
_Actinia equina_. 8. _Sagartia rosea_. 9. _Sagartia coccinea_.]

The Gorgons are interesting curiosities of the coral type; some are
scarcely the twelfth of an inch in height, while others attain a height of
several feet. The beautiful Fan Gorgon, which is often eighteen or more
inches high, is so called on account of its form, and there are other very
beautiful examples of arborescent gorgons. Their organism is double; the
one external, sometimes gelatinous; sometimes, on the contrary, fleshy and
cretaceous. It is animated with life.

A vast natural group is that of the _Echinodermata_, which includes five
orders, or families, embracing among them the star‐fish, the sea‐eggs, or
sea‐urchins, and the sea‐cucumbers, or “sea‐slugs” (Holothurias), the
latter of which are important items in the food of many Asiatics. The
generic term Echinodermata signifies an animal bristling with spines, but
the group includes many to whom it could not be applied.

The Star‐fish (_Asterias_) is met in almost every sea, and in all
latitudes, although more richly varied in tropical seas. They vary in
colour from a yellowish‐grey to orange, red, or violet. The body of the
asterias is a most curious organisation, having sometimes as many as
11,000 juxta‐imposed pieces, while it possesses spines and tubercles.
Observe one stranded on the shore, and it may appear destitute of
locomotive powers. But this is not so, for they can slowly creep over
small spaces, and even up the vertical sides of rocks. Frédol says:—“If an
asterias is turned upon its back, it will at first remain immovable, with
its feet shut up. Soon, however, out come the feet like so many little
feelers; it moves them backward and forward, as if feeling for the ground;
it soon inclines them towards the bottom of the vase, and fixes them one
after the other. When it has a sufficient number attached, the animal
turns itself round. It is not impossible, whilst walking on the sea‐shore,
to have the pleasure of seeing one of these star‐fishes walking upon the
sand,” although they are very commonly left dead there.

The star‐fish’s mouth is on its lower side, and almost directly abuts on
its stomach. It is a voracious feeder, and will even attack molluscs.
Formerly it was believed that the animal would open an oyster with one of
its rays, or legs, but this was unlikely, as the oyster might be likely
enough to have the best of it in such a case by shutting his shells on the
intruder. It is now pretty well understood that it injects an acrid poison
into the oyster’s shell, which obliges it to open.

[Illustration: STAR‐FISH.]

The “Urchins” seem to owe their name to Aristotle, and their spiny
covering and armature have in all ages attracted the attention of
naturalists. Some of them have 3,000 or 4,000 prickles, and their
organisation is really wonderful. They are enclosed in a globular hollow
box, which grows with their growth. Gosse explains how. The box can never
be cast off, and it is obvious that the deposits made from inside would
only narrow the space, which really requires to be enlarged. “The growing
animal feels its tissues swelling day by day, by the assimilation of food.
Its cry is ‘Give me space! a larger house, or I die!’ How is this problem
solved? Ah! there is no difficulty. The inexhaustible wisdom of the
Creator has a beautiful contrivance for the emergency. The box is not made
in one piece, nor in ten, nor a hundred. Six hundred distinct pieces go to
make up the hollow case, all accurately fitted together, so that the
perfect symmetry of outline remains unbroken; and yet, thin as their
substance is, they retain their relative positions with unchanging
exactness, and the slight brittle box retains all requisite strength and
firmness, for each of these pieces is enveloped by a layer of living
flesh; a vascular tissue passes up between the joints, where one meets
another, and spreads itself over the whole exterior surface.” Their spines
are instruments of defence and of locomotion; each has several muscles to
work it.

The poet‐scientist, Michelet, has beautifully painted the animal’s nature,
and makes it describe itself as follows. “I am born,” says the unobtrusive
Echinoderm, “without ambition; I ask for none of the brilliant gifts
possessed by those gentlemen the molluscs. I would neither make mother‐of‐
pearl nor pearls; I have no wish for brilliant colours, a luxury which
would point me out; still less do I desire the grace of your giddy
medusas, the waving charm of whose flaming locks attracts observation and
exposes one to shipwreck. Oh, mother! I wish for one thing only, _to
be_—to be without these exterior and compromising appendages; to be
thickset, strong, and round, for that is the shape in which I should be
the least exposed; in short, to be a centralised being. I have very little
instinct for travel. To roll sometimes from the surface to the bottom of
the sea is enough of travel for me. Glued firmly to my rock, I could there
solve the problem, the solution of which your favourite, man, seeks for in
vain—that of safety. To strictly exclude enemies and admit all friends,
especially water, air, and light, would, I know, cost me some labour and
constant effort. Covered with movable spines, enemies will avoid me. Now,
bristling like a bear, they call me an urchin.”(34)

[Illustration: URCHINS IN A ROCK.]

The term “sea‐cucumber” accurately describes the shape of the Holothuria,
which is in general terms a worm‐like cylinder, varying as much as from an
inch or two to thirty, and, in exceptional cases, forty inches in length.
The skin of the animal is usually thick and leathery; it is crowned by a
mouth with a fringe of tentacula, which expand like a flower when it is
unmolested. They particularly avoid the glare of light. One large eatable
species is common in the Mediterranean, and is used for food in Naples and
elsewhere. But it is in the Indian, Malayan, and Chinese seas that the
_Holothuria edulis_, known there as the _trepang_, is an important adjunct
to the food of the natives. Thousands of junks are employed in the trepang
fisheries. The Malay fisherman will harpoon them with a long bamboo
terminating in a sharp hook at a distance of thirty yards. In four or five
fathoms of water native divers are employed, who seize them in their
hands, and will bring up several at a time. They are then boiled, and
flattened with stones; after which process they are spread out on bamboo
mats to dry, first in the sun and afterwards by smoking. They are then put
in sacks and shipped principally to Chinese ports, where they are
considered a luxury.

The great French navigator, Dumont d’Urville, witnessed the processes
employed while in Raffles Bay. An hour after the arrival of four prows all
the men were at work ashore cooking them in boilers placed over roughly‐
constructed stone furnaces, after which they were dried on hurdled roofs.
Captain d’Urville went on board one of the Malay vessels, where he was
received with cordiality by the padrone, or captain. “He,” says that
navigator, “showed us over his little ship. The keel appeared to us
sufficiently solid; even the lines did not want elegance; but great
disorder seemed to reign in the stowage department. From a kind of bridge,
formed by hurdles of bamboos and junk, we saw the cabin, which looked like
a poultry house: bags of rice, packets and boxes were huddled together.
Below was the store of water, of cured trepang, and the sailors’ berths.
Each boat was furnished with two rudders, one at each end, which lifted
itself when the boat touched the bottom. The craft was furnished with two
masts, without shrouds, which could be lowered on to the bridge at will by
means of a hinge; they carry the ordinary sail; the anchors are of wood,
for iron is rarely used by the Malays; their cables are made of rattan
fibre; the crew of each bark consists of about thirty‐seven, each shore
boat having a crew of six men. At the moment of our visit they were all
occupied in fishing operations, some of them being anchored very near to
us. Seven or eight of their number, nearly naked, were diving for trepang;
the padrone alone was unoccupied. An ardent sun darted its rays upon their
heads without appearing to incommode them, an exposure which no European
could hold up under. It was near mid‐day, and the moment, as our Malay
captain assured us, most favourable for the fishing. In fact, we saw that
each diver returned to the surface with at least one animal, and sometimes
two, in his hands. It appears that the higher the sun is above the
horizon, the more easily is the creature distinguished at the bottom. The
divers were so rapid in their movements that they scarcely touched the
boat, into which they threw the animals before they dived again. When the
boat was filled with them, it proceeded to the shore, and its place was
supplied by an empty one.” The Holothuria taken there were five to six
inches long. D’Urville tasted it when prepared, and says that it resembled
lobster. His men, however, took more kindly to it than did he.

[Illustration: SEA‐CUCUMBER (_Holothuria tubulosa_).]

We must now examine a most important class of pulpy animals, the Mollusca,
of which the bivalve molluscs are by far the most important to man. In
consequence of their very softness and delicacy, Nature has provided them
with a shell coat of calcareous mail.

The sub‐class _Acephala_, are as their names indicate, _headless_
molluscs, and though sometimes _partially_ naked, are usually very well
protected by shells. When it is known that there are over 4,000 species of
bivalve molluscs, the impossibility of describing more than a few typical
and prominent examples will be seen.

The genus _Teredo_ consists of marine worm‐like animals having a special
and irresistible inclination for boring wood, whatever its hardness. Ships
have been thus silently and secretly undermined, till the planks have been
either like sponges or have crumbled into dust under the very feet of
their crews. The holes bored by these imperceptible miners riddle the
entire interior of a piece of wood, without any external indication of
their ravages. Piles and piers have been utterly ruined, and vessels have
sometimes gone to the bottom through them. At the beginning of the last
century half the coast of Holland was threatened with inundation and
practical annihilation because the piles which support its dykes were
attacked by the teredo, and hundreds of thousands of pounds damage was
done by this wretched worm. It has been now discovered that the worm has a
great antipathy to oxide of iron, and wood impregnated with it is secure
from its ravages. Other animals of the same group are capable of boring
even rock.

Another important bivalve is the well known Solen or “razor‐fish,”
varieties of which are common all over the globe. “These molluscs,” says
Figuier, “live with their shells buried vertically in the sand, a short
distance from the shore; the hole which they have hollowed, and which they
never quit, sometimes attains as much as two yards in depth; by means of
their foot, which is large, conical, swollen in the middle and pointed at
its extremity, they raise themselves with great agility to the entrance of
their burrow. They bury themselves rapidly, and disappear on the slightest
approach of danger.

“When the sea retires, the presence of the Solen is indicated by a small
orifice in the sand, whence escape at intervals bubbles of air. In order
to attract them to the surface, the fishermen throw into the hole a pinch
of salt; the sand immediately becomes stirred, and the animal presents
itself just above the point of its shell. It must be seized at once, for
it disappears again very quickly, and no renewed efforts will bring it to
the surface a second time. Its retreat is commonly cut short by a knife
being passed below it; for it burrows into the ground with such velocity
that it is difficult to capture it with the hand alone. The fish itself is
a kind of marine worm.”

[Illustration: THE RAZOR FISH (_Solen ensis_).]

But of the Acephalous Mollusca none are more important to man than the
mussel and oyster, the pearl‐bearing varieties of which latter have been
already considered. Both are familiar to every reader.

The _Mytilus edulis_, the edible mussel of commerce, the “poor man’s
oyster,” is provided with a byssus, a bundle of hairs or threads, by which
it can anchor to the rock. In its natural state it is much less fitted for
human food than when cultivated. Their civilisation, as it might be
termed, dates back to the year 1236, when the master of a barque, an
Irishman named Walton, was wrecked in the bay or creek of Aiguillon, a few
miles distant from Rochelle. The exile at first supported himself by
hunting sea‐fowl in the neighbouring marshes, where he also soon began,
being an observant man, to notice certain peculiarities of mussel life.

[Illustration: THE MUSSEL (_Mytilus edulis_).]

Walton remarked that many of the mussels attached themselves by preference
to that part of posts or stones a little _above_ the mud of the marshes,
and that those so situated soon became plumper and fatter, and more
suitable for edible purposes, than those buried _in_ the mud. He soon saw
the possibilities of a new branch of industry. “The practices he
introduced,” wrote a distinguished French writer, long ago, “were so
happily adapted to the requirements of the new industry, that, after six
centuries, they are still the rules by which the rich patrimony he created
for a numerous population is governed.” He placed long rows of twelve‐foot
posts, about six feet high out of the watery mud, and a yard apart, each
pair of which always formed a letter V; in other words, a number of them
radiated from a common centre. The posts were interlaced with a basket‐
work of branches, so as to form continuous hurdles; these are now termed
_bouchots_. He also had isolated posts, and one of his great ideas was, as
in oyster culture to‐day, to arrest the spat, which would otherwise have
washed away to sea with the tide, and been lost. “At the present time
these lines of hurdles form a perfect little forest at Aiguillon; there
are about a quarter of a million piles alone. In July the _bouchotiers_,
as the men employed in this culture are termed, launch their punts, and
proceeding to the marshes, detach with a hook the thickly agglomerated
masses of young mussels from the piles, which they gather in baskets and
take to the bouchots, which form a perfect hedge of fascines and branches,
of different heights. Each stage receives the mollusc suitable to it. In
the first stage of its existence the mussel cannot endure exposure to the
air, and remains constantly under water, except at the period of spring
tides. These are gathered in sacks made of old matting, or suspended in
interstices of the basket‐work. The mussels are advanced stage after stage
until they reach the highest bouchots, which remain out of water at all
tides.” The whole bay yielded close on half a million pounds sterling some
years ago.

“While,” says Figuier, “commending the mussel as an important article of
food, we must not conceal the fact that it has produced in certain persons
very grave effects, showing that for them its flesh has the effects of
poison. The symptoms, commonly observed two or three hours after the
repast, are weakness or torpor, constriction of the throat and swelling of
the head, accompanied by great thirst, nausea, frequent vomitings, and
eruptions of the skin and severe itching.

“The cause of these attacks is not very well ascertained; they have in
turn been ascribed to the presence of the coppery pyrites in the
neighbourhood of the mussel; to certain small crabs which lodge themselves
as parasites in the shell of the mussel; to the spawn of star‐fish or
medusæ that the mussel may have swallowed. But, probably the true cause of
this kind of poisoning is found in the predisposition of individuals. The
remedy is very simple; an emetic, accompanied by drinking plentifully of
slightly acidulated beverage.” They are eaten very freely in most parts of
the seaboard of the United States, and the present writer has eaten them
constantly, boiled, stewed with tomatoes, &c., and in soup, without the
slightest bad effects.

[Illustration: ISOLATED PILES COVERED WITH THE SPAWN OF MUSSELS.]

_The_ bivalve _par excellence_ must always be _Ostrea edulis_, the common
oyster. This mollusc, which some might be inclined to place low in the
scale of nature, has really a complex and delicate organisation. It has a
mouth, heart, stomach, liver, and intestines; its blood is colourless, but
it has a true circulation; and it breathes under water, as do fishes.
“Having no head,” says Figuier, “the oyster can have no brain; the nerves
originate near the mouth, where a great ganglion is visible, whence issue
a pair of nerves which distribute themselves in the regions of the stomach
and liver, terminating in a second ganglion, situated behind the liver.
The first nervous branch distributes its sensibility to the mouth and
tentacles; the second, to the respiratory branchiæ. With organs of the
senses oysters are unprovided. Condemned to a sedentary life, riveted to a
rock, where they have been rooted, as it were, in their infancy, they
neither see nor hear; touch appears to be their only sense, and that is
placed in the labial tentacles of the mouth.” The oyster may carry
hundreds of thousands of eggs—some say as many as 2,000,000; it ejects
them after a process of incubation. Nothing is more curious than to
witness a bank of oysters in the spawning season, which is usually from
the month of June to the end of September.(35) Every adult—for the oyster
is sexless—throws forth a living dust, a perfect cloud of embryotic life.
The spat is soon scattered far and wide, and unless the young oyster
attach itself to some solid body, it falls a victim to other marine
animals. Microscopic in size when it leaves the parent, it is at the end
of a month about the size of a large pea; in a year it may be an inch and
a half in diameter; in three it is getting on to a quite respectable size,
and after a short course in the oyster park it is ready for the table.(36)

Oysters are of all sizes, and there are some so large that they require to
be carved. In New York, the paradise of oyster‐eaters, they range from the
size of a half‐crown to five or six inches long. The shores of Long
Island, a distance round of 115 miles, are one continuous oyster‐field,
while the one State of Virginia is said to possess nearly 2,000,000 acres
of oyster‐beds. The Americans are great lovers of the bivalve, which is
probably one of the most wholesome forms of _easy_ nourishment which can
possibly be taken. In a stew with milk, and a little oatmeal, or as soup,
they are especially good for invalids, and when one can take nothing else,
he can usually relish oysters. And, as all gastronomers know, they rather
increase than diminish appetite; hence the modern French practice of
taking half a dozen _before_ the soup is served. “There is no alimentary
substance,” says a French writer, “not even excepting bread, which does
not produce indigestion under given circumstances; but oysters never....
We may eat them to‐day, to‐morrow, eat them always and in profusion,
without fear of indigestion.” The few who cannot eat them, and there _are_
such, are really to be commiserated. How highly they are esteemed in some
countries is shown by the fact that some years ago they cost in St.
Petersburg a paper rouble, or about a shilling _each_; in Stockholm,
fivepence each. In England only two or three years ago they had risen to
nearly four‐fifths of the latter price; but now, thanks to the extensive
cultivation, and to the importation of excellent American oysters on a
large scale, they are within the reach of all.

Of the quantity of oysters consumed in London alone who can give even an
approximate guess? Fancy, if you can, also, that curiously courteous
exchange which goes on every Christmas between our oyster‐eating country
cousins and our turkey and goose loving Londoners. The turkey, the brace
of pheasants or hares, has arrived. “Such a present,” says the author of
“The Oyster,” “is promptly repaid by a fine cod packed in ice, and two
barrels of oysters. How sweet are these when eaten at a country home, and
opened by yourselves, the barrel being paraded on the table with its head
knocked out, and with the whitest of napkins round it. * * * How sweet it
is, too, to open some of the dear natives for your pretty cousin, and to
see her open her sweet little mouth about as wide as Lesbia’s sparrow did
for his lump of—not sugar, it was not then invented—but lump of honey! How
sweet it is, after the young lady has swallowed her half‐dozen, to help
yourself! The oyster never tastes sweeter than when thus operated on by
yourself, so that you do not ‘job’ the knife into your hand!”

The Greeks have not said much in praise of oysters, but then they regarded
Britain much as we now do Greenland. The Romans, however, highly
appreciated them. Horace, Martial, and Juvenal, Cicero, Seneca, and Pliny,
have all enlarged upon the various qualities of the oyster; and it was to
Sergius Orata that we owe the introduction of oyster‐beds, for he it was
that invented the layers or stews for oysters at Baia. “That was in the
days when luxury was rampant, and when men of great wealth, like Licinius
Crassus, the leviathan slave‐merchant, rose to the highest honours; for
this dealer in human flesh in the boasted land of liberty served the
office of consul along with Pompey the Great, and on one occasion required
no less than 10,000 tables to accommodate all his guests. How many barrels
of oysters were eaten at that celebrated dinner, the ‘Ephemerides’—as
Plutarch calls _The Times_ and _Morning Post_ of that day—have omitted to
state; but as oysters then took the place that turtle soup now does at our
great City feeds, imagination may busy itself as it likes with the
calculation. All we know is, that oysters then fetched very long prices at
Rome, as the author of the ‘Tabella Ciberia’ has not failed to tell us;
and then, as now, the high price of any luxury of the table was sure to
make a liberal supply of it necessary when a man like Crassus entertained
half the city as his guests, to rivet his popularity.

“But the Romans had a weakness for the ‘breedy creatures’ as our dear old
friend Christopher North calls them in his inimitable ‘Noctes.’ In the
time of Nero, some sixty years later, the consumption of oysters in the
‘Imperial City’ was nearly as great as it now is in the ‘World’s
Metropolis;’ and there is a statement, which I remember to have read
somewhere, that during the reign of Domitian, the last of the twelve
Cæsars, a greater number of millions of bushels were annually consumed at
Rome than I should care to swear to. These oysters, however, were but
Mediterranean produce—the small fry of Circe, and the smaller Lucrinians;
and this unreasonable demand upon them quite exhausted the beds in that
great fly‐catcher’s reign; and it was not till under the wise
administration of Agricola in Britain, when the Romans got their far‐famed
Rutupians from the shores of Kent, from Richborough, and the Reculvers—the
_Rutupi Portus_ of the ‘Itinerary’ of which the latter, the Regulbium,
near Whitstable, in the mouth of the Thames, was the northern
boundary–that Juvenal praised them as he does; and he was right; for in
the whole world there are no oysters like them; and of all the ‘breedy
creatures’ that glide, or have ever glided, down the throats of the human
race, our ‘natives’ are probably the most delectable.” The Roman emperors
later on never failed to have British oysters at their banquets.

Vitellius ate oysters four times daily, and at each meal is said to have
got through 1,200 of his own natives! Seneca, who praised the charms of
poverty, ate several hundred a week. Horace is enthusiastic about them; he
notes the people who first provided him with them, and the name of the
gourmet who at the first _bite_(37) was able to tell whence the particular
breed came.

“When I but see the oyster’s shell,
I look and recognise the river, marsh, or mud
Where it was raised.”

The shell is often an indication of the particular locality whence it is
brought, and no doubt the modern oyster dealer, if not the ordinary eater,
can always tell rightly. For although London swears by her Milton and
Colchester “natives,” Edinburgh has her Pandores and Aberdours, and Dublin
her Carlingfords and “Powldoodies of Burran.”

[Illustration: OYSTERS (_Ostrea edulis_).
A, Oysters of twelve to fifteen months; B, five or six months; C, three or
four months; D, one to two months; and E, twenty days after birth.]

“There is one little spot,” says the author of the entertaining but
veracious little work quoted before, “on the shores of Cornwall which I
cannot pass over, because from it came one of the colonies on the banks of
the Thames from which the Whitstable boats still draw their annual supply.
Into Mount’s Bay, the Helford River, upon which stands the little town of
Helstone, empties itself, opposite Mount St. Michael’s, into the sea, and
in the estuary of that little river, a person of the name of Tyacke,
within the memory of the ‘oldest inhabitant,’ rented certain oyster‐beds,
famous among Cornish gourmets for a breed of oysters, which, it is said,
the Phœnicians, ‘a long time ago,’ had discovered to be infinitely
preferable to the watery things they got at home. These Helford oysters
are regularly brought to London.... Determined to make his venture, Tyacke
loaded a fishing‐smack with the best produce of his beds, and coasted
along the southern shores, till passing round the Isle of Thanet he found
himself in the mouth of the Thames. Little did the elated oyster‐dredger
think that mouth would swallow up the whole of his cargo; but so it came
to pass. It had long been evident to those on board that oysters which
travel, no less than men, must have rations allowed on the voyage, if they
are to do credit to the land of their birth. Now the voyage had been long
and tedious, and the oysters had not been fed; so Tyacke got into his
boat, and obtained an interview with the owner of the spot when he reached
the shore. He asked permission to lay down his oysters, and feed them.
This was granted, and after a few days the spores of _ulva latissima_ and
_enteromorpha_, and of the host of delicate fibrous plants which there
abound, and all of which are the oyster’s delight, made the whole green
and fat, and in the finest condition for re‐shipment. Four days, it is
said, will suffice to make a lean oyster, on such a diet, both green and
plump; and Tyacke, joyful at the improvement which he daily witnessed, let
his stock feed on for a week. It was towards evening that he bethought
himself, as the tide was out, that if he meant to reach Billingsgate by
the next morning it would be wise to re‐ship his oysters before turning in
for the night. The boat was lowered; but, as he attempted to land, he was
warned off by the owner of the soil, who stood there with several fierce‐
looking fellows, armed with cutlasses and fowling‐pieces, evidently
anticipating the Cornishman’s intention, and determined to frustrate it at
all hazards.

“‘What do you want here?’ he asked of Tyacke.

“‘The oysters I put down to feed,’ was the reply; ‘they were placed there
by your permission, and now I am anxious to re‐ship them, to be in time
for to‐morrow’s market.’

“‘True,’ replied the Kentishman, ‘I gave you leave to lay down the oysters
and feed them, but not a word was said about re‐shipping them. Where they
are, there they stay; and if you persist in trespassing, I shall know what
to do.’

“Poor Tyacke found himself much in the predicament of many a flat who has
been picked up by a sharp. A century ago law was not justice, nor justice
law. Perhaps it may not be so even now, and the story of the lawyer who
ate the oyster in dispute, and gave each of the disputants a shell, may
hold as good in our day as it did in that when the author of the ‘Beggars’
Opera’ put it into verse.”

It is said that the oyster, a delicate, refined animal, is particularly
fond of music. One of the oyster’s historians says that an old ballad is
still sung by many a hardy seaman as he trolls his dredging nets:—

“The herring loves the merry moonlight,
The mackerel loves the wind,
But the oyster loves the dredger’s song,
For he comes of a gentle kind.”

Shakspere, it may be remembered, alludes to “an oyster crossed in love.”

Raised out of his native waters, the oyster makes the voyage to the first
station in his destined travels in company with his kind, and if it
occupies a long time, is attentively supplied with refreshing sea‐water.
If taken proper care of, he arrives at the wharf as lively as when first
taken from his native element. Witness the excellent American “Blue
Points,” now commonly sold in England. Arrived in port, the oyster too
often, however, first becomes sensible of the miseries of slavery, for
here he is shovelled into carts and barrows, and tumbled into sacks, and
he may consider himself greatly fortunate if he gets a drink of salted,
not sea, water.

An old adage tells us that “He was a bold man who first ate an oyster.”
Mr. Bertram tells us how the discovery was made. “Once upon a time a man
of melancholy mood was walking by the shores of a picturesque estuary, and
listening to the murmur of the ‘sad sea waves’—or, as Mr. Disraeli would
say, of ‘the melancholy main’—when he espied a very old and ugly oyster‐
shell, all coated over with parasites and weeds. Its appearance was so
unprepossessing that he kicked it aside with his foot; whereupon the
mollusc, astonished at receiving such rude treatment on its own domain,
gaped wide with indignation, preparatory to closing its bivalve still more
closely. Seeing the beautiful cream‐coloured layers that shone within the
shelly covering, and fancying that the interior of the shell was probably
curious or beautiful, he lifted up the aged ‘native’ for further
examination, inserting his finger and thumb within the valves. The irate
mollusc, thinking, no doubt, that this was intended as a further insult,
snapped its nacreous portcullis close down upon his finger, causing him
considerable pain. After relieving his wounded digit, our inquisitive
gentleman very naturally put it in his mouth. ‘Delightful!’ he exclaimed,
opening wide his eyes; ‘what is this?’ and again he sucked his finger.
Then flashed upon him the great truth that he had discovered a new
pleasure—had, in fact, opened up to his fellows a source of immeasurable
delight. He proceeded at once to realise the thought. With a stone he
opened the oyster’s threshold, and warily ventured on a piece of the
mollusc itself. ‘Delicious!’ he exclaimed; and there and then, with no
other condiment than its own juice, without the usual accompaniment, as we
now take it, of ‘foaming brown stout’ or ‘pale Chablis’ to wash it
down—and, sooth to say, it requires neither—did that solitary, nameless
man indulge in the first oyster‐banquet!”(38)

The authorities all agree, as above, that however good some cooked oysters
may be, if you would have them in their most delicious condition, you must
take them _au naturel_. In Wilson’s “Noctes Ambrosianæ” we find the
following:—“I never, at any time o’ the year, had recourse to the cruet
till after the lang hunder; and in September, after four months’ fast frae
the creturs, I can easily devour them by theirsels, just in their ain
liccor, ontill anither fifty; and then, to be sure, just when I am
beginning to be a wee stawed, I apply first the pepper to a squad; and
then, after a score or twa in that way, some dizzen and a half wi’
vinegar, and finish off, like you, wi’ a wheen to the mustard, till the
brodd is naething but shells.... There’s really no end in nature to the
eatin’ of eisters.”

Oyster‐fishing is pursued in many different ways in different countries.
Round Minorca, divers descend, hammer in hand, and bring up as many as
they can carry. On the English and French coasts a most destructive
process is employed; a dredge‐net, heavily weighted with an iron frame, is
thrown overboard; it tears off a number of the precious bivalves from the
bottom, and leaves a larger number buried in the mud. “In France,” says
Figuier, “oyster‐dredging is conducted by fleets of thirty or forty boats,
each carrying four or five men. At a fixed hour, and under the
surveillance of a coastguard in a pinnace bearing the national flag, the
flotilla commences the fishing. In the estuary of the Thames the practice
is much the same, although no official surveillance is observed. Each bark
is provided with four or five dredges, each resembling in shape a common
clasp purse. These dredges are formed of network, with a strong iron
frame, the iron frame serving the double purpose of acting as a scraper
and keeping the mouth open, while giving a proper pressure as it travels
over the oyster‐beds.... The tension of the rope is the signal for hauling
in, and very heterogeneous are the contents of the dredge—seaweeds, star‐
fishes, lobsters, crabs, actinia, and stones. In this manner the common
oyster‐beds on both sides of the Channel were ploughed up by the oyster‐
dredger pretty much as the ploughman on shore turns up a field.” The
consequence was that the fields became nearly exhausted. This led to the
scientific cultivation now in vogue, which has proved most thoroughly
successful in a commercial point of view.

In Italy, the Neapolitan Lake Fusaro—the Acheron of so many of the
classical poets—is a great oyster‐park, dating from the days of the
Romans. It is a salt, marshy pond, shaded by magnificent trees; its
greatest depth is nowhere more than six feet; its bottom is black, the mud
being of volcanic origin. The general idea involved in the oyster
cultivation there is the protection of the embryo oyster. The fishermen of
Lake Fusaro warehouse, as it were, in protected spots, the oysters ready
to discharge the spawn or spat. Upon the bottom of the lake, and all
around it, there are round pyramidal heaps of stones and artificial
rockeries, surrounded by piles. Other piles have lines suspended from one
to the other, each cord bearing a faggot or faggots of young branches and
twigs. In the spawning season the young fry, issuing from the parents on
the stones or rocks, are arrested by these means. They have, as it were, a
resting‐place provided for them on the piles and faggots.

The system pursued in France is that introduced by M. Coste, and founded
on his study of the Fusaro park. In 1858 he reported to the Emperor that
of twenty‐three oyster‐beds which had once existed at Rochelle, Marennes,
Rochefort, the Isles of Ré and Oleron, only five were left, and that at
other places formerly famed for oysters a similar mournful statement must
be made. “The impulse given by this report has been productive of the most
satisfactory results in France. All along the coast the maritime
populations are now actively engaged in oyster culture. Oyster‐parks, in
imitation of those at Fusaro, have sprung up. In his appeal to the
Emperor, M. Coste suggested that the State, through the Administration of
Marine, and by means of the vessels at its command, should take steps for
sowing the whole French coast in such a manner as to re‐establish the
oyster‐banks now in ruins, extend those which were prosperous, and create
others anew wherever the nature of the bottom would permit. The first
serious attempt to carry out the views of the distinguished Academician
were made in the Bay of St. Brieuc. In the month of April in the same year
in which his report was received operations commenced by planting
3,000,000 mother‐oysters which had been dredged in the common ground;
brood from the oyster‐grounds at Cancale and Tréquiers being distributed
in ten longitudinal lines on tiles, fragments of pottery, and valves of
shells. At the end of eight months the progress of the beds was tested,
and the dredge in a few minutes brought up 2,000 oysters fit for the
table, while two fascines, drawn up at random, contained nearly 20,000,
from one to two inches in diameter.” The publicity given to these facts
excited great and practical interest, and in a short time the culture
assumed gigantic proportions. The Bay of Arcachon was transformed into a
vast field of production, no less than 1,200 capitalists, mostly very
small ones, associated with an equal number of fishermen, having up to
1870 planted no less than 988 acres of oysters. In this way the State
organised two model farms for experimental purposes, at the trifling
original cost of £114; it was estimated to be worth £8,000 in 1870, and
had 5,000,000 oysters, large and small. 1,200 parks were then in active
operations on the Isle of Ré, and 2,000 more in course of construction.

[Illustration: DREDGING FOR OYSTERS.]

In our own country the Whitstable Company has been most successful. “The
layings at Whitstable,” Mr. Bertram tells us, “occupy about a mile and a
half square, and the oyster‐beds have been so prosperous as to have
obtained the name of the ‘happy fishing grounds.’ Whitstable lies in a
sandy bay formed by a small branch of the Medway, which separates the Isle
of Sheppey from the mainland. Throughout this bay, from the town of
Whitstable at its eastern extremity to the old town of Faversham, which
lies several miles inland, the whole of the estuary is occupied by oyster‐
farms, on which the maritime population, to the extent of 3,000 people and
upwards, is occupied, the sum paid for labour by the various companies
being set down at £160,000 per annum, besides the employment given at
Whitstable in building and repairing boats, dredges, and other requisites
for the oyster‐fishing. The business of the various companies is to feed
oysters for the London and other markets, to protect the spawn or flotsam,
as the dredgers call it, which is emitted on their own beds, and to
furnish, by purchase or otherwise, the new brood necessary to supply the
beds which have been taken up for consumption.” The little Bay of Pont, on
the Essex coast, a piece of water sixteen miles long by three wide, now
gives employment to 150 or more boats, the crews of which are exclusively
employed in obtaining brood oysters from eighteen months to two years old
to supply the oyster farmers.

The Thames, or “native” system, is as follows:—Every year there is a
regular examination of the beds, which are so carefully dredged that
almost every individual oyster is examined. The younger ones are placed
where they can thrive best, the same being true of all grades. Dead and
sickly oysters are removed, and star‐fish and all kinds of enemies killed.

[Illustration: THE SCALLOP (_Pecten_).]

The Scallop (_Pecten_) is not a true oyster, though it may be cooked and
treated like one, with satisfactory results. Its name is derived from the
channeled edges and surfaces peculiar to it, which somewhat resemble the
arrangements of the teeth of a comb. Centuries ago they were known as
Pilgrims’ Shells; for in the middle ages the pilgrims were wont to
ornament their habits or hats with these bivalves, of which there are not
far from a couple of hundred known species. They are much more lively
animals than the oyster, being able to shift about from place to place
with some degree of agility; this they do by forcibly ejecting water
between their shells, moving on by a kind of recoil. Another curious
bivalve mollusc is the _Spondylus_, a genus found mostly in the warmer
seas, some of the species of which are highly prized by conchologists.
Their strong, brilliantly‐coloured shells bristle with spines and feet.
One of the most remarkable species is that known to naturalists as
_Spondylus regius_, at all times scarce, and at one time extremely rare.
In connection with the last‐named mollusc, a story is told by M. Chenu,
regarding an enthusiastic collector. “M. R——,” says Chenu, “was Professor
of Botany to the Faculty of Paris, and was, as sometimes happens, more
learned than rich; he wished, on the invitation of a stranger, to purchase
one of these shells at a very high price, which might be from 3,000 to
6,000 francs (approximately £120 to £240); the bargain was made, and the
price agreed upon; it was only necessary to pay. The money in the
Professor’s hands made only a part of the sum the merchant was to receive
for his shell, and he would not part with it without payment. M. R——, now
consulting his desire to possess the shell more than his weak resources,
made up secretly a parcel of his scanty plate, and went out to sell it.
Without consulting his wife, he replaced his silver plate by articles of
tin, and ran to the merchant to secure his coveted Spondylus, which he
believed to be _S. regius_.

[Illustration: SPONDYLUS.]

“The hour of dinner arrived, and we may imagine the astonishment of Madame
R——, who could not comprehend the strange metamorphosis of her plate. She
delivered herself of a thousand painful conjectures on the subject. M.
R——, on his part, returned home happy with his shell, which he had
committed to the safe custody of a box placed in his coat pocket. But as
he approached the house he paused, and began for the first time to think
of the reception he might meet with. The reproaches which awaited him,
however, were compensated when he thought of the treasure he carried home.
Finally, he reached home, and Madame R——’s wrath was worthy of the
occasion; the poor man was overwhelmed with the grief he had caused his
wife; his courage altogether forsook him. He forgot his shell, and in his
trepidation, seated himself on a chair without the necessary adjustment of
his garment. He was only reminded of his treasure by hearing the crushing
sound of the breaking box which contained it. Fortunately the damage done
was not very great—two spines only of the shell were broken; but the good
man’s grief made so great an impression on Madame R——, that she no longer
thought of her own loss, but directed all her efforts to console the
simple‐minded philosopher.”

It may be added that these curious bivalve molluscs are very commonly
associated with branches of coral, to which they adhere firmly.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (_continued_).

The Univalves—A Higher Scale of Animal—The
Gasteropoda—Limpets—Used for Basins in the Straits of
Magellan—Spiral and Turret Shells—The Cowries—The Mitre Shells—The
Purpuras—Tyrian Purple—The Whelk—The Marine Trumpet—The Winged‐
feet Molluscs—The Cephalopodous Molluscs—The Nautilus—Relic of a
Noble Family—The Pearly Nautilus and its Uses—The Cuttle‐
fish—Michelet’s Comments—Hugo’s Actual Experiences—Gilliatt and
his Combat—A Grand Description—The Devil‐Fish—The Cuttle‐Fish of
Science—A Brute with Three Hearts—Actual Examples contrasted with
the Kraken—A Monster nearly Captured—Indian Ink and Sepia—The
Argonauta—The Paper Nautilus.

And now, the bivalves having had their turn, let us direct our attention
to a higher class of animals, to which nature has been more generous.
They, unlike the first‐named molluscs, have heads. “This head,” says
Figuier, “is still carried humbly; it is not yet _os sublime dedit_; it is
drawn along an inch or so from the ground, and in no respect resembles the
proud and magnificent organ which crowns and adorns the body of the
greater and more powerfully organised animals.” The Acephalous, or
“headless,” must now make way for the Cephalous, or headed mollusca. These
again are divided by the scientists into three great classes, the
_Gasteropoda_, _Pteropoda_, and _Cephalopoda_.

The title of the _Gasteropoda_ is derived from two Greek words signifying
_belly_ and _foot_; the _raison d’être_ of that title being that these
animals progress by means of flattened discs placed under their bellies.
The snail, slug, and cowrie, are leading types of this class.

In the _Pteropoda_ (from Greek words signifying _wing_ and _foot_)
locomotion is effected by membranous fins or wings.

Lastly, the _Cephalopoda_ are so called because they have prominently, as
a class, heads and feet, locomotion being effected by a set of tentacles
(arms or legs, as you will). The cuttle‐fish and devil‐fish (or octopus)
are types of this important series of animals.

[Illustration: THE LIMPET (_Patella_).]

The vastness of the subject precludes the possibility of details, and for
evident reasons a few of those inhabiting the sea itself can only be
considered here. Among the “Gasteropods,” as they are familiarly termed,
the limpets constitute a numerous family. The scientific name _Patella_ (a
deep dish or knee‐cap) was given to them by Linnæus, the form of their
shells fully warranting the title. Some of them are oval, others circular;
but all terminate in an elliptic cone. Otherwise they are varied enough,
some being smooth, but others having ridges or scales on the outer
surface, the edges being often dentated. Their colours are very varied.
The head of the animal itself has two horns and two eyes; its foot is a
thick fleshy disc, and when it means to hold on to a rock we all know how
difficult it is to dislodge it, for the said foot becomes a kind of
sucker. Some of those from the coast of Africa and the Antilles, &c., have
elegant forms, as witness _Patella umbella_, _P. granatina_, _P.
longicosta_, and others. Although often eaten, they are very tough and
indigestible. In Southern seas they attain to a great size; for example,
in the Straits of Magellan the natives use for culinary purposes species
as large as a slop‐basin.

[Illustration: TURBO.]

[Illustration: TROCHUS.]

Well‐known shells are also those of many species of _Trochus_; the spiral
shell has literally a _spiral animal_ inside it. So also some of the fifty
species of _Turbo_, which are often marbled in beautiful colours outwardly
and superbly nacred within. So again the winding pyramidal shells of the
_Turritella_, many of which are found in every sea. And once more, what
mantelpiece of old was not adorned with a pair or more of cowrie shells
(_Cypræ_), natives of every sea! They range from the little whitish money
cowrie, actually used in place of coin in parts of Africa to‐day, to
handsome shells of large size. The animal which inhabits this shell is
elongated, and has a head with a pair of long tentacles, each having a
very large eye. The foot, as one example specially will show (_Cypræ
tigris_) is an oval sucker, capable of great tenacity.

[Illustration: THE COWRIE (_Cypræa tigris_).]

In every conchologist’s collection will be found some of the mitre shells,
so called from their resemblance to a bishop’s mitre, and principally
obtained from Indian and Australian seas. So, again, the _Voluta_, with
their oval and graceful forms. The animal inhabiting the latter has a very
large head, provided with two tentacles and a mouth furnished with hooked
teeth. The foot is very large and projects from the whole mouth of the
shell, which is often ornamented with gay colours and varied marks and
flutings. So also the _Conus_ genus, the title of which sufficiently
indicates its general form, and some of the shells of which command high
prices. These generally tropical shells are more uniform in shape than
many just mentioned, but they are most beautifully varied in colour and
minor details. The “residents” have large heads with _snouts_, while their
mouths are furnished with horny teeth. Every good collection, too, is sure
to contain examples of the genus _Cassis_, principally from the Indian
Ocean.

[Illustration: VOLUTA.]

[Illustration: CONUS.]

Among the one‐shell molluscs the Purpuras bear an honoured name; for did
they not furnish the Greeks and Romans with the brilliant purple colouring
matter which was reserved for the mantles of princes and patricians! The
genus _Purpura_ is characterised as possessing an oval shell, thick
pointed. The animal itself has a large head, furnished with two swollen
conical tentacles close together, and bearing an eye towards the middle of
their external side. By means of a large foot they creep about in pursuit
of bivalves. The larger and more important kinds come from the warmer
seas, especially those surrounding the West Indies and Australia.

The purple mentioned in the Scriptures in connection with fine linen was
that of the Phœnicians, and came from Tyre. Sir William Wilde discovered
not far from the ruins of that city several circular excavations in a
rocky cliff, and in these he found a great number of crushed and broken
shells of Purpura. He believed that they had been bruised in great masses
by the Tyrian workmen for the manufacture of the dye. Shells of the same
species (_Murex trunculus_) are commonly found on the same coast at the
present day. Aristotle says that the Tyrian dye was taken from two
molluscs inhabiting the Phœnician coasts and seas. According to the great
Greek philosopher, one of these had a very large shell, consisting of
seven turns of the spire, studded with spines, and terminating in a strong
beak; the other had a much smaller shell. It is thought that the latter is
to be found in the _Purpura lapillus_, which abounds in the English
Channel. Reaumur and Duhamel both obtained a purple colour from it, which
they applied as a dye, and found permanent. The real secret of the
production of the Tyrian purple remains undiscovered to‐day.

[Illustration: PURPURA LAPILLUS.]

The genus _Buccinum_ resembles that of the _Purpura_ in many respects. The
common whelk belongs to the series. Thus one of the humblest of our shell‐
fish is allied to the animal from which a nearly priceless dye was once
obtained.

[Illustration: MUREX.]

[Illustration: HARPA.]

[Illustration: CLEODORA.]

The genus _Harpa_ includes some beautifully marked and coloured shells, of
which _H. ventricosa_ is an attractive example. These are chiefly found in
the Indian Ocean. The Rock Shells (_Murex_) abound in every sea, but are
finer and more branching in the warmer ones. They are remarkable for
bright colours and fantastic forms. The shell is oblong with a long spire
attached, its surface often covered with rows of branching spines. The
genus _Triton_, of which about one hundred species are known, is ranged
with the genus _Murex_, on account of points of similarity. The Marine
Trumpet (_Triton variegatum_) which sometimes attains a length of sixteen
inches, is a fine example. The genus _Strombus_ includes among its species
the great roughly ornamental shells, often used for grottoes or rockeries.
Some of the streets of Vera Cruz are said to be paved with them. Oddest
and most remarkable of all the marine shells to be found in the
naturalist’s collection are those of the genus _Pteroceras_. They are of
fresh and brilliantly shaded colours.

[Illustration: STROMBUS.]

[Illustration: TRITON.]

And now to the _Pteropoda_, practically “winged feet” molluscs, the
position of which in scientific nomenclature many think unsatisfactory.
This is, however, of little consequence to the general reader. These
curious little molluscs can pass through the deep blue seas they usually
inhabit rapidly, reminding us strongly of the movements of a butterfly or
some other winged insect. They can “ascend to the surface very suddenly,
turn themselves in a determinate space, or rather swim without appearing
to change their place, while sustaining themselves at the same height.”
“If,” continues Figuier, “anything alarms them, they fold up their
flappers and descend to such a depth in their watery world as will give
them the security they seek. Thus they pass their lives in the open sea
far from any other shelter except that yielded by the gulf weed and other
algæ. In appearance and habits these small and sometimes microscopic
creatures resemble the fry of some other forms of mollusca. They literally
swarm both in tropical and arctic seas; and are sometimes so numerous as
to colour the ocean for leagues. They are the principal food of whales and
sea‐birds in high latitudes, rarely approaching the coast. Only one or two
species have been accidentally taken on our shores, and those evidently
driven thither by currents into which they have been entangled, or by
tempests which have stirred the waters with a power beyond theirs. Dr.
Leach states that in 1811, during a tour to the Orkneys, he observed on
the rocks of the Isle of Staffa several mutilated specimens of _Clio
borealis_. Some days after, having borrowed a large shrimp net, and rowing
along the coast of Mull, when the sea, which had been extremely stormy,
had become calm, he succeeded in catching one alive, which is now in the
British Museum.” Professor Huxley has told us that they have auditory
organs, are sensible of light and heat, and probably of odours, but that
they possess very imperfect eyes and tentacles. They have respiratory
organs, hearts and livers, and are undeniably social and gregarious,
swarming together in great numbers.

We now approach the highest class of the mollusca—on paper, only, be it
observed, for in actual life most of them are either nearly
unapproachable, or, at all events, are most undesirable acquaintances.

“The cephalopodous molluscs,” says Figuier, a writer who in descriptive
powers is an artistic scientist and a scientific artist, “are indeed
highly organised for molluscs, for they possess in a high degree the sense
of sight, hearing, and touch. They appear with the earlier animals which
present themselves on the earth, and they are numerous even now, although
they are far from playing the important part that was assigned to them in
the early ages of organic life upon our planet. The Ammonites and
Belemnites existed by thousands among the beings which peopled the seas
during the secondary epoch in the history of the globe.” The Cephalopods
were divided by Professor Owen into two great orders, _Tetrabranchiata_,
or animals having four gills, and the _Dibranchiata_, having two gills.
The first order has at this epoch but one genus, that of _Nautilus_. This
group of animals belongs emphatically to the earlier ages of our globe,
“is becoming gradually extinct, and presents in our days only some species
very rare and few, especially when we compare them with the prodigious
numbers of these beings which animated the seas of the ancient world.” It
is a fact that the empty shells of the nautilus are more commonly found
floating on the ocean than those which are inhabited. No doubt the living
nautilus falls a prey either to larger marine animals, or, likely enough,
to sea‐fowl. Is it not also possible that the lone animal, knowing the
fate of its ancestors, and how they lie buried in barren strata,
overwhelmed with melancholy apprehensions of his own future, jumps
overboard and drowns himself? This suggestion is _not_ to be found among
the recognised authorities.

On the sea this scion of a decayed family is a graceful object, and in
fine weather projects his head and tentacles, and takes a general
inspection of the ocean. On land, however, he does not shine to so much
advantage, for there he has to drag himself over the ground, head down and
body and shell up. The shell has a regularly convoluted form, and is
divided into cells; doubtless this it was that gave the idea to the
inventor of water‐tight compartments. Through these passes a tube for
respiration. In the outermost partition is the owner of the ship, covered
by its mantle as a captain would be with pea‐jacket or sou’‐wester. The
animal possesses numerous tentacles, and has two great eyes, enabling it
to keep a good “look‐out.”

The Pearly Nautilus, common in the Indian seas, is sometimes used for
food. Its shell occasionally attains to a height of eight inches, and is
said to be even now used by Hindoo priests as the conch with which they
summon their followers to prayers. A very fine nacre is yielded, which is
used in ornamental work. The Orientals make drinking‐cups of it, and adorn
it with engraved devices. Many a retired old sea‐captain has such about
his house to‐day; and before the world became so familiar with Asiatic
productions they were often found in the houses of the wealthy.

[Illustration: THE COMMON NAUTILUS (_Nautilus pompilius_.)]

The order _Dibranchiata_ contains six families, mostly of formidable and
repulsive nature. They include cuttle‐fish, squids, and argonauts, and
these must mainly occupy our attention. What wonderful things have not
been written about them! The French have found in them a fertile theme.

“It is now,” says Michelet, “however, necessary to describe a much graver
world—a world of rapine and of murder. From the very beginning, from the
first appearance of life, violent death appeared; sudden refinement,
useful but cruel purification of all which has languished, or which may
linger or languish, of the slow and feeble creation whose fecundity had
encumbered the globe.

“In the more ancient formations of the Old World we find two murderers—a
nipper and a sucker. The first is revealed to us by the imprint of the
trilobite, an order now lost, the most destructive of extinct beings. The
second subsists in one gigantic fragment, a beak nearly two feet in
length, which was that of a great sucker, or cuttle‐fish (_sepia_). If we
may judge from such a beak, this monster—if the other parts of the body
were in proportion—must have been enormous; its ventose invincible arms,
of perhaps twenty or thirty feet, like those of some monstrous spider. In
making war on the molluscs he remains mollusc also; that is to say, always
an embryo. He presents the strange—almost ridiculous, if it were not also
terrible—appearance of an embryo going to war; of a fœtus furious and
cruel, soft and transparent, but tenacious, breathing with a murderous
breath—for it is not for food alone that it makes war: it has the wish to
destroy. Satiated, and even bursting, it still destroys. Without defensive
armour, under its threatening murmurs there is no peace; its safety is to
attack. It regards all creatures as a possible enemy. It throws about its
long arms, or rather thongs, armed with suckers, at random.”

Victor Hugo’s description of the monster, the devil‐fish (or octopus),
with whom poor Gilliatt has that terrible encounter, will not fade from
the mind of any one who has once read it. The poet‐novelist tells us that
he founded his narration on facts that came under his own notice. “Near
Breck‐Hou, in Sark,” says he, “they show a cave where a devil‐fish, a few
years since, seized and drowned a lobster‐fisher.... He who writes these
lines has seen with his own eyes, at Sark, in the cavern called the
Boutiques, a _pieuvre_ (cuttle‐fish) swimming, and pursuing a bather. When
captured and killed, this specimen was found to be four English feet
broad, and one could count its four hundred suckers. The monster thrust
them out convulsively, in the agony of death.”

Hugo’s wonderful description of the monster, though often technically
wrong, principally from exaggeration, must have some place here. He grasps
the facts of nature with the appreciation of the artist rather than of the
scientist.

“It is difficult,” writes he, “for those who have not seen it to believe
in the existence of the devil‐fish. Compared to this creature the ancient
hydras are insignificant. At times we are tempted to imagine that the
vague forms which float in our dreams may encounter in the realm of the
Possible attractive forces, having power to fix their lineaments, and
shape living beings out of these creatures of our slumbers....

“If terror were the object of its creation, nothing could be more perfect
than the devil‐fish.

“The whale has enormous bulk, the devil‐fish is comparatively small; the
tararaca makes a hissing noise, the devil‐fish is mute; the rhinoceros has
a horn, the devil‐fish has none; the scorpion has a dart, the devil‐fish
has no dart; the shark has sharp fins, the devil‐fish has no fins; the
vespertilio‐bat has wings with claws, the devil‐fish has no wings; the
porcupine has his spines, the devil‐fish has no spines; the sword‐fish has
his sword, the devil‐fish has no sword; the torpedo has its electric
spark, the devil‐fish has none; the toad has its poison, the devil‐fish
has none; the viper has its venom, the devil‐fish has no venom; the lion
has its talons, the devil‐fish has no talons; the griffon has its beak,
the devil‐fish has no beak; the crocodile has its jaws, the devil‐fish has
no teeth.

“The devil‐fish has no muscular organisation, no menacing cry, no
breastplate, no horn, no dart, no claw, no tail with which to hold or
bruise, no cutting fins, or wings with nails, no prickles, no sword, no
electric discharge, no poison, no talons, no beak, no teeth. Yet he is, of
all creatures, the most formidably armed. What, then, is the devil‐fish?
It is the sea‐vampire.

“The swimmer who, attracted by the beauty of the spot, ventures among
breakers in the open sea, where the still waters hide the splendours of
the deep, or in the hollows of unfrequented rocks, in unknown caverns
abounding in sea‐plants, testacea and crustacea, under the deep portals of
the ocean, runs the risk of meeting it. If that fate should be yours, be
not curious, but fly. The intruder enters there dazzled, but quits the
spot in terror.

“This frightful apparition, which is always possible among the rocks in
the open sea, is a greyish form which undulates in the water. It is the
thickness of a man’s arm, and its length nearly five feet. Its outline is
ragged. Its form resembles an umbrella closed, and without handle. This
irregular mass advances slowly towards you. Suddenly it opens, and eight
radii issue abruptly from around a face with two eyes. These radii are
alive; their undulation is like lambent flames; they resemble, when
opened, the spokes of a wheel of four or five feet in diameter. A terrible
expansion! It springs upon its prey.

“The devil‐fish harpoons its victim.

“It winds around the sufferer, covering and entangling him in its long
folds. Underneath it is yellow; above, a dull, earthy hue; nothing could
render that inexplicable shade dust‐coloured. Its form is spider‐like, but
its tints are like those of the chameleon. When irritated it becomes
violet. Its most horrible characteristic is its softness. Its folds
entangle; its contact paralyses.

“It has an aspect like gangrened or scabrous fish. It is a monstrous
embodiment of disease.

“It adheres closely to its prey, and cannot be torn away—a fact which is
due to its power of exhausting air. The eight antennæ, large at their
roots, diminish gradually, and end in needle‐like points. Underneath each
of these feelers range two rows of pustules, decreasing in size, the
largest ones near the head, the smaller at the extremities. Each row
contains twenty‐five of these. There are, therefore, fifty pustules to
each feeler, and the creature possesses in the whole four hundred. These
pustules are capable of acting like cupping glasses. They are
cartilaginous substances, cylindrical, horny, and livid. Upon the large
species they diminish gradually from the diameter of a five‐franc piece to
the size of a split pea. These small tubes can be thrust out and withdrawn
by the animal at will. They are capable of piercing to a depth of more
than one inch.

“This sucking apparatus has all the regularity and delicacy of a key‐
board. It stands forth at one moment and disappears the next. The most
perfect sensitiveness cannot equal the contractibility of these
suckers—always proportioned to the internal movement of the animal and its
exterior circumstances. The monster is endowed with the qualities of the
sensitive plant.

“This animal is the same as those which mariners call poulps, which
science designates _Cephalopoda_, and which ancient legends call krakens.
It is the English sailors who call them ‘devil‐fish,’ and sometimes
bloodsuckers. In the Channel Islands they are called _pieuvres_.

“They are rare at Guernsey, very small at Jersey; but near the island of
Sark are numerous and very large....

“When swimming the devil‐fish rests, so to speak, in its sheath. It swims
with all its parts drawn close. It may be likened to a sleeve sewn up with
a closed fish within. The protuberance which is the head pushes the water
aside, and advances with a vague undulatory movement. Its two eyes, though
large, are indistinct, being of the colour of the water.

“When in ambush, or seeking its prey, it retires into itself, grows
smaller, and condenses itself. It is then scarcely distinguishable in the
submarine twilight. At such times it looks like a mere ripple in the
water. It resembles anything except a living creature. The devil‐fish is
crafty. When its victim is unsuspicious, it opens suddenly. A glutinous
mass, endowed with a malignant will, what can be more horrible?

“It is in the most beautiful azure depths of the limpid water that this
hideous, voracious polyp delights. It always conceals itself—a fact which
increases its terrible associations. When they are seen, it is almost
invariably after they have been captured. At night, however, and
particularly in the hot season, the devil‐fish becomes phosphorescent.

“The devil‐fish not only swims, it walks. It is partly fish, partly
reptile. It crawls upon the bed of the sea. At these times it makes use of
its eight feelers, and creeps along in the fashion of a species of swift‐
moving caterpillar.

“It has no blood, no bones, no flesh. It is soft and flabby: a skin with
nothing inside. Its eight tentacles may be turned inside out, like the
fingers of a glove. It has a single orifice in the centre of its radii,
which appears at first to be neither the vent nor the mouth. It is, in
fact, both one and the other. The orifice performs a double function. The
entire creature is cold.

“The jelly‐fish of the Mediterranean is repulsive. Contact with that
animated gelatinous substance which envelops the bather, in which the
hands sink, and the nails scratch ineffectively, which can be torn without
killing it, and which can be plucked off without entirely removing it—that
fluid and yet tenacious creature which slips through the fingers, is
disgusting; but no horror can equal the sudden apparition of the devil‐
fish, that Medusa with its eight serpents.”

Let us examine the creatures scientifically.

The bodies of these formidable animals are soft and fleshy, while the head
protrudes; it is gifted with the usual organs of sense, the eyes being
particularly prominent. “Not to oppress the reader with anatomical
details,” says Figuier, “we shall just remark that the gaze of the cuttle‐
fish is decided and threatening. Its projecting eyes and golden‐coloured
iris are said to have something fascinating in them.” The mouth is armed
with a pair of horny mandibles or beaks, not unlike those of a parrot, and
is surrounded by a number of fleshy tentacles, provided, in most species,
with numerous suckers, and even claws. The arms or tentacles serve for all
purposes—locomotion, swimming, offence, and defence. The suckers occupy
all the _internal_ surface of the eight tentacular arms, and _each_ arm
carries about 240 of them. “The cuttle‐fish,” says the writer last quoted,
“would be at no loss to reply to the question of the Don Diego of
Corneille—

“‘Rodrique, as‐tu du cœur?’

for they have three hearts.” After that it need not be stated that they
possess respiratory organs and a blood circulation. Man and woman can
blush and change colour; _so can the cuttle‐fish_; but it turns darker
instead of paler, and its emotion has another effect—numerous little warts
suddenly appear on its surface.

In spite of the exaggerations of some writers, the size of many of these
animals is very large, as has been attested by trustworthy authorities.
Mr. Beale,(39) engaged in searching for shells on the rocks of Bonin
Island, was seized by one which measured across its expanded arms four
feet, the body not being larger than a clenched hand. He describes its
cold, slimy grasp as sickening. His tormentor was killed by a cut from a
large knife, but its arms had to be released bit by bit. In the museum of
Montpellier there is one six feet long. Péron, a French naturalist, saw in
the Australian seas one eight feet long. The travellers Quoy and Gaimard
picked up in the Atlantic Ocean the skeleton of an enormous mollusc,
which, according to their calculations, must have weighed 200 lbs. In the
College of Surgeons a beak or mandible of a cuttle‐fish is preserved,
which is larger than a human hand. In 1853 a gigantic specimen was
stranded on the coast of Jutland, which furnished many barrow‐loads of
flesh and other organic matter.

[Illustration: THE OCTOPUS (_Octopus vulgaris_.)]

Who has not heard of the kraken, the terror of the northern seas?
Naturalists and others long ago gave credence to the assertions of certain
Scandinavian writers who believed themselves in the existence of a great
sea‐monster capable of arresting and annihilating vessels. This kraken was
made to embrace a three‐masted vessel in its arms. “If,” says laughing De
Montfort, “my kraken takes with them, I shall make it extend its arms to
both shores of the Straits of Gibraltar.” A Bishop of Bergen assured the
world that a whole regiment could easily manœuvre on the back of the
kraken. All this, however, probably arose from the observation of some
extraordinarily large specimen. An apparently well‐authenticated fact is
the following, vouched for by a French naval officer, and the then French
Consul at the Canaries.

The steam corvette _Alecton_ fell in, between Teneriffe and Madeira, with
a sea‐monster of the cuttle kind, said to be fifty feet long, without
counting its eight arms; it had two fleshy fins; they estimated its weight
at close on two tons. The commander allowed shots to be fired at it, one
of which evidently hit the animal in a vital part, for the waves were
stained with blood. A strong musky odour was noticed. This is
characteristic of many of the cephalopods.

“The musket shots not having produced the desired results, harpoons were
employed, but they took no hold on the soft, impalpable flesh of the
marine monster. When it escaped from the harpoon, it dived under the ship,
and came up again at the other side. They succeeded at last in getting the
harpoon to bite, and in passing a bowline hitch round the posterior part
of the animal. But when they attempted to hoist it out of the water the
rope penetrated deeply into the flesh, and separated it into two parts,
the head with the arms and tentacles dropping into the sea and making off,
while the fins and posterior parts were brought on board: they weighed
about forty pounds.” The crew wished to pursue it in a boat, but the
commander refused, fearing that they might be capsized. “It is probable,”
says M. Moquin‐Tandon,(40) “that this colossal mollusc was sick, or
exhausted by a recent struggle with some other monster of the deep.”

Most of the cephalopods secrete a blackish fluid, which they can eject in
moments of danger, and thus cloud themselves in obscurity. This fluid was
known to the Romans, who made ink from it. It is the leading ingredient in
Indian ink and sepia to‐day. A story is told of an English officer abroad
who went out just before dinner‐time for a walk on the beach, where he
came across a cuttle‐fish sheltering under a hollow rock. For a time each
watched the other in mute astonishment, but the cuttle‐fish had the best
of it in the end. The aroused animal suddenly ejected a fountain of its
black fluid over the officer’s trousers, which was the more annoying
inasmuch as they were of white duck!

The bone of the cuttle, powdered, has long been used, in combination with
chalk, &c., as a dentifrice, so that the “monstrum horrendum” of Virgil is
of some use in the world.

The sixth family of the _Dibranchiata_ contains only one genus,
_Argonauta_, of which the paper nautilus is a pleasing example. “Floating
gracefully on the surface of the sea, trimming its tiny sail to the
breeze, just sufficient to ruffle the surface of the waves, behold the
exquisite living shallop! The elegant little bark which thus plays with
the current is no work of human hands, but a child of nature: it is the
argonaut, whose tribes, decked in a thousand brilliant shades of colour,
are wanderers of the night in innumerable swarms on the ocean’s surface!”
The Greek and Roman poets saw in it an elegant model of the ship which the
skill and audacity of the man constructed who first braved the fury of the
waves. To meet it was considered a happy omen. “O fish justly dear to
navigators!” sang Oppian; “thy presence announces winds soft and friendly:
thou bringest the calm, and thou art the sign of it!” Aristotle and Pliny
both gave careful descriptions of it. In India the shell fetches a great
price, and women consider it a fine ornament. Dancing‐girls carry them,
and gracefully wave them over their heads.

The paper nautilus has more than its little sail to assist its
progression; it is able to eject water against the waves, and so move
onward. They are timid and cautious creatures, live in families, and are
almost always found far out at sea: they never approach the shore.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (_continued_).

The Crustaceans, a Crusty Set—Young Crabs and their
Peculiarities—Shells and no Shells—Powers of Renewal—The Biter
Bit—Cocoa‐nut eating Crabs—Do Crabs like Boiling?—The Land Crab
and his Migrations—Nigger Excitement—The King Crab—The Hut Crab—A
True Yarn—The Hermit or Soldier Crab—Pugnaciousness—Crab War and
Human War—Prolific Crustaceans—Raising Lobster‐pots—Technical
Differences—How do Lobsters shed their Shells?—Fishermen’s
Ideas—Habits of the Lobster—Its Fecundity—The Supply for
Billingsgate—The Season‐“Lobster Frolics” in British North
America—Eel‐grass—Cray‐fish, Prawns, and Shrimps.

In the Crustacea we find the lowest form of articulate animals. They
possess feet, breathe through gills, and derive their name from their hard
crusty covering, which is mainly carbonate of lime with colouring matter.
They have nearly all of them claws, which most of them know well how to
employ offensively. “They have been compared,” says Figuier, “to the
heavily‐armed knights of the middle ages—at once audacious and cruel;
barbed in steel from head to foot, with visor and corselet, arm‐pieces and
thigh‐pieces—scarcely anything, in fact, is wanting to complete the
resemblance.” They possess the power of throwing off their calcareous
covering, when they become, for the nonce, as vulnerable as they had been
before formidable.(41)

“Among all the curious and quaint forms of animal life to be found in the
sea,” says Lord, “few for grotesque oddity can equal the baby crabs, or
_Zoëa_, as they are sometimes called. These interesting infants are not
the least like their papa or mamma, and no respectable or fully‐matured
male or female _crab_ would ever own them as his or her offspring. An
elfish little creature is the juvenile crab, with a head scarcely
deserving the name, and a pair of goggle bull’s‐eyes as of two policemen’s
lanterns rolled into one, a tail vastly too long for him, and an anti‐
garotte spear, quite as long as his absurd little body, attached to the
spot where his coat‐collar should be.... Master Crab’s internal economy is
just as curious as his external skeleton. One pair of jaws one would be
disposed to think sufficient for any living creature of reasonable
requirements, but he possesses eight, and instead of exposing his teeth to
the examination of the critical in matters of dentition, he carries them
safely stowed away in the interior of his stomach, where they would be
excessively hard to get at in cases of crustacean toothache. With such
appliances as these the food cannot well be otherwise than perfectly
masticated. A crab’s liver is an odd organ to contemplate, and constitutes
a considerable portion of the soft interior of the shell‐like box in which
the heart and other viscera are lodged. That well‐known delicacy known as
the ‘cream’ or ‘fat’ of the crab is liver, and nothing else. The lungs, or
gills, are formed by those fringe‐like appendages popularly known as the
‘dead men’s fingers.’ The shell‐shifting process before referred to is
common to all crustaceans; and our friend the crab, when he feels his
corselet getting rather tight for him, manages by some extraordinary
process not only to extricate himself from it, together with his shell‐
gauntlets, and the powerful nippers with which he is provided, but
performs other feats, compared with which those of the Davenport Brothers
sink into utter insignificance.”

Nearly all the crustaceans are hardy and destructive, and fight not merely
their enemies, but among each other. It matters little to them whether
they lose a claw or a tail, for after a few weeks of repose those members
grow again. Tandon records the fact that lobsters “which in an unfortunate
encounter lost a limb, sick and debilitated, reappear at the end of a few
months with a perfect limb, vigorous, and ready for service.” On the
Spanish coast a certain crab is caught for its claw alone, which is
considered excellent eating; this is pulled off, and the mutilated animal
thrown back into the sea, likely enough to be retaken, and the same
process repeated at some future time. Crustaceans are nearly all
carnivorous, and are by no means particular what they eat. Some of them,
however, show considerable appreciation for the oyster. Sometimes they eat
each other. Mr. Rymer Jones tells a story of one which attacked and
commenced to eat one slightly smaller than himself, and was then himself
attacked and eaten by a companion, realising the old adage concerning
fleas—

“And these have smaller still to bite ’em,
And so proceed, _ad infinitum_.”

Some crustaceans, however, adopt a vegetable diet. The Robber Crab of the
Polynesian Islands can not merely open a cocoa‐nut, but also enjoy its
contents. The crab begins by tearing off the fibre at the extremity where
the fruit is, always choosing the right hand. When this is removed, it
strikes it with its great claws until an opening is made; it then inserts
its slender claws, and by wriggling and turning itself about removes the
contents of the nut.

[Illustration: CRABS (_Cancer pagurus_).]

The proper mode of boiling crabs has long been a subject on which doctors
have disagreed. Who, then, shall decide? That there is cruelty associated
with the taking away of life it would be hard to deny, but the correctness
of choice between gradual stewing in slowly‐heated water and being plunged
at once into the seething, bubbling cauldron requires “the revelations of
a boiled crab” to clear up; and until a crustacean production under that
or a like title appears, we shall continue to plunge our armour‐clad
victims in water at 212 degrees of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, and leave the
question as to the propriety of our so doing to those who are disposed to
grapple with the subject for its own sake.

The West India Islands possess in the Land Crab (_Gecarcinus ruricola_) a
kind of crustacean highlander, who retreats into the uplands at certain
times in the year. “As the spawning season approaches a mighty gathering
of the clans takes place, and whole legions, unwarned by fiery cross or
blazing beacon, hasten forth to join the living tide flowing onward
towards the sea. Through the tangled jungle, down the rock‐strewed ravine,
over fallen tree‐trunks, and among the dense undergrowth of the forest, in
ceaseless, creeping, crawling, scuttling thousands, still they come
onward, and ever onward, as the bright stars shine out to light them on
their way. Banks, hedges, walls, and even houses, are passed straight over
in this crustacean steeplechase, no flags being needed to keep the mail‐
clad competitors to the true course. Instinct the guide, and the blue sea
for a goal, nothing stops the race.

“Cuffee and his companions, who have been gossiping and story‐telling
beneath their cocoa‐leaf roofs until half asleep, appear to become most
violent and incurable lunatics, on suddenly becoming aware of the
nocturnal exodus. They leap high in the air, shout, scream, and dance like
fiends, whilst the most ready‐witted of the crew dash off to ‘de massa’
with the startling news. ‘Hi, golly, sa! de crab! de crab! He come for
sure, this time, sure ’nuff. Plenty catch um bime by;’ and Cuffee keeps
his word to the letter, and captures the pilgrims by the basketful, in
spite of their claws. And black‐faced, woolly‐headed Aunt Lilly, the cook,
shows her teeth, like ivory dominoes in an ebony box, as visions of white‐
snow‐like rice, cocoa‐nut milk, capsicum‐pods, and stewpans, pass in
pleasing and appetising review before her; and ‘massa’ himself takes an
extra pull at the cold‐sangaree jug, sleeps pleasantly, and dreams of the
crab‐feast on the morrow.”

[Illustration: THE WEST INDIAN LAND CRAB (_Gecarcinus ruricola_).]

The King Crab of the eastern seas grows sometimes to an enormous size,
while the lance‐shaped spear with which he is furnished is used by the
Malays as a warlike instrument. Then, for a contrast, there’s the little
nut‐crab, with his queer little legs tucked up under his body, which
rambling jack‐tars sometimes gather for their friends at home, under the
idea that their shells, when cut and polished, will make handsome brooches
and shirt‐pins. Major Lord tells a good story of a dry old salt of a
quartermaster, on the Indian station, who “chanced one day, when on shore
for a cruise, to become possessed of a goodly number of these lucky
stones, as he called them, and by way of securing his treasures, placed
them in an old silk handkerchief, and stowed them away, with a few dollars
and sundry cakes of cavendish, in the corner of his chest. It so happened
that some piratical shipmate, not proof against the allurements of
honeydew and silver, but totally indifferent to natural history, seized
his opportunity and spirited off the tobacco and money, but left the
lucky‐stones behind. The next day, when our old friend came for his
accustomed supply of the weed, he, to his horror, astonishment, and
indignation, found the supposed pebbles in active motion, performing foot‐
races over his best jacket, the handkerchief spread open, and, alas!
empty. ‘Well!’ exclaimed he; ‘blow me if this aint too much of the monkey!
Why, look ye here, messmates! These here blessed stones have come to life,
every man Jack of ’em. They’ve chawed up all my bacca, and spent every mag
of my money! and now I’ll heave the beggars to Davy Jones’s locker.
Overboard is where I means to pitch ’em.’ And so he did, no doubt to the
intense gratification of the falsely‐accused crabs.”

[Illustration: THE HERMIT CRAB (_Pagurus Bernhardus_).]

The Hermit, or Soldier, Crab, with the exception of a kind of cuirass, or
head‐piece, has a soft, yielding skin. Knowing his own weakness, he
invariably entrenches himself in some safe place, not unfrequently
emptying the shell of some other marine animal. When he outgrows his
borrowed habitation he looks out for some larger dwelling. He is a very
timid creature, and retires at the least alarm. On the other hand, among
his kind he is strong, voracious, and cruel. Two hermit crabs cannot meet
without a fight brewing, but it rarely comes off. “Each extends his long
pincers, and seems to try to touch the other, much as a spider does, when
it seeks to seize a fly on its most vulnerable side; but each finding the
other armed in proof and perfectly protected, though eager to fight,
usually adopts the better part of valour, and prudently withdraws. They
often have true passages of arms, nevertheless, in which claws are spread
out and displayed in the most threatening manner, the two adversaries
tumbling head over heels, and rolling one upon the other, but they get
more frightened than hurt.” Mr. Gosse, however, describes a struggle which
had a tragic end. A hermit met a brother hermit pleasantly lodged in a
shell much more spacious than his own. He seized it by the head with his
powerful claws, tore it from its asylum with the speed of lightning, and
took its place not less promptly, leaving the dispossessed unfortunate
struggling on the sand in convulsions of agony. “Our battles,” says
Bonnet, “have rarely such important objects in view; _they_ fight each
other for a house.” A young poet of to‐day(42) sings of _our_ wars—

“Tell me, tell me, is this glory?
Is it honour, is it fame?
Has mankind, through ages hoary,
Given to war its fitting name?
Twist it, turn it, warp it, bind it,
Greet its triumphs with acclaim,
Yet at last the world will find it
Only murder, all the same!”

Both crabs and lobsters are amazingly prolific, and lay an enormous number
of eggs: it is computed that each female produces from 12,000 to 20,000 in
a season; and yet these shell‐fish are always dear in London! In France,
Figuier tells us, the size of the marketable lobster is regulated by law,
and fixed at a minimum of eight inches in length: all under that length
are contraband. The London market is supplied from every part of our
coasts, and very largely from Norway. At Kamble, near Southampton, one
owner has storing‐ponds, or tanks, for 50,000 at a time; and he has his
own smacks constantly running to the coasts of France, Scotland, and
Ireland.

The Lobster (_Homarus vulgaris_) is found in great abundance all round our
coasts. Who that has frequented our seaside watering‐places has not either
gone out to assist in hauling up the lobster‐pots, or, at all events, seen
the fishermen returning with their spoils? And what _can_ be finer than a
lobster boiled, say not more than half an hour after his capture from the
briny? He tastes very unlike the poor creature which has been conveyed by
boat or train to London, and knocked about in barrows, carts, markets, and
shops, until he wishes they would boil him, and have done with it at once.
Lobster‐pots are, practically, wicker‐basket traps. The hole at the bottom
allows free ingress, but makes it difficult for the victim to get out.
They are baited with garbage, and the position of each on the rocks or
sand below is marked by a buoy. Each fisherman has his own private mark on
them; and woe to the lobster‐thief, as to the crab‐thief! Sometimes nets
are used for catching lobsters.

Mr. Pennant says that large lobsters are in their best season from the
middle of October to the beginning of May. The smaller ones are good all
the summer. If they are four‐and‐a‐half inches long from the top of the
head to the end of the back shell they are called “sizable” lobsters; if
under four inches, “half‐size,” and two are reckoned as one of size. Under
four inches, they are called “pawks.”

There is little doubt that up to a certain age lobsters shed their shells
annually, but the mode of performance is not quite understood to‐day. “It
is supposed that the old shell is cast, and that the animal retires to
some lurking‐place till the new covering acquires consistence to contend
with his armour‐clad congeners.... The most probable conjecture is that
the shell sloughs off piecemeal, as it does in the cray‐fish. The greatest
mystery of all, perhaps, is the process by which the lobster withdraws the
fleshy part of its claws from their calcareous covering. Fishermen say the
lobster pines before casting its shell, and thus gets thin, so as to
permit of its withdrawing its members from it.” He sheds tears first, and
shell second.

The common English lobster, as seen in the fishmonger’s shop, is very
unlike his relatives beneath the waves. “The curled‐up form,” says Major
Lord, “in which he is seen when so exposed is not that usually assumed in
his own element, except in the act of exerting its immense powers of
retrograde motion. These are so great that one sudden downward sweep of
its curiously‐constructed oar‐like tail is sufficient to send it like an
arrow, three or four and twenty feet, with the most extraordinary
precision, thereby enabling our friend to retreat with the greatest
rapidity into nooks, corners, and crevices among the rocks, where pursuit
would be hopeless. His eyes being arranged on foot‐stalks, or stems, are
free from the inconvenient trammels of sockets, and possess a radius of
vision commanding both front and rear, and from their compound form (being
made up of a number of square lenses) are extremely penetrating and
powerful. The slightest shadow passing over the pool in which the lobster
may chance to be crawling or swimming will frequently cause one of these
backward shoots to be made, and the lobster vanishes into some cleft or
cavity with a rapidity of motion which no harlequin could ever, in his
wildest dreams, hope to achieve. Down among the deep channels, between the
crags at the sea’s bottom, alarms, except from the sea‐robbers themselves,
are not to be dreaded. Here the lobsters are at home, and in such spots
the wicker trap, or the trunk net, may be laid down for them: nets of this
kind are in general use. They are made by fastening a number of stout
wooden hoops to longitudinal bars, and covering them with network. Their
internal construction is much like that of the crab‐pot, only there are
two entrances instead of one, and twine is used instead of willows or
twigs to prevent the prisoners from escaping. Heavy stones are attached to
them as sinkers. Fish offal is used as bait, and corks at the end of lines
serve to point out their position and haul them up by. Lobsters are
prolific creatures, and it is well that they are so, considering the
enormous quantities consumed every day in England alone.

“It has been computed that each fully‐matured female will produce from
18,000 to 20,000 eggs, and there is little doubt but that with proper
management and the expenditure of a very small capital artificial
fecundation of the ova might be most successfully and profitably conducted
in this country. Much attention has of late been paid to this subject in
France, and many most interesting experiments in connection with it have
been tried. The number of lobsters brought every season to Billingsgate
Market will serve to give some idea of the importance of lobster fishing,
and the sums of money which must change hands in connection with it.
Calculations show that from the coasts of England, Ireland, Scotland, and
the Channel Islands 150,000 lobsters per season reach Billingsgate,
exclusive of the supply of Norway lobsters, which are even more abundantly
supplied, over 600,000 per season being imported. It not unfrequently
happens that one day’s supply for that great emporium of sea dainties
reaches as high as 25,000, and here at early morning, long before mighty
London is fairly up for the day, a scene of bustle and activity may be
witnessed which well repays the early riser. Steam in clouds floats above
the vast loads of newly‐boiled crustaceans and molluscs; and carts of
every size and pattern block the way.”

The regular lobster season lasts from the month of March to August. About
the middle or latter end of the last‐mentioned month the shifting of
shells takes place, and the fish is unfit for human food; but, like the
silkworms after a change of skin, they commence feeding in the most
voracious manner directly the new garment is durable enough to admit of
their taking their walks abroad, and their temporary seclusion and
compulsory abstinence are amply made up by a course of heavy feeding. The
lost plumpness and condition soon return. Unlike some crustaceans who are
coldly indifferent to the welfare of their offspring, the mamma lobster
keeps her little brood about her until the youthful lobsterkins are big
enough to start in life for themselves.

The coasts of British North America, as well as many portions of the
seaboard of the United States, abound in mail‐clad inhabitants of many
kinds. In some localities great amusement is at times afforded by their
capture—a sort of picnic, or lobster frolic, being organised. A boat, with
plenty of eatables and drinkables, and a capacious pot, are provided, and
long poles with their ends split prepared. On the boat being propelled
slowly through the shallow water, a sharp look‐out is kept on the regions
below, and on the lobster being discovered, the split end of the pole is
lowered quietly, and with the greatest caution, until just over the
unsuspecting victim’s back, when by a sudden downward thrust the forceps‐
like instrument securely nips him, and he is brought to the surface in
spite of his claws and the pinches he inflicts on the tough, unyielding
wood. Some overhanging rock or pleasant nook on the shore is usually
selected as a place in which to dine and cook the proceeds of the lobster
hunt.

[Illustration: LOBSTER (_Homarus vulgaris_) AND PRAWNS (_Palæmon
serratus_).]

The bays, shallows, and mouths of rivers on the coast of Prince Edward’s
Island abound in a species of seaweed known amongst the inhabitants as
“eel‐grass,” on which vast numbers of lobsters feed as in a rich sea‐
garden. To these favoured hunting grounds the lobster‐catchers betake
themselves, and by wading little more than half‐leg deep gather as many as
they require. A bushel basket has been filled in this way in less than an
hour.

Like the branching growths of submarine life which form the connecting
link between the vegetable and animal kingdoms, we find crustaceans
dwelling, so to speak, on the border‐lands of other races, and linking the
shrimp, crab, and lobster families together; partaking of the nature of
each, but being identical with neither; such are the so‐called _Squat
Lobsters_, or _Galathea_. Their singular alertness renders capture
somewhat difficult. Like the lobster, they possess extraordinary powers of
vision and retrograde movement. The horns are extremely long, and so
sensitive that the slightest touch seems to reveal at once the nature of
an approaching object, and enables the alarmed squat to seek a safe
sanctuary between the rock clefts, from which it is by no means easy to
withdraw him.

The _spined lobster_, _crawfish_, _cray_, or _crowder_, will, from its
thorn‐coated shell, long horns, powerful nippers, and generally formidable
appearance, be familiar to most of our readers. Like most other
crustaceans, the cray delights in a home among rugged sunken rocks, and is
taken in the traps laid for ordinary lobsters and crabs. Their flesh,
being of harder texture and sweeter flavour, is objected to by professed
lobster‐eaters; still, a well‐conditioned spined lobster is by no means to
be despised. Some portions of the Pacific Ocean, and the warm seas of the
East, contain them in vast numbers. Many spots on the coast of South
America, and the bays and inlets of the island of Juan Fernandez,
literally swarm with them. Some idea may be formed of the abundance of
animated creatures of this and other kinds to be taken in these seas by
the following account of the fishing to be obtained in them, given by the
Hon. F. Walpole:—“The fishing afforded the best return for labour, and a
boat might be filled in four hours with hook and line only. Fish swarmed
of every size and colour, and seemingly of every variety of appetite, for
they took any bait. The bottom was literally lined with crawfish of a
large size; some must have weighed five pounds at least. There needed no
hook—a piece of anything let down on a string to the bottom was enough;
they saw it, grasped it, and kept their hold till you had seized them by
their long feelers and borne them into the boat, where they crawled about
and extended their feelers as if in search of more bait.... We had
crawfish for breakfast, crawfish for dinner, crawfish for supper, and
crawfish for any incidental meal we could cram in between.” The coral
reefs fringing the island of Mauritius afford shelter to numbers of the
family of crawfish, which in both size and splendour of colouring far
excel those taken in our seas.

The prawn and shrimp are included in the same order as the lobster and the
crab, and species of these crustaceans are found in all seas. They are the
scavengers of the ocean, and pick and devour any dead matter in the sea;
hence they are particularly valuable in the aquarium. The art of shrimping
will no doubt be familiar to all our readers, from visits made to our
south‐coast watering‐places. In tropical climates the prawn attains the
size of a small lobster—up to nine or ten inches in length, three being
considered sufficient for a meal. Prawns are sold in Dublin six and seven
inches in length, and are considered splendid feeding.

CHAPTER XIV.

OCEAN LIFE.—THE HARVEST OF THE SEA.

Fishes and their Swimming Apparatus—The Bladder—Scientific
Classification—Cartilaginous Fish—The Torpedo—A Living Galvanic
Battery—The Shark—His Love for Man in a Gastronomic Sense—Stories
of their Prowess—Catching a Shark—Their Interference with
Whaling—The Tiger‐Shark—African Worship of the Monster—The Dog‐
fish—The Sturgeon—Enormous Fecundity—Caviare—The Bony Fishes—The
Flying Fish: its Feats; its Enemies—Youth of a Salmon—The Parr,
the Smolt, and the Grilse—Flourishes in the Sea—The Ponds at
Stormontfield—The Salmon’s Enemies—The Ettrick Shepherd—Canned
Salmon, and where it comes from—The Fish a Drug in N. W.
America—Canoes impeded by them—The Fisheries of the Columbia
River—The Fishing Season—Modes of Catching Salmon—The Factories
and Processes employed.

And now we proceed to still higher organisations. The fish must have their
turn in a work treating of their natural home, the ocean.(43) Fishes,
intended always to live in water, have wonderful organs to aid them in
swimming. “The anterior limbs,” says Figuier, “which correspond with the
arms in man and the wings in birds, are attached to each side of the
trunk, immediately behind the head, and form the pectoral fins. The
posterior limbs occupy the lower surface of the body, and form the ventral
fins. The latter, which are always over the ventral line, may be placed
before, beneath, or, as is most usual, behind the former. Fishes possess,
besides these two pair of fins, odd fins. The fins which are found on the
back or dorsum are called the back or dorsal fins, those at the end of the
tail are the caudal fins; finally, there is frequently another attached to
the lower extremity of the body, which is called the anal fin. These fins
are always nearly of the same structure, consisting generally of a fold of
the skin, supported by slender, flexible, cartilaginous, or osseous rays,
connected by a thin membrane.” The muscles which move these fins are
powerful. Further, nearly all species of fish possess a swimming bladder,
over which the animal has control, and can thereby increase or diminish
the specific gravity of its body. Immediately behind the head are the gill
openings; respiration is effected by water, in its natural state always
charged with air, being taken in at the mouth, which passes over the
gills, and is afterwards ejected. The eyes in fish are usually very large.

The scientific classification of fishes usually adopted is that of Muller.
He divided them into five groups, the _Leptocardia_, _Cyclostomata_,
_Selachia_, _Ganoidea_, and _Teleostea_. The first of these is represented
by a single genus, _Amphioxus_, a little slender gelatinous fish, rarely
over two inches in length, and commonly found on all sandy coasts. The
second order is characterised as serpentine, void of fins, and with a
mouth formed for suction. The lamprey is a familiar example.

The third order, _Selachia_, includes a number of cartilaginous fish,
varying much in form; the rays, dog‐fish, skate, torpedo, shark, and saw‐
fish belong to this important division. The torpedo has the power of
giving a strong electrical shock. Redi, an Italian naturalist of the
seventeenth century, first studied them carefully. He caught and landed an
electric ray, and pressing it with his hand, experienced a tingling
sensation, which extended to his arms and shoulders, and was followed by a
disagreeable trembling. This electric power dies with the animal. Dr.
Walsh made some interesting experiments with them. He placed a living
torpedo on a clean wet towel, and connected brass wires with it. Round the
torpedo were eight persons, standing on isolating substances. One end of
the wire was placed in a basin full of water. The first person had a
finger of one hand in this basin, and a finger of the other in a second
basin, also full of water. The second person had a finger in the last‐
named basin, and a finger of the other hand in a third basin, and so on
round the circle of eight persons. The end of the second wire was plunged
into the last basin of the series, thus establishing a complete electric
circuit. At the moment when the experimenter touched the torpedo a
tolerably strong shock was felt by all participating. When the torpedo was
placed on an isolated supporter, it showed its energy by communicating to
several persons forty or fifty shocks in the short space of a minute and a
half.

The family _Carcharidæ_ includes the true sharks, some species of which
attain to a length of twenty, or even thirty, feet. They are the terror of
all other fish and molluscs. “But the prey which has the greatest charm
for him is man; the shark loves him dearly, but it is with the affection
of the gourmand. If we may believe some travellers, when several varieties
of human food comes in its way, the shark prefers the European to the
Asiatic, and both to the negro.” He has been known to jump clean aboard a
fisherman’s boat, and even to snap up a sailor from the shrouds. Commerson
relates the following:—The corpse of a negro had been suspended from a
yard‐arm _twenty feet_ above the level of the sea. A shark was seen making
every effort to reach the body, which eventually he did, and tore it limb
from limb in presence of the horror‐stricken crew. The mouth of the shark
is placed in the lower part of the head, and the animal has to turn itself
in the water before he can seize an object above him. On the African coast
the negroes take advantage of this fact; they swim towards him, and seize
the moment when he turns to rip up his belly with a large strong knife.
The adult shark has six rows of murderous‐looking teeth, forming a perfect
arsenal of deadly weapons.

Captain Basil Hall describes the mode by which sharks are sometimes
captured. “The sharp‐curved dorsal fin of a huge shark was seen rising
about six inches above the water, and cutting the glazed surface of the
sea by as fine a line as if a sickle had been drawn along it. ‘Messenger,
run to the cook for a piece of pork,’ cried the captain, taking the
command with as much glee as if an enemy’s cruiser had been in sight.
‘Where’s your hook, quartermaster?’ ‘Here, sir, here,’ cried the fellow,
feeling the point, and declaring it was as sharp as any lady’s needle, and
in the next instant piercing with it a huge junk of pork weighing four or
five pounds. The hook, which is as large as one’s little finger, has a
curvature about as large as a man’s hand when half closed, and is six or
eight inches in length, while a formidable line, furnished with three or
four feet of chain attached to the end of the mizen topsail halyard, is
now cast into the ship’s wake.

“Sometimes the very instant the bait is cast over the stern the shark
flies at it with such eagerness that he actually springs partially out of
the water. This, however, is rare. On these occasions he gorges the bait,
the hook, and a foot or two of the chain, without any mastication, and
darts off with the treacherous prize with such prodigious velocity that it
makes the rope crack again as soon as the coil is drawn out. Much
dexterity is required in the hand which holds the line at this moment. A
bungler is apt to be too precipitate, and jerk away the hook before it has
got far enough into the shark’s stomach. The secret of the sport is to let
the monster gulp down the whole bait, and then to give the line a violent
pull, by which the barbed point buries itself in the coat of the stomach.
When the hook is first fixed it spins out like the log‐line of a ship
going twelve knots.

“The suddenness of the jerk with which the shark is brought up often turns
him quite over. No sailor, however, thinks of hauling one on board merely
by the rope fastened to the hook. To prevent the line breaking, the hook
snapping, or the jaw being torn away, a running bowline is adopted. This
noose is slipped down the rope and passed over the monster’s head, and is
made to join at the point of junction of the tail with the body; and now
the first part of the fun is held to be completed. The vanquished enemy is
easily drawn up over the taffrail, and flung on deck, to the delight of
the crew.” Even then he is sometimes a very formidable enemy. The flesh of
the shark, though sometimes eaten, is coarse and leathery.

[Illustration: THE COMMON SHARK (_Carcharias vulgaris_).]

On several of the smaller islands of the Spanish Main whaling stations are
established. After the huge fish have been captured, they are towed by the
boats to one of these stations, and the blubber is stripped off and
carried on shore to the boiling‐house in large white blocks, where a
simple apparatus is set up for “trying‐out” the oil. It sometimes happens
that immediately after the whale has been killed the sharks surround it in
such numbers, and devour the blubber with such rapacity, that if the
distance be great and the currents adverse, the greater part has been
eaten off before the whale can be towed ashore; and the labour of the
fishermen is thus thrown away.

The tiger‐shark is a more formidable monster than others of its tribe,
because of its power of seizing its prey without turning on its back or
side. It is enabled to do this from the great size of its mouth, and from
its position, which is near the end of the snout, instead of underneath,
as in other varieties of the shark.

“As soon as the carcase of the whale has been stripped of its blubber, it
is towed out at high water to a sufficient distance from the station to
ensure of its being carried away by the falling tide. This is necessary,
for the stench from so large a mass of putrefying flesh, exposed as it has
been to the intense action of a tropical sun for three or four days, is
more than unpleasant.

“Now is the opportunity for the shark‐hunters. They take possession of the
remains, tow them to some convenient nook of the Bocas, as the channels
between the islands are called, and there anchor them. All is now
prepared, and nothing remains but eagerly and silently to watch for the
assembly of the ravenous brutes to their midnight orgies.”

The liver of the shark yields a most valuable oil, largely used in the
colony as a substitute for cod‐liver oil. The liver of a shark fifteen
feet long will yield from twelve to sixteen gallons of oil.

The canoes used for shark‐hunting are some twenty feet in length. In the
bow a deep groove is cut, to guide the rope after the fish has been
struck. A coil of fifteen fathoms of rope, carefully arranged under the
thwarts, is secured at one end to a piece of strong chain, at the other
end of which is a harpoon. A lance is kept on board to assist in giving
the _coup de grâce_ to the shark when he has exhausted himself
sufficiently.

The inhabitants of many parts of the African coasts worship the shark, and
consider its stomach the road to heaven. Three or four times a year they
row out and offer the shark poultry and goats to satisfy his appetite.
This is not all; a child is once a year sacrificed to the monster, which
has been specially fattened for this occasion from its birth to the age of
ten. On the _fête_ day, the unfortunate little victim is bound to a post
on a sandy point at low water; as the tide rises the sharks arrive. The
child may shriek, and the mother may weep, but it is of no avail; even its
own parent thinks that the horrible sacrifice will ensure her child’s
entry into heaven.

[Illustration: THE DOG‐FISH (_Acanthias vulgaris_).]

The dog‐fish—from which we derive the skin known as _shagreen_, used for
spectacle and other cases—the furious and voracious hammerhead, and the
saw‐fish, belong to the same great order. The last named will attack any
inhabitant of the deep whatever, and even dares to measure his strength
with the whale. Its length is from twelve to fifteen feet, while its
weapon of defence is sometimes as much as two yards in length.
Occasionally it dashes itself against the side of a ship with such fury as
to leave its sword broken in the timber.

Of the fourth great order, _Ganoidea_, the sturgeon is the most prominent
example. It is essentially a sea‐fish, although ascending rivers at stated
periods, as does the salmon. It is particularly noticeable for the number
of bony plates or scales on its back and belly. In the sea the sturgeon
feeds on herrings, mackerel, and other fish; in the rivers on salmon. It
is caught in traps, or in nets. The prepared roe, cleaned, washed in
vinegar, and partially dried, is the caviare of the Russians. The eggs of
a female sturgeon will weigh over one‐third of its entire body, and as
they sometimes reach a weight of nearly 3,000 pounds, the preparation of
caviare becomes an important and profitable industry.

[Illustration: THE GLOBE‐FISH (_Tetrodon_) AND SUN‐FISH (_Orthagoriscus
mola_).]

[Illustration: THE PIPE FISH (_Syngnathus acus_).]

The fifth order, _Teleostea_, or bony fishes, constitutes a lengthy
series. Among it must be placed the globular and phosphorescent sun‐fish,
the spiny globe‐fish, the bony trunk‐fish, and the cuirassed pipe‐fish,
the sea‐horse, which has a head not unlike a horse, and floats vertically,
the flying‐fish, the eels, herrings, salmon, carp, cod, flat‐fish,
mullets, tunnies, and others too numerous to mention. It is for man’s
purposes the most important of all the orders.

[Illustration: THE FLYING‐FISH (_Exocœtus exiliens_.)]

The flying‐fish have been incidentally mentioned before in this work.
Captain Basil Hall observed a flight of 200 yards; they have come on board
a vessel fourteen or fifteen feet, and into the chains of a line‐of‐battle
ship twenty feet above the water. They are considerably harassed by the
attacks of other fish, and when they take to the air often fall victims to
gulls and other sea‐birds. Sharks and dolphins are their particular
enemies. Their glittering, silvery brilliancy is most beautiful in the
brightness of tropical seas.

Among the most important bony fishes must certainly be first placed the
salmon, which includes three well‐known species, _Salmo salar_ (the salmon
itself), _S. fario_ (the salmon trout), and _S. trutta_ (the trout). The
early life of the salmon is interesting. The infant fry is primarily, of
course, very helpless, and during the first two or three weeks of its
existence carries about with it, as a provision for food, a portion of the
yolk of the egg from which it was hatched. This generally lasts it from
twenty to forty days. It is two years before the youngster ventures out to
sea. In the first stage the young salmon is called a _parr_; during the
second it is a _smolt_, _i.e._, a parr plus a covering of silvery scales.
The smolt, which in the course of its two or more years’ stay in the river
has only attained a growth of six or eight inches, returns from the sea in
a couple of months weighing three or four pounds, and after six months ten
or twelve pounds. It is now a _grilse_.

Dr. Bertram says of the salmon’s growth:—

“The sea‐feeding must be favourable, and the condition of the fish well
suited to the salt‐water to ensure such rapid growth—a rapidity which
every visit of the fish to the ocean serves but to confirm. Various fish,
whilst in the grilse state, have been marked to prove this; and at every
migration they returned to their breeding‐stream with added weight and
improved health. What the salmon feeds upon whilst in the salt‐water is
not well known, as the digestion of the fish is so rapid as to prevent the
discovery of food in their stomachs when they are captured and opened.
Guesses have been made, and it is likely that these approximate to the
truth; but the old story of the rapid voyage of the salmon to the North
Pole and back again turns out, like the theory upon which was built up the
herring migration romance, to be a mere myth.

“None of our naturalists have yet attempted to elucidate that mystery of
salmon life which converts one‐half of the fish into sea‐going smolts,
whilst as yet the other moiety remain as parr. It has been investigated so
far at the breeding‐ponds at Stormontfield, but without resolving the
question. There is another point of doubt as to salmon life which I shall
also have a word to say about—namely, whether or not that fish makes two
visits annually to the sea; likewise, whether it be probable that a smolt
remains in the salt water for nearly a year before it becomes a grilse. A
salmon only stays, as it is popularly supposed, a very short time in the
salt water; and as it is one of the quickest‐swimming fishes we have, it
is able to reach a distant river in a very short space of time, therefore
it is most desirable we should know what it does with itself when it is
not migrating from one water to the other; because, according to the
opinion of some naturalists, it would speedily become so deteriorated in
the river as to be unequal to the slightest exertion....

“At every stage of its career the salmon is surrounded by enemies. At the
very moment of spawning, the female is watched by a horde of devourers,
who instinctively flock to the breeding‐grounds in order to feast on the
ova. The hungry pike, the lethargic perch, the greedy trout, the very
salmon itself, are lying in wait, all agape for the palatable roe, and
greedily swallowing whatever quantity the current carries down. Then the
waterfowl eagerly pounces on the precious deposit the moment it has been
forsaken by the fish; and if it escape being gobbled up by such
cormorants, the spawn may be washed away by a flood, or the position of
the bed may be altered, and the ova be destroyed, perhaps for want of
water. As an instance of the loss incidental to salmon‐spawning in the
natural way, I may just mention that a whiting of about three‐quarters of
a pound weight has been taken in the Tay with three hundred impregnated
salmon ova in its stomach! If this fish had been allowed to dine and
breakfast at this rate during the whole of the spawning season it would
have been difficult to estimate the loss our fisheries would have
sustained by his voracity. No sooner do the eggs ripen, and the young fish
come to life, than they are exposed, in their defenceless state, to be
preyed upon by all the enemies already enumerated; while, as parr, they
have been taken out of our streams in such quantities as to be available
for the purpose of pig‐feeding and manure! Some economists estimate that
only one egg out of every thousand becomes a full‐sized salmon. Mr. Thomas
Tod Stoddart calculated that 150,000,000 of salmon ova are annually
deposited in the river Tay; of which only 50,000,000, or one‐third, come
to life and attain the parr stage; that 20,000,000 of these parr become in
time smolts, and that their number is ultimately diminished to 100,000; of
which 70,000 are caught, the other 30,000 being left for breeding
purposes. Sir Humphry Davy calculated that if a salmon produced 17,000
roe, only 800 of these would arrive at maturity. It is well, therefore,
that the female fish yields 1,000 eggs for each pound of her weight; for a
lesser degree of fecundity, keeping in view the enormous waste of life
indicated by these figures, would long since—especially taking into
account the destructive modes of fishing that used a few years ago to be
in use—have resulted in the extinction of this valuable fish.

“The first person who ‘took a thought about the matter’—_i.e._, as to
whether the parr was or was not the young of the salmon—and arrived at a
solid conclusion, was James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who, in his usual
impulsive way, proceeded to verify his opinions. He had, while herding
sheep, many opportunities of watching the fishing streams, and, like most
of his class, he wielded his fishing‐rod with considerable skill. While
angling in the tributaries of some of the Border salmon‐streams, he had
often caught the parr as it was changing into the smolt, and had, after
close observation, come to the conclusion that the little parr was none
other than the infant salmon. Mr. Hogg did not keep his discovery a
secret, and the more his facts were controverted by the naturalists of the
day the louder became his proclamations. He had suspected all his life
that parr were salmon in their first stage. He would catch a parr with a
few straggling scales upon it; he would look at this fish, and think it
queer; instantly he would catch another, a little better covered with
silver scales, but all loose, and not adhering to the body. Again, he
would catch a smolt, manifestly a smolt, all covered with the white silver
scales, yet still rather loose upon the skin, which would come off in his
hand. Removing these scales, he found the parr with the blue finger‐marks
below them, and that the fish were young salmon then became as manifest to
the shepherd as that a lamb, if suffered to live, would become a sheep.
Wondering at this, he marked a great number of the lesser fish, and
offered rewards (characteristically enough, of whisky) to the peasantry to
bring him such as had evidently undergone the change predicted by him.
When this conclusion was settled in his mind, the Shepherd at once
proclaimed his new‐gained knowledge. ‘What will the fishermen of Scotland
think’ said he, ‘when I assure them, on the faith of long experience and
observation, and on the word of one who can have no interest in instilling
an untruth into their minds, that every insignificant parr with which the
cockney fisher fills his basket is a salmon lost!’ These crude attempts of
the impulsive Shepherd of Ettrick—and he was hotly opposed by the late Mr.
Buist, of Stormontfield—were not without their fruits; indeed, they were
so successful as quite to convince him that parr were young salmon in
their first stage.”

The following amusing dialogue on the habits of the salmon once took place
between the Ettrick Shepherd and a friend:—

“_Shepherd_:—‘I maintain that ilka saumon comes aye back again frae the
sea till spawn in its ain water.’

“_Friend_:—‘Toots, toots, Jamie! hoo can it manage till do that? Hoo, in
the name o’ wonder, can a fish, travelling up a turbid water frae the sea,
know when it reaches the entrance to its birthplace, or that it has
arrived at the tributary that was its cradle?’

“_Shepherd_:—‘Man, the great wonder to me is no hoo the fish get back, but
hoo they find their way till the sea first ava, seein’ that they’ve never
been there afore!’”

The canned salmon, now generally popular in England, and which, though
some few years ago an expensive luxury, is now within the reach of all,
comes principally from the Columbia River, Oregon, and other parts of the
North Pacific coasts. In North‐Western America the fish is a perfect drug
in the market. In a city like San Francisco it sells for eight cents (4d.)
per pound. Higher up the coast a large fish is obtained for a quarter to
half a dollar. Further north a piece of tobacco or a few needles will
purchase a twenty or thirty pound salmon. They are so abundant that the
writer has seen them on the beaches of streams and creeks falling into
Frazer River, British Columbia, by the score, bleeding, gasping, and
dying, having literally crowded each other out of the water. “Schools” of
them are often so densely packed together, that they impede the progress
of canoes and boats.

The salmon fisheries of the Columbia, Oregon, itself one of the grandest
rivers in the world, give employment to 4,000 men during the season, and
nearly all the canned salmon consumed in Europe comes from it.(44) There
are dozens of rivers on the north‐west coast equally available, and the
business even now is in its infancy; while salted, pickled, or smoked
salmon, hardly ever reaches England from there at all. As will appear,
there are splendid opportunities on that coast for hundreds of new‐comers,
it may almost be said with or without capital. It is needless to state
that the former is always to be preferred. Where isn’t it?

Some ten or a dozen varieties of salmon and salmon‐trout, Mr. Murphy tells
us, enter the rivers of North‐Western America, but only one is selected
for commercial purposes. Two of the most delicate‐eating varieties—the
silvery‐white and spring salmons—are never packed in tins, because their
schools are less abundant and the fish themselves smaller. The hook‐nosed
and dog salmons are rarely eaten, except by Indians; while the man has not
yet been discovered who would tackle the hump‐back. The blue‐back, or
weak‐toothed salmon, an inferior fish also, is only exported to the
Sandwich Islands, where the natives are said to really prefer its lean and
fibrous flesh to the more delicately‐flavoured and succulent kinds. The
salmon principally caught is distinguished by the Indians as the “Tyhee,”
or chief; it is abundant, large, and most excellent eating; it possesses
those “all‐round” qualifications which particularly fit it for commerce
and cooking. It is the _Salmo quinnat_ of the naturalists.

The fishery season on the Columbia lasts from the beginning of April to
the end of July, and the fisheries extend along the river for a hundred
miles or more. Some of the curing establishments employ their own men to
tend the nets, while others purchase from fishermen, the price for fish
weighing from fifteen to forty pounds ranging from 25 cents to 50 cents
(approximately one to two shillings). These prices would seem ridiculously
low were it not for the abundance of the fish and the ease with which they
are taken. A party of four men may secure from 300 to 2,000 salmon in
twenty‐four hours! Take the lowest estimate—300 at 25 cents. This gives 75
dollars (or £15) to divide among the four fishermen. But this would be a
very poor catch. A thousand fish are no uncommon haul. This at the lowest
price paid would give 250 dollars (£50) to be divided. Of course there is
the wear and tear of boat and fishing gear to be considered.

Large quantities of the fish are caught in weirs. The Indians, also,
knowing that the salmon avoids currents if possible, build out into the
river from the shore, for ten or a dozen feet, walls of stone a few inches
in height. The salmon crowd into the quieter water caused thereby, and are
easily captured in nets or by spearing. They are so numerous in places
that the Indian can often flap them out of the water, by a sudden
dexterous jerk of his paddle, to his squaw on the beach, who then
immediately knocks them on the head and guts them.

At the curing houses, mostly owned by Americans, the labour is chiefly
performed by Chinamen under the superintendence of white men. “John”
quickly and cleverly guts the fish and cuts off its head; then cuts it
into chunks, which are boiled, first in salt and afterwards in fresh
water. Next the tins are filled, and soldered down, all but one little
hole in their tops. The tins are then immersed in boiling water, and when
every particle of air is excluded, a few drops of solder effectually seal
them up till wanted for the table. The process is in effect the same
employed in the preservation of meats and fruits in tins.

Many British and Irish waterfalls are celebrated for their salmon leaps.
In Inverness‐shire at Kilmorack, at Ballyshannon in Donegal, and Leixlip
near Dublin, in Pembrokeshire and elsewhere, the leaps are noted, and at
many of them there are osier baskets placed below to catch the fish when
they fail and fall. Sportsmen have even shot them, on the wing as it were,
in their leap. At the Falls of Kilmorack “Lord Lovat conceived the idea of
placing a furnace and frying‐pan on a point of rock overhanging the river.
After their unsuccessful effort some of the unfortunate salmon would fall
accidentally into the frying‐pan. The noble lord could thus boast that the
resources of his country were so abundant, that on placing a furnace and
frying‐pan on the banks of its rivers, the salmon would leap into it of
their own accord, without troubling the sportsman to catch them. It is
more probable, however, that Lord Lovat knew that the way to enjoy salmon
in perfection is to cook it when fresh from the water, and before the
richer parts of the fish have ceased to curd.”

In our own land, the Tweed, Tay, Spey, and Severn, are all noted rivers
for salmon; the Tay fish sometimes weigh sixty pounds. It is a curious
fact that the full‐grown salmon never feeds in the rivers. “Juvenile
experience on the part of the fish, recurring as a phantasm, causes them
to snap at a shining artificial minnow or a gaudy fly, but they never rise
out of the water; the bait must dip to them, and when hooked they shake
the intruder as a terrier does a rat.” Their superabundant store of fat
enables them to live on themselves, as it were, as do the Asiatic and
African doomba sheep when avalanches and heavy snow‐falls stop their
supplies of herbage.(45) They become much thinner during their stay in
fresh water; their colour becomes duller, and their flavour much
depreciated. Izaak Walton’s statement that “the further they get from the
sea they be both fatter and better” is utterly erroneous, for they fatten
only in the sea. In March, 1845, the Duke of Athole took a ten‐pound
salmon in the Tay after it had spawned, and attached a medal to it and
then let it go to sea. The same individual, with its decoration, was
fished up five weeks and a few days afterwards, when it had been to the
refreshing salt water. It had more than doubled its weight, for it weighed
twenty‐one pounds.

[Illustration: THE SALMON (_Salmo salar_).]

CHAPTER XV.

OCEAN LIFE.—THE HARVEST OF THE SEA (_concluded_).

The _Clupedæ_—The Herring—Its Cabalistic Marks—A Warning to
Royalty—The “Great Fishery”—Modes of Fishing—A Night with the Wick
Fishermen—Suicidal Fish—The Value of Deep‐sea Fisheries—Report of
the Commissioners—Fecundity of the Herring—No fear of Fish
Famine—The Shad—The Sprat—The Cornish Pilchard Fisheries—The
“Huer”—Raising the “Tuck”—A Grand Harvest—Gigantic
Holibut—Newfoundland Cod Fisheries—Brutalities of Tunny
Fishing—The Mackerel—Its Courage, and Love of Man—Garum Sauce—The
formidable Sword‐fish—Fishing by Torchlight—Sword through a Ship’s
side—General Remarks on Fish—Fish Life—Conversation—Musical
Fish—Pleasures and Excitements—Do Fish sleep?

A great and important group of the bony fish is comprised under the family
name _Clupedæ_. It includes such useful fish as the herring, pilchard,
shad, and anchovy. The family is as interesting to the merchant as to the
gastronomist.

The herring hardly needs description here, but it may just be remarked,
_en passant_, that its back, indigo‐coloured after death, is greenish
during life. The curious markings often found on the herring have been
considered by ignorant fishermen to signify mysterious words of cabalistic
import. On one November day, near three hundred years ago, two herrings
were caught on the coast of Norway, which bore marks resembling Gothic
printed characters. “They were presented to the then King of Norway,
Frederick II., who was so frightened by the characters he saw on the backs
of the innocent fish that he turned ghastly pale, for he thought that they
announced his approaching death and that of his queen.” A council of
_savants_ was convened, and the learned ones solemnly reported that the
words implied, “Very soon you will cease to fish herrings, as well as
other people.” Some more politic scientists gave another explanation, but
it was useless, for the king died next year, and his late subjects became
firmly convinced that the two herrings had been celestial messengers
charged to announce that monarch’s sudden end.

The herring abounds in the entire Northern Ocean from the coasts of France
and England to Greenland and Lapland. They are very gregarious, and travel
in immense shoals, their appearance in any specified locality being
uncertain and always sudden. On the coast of Norway the electric telegraph
is used to announce to the fishing towns the approach of the shoals, which
can always be perceived at a distance by the wave they raise. In the
fiords of Norway the herring fisheries are the principal means of
existence for the seaboard population. So in 1857 the paternal Norwegian
Government laid a submarine cable round the coast 100 miles in length,
with stations ashore at intervals conveniently placed for the purpose of
notifying the fishermen. In Holland the industries of catching and curing
the fish are highly profitable; the fishery is in consequence known as
“the great,” while whaling is known as the “small fishery.” To a simple
Dutch fisherman, George Benkel, who died in 1397, Holland owes the
introduction of the art of preserving and curing the herring. Two hundred
years after his death, the Emperor Charles V. solemnly ate a herring on
his tomb, as homage to the memory of the creator of a great national
industry.

[Illustration: THE HERRING (_Clupea harengus_).]

In our country there is also an important trade in the fish. Yarmouth
sends out 400 vessels of from forty to sixty tons, the larger carrying a
crew of twelve. In 1857 three fishing boats of this seaport brought home
3,762,000 fish. In Scotland the one town of Wick had a few years ago 920
boats employed in the fisheries.

The Dutch use lines 500 feet in length, with fifty or more nets to each.
The upper part of these nets is buoyed with empty barrels or cork, while
they are kept down by lead or stone weights; they can be lowered by
lengthening the cord to which the buoys are attached. The meshes of the
nets are so arranged that if the herring is too small to be caught in the
first meshes, he passes through and gets caught in the succeeding one. Dr.
Bertram went out in a Wick boat to the fishing grounds. He says:—“At last,
after a lengthened cruise, our commander, who had been silent for half an
hour, jumped up and called to action. ‘Up men, and at them!’ was the order
of the night. The preparations for shooting the nets at once began by
lowering sail. Surrounding us on all sides was to be seen a moving world
of boats; many with sails down, their nets floating in the water, and
their crews at rest. Others were still flitting uneasily about, their
skippers, like our own, anxious to shoot in the right place. By‐and‐by we
were ready; the ‘dog,’ a large inflated bladder to mark the far end of the
train, is heaved overboard, and the nets, breadth after breadth, follow as
fast as the men can pay them out, till the immense train is all in the
water, forming a perforated wall a mile long and many feet in depth, the
‘dog’ and the marking bladder, floating and dipping in long zig‐zag lines,
reminding one of the imaginary coils of the great sea‐serpent. After three
hours of quietude beneath a beautiful sky, the stars—

“The eternal orbs that beautify the night”—

began to pale their fires, and the grey dawn appearing indicated that it
was time to take stock. We found that the boat had floated quietly with
the tide till we were a long distance from the harbour. The skipper had a
presentiment that there were fish in his net, and the bobbing down of a
few of the bladders made it almost a certainty; and he resolved to examine
the drifts. ‘Hurrah!’ exclaimed Murdoch of Skye; ‘there’s a lot of fish,
skipper, and no mistake.’ Murdoch’s news was true; our nets were silvery
with herrings—so laden, in fact, that it took a long time to haul them in.
It was a beautiful sight to see the shimmering fish as they came up like a
sheet of silver from the water, each uttering a weak death‐chirp as it was
flung into the bottom of the boat. Formerly the fish were left in the
meshes of the net till the boat arrived in the harbour; but now, as the
net is hauled on board, they are at once shaken out. As our silvery
treasure showers into the boat, we roughly guess our capture at fifty
cranes—a capital night’s work.” Wick boats are not, however, always so
fortunate. The herring fleet has been overtaken more than once by fearful
storms, when valuable lives, boats, and nets, have been sacrificed.

Early in December, 1879, an apparent epidemic of suicide attacked the
herrings and sprats in Deal Roads, and they rushed ashore in such myriads
at Walmer that the fishermen got tired of carting them off, and they were
left on the beach for all who cared to help themselves. Nature seems now
and then to put bounds to over‐population, but if this be the case, no
herring famines need be feared, for economical Nature would never have
played into the hands of the fishermen who are always at war with her.
Such wholesale suicides occur among other forms of animal life. In Africa
regiments of ants have been seen deliberately marching into streams, where
they were immediately devoured by fish. Rats have migrated in myriads,
stopping nowhere, neither day nor night, and have been preyed upon by both
large birds and beasts of prey. In the Seychelles some years ago several
hundred turtles conspired to die together on the island in front of the
harbour, and carried out their decision. Were they the victims of
hydrophobia, delirium tremens, or some other disease? Even the gay and
sprightly butterfly has been known to migrate in immense clouds from the
land straight out to sea, without the remotest chance of ever reaching
another shore. What could be the reason for such a suicidal act?

It would be difficult to over‐estimate the value of deep sea fisheries; in
which, according to trustworthy statistics, England and Wales alone employ
nearly 15,000 boats, with nearly double that number of “hands,” added to
whom are over 14,000 others to whom they give occasional employment on the
coasts. The report of Commissioners Frank Buckland and Spencer Walpole,
who were instructed to investigate the modes of fishing in the two
countries named, and how far they were conducted on proper principles, has
therefore both importance and interest. It was feared that in certain
directions deep‐sea fishing, which undeniably leads to the capture of
myriads of young and useless fish, might have the same effect as wasteful
fishing and dredging did in the case of the salmon and oyster.

The Commissioners assure us that there is neither ground for alarm nor for
legislative interference. The beneficent sea is practically inexhaustible.
“Bearing in mind,” wrote a commentator on the Report, “how much has been
said regarding the wilful destruction of spawn, it is startling to hear
that nobody ‘has ever seen the eggs of soles, turbot, plaice, and other
like fish after their extrusion from the parent,’ while, with respect to
the finny tribe in general, the Commissioners add: ‘So far as we know,
there is, with one exception—herring spawn—no clearly‐established instance
of the spawn of any edible fish being raised in a trawl net or taken in
any other net.’ With these words one bugbear of the sea disappears.
Nature, whatever may be her shortcomings elsewhere, knows how to take care
of herself here. She carries on her life‐giving processes beyond our
reach, and is veiled in a mystery which even the keen observation of the
present time cannot penetrate, for the Commissioners remind us that,
generally speaking, ‘little is known either of the seasons in which sea
fish spawn or of the places in which the spawn is cast; still less of the
time which the spawn, after it is cast, takes to vivify.’ But if the spawn
evades the power of man, the young fish are not so fortunate. It is
unquestionable that an immense waste of fry of all kinds goes on round our
coasts. The trawler, the shrimper, the seine net, and the fixed engine,
combine against these little creatures, tons upon tons of which are
annually destroyed. At first sight it would seem that a grave matter here
presents itself. The Commissioners, however, proceed so to reason away its
importance that in the end it assumes very small dimensions indeed.
Starting from the indisputable fact that all animals have ‘a tendency to
increase at a greater rate than their means of subsistence,’ Messrs.
Buckland and Walpole go on to show that this especially applies to sea
fish; and they take as an example the fecund herring. Assuming that the
British waters contain sixty thousand millions of female herrings, each of
which deposits twenty thousand eggs, it follows that the total number of
eggs which, but for natural and artificial checks, would come to maturity
is twelve hundred millions of millions—an expression which is easy to put
on paper, but which the mind can no more comprehend than it can grasp the
idea of eternity. Enough that these countless hordes, if compressed by
five hundreds into foot cubes, would build a wall round the earth two
hundred feet broad and one hundred high. The inference from such
astounding figures is that man’s destructiveness can do little. He takes
one herring for every half‐million of eggs, while the original stock would
be kept up were only one egg to mature out of ten thousand. All fish, it
is true, are not as prolific as the herring, but the argument applies to
each kind in its degree, and may be summed up generally by the statement
that the proportion of spawn and fry which must perish is so great as to
reduce the operations of man to limits barely appreciable. On the
important related question whether the supply of fish is decreasing, the
Commissioners entertain no doubt whatever. They say, ‘so far from the
stock of fish decreasing, we believe that the supply of fish, taken on the
whole, is at least as great as it has ever been; there are some reasons
for even thinking that it is actually increasing.’ On the other hand, they
refer to a general impression that the take of flat‐fish, such as soles
and plaice, is becoming less; the local explanation referring almost
universally to the destruction of fry. Yet while the Commissioners do not,
except in the case of soles, contest the alleged decrease, they refuse to
recognise the assigned cause, nor, generally speaking, do they see any
reason for legislative action of a restrictive nature.” The prospects of
our ocean fishing, both as an industry and as a food supply, are,
therefore, encouraging. The harvest of the sea is constant, and though
there must be local fluctuations, the return for the labour of those “who
reap where they have not sowed” is sure.

[Illustration: HERRING FISHING.]

Of the shad, though not as commonly known as the herring, there are twenty
known species. In the season this fish regularly approaches the mouths of
great rivers for the purpose of spawning. It is found in the spring in the
Rhine, Seine, Garonne, Volga, Elbe, and in many of our own rivers. In some
Irish rivers the masses of shad taken have been so great that hardly any
amount of exertion has been sufficient to land the net. It sometimes
attains a very considerable size, weighing from four to six pounds. The
shad taken at sea is considered coarser eating than that caught in rivers.

The sprat has been by some taken for the young of the herring, and the
controversy on the subject has at times waxed warm. Some anatomists
declare that their peculiarities show no difference but size. It has a
serrated belly, which Bertram looks upon as the tuck in the child’s frock,
a provision for growth. “The slaughter of sprats,” says he, “is as decided
a case of killing the goose with the golden eggs as the grilse slaughter
carried on in our salmon rivers.” But Figuier reminds that writer that the
young herrings are caught without the serrated belly, and that the curer’s
purchase is regulated by the sprat’s rough, and the herring’s smooth,
belly. Sprats are often so abundant as to be unsaleable, and are then
actually used for manure.

[Illustration: THE PILCHARD (_Clupea pilchardus_).]

The pilchard visits our coasts at all times, the leading fisheries being
in Cornwall. Wilkie Collins has given us a lively and interesting picture
of the “look‐out” for their approach and capture.(46) He says: “A stranger
in Cornwall, taking his first walk along the cliffs in August, could not
advance far without witnessing what would strike him as a very singular
and even alarming phenomenon. He would see a man standing on the extreme
edge of a precipice just over the sea, gesticulating in a very remarkable
manner, with a bush in his hand, waving it to the right and to the left,
brandishing it over his head, sweeping it past his feet; in short, acting
the part of a maniac of the most dangerous description. It would add
considerably to the stranger’s surprise if he were told that the insane
individual before him was paid for flourishing the bush at the rate of a
guinea a week.(47) And if he advanced a little, so as to obtain a nearer
view of the madman, and observed a well‐manned boat below turning
carefully to the right and left as the bush turned, his mystification
would probably be complete, and his ideas as to the sanity of the
inhabitants would be expressed with grievous doubt.

“But a few words of explanation would make him alter his opinion. He would
learn that the man was an important agent in the pilchard fishery of
Cornwall, that he had just discovered a shoal swimming towards the land,
and that the men in the boats were guided by his gesticulations alone in
their arrangements for securing the fish on which so many depend for a
livelihood.” These watchers are known locally as “huers.” They can easily
detect the approach of the shoals, as they darken the water, producing the
effect of a cloud. As they approach the fish may themselves be seen
leaping and playing on the surface by hundreds; sometimes they are so
abundant that the fish behind force those in front ashore, and they are
taken by hand or in baskets.

The boats, each of about fifteen tons burden, carry a large, long seine
net, kept up by corks and down by lead. The grand object in the fishery,
guided by the “huer” on the cliffs ashore, is to drive the shoals into
shallow waters and bays.

“The grand object is now to enclose the entire shoal. The leads sink one
side of the net perpendicularly to the bottom, the corks buoy the other to
the surface of the water. When it has been taken all round the shoal, the
two extremities are made fast, and the fish are imprisoned within an
oblong barrier of netting. The art is now to let as few of the pilchards
escape as possible while the process is being completed. Whenever the
‘huer’ observes that they are startled, and separating at any particular
point, he waves his bush, and thither the boat is steered, and there the
net is shot at once; the fish are thus headed and thwarted in every
direction with extraordinary address and skill. This labour completed, the
silence of intense expectation that has hitherto prevailed is broken,
there is a shout of joy on all sides—the shoal is secured.” The seine is
now regarded as a great reservoir of fish, and may remain in the water for
a week or more. The pilchards are collected from it in a smaller net known
as the “tuck.” When this net has travelled round the whole circuit of the
seine, everything is prepared for the great event—hauling the fish to the
surface.

“Now all is excitement on sea and shore; every little boat in the place
puts off crammed with idle spectators; boys shout, dogs bark, and the
shrill voices of the former are joined by the deep voices of the
‘seiners.’ There they stand, six or eight stalwart, sunburnt fellows,
ranged in a row in the seine‐boat, hauling with all their might at the
‘tuck’‐net, and roaring out the nautical ‘Yo, heave ho!’ in chorus. Higher
and higher rises the net; louder and louder shout the boys and the idlers;
the ‘huer,’ so calm and collected hitherto, loses his self‐possession, and
waves his cap triumphantly. ‘Hooray! hooray! Yoy—hoy, hoy! Pull away,
boys! Up she comes! Here they are!’ The water boils and eddies; the
‘tuck’‐net rises to the surface; one teeming, convulsed mass of shining,
glancing, silvery scales, one compact mass of thousands of fish, each one
of which is madly striving to escape, appears in an instant. Boats as
large as barges now pull up in hot haste all round the nets, baskets are
produced by dozens, the fish are dipped up in them, and shot out, like
coals out of a sack, into the boats. Presently the men are ankle‐deep in
pilchards; they jump upon the benches, and work on till the boats can hold
no more. They are almost gunwale under before they leave for the shore.”
At the little fishing cove of Trereen, Mr. Wilkie Collins tells us, 600
hogsheads, each of 2,400 fish and upwards, were taken in little more than
a week.

The sardine also comes under the _Clupedæ_ family. It derives its
commercial name from Sardinia, but is found all over the Mediterranean,
the coast of Brittany, &c. On the latter coast the fish are caught in
floating nets, and arranged in osier baskets, layer after layer, each boat
returning to port when it has secured 25,000.

Space will not permit of more than a passing notice to the flat‐fish, or
_Pleuronectidæ_. These fish swim by means of a caudal fin, and they can
ascend or descend in the water readily, but they cannot turn to right or
left with the same facility as other fish. Most flat‐fish, soles, turbot,
flounders, and plaice, are taken by trawl nets. Some of the larger are
speared.

The holibut (or halibut) is a fish which attains a great size, sometimes
as much as seven feet in length, and weighing 300 pounds. One brought to
Edinburgh measured seven‐and‐a‐half feet in length by three feet in
breadth; it weighed 320 pounds. In Norway and Greenland a long cord, from
which branch thirty or so smaller cords, each furnished with a barbed
hook, is employed for their capture. The main cord is attached to floating
planks, which indicate the place where it is let down.

The _Gadidæ_ family includes some most important fish, commercially
considered, such as the whiting, haddock, and cod, the general form and
peculiarities of which are familiar to all.

The cod fish is a most voracious feeder, and is provided with a vast
stomach; it eats molluscs, crabs, and small fish, and has been known even
to swallow pieces of wood. It is essentially a sea fish, and is never seen
in rivers. From the days of John Cabot, the English, French, Dutch, and
Americans have prosecuted the great fisheries on the banks of
Newfoundland; 2,000 English vessels, manned by 32,000 seamen, are employed
in the pursuit. The modern cod‐smack is clipper‐built, has large tank
wells for carrying the fish alive, and costs about £1,500. The fish is
taken in nets, or by line. Bertram tells us that each man has a line of
fifty fathoms in length, and attached to this are a hundred hooks, baited
with mussels, pieces of herring, or whiting. “On arriving at the fishing
ground, the fishermen heave overboard a cork buoy, with a flagstaff about
six feet in height attached to it. The buoy is kept stationary by a line,
called the ‘pow end,’ reaching to the bottom of the water, where it is
held by a stone or grapnel fastened to the lower end. To the ‘pow end’ is
also fastened the fishing‐line, which is then paid out as fast as the boat
sails, which may be from four to five knots an hour. Should the wind be
unfavourable for the direction in which the crew wish to set the line,
they use the oars. When the line, or ‘taes,’ is all out, the end is
dropped, and the boat returns to the buoy. The ‘pow’ line is hauled up
with the anchor and fishing‐line attached to it. The fishermen then haul
in the line, with the fish attached to it. Eight hundred fish might be,
and often have been, taken by eight men in a few hours by this operation;
but many fishermen say now that they consider themselves fortunate when
they get a fish on every fifth hook on an eight‐lined ‘taes’ line.” On our
own coasts the cod is principally taken by deep‐sea lines, with many
shorter lines depending from them armed with large hooks. One man has in
ten hours taken 400, and eight men have taken eighty score in one day off
the Doggerbank. The Norfolk and Lincoln coasts afford a large supply; the
fish taken is stowed in well‐boats, and brought to Gravesend, whence they
are transhipped into market boats and sent to Billingsgate. The store‐
boats with their wells, through which the water circulates, cannot come
higher, as the fresh water of the Thames, and possibly some of that which
is _not_ too fresh, would kill the fish.

[Illustration: THE COD (_Morrhua vulgaris_).]

The haddock is also taken with lines. In the village of Findhorn,
Morayshire, large numbers of fine haddocks are dried and smoked with the
fumes of hard wood and sawdust. Hence the term, “Finnan haddies,” which,
when obtained, are the finest for gastronomic purposes, being of superior
flavour.

The mackerel (_Scomber scombrus_) is a most valuable fish for man. The
tunny, bonita, and mackerel have yielded immense supplies of excellent
food, the first‐named being esteemed in parts of France far above any
other fish. It is called the salmon of Provence. They attain a far larger
growth than the mackerel, specimens having been found of seven, eight, and
even nine feet in length, and weighing up to 400 pounds. They are
specially abundant in the Mediterranean, where they are usually caught in
nets. In Provence they are driven, much as are the pilchards in Cornwall,
into an enclosed space called the _madrague_, where at last the fish finds
itself ensnared in shallow water. Then “the carnage commences. The unhappy
creatures,” says Figuier, “are struck with long poles, boat‐hooks, and
other weapons. The tunny‐fishing presents a very sad spectacle at this its
last stage; fine large fish perish under the blows of a multitude of
fishermen, who pursue their bloody task with most dramatic effect. The
sight of the poor creatures, some of them wounded and half dead, trying in
vain to struggle with their ferocious assailants, is very painful to see.
The sea red with blood, long preserves traces of this frightful
slaughter.”

The bonita is principally a tropical fish, not unlike the mackerel, but
more than double its size. It is the great enemy of the flying‐fish, and
possesses electrical or stinging powers, for any one attempting to hold
the living fish is violently shaken as in palsy, and one’s very tongue is
tied, and unable to make more than a spasmodic sputter.

[Illustration: THE MACKEREL (_Scomber scombrus_).]

The mackerel is common to all European seas. It is the _macquereau_ of the
French, the _macarello_ of the modern Romans, the _makril_ of the Swedes,
the _bretal_ of some parts of Brittany, the _scombro_ of the Venetians,
the _lacesto_ of the Neapolitans, and the _cavallo_ of the Spaniards. It
is one of the most universally‐esteemed fish.

The mackerel is very voracious, and has courage enough to attack fish much
larger than itself. It will even attack man, and is said to love him,
gastronomically speaking. A Norwegian bishop who lived in the sixteenth
century records the case of a sailor attacked by a shoal of mackerel,
while he was bathing. His companions came to the rescue; but though they
succeeded in driving off the fish, their assistance came too late; he died
a few hours afterwards.

This fish is generally taken by drift‐nets, usually 20 feet deep, and 120
long, well buoyed with cork, but without weights to sink them. The meshes
are made of fine tarred twine. They are in their best condition in June
and July. The ancients used to make a sauce piquant from their fat, which
was called _garum_, and sold for the equivalent of sixteen shillings the
pint. It was acrid and nauseous, but had the property of stimulating jaded
appetites. Seneca charged it with destroying the coats of the stomach, and
injuring the health of the high livers of his day. A traveller of the
sixteenth century, Pierre Belon, found it highly esteemed in
Constantinople.

[Illustration: FISHING FOR TUNNY OFF THE COAST OF PROVENCE.]

The formidable sword‐fish is also tolerable eating, especially when young,
and there are fisheries for its capture in the Mediterranean. The
fishermen of Messina and Reggio fish by night, using large boats carrying
torches, and a mast, at the top of which one of their number is stationed
to announce the approach of their prey, which is harpooned by a man
standing in the bows. This fish attains a length of five or six feet, its
sword forming three‐tenths of its length. It is one of the whale’s natural
enemies, and it objects even to ships passing through its element. There
are numerous cases cited of ship’s bottoms having been pierced by it. In
1725, some carpenters having occasion to examine a ship just returned from
the tropics, found the sword of one of these animals buried in its lower
timbers. They averred that to drive a pointed iron bolt of the same size
to the same depth would require eight or nine blows with a thirty‐pound
hammer. It was further evident from the position of the weapon that the
fish had followed the ship while under full sail; it had penetrated the
metal sheathing and three‐and‐a‐half inches of the timber.

[Illustration: FISHING FOR SWORD‐FISH.]

And now, before leaving the minor and intermediate types of ocean life for
the monsters of the deep, a few general observations may be permitted.
Pliny described 94 species of fish; Linnæus described 478; the scientists
of to‐day know upwards of 13,000, one‐tenth of which are fresh‐water fish.
The reader will then understand why only a few of the more important,
useful, or curious have been described in these pages.

A hard man of science once described fish‐life as “silent, monotonous, and
joyless.” Modern science has disproved each and all of these statements.
As regards the first, there are species actually known which “indulge in
jews’‐harps, trumpets, and drums.... Musical fish are a fact of positive
knowledge, for not only can they be heard in shoals thrumming their
jews’‐harps in unison, but other kinds have been taken in the very act of
trumpeting and drumming.” Bertram, as we have seen, speaks of the “death‐
chirp” of the captured herring. The application of the telephone has
proved that a fish, placed alone in some water, actually talked to itself!
Mr. S. E. Peal, in a letter to a scientific journal, tells us of a large
fish, _Barbes macrocephalus_, which converses with a peculiar “cluck,” or
persuasive sound, which may be heard as far as forty feet from the water.
He also mentions a bivalve of Eastern Assam which actually “sings loudly
in concert.”

How fish‐life could be called monotonous and joyless will puzzle any one
who has watched them in a large aquarium, where their every movement tells
of pleasure, or at least excitement. Imagine, then, their life in the
ocean itself. All around them is life—life in constant activity. The
ancients said, and Pliny assented to the dictum, that in the water might
be found anything or everything that was found out of it, and as much more
besides. Then there is the excitement of the chase, in which they may be
either the pursued or the pursuers. “Not only,” said a writer in a leading
daily journal, “can they indulge themselves in running away from sharks,
as we should do from tigers if they swarmed in the streets, in
contemplating the while the elephant of the seas sauntering along through
his domain, or finding diversion and instruction in the winged process of
the flying‐fish or the tree‐climbing of perch, the buffooneries of sun‐
fish and pipe‐fish, the cunning artifices of the ‘angler‐fish,’ the
electric propensities of some, the luminosity of others, the venomous
nature of these or the grotesque appearance of those—not only is all the
variety of experience to be found on the earth to be found also in the
water, but even in a wider range and a greater diversity. The sea floor is
strewn with marvels, and the rocks are instinct with wonders.” Fish‐life
is, then, full of excitement and interest.

An accomplished ichthyologist, Mr. F. Francis, has stirred up the vexed
question, “Do fish sleep?” Only a very few fish, the dog‐fish being one of
the few exceptions, can close their eyes at all. Still, on the other hand,
some human beings, and notably infants, can sleep with one or both eyes
open, while the hare is credited with being able to take his nap in the
latter condition. Fish would seem to require sleep from their constant
activity; but in actual fact, no scientific watcher has yet caught one
asleep.

CHAPTER XVI.

MONSTERS OF THE DEEP.(48)

Mark Twain on Whales—A New Version of an Old Story—Whale as
Food—Whaling in 1670—The Great Mammal’s Enemy, the “Killer”—The
Animal’s Home—The So‐called Fisheries—The Sperm
Whale—Spermaceti—The Chase—The Capture—A Mythical Monster—The
Great Sea‐Serpent—Yarns from Norway—An Archdeacon’s
Testimony—Stories from America—From Greenland—Mahone Bay—A
Tropical Sea‐Serpent—What is the Animal?—Seen on a Voyage to
India—Off the Coast of Africa—Other Accounts—Professor Owen on the
Subject—Other Theories.

Some years ago, when an invalid wrote to Mark Twain seeking advice as to
the value of fish as “brain food,” the answer of that humourist was plain
indeed:—“Fish‐food is good: abounds in phosphorus and nutrition. In your
case I must recommend a small whale!” Unfortunately, Mark Twain fell into
a very common error. The whale is _not_ a fish; it is a mammal: it suckles
its young. The writer has eaten whale—that is, a little bit of one. Whale
brain, enclosed in batter, and treated as a fritter, is not to be
despised.

The British whaler of about 1670 is quaintly described by Frederic Martin,
who visited Spitzbergen and Greenland that year. He says:—“Whoever of the
ships’ crews sees a dead whale cries out, ‘Fish mine!’ and therefore the
merchants must pay him a ducat for his care and vigilance. Many of them
climb often into the mast in hopes to have a ducat, but in vain. When the
dead whale is thus fastened to the ship, two sloops hold on the other side
of the fish, or whale, and in each of them doth stand a man or boy that
has a long hook in his hands, wherewith he doth hold the boat to the ship,
and the harpooner stands before in the sloop or upon the whale, with a
leathern suit on, and sometimes they have boots on. Underneath the hook
are some sharp nails fixed, that they may be able to stand firm. These two
men that cut the fat off have their peculiar wages for it, viz., about
four or five rix dollars. First they cut a large piece from behind the
head, by the eyes, which they call the _kenter‐piece_, that is as much as
to say, the _winding‐piece_; for as they cut all the other fat all in rows
from the whale towards the end, so they cut this great _kenter‐piece_
larger and wider than all the rest. This piece, when it is cut round about
from the whale, reaches from the water to the cradle (that is, the round
circle that goes round about the middle of the mast, and is made in the
shape of a basket), whence you may guess of the bigness of a whale. A
strong and thick rope is fixed to this kenter‐piece, and the other end is
fixed to underneath the cradle, whereby the whale is as it were borne up
out of the water, that they may come at it, and by reason of the great
weight of the whale the ship leans towards that side. One may judge how
tough the fat is, for in this piece a hole is made, through which the rope
is fastened, yet not deep into the fat, wherewith they turn the fish at
pleasure. Then they cut another piece down hard by this, which is also
hauled up into the ship, where it is cut into pieces a foot square. The
knives used are, with their hafts, about the length of a man,” and so on.

Mr. Brierly tells us that the most important natural enemy of the whale on
the coast of Australia is the “killer,” a kind of large porpoise, with a
blunt head and large teeth. These “killers” often attack the whale, and
worry it like a pack of dogs, and sometimes kill it. The whalemen regard
these creatures as important allies, for when they see from the look‐out
that a whale has been “hove‐to” by them they are pretty sure of capturing
it. The killers show no fear of the boats, but will attack the whale at
the same time; and if a boat is stove in, which often happens, they will
not hurt the men when in the water. The Australian natives about Twofold
Bay say the killers are the spirits of their own people, and when they see
them will pretend to point out particular individuals they have known.
Some are very large, exceeding twenty‐five feet; they blow from the head,
in the same manner as the whale.

The homes of whales are hardly known. Where the northern whale breeds has
long been a puzzling question among whalemen. It is a cold‐water animal.
Maury asks:—“Is the nursery for the great whale in the Polar Sea, which
has been so set about and hemmed in with a ledge of ice that man may not
trespass there? This providential economy still further prompts the
question, Whence comes all the food for the young whales there? Do the
teeming whalers of the Gulf Stream convey it there also, in channels so
far in the depths of the sea that no enemy may waylay and spoil it in the
long journey? It may generally be believed that the northern whale, which
is now confined to the Polar Sea, descended annually into the temperate
region of the Atlantic, as far as the Bay of Biscay, and that it was only
the persecution of the whale‐fishers which compelled it to seek its frozen
retreat. This opinion is now shown to be erroneous, and to have rested
only on the confounding of two distinct species of whale. Like other
whales, the northern is migratory, and changes its quarters according to
the seasons; and the systematic registers of the Danish colonists of
Greenland show that often the same individual appears at the same epoch in
the same fiord. The females of the southern whale visit the coasts of the
Cape in June to bring forth their young, and return to the high seas in
August or September. It was supposed that the migration of the northern
whale was for a similar purpose. This, however, is not now considered to
be the case. Its movements are attributed to climatal changes alone, and
especially to the transport of ice into Baffin’s Bay. It lives entirely in
the midst of glaciers, and therefore is found in the south during winter
and in the north during summer. The whale‐fishery has diminished its
numbers, but not altered its mode of life. It is stated now that the whale
believed to have visited the North Atlantic Ocean is a totally different
species, a much more violent and dangerous animal than the northern whale,
also smaller, and less rich in oil. The fishery for the latter ceased
towards the end of the last century, but it is thought to be not wholly
extinct. On September 17th, 1854, a whale, with its little one, appeared
before St. Sebastian, in the Bay of Biscay; the mother escaped, but the
young one was taken, and from a drawing of a skeleton of the latter MM.
Eschricht and Rheinhardt, of Copenhagen, are convinced that it belonged to
a species distinct from the Greenland whale; so that the name of
‘Mysticete’ has been applied to various whales.”

[Illustration: THE NORTHERN WHALE (_Balina mysticetus_).]

The sperm whale, says Maury, is a warm water animal; the _right_ whale
delights in cold water. The log‐books of the American whalers show that
the torrid zone is to the right whale as a sea of fire, through which it
cannot pass; and that the right whale of the northern hemisphere and that
of the southern are two different animals; and that the sperm whale has
never been known to double the Cape of Good Hope—he doubles Cape Horn.

Mr. Beale has done more to elucidate the habits and form of this whale
than any other writer. Its great peculiarity of form is the head,
presenting a very thick, blunt extremity, about a third of the whole
length of the animal. The head, viewed in front, has a broad, flattened
surface, rounded and contracted above, considerably expanded on the sides,
and gradually contracted below, resembling in some degree the cut‐water of
a ship. On the right side of the nose is a cavity for secreting and
containing an oily fluid, which after death concretes into the substance
called spermaceti, of which in a large whale there is not unfrequently a
ton. The mouth extends nearly the whole length of the head, and the throat
is capacious enough to give passage to the body of a man, presenting a
strong contrast to the contracted gullet of the Greenland whale.
Immediately beneath the black skin of the sperm whale is the blubber, or
fat, termed “the blanket,” of a light yellowish colour, producing when
melted the sperm oil. A specimen taken in 1829 near Whitstable measured
sixty‐two feet in length. The oil was worth £320, exclusive of the
spermaceti.(49) Many years since the _Samuel Enderby_, whaler, returned
from the south with a cargo of sperm oil worth £40,000.

[Illustration: CUTTING UP THE WHALE.]

This whale swallows quantities of small fishes, and has been known to
eject from its stomach a fish as large as a moderate‐sized salmon. This
species is gregarious; and the herds, called “schools,” are females and
young males. Mr. Beale saw 500 or 600 in one school. With each female
school are one to three large “bulls,” or “schoolmasters,” as they are
termed by the whalers. The full‐grown males almost always go in search of
food. A large whale will yield eighty, and sometimes one hundred, barrels
of oil. Among the habits of the whale are “breaching,” or leaping clear
out of the water and falling back on its side, so that the breach may be
seen on a clear day from the mast‐head at six miles’ distance; in “going
ahead” the whale attains ten or twelve miles an hour, which Mr. Beale
believes to be its greatest velocity; “lob‐tailing” is lashing the water
with its tail. The dangers and hairbreadth escapes in the capture are very
numerous.

In 1839 there were discovered among rubbish in a tower of Durham Castle
the bones of a sperm whale, which, from a letter of June 20th, 1661, in
the Surtees Collection, is shown to have been cast ashore at that time,
and _skeletonised_ in order to ornament this old tower. Clusius describes,
in 1605, a sperm whale thrown ashore seven years before, near Scheveling,
where Cuvier supposed its head to be still preserved, and there is an
antiquity of the kind still shown there.

The whale chase is an exciting scene. Sometimes the whale places himself
in a perpendicular position, with the head downwards, and rearing his tail
on high, beats the water with awful violence. The sea foams, and vapours
darken the air; the lashing is heard several miles off, like the roar of a
distant tempest. Sometimes he makes an immense spring, and rears his whole
body above the waves, to the admiration of the experienced whaler, but to
the terror of those who see for the first time this astonishing spectacle.
Other motions, equally expressive of his boundless strength, attract the
attention of navigators at the distance of miles. The whole structure of
the whale exhibits most admirable adaptation to his situations and the
element in which he lives, in the toughness and thickness of his skin and
disposition of the coating of blubber beneath, which serves the purpose—if
we may be permitted to use so homely a simile—of an extra great‐coat to
keep him warm, and prevent his warm red blood from being chilled by the
icy seas. But provision is especially made to enable him to descend
uninjured to very great depths. The orifices of the nostrils are closed by
valves, wonderfully suited to keep out the water from the lungs,
notwithstanding the pressure. In one species they are shaped like cones,
which fit into the orifice like corks in the neck of a bottle, and the
greater the pressure the tighter they hold. The most surprising fact in
the whale, probably, is the power of descending to enormous depths below
the surface of the sea, and sustaining that almost inconceivable pressure
of the superincumbent water. On one occasion which fell under Mr.
Scoresby’s own observation a whale was struck from a boat. The animal
instantly descended, dragging down with him a rope nearly _one mile long_.
Having let out this much of the rope, the situation of the boat’s crew
became critical. Either they must have cut the line, and submitted to a
very serious loss, or have run the risk of being dragged under water by
the whale. The men were desired to retire to the stern, to counterbalance
the pulls of the whale, which dragged the bow down sometimes to within an
inch of the water. In this dangerous dilemma the boat remained some time,
vibrating up and down with the tugs of the monster, but never moving from
the place where it lay when the harpoon was first thrown. This fact proves
that the whale must have descended at once perpendicularly, as had he
advanced in any direction he must have pulled the boat along with him. Mr.
Scoresby and the crew were rescued by the timely arrival of another boat
furnished with fresh ropes and harpoons. A whale when struck will dive
sometimes to a depth of 800 fathoms; and as the surface of a large animal
may be estimated at 1,500 square feet, at this depth it will have to
sustain a pressure equal to 211,000 tons. The transition from that which
it is exposed to at the surface, and which may be taken at about 1,300
tons, to so enormous an increase, must be productive of the utmost
exhaustion.

Strange incidents are related of harpooning. On September 24th, 1864, as
the _Alexander_, belonging to Dundee, was steaming about in Davis’s
Straits, a whale of about twelve tons was observed not far distant from
her. Boats were put out, and the crew secured the animal. When they
cleansed it, they found embedded in its body, two or three inches beneath
the skin, a piece of a harpoon about eighteen inches long; on the one side
were engraved the words—“_Traveller_,” _Peterhead_, and on the other,
“1838.” This vessel was lost in 1856, in the Cumberland Straits whale‐
fishery; it is therefore clear that the harpoon must have remained in the
animal from that time.

A sailor gives the following description of sleeping _inside_ a whale;
not, however, quite as Jonah may have done. He says:(50)—“We were on a
little expedition in the long‐boat one voyage, and we had to encamp for
the night with as much comfort as our scant means would afford. The shore
was terrible for its wildness and desolation—it was indeed lonely, sad,
and sandy, but what was strange and welcome, was, great carcases of
whales, stranded like wrecks on the far‐reaching shore, in some cases the
backbone holding together like a good keel and the great ribs still round,
giving you an idea of an elongated hogshead without the staves. We landed
for the night, unbent our sails and stretched them over the bleached ribs
of a whale’s skeleton, and after supper took a comfortable sleep under the
most curious roof‐tree I ever rested under.” This was on the north‐west
coast of Africa; and the sailor came to the conclusion that whales come
ashore to die. “And to my mind,” says he, “it is as poetical as it is
welcome. I like to think of these mighty travellers in the mighty deep
hugging the shore when the fires of life burn low, and the mighty waves,
their playmates from their childhood, giving their last lift up on the
beach!”

And now for that great mythical or actual animal the sea‐serpent.

For ages an animal of immense size and serpentine form has been believed
to inhabit the ocean, though rarely seen. A strong conviction of its
existence has always prevailed in Norway and the fiords, where it has been
reported to have been frequently seen. It is also said that the coasts of
New England have been frequently visited by this marine monster many times
during this century.

Bishop Pontoppidan, who, about the middle of the eighteenth century, wrote
a history of Norway, his native land, collected a quantity of testimonies
as to its occasional appearance. Among other evidence he mentions that of
Captain de Ferry, of the Norwegian Navy, who saw the serpent, while in a
boat rowed by eight men, near Molde, in August, 1774. A declaration of
this was made by the captain and two of the crew before a magistrate. The
animal was described as of the general form of a serpent stretched on the
surface in receding coils or undulations, and the head, which resembled
that of a horse, elevated some two feet out of the water.

In the summer of 1846 many respectable persons stated that in the vicinity
of Christiansand and Molde they had seen the marine serpent. The
affidavits of numerous persons were given in the papers, which, with some
discrepancies in minute particulars, agree in testifying that an animal of
great length (from about fifty to a hundred feet) had been seen at various
times, in many cases more than once. All agreed that the eyes were large
and glaring; that the body was dark‐brown and comparatively slender; and
that the head, which for size was compared to a ten‐gallon cask, was
covered with a long spreading mane.

An account of one of these encounters, which took place on the 28th May,
1845, was published by the Rev. P. W. Demboll, Archdeacon of Molde, those
present being J. C. Lund, bookseller and printer, G. S. Krogh, merchant,
Christian Flang, Lund’s apprentice, and John Elgenses, labourer. These men
were fishing on the Romsdal Fjord, and the appearance took place about
seven in the evening, a little distance from shore, near the ballast place
and the Molde Hove. Lund fired at the animal, which followed them till
they came to shallow water, when it dived and disappeared.

In 1817 the Linnæan Society of New England published “A Report relative to
a Large Marine Animal, supposed to be a Serpent, seen near Cape Ann,
Massachusetts, in August,” of that year. A good deal of care was taken to
obtain evidence, and the deposition of eleven witnesses of fair and
unblemished characters were certified on oath before the magistrates. The
length was estimated at fifty to a hundred feet, and the head compared to
that of a sea‐turtle, a rattlesnake, and a serpent generally, but in this
case there was no appearance of a mane.

Again, in the _Boston Daily Advertiser_ for November 25th, 1840, there is
a communication from the Hon. T. H. Perkins of that city, attesting his
own personal observation of the marine serpent at Gloucester Harbour, near
Cape Ann, in 1817. This communication took the form of a letter written to
a friend in 1820.

Captain Perkins speaks of the animal’s motion being the vertical movement
of the caterpillar, and not that of the common snake either on land or
water, and this confirms the account of Mr. M‘Clean, the minister of a
parish in the Hebrides, who saw in 1809 a serpentine monster about eighty
feet in length. He distinctly states that it seemed to move by undulations
up and down, which is not only contrary to all that is known of serpents,
but from the structure of their vertebræ impossible. Hans Egede mentions
the appearance of a marine snake off the coast of Greenland in 1734.

On the 15th of May, 1833, a party, consisting of Captain Sullivan,
Lieutenant Maclachlan and Ensign Malcolm of the Rifle Brigade, Lieutenant
Lyster of the Artillery, and Mr. Ince the ordnance store‐keeper at
Halifax, started from that town in a small yacht for Mahone Bay, on a
fishing excursion. When about half‐way they came upon a shoal of grampuses
in an unusual state of excitement, and to the surprise of the party they
perceived the head and neck of a snake, at least eighty feet in length,
following them. An account of this occurrence was published in the
_Zoologist_ for 1847. The editor stated that he was indebted for it to Mr.
W. H. Ince, who received it from his brother, Commander J. M. R. Ince,
R.N. It was written by one of the eye‐witnesses, Mr. Henry Ince, and
signed as follows:—

W. Sullivan, Captain Rifle Brigade, June 21, 1831.
A. Maclachlan, Lieut. „ „ August 5, 1824.
G. P. Malcolm, Ensign „ „ August 13, 1830.
B. O’Neal Lyster, Lieut. Artillery, June 7, 1816.
Henry Ince, Storekeeper at Halifax.

The dates affixed to the names were those on which the gentlemen received
their respective commissions.

Great interest was excited in 1848 by an account of a great sea‐serpent
seen in lat. 24° 44’ S., and long. 9° 20’ E., in the tropics, and not very
far from the coast of Africa, by the officers and crew of her Majesty’s
frigate _Dædalus_. It was not, as in other cases, in bright and fine
weather, but on a dark and cloudy afternoon, and with a long ocean swell.
Captain Peter M‘Quhæ, in his report to the Admiralty, published in the
_Times_ for the 13th of October, describes it with confidence as “an
enormous serpent, with head and shoulders kept about four feet constantly
above the surface of the sea;” and he adds: “As nearly as we could
approximate by comparing it with the length of what our main topsail‐yard
would show in the water, there was at the very least sixty feet of the
animal _à fleur d’eau_, no portion of which was to our perception used in
propelling it through the water, either by vertical or horizontal
undulation. It passed rapidly, but so close under our lee‐quarter that had
it been a man of my acquaintance I should have easily recognised his
features with the naked eye; but it did not, either in approaching the
ship or after it had passed our wake, deviate in the slightest degree from
its course to the south‐west, which it held on at the pace of from twelve
to fifteen miles per hour, apparently on some determined purpose. The
diameter of the serpent was about fifteen or sixteen inches behind the
head, which was without doubt that of a snake; and it was never during the
twenty minutes that it continued in sight of our glasses once below the
surface of the water; its colour a dark brown with yellowish white about
the throat. It had no fins, but something like the mane of a horse, or
rather a bunch of sea‐weed washed about its back.”

[Illustration: THE GREAT SEA‐SERPENT WHEN FIRST SEEN FROM H.M.S.
_DÆDALUS_.
(_After a Drawing by Captain M‘Quhæ, sent to the Lords of the Admiralty,
October, 1848._)]

Drawings prepared from a sketch by Captain M‘Quhæ were published in the
_Illustrated London News_ of 28th October, 1848. Lieutenant Drummond, the
officer of the watch at the time, also printed his own impression of the
animal, which differs in some slight points from the Captain’s account,
particularly in ascribing a more elongated form to the head, in the
mention of a back‐fin (whereas Captain M‘Quhæ expressly says no fins were
seen), and the lower estimate of the length of the portion of the animal
visible. Lieutenant Drummond’s words are:—“The appearance of its head,
which with the back fin was the only portion of the animal visible, was
long, pointed, and flattened at the top, perhaps ten feet in length; the
upper jaw projecting considerably; the fin was perhaps twenty feet in the
rear of the head, and visible occasionally. The Captain also asserted that
he saw the tail, or another fin about the same distance behind it. The
upper part of the head and shoulders appeared of a dark brown colour, and
beneath the jaw a brownish white. It pursued a steady and undeviating
course, keeping its head horizontal with the water, and in rather a raised
position, disappearing occasionally beneath a wave for a very brief
interval, and not apparently for the purposes of respiration. It was going
at the rate of perhaps from twelve to fourteen miles an hour, and when
nearest was perhaps 100 yards distant. In fact, it gave one quite the idea
of a large snake or eel.” Lieutenant Drummond’s account is the more worthy
of regard, as it was derived from his journal, and so gives the exact
impressions of the hour, while Captain M‘Quhæ’s description was written
from memory after his arrival in England.

[Illustration: HEAD OF SEA‐SERPENT. (_After a Drawing by Captain
M‘Quhæ._)]

These statements caused much discussion at the time. It was suggested by
Mr. J. D. Morriss Stirling, a gentleman long living in Norway, and also by
a writer in the _Times_ of November 2, 1848, under the signature of “F. G.
S.,” that the monster had an affinity with the great fossil reptiles known
to geologists as the _Enaliosauria_, and particularly adduced the genus
_Plesiosaurus_, or gigantic lizard, with a serpent‐like neck. This is also
the opinion of Professor Agassiz, as given in the report of his lectures
in Philadelphia, in 1849, and reaffirmed in his “Geological Researches.”

A master in science, Professor Richard Owen, now appeared upon the field,
and in a most able article in the _Times_, November 11, 1848, gave his
verdict against the serpentine character of the animal, and pronounced it
to have been, in his judgment, a seal. He argued this partly from the
description of its appearance, and partly from the fact that no remains of
any dead marine serpent had ever been found. He says: “On weighing the
question whether creatures meriting the name of ‘great sea serpent’ do
exist, or whether any of the gigantic marine saurians of the secondary
deposits may have continued to live up to the present time, it seems to me
less probable that no part of the carcase of such reptiles should have
ever been discovered in a recent or unfossilised state, than that men
should have been deceived by a cursory view of a partly submerged and
rapidly moving animal, which might only be strange to themselves. In other
words, I regard the negative evidence from the utter absence of any of the
recent remains of great sea serpents, Krakens, or Enaliosauria, as
stronger against their actual existence than the positive statements which
have hitherto weighed with the public mind in favour of their existence. A
larger body of evidence from eye‐witnesses might be got together in proof
of ghosts than of the sea serpent.”

However, Captain M‘Quhæ gallantly returned to the charge, and combated the
idea that he had mistaken one of the _Phoca_ species for a snake; and he
was strongly corroborated by Mr. R. Davidson, Superintending Surgeon,
Nagpore Subsidiary Force, in a letter from Kamptee, published in the
_Bombay Bi‐monthly Times_, for January, 1849. This gentleman says that an
animal, “of which no more generally correct description could be given
than that by Captain M‘Quhæ,” passed within thirty‐five yards of the ship
_Royal Saxon_ while he and its commander, Captain Petrie, were standing on
the poop, when they were returning to India in 1829.

Again, a letter was printed in the _Zoologist_ for 1852, communicated by
Captain Steele, 9th Lancers, to his brother, Lieutenant‐Colonel Steele of
the Coldstream Guards, stating that while on his way to India in the
_Bartram_ he and _every one on board_ saw “the head and neck of an
enormous snake.” This was corroborated in a letter from one of the
officers of the ship, who says:—“His head appeared to be about sixteen
feet above the water, and he kept moving it up and down, sometimes showing
his enormous neck, which was surmounted with a huge crest in the shape of
a saw.”

Another theory was put forward in the London _Sun_ of the 9th July, 1849,
by Captain Herriman, of the British ship _Brazilian_, who, on the 24th
February, 1849, was becalmed on almost the same spot that Captain M‘Quhæ
saw his monster while on a voyage from the Cape of Good Hope.

“I perceived,” wrote Captain Herriman, “something right abeam, about half
a mile to the westward, stretched along the water to the length of about
twenty‐five to thirty feet, and perceptibly moving from the ship with a
steady sinuous motion. The head, which seemed to be lifted several feet
above the water, had something resembling a mane running down to the
floating portion, and within six feet of the tail it forked out into a
sort of double fin.” On approaching in a small boat, however, Captain
Herriman discovered that his monster was nothing more formidable than “an
immense piece of sea‐weed, evidently detached from a coral reef, and
drifting with the current, which sets constantly to the westward in this
latitude, and which, together with the swell left by the subsidence of the
gale, gave it the sinuous snake‐like motion.”

In the _Times_ of 5th February, 1858, a letter from Captain Harrington, of
the ship _Castilian_, stating that he and his crew had seen a gigantic
serpent on the 12th December, 1857, about ten miles N.E. of St. Helena,
brought out another witness on the sea‐weed hypothesis. This was Captain
Fred. Smith, of the ship _Pekin_, who gave a very similar account to that
of Captain Herriman, stating that in lat. 26° S., long. 6° E., on the 28th
December, 1848, he captured what he believed to be a serpent, but what
turned out to be a gigantic piece of weed covered with snaky‐looking
barnacles.

This last imputation brought up “An Officer of H.M. ship _Dædalus_,” whose
testimony, in the _Times_ of 16th February, 1858, puts _hors de combat_
the sea‐weed theory in that renowned case. He states that, “at its nearest
position, being not more than 200 yards from us, _the eye_, _the mouth_,
the nostril, the colour and form, all being _most distinctly visible to
us_ ... my impression was it was rather of a lizard than a serpentine
character, as its movement was steady and uniform, _as if propelled by
fins_, not by any undulatory power.”

That there is some mighty denizen of the vasty deep, sometimes but seldom
seen, is more than possible, and highly probable; but to which of the
recognised classes of created being can this huge rover of the ocean be
referred? First of all, is it an animal at all? On two occasions monstrous
pieces of weed have been mistaken for the Kraken, but on each occasion the
distance from the vessel is estimated at half a mile; while Captain M‘Quhæ
says that he was within 200 yards, and Mr. Davidson within thirty‐five
yards of the animal. Under these circumstances we may fairly dismiss the
sea‐weed hypothesis.

Professor Owen would place the sea‐serpent among the mammalia, but _Phoca
proboscidea_ is the only seal which will bear comparison with the
_Dædalus_ animal in dimensions, it reaching from twenty to thirty feet.
The officers declare, however, that at least sixty feet of their animal
was visible at the surface. Again, the fore paws of the seal are placed at
about one‐third of the total length from the muzzle, and yet no appearance
of fins was seen. To continue, the great _Phoca proboscidea_ has no mane,
the only seals possessing what may be dignified with the title being the
two kinds of sea lions—the _Otaria jubata_ and _Platyrhynchus
leoninus_—which are far too small to come into the count.

It is quite possible that the great unknown is a reptile, and his marine
habits present no difficulty. In the Indian and Pacific Oceans there are
numerous specimens of true snakes (_Hydrophidæ_), which are exclusively
inhabitants of the sea. None of these, however, are known to exceed a few
feet in length, and none of them, so far as is known, have found their way
into the Atlantic.

The most probable solution of the riddle is the hypothesis of Mr. Morriss
Stirling and Professor Agassiz, that the so‐called sea‐serpent will find
its closest affinities with those extraordinary animals the
_Enaliosauria_, or marine lizards, whose fossil skeletons are found so
abundantly through the Oolite and the Lias. If the Plesiosaur could be
seen alive you would find nearly its total length on the face of the water
propelled at a rapid rate, without any undulation, by an apparatus
altogether invisible—the powerful paddles beneath—while the entire
serpentine neck would probably be projected obliquely, carrying the
reptilian head, with an eye of moderate aperture, and a mouth whose gape
did not extend behind the eye. Add to this a body of leathery skin like
that of the whale, give the creature a length of some sixty feet or more,
and you would have before you almost the very counterpart of the
apparition that wrought such amazement on board the _Dædalus_.

In evidence of the existence of such an animal, Captain the Hon. George
Hope states that when in H.M.S. _Fly_, in the Gulf of California, the sea
being perfectly smooth and clear, he saw at the bottom a large marine
animal with the head and general figure of an alligator, except that the
neck was much longer, and that, instead of legs, the animal had four large
flappers, something like those of turtles.

The two strong objections to this theory are—first, the hypothetical
improbability of such forms having been transmitted from the era of the
secondary strata to the present time; and, second, the entire absence of
any parts of the carcases or unfossilised skeletons of such animals in
museums. Many fossil types, however, of marine animals have been
transmitted, with or without interruption, from remote geological epochs
to the present time; among these may be mentioned the Port Jackson Shark
(_Cestracion_), and the gar‐pike (_Lepidosteus_), which have come down to
us without interruption, the _Chimæra percopsis_ of Lake Superior, and
soft‐shelled tortoises (_Trionychidæ_), with more or less apparent
disappearance. The non‐occurrence of dead animals is of little weight as
disproving the existence of the sea‐serpent; its carcase would float only
a short time, and the rock‐bound coasts of Norway would be very unlikely
to retain any fragment cast up by the waves; many whales being known to
naturalists only from two or three specimens in many centuries.

The conclusion of the best naturalists is that the existence of the sea‐
serpent is possibly a verity, and that it may prove to be some modified
type of the secondary _Enaliosaurians_, or possibly some intermediate form
between them and the elongated _Cetaceans_.

CHAPTER XVII.

BY THE SEA‐SHORE.

English Appreciation of the Sea‐side—Its Variety and
Interest—Heavy Weather—The Green Waves—On the Cliffs—The Sea from
there—Madame de Gasparin’s Reveries—Description of a Tempest—The
Voice of God—Calm—A Great Medusa off the Coast—Night on the
Sea—Boating Excursion—In a Cavern—Colonies of Sea‐anemones—Rock
Pools—Southey’s Description—Treasures for the Aquarium—A Rat
Story—Rapid Influx of Tide and its Dangers—Melancholy Fate of a
Family—Life Under Water.

“In hollows of the tide‐worn reef,
Left at low water glistening in the sun,
Pellucid pools, and rocks in miniature,
With their small fry of fishes, crushed shells,
Rich mosses, tree‐like sea‐weed, sparkling pebbles,
Enchant the eye, and tempt the eager hand
To violate the fairy paradise.”

The sea‐side is nowhere more thoroughly appreciated than in our own rock
and water girt island, as the popularity of so many of our coast watering‐
places fully attests. The wonders of the shore are so many and varied that
they would require volumes like the present to do them full justice. Here,
then, the subject can only be briefly discussed.(51)

“The sea‐side,” says Gosse, a writer who is both artist and scientist in
his powers of description, “is never dull. Other places soon tire us; we
cannot always be admiring scenery, though ever so beautiful, and nobody
stands gazing into a field or on a hedgerow bank, though studded with the
most lovely flowers, by the half‐hour together. But we can and do stand
watching the sea, and feel reluctant to leave it: the changes of the tide
and the ever rolling, breaking, and retiring waves are so much like the
phenomena of life, that we look on with an interest and expectation akin
to that with which we watch the proceedings of living beings.” The sea‐
shore, in all its varied aspects, has beauties and characteristics all its
own.

“How grandly,” says the same writer, “those heavy waves are rolling in
upon this long shingle‐beach. Onward they come, with an even, deliberate
march that tells of power, out of that lowering sky that broods over the
southern horizon. Onward they come! onward! onward! each following its
precursor in serried ranks, ever coming nearer and nearer, ever looming
larger and larger, like the resistless legions of a great invading army,
sternly proud in its conscious strength; and ever and anon, as one and
another dark billow breaks in a crest of foam, we may fancy we see the
standards and ensigns of the threatening host waving here and there above
the mass.

“Still they drive in, and each in turn curls over its green head, and
rushes up the sloping beach in a long‐drawn sheet of the purest, whitest
foam. The drifted snow itself is not more purely spotlessly white than is
that sheet of foaming water. How it seethes and sparkles! how it boils and
bubbles! how it rings and hisses! The wind sings shrilly out of the
driving clouds, now sinking to a moan, now rising to a roar; but we cannot
hear it, for its tones are drowned in the ceaseless rushing of the mighty
waves upon the beach and the rattle of the recoiling pebbles. Along the
curvature of the shore the shrill, hoarse voice runs, becoming softer and
mellower as it recedes; while the echo of the bounding cliffs confines and
repeats and mingles it with the succeeding ones till all are blended on
the ear in one deafening roar.

“But let us climb these slippery rocks, and picking our way cautiously
over yonder craggy ledges, leaping the chasms that yawn between and reveal
the hissing waters below, let us strive to attain the vantage‐ground of
that ridge which we see some fifty feet above the beach. It is perilous
work this scrambling over rocks, alternately slimy with treacherous
seaweed, and bristling with sharp needle‐points of honeycombed limestone;
now climbing a precipice, with the hands clutching these same rough
points, and the toes finding a precarious hold in their interstices; now
descending to a ledge awfully overhung; now creeping along a narrow shelf
by working each foot on a few inches at a time, while the fingers
nervously cling to the stony precipice, and the mind strives to forget the
rugged depths below, and what would happen if—ah! that ‘if!’ let us cast
it to the winds. Another long stride across a gulf, a bound upward, and
here we are.

“Yes, here we stand on the bluff, looking out to seaward in the very eye
of the wind. We might have supposed it a tolerably smooth slope of stone
when we looked at the point from the sea, or from the various parts of the
shore where we can see this promontory. But very different is it on a
close acquaintance. It is a wilderness of craggy points and huge
castellated masses of compact limestone marble, piled one on another in
the most magnificent confusion. We have secured a comfortable berth,
where, wedged in between two of these masses, we can without danger lean
and look wistfully down upon the very theatre of the elemental war. Is not
this a sight worth the toil and trouble and peril of the ascent? The rock
below is fringed with great insular peaks and blocks, bristling up amidst
the sea, of various sizes and of the most fantastic and singular forms,
which the sea at high water would mostly cover, though now the far‐
receding tide exposes their horrid points, and the brown leprous coating
of barnacles with which their lower sides are covered is broadly seen
between the swelling seas.

[Illustration: ON THE SEA‐SHORE: CALM AND STORM.]

“Heavily rolls in the long deep swell of the ocean from the south‐west;
and as it approaches, with its huge undulations driven up into foaming
crests before the howling gale, each mighty wave breasts up against these
rocks, as when an army of veteran legions assaults an impregnable
fortress. Impregnable, indeed! for having spent its fury in a rising wall
of mingled water and foam, it shoots up perpendicularly to an immense
elevation, as if it would scale the heights it could not overthrow, only
to be the next moment a broken ruin of water murmuring and shrieking in
the moats below. The insular blocks and peaks receive the incoming surge
in an overwhelming flood, which immediately, as the spent wave recedes,
pours off through the interstices in a hundred beautiful jets and
cascades; while in the narrow straits and passages the rushing sea boils
and whirls about in curling sheets of snowy whiteness, curdling the
surface; or where it breaks away, of the most delicate pea‐green hue, the
tint produced by the bubbles seen through the water as they crowd to the
air from the depths where they were formed—the evidence of the unseen
conflict fiercely raging between earth and sea far below.

“The shrieking gusts, as the gale rises yet higher and more furious, whip
off the crests of the breaking billows, and bear the spray like a shower
of salt sleet to the height where we stand; while the foam, as it forms
and accumulates around the base of the headland, is seized by the same
power in broad masses and carried against the sides of the projecting
rocks, flying hither and thither like fleeces of wool, and adhering like
so much mortar to the face of the precipice, till it covers great spaces,
to the height of many fathoms above the highest range of the tide. The
gulls flit wailing through the storm, now breasting the wind, and beating
the air with their long wings as they make slow headway; then yielding the
vain essay, they turn and are whirled away, till, recovering themselves,
they come up again with a sweep, only to be discomfited. Their white
forms, now seen against the leaden‐grey sky, now lost amidst the snowy
foam, then coming into strong relief against the black rock; their piping
screams now sounding close against the ear, then blending with the sounds
of the elements, combine to add a wildness to the scene which was already
sufficiently savage.

“But the spring‐tide is nearly at its lowest; a rocky path leads down from
our eminence to a recess in the precipice, whence in these conditions
access may be obtained to a sea cavern that we may possibly find
entertainment in exploring.”

Madame de Gasparin, in her visit to Italy, thus describes her impressions
of a thunderstorm, the reveries of an enthusiastic poet‐traveller.(52) She
says:—“Last night a storm burst over Chiaveri. Three tempests in one! and
we in the very centre of the action.

“The thunder, marching on for a long time with that solemn roll which
reveals the depths of the skies, suddenly explodes with a crash; the
lightnings fall straight and serried—no longer a series of fantastic zig‐
zags, but a very focus of electric light. Sometimes the brilliancy flashes
out behind the castle, and the outline of its square tower, black as ink,
is thrown upon the palazzi opposite to it. Sometimes the fire kindles in
the east, and the square, the houses, the fortress, are all lighted up by
a flame of unbearable white, which scorches the eyes. The air is rent by
the winds in fury, the boom of the waves resounds through an undertone of
wild complaint. Angels of destruction are passing by this night; one hears
the hiss of their swords. What is human life? A nothing. What is man
himself? A worm. In hours like these the boldest among us calls his ways
to remembrance.

“I can understand seriousness; I have no patience with fear.

“There was a time when, during heavy storms, my mother was wont to say to
me: ‘Come!’ We used to go out in the full fury of the tempest. ‘Listen,’
my mother would say; ‘it is the voice of God!’ Then she made me join my
hands; she prayed, and peace descended into my soul.”

And again of a storm elsewhere Madame de Gasparin says:—“The mighty voice
fills the air with clamour. Not another word; there it is in its frenzy.

“There it is, stretching out to the furthest horizons. The clouds which
are driving along alternately dye it grey or black; then the mists are
rent, they let the sun pass through, and the intense blue is lit up to the
very depths of immensity.

“Near the shore squadrons of green waves of baleful perfidious hue—heavy
opaque masses, uplifted by a convulsive throb, shone athwart by a pale
ray—roll over and break with thundering noise; and foaming cataracts,
precipitated in torrents, dash up, then, suddenly quieted, come and lave
the shore with their clear waters.

“Terrible in its rage this sea! full of spite, like a wicked fairy.
Howling to the four quarters of the sky, heedlessly breaking proud ships
to pieces, intoxicated with cries, calamities, frenzied with might; and
then, as in irony, tracing magic circles, enclosing, inundating you, and
thrilling with pleasure, running back, leaving the sand strewn with
rainbowed bubbles.

“We stand motionless, mere nothings in presence of this brute force. But
our soul thrills, feeling herself greater than the sea, stronger than the
waves—she who can lay hold on God.

* * * * * * *

“But a ray or light has shone out....

“And now that the sun is lavishingly scattering diamonds over the sea, now
that the wrath of the waves breaks into sparkling laughter, let us run on
the shore, and defy the spray.

“And so, sometimes flying from, and sometimes braving the wind, we rush
into the uproar, we push on to that mass of rocks upon which the waves are
crashing. Swelling at a distance, they rear themselves up—they are giants!
Hardly have they reached the rocks than they crumble away, and the silly
foam throws its flakes on the pine‐trees holding on to the mountain side.
This is succeeded by a heavenly calm.”

“The peaceful main,
One molten mirror, one illumined plane,
Clear as the blue, sublime, o’er‐arching sky.”

“Down we gazed,” says Gosse, in one of his charming sea‐side works, “on
the smooth sea, becoming more and more mirror‐like every moment, as the
slight afternoon breeze died away into a calm, and allowing us from our
vantage height to see far down into its depths. Presently I was gratified
with the sight of one and then another of that enormous Medusa, the Great
Rhizostome, urging its diagonal course at the shining surface. Its great
bluish‐white disc, like a globe of fifteen or eighteen inches in diameter,
moves foremost by alternate contractions and expansions, which remind one
of the pulse of an enormous heart, especially as at each stroke a volume
of fluid is shot out of the cavity, by the impact of which on the
surrounding water the huge body is driven vigorously forward. Meanwhile
the compound peduncle, with its eight arms that hang down to the depth of
two feet below, is dragged after the disc, its weight and the resistance
of the water to its bulk combining to give that slanting direction which
this great Medusa always assumes when in motion. We watched the great
unwieldy creatures a long time, even till evening had faded into night,
and were left almost the only wanderers on the hill. But what a night it
was! So calm, so balmy, so solemnly still and noiseless; even the wash of
the ripple at the foot of the cliff was hushed. There was no moon, but
many stars were twinkling and blinking, and in the north‐west a strong
flush of light filled the sky, which was rapidly creeping along over the
north cliffs. Then those cliffs themselves, all distinctness of feature
lost in the darkness, stood like a great black wall in front of us, which
being reflected in the placid sea so truly that no difference could be
traced between substance and shadow, the dark mass, doubled in height,
seemed to rise from a line only a few hundred yards off; and thus
everything looked strange and unnatural and unrecognisable, although our
reason told us the cause.

“Let us now scramble down the cliff‐side path, tangled with briers and
ferns, where the swelling buds of the hawthorn and honeysuckle are already
bursting, while the blackbird mellowly whistles in the fast‐greening
thicket, and the lark joyously greets the mounting sun above us. Yonder on
the shingle lies a boat newly painted in white and green for the
attraction of young ladies of maritime aspirations; she is hauled up high
and dry, but the sinewy arms of an honest boatman, who, hearing footsteps,
has come out of his little grotto under the rock to reconnoitre, will soon
drag her down to the sea’s margin, and ‘for the sum of a shilling an
hour,’ will pull us over the smooth and pond‐like sea whithersoever we may
choose to direct him.

“‘Jump aboard, please, sir. Jump in, ladies. Jump in, little master.’ And
now, as we take our seats on the clean canvas cushions astern, the boat’s
bottom scrapes along with a harsh grating noise over the white shingle‐
pebbles, and we are afloat.

“First to the caverns just outside yonder lofty point. The lowness of the
tide will enable us to take the boat into them, and the calmness of the
sea will preclude much danger of her striking upon the rocks, especially
as the watchful boatman will be on the alert, boat‐hook in hand, to keep
her clear. Now we lie in the gloom of the lofty arch, gently heaving and
sinking and swaying on the slight swell, which, however smooth at the
surface, is always perceptible when you are in a boat among rocks, and
which invests such an approach with a danger that a landsman does not at
all appreciate.

“Yet the water, despite the swell, is glassy, and invites the gaze down
into its crystalline depths, where the little fishes are playing and
hovering over the dark weeds.

“The sides of the cavern rise around us in curved planes, washed smooth
and slippery by the dashing of the waves of ages, and gradually merge into
the massive angles and projections and groins of the broken roof, whence a
tuft or two of what looks like samphire depends. But notice the colonies
of the smooth anemone or beadlet (_Actinia mesembryanthemum_) clustered
about the sides, many of them adhering to the stone walls several feet
above the water. Those have been left uncovered for hours, and are none
the worse for it. They are closed, the many tentacles being concealed by
the involution of the upper part of the body, so that they look like balls
or hemispheres, or semi‐ovals of flesh; or like ripe fruits, so plump and
glossy and succulent and high‐coloured, that we are tempted to stretch
forth the willing hand to pluck and eat. Some are greengages, some Orleans
plums, some magnum‐bonums, so varied are their rich hues; but look beneath
the water, and you see them not less numerous, but of quite another guise.
These are all widely expanded; the tentacles are thrown out in an arch
over the circumference, leaving a broad flat disc, just like a many‐
petalled flower of gorgeous hues; indeed, we may fancy that here we see
the blossoms and there the ripened fruit. Do not omit, however, to notice
the beads of pearly blue that stud the margin all around at the base of
the over‐arching tentacles. These have been supposed by some to be eyes;
the suggestion, however, rests upon no anatomical ground, and is, I am
afraid, worthless, though I cannot tell you what purpose they do serve.”

[Illustration: SEA ANEMONES.
1, 2, 3. _A. sulcata_. 4. _Phymactis sanctæ Helenæ_. 5. _Actinia
capensis_. 6. _A. Peruviana_.
7. _A. sanctæ Catherinæ_. 8. _A. amethystina_. 9, 10. _Anthea cereus_.]

Southey must have had the deep rocky pools of the Devonshire coast in his
mind’s eye when he wrote—

“It was a garden still beyond all price,
Even yet it was a place of Paradise.
* * * *
And here were coral bowers,
And grots of madrepores,
And banks of sponge, as soft and fair to eye
As e’er was mossy bed
Whereon the wood‐nymphs lie
With languid limbs in summer’s sultry hours.
Here, too, were living flowers,
Which like a bud compacted,
Their purple cups contracted,
And now, in open blossom spread,
Stretched like green anthers many a seeking head;
And arborets of jointed stone were there,
And plants of fibres fine as silkworm’s thread;
Yea, beautiful as mermaid’s golden hair,
Upon the waves dispread.”

It is among the rock‐tide pools that some of the most prized treasures of
the aquarium may be obtained. There are the little shrubberies of pink
coralline, Southey’s “arborets of jointed stone”; there are the crimson
banana‐leaves of the _Delesseria_, the purple tufts of Polysiphoniæ and
Ceramia, the broad emerald green leaves of _Ulva_, and the wavy, feathery
_Ptitola_ and _Dasya_. Then everywhere is to be found the lovely _Chondrus
crispus_, with its expanding fan‐shaped fronds cut into segments, every
segment of every frond reflecting a lovely iridescent azure.

[Illustration: DELESSERIA.]

[Illustration: ULVA.]

Mr. Gosse was reclining one evening on the turf, looking down on a
Devonshire cove that formed the extremity of a great cavern. Though it was
low tide, the sea did not recede sufficiently to admit of any access to
the cove from the shore. Presently he saw a large rat come deliberately
foraging down to the water’s edge, peep under every stone, go hither and
thither very methodically, pass into the crevices, exploring them in
succession. At length he came out of a hole in the rock, with some white
object in his mouth as big as a walnut, and ran slowly off with it by a
way the observer had not seen him go before, till he could follow him no
longer with his eyes because of the projections of the precipice. What
could he possibly have found? He evidently knew what he was about. From
his retirement into the cavern, when the sea had quite insulated it, the
sagacious little animal had doubtless his retreat in its recesses, far up,
of course, out of the reach of the sea, where he would be snugly lodged
when the waves dashed and broke wildly through the cove, kindling millions
of fitful lamps among the clustering polypes below.

The influx of the tide is frequently, as we all know, very rapid on the
sands, and cuts off the communication between rocky islets and the shore
in rather a treacherous fashion. Mr. Gosse, in giving an account of such
influx on a part of the Devonshire coast says:—

“In the evening we strolled down to look at the place, and were beguiled
into staying till it was quite late by the interest which attached to the
coming‐in of the tide. There was a breeze from the southward, which hove
the sea against the opposite entrance of the cavern to that on which we
were standing; and the funnel‐shaped cliffs on that side concentrated the
successive waves, which drove through a sort of ‘bore,’ and covered with
turbulent water large tracts which but a few moments before were dry. We
were pushed from stone to stone, and from spot to spot, like a retreating
enemy before a successful army; but we lingered, wishing to see the
junction of the waters and the insulation of the rock. It is at this point
that the advance is so treacherous. There was an isthmus of some twenty
feet wide of dry sand, when my wife, who had seen the process before,
said, ‘It will be all over by the time you have counted a hundred.’ Before
I had reached fifty it was a wide wash of water.”

A melancholy fate overtook a large family party near here some years ago.
They had walked over the sands to Fern Cliff, and made their picnic in a
cavern close by, forgetful of the silent march of the tide. When they
discovered their isolation escape was cut off, and the overhanging rock
forbade all chance of climbing. They were all drowned, and the bodies
picked up one by one, as the sea washed them in.

All the species of anemone found on the rocks above the water are to be
seen below it, and all displaying their beauties in an incomparably more
charming fashion. The whole submerged wall is nothing else than a parterre
of most brilliant flowers, taken bodily and set on end. “The eye is
bewildered with their number and variety, and knows not which to look at
first. Here are the rosy anemones (_Sagartia rosea_), with a firm fleshy
column of rich sienna‐brown, paler towards the base, and with the upper
part studded with indistinct spots, marking the situation of certain
organs which have an adhesive power. The disc is of a pale neutral tint,
with a crimson mouth in the centre, and a circumference of crowded
tentacles of the most lovely rose‐purple, the rich hue of that lovely
flower that bears the name of General Jacqueminot. In those specimens that
are most widely opened this tentacular fringe forms a blossom whose petals
overhang the concealed column, expanding to the width of an inch or more;
but there are others in which the expansion is less complete in different
degrees, and these all give distinct phases of loveliness. We find a few
among the rest which, with the characteristically‐coloured tentacles, have
the column and disc of a creamy white; and one in which the disc is of a
brilliant orange, inclining to scarlet. Most lovely little creatures are
they all! Commingling with these charming roses there are others which
attain a larger size, occurring in even greater abundance. They are
frequently an inch and a half in diameter when expanded, and some are even
larger than this. You may know them at once by observing that the outer
row of tentacles, and occasionally also some of the others, are of a
scarlet hue, which, when examined minutely, is seen to be produced by a
sort of core of that rich hue pervading the pellucid tentacle. The species
is commonly known as the scarlet‐fringed anemone (_Sagartia miniata_). The
inner rows of tentacles, which individually are larger than those of the
outer rows, are pale, marked at the base with strong bars of black. The
disc is very variable in hue, but the column is for the most part of the
same rich brown as we saw in the rosy. Yet, though these are
characteristic colours, there are specimens which diverge exceedingly from
them, and some approach so near the roses as to be scarcely
distinguishable from them.” The loveliness of these submarine gardens
cannot be over‐rated.

CHAPTER XVIII.

BY THE SEA‐SHORE (_continued_).

A Submerged Forest—Grandeur of Devonshire Cliffs—Castellated
Walls—A Natural Palace—Collection of Sea‐weeds—The Title a
Miserable Misnomer—The Bladder Wrack—Practical Uses—The Harvest‐
time for Collectors—The Huge Laminaria—Good for Knife‐
handles—Marine Rope—The Red‐Seeded Group—Munchausen’s Gin Tree
Beaten—The Coralline a Vegetable—Beautiful Varieties—Irish
Moss—The Green Seeds—Hints on Preserving Sea‐weeds—The Boring
Pholas—How they Drill—Sometimes through each other—The Spinous
Cockle—The “Red‐noses”—Hundreds of Peasantry Saved from
Starvation—“Rubbish,” and the difficulty of obtaining it—Results
of a Basketful—The Contents of a Shrimper’s Net—Miniature Fish of
the Shore.

Mr. Gosse tells us in his “Tenby,” of a veritable submerged forest near
Amroth. Pieces of soft and decayed wood constantly come to the surface,
and are called by the peasantry “sea turf.” It is very commonly perforated
by the shells of _Pholas candida_, being ensconed therein as closely as
they can lie without mutual invasion. Other pieces are quite solid,
resisting the knife like the good old oak timbers of a ship. Occasionally,
during storms, whole trunks and roots and branches are torn away, come
floating to the surface of the sea, and are cast on the shore. Some of
them have been found “at the recess of the autumnal spring tides, which
have marks of the axe still fresh upon them, proving that the encroachment
of the sea has been effected since the country was inhabited by civilised
man.” Several kinds of trees, including elm, willow, alder, poplar, and
oak, have been found among the large fragments cast up. An account of the
encroachments of the sea on various parts of our coasts would fill a large
volume.

Mr. Gosse well describes some of the Devonshire coast scenery. “Now,” says
he, “we are under Lidstep Head, a promontory in steepness and height
rivalling its ‘proud’ opponents. I never before saw cliffs like these. The
stratification is absolutely perpendicular, and as straight as a line,
taking the appearance at every turn of enormous towers, castles, and
abbeys, in which the fissures bear the closest resemblance to loopholes
and doors. Great areas open enclosed as if with vast walls. The sea
surface was particularly smooth, and we ventured to pull into one of
these, exactly as if into a ruined castle or vast abbey; chamber opening
beyond chamber, bounded and divided by what I must call _walls_ of rock,
enormous in height, and as straight as the architect’s plumb would have
made them, with the smooth sea for the floor. If the tide had been high,
instead of being low‐water of a spring tide, we might have rowed all about
this great enclosed court; but as it was, the huge square upright rocks
were appearing above water, like massive altars and tables. The sea was
perfectly clear, and we could look down to the foundations of the
precipices where the purple‐ringed Medusæ were playing. Altogether, it was
a place of strange grandeur; we felt as if we were in a palace of the sea
genii, as if we were where we ought not to be, and when a gull shrieked
over our heads, and uttered his short, hollow, mocking laugh, we started
and looked at one another as though something uncanny had challenged us,
though the sun was shining broadly over the tops of those Cyclopean walls.

“We left this natural palace with regret; but the tide was near its lowest
ebb, and I wished to be on the rocks for whatever might be obtainable in
natural history. The lads, therefore, gave way, and we swiftly shot past
this coast of extraordinary sublimity. Presently we came to the Droch,
where a more majestic cavern than any we had yet seen appears. Up on a
beach of yellow sand its immense span is reared with a secondary entrance;
the arch of uniting stone is thrown across with a beautiful lightness, and
appears as if hewn with the mason’s chisel. Dark domes are seen within,
far up in the lofty vaulted roof, and pools of still, clear glassy water
mirror the rude walls. This is certainly a glorious cave.”

Easiest of all maritime objects to collect are the so‐called “sea‐weeds,”
which the Rev. J. G. Wood rightly terms a “miserable appellation,” to be
employed under protest. They are in reality beautiful sea‐plants of oft‐
times delicate form and colour; and even the larger and commoner varieties
have much of interest about them, some having actual uses. One of the
first to strike the eye on almost any beach is the common bladder‐wrack
(_Fucus vesiculosus_), that dark olive‐brown sea‐weed familiar to all
visitors to our coasts. It is distinguished by its air‐vessels, which
explode when trodden on or otherwise roughly compressed, and which are the
delight of all youngsters at the sea‐side. This slimy and slippery weed
makes rock‐walking perilous in a moderate degree, a fact which does not
generally stop young British maidens and their companions from slipping
about over its tangled masses. A larger species (_Fucus serratus_)
sometimes grows to a length of six feet. It is used as manure, and even as
food for cattle; while it is excellent to pack lobsters, crabs, &c., if
they have to be sent inland. These and kindred _algæ_, the generic term
for sea‐weed, are known as _Melanosperms_, or black‐seeded, so called from
the dark olive tint of the seeds or spores from which they spring, and
with which they abound.

[Illustration: BLADDER WRACK.
(_Fucus vesiculosus_.)]

The best time for the collector who would reap a harvest is at spring‐
tides, when, Mr. Wood tells us, an hour or two’s careful investigation of
the beach will sometimes produce as good results as several days’ hard
work with the dredge. “It is better to go down to the shore about half an
hour or so before the lowest tide, so as to follow the receding waters and
to save time.” The naturalist or amateur collector then finds at these low
tides a new set of vegetation, contrasting with the more delicate forms
left higher on the beach, as forest‐trees with ferns and herbage. Huge
plants, some of them measuring eleven feet in length, of the oar‐weed
(_Laminaria digitata_), are lying about in profusion. It is known by its
scientific name on account of the flat thin‐fingered fronds it bears. Its
stem is used for handles to knives and other implements, so tough and
strong is it. One good stem will furnish a dozen handles, and when dry it
is as hard as horn.

[Illustration: LAMINARIA.]

Among the same group is to be found a most singular rope‐like marine
plant, hardly thicker than an ordinary pin at the base, where it adheres
to the rock, but swelling to the size of a large swan’s‐quill in the
centre. When grasped by the hand it feels as though oiled, being naturally
slimy, and covered by innumerable fine hairs. It is found from the length
of one to twenty, thirty, and even forty feet. It may be mentioned that
sea‐weeds have no true roots, but adhere by discs or suckers. They derive
their nourishment from the sea‐water, not from the rock or soil.

Another sub‐class of _algæ_ are named the _Rhodosperms_, or red‐seeded,
and they are among the most beautiful known to collectors. They are
delicate, and some turn brown when exposed to too much light. Above low
water‐mark may be found growing largish masses of a dense, reddish,
thread‐like foliage, sometimes adhering to the rock, and sometimes to the
stems of the great _Laminaria_. This is one of a large genus,
_Polysiphonia_ (“many‐tubed”) the specific name being _Urceolata_, or
pitchered—it is actually covered with little jars, or receptacles of
coloured liquid.

“That popular author and extensive traveller, Baron Munchausen,” says Mr.
Wood, “tells us that he met with a tree that bore a fruit filled with the
best of gin. Had he travelled along our own sea‐coasts, or, indeed, along
any sea‐coasts, and inspected the vegetation of the waves there, he would
have found a plant that might have furnished him with the groundwork of a
story respecting a jointed tree composed of wine‐bottles, each joint being
a separate bottle filled with claret. It is true that the plant is not
very large, as it seldom exceeds nine or ten inches in height, but if
examined through a microscope it might be enlarged to any convenient
size.” The scientific name of this marine plant signifies the “jointed
juice‐branch.” It may be found adhering to rocks, or large seaweed, and
really resembles a jointed series of miniature red wine bottles.

The common coralline (_Corallina officinalis_) is also one of the red sea‐
weeds, although long thought to be a true coral. It is a curious plant; it
deposits in its own substance so large an amount of carbonate of lime that
when the vegetable part of its nature dies the chalky part remains. When
alive it is of a dark purple colour, which fades when removed from the
water, and the white stony skeleton alone remains. It is, however, a true
vegetable, as may be seen by dissolving away the chalky portions in acid;
there is then left a vegetable framework precisely like that of other algæ
belonging to the same sub‐class. It is a small plant, rarely exceeding a
height of five or so inches, but it grows in luxuriant patches wherever it
can find a suitable spot.

A beautiful marine plant is the _Delesseria sanguinea_, with its beautiful
scarlet leaves, the branches being five or six inches in length. It has a
very “ancient and fish‐like smell,” once noticed not to be forgotten. Then
again every one will remember in the little seaweed bouquets and
landscapes on card sold at the fashionable seaside watering‐places, a gay,
bright, pinky‐red kind, which is sure to be remarked for its charming
beauty. This is the _Plocamium coccineum_, which is found to be even more
beautiful under the microscope, for it is there seen that even the tiniest
branchlets, themselves hardly thicker than a hair, have each their rows of
finer branches.

Some seaweeds are eaten, as for example the so‐called “Carrageen,” or
Irish moss, which is used in both jelly and size, and is one of the
_Rhodosperm_ algæ. To preserve it for esculent purposes it is washed in
fresh water and allowed to dry; it becomes then horny and stiff. If boiled
it subsides into a thick jelly, which is considered nutritious, and is
used by both invalids and epicures. Calico‐printers use it for size. It is
used, boiled in milk, to fatten calves.

A pretty little seaweed, _Griffithsia selacea_, has the property of
staining paper a fine pinkish‐scarlet hue when its membrane bursts.
Contact with fresh water will usually cause the membrane to yield, and
then the colouring‐matter is exuded with a slight crackling noise.

The _Chlorosperms_, or green‐seeded algæ, have the power of pouring out
large quantities of oxygen under certain conditions, and are therefore
very valuable in the aquarium. Among them are the sea‐lettuce, before
mentioned, the common sea grass, and a large number of smaller and more
delicate forms.

“If,” says Mr. Wood, “the naturalist wishes to dry and preserve the algæ
which he finds, he may generally do so without much difficulty, although
some plants give much more trouble than others. It is necessary that they
should be well washed in fresh water, in order to get rid of the salt,
which, being deliquescent,(53) would attract the moisture on a damp day,
or in a damp situation, and soon ruin the entire collection. When they are
thoroughly washed the finest specimens should be separated from the rest
and placed in a wide, shallow vessel, filled with clear fresh water.
Portions of white card, cut to the requisite size, should then be slipped
under the specimen, which can be readily arranged as they float over the
immersed card. The fingers alone ought to answer every purpose, but a
camel’s‐hair brush and a needle will often be useful. When the specimen is
properly arranged the card is lifted from the water, carrying upon it the
piece of seaweed. There is little difficulty in getting the plants to
adhere to the paper, as most of the algæ are furnished with a gelatinous
substance which acts like glue and fixes them firmly down.” If not, the
use of hot water will generally accomplish the desired end. Animal glue or
gum‐water cannot he recommended.

Every visitor to the sea‐shore has observed rocks drilled with innumerable
holes, almost as though by art. A few good blows with a stout hammer on
the chisel‐head serve to split off a great slice of the coarse red
sandstone. The holes run through its substance, but they are all empty, or
filled only with the black fœtid mud which the sea has deposited in their
cavities. These are too superficial; they are all deserted; the stone lies
too high above low‐water mark; we must seek a lower level. Try here, where
the lowest spring‐tide only just leaves the rocks bare. See! now we have
uncovered the operators. Here lie snugly ensconced within the tubular
perforations, great mollusca, with ample ivory‐like shells, which yet
cannot half contain the whiter flesh of their ampler bodies, and the long
stout yellow siphons that project from one extremity, reaching far up the
hole towards the surface of the rock.

We lift one from its cavity, all helpless and unresisting, yet manifesting
its indignation at the untimely disturbance by successive spasmodic
contractions of those rough yellow siphons, each accompanied with a
forcible _jet d’eau_, a polite squirt of sea‐water into our faces; while
at each contraction in length, the base swells out till the compressed
valves of the sharp shell threaten to pierce through its substance.

Strange as it seems, these animals have bored these holes in the stone,
and they are capable of boring in far harder rock than this, even in
compact limestone. The actual mode in which this operation is performed
long puzzled philosophers. Some maintained that the animal secreted an
acid which had the power of dissolving not only various kinds of stone,
but also wood, amber, wax, and other substances in which the excavations
are occasionally made. But it is hard to imagine a solvent of substances
so various, and to know how the animal’s own shells were preserved from
its action, while, confessedly, no such acid had ever been detected by the
most careful tests. Others maintain that the rough points which stud the
shell enable it to serve as a rasp, which the animal, by rotating on its
axis, uses to wear away the stone or other material; but it was difficult
to understand how it was that the shell itself was not worn away in the
abrasion.

Actual observation in the aquarium has, however, proved that the second
hypothesis is the true one. M. Cailliaud in France, and Mr. Robertson in
England, have demonstrated that the Pholas uses its shell as a rasp,
wearing away the stone with the asperities with which the anterior parts
of the valves are furnished. Between these gentlemen a somewhat hot
contention was maintained for the honour of priority in this valuable
discovery. M. Cailliaud himself used the valves of the dead shell, and
imitating the natural conditions as well as he could, actually bored an
imitative hole, by making them rotate. Mr. Robertson at Brighton exhibited
to the public living Pholades in the act of boring in masses of chalk. He
describes it as “a living combination of three instruments, viz., a
hydraulic apparatus, a rasp, and a syringe.” But the first and last of
these powers can be considered only as an accessory to the removing of the
detritus out of the way when once the hole was bored, the rasp being the
real power. If you examine these living shells you will see that the fore
part, where the foot protrudes, is set with stony points arranged in
transverse and longitudinal rows; the former being the result of elevated
ridges radiating from the hinge, the latter that of the edges of
successive growths of the shell. These points have the most accurate
resemblance to those set on a steel rasp in a blacksmith’s shop. It is
interesting to know that the shell is preserved from being itself
permanently worn away by the fact that it is composed of arragonite, a
substance much harder than those in which the Pholas burrows. Yet we see
by comparing specimens one with another, that such a destructive action
does in time take place, for some have the rasping points much more worn
than others, many of the older ones being nearly smooth.

[Illustration: PHOLADES IN A BLOCK OF GNEISS.]

The animal turns in its burrow from side to side when at work, adhering to
the interior by the foot, and therefore only partially rotating to and
fro. The substance is abraded in the form of fine powder, which is
periodically ejected from the mouth of the hole by the contraction of the
branchial siphon, a good deal of the more unpalpable portions being
deposited by the current as it proceeds, and lodging as a soft mud between
the valves and the stone. Mr. Hudson, who watched some Pholades at work in
a tide‐pool in the chalk, observed the periodic ejection of the cloud of
chalk powder, and noticed the heaps of the same material deposited about
the mouth of each burrow. The discharges were made with no regularity as
to time. Mrs. Merrifield records a curious fact:—“A lady watching the
operations of some Pholades which were at work in a basin of sea‐water,
perceived that two of them were boring at such an angle that their tunnels
would meet. Curious to ascertain what they would do in this case, she
continued her observations, and found that _the larger and stronger Pholas
bored straight through the weaker one_, as if it had been merely a piece
of chalk rock.”

[Illustration: SPINOUS COCKLE.
(_Cardium edule._)]

“What,” says Mr. Gosse, “is that object that lies on yonder stretch of
sand, over which the shallow water ripples, washing the sand around it and
presently leaving it dry? It looks like a stone; but there is a fine
scarlet knob on it, which all of a sudden has disappeared. Let us watch
the movement of the receding wave, and run out to it. It is a fine example
of the great spinous cockle (_Cardium rusticum_) for which all these sandy
beaches that form the bottom of the great sea‐bed of Torbay are
celebrated. Indeed, the species is scarcely known elsewhere, so that it is
often designated in books as the Paignton cockle. A right savoury _bonne
bouche_ it is, when artistically dressed. Old Dr. Turton—a great authority
in his day for Devonshire natural history, especially on matters relating
to shells and shell‐fish—says that the cottagers about Paignton well know
the ‘red‐noses,’ as they call the great cockles, and search for them at
low spring tides, when they may be seen lying in the sand with the fringed
siphons appearing just above the surface. They gather them in baskets and
panniers, and after cleansing them a few hours in cold spring‐water, fry
the animals in a batter made of crumbs of bread. The creatures have not
changed their habits nor their habitats, for they are still to be seen in
the old spots just as they were a century ago; nor have they lost their
reputation; they are, indeed, promoted to the gratification of more
refined palates now, for the cottagers, knowing on which side their bread
is buttered, collect the sapid cockles for the fashionables of Torquay,
and content themselves with the humbler and smaller species (_Cardium
edule_), which rather affects the muddy flats of estuaries than sand
beaches, though not uncommon here. This latter, though much inferior in
sapidity to the great spinous sort, forms a far more important item in the
category of human food, from its very general distribution, its extreme
abundance, and the ease with which it is collected. Wherever the receding
tide leaves an area of exposed mud, the common cockle is sure to be found,
and hundreds of men, women, and children may be seen plodding and groping
over the sinking surface, with naked feet and bent backs, picking up the
shell‐fish by thousands, to be boiled and eaten for home consumption, or
to be cried through the lanes and alleys of the neighbouring towns by
stentorian boys who vociferate all day long, ‘Here’s your fine cockles,
here! Here they are! Here they are! Twopence a quart!’” It is on the
north‐western coast of Scotland, however, that the greatest abundance of
these mollusca occurs, and there they form not a luxury but even a
necessary of life to the poor semi‐barbarous population. The inhabitants
of these rocky regions enjoy an unenviable notoriety for being habitually
dependent on this mean diet. “Where the river meets the sea at Tongue,”
says Macculloch, in his “Highland and Island Homes of Scotland,” “there is
a considerable ebb, and the long sandbanks are productive of cockles in an
abundance which is almost unexampled. At that time (a year of scarcity)
they presented every day at low water a singular spectacle, being crowded
with men, women, and children, who were busily digging for these shell
fish as long as the tide permitted. It was not unusual to see thirty or
forty horses from the surrounding country, which had been brought down for
the purpose of carrying away loads of them to distances of many miles.
This was a well‐known season of scarcity, and, without this resource, I
believe it is not too much to say that many individuals must have died for
want.”

One of the easiest forms of collecting is from the _débris_, as it were,
of fishermen’s nets and baskets; but it is exceedingly difficult to induce
trawlers to bring home any of their “rubbish.” Money, that in general
“makes the mare to go” in any direction you wish, seems to have lost its
stimulating power when the duty to be performed, the _quid pro quo_, is
the putting a shovelful of “rubbish” into a bucket of water instead of
jerking it overboard. No, they haven’t got time. You try to work on their
friendship; you sit and chat with them, and think you have succeeded in
worming yourself into their good graces sufficiently to induce them to
undertake the not very onerous task of bringing in a tub of “rubbish.”

The thing is not, however, utterly hopeless. Occasionally Mr. Gosse had a
tub of “rubbish” brought to him; but much more generally worthless than
otherwise. The boys are sometimes more open to advances than the men,
especially if the master carries his own son with him, in which case the
lad has a little more opportunity to turn a penny for himself than when he
is friendless. “If ever,” says Gosse, “you should be disposed to try your
hand on a bucket of trawler’s ‘rubbish,’ I strongly recommend you, in the
preliminary point of ‘catching your hare,’ to begin with the cabin‐boy.

“The last basketful I overhauled made an immense heap when turned out upon
a board, but was sadly disappointing upon examination. It consisted almost
entirely of one or two kinds of hydroid zoophytes, and these of the
commonest description. It does not follow hence, however, that an
intelligent and sharp‐eyed person would not have succeeded in obtaining a
far greater variety; a score of species were doubtless brushed overboard
when this trash was bundled into the basket; but being small, or requiring
to be picked out singly, they were neglected, whereas the long and tangled
threads of the _Plumularia falcata_ could be caught up in a moment like an
armful of pea‐haulm in a field, its value being estimated, as usual with
the uninitiated, by quantity rather than by quality, by bulk rather than
variety.”

[Illustration: THE WEEVER FISH. (_Trachinus communis._)]

Mr. Gosse found on several occasions when examining the contents of
shrimpers’ nets, a pretty little flat‐fish, a constant inhabitant of sandy
beaches and pools, and often found in company with shrimps, some of which
it hardly exceeded in size, although sometimes reaching a maximum growth
of four or five inches. Small as it is, it is allied to the magnificent
turbot. The naturalist above mentioned took it home, and observed its
habits at leisure. “In a white saucer,” says he, “it was a charming little
object, though rather difficult to examine, because, the instant the eye
with the lens was brought near, it flounced in alarm, and often leaped out
upon the table. When its fit of terror was over, however, it became still,
and would allow me to push it hither and thither, merely waving the edges
of its dorsal and ventral fins rapidly as it yielded to the impulse.” This
is the Top‐knot, so called from an elongation of the dorsal fin. The
little Sand Launce, with its pearly lustrous sides, is a commonly‐found
fish on the shore. It has a remarkable projection of the lower jaws, a
kind of spade, as it were, by the aid of which it manages to scoop out a
bed in the wet sand, and so lie hidden. The Lesser Weever, called by
English fishermen Sting‐bull, Sting‐fish, and Sea‐cat, because of its
power of inflicting severe inflammatory wounds, a little fish of four or
five inches long, is another denizen of the sands. So also the young of
the Skate. The Wrasse, the Globy, the Blenny, and many other small fish,
are met with in the pools and caverns of our shores.

Of crabs, prawns, and crustaceans, of shell‐fish and rock fish, and the
mollusca generally, these pages have already given a sufficient account.
They are even more at home in the sea than on the shore.

[Illustration: THE DEVIL’S FRYING PAN, COAST OF CORNWALL.]

CHAPTER XIX.

SKETCHES OF OUR COASTS.—CORNWALL.

The Land’s End—Cornwall and her Contributions to the Navy—The
Great Botallack Mine—Curious Sight Outwardly—Plugging Out the
Atlantic Ocean—The Roar of the Sea Heard Inside—In a Storm—The
Miner’s Fears—The Loggan Stone—A Foolish Lieutenant and his Little
Joke—The Penalty—The once‐feared Wolf Rock—Revolving Lights—Are
they Advantageous to the Mariner—Smuggling in Cornwall—A
Coastguardsman Smuggler—Landing 150 Kegs under the Noses of the
Officers—A Cornish Fishing‐town—Looe, the Ancient—The Old
Bridge—Beauty of the Place from a Distance—Closer
Inspection—Picturesque Streets—The Inhabitants—Looe Island and the
Rats—A Novel Mode of Extirpation—The Poor of Cornwall Better Off
than Elsewhere—Mines and Fisheries—Working on “Tribute”—Profits of
the Pilchard Season—Cornish Hospitality and Gratitude.

The Land’s End has a particular interest to the reader of this work, for
its very name indicates a point beyond which one cannot go, except we step
into the great ocean. Round the spot a certain air of mystery and interest
also clings. What is this ending place like? It is the extreme western
termination of one of the most rugged of England’s counties, one which has
produced some of her greatest men, and has always been intimately
connected with the history of the sea. Cornwall has afforded more hardy
sailors to the royal navy and merchant marine than any other county
whatever, Devonshire, perhaps, excepted. One must remember her sparse
population in making any calculation on this point. Her fishermen and
miners are among the very best in the world. Some sketches therefore of
Cornish coasts and coast life may be acceptable.(54)

One of the great features of the Land’s End is the famed Botallack Mine,
which stretches out thousands of feet beyond the land, and under the sea.
Wilkie Collins, in an excellent description of his visit to the old mine
says:—“The sight was, in its way, as striking and extraordinary as the
first view of the Cheese‐Wring itself. Here we beheld a scaffolding
perched on a rock that rose out of the waves—there a steam‐pump was at
work raising gallons of water from the mine every minute, on a mere ledge
of land half down the steep cliff side. Chains, pipes, conduits, protruded
in all directions from the precipice; rotten‐looking wooden platforms,
running over deep chasms, supported great beams of timber and heavy coils
of cable; crazy little boarded houses were built where gull’s nests might
have been found in other places. There did not appear to be a foot of
level space anywhere, for any part of the works of the mine to stand upon;
and yet, there they were, fulfilling all the purposes for which they had
been constructed, as safely and completely, on rocks in the sea, and down
precipices in the land, as if they had been cautiously founded on the
tracts of the smooth solid ground above!”

[Illustration: THE BOTALLACK MINE, CORNWALL.]

The Botallack is principally a copper and tin mine, and has in days gone
by yielded largely. Mr. Collins descended it to some depth, and found the
salt water percolating from the ocean above, through holes and crannies.
In one place he noted a great wooden plug the thickness of a man’s leg
driven into a cranny of the rock. It was placed there to prevent the sea
from swamping the mine! Fancy placing a plug to literally keep out the
Atlantic Ocean!

“We are now,” says Mr. Collins in his narrative, “400 yards out _under the
bottom of the sea_, and twenty fathoms, or 120 feet below the sea level.
Coast trade vessels are sailing over our heads. Two hundred and forty feet
beneath us men are at work, and there are galleries deeper yet, even below
that.... After listening for a few moments, a distant, unearthly noise
becomes faintly audible—a long, low, mysterious moaning, that never
changes, that is felt on the ear as well as heard by it—a sound that might
proceed from some incalculable distance—from some far invisible height—a
sound unlike anything that is heard on the upper ground, in the free air
of heaven, a sound so sublimely mournful and still, so ghostly and
impressive when listened to in the subterranean recesses of the earth,
that we continue instinctively to hold our peace, as if enchanted by it,
and think not of communicating to each other the strange awe and
astonishment which it has inspired in us both from the very first.

“At last the miner speaks again, and tells us that what we hear is the
sound of the surf lashing the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us,
and of the waves that are breaking on the beach beyond. The tide is now at
the flow, and the sea is in no extraordinary state of agitation, so the
sound is low and distant just at this period. But when storms are at their
height, when the ocean hurls mountain after mountain of water on the
cliffs, then the noise is terrific; the roaring heard down in the mine is
so inexpressibly fierce and awful that the boldest men at work are afraid
to continue their labour; all ascend to the surface to breathe the upper
air and stand on the firm earth, dreading, though no such catastrophe has
ever happened yet, that the sea will break in on them if they remain in
the caverns below.”

[Illustration: THE LOGGAN STONE.]

One of the great sights of the Land’s End is the famous Loggan Stone.
After climbing up some perilous‐looking places you see a solid, irregular
mass of granite, which is computed to weigh eighty‐five tons, resting by
its centre only on another rock, the latter itself supported by a number
of others around. “You are told,” says Wilkie Collins, “by the guide to
turn your back to the uppermost stone; to place your shoulders under one
particular part of its lower edge, which is entirely disconnected all
round with the supporting rock below, and in this position to push upwards
slowly and steadily, then to leave off again for an instant, then to push
once more, and so on, until after a few moments of exertion you feel the
whole immense mass above you moving as you press against it. You redouble
your efforts, then turn round and see the massy Loggan Stone set in motion
by nothing but your own pair of shoulders, slowly rocking backwards and
forwards with an alternate ascension and declension, at the outer edges,
of at least three inches. You have treated eighty‐five tons of granite
like a child’s cradle; and like a child’s cradle those eighty‐five tons
have rocked at your will!”

In the year 1824 a lieutenant in the royal navy, commanding a gunboat then
cruising off that coast, heard that it was generally believed in Cornwall
that no human power could or should ever overturn the Loggan Stone. Fired
with an ignoble ambition, he took a number of his crew ashore, and by
applying levers did succeed in upsetting it from its pivot. His little
joke was observed by two labourers, who immediately reported it to the
lord of the manor.

All Cornwall was in arms, and the indignation was general, from that of
philosophers, who believed that the Druids had placed it on its balance,
to those who regarded it as one of the sights of the county, and as a
holiday resort. The guides who showed it to visitors, and the hotel‐
keepers, were furious. Representations were made to the Admiralty, and the
unfortunate lieutenant was ordered to replace it.

Fortunately the great stone had not toppled completely over, or it would
have crashed down a precipice into the sea, but it had stuck wedged in a
crevice of the rock below. By means of strong beams, chains, pulleys, and
capstans, and a hard week’s work for a number of men, it was replaced,
although it is said never to have regained its former balance. The
lieutenant was nearly ruined by it, and is said not to have completely
paid the cost of this reparation at the day of his death.

About eleven miles from the Land’s End there lies a dark porphyry rock,
the highest point of which rises seventeen feet above low water. It is
called “The Wolf,” and previous to the construction of a sea‐tower upon it
no rock had been more fatal to the mariner. It is beaten by a terrific
sea, being exposed to the full force of the Atlantic, and it lies just in
the track of vessels entering or leaving the channel. In 1860 the Trinity
House commenced the erection of a lighthouse on it, 116 feet high, with a
revolving dioptric light. “The first flash,” said a leading journal, “from
the Wolf Lighthouse was shot forth on the 1st of January, 1870, and within
the last ten years it is difficult to calculate what good it has done, by
standing like a beneficent monitor in the centre of the greatest highway
for shipping in the world.” The Wolf light flashes alternately red and
white at half‐minute intervals. A great authority on the subject, Sir
William Thomson, however, expostulates vigorously against all revolving
lights, asserting that, for example, the Wolf is more difficult “to pick
up,” in nautical parlance, than the fixed beacon of the Eddystone.

[Illustration: THE LIZARD LIGHT.]

The Rev. C. A. Johns, writing about 1840,(55) says that smuggling was
still practised till within a few years previously. Most families on the
coast were more or less engaged in it, and many of the houses had, and
still have, secret underground chambers, which could be entered only
through the parlour cupboard, which was furnished with a false back. Old
grey‐headed adventurers talked with evident pleasure of the exciting
adventures of their younger days, and of their frequent hairbreadth
escapes. One sturdy veteran in particular, who since he had dropped his
profession of smuggler had on many occasions risked his life in the effort
to save the crews of shipwrecked vessels, told how he was chased by a
king’s boat, how he threw himself overboard and swam for dear life, and
how he eluded, by diving, blow after blow dealt by an oar or cutlass, at
last to escape safely to land. The rowers who pursued may not have put
forth their utmost strength, and the blows may have been dealt with
purposed inaccuracy, for in those days there were many sailors in the navy
who had been smugglers, and had a fellow‐feeling for their kind. “I can
myself,” says Mr. Johns, “recollect having conversed some forty years ago
with a coastguardsman who had been a smuggler, and who had with his
comrades been captured by a revenue cutter. He and another were tried and
convicted, and sentenced, as was then customary, to five years’ service in
the navy. While on board the vessel in which they were to proceed to a
foreign station, anchored at Spithead, they escaped from confinement, and
threw themselves into the sea by night, with the intention of swimming
ashore. They had not, however, gone far when they were descried by the
sentinel on board, who gave the alarm, and they were fired at. My
informant reached the shore in safety, hid himself for a short time, and
being afraid to return to his own neighbourhood, entered into the
preventive service, and was at the very time I saw him, after the lapse of
some years, visiting his friends in his native village, and close to the
scene of his early feats of daring. His comrade was not so fortunate;
either he was struck by a bullet, or became exhausted before he reached
the shore, and was drowned. At all events, he was never seen again.”

About the same period, Mr. Johns tells us, he was, one fine summer
evening, loitering about the beach, near a small fishing‐village, in a
remote part of the county. It was about four o’clock, the sea was as
smooth as glass, and the wind so light that whatever vessels and boats
were in sight were either stationary or sluggishly impelled by oars. One
fishing‐boat only, about a hundred yards from shore, had its sails hanging
idly from the mast, but yet appeared to be creeping towards a quay which
ran out between the beach on which he was standing and the houses in which
the coastguard resided. At the very instant that she had advanced so far
that the pier was interposed between her hull and the houses a great
splashing, as of boxes or kegs, or something else, rapidly thrown in the
water, was heard. Simultaneously a number of men ran down the beach into
the water up to their waists, and then scampered up to their houses, each
bearing an armful of something. In a few minutes the boat capsized;
probably this was done on purpose, but as it was in shallow water no harm
resulted. Some innocent‐looking fishermen soon righted her and baled her
out. Mr. Johns learned later on that no less than 150 kegs of spirits were
landed on that occasion right under the very noses of the coastguard. It
was a desperate venture, but the fishermen‐smugglers had calculated that
the officers would not expect any attempt of the kind in calm weather, and
had reckoned rightly. Smuggling was almost invariably carried on in stormy
weather, or on dark, cloudy nights. On some occasions the people of these
fishing‐towns and the country behind rose _en masse_ and resisted the
revenue officers, even to the extent of stoning and firing upon them.

[Illustration: LOOE.]

The antiquities of Cornwall have called forth a very considerable quantity
of learned literature, but, with the exception of the picturesque and
graphic matter furnished by Wilkie Collins, Philip Henry Gosse, and, in
lesser degree, by the writer just quoted, the county is not popularly
known. Mr. Collins’s description of Looe, an ancient Cornish fishing‐town,
will be read with interest. He says: “The first point for which we made in
the morning was the old bridge, and a most picturesque and singular
structure we found it to be. Its construction dates back as far as the
beginning of the fifteenth century. It is three hundred and eighty‐four
feet long, and has fourteen arches, no two of which are on the same scale.
The stout buttresses built between each arch are hollowed at the top into
curious triangular places of refuge for pedestrians, the roughly‐paved
roadway being just wide enough to allow the passage of one cart at a time.
On some of these buttresses, towards the middle, once stood an oratory, or
chapel, dedicated to St. Anne, but no traces of it now remain. The old
bridge, however, still rises sturdily enough on its old foundations; and,
whatever the point from which its silver‐grey stones and quaint arches of
all shapes and sizes may be beheld, forms no mean adjunct to the charming
landscape around it.

“Looe is known to have existed as a town in the reign of Edward I., and it
remains to this day one of the prettiest and most primitive places in
England. The river divides it into East and West Looe, and the view from
the bridge, looking towards the two little colonies of houses thus
separated, is in some respects almost unique. At each side of you rise
high ranges of beautifully‐wooded hills; here and there a cottage peeps
out among the trees, the winding path that leads to it being now lost to
sight in the thick foliage, now visible again as a thin serpentine line of
soft grey. Midway on the slopes appear the gardens of Looe, built up the
acclivity on stone terraces one above another, thus displaying the
veritable garden architecture of the mountains of Palestine, magically
transplanted to the side of an English hill. Here, in this soft and genial
atmosphere, the hydrangea is a common flower‐bed ornament, the fuchsia
grows lofty and luxuriant in the poorest cottage garden, the myrtle
flourishes close to the sea‐shore, and the tender tamarisk is the wild
plant of every farmer’s hedge. Looking down the hills yet, you see the
town straggling out towards the sea along each bank of the river in mazes
of little narrow streets; curious old quays project over the water at
different points; coast‐trade vessels are being loaded and unloaded, built
in one place and repaired in another, all within view; while the prospect
of hills, harbour, and houses thus quaintly combined together is closed at
length by the English Channel, just visible as a small strip of blue water
pent in between the ridges of two promontories which stretch out on either
side to the beach.

“Such is Looe as beheld from a distance; and it loses none of its
attractions when you look at it more closely. There is no such thing as a
straight street in the place, no martinet of an architect has been here,
to drill the old stone houses into regimental regularity. Sometimes you go
down steps into the ground floor, sometimes you mount an outside staircase
to get to the bed‐rooms. Never were such places devised for hide‐and‐seek
since that exciting nursery game was first invented. No house has fewer
than two doors leading into two different lanes; some have three, opening
at once into a court, a street, and a wharf, all situated at different
points of the compass. The shops, too, have their diverting
irregularities, as well as the town. Here you might call a man Jack‐of‐
all‐trades, as the best and truest compliment you could pay him—for here
one shop combines in itself a smart drug‐mongering, cheese‐mongering,
stationery, grocery, and oil and Italian line of business; to say nothing
of such cosmopolitan commercial miscellanies as wrinkled apples, dusty
nuts, cracked slate pencils, and fly‐blown mock jewellery. The moral good
which you derive, in the first pane of a window, from the contemplation of
brief biographies of murdered missionaries, and serious tracts against
intemperance and tight lacing, you lose in the second, before such fleshly
temptations as ginger‐bread, shirt studs, and fascinating white hats for
Sunday wear at two‐and‐ninepence a‐piece. Let no man rightly say that he
has seen all that British enterprise can do for the extension of British
commerce until he has carefully studied the shop‐fronts of the tradesmen
of Looe.

“Then, when you have at last threaded your way successfully through the
streets, and have got out on the beach, you see a pretty miniature bay
formed by the extremity of a green hill on the right, and by fine jagged
slate rocks on the left. Before this seaward quarter of the town is
erected a strong bulwark of rough stones, to resist the incursion of high
tides. Here the idlers of the place assemble to lounge and gossip, to look
out for any outward‐bound ships that are to be seen in the Channel, and to
criticise the appearance and glorify the capabilities of the little fleet
of Looe fishing‐boats riding snugly at anchor before them at the entrance
of the bay.

“The inhabitants number some fourteen hundred, and are as good‐humoured
and unsophisticated a set of people as you will meet with anywhere. The
fisheries and the coast trade form their principal means of subsistence.
The women take a very fair share of the hard work out of the men’s hands.
You constantly see them carrying coals from the vessels to the quay in
curious hand‐barrows; they laugh, scream, and run in each other’s way
incessantly; but these little irregularities seem to assist rather than
impede them in the prosecution of their tasks. As to the men, one
absorbing interest appears to govern them all. The whole day long they are
mending boats, painting boats, cleaning boats, rowing boats, or, standing
with their hands in their pockets, looking at boats. The children seem to
be children in size, and children in nothing else. They congregate
together in sober little groups, and hold mysterious conversation, in a
dialect which we cannot understand. If they ever tumble down, soil their
pinafores, throw stones, or make mud‐pies, they practise these juvenile
vices in a midnight secresy that no stranger’s eye can penetrate.”

A mile or so out at sea rises a green triangularly‐shaped eminence, called
Looe Island. Several years since a ship was wrecked on the island, but not
only were the crew saved, but several free passengers of the rat species,
who had got on board, nobody knew how, where, or when, were also preserved
by their own strenuous exertions, and wisely took up permanent quarters
for the future on the _terra firma_ of Looe Island. In course of time
these rats increased and multiplied; and, being confined all round within
certain limits by the sea, soon became a palpable and tremendous nuisance.
Destruction was threatened to the agricultural produce of all the small
patches of cultivated land on the island—it seemed doubtful whether any
man who ventured there by himself might not share the fate of Bishop
Hatto, and be devoured by rats. Under these circumstances, the people of
Looe decided to make one determined and united effort to extirpate the
whole colony of invaders. Ordinary means of destruction had been tried
already, and without effect. It was said that the rats left for dead on
the ground had mysteriously revived faster than they could be picked up
and skinned or cast into the sea. Rats desperately wounded had got away
into their holes, and become convalescent, and increased and multiplied
again more productively than ever. The great problem was, not how to kill
the rats, but how to annihilate them so effectually that the whole
population might certainly know that the reappearance of even one of them
was altogether out of the question. This was the problem, and it was
solved practically and triumphantly in the following manner:—All the
inhabitants of the town were called to join in a great hunt. The rats were
caught by every conceivable artifice; and, once taken, were instantly and
ferociously _smothered in onions_; the corpses were then decently laid out
on clean china dishes, and straightway eaten with vindictive relish by the
people of Looe. Never was any invention for destroying rats so complete
and so successful as this. Every man, woman, and child that could eat
could swear to the death and annihilation of all the rats they had eaten.
The local returns of dead rats were not made by the bills of mortality,
but by the bills of fare; it was getting rid of a nuisance by the unheard‐
of process of stomaching a nuisance! Day after day passed on, and rats
disappeared by hundreds, never to return. They had resisted the ordinary
force of dogs, ferrets, traps, sticks, stones, and guns, arrayed against
them; but when to these engines of assault were added, as auxiliaries,
smothering onions, scalding stew‐pans, hungry mouths, sharp teeth, good
digestions, and the gastric juice, what could they do but give in? Swift
and sure was the destruction which now overwhelmed them—everybody who
wanted a dinner had a strong personal interest in hunting them down to the
very last. In a short space of time the island was cleared of the
usurpers. Cheeses remained intact; ricks were uninjured. And this is the
true story of how the people of Looe got rid of the rats!

Many causes, Mr. Collins tell us, combined to secure the poor of Cornwall
from that last worse consequence of poverty to which the poor in most of
the other divisions of England are more or less exposed. The number of
inhabitants in the county is stated by the last census at 341,269—the
number of square miles that they have to live on being 1,327. This will be
found, on proper computation and comparison, to be considerably under the
average population of a square mile throughout the rest of England. Thus,
the supply of men for all purposes does not appear to be greater than the
demand in Cornwall. The remote situation of the county guarantees it
against any considerable influx of strangers to compete with the natives
for work on their own ground. Mr. Collins met a farmer there who was so
far from being besieged in harvest time by claimants for labour on his
land, that he was obliged to go forth to seek them in a neighbouring town,
and was doubtful whether he should find men enough left him unemployed at
the mines and the fisheries to gather in his crops in good time at two
shillings a day and as much “victuals and drink” as they cared to have.

Another cause which has of late years contributed, in some measure, to
keep Cornwall free from the burthen of a surplus population of working men
must not be overlooked. Emigration has been more largely resorted to in
that county than, perhaps, in any other in England. Out of the population
of the Penzance Union alone nearly five per cent. left their native land
for Australia or New Zealand in 1849. The potato blight is assigned as the
chief cause of this, for it has damaged seriously the growth of a
vegetable from the sale of which in the London markets the Cornish
agriculturist derived large profits, and on which (with their fish) the
Cornish poor depended as a staple article of food.

It is by the mines and fisheries that Cornwall is compensated for a soil
too barren in many parts of the country to be ever cultivated except at
such an expenditure of capital as no mere farmer can afford. From the
inexhaustible treasures in the earth, and from the equally inexhaustible
shoals of pilchards which annually visit the coast, the working population
of Cornwall derived their regular means of support where agriculture would
fail them. At the mines the regular rate of wages is from forty to fifty
shillings a month; but miners have opportunities of making more than this.
By what is termed working “on tribute,” that is, agreeing to excavate the
mineral lodes for a percentage on the value of the metal they raise, some
of them have been known to make as much as six and even ten pounds a
month. Even when they are unlucky in their working speculations, or
perhaps thrown out of employment altogether by the shutting up of a mine,
they have a fair opportunity of obtaining farm labour, which is paid for
(out of harvest time) at the rate of nine shillings a week. But this is a
resource of which they are rarely obliged to take advantage. A plot of
common ground is included with the cottages that are let to them; and the
cultivation of this helps to keep them and their families in bad times,
until they find an opportunity of resuming work; when they may perhaps
make as much in one month as an agricultural labourer can in twelve.

The fisheries not only employ all the inhabitants of the coast, but in the
pilchard season many of the farm people work as well. Ten thousand
persons, men, women, and children, derive their regular support from the
fisheries, which are so amazingly productive that the “drift,” or deep‐sea
fishing, in Mount’s Bay alone, is calculated to realise, on the average,
£30,000 per annum.

To the employment thus secured for the poor in the mines and fisheries is
to be added, as an advantage, the cheapness of rent and living in
Cornwall. Good cottages are let at from fifty or sixty shillings to some
few pounds a year. Turf for firing grows in abundance on the vast tracts
of common land overspreading the country. All sorts of vegetables are
plenteous and cheap, with the exception of potatoes, which have so
decreased, in consequence of the disease, that the winter stock is now
imported from France, Belgium, and Holland. The early potatoes, however,
grown in May and June, are still cultivated in large quantities, and
realise on exportation a very high price. Corn generally sells a little
above the average. Fish is always within the reach of the poorest people.
In a good season a dozen pilchards are sold for one penny. Happily for
themselves the poor in Cornwall have none of the foolish prejudices
against fish so obstinately adhered to by the lower classes in many other
parts of England. Their national pride is in their pilchards; they like to
talk of them, and especially to strangers; and well they may, for they
depend for the main support of life on the tribute of these little fish,
which the sea yields annually in almost countless shoals.

“Of Cornish hospitality,” says Wilkie Collins, “we experienced many
proofs, one of which may be related as an example. Arriving late at a
village, we found some difficulty in arousing the people of the inn. While
we were waiting at the door we heard a man, who lived in a cottage near at
hand, and of whom we had asked our way on the road, inquiring of some
female member of his family whether she could make up a spare bed. We had
met this man proceeding in our direction, and had so far outstripped him
in walking, that we had been waiting outside the inn about a quarter of an
hour before he got home. When the woman answered this question in the
negative, he directed her to put clean sheets on his own bed, and then
came out to tell us that if we failed to obtain admission at the public‐
house, a lodging was ready for us for the night under his own roof. We
found on inquiry afterwards that he had looked out of window after getting
home, while we were still disturbing the village by a continuous series of
assaults on the inn door, had recognised us in the moonlight, and had
therefore not only offered us his bed, but had got out of it himself to do
so. When we finally succeeded in gaining admittance to the inn, he
declined an invitation to sup with us, and wishing us a good night’s rest,
returned to his home. I should mention, at the same time, that another bed
was offered to us at the vicarage, by the clergyman of the parish, and
that after this gentleman had himself seen that we were properly
accommodated by our landlady, he left us, with an invitation to breakfast
with him the next morning. This is hospitality practised in Cornwall, a
county where, it must be remembered, a stranger is doubly a stranger, in
relation to provincial sympathies; where the national sympathy is almost
entirely merged in the local feeling; where a man speaks of himself as
_Cornish_ in much the same spirit as a Welshman speaks of himself as
Welsh.

“In like manner, another instance drawn from my own experience will best
display and describe the anxiety which we found generally testified by the
Cornish poor to make the best and most grateful return in their power for
anything which they considered as a favour kindly bestowed. Such anecdotes
as I here relate in illustration of popular character cannot, I think, be
considered trifling; for it is by trifles, after all, that we gain our
truest appreciation of the marking signs of good or evil in the
dispositions of our fellow‐beings, just as in the beating of a single
artery under the touch we discover an indication of the strength or
weakness of the whole vital frame.

[Illustration: VIEW ON THE CORNISH COAST.]

“On the granite cliffs at the Land’s End I met with an old man, seventy‐
two years of age, of whom I asked some questions relative to the
extraordinary rocks scattered about this part of the coast. He immediately
opened his whole budget of local anecdotes, telling them in a high
quavering treble voice, which was barely audible above the dash of the
breakers beneath, and the fierce whistling of the wind among the rocks
around us. However, the old fellow went on talking incessantly, hobbling
along before me, up and down steep paths, and along the very brink of a
fearful precipice, with as much coolness as if his sight was as clear and
his step as firm as in his youth. When he had shown me all that he could
show, and had thoroughly exhausted himself with talking, I gave him a
shilling at parting. He appeared to be perfectly astonished by a
remuneration which the reader will doubtless consider the reverse of
excessive, thanked me at the top of his voice, and then led me in a great
hurry, and with many mysterious nods and gestures, to a hollow in the
grass, where he had spread on a clean handkerchief a little stock‐in‐trade
of his own, consisting of barnacles, bits of rock and ore, and specimens
of dried sea‐weed. Pointing to these, he told me to take anything I liked
as a present in return for what I had given him. He would not hear of my
buying anything; he was not, he said, a regular guide, and I had paid him
more already than such an old man was worth. What I took out of his
handkerchief I must take as a present only. I saw by his manner that he
would be really mortified if I contested the matter with him, so as a
present I received one of his pieces of rock. I had no right to deprive
him of the pleasure of doing a kind action because there happened to be a
few more shillings in my pocket than in his.”

CHAPTER XX.

SKETCHES OF OUR COASTS.—CORNWALL (_continued_).

Wilkie Collins’s Experiences as a Pedestrian—Taken for “Mapper,”
“Trodger,” and Hawker—An Exciting Wreck at Penzance—The Life‐line
sent out—An Obstinate Captain—A Brave Coastguardsman—Five
Courageous Young Ladies—Falmouth and Sir Walter Raleigh—Its Rapid
Growth—One of its Institutions—A Dollar Mine—Religious
Fishermen—The Lizard and its Associations for Voyagers—Origin of
the Name—Mount St. Michael, the Picturesque—Her Majesty’s Visit—An
Heroic Rescue at Plymouth—Another Gallant Rescue.

Mr. Collins’s experiences as a pedestrian are amusing. Says he:—“We enter
a small public‐house by the road‐side to get a draught of beer. In the
kitchen we behold the landlord and a tall man, who is a customer. Both
stare as a matter of course; the tall man especially, after taking one
look at our knapsacks, fixes his eyes firmly on us, and sits bolt upright
on the bench without saying a word—he is evidently prepared for the worst
we can do. We get into conversation with the landlord, a jovial, talkative
fellow, who desires greatly to know what we are, if we have no objection.
We ask him what he thinks we are? ‘Well,’ says the landlord, pointing to
my friend’s knapsack, which has a square ruler strapped to it for
architectural drawing, ‘Well, I think you are both of you _Mappers_;
mappers, who come here to make new roads; you may be coming to make a
railroad, I dare say. We’ve had mappers in the county before this. I know
a mapper myself. Here’s both your good healths.’ We drink the landlord’s
good health in return, and disclaim the honour of being ‘mappers;’ we walk
through the country, we tell him, for pleasure alone, and take any roads
we can get, without wanting to make new ones. The landlord would like to
know, if that is the case, why we carry these loads at our backs? Because
we want to carry our luggage about with us. Couldn’t we pay to ride? Yes,
we could. And yet we like walking better? Yes, we do. This last answer
utterly confounds the tall customer, who has been hitherto listening
intently to the dialogue. It is evidently too much for his credulity; he
pays his reckoning, and walks out in a hurry without uttering a word. The
landlord appears to be convinced, but it is only in appearance; he looks
at us suspiciously in spite of himself. We leave him standing at his door,
keeping his eye on us as long as we are in sight, still evidently
persuaded that we are ‘mappers,’ but ‘mappers’ of a bad order, whose
perseverance is fraught with some unknown peril to the security of the
Queen’s highway.

“We get on into another district. Here public opinion is not flattering.
Some of the groups gathered together in the road to observe us begin to
speculate on our characters before we are quite out of hearing. Then this
sort of dialogue, spoken in serious, subdued tones, just reaches us.
Question—‘What can they be?’ Answer—‘_Trodgers!_’

“This is particularly humiliating, because it happens to be true. We
certainly do trudge, and are therefore properly, though rather
unceremoniously, called trudgers, or ‘trodgers.’ But we sink to a lower
depth yet a little further on. We are viewed as objects of pity. It is a
fine evening. We stop and lean against a bank by the road‐side to look at
the sunset. An old woman comes tottering by on high pattens, very
comfortably and nicely clad. She sees our knapsacks, and instantly stops
in front of us, and begins to moan lamentably. Not understanding at first
what this means, we ask respectfully if she feels at all ill? ‘Ah! poor
fellows, poor fellows!’ she sighs in answer, ‘obliged to carry all your
baggage on your own backs! very hard! poor lads! very hard indeed!’ and
the good old soul goes away groaning over our evil plight, and mumbling
something which sounds very like an assurance that she has no money to
give us.

“In another part of the county we rise again gloriously in worldly
consideration. We pass a cottage; a woman looks out after us over the low
garden wall, and rather hesitatingly calls us back. I approach her first,
and am thus saluted: ‘If you please, sir, what have you got to sell?’
Again, an old man meets us on the road, stops, cheerfully taps our
knapsacks with his stick, and says, ‘Aha! you’re tradesmen, eh! things to
sell? I say, have you got any tea?’ (pronounced _tay_). Further on we
approach some miners breaking ore. As we pass by we hear one asking
amazedly, ‘What have they got to sell in those things on their backs?’ and
another answering, in the prompt tones of a guesser who is convinced that
he guesses right, ‘Guinea‐pigs!’

“It is, unfortunately, impossible to convey to the reader any adequate
idea by mere description of the extraordinary gravity of manner, the looks
of surprise, and the tones of conviction which accompanied these various
popular conjectures as to our calling and station in life, and which added
immeasurably at the time to their comic effect. Curiously enough, whenever
they took the form of questions, any jesting in returning an answer never
seemed either to be appreciated or understood by the country people.
Serious replies fared much the same fate as jokes. Everybody asked whether
we could pay for riding, and nobody believed we preferred walking, if we
could. So we soon gave up any idea of affording any information at all,
and walked through the country comfortably as mappers, trodgers,
tradesmen, guinea‐pig mongers, and poor back‐burdened vagabond lads,
altogether, or one at a time, just as the peasantry pleased.”

Penzance is itself the most westerly port of England. It has a noble pier,
700 feet long, and a lighthouse, the red light of which can be seen nine
miles off. It has a lifeboat, the crew of which has done many a gallant
deed. Out of a population of twelve or thirteen thousand in and about the
town, at least twenty‐five per cent. are hardy men of the sea—fishermen or
sailors. It was the scene, only a couple of years ago, of a most exciting
event.

[Illustration: ROCKET LINE THROWN TO A WRECK NEAR PENZANCE.]

A French brig, the _Ponthieu_, went ashore near the town, during the
prevalence of a strong south‐west gale. The Marazion rocket apparatus was
worked successfully, and the line was thrown over the wreck, but the crew,
being ignorant of the mode of working it, fastened it loosely on board,
instead of hauling it in taut. One of the crew managed, however, to get
safely ashore by it. The Penzance lifeboat was then got out, but on her
arrival at the ill‐fated vessel, the French crew, though in infinite
peril, great seas washing over them, took no notice, the captain
apparently forbidding them to leave, or even throw a line to the boat. The
wind and sea rapidly increased in fury; the vessel was evidently doomed,
and must soon break up. In vain the life‐boatmen entreated. They were
actually warned off, and had, after earnest warning, to leave. But seeing
the inevitable loss of life that must ensue, the brave coxswain of the
boat determined to return. Result: five lives saved. The captain still
remained obstinate, and at length a coastguardsman, all honour to him!
volunteered for the perilous duty of going out to the wreck by the rocket
line, taking with him a letter from the French Consul, urging the captain
to leave. In the presence of hundreds of intensely‐excited spectators, the
coastguard made his way, often under the waves for several seconds, and in
peril of being washed off. The captain was watching him from the brig, but
stood motionless, even when his deliverer had arrived under the bows. Just
then a furious sea broke over the hero of the rocket line, and washed him
away, and it was feared by all on shore that he must perish. Happily,
however, he regained the rope, and more dead than alive, was washed
ashore. Meanwhile the brig was fast breaking up. The masts fell over the
side. The stern, on which the captain was standing, was first battered in,
and then clean carried away. It was supposed that the captain had
perished, but presently he was seen among the wreckage, mounting to the
foreyard, the sail of which somewhat sheltered him. The coastguardsmen
fired two more rockets, and one line falling close to the captain, he
seized it, but even then seemed irresolute whether to save himself or
perish with his brig. After a quarter of an hour the love of life
constrained him to fasten the rope round his body, and the foolhardy man
was dragged ashore. Within an hour nothing was to be seen of the vessel
but a few floating spars. The cheers which greeted the captain’s rescue
were but feeble compared with those that had welcomed the return of the
coastguardsman whose life had been risked in attempting to save him. Brave
Gould!

The coastguardsmen, however, do not enjoy a monopoly of bravery in
Cornwall. There are courageous women there, some of them very young.

[Illustration: LIFE‐BOAT GOING TO A WRECK ON DOOM BAR, PADSTOW.]

Towards the end of October, 1879, a well‐earned presentation was made at
Padstow, to five young ladies of an equal number of silver medals and
testimonials inscribed on vellum, the vote of the National Life‐boat
Institution. The four Misses Prideaux Brune and Miss Nora O’Shaughnessy
had taken a boat through a heavy sea, at the risk of their own lives, to
save an exhausted sailor from a capsized boat, two of the companions of
whom had perished before their arrival. Samuel Bate, late the assistant
coxswain of the Padstow life‐boat, was towing the ladies’ boat astern of
his fishing smack, when seeing the accident, they requested to be cast
off, and that being done, though against his convictions, he states that
they rowed “like tigers” to the rescue through a furious sea, and he has
no doubt that the man would have perished like his companions but for
their prompt arrival. Such noble‐hearted girls make us still more proud of
Cornwall, which has given England—aye, the world—so many noble men.

The Cornish coast, in spite of its picturesque character and points of
interest, is not so well known by tourists and artists as it should be.

Falmouth has an interesting history. When Sir Walter Raleigh visited it on
his return from the Guinea coast, where guinea‐pigs came from, he found
but one solitary house outside of the family mansion of an ancient county
family. His quick eye noted the admirable harbour and entrance, the former
capable of holding 500 vessels, and he represented to the Council the
advantage of making it a port. From that time its fortunes grew; soon it
became a packet station for the arrival and departure of the foreign
mails. Now on the lofty headland, St. Anthony’s Point, a lighthouse,
flashing brilliantly every twenty seconds, serves to guide the entering
ships and steamships, which have sometimes numbered 2,000 in one year. It
has a patent slip, dry and other docks, and all conveniences for shipping
interests. Connected with the town is an extensive oyster and trawling
fishery, and it has a little fleet of pilot cutters. It has a sailors’
Bethel, with library and reading‐room; and the Royal Cornwall Sailors’
Home is a prominent institution. Another of the “institutions” of Falmouth
might be copied to advantage elsewhere. Every boatman who rescues a
drowning person is entitled to receive a reward of one guinea.

The Rev. C. A. Johns tells us that near Gunwalloe, Cornwall, the land
rises, and the coast becomes bold for a short distance. The cliffs, though
not lofty, are precipitous, and offer no chance of escape to any
unfortunate vessel which may chance to be driven in within reach of the
rocks. About the year 1785, a vessel laden with wool, and having also on
board two and a half tons of money, was driven ashore a few hundred yards
west of the church, and soon went to pieces. Ever since, at intervals,
after a storm, dollars have been picked up on the beach, but never in
sufficient numbers to compensate for the time wasted in the search. No
measures, however, on a large scale for recovering the precious cargo were
adopted until the year 1845, when people were startled to hear that a
party of adventurers were going to sink a dollar‐mine in the sea.

This is not the only unsuccessful search for treasure which has been made
at Gunwalloe. In the sand‐banks near the church, or, as others say, at
Kennack Cove, the notorious buccaneer Captain Avery is reported to have
buried several chests of treasure previous to his leaving England on the
voyage from which he never returned. So strongly did this opinion prevail
that Mr. John Knill, collector of the Customs at St. Ives, procured, about
the year 1770, a grant of treasure trove, and expended some money in a
fruitless search.

The vessel had gone to pieces between two rocks at a short distance from
the base of the cliff, and here it was proposed to construct a kind of
coffer‐dam, from which the water was to be pumped out, and the dollars to
be picked up at leisure. Mad though the scheme was, operations were
actually commenced; a path was cut in the face of the cliff, iron rods
were fixed into the rocks, and several beams of timber laid down, when a
breeze set in from the south‐west, and in the course of a few hours the
work of as many weeks was destroyed. The wood‐work was ripped up as
effectually as though it had been a mere wicker cage, and the coast was
soon lined with the fragments. It is not likely the attempt will be
renewed. The speculators were in this instance strangers, which accounts
for the enterprise having been taken in hand at all, for any one
acquainted with the coast must have been well aware that though the sea is
tolerably calm sometimes for many consecutive days, it is never so for a
period long enough to allow the completion of a work which requires time,
and which, in the most favourable weather, is beset with difficulties;
indeed, an ordinary breeze setting on this shore excites the sea to such a
state of fury that certainly no unfinished mechanical structure could
withstand the force of the breakers.

The lower classes of Cornwall are generally Methodists, and decidedly
religious. In Scotland also, strict Sabbatarianism is the rule among the
poor. _The Northern Ensign_, in reply to a journalist who had been
advocating the prosecution of the herring fishery on the Sabbath day, had
an article showing that there is no class in Scotland, taken as a whole,
who love, revere, and enjoy the Sabbath more than the men and women who
live by the sea. At Wick, the largest herring fishery station in the
world, where the fishers congregate from all parts of the coast, at ten
o’clock one Sabbath morning not a single fisherman was to be seen in the
street; in half an hour after knots of men and women were wending their
way to the various places of worship, and when the church bell announced
the hour of meeting the streets were almost impassable—men, women, and
children, all cleanly dressed, and not in working clothes, streamed this
way and that to church.

No visitor to Cornwall ever misses the Lizard, the most southerly headland
promontory in Britain, a piece of rocky land which has caused more vivid
and varied emotions than any other on our coasts. The emigrant leaving, as
he often thinks, and often wrongly thinks, his native land for ever; the
soldier bound for distant battle‐fields, and the sailor for far distant
foreign ports; the lover just parted from his beloved one; the husband
from his wife; have each and all strained their eyes for a last parting
glimpse of an isle they loved so much and yet might never see again! And
when the lighthouses’ flash could no longer be discerned, how sadly did
one and all “turn into” their berths to think, aye, “perchance to dream,”
of the happy past and the doubtful future. How different the emotions of
the homeward bound, the emigrant with his gathered gold, the bronzed
veteran who has come out of the fiercest conflict unscathed, and the
sailor who has safely passed the ordeal of fearful climes; the lover ready
now for the girl he adores; and the husband jubilant with such good news
for his faithful spouse. The first glimpse of that strangely‐named rocky
point is the signal for heartiest huzzas and congratulation.

The Lizard Rock owes its name, according to various authorities, firstly
to its form; secondly to the serpent‐like colour of its cliffs; and
thirdly is said to be derived from the Cornish word Liazherd, signifying a
projecting headland. Its two splendid lights can be seen out at sea at a
distance of twenty miles.

[Illustration: WRECK OF A STEAM‐SHIP NEAR LIZARD POINT.]

Mount’s Bay, a few miles further west, has a fine anchorage, but is more
interesting to the visitor as containing an isolated pyramidal collection
of grand rocks, which, with their castle, are the delight of the landscape
artist. The old castle on the rocky islet rises to a height of 230 feet.
The island is connected with Marazion, a village on the mainland, 400
yards distant, by a causeway of stones. In 1846 her Majesty Queen Victoria
and Prince Albert paid a visit to the spot, and the event is commemorated
on a tablet let into the wall of the pier, and by a brass foot‐plate
placed on the spot first touched by the Royal feet when they conveyed Her
Majesty ashore. There is a snug little harbour, and the pier just named
will allow several hundred vessels to unload at the same time. The
population of Mount St. Michael is composed almost entirely of pilots and
fishermen.

Plymouth, Devon, with its grand breakwater and many associations, has
often been mentioned in these pages. Comparatively recently it was the
scene of a most gallant rescue. Five boys were playing on the beach in
front of the Hoe, when they entered a cave in the rocks, and remained
there until the tide, which flowed in with unusual rapidity on account of
a gale outside, completely hemmed them in. Their screams were heard from
the road and promenade above, and hundreds of people quickly congregated.
The waves were dashing furiously on the beach, and surging into the cave
where the terrified lads were crouching, shivering with wet and cold, and
trembling at their apparently inevitable fate. No boat could live in the
surf, or dare approach the rocks. But seamen’s proverbial ingenuity came
to the rescue; ropes were procured, and two seafaring men, George Andrews
and Thomas Penny by name, were lowered over the precipitous crags through
the blinding spray and dashing foam to the mouth of the rocky recess.
Here, still attached to the ropes, they allowed themselves to be washed by
the sea into the cave far enough to seize a boy, when, the signal being
given, they were hauled out and up. This was repeated, until amid
enthusiastic cheering, the fifth and last boy was saved.

Has the reader ever visited Dartmouth, one of the loveliest spots in
Britain? The men, and, if history tells us aright, the women too, of that
ancient town rendered a good account of themselves when the French, in
1404, after burning and sacking Plymouth, thought they would have an easy
prey. The inhabitants of Dartmouth pluckily resisted the invaders, and
with such success, that the commander of the fleet, three barons, and
twenty knights, were taken prisoners. But then out of a comparatively
small population, then as now, a large proportion were men of the sea.

[Illustration: SOUTHAMPTON.]

CHAPTER XXI.

SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS.

Southampton: its Antiquity—Extensive Commerce—Great Port for
Leading Steamship Lines—Vagaries of a Runaway Steamer—The Isle of
Wight—Terrible Loss of the _Eurydice_—Finding of the Court‐
martial—Raising Her from the Bottom—“London by the
Seaside”—Newhaven and Seaford—Beachy Head—An Attempt to Scale it—A
Wreck there—Knowledge Useful on an Emergency—Saved by Samphire—The
Coast‐guard: Past and Present—Their Comparatively Pleasant Lot To‐
day—The Coast‐guard in the Smuggler Days—Sympathies of the Country
against them.

Southampton, one of the most important towns in the South of England, is a
place of great antiquity, having been in existence prior to the Conquest,
while many Roman remains are to be found in its neighbourhood. What
schoolboy is not familiar with the story of King Canute and his courtiers,
who flattered their royal master that even the winds and waves would do
his bidding? The Danish monarch was made of too stern material to believe
such nonsense; and to convince his fawning courtiers that he did not
possess attributes which belong to the Creator alone, he is said to have
seated himself by the seaside, and in a loud voice commanded the waves to
stay. But the fleecy billows obeyed him not, and in due course reached the
feet of the king and his obsequious court. The spot upon which this
memorable circumstance occurred is still pointed out in the neighbourhood
of Southampton.

Nearly surrounding the town remains of the ancient buttresses and towers
of the wall which once environed it are still to be seen; while on the
western shore the old Water‐gate, from which the merchants embarked, still
exists. In the old Domesday Book it is described as an important burgh.
Southampton grew in importance at the time of the Crusades, when thousands
of troops and crusaders and mailed knights embarked thence, or, weather‐
bound, remained encamped in the place. It soon became a great port of call
for Flemish and other merchant‐traders.

Southampton has great natural advantages for communication with the sea.
The town is situated on a swelling point of land, bounded by the
confluences of the rivers Test and Itchen, and communicating with the
Solent and English Channel by the fine arm of the sea known as Southampton
Water, surrounded by charming scenery, and navigable for the largest
steamers. At its mouth is Calshot Castle, a coastguard station at the
water’s edge, while half‐way between that point and the town are the
picturesque ruins of Netley Abbey. It has a tidal dock covering sixteen
acres, and several graving and other docks. Consequently, it is the point
of departure for the fine vessels of the Peninsular and Oriental line, the
Royal Mail (West Indies and Central America), the North German Lloyds’,
Hamburgh, and Havre steamships for New York, and the Union Line for
African ports, besides an infinity of smaller steamships and steamboats
for Havre, the Channel Islands, and the Isle of Wight. Its inhabitants
consider it the Liverpool of the South; and even if this is rather an
exaggerated view of the case, it has undoubtedly grown to be one of the
principal ports of the kingdom. It ranks fifth in the list.(56)

And now for the story of a steamboat which attempted to run away from
Southampton on her own account. This strange circumstance occurred some
few years ago, and might well have been attended with disastrous results.
The steam‐tug _Belmont_ was towing out to sea the _Walton Hood_, a
passenger vessel bound for Australia, and after taking her down to the
Channel, the sails were set on the ship, and the _Belmont_ proceeded to
cast her off, previous to returning to Southampton. In doing so, by some
unexplained cause the ship collided with the tug, striking her with a
violent crash, which knocked over her mast and funnel, and threw her upon
her side. The shock also had the effect of increasing the activity of the
crew, who, one and all, leaped on board the _Walton Hood_, leaving their
steamer in charge of a dog and two cats. The steam of the _Belmont_ was
up, and after a succession of plunges and croakings she righted, and
cleared the ship. Tearing away her bulwarks, she took a sweep round and
made a bolt for the land. Her fate now appeared inevitable, whilst her
strange manœuvres made her look like an insane vessel, rushing wildly from
some pursuer. Her mast and funnel hung over the side, her bulwarks were
smashed, and the long tiller was dashing wildly to and fro; the dog on
board was barking, howling, and yelling fiercely, rendering the scene both
ludicrous and serious. Something evidently had to be done to save her. The
captain and crew, having recovered their composure, obtained a boat from
the ship and started in pursuit. “Pull away, my boys; give it her!” was
the quick command. “Aye, aye, sir!” was the ready response, and the tough
oars bent to the stalwart efforts of the oarsmen. The boat sped onward in
the chase, but ere this the steam‐tug had on her own account altered her
coarse, and by some cause or other came round, and made again for the
point whence she had started. Having described a complete circle, she
again started off on a voyage _en zigzag_, and then made direct for
Calshot lighthouse. Here the men on the look‐out descried her position,
and having launched and manned their own boat, also started in pursuit.
The race now became truly exciting, the course of the steam‐tug being
utterly uncertain and irresponsible, according as her helm shifted to and
fro at the sport of the waters of the Channel. By this time, however, she
had run some distance, and at length her speed gradually diminished, her
steam giving out, when her paddles stopped from sheer exhaustion. The crew
from the lighthouse were the first to board her, and her own crew coming
up about twenty minutes after, she was at length got into working order,
and brought safely into dock. It appears that the crew had some
justification for leaving her, the vessel leaking seriously, and being in
imminent peril of going down.

From Southampton Water to the beautiful Isle of Wight is a natural
transition. To fully describe its coasts and fishing‐villages and
watering‐places, and other points of interest, would occupy a large
volume. Cowes and Ryde, with their regattas and generally festive look;
Osborne, with its royal residence; Shanklin and Blackgang “Chines”;
Ventnor and Niton; Alum Bay and “the Needles,” will be familiar to the
larger number of our readers. Inseparably connected with the gay little
island must ever be remembered an event which cast a gloom not merely over
the households of hundreds of direct sufferers, but over the length and
breadth of the entire land. Need it be said that we refer to the terrible
loss of that fine training‐ship the _Eurydice_, with its living freight of
three hundred young and promising sailor lads, in sight of land and home,
and just as they were nearing, after long foreign service, the haven of
their hopes.

“For there came down a squall, and the snow swept the wave
Like a white winding‐sheet for the brave man’s lone grave;
And with scarce time to glance a farewell at the sky,
The three hundred went down without e’en a cry.”

On the morning of March 25th, 1878, the country awoke to one of the most
painful and unlooked‐for catastrophes that have befallen the navy during
the present century—that of the _Captain_ hardly excepted, for certain
doubts had always been felt as to how the bulky ironclad would behave in a
heavy gale. “One of the finest corvettes of her class that ever floated,”
said a competent authority, “commanded by a captain and officered by men
of the highest professional experience, and with a crew young, but
sufficiently trained, and numerous enough in nautical parlance to have
‘torn her to pieces’, capsizes, with the loss of every soul on board her
but two. Such a calamity, taken in all its bearings and with such a loss
of life, is unparalleled in the modern history of the navy. It is true
that about forty years ago a man‐of‐war schooner (the _Pincher_), very
much over‐masted, was, off the ‘Owers,’ not very far from the same spot,
capsized in a heavy squall, and all her hands were lost, although she was
in company with a corvette at the time. But the _Eurydice_ was not over‐
masted, and she went down in broad daylight and in smooth water. Yet where
is the officer or the man—let him be the best seaman in the world—who can
say, ‘Such would not have been the _Eurydice’s_ fate had I commanded her?’
The fact is, the disaster, truly lamentable as it is, might have happened
to any seaman. With a fair wind, smooth water, and within a short distance
of her anchorage, running along too close under the high land of the Isle
of Wight to notice the hurricane‐like squall rushing down upon her in time
to prepare for it, the ship was literally forced under water, the
accumulating weight of which eventually capsized her beyond recovery.
Adverse comments have been made on the ports being open; but with a fair
wind, smooth water, and Spithead close by, what danger could possibly be
apparent, to cause them to be closed after a sea‐voyage so nearly ended?
Had the _Eurydice_ met with the same squall at sea she would have
weathered it.”(57)

[Illustration: H.M.S. “EURYDICE” ON HER BEAM‐ENDS JUST AFTER THE SQUALL.]

The court‐martial which assembled on the 27th of August, 1878, on board
the _Duke of Wellington_ flagship, under the presidency of Admiral
Fanshawe, C.B., Commander‐in‐Chief at Portsmouth, reported that the ship
had foundered from pressure of wind upon her sails during a sudden and
exceptionally dense snowstorm, which overtook her when its approach was
partially hidden by the proximity of the ship to high land. “Some of the
upper half‐ports on the main‐deck were open at the time, which materially
conduced to the catastrophe; but the court considers that the upper half‐
ports having been open was justifiable and usual under the state of the
wind and weather up to the time of the actual occurrence of the storm.”
The finding of the court‐martial mentioned the fact that the captain was
frequently on deck during the afternoon; and attributed blame to no one on
board. It considered the ship, which had had ten years’ sea service, to
have been thoroughly stable. A large number of other authorities, however,
thought very differently—that she was top‐heavy, and that she was
undoubtedly carrying too much sail.

After exactly twenty‐three weeks from the day of her foundering the
_Eurydice_ was, on Sunday, the 1st of September, safely towed into
Portsmouth harbour. “As an example of perseverance and determination to
succeed, the recovery of the ship is unique. The elements, which
throughout the operations may truly be said to have fought against the
efforts to float her being successful, made a final attempt to render
those endeavours abortive on the Thursday night and Friday morning, with
such effect that the Admiralty deemed it inexpedient that further attempts
should be made, and had even gone to the extent of ordering her to be
taken to pieces where she lay. Rear‐Admiral Foley, and those who had so
ably and perseveringly worked with him, were, however, reluctant to
abandon the attempt to recover the ship, and he pledged himself that he
would undertake to bring her into harbour. This pledge was redeemed.”(58)
The divers throughout the operations could work only at slack tides and in
very fine weather, the under‐currents on the Isle of Wight coast being
exceptionally strong.

The _Eurydice_ lay at first in seven fathoms and a half (forty‐five feet)
of water, and to this must be added eight or nine feet of mud into which
the wreck was embedded. Strong wire ropes were attached to the inner sides
of the ports; the other ends of the ropes were made fast to the four
floating hulls placed over and across the _Eurydice_, and when everything
was ready and the tide at its lowest ebb, the process of pinning down was
commenced—that is, the ropes were hauled “taut,” and made fast to the
lifting vessels, so that as the tide gradually rose to its highest point
the whole mass of lighters with the sunken vessel lifted as well. Then it
was that the steam‐tugs took up their positions, and towed the ill‐fated
craft towards shallower water, till she was left on a bank under the
Culver cliff, with one side and her upper deck above the water at low
tide. Even yet the efforts to float her were interfered with. Frequently
all would be ready for lifting, when the sea would roughen, and everything
have to be abandoned, the lighters returning to Portsmouth. It was raised
partially in August, 1878, after four months’ continuous labour. After
lying for a few days under the Culver cliff, the _Eurydice_ was again
sufficiently lifted to clear the bottom, and towed together with the
lifting vessels to St. Helen’s Sands. When lifted finally, and towed to
Portsmouth by the _Grinder_, she had two tugs on her port side and one on
her starboard, with their steam‐pumps working, and constantly pumping her
hold.

Brighton—“London by the Sea‐side” as it is often styled—is to many one of
the most fascinating of the English watering‐places. It is both popular
and fashionable, the resort alike of the masses and of the “upper ten.”
Its position on the sea is charming, while at an easy distance are any
number of pleasant sea‐coast and inland resorts. It has sprung up from a
little fishing‐village to a town of at least 120,000 souls. One feature of
the place is the solidity and elegance of its public and private
buildings, while its streets are the best kept in the whole kingdom. It
extends, with its suburbs Kemp Town and Cliftonville, for _four miles_
along the coast, and is in great part defended by a sea‐wall. The
celebrated chain‐pier is 1,130 feet in length; while its Aquarium, already
described in the proper place, is the finest in the world.

The climate of Brighton is temperate and mild both summer and winter, in
the latter season resembling that of Naples; and to these facts is
doubtless due its great success as a resort for the invalid, debilitated,
or fagged‐out business man. Capital bathing, boating, and yachting, are
all at the command of the visitor; there are no finer promenades anywhere;
while riding or driving on the Downs, or to the neighbouring rural
retreats (among them that most beautiful of England’s ancestral homes,
Arundel), is a treat open to all whose circumstances are moderately easy.
In the whirl and din of fashionable life there one is apt to forget its
practical connection with the sea, but it possesses a perfect fleet of
mackerel and herring boats, and several lifeboats, belonging to the
Lifeboat Institution, the Humane Society, and the town.

[Illustration: BRIGHTON.]

In the year 1833, at New Stoke, near Arundel, the remains of an ancient
boat were discovered in the bed of what was formerly a creek running into
the river Arun. It had been constructed of half the trunk of an oak tree,
hollowed out as the Indians of North‐west America do to‐day. It was
thirty‐five feet four inches in length, by four feet six inches. In 1822,
a still larger oak boat was found in the bed of the river Rother, near
Maltham, Kent, which was sixty‐three feet by fifteen feet, half decked,
caulked with moss, and had carried at least one mast.

These discoveries sink into insignificance with that made in 1880 on the
farm of Gokstad, not far from Sandefjord, a favourite watering‐place of
the Norwegians. A hill or mound, which tradition pointed out as the
burial‐place of some mighty king or chief, was found to contain the entire
hull of an old ship of the Viking days. It is of course a very venerable
relic, being probably more than 1,000 years old. The Gokstad vessel, built
entirely of oak, is seventy‐five feet long between stem and stern, and
sixteen feet broad amidships; and appears to be of a low build, drawing
only five feet. The deals were riveted together by iron nails; and the
ribs, of which there are twenty, are connected with the deals at the top
by rivets, but at the bottom with ties. Amidships, in the bottom of the
ship, is a heavy beam, both ends of which are fashioned in the shape of a
fish’s tail. This beam served as a support for the mast, of which there is
still a piece standing in its place; while the upper part, which had been
cut off, was found in the vessel. The mast appears to have been about
twenty‐two feet long. Remains of two or three small boats were found; some
pieces inside the ship, and some pieces close to it. In the fore part of
the vessel a large copper kettle and water‐cask were also found, with
remains of sails and ropes, and some large oars. She had been built for
sixteen oars. A hundred wooden shields had been once placed in a row under
the gunwale of the ship, corresponding to the number of the crew, the
centre pieces of iron, or bosses, still remaining. The arrangement of the
shields is the same as that in the famous Bayeux tapestry, on which are
represented (among other things) the ships of William the Conqueror. The
old vessel had been used as the last resting‐place of a great Viking. It
was their custom so to bury their chiefs. The ship was usually placed with
its stem towards the sea, so that when Odin, the Jove of the northern
mythology, should call the gallant chief, he could set sail straight off
land for Valhalla, the heaven of his hopes.

Newhaven, a little farther to the east, has a fair tidal harbour and some
local commerce, but its chief feature is the very rapidly‐increasing
passenger traffic between it and Dieppe, for Paris or London, and the
traveller who has not tried that route can be recommended to do so. The
boats, some of them of steel and containing all modern improvements, are
among the finest in the Channel service, making the trip to Dieppe usually
in five or five‐and‐a‐half hours. The trip through Normandy and the valley
of the Seine is varied and interesting, and preferable to that from Calais
or Boulogne. Near Newhaven is the once flourishing town of Seaford, though
it is now little better than a picturesque fishing‐village, in the bay of
which mackerel are sometimes taken in prodigious quantities, and which
affords shelter and anchorage for large vessels during the prevalence of
strong easterly winds.

Still farther east, and at the extreme southern point of Sussex, stands
the bold promontory Beachy Head, the scene of many a shipwreck in days
gone by. It would be a most difficult feat to scale this great chalk
cliff; and yet the slope of broken _débris_, mingled with scanty grass and
samphire, steep though it be, does not look impracticable, nor indeed is
it up to a certain point. The writer and his brother once managed to get
within a very respectable distance of the top, but then the rocky stones
commenced rolling down, bringing both climbers with them. After many an
ineffectual attempt to secure a hold by clinging to the samphire, and
intervals of momentary rest, neither was very sorry to reach the stony
beach, albeit considerably bruised, battered, and torn. There they found
the sea had cut off their retreat towards Eastbourne, and before they
could reach the shore they had to wade through the fast‐rising tide round
one or two projecting corners of the cliff.

In the month of November, 1821, a dreadful storm visited Beachy Head,
during which a French vessel was driven ashore and wrecked. All on board
were swept into the sea, and only four escaped the general destruction, by
climbing to the top of a heap of rocks which had fallen, at different
times, from the overhanging cliffs. Their perilous situation can easily be
conceived; the tide was encroaching upon them step by step, and it was
certain destruction to attempt to gain the land. The night was extremely
dark, and the thunder and lightning rendered it still more awful. The poor
men, finding that they would either be swallowed up by the rising tide or
dashed to pieces against the rocks, determined to deliver themselves up to
the mercy of the waves, with the forlorn hope of being cast on some place
of safety. At this time one of the men saw, during some flashes of
lightning, a plant growing amongst the stones on which they stood, which
he knew was samphire, and which he also happened to know never grew where
it could be entirely covered with water. He at once acquainted his fellow‐
sufferers with this fact, and persuaded them to remain where they were
till morning, being convinced that the height of the tide would not be
quite equal to that of the place on which they stood. The event proved the
correctness of his information and the value of his knowledge, for when
daylight broke the poor fellows were seen, and rescued from their
dangerous situation.

[Illustration: DISCOVERING THE SAMPHIRE ON THE ROCK.]

No part of the south coast formerly required more vigilant guarding than
that for many miles on either side of Beachy Head. The coastguardsman had
his hands full then; his lot is better now. “Amongst the most agreeable
objects that enliven the shores of our island,” writes the _Saturday
Review_, “are the groups of cottages occupied by the coastguard.
Picturesque one can scarcely call them, for the architecture is simple to
baldness, and suggestive of Government contracts kept down by close
competition, and yet they have generally the picturesqueness of
comfortable contrast with surroundings that are often bleak and
inhospitable. Dating from the days when our coasts were regularly
picketed, and a blockade was methodically established against the
enterprise of the free‐traders, we come upon them in every variety of
situation. Now they are arranged bastion‐wise on a commanding eminence, in
the suburb of some seaport or watering place, in a snug, compact, little
square, with a tall flagstaff in the centre. Again we stumble on them
unexpectedly, sheltered in the recess of some ‘gap’ or ‘chine’ where a
little stream comes trickling down to the sands through the deep cleft
that time seems to have worn in the chalk cliffs. Most frequently they are
perched on the crest of the line of sand‐hills, with a broad look‐out in
all directions over ‘promontory, cape, and bay.’ And often they form a
conspicuous landmark on some flat stretch of grass‐grown sand, where the
slow‐shelving shore is intersected by a labyrinth of changing channels,
and where mud‐banks submerged by the rising tides are a perfect paradise
for the clamorous sea‐fowl. But whatever the situation, the general effect
is almost invariably the same. They are substantial and watertight;
suggestive of cheery shelter in bright interiors when the wind is howling
through the shrouds of the flagstaff, driving the sand and gravel in
flying scud along the beach, and churning and grinding the pebbles in the
surf with dull, monotonous roar. There are low flat roofs with projecting
eaves, and small, strongly‐secured casements, and the gleam of their
spotless whitewash catches any sunlight that may be going. In the neatly‐
palisaded little gardens that stretch before the door, a hard and not‐
unsuccessful struggle is always going on with the unfriendly elements,
while the shell‐strewn walks are invariably kept in the most perfect
order. As you approach them of a warm summer afternoon you are conscious
of the briny breeze just tainted with a faint amphibious smell of tar. It
may not be so balmy or romantic as the resinous odours that breathe from
the pine‐woods of Bayonne or Arcachon, under the fiercer rays of the sun
of Gascony; but it is decidedly wholesome, and rather savoury than
otherwise. The promiscuous use of pitch and tar gratifies the nautical
affections of the inmates. Everything is paid, caulked, and seamed, from
the keels of the white‐painted boats that are hauled up bottom upwards, to
the felt‐covered shingles over the out‐houses, and the frames of the
cottage windows, and the palings of the enclosure. Everything, even to the
concealed refuse‐heaps, is trim and ship‐shape, showing the presence of an
easy discipline and the predominance of habits of tidiness and order.”

Then the _Review_ goes on to describe the exciting and perilous post of
the coastguard when import duties were excessive, and lucky smugglers made
rapid fortunes. “The sympathies of the whole adjacent country were against
them. Half the country people were employed from time to time in running
illicit cargoes, and made a very good thing of it. Those were the days of
hard drinking, and farmers almost openly encouraged a trade that dropped
kegs of cheap hollands and runlets of pure French brandy at their very
doors. As for the women, of course—to say nothing of their romantic
sympathies with daring law‐breakers—they were all in favour of the men who
filled and sweetened the cheering tea‐cup, that would otherwise have been
altogether beyond their means. Even gentlemen holding His Majesty’s
commission of the peace were said to connive at the ‘fair trade’ for a
consideration, and to express no surprise at the production of mysterious
casks that had been concealed in out‐of‐the‐way corners of their premises.
There were certain depôts, in dry caverns, in remote homesteads or
sequestered barns, the secret of which was religiously preserved, although
it was the common property of highly questionable characters. There were
codes of signals which could be clearly read by all but the preventive
men, and which gave notice of danger or of a favourable opportunity, as
the case might be. The officer in charge of the station had his faculties
preternaturally sharpened, and could scent something wrong in the most
natural incidents. The wreaths of smoke rising from a heap of burning
weeds might convey a warning to some expected vessel. A fishing‐boat
putting out to sea, engaged apparently in its lawful business, might
really be bound on a similar errand. Then it was the business of the day‐
watch to scan carefully each craft that appeared off the coast, and his
natural vigilance was stimulated by the prize‐money that might fall to his
share. Then the nocturnal promenade was no mere formality. The thicker the
night the more likely that something might be going on under cover of the
fog; and the ear of the look‐out was always bent to distinguish, amidst
the murmur of the waves, the sound of suppressed voices, or the plash of
muffled oars. Nor was the walk by any means free from personal danger, and
indeed it was seldom taken in solitude; for, even apart from the
inveterate animosity existing between the smugglers and the preventive
men, those were days when deeds of violence were common, and the life of a
man was of little account compared to the safety of a cargo that might be
worth hundreds or thousands of pounds. If he chanced to fall over the
cliff by accident, everything might be satisfactorily settled before he
was replaced; for when a smuggling lugger stood in for the coast there
were plenty of ready hands to help to discharge her cargo; and unless the
men of the nearest preventive station got assistance from elsewhere, there
was little left for them but to look on helplessly. Boats from the nearest
fishing hamlets swarmed in about the smuggler; strings of horses, in
charge of people armed to the teeth, made their way to the coast from the
inland farms. The contraband goods, in kegs and bags of convenient size
for easy landing, were transferred from the ship to the boat, from the
boat to the beach, from the beach to the pack‐saddle, with incredible
celerity; and when the mounted caravans set themselves in motion, those
who had assisted at the landing hastened to vanish as they had come. On
these occasions the smugglers scored a trick in the game, and the
coastguard had nothing for it but to wait their turn of revenge with
redoubled vigilance. More frequently, however, they succeeded in spoiling
sport, for it paid the smuggler amply to run one cargo in three. The
Government people would keep such a sharp look‐out that, oftener than not,
the friends of the free‐traders could only help them by signalling danger,
and the richly‐freighted lugger had to put up her helm in despair, perhaps
with one of the revenue cutters in hot pursuit; or, what was better still,
the enemy was surprised in the very act of unlading, and a valuable
capture was effected. Of course a successful exploit of this kind was by
no means all pleasure and pride. The smugglers with their friends,
disguised by blackened faces, were sure to show fight if they had any
chance. As they were busy in the bay, and the unloading was going briskly
forward, their sentinels would give the signal of alarm, and the long
galleys of the coastguard would be seen pulling fast inshore, and stealing
like wolves on their prey from round the nearest headland. The attacking
force would make free play with its muskets and carbines, if it came
within reach, and the attacked had to consider that their enemies on the
water had probably allies on the land in the shape of excise officers
backed up by soldiers. So the next act in the drama was a _sauve qui
peut_, conducted with more or less order, and covered with a lavish use of
cutlasses and firearms. Very possibly the victors had to count the dead,
and pick up the wounded; and thus the romance and excitement of those days
were spiced with a very sensible element of danger.”

CHAPTER XXII.

SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS (_concluded_).

Eastbourne and its Quiet Charms—Hastings—Its Fishermen—The Battle
of Hastings—Loss of the _Grosser Kurfürst_—The Collision—The
Catastrophe—Dover—The Castle—Shakespeare’s Cliff—“O’er the Downs
so free”—St. Margaret’s Bay—Kingsdown—Deal—A Deed of
Daring—Ramsgate and Margate—The Floating Light on the Goodwin
Sands—Ballantyne’s Voluntary Imprisonment—His Experiences—The
Craft—The Light—One Thousand Wild Ducks caught—A Signal from the
“South Sand Head”—The Answer—Life on Board.

The coast north‐east from Beachy Head is rugged and interesting till
Eastbourne is reached, one of the quietest and prettiest of the south‐
coast watering‐places, and one which has been very greatly improved of
late by the lavish expenditure of his Grace the Duke of Devonshire, the
principal landowner in the neighbourhood. Some of the promenades are
planted with trees _à la boulevard_. The bathing and boating are both
excellent; while in the neighbourhood are the ruins of Pevensey, an old
Norman castle, and Hurstmonceaux, a red‐brick castle of the mediæval
period, ivy‐and creeper‐covered, and embowered in trees. It is the delight
of artists, who annually besiege it in great numbers. Eastbourne has some
hundred fishermen engaged in the herring and mackerel fisheries. They have
a benefit association or club, into which they pay a monthly subscription,
and when their nets are damaged or lost a part of the money needed to
repair or replace them is found. There is also a lifeboat, which has done
excellent work.

And next in sequence comes historical Hastings, which extends for near a
mile along the sea at the present time, or, if we include the fashionable
town of St. Leonard’s‐on‐Sea, its sea front must be reckoned at nearly
three miles. Many readers will be familiar with the charming glen or vale
in which it is situated, and which opens to the sea on the south. Hastings
is otherwise sheltered by high hills and cliffs, and has a warm, even, and
yet bracing climate; for salubrity it will rank with any of the popular
sea‐side resorts. It has a steady population of about 35,000, of whom 700
are fishermen and boatmen. In one week the herring catch has been worth
£5,000. A boat fitted for the herring or mackerel season is worth £350,
and for trawling £200. The mackerel season commences in April and
continues till the latter end of July, while the trawling commences and
ends two or two and a half months later. The herring season commences in
September and ends in the latter part of November. There is a church at
Hastings, under the eastern cliffs, for the special accommodation of
fishermen.

The famous battle of Hastings was fought A.D. 1066, Oct. 14. The alarm
sounded, both parties immediately prepared for action; but the English
spent the night previous to it in riot and jollity, whilst the Normans
were occupied in the duties of religion. On the morning the Duke called
together his principal officers, and ordered the signal of battle to be
given. Then the whole army, moving at once, and singing the hymn or song
of Roland, advanced in order and with alacrity towards the English.

Harold had seized the advantage of a rising ground, and, having secured
his flanks with trenches, resolved to stand upon the defensive, and to
avoid an engagement with the cavalry, in which he was inferior. The
Kentish men were placed in the van, a post of honour which they always
claimed as their due. The Londoners guarded the standard; and the King
himself, accompanied by his two valiant brothers, Gurth and Leofwin,
dismounting from his horse, placed himself at the head of his infantry,
and expressed his resolution to conquer or to die. The first attack of the
Normans was desperate, but was received with equal valour by the English,
and the former began to retreat, when William hastened to their support
with a select band. His presence restored the courage of his followers,
and the English in their turn were obliged to retire. They rallied again,
however, assisted by the advantage of the ground, and William, in order to
gain the victory, had recourse to a stratagem, which, had it failed, would
have resulted in his total ruin. He commanded his troops to allure the
enemy from their position by the appearance of flight. The English
followed with precipitation; the Normans faced upon them in the plain, and
drove them back with considerable slaughter. The artifice was a second
time repeated, with the same success; yet a great body of the English
still maintained themselves in firm array, and seemed determined to
dispute the victory. While they were galled by the Norman archers behind,
they were attacked by the heavy‐armed infantry in front; and Harold
himself was slain by an arrow as he combated with great bravery at the
head of his men. The English, discouraged by the fall of their prince,
fled on all sides. The memory of the eventful fight is kept green by the
name of Hastings, and Battle Abbey, in its immediate neighbourhood.

[Illustration: THE LAST OF THE _GROSSER KURFÜRST_.]

Sadly must all readers look back upon the morning of Friday, May the 31st,
1878, when the _Grosser Kurfürst_ went down off Sandgate, so near to land
that the people on shore felt certain that the commander would be able to
beach her before she had time to sink, unhappily an entirely erroneous
supposition. Very shortly before this ever‐to‐be‐lamented catastrophe
occurred, the German squadron, in command of Admiral Von Batsch, was
sailing with a light easterly wind blowing down Channel with all the pomp
and pardonable display of a force so numerically small yet so grandly
powerful. The sea was perfectly smooth, the weather fine, and there seemed
no more reason for anticipating the impending danger than if they had been
lying at anchor in the sunlit harbour of Bremen.

The squadron consisted of three vessels, sailing in two columns—the _König
Wilhelm_, carrying the admiral’s flag, and the _Preussen_ forming the port
division, the _Grosser Kurfürst_ forming the starboard, and less than two
ships’ lengths apart from the admiral; indeed, it is said that scarcely
one length intervened.

“In this formation the German squadron came across two sailing vessels
hauled to the wind,” says the writer of the article from which we quote,
“on the port tack, and consequently standing right across the bows of both
divisions. The _Grosser Kurfürst_ had first to give way, which she did at
the proper time and strictly in accordance with the rule of the road,
porting her helm and passing under the stern of the first of these two
sailing ships. But the _König Wilhelm_, which it must be borne in mind was
close to the _Grosser Kurfürst_ at this time, and steering a course
parallel to her, endeavoured at first to cross the bows of the sailing
vessel, but finding she had no room for this manœuvre, rapidly changed her
plan, and, putting her helm hard a‐port, also stood under the stern of the
sailing vessel. In the meanwhile the _Grosser Kurfürst_ had resumed her
original course, and thus was lying right across the bows of the _König
Wilhelm_, as she came under the stern of the sailing barque almost at
right angles to the original course.... The captain of the _Grosser
Kurfürst_, Graf Von Montz, seeing the terrible proximity of the _König
Wilhelm_, immediately put his vessel at full speed, hoping to cross her
bows, but the space would not allow it. He then gave the order to port his
helm, hoping to lay his ship parallel to the course of the _König
Wilhelm_, but unfortunately for this also there was neither time nor
space.” All might have gone well up to this point, however, as it appears
the _König Wilhelm_ was in charge of an “able and experienced officer;” he
had given the order to port the helm to steer clear of the sailing vessel,
and then ordered the helm to be “immediately steadied,” intending to range
up alongside the _Grosser Kurfürst_; but the helmsman had become
bewildered, and instead of steadying put the helm still more port. The
_König Wilhelm_ was put at full speed astern, and the fatal crash could
not be avoided. All now was confusion on both vessels.

The _König Wilhelm_ carried away everything from the point where she
struck the _Grosser Kurfürst_ to the stern, “ripping off the armour
plating like the skin of an orange.” The bowsprit of the _König Wilhelm_
fouled the rigging of the ill‐starred ship and brought down the mizzen
top‐gallant‐mast on the quarter‐deck, and the quarter boats were swept
away “like strips of paper.”

The doomed iron‐clad went down in seven minutes; on board there was
scarcely time left the officers and crew to think much less to act with
effect. The boats that had not been smashed could hardly be got into the
water; the hammocks had been stowed in some unusual place, so that it was
useless to attempt to get at them, and thus a very perfect means of escape
was cut off from the 280 poor fellows that were drowned.

[Illustration: THE “KÖNIG WILHELM” ENTERING PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR AFTER THE
COLLISION.]

The experience of the first lieutenant when the vessel was going down
under the very eyes of a number of people on shore is interesting in the
extreme. He felt himself sucked in, and describes a sensation of enormous
pressure on his ribs, as if the water were forcing him down. Then he came
across another column of water, which as promptly vomited him up to the
surface again, when he caught hold of a spar, and saved his life. A
dreadful fate befell some thirty unfortunate sailors, who, in spite of the
commands and entreaties of the boatswain, who was standing on the
forecastle, threw themselves over the bows, and endeavoured to swim away.
But the sinking ship was too fast for them, and they were caught in the
netting which is stretched under the jibboom, and, thus entangled, were
carried down with the ship. The disabled _König Wilhelm_ was almost
immediately towed into Portsmouth for repairs.(59)

Dover is by no means so generally known as many less interesting places on
the south coast, for the larger number of those who depart for or arrive
from the Continent usually pass it by. It has been often incidentally
mentioned in these pages, but no description of its special attractions
has yet been given.

It is situated not far from the South Foreland, in the extreme south‐east
corner of Kent, on the narrowest part of the British Channel, and only
some twenty miles from the opposite coast of France. Hence it is the port
for steamers crossing to Calais on the Continental service, a trip usually
made in about one hour and three‐quarters. If the reader should cross on
the now‐famous _Calais‐Douvres_, the luxurious and easy‐riding twin
vessel, he will hardly require the advice relative to the _mal de mer_
contained in a previous chapter. Dover, though comparatively little used
as a watering‐place, possesses excellent accommodation for
visitors—bathing‐machines, and all the usual paraphernalia of such places.
Its grand hotel, “The Lord Warden,” is second to none in England, and has
sheltered scores of crowned heads and coroneted aristocrats, as well as
the less distinguished, though perhaps equally worthy, Jones, Brown,
Smith, and Robinson.

On the eastern side of the town stands that elevated and noble fortress
the Castle, of which some description has already been given. A short
distance from it the chalk cliff rises 370 feet above the sea, and hard by
stands a beautiful piece of brass ordnance, 24 feet in length, which bears
the name of “Queen Elizabeth’s Pocket Pistol,” and was presented to her
Majesty by the States of Holland. It is said to carry a 12‐lb. ball to a
distance of seven miles. It is curiously adorned with a variety of
devices, typifying the blessings of peace and the horrors of war. On its
breech is the following motto in Dutch, which, freely translated,
signifies:—

“O’er hill and dale I throw my ball,
Breaker my name of mound and wall.”

To the westward of the town rises the majestic headland named after our
immortal bard. Shakespeare’s cliff rears its lofty head _at the present
time_ to an altitude of 350 feet, but in the great dramatist’s day its
summit was much higher, as indicated by the enormous boulders and heaps of
_débris_ at its base, the result of frequent landslips and falls.
Shakespeare well describes this grand precipice:—

“Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen that walk upon the beach
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminished to her cock; her cock, a buoy,
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.”

[Illustration: DOVER.]

From the heights about Dover the views are magnificent. Seaward is the
beautiful bay, the Straits and the Downs, with its ever‐changing fleets,
the ships of all nations. Stretching one’s vision a little farther are
seen the lofty white cliffs of the French coast; Cape Grisnez, near Calais
(which itself lies on low land, and is therefore undiscernible), and the
heights of Boulogne.

The antiquity of Dover is undeniable. Julius Cæsar here made his first
descent on Britain, in August, B.C. 55. Picts and Scots, Danes and
Normans, successively attacked it; while at the period of the Conquest,
1066, the town suffered fearfully, the whole place being reduced to ashes
except twenty‐nine houses. But when it became one of the Cinque Ports it
soon rose in importance, and Dover men largely helped that brilliant
attack on Philip IV.’s fleet, by which France lost 240 vessels. That
enraged monarch retaliated on Dover by burning the larger part of the
town; but before the year 1296 the British navy had not merely swept the
enemy from the Channel, but had made several reprisals on the coast of
France. At the period of the Armada, Dover, with the other Cinque Ports,
fitted out, at a cost of £43,000, six large ships for the Queen’s service,
which were the means of decoying the great _Galleas_ of Spain on a shoal,
afterwards engaging and burning her.

Riding or walking over the Downs some interesting places may be seen on or
near the coast. At St. Margaret’s Bay, seven miles north from Dover—to the
merits of the lobsters of which the present writer can testify, having
both caught and eaten them—there is a pretty little fishing‐village, with
“Fisherman’s Inn” embowered in trees, at the base of lofty cliffs. Here
the preliminary borings for the possible Channel Tunnel of the future were
made. Farther on is Kingsdown, a fishing village and lifeboat station, the
men and boat of which have done specially good service in saving life.
Visible from thence is Walmer Castle and quaint old Deal, so often
mentioned in these pages in connection with lifeboat work on the Goodwin
Sands, themselves also plainly in sight. Riding at anchor in Deal Roads,
or outward bound, or on the homeward tack, are seen ships, great and
little, flying the colours of every maritime nation under the sun. The
trip from Dover to Deal and back can be made by any tolerable pedestrian
in a day, allowing time for visits to all the points just named. That part
of the trip from Dover to St. Margaret’s Bay can be made over the Downs
only, but thence to Deal the coast can be easily followed.

Coming nearer home, the writer must record a case of “derring‐do,” which
will prove—if after what these pages have recorded of the men of Deal and
Walmer and Kingsdown, of Ramsgate and Margate, further proof were
needed—that the men of the North and South Foreland are not degenerate
descendants of their forefathers, who sailed and fought and died with
Blake and Nelson. It occurred in Deal on a Sunday morning in bleak
December. A whole gale was blowing from the south‐west and vessels in the
comparatively sheltered Downs were riding to both anchors. As the various
congregations were leaving their respective places of worship umbrellas
were blown inside out, and children were taken off their feet or clung
frightened to their parents’ limbs, the wind and spray along Deal beach
being blinding. Let the “Chaplain” (_nom de plume_ of the excellent
clergyman who superintends the Missions to Seamen) tell the tale. “Just
then,” he writes, “in answer to the boom of the distant gun, the bell rang
to man the lifeboat, and the Deal boatmen gallantly answered to the
summons. A rush was made for the life‐belts and for the coxswain’s house.
The coxswain, Robert Wilds, has for fifteen years held the yoke‐lines
through the surf on the sands, and knows the powers of the boat to save.
Fourteen men besides the coxswain were the crew, and with a mighty rush
they launched the good boat down the steep beach to the rescue. There were
three vessels on the Goodwins. The crew of one took to their boats, and
not being in the worst part of the sands got safe round the North Foreland
to Margate. Another schooner, supposed to be a Dane, disappeared, and was
lost with all hands. The third, a German barque, the _Leda_, with a crew
of seventeen ‘all told,’ was stuck fast in the worst part of the
sands—viz., the South Spit, on which even on a fine day the writer has
encountered a dangerous and peculiar boil or tumble of seas. The barque’s
main and mizen masts by this time were gone, and the crew were clinging to
the weather bulwarks, while sheets of solid water made a clean breach over
them—so much so that from cold and long exposure the captain was almost
exhausted. The Deal life‐boat, the _Van Kook_, fetched a little to
windward of the devoted barque, and dropping anchor, veered down on her.
One cable being too short, another was bent on to it, and closer and
closer came the lifeboat. If the cable parted and the lifeboat struck the
ship with full force, not a man would probably have survived to tell the
tale; or if they got to leeward of the barque the crew of the wreck would
have been lost, as the lifeboat could not again have worked ‘to weather’
to drop down as before. No friendly steam‐tug was at hand to help the
lifeboat to windward in case of failure in this their first attempt, and
both the crew in distress and their rescuers were well aware of the stake
at issue, and that this was the last chance. But the lifeboat crew said,
‘We’re bound to save them,’ and with all the coolness of the race, yet
‘daring all that men dare do,’ they concentrated their energies on getting
close enough to the wreck to throw their line, and yet to keep far enough
off to ensure the boat’s safety. They were now beaten and hustled by the
tremendous seas breaking into and over them, and no other boat could have
lived a moment in the cauldron of waters seething and raging around them.
Notwithstanding the self‐emptying power of the wondrous boat, the seas
broke into her in such quick succession that she was and remained full up
to her thwarts while alongside the vessel, and as each cataract came on
board the coxswain sang out, ‘Look out, men!’ and they grasped the thwarts
and held on with both hands, breathless, for dear life. One sea hurled the
lifeboat against the ship, and stove in her fore air‐box, so that the
safety of all made it necessary to sheer off. Another sea prostrated two
men under her thwarts. The lifeboat’s throw‐line was at last got on board
the barque, and communication being established the crew were drawn on
board the lifeboat through the raging waves by ones or twos, as the seas
permitted. Thus saved from the jaws of death, so astonished were the
rescued crew at the submerged condition of the lifeboat and the awful
turmoil of water around them that some of them wished to get back to their
perishing vessel; but the coxswain and crew knew the powers of their
gallant boat. ‘Up foresail and cut the cable,’ and with its goodly freight
of thirty‐four souls the lifeboat, hurled like a feather, sometimes dead
before the wind, and next moment ‘taken aback,’ plunged into the surf for
home. One of the rescued crew had twice before been saved by the same boat
(the _Van Kook_), and encouraged his comrades with a recital of his
previous deliverances. Some rum, which was brought for the use of the
lifeboat crew, was generously given by them and all used by the perishing
men of the barque. And so at last, sodden through and through, exhausted,
but gloriously successful, they landed the staggering and grateful Germans
on the Deal beach, where, despite the storm, crowds met them with
wondering and thankful hearts.”

Among nearly all classes who dwell near and love the sea the same heroic
spirit prevails. Only in 1879 Lord Dunmore, with John M‘Rae, Ewen M‘Leod,
and Norman Macdonald, put out to sea in a furious Atlantic gale, in the
noble Scottish peer’s _undecked_ cutter, the _Dauntless_, when no other
boat would venture out at all, and saved the lives of several men, women,
and children from the yacht _Astarte_, wrecked on a small island‐rock
between Harris and the North Uist coast (west coast of Scotland). The
noble hero of this gallant band is a Murray of the ducal tree of Atholl,
sharing the savage motto, “Forth fortune, and fill the fetters.” The
spirit of daring adventure which spurred his forefathers to feats of
reckless foray and ruthless feud has, in a milder age, developed into the
performance of deeds of valour for the benefit of suffering humanity.

Sad to say, occasionally, there is another story to be told. In February,
1880, some strapping fishermen refused to make up the complement of the
Blackpool lifeboat—some of her own men being away fishing off North Wales,
and others at Fleetwood—and remained leafing on the beach while they let
the coxswain take in two joiners and a stonemason, and then start two
short of the complement. Nevertheless four persons were saved from the
wreck of the _Bessie Jones_, under circumstances most honourable to the
rescuers. On their return, being obliged to run over the bank with a
tremendous sea running, they had the narrowest escape from being capsized;
one man was washed out of the boat, but was recovered, and most of the
loose tackle was swept overboard and irretrievably lost.

[Illustration: RAMSGATE.]

Popular Ramsgate, with its fashionably select annexe St. Lawrence‐on‐Sea,
is so well known by all, that no lengthened description is required here,
for its actual and practical connection with the sea, in the noble work
done by its lifeboatsmen, has already been detailed. Ramsgate has a fine
harbour and piers, from which the “husbands’ boat” is often, more
especially on Saturdays, watched and longed for by hundreds of wives and
daughters.

Margate had, in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, fifteen boats and other vessels,
ranging from one to eighteen tons, there being four of the latter. It had
108 inhabited houses. It now has a floating population of 50,000 to 70,000
people, the permanent residents being about 15,000 in number. There are
several pilots, and a large number of luggers employed in fishing and in
seeking for casualties; it owns a certain number of coasting vessels;
while a large number of coasters and French fishing‐boats come in during
the winter months and fishing season for refuge, repairs, and provisions.
Margate has a Seaman’s Room and Observatory, and Ramsgate a Seaman’s
Infirmary. The local agents of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society have
their hands full in winter, and generally at other seasons in stormy
weather.

[Illustration: THE GULF STREAM LIGHT VESSEL ON THE GOODWIN SANDS.]

Who that has visited Ramsgate or Margate, has not, some time or other in
his or her life, nourished an all‐absorbing curiosity to peep into the
interior and solve the mysteries of those distant beacons, the “Floating
Light Ships.” Those who have seen them either lying peacefully on the
tranquil bosom of the sunlit ocean, or trembling and shaken in Neptune’s
angry moods, still valiant and isolated, nobly doing their duty, must
often have wished to get a closer view. That natural curiosity can be
gratified at last; the curtain has been raised, so that we may peep into
the mysteries of the flame‐coloured sphinxes, by a writer(60) who went
into voluntary imprisonment for one week on the Gulf Stream Light Vessel,
one of three floating lights which mark the Goodwin Sands.

“That curious, almost ridiculous‐looking craft,” writes Mr. Ballantyne,
“was among the aristocracy of shipping. Its important office stamped it
with nobility. It lay there, conspicuous in its royal colour, from day to
day and year to year, to mark the fair‐way between Old England and the
outlying shoals, distinguished in daylight by a huge ball at its mast‐
head, and at night by a magnificent lantern, with argand lamps and concave
reflectors, which shot rays like lightning far and wide over the watery
waste, while in thick weather, when neither ball nor light could be
discerned, a sonorous gong gave its deep‐toned warning to the approaching
mariner, and let him know his position amidst the surrounding dangers.”

Here the writer bestows well‐deserved praise upon the services,
“disinterested and universal,” of this lonely craft, and afterwards tells
you what would meet the eye, if, leaning against the stern, you gazed
along the deck forward.

“It was an interesting kingdom in detail. Leaving out of view all that
which was behind him, and which, of course, he could not see, we may
remark that just before him stood the binnacle and compass, and the cabin
skylight. On his right and left the territory of the quarter deck was
seriously circumscribed and the promenade much interfered with by the
ship’s boats, which, like their parent, were painted red, and which did
not hang at the davits, but, like young lobsters of the kangaroo type,
found shelter within their mother when not at sea on their own account.
Near to them were two signal carronades. Beyond the skylight rose the
bright brass funnel of the cabin chimney, and the winch by means of which
the lantern was hoisted. Then came another skylight and the companion
hatch about the centre of the deck. Just beyond this stood the most
important part of the vessel—the lantern‐house. This was a circular wooden
structure about six feet in diameter, with a door and small windows.

“Inside was the lantern—the beautiful piece of mechanism for which the
light‐ship, its crew and appurtenances, were maintained. Right through the
centre of this house rose the thick, unyielding mast of the vessel. The
lantern, which was just a little less than its house, surrounded the mast
and travelled upon it.” Immediately at sundown the order “Up lights” was
given, regular as the sun itself. The lantern was connected with the rod
and pinion, by means of which with the clock‐work beneath, the light was
made to revolve and “flash” once every third of a minute. The glass of the
lantern is frequently broken, not by wind and wave, but by the sea‐birds,
which dash violently against it. In a single night, nine panes of a light‐
house were shattered from this cause. On one occasion one thousand wild
ducks were caught by the crew of a light‐ship. It is necessary to defend
with trellis‐work the lights most exposed.

The cabin of the Floating Light was marvellously neat and clean.
Everything was put away in its proper place, not only as the result of
order and discipline, but on account of the extreme smallness of the
cabin. The author of the work from which we quote depicts a scene on board
during a night of storms when a wreck and unexpected rescue took place:—“A
little before midnight, while I was rolling uneasily in my ‘bunk,’
contending with sleep and sea‐sickness, and moralising on the madness of
those who choose ‘the sea’ for a profession, I was roused—and sickness
instantly cured—by the watch on deck suddenly shouting down the hatchway
to the mate, ‘South Sand Head light is firing, sir, and sending up
rockets.’ The mate sprang from his ‘bunk,’ and was on the cabin‐floor
before the sentence was well finished. I followed suit, and pulled on
coat, nether garments, and shoes, as if my life depended on my own speed.
There was unusual need for clothing, for the night was bitterly cold. On
gaining the deck, we found the two men on duty actively at work—the one
loading the lee gun, the other adjusting a rocket to its stick. A few
hurried questions from the mate elicited all that it was needful to know.

“The flash of the gun from the ‘South Sand Head’ light‐ship, about six
miles off, had been distinctly seen a third time, and a third rocket went
up, indicating that a vessel had struck upon the fatal Goodwin Sands. The
report of the gun could not be heard, owing to the gale carrying the sound
to leeward, but the bright line of the rocket was distinctly visible. At
the same moment the glaring light of a burning tar‐barrel was observed. It
was the signal of the vessel in distress, just on the southern tail of the
sands.

“By this time the gun was charged, and the rocket in position.

“One of the crew dived down the companion‐hatch, and in another moment
returned with a red‐hot poker, which the mate had thrust into the cabin
fire at the first alarm. He applied it in quick succession to the gun and
rocket. A blinding flash and deafening crash were followed by the whiz of
the rocket as it sprang with a magnificent curve far away into the
surrounding darkness.

“This was their answer to the South Sand Head light, which, having fired
three guns and sent up three rockets to attract the attention of the
_Gull_, then ceased firing. It was also their first note of warning to the
look‐out on the pier of Ramsgate Harbour. Of the three light‐ships that
guarded the sands, the _Gull_ lay nearest to Ramsgate; hence, which ever
of the other two happened to send up signals, the _Gull_ had to reply, and
thenceforward to continue repeating them until the attention of the
Ramsgate look‐out should be gained, and a reply given.

“The steam tug _Aid_, which always attends upon, and takes in tow, the
Ramsgate life‐boat, soon hove in sight, going to the rescue, thus showing
the great value of steam in such matters. Having learnt the direction of
the wreck from the mate of the light‐ship, they proceeded on their
course.”

The life of the crew of every light‐ship is pretty much the same on
Sunday. At dawn the lantern is lowered and cleaned and prepared for the
next night’s work. At 8 a.m. all hands must be on the alert, the hammocks
stowed, and breakfast served. At 10.30 the men assemble for prayers, and
the captain or mate performs divine service. After sunset the men meet
again for prayers. With the exception of the services, the routine on week
days is the same as on Sunday. The captain and mate take turn and turn—a
month on board and a month on shore; the men do duty for two months on
board for one on shore; and, monotonous as their life may seem to the
uninitiated, it is doubtful whether there is not a beneficial moral
activity in existence on a floating light that tends to elevate the
character of both officers and men.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SKETCHES OF OUR EAST COASTS:—NORFOLK—YORKSHIRE.

Harwich; its fine Harbour—Thorpeness and its Hero—Beautiful
Situation of Lowestoft—Yarmouth; its Antiquity—Quays, Bridges—The
Roadstead—Herring and Mackerel Fishing—Curing Red Herrings and
Bloaters—A Struggle for Life—Encroachments of the Sea—A Dangerous
Coast—Flamborough Head—Perils of the Yorkshire Fisherman’s
Life—“The sea gat him!”—Filey and its Quiet Attractions—Natural
Breakwater—A Sad Tale of the Sea—Scarborough; Ancient Records—The
Terrible and the Gay—The _Coupland_ Helpless—Lifeboat out—Her men
thrown out—Boat crushed against Sea Wall—Two Killed—Futile
Attempts at Rescue—A Lady’s Description of a Scarborough
Gale—Whitby—Robin Hood’s Bay—An Undermined Town.

Proceeding now to the east coast of our island, we come to a series of
places interesting to the men of the sea, and some of them renowned as
watering‐places. Leaving the mouth of the Thames, we soon arrive at
Harwich, which is acquiring considerable importance in view of the
Continental routes with which it is connected. It is situated on high land
at the mouth of the Stour, and near the confluence of the latter with the
Orwell, immediately opposite the well‐known Landguard Fort. The shore is
bold, and the views of the German Ocean, with its ever‐shifting fleets of
native and foreign vessels, are grand and extensive. It has a breakwater,
dockyard, and magnificent harbour, in which, it is said, more than 100
vessels of the Royal Navy and between 300 and 400 colliers have ridden at
one time. There are steamers constantly plying to Ipswich, about twelve
miles up the Orwell—a river famous for the beautiful scenery of its banks.
Ipswich itself, celebrated as the birthplace of Cardinal Wolsey, is the
largest market town and port of Suffolk, and possesses respectable‐sized
docks and ship‐yards, and any quantity of interesting buildings of the
mediæval period.

[Illustration: HARWICH.]

Thorpeness, a dreary little place near Aldborough, on our way up the
coast, would not attract the tourist, but it was long the residence of one
of Suffolk’s heroes. Joseph Chard commenced life as a carpenter, but was
soon found at Thorpeness, where he lived in a little cottage built by
himself, and owned an old boat, which cost him originally fifty shillings,
in which he followed the calling of bumboatman, or purveyor of provisions
and odds and ends to passing ships, from which he frequently conveyed
messages to shore. Gradually he saved money, and, uniting his old and new
trades, built a fine boat, which cost him twenty‐five pounds. In three or
four years more he was rich enough to purchase a fast‐sailing yawl, which
a gang of smugglers were obliged to relinquish about that time, and with
which Chard won the prize at the next Aldborough Regatta from a host of
born watermen. Not content with these successes, he bought and studied a
coasting‐book and chart, and soon emerged a full‐fledged pilot for one of
the most dangerous localities, the Sands of the Swin—a study almost as
difficult as biquadratic equations. He assisted at various times in saving
109 lives, no less than eighty of which were rescued in his own boat,
appropriately named the _Thorpeness Stormy Petrel_.

Farther north, and standing upon the most easterly point in all England,
the important seaport of Lowestoft is situated. The town is placed on a
lofty eminence, from which fine sea‐views are obtained, and the side of
the cliff descends gradually in hanging gardens or terraces covered with
trees and shrubs, below which is a long line of buildings appropriated to
the curing of fish. It has two harbours, with piers. The herring (more
especially) and the mackerel fisheries employ from 1,500 to 2,000 men and
boys, while the industries connected with the sea commence at twine and
rope making and end in ship‐building. There is a chapel for British and
foreign sailors, six almshouses for poor master fishermen, and two
lifeboats.

Yarmouth next demands our attention. It derives its name from its
situation at the mouth of the river Yare, and it is, as all know, both a
flourishing fishing‐town and a watering‐place. Its antiquity is great;
there are records of it anterior to Roman times. In the eleventh century,
at the time of the Conquest, it was known as _Moche Gærnemouth_, or Great
Yarmouth. In 1004, Sweyn, king of Denmark, arrived before it with a
powerful fleet, and plundered and burnt the town. It soon rose again. In
1132, artisans, implements, and looms were brought over from the
Continent, and spinning was commenced at Worstead, a small town which gave
to the yarn the name it still bears. The old town of Yarmouth was formerly
defended by walls of which the ruins still remain.

[Illustration: YARMOUTH.]

Among the features of Yarmouth are the great broad quays, extending about
a mile‐and‐a‐quarter, the principal streets running parallel with them.
There are several substantial bridges across the Yare and Bure rivers, one
over the latter having been erected on the spot where nearly eighty people
were suddenly precipitated into the water by the fall of the old bridge
some thirty‐eight years ago. There are several small docks and shipyards.
Yarmouth Roads afford safe anchorage, and are constantly resorted to by
vessels in distress, the captains of which do not dare to brave the
elements outside. Forty thousand sail, exclusive of fishing boats,
annually pass this part of the coast. The Roads are formed by several very
dangerous sands, which, in foggy weather, or when heavy gales sweep the
coasts, occasion many fearful shipwrecks. More than 500 vessels have been
stranded, wrecked, or utterly lost off this coast in the short period of
three years; as a necessary consequence, the loss of life is also
considerable, and the number of shipwrecked mariners who are landed at
Yarmouth year after year is very large. The Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society
has an important branch there. There is a fine Sailors’ Home, which has
lodged 600 to 700 poor seamen in a single year. It was established to
provide a home for the mariners of all nations, when wrecked, detained by
stress of weather, or paid off, in the latter cases giving them board and
medical attendance, if required, at the lowest possible charge. It
possesses a museum, library, and reading‐room, and a collection of charts
and nautical instruments. The two lifeboats of Yarmouth have been the
means of saving several thousand lives. There is also a little church and
mission for fishermen and sailors near the beach, and a mariners’ chapel.

The mackerel fisheries of Yarmouth alone employ one thousand men, but the
herring fishery is the most important source of revenue to the town, the
produce exceeding one hundred thousand barrels per annum, or one‐fifth of
the entire yield of the kingdom. A large number of persons of both sexes
are employed on shore in drying and curing the fish. The Yarmouth boats
with two masts (three during the mackerel season) are manned by twelve or
thirteen hands. They have the letters Y. H. and a number painted on the
bows. They are now of about sixty‐five tons builders’ measurement, many of
graceful forms, and are fast sailers. A single boat will often take a
hundred and twenty or thirty thousand fish in one night.

In salting herrings the fish are simply gutted and placed in the barrels
in alternate layers with salt. Having been allowed to remain in that
condition for some few days the barrel is found to contain a quantity of
floating liquid, which is poured off; more herrings and layers of salt are
added. The branding consists of affixing the month and day on which they
were caught and cured, the name and address of the curer, and the presence
or absence of the gills and alimentary canal. “Red” herrings are made so
by first being placed in salt for three or four days, then being hung on
spits which hold about twenty fish apiece. These spits are plunged several
times in cold water, and after being sufficiently washed, are then removed
to the open air and dried. Next they are suspended from the roof of the
smoking‐house, which has wood fires on the floor. Those for English use
are smoked for ten days or so, but those for exportation often remain as
long as three weeks before being packed. As has been mentioned elsewhere,
they are used by the negroes of the West Indies as a medicinal corrective
to the bad effects of a constant vegetable and fruit diet. Bloaters are
cured more speedily. They are placed for a few hours only in a strong
brine, are then spitted and well washed in cold water, and are smoked very
slightly for about eight hours only, when they are ready for packing.

And now for an incident which occurred some years since, and which was
indeed a “struggle for life,” although eventually the sufferer was landed
at Yarmouth. It is a sad truism that danger is never so near to us as when
we have least apparent cause to fear its presence, and the narrow escape
of a seaman, named Charles Hayman, from a melancholy death, with his
vessel in sight of his native soil, is only another of the many
exemplifications of this stern truth. He belonged to the schooner
_Osprey_, of London, and had just made a successful passage from Lagos, on
the West Coast of Africa, with a cargo of palm oil. The _Osprey_ was
brought up and anchored off the North Foreland, when a tremendous sea rose
and tore her from her anchors, driving her helpless and unmanageable into
the North Sea.

Those on board at once made signals of distress, which were seen by the
gallant little smack, _Fear Not_, truly a most appropriate name, and her
sturdy crew at once went to the assistance of the disabled schooner. The
master of the smack offered to take the crew of the _Osprey_ on board, and
the mate of the _Osprey_, believing her past all power of saving, gladly
accepted the generous offer. The hurricane was still raging furiously, and
it was with the greatest difficulty that a boat could be lowered from the
_Osprey_, but pluck and perseverance succeeded at last, and the valuables
and ship’s papers were, without delay, stowed away in the boat. The mate
and Charles Hayman were the first to embark in the tiny craft, which was
attached to the schooner by a rope, and the remainder of the crew were
about to follow them, when a heavier sea than they had had as yet to
contend against snapped the line and cast the boat adrift.

The waves washed over and into the boat, threatening to swamp it at any
moment. Hayman and the mate failed completely to bale the water out, in
spite of their incessant endeavours to do so, and Hayman, foreseeing the
inevitable, stripped himself to the skin, and waited for the moment to
come when the boat would capsize. He did not have to wait long in his
nudity and the bitter cold; the boat spun over, and carried both men under
water; however, they soon rose to the surface, succeeded in reaching the
boat, which was floating bottom upwards, and clung to it with the
despairing energy of drowning men. Heavy seas broke over them so
persistently that scarcely a minute was allowed them for respiration, and
the mate, a weakly man, with a low harrowing cry sank for the last time
and for ever. Hayman battled on with the courage of a tiger. The smack
bore down to him in the teeth of the gale. He was saved and succoured when
death seemed about to seize him, and he was supplied with raiment and
stimulants by his noble rescuers, and eventually landed at Yarmouth.

The sea has made, and still makes, many encroachments on the Norfolk
coasts. Thus at the not inconsiderable fishing station of Sherringham
several yards of cliff have been undermined and washed away in a few
years’ time; and in 1810 a large inn, placed too near the sea, was thrown
in a heap of ruins on the beach. The coast onward to Cromer, a now
fashionable watering‐place, protected by a breakwater and sea‐wall, is
extremely dangerous, and between it and Yarmouth there are five lights.

But we now approach a still more dangerous part of the coast—the eastern
shores of Yorkshire. Flamborough Head first demands our attention.

The Head is the termination of the chalky Yorkshire Wolds, and it is
surrounded by islands of chalk, showing plainly that the sea has cut them
off from their former connection with the land. The cliffs around
Flamborough Head are riddled and tunnelled by the sea waves, and there are
many arches and caverns. The “Matron of Flamborough” is a fine pyramidal
“needle,” standing boldly out of the water. Under the lighthouse are some
remarkable broken cliffs, and then two great pillars of chalk called the
“King and Queen” arrest attention. One of the largest and most rugged
caverns is called “Robin Lyth’s Hole,” and it can be easily explored from
the eastern side. The Head is, therefore, specially interesting to the
artist, and, for other reasons, it is equally so to the naturalist. Crowds
of sea birds startle the visitor, who is doubtless regarded as an
intruder, as they flock out from all the crevices of the cliffs filled
with their eggs, and cover both land and sea in their circling flight. The
somewhat giddy feat of descending the face of the cliff with the aid of
ropes, for the sake of the eggs, is one by which the Flamborough men gain
their living in the summer. “A more familiar hazard is run by the bold
fishers of this coast, who, in their little cobles, set forth from the
north or the south landing to visit, perhaps, the Dogger Bank, possibly to
return no more. ‘The sea gat him,’ is too often the reply to your inquiry
for some honest fisherman who may have been your boatman round the
promontory, or your guide through the windings of the caves.”(61) Many a
fisherman’s widow or mother thinks sadly there of the husband or son who
will no more return.

“Down on the sands, where the red light pales,
I sit and watch for the fisher’s sails;
And my heart throbs still with the old, old pain,
For the boat that will never come back again:
But a new world waits for my love and me,
A world of peace, where is no more sea.

“For God is good, and the gift He gave
Is held a while by the silver wave.
Not lost, but hidden; I may not weep,
While he is at rest in the silent deep,
And the voice of an angel speaks to me
Of the fair new home, where is no more sea.”(62)

Filey, a quiet watering‐place, is sheltered by the above‐named headland,
and its pretty terraces, squares, shrubs, trees, and flowers, its sands
where a band plays daily during the season, afford a strong contrast to
the ofttimes turbulent ocean without. The title of the place is derived
from the ancient name, “The File,” given to a rocky tongue of land which
shoots out into the sea, and serves in every respect as a breakwater to
the place. Outside, in heavy seas, great pieces of rock may be seen
rolling and tumbling about, swayed at the will of the waves. This is
called Filey “Brig” (bridge), and the promontory is said to have a great
resemblance to the mole at Tangiers. Its extremity can be reached at low
water, and from thence most lovely views of Scarborough cliffs and its
castle and Flamborough Head are obtained. At high water the Brig is
overflowed, and the waves often cause a white spray against its rocks,
which throw it high in the air. The effect from the esplanade is, for want
of a better simile, very much like a concentration of white plumes.

One Sunday afternoon, but one on which no Sabbath bell could be heard at
sea, nor on the usual quiet shores of Filey, a sad event occurred. It was
seven in the evening; the wind had suddenly chopped round from south to
north, and now there fell, with the noise of an angry sea rushing over a
sandy desert, a terrific shower of hailstones, and tempestuous weather
continued through the night. At daybreak the sea ran mountains high, and
the storm continued with unabated fury. The wind blew a hurricane; the
sleet came down as dense as a London fog, and obscured the sea from the
eyes of the anxious inhabitants of Filey, and Filey from the eager eyes
and listening ears of the tempest‐tossed sailor. At nine o’clock the sky
cleared, and the people of Filey beheld a stout brig, in company with
three or four more vessels, labouring on in the heavy sea under close‐
reefed topsails, and distant scarcely three miles.

She showed signs as if she had been in collision with some other vessel,
or was terribly battered and storm‐riven. After getting about two miles
south of the buoy, she was seen to heel over on to her beam ends, stagger,
struggle to right herself, and, as if aware of the entire fruitlessness of
the attempt, and giving up in despair, to go down with an awful
suddenness, taking all hands with her—her name unknown, her history
unrecorded. The only epitaph in memory of the brave fellows who had found
her both their coffin and their sepulchre was that stamped indelibly upon
the hearts of the loved ones they had left behind.

Of Scarborough there are most ancient records. Its name is Saxon—from
Scar, a rock, and Burg, a fortified place. A Northern historian records an
invasion by the Danes in the ninth and tenth centuries in the following
manner:—“Towards the end of the reign of Adalbricht, King of
Northumberland, an army of Danes under Knut and Harold, sons of Gorin,
invading England, subdued a great part of this province; upon which
Adalbricht, meeting the enemy, and fighting a battle at Clifland or
Cleveland, in the north, routed the Danes with great slaughter. But soon
after this the Danes, leading their forces to Scardaborga, fought and
obtained the victory; then marching to York, they subdued the inhabitants,
and passed some time in peace.” The venerable castle dates from the reign
of King Stephen.

[Illustration: SCARBOROUGH.]

The harbour of Scarborough is the only place of refuge on a dangerous
coast reaching from the Humber to Tynemouth Haven. It possesses lifeboats,
mortar apparatus for aiding ships, a Seamen’s Hospital, Trinity House, and
Mariners’ Asylum. The place itself has become a most fashionable watering‐
place. But sometimes here, as at many other seaside resorts, the terrible
mingles with the gay. Such was particularly the case in November, 1861,
when events occurred which threw a general gloom over both the inhabitants
and visitors.

A schooner, the _Coupland_, attempted the harbour during a fearful gale,
but could not succeed in entering. She drifted rapidly amid foaming
billows that chased each other like huge mad cataracts, until she struck
immediately opposite the Spa promenade. In the meantime the lifeboat was
manned, and sent out to the relief of the vessel, now in most imminent
danger. The sea broke upon the sea‐wall with such terrific violence that
the massive stones on the parapet were dislodged. The rebound of the waves
caused such a sea as no small craft but the lifeboat could have borne.
Arrived at this point, she was watched, and her crew spoken to by the
people on the Spa. The crew of the lifeboat seemed terror‐stricken at
their awful position. Suddenly a fearful lurch of the boat pitched out a
veteran boatman, the leading man in her, and one of great experience and
good judgment. He was quickly washed up to the Spa wall, and was saved by
a life‐buoy. Another of the crew was ejected a few minutes after, and was
saved by the same means, after a fearful struggle. The oars were now
dashed out of the hands of the lifeboatmen, and they were at once rendered
powerless. The boat was washed heavily up against the wall, and nothing
but her great strength and excellent qualities preserved her from being at
once dashed to pieces. Ropes were thrown from the boat to the promenade,
and she was drawn through the surf to a landing‐place at the southern end
of the wall. Here a fatal occurrence took place. Having touched the
ground, the men jumped out before the water had receded, and, seeing the
danger they were in, a rush down the incline was made to assist them. In
the momentary confusion that ensued another run of the sea came, and
nearly all the party were thrown from their feet, and were now scrambling
to save their lives. Many succeeded in getting up, but another wave washed
off those who were yet below. Two or three times they were carried out and
back again. Among these were Lord Charles Beauclerk, two of the boat’s
crew, and five or six others. A large wave was seen to lift the lifeboat
with fearful force against the wall; and as the boat sank down again, it
was found that Brewster, one of the crew, had been literally crushed to
death between it and the stone sea‐wall. Lord Charles Beauclerk
experienced the same horrible fate, but was not immediately killed; he was
washed to the foot of the cliff, when two gentlemen rushed to his
assistance. A rope had been previously thrown to him, but he was powerless
to grasp it. The gentlemen just named succeeded in fastening a rope round
him, and drew him up the incline, the life just ebbing out of him. He was
conveyed to the Music Hall adjoining (sad irony of fate!), where a
physician pronounced him dead. Two or three others were seen under the
boat, when the waves threw her up almost in the air. One of them was the
son of a Scarborough banker. All these men perished.

Attention was now given to the shipwrecked crew, who had been witnesses of
all these horrors, and they were eventually all hauled off safely by the
rocket apparatus. In the same gale fourteen poor fishermen of Scarborough
lost their lives. Twenty were lost at Yarmouth, and there were wrecks
strewed all over the east coast.

And now for a true story with a happier ending, very graphically told by a
lady visitor to Scarborough.(63) It occurred in the mid‐winter of 1872. “I
can’t write decently,” wrote she; “my hands are still trembling from the
excitement of the morning, such a tremendous storm we have had, and a
vessel lost in front of our windows again. The sea was one heaving,
surging mass of foam, and the wind blowing hard from the NE. right upon
this coast. Our sailor‐landlord came in from a look‐out seaward with the
report, ‘There’s a fine brig out to the north’ard, but there’s an awful
heavy sea on; I’m afraid there’s no chance for her, the wind is driving
her dead on shore, and I’m afraid she’ll be on the rocks before long.
She’s a Spaniard, I think, by the looks on her. God help ’em!’ and he took
his glass and went out, the big tears standing in his eyes, great sturdy
fellow as he is.

“Of course our hearts were in our mouths in a moment, and with straining
eyes we watched and watched. On she came; how one longed for some unseen
hand to drive her back from what seemed friendly houses, and people, and
land, and yet was so fatal! The snow, and hail, and rain made the air
thick every now and then, and when it cleared there was the vessel being
driven headlong before the wind. Would she get round the Castle rocks?
That was awful excitement; if she struck there, there was no hope for the
crew. An hour nearly the suspense lasted; yes, she is past! a slight lull
in the fierce storm, and in that lull a fishing‐smack, for which there
seemed no chance, had weathered it all, got round the lighthouse pier, and
was entering the harbour, a thing that, by the side of the brig, seemed a
mere child’s toy on those big waves, and had been lost to sight again and
again. The pier was one black mass of people, and on the sands thousands
had collected, all eyes on the brig.

“Now off goes the lifeboat—there is still a chance for the brig. It’s a
beautiful new boat, that was recently launched, and already she has saved
more lives (the sailors tell us) than the old one did all the time she was
here. Her crew have confidence in her, and ‘you know, miss, if her crew
haven’t confidence in her, it’s all no go; they’d better by half go off in
a coble, they’d liever too,’ said an old sailor to me. I felt as if every
one I loved in the world were in that vessel, thus tossing and struggling
with the winds and waves, in uncertainty as to her fate. The lifeboat is
off now, though, to the pier‐head, and the rocket apparatus is fixed at a
part where they think she’s coming on shore. She hasn’t enough sail on,
the sailors say. Her master seems to find this out, for up go two
topsails. She veers; now is her chance; if her master knows the harbour
well, he may yet get her in. He doesn’t, evidently; he has gone a little
too far to the south’ard, and can’t get back! One frightful gust, one
awful sea, and her chance is over, and she is driving right on to the
worst rocks of all, where, if she strikes, the men must perish—no lifeboat
and no rocket apparatus can reach her. The lifeboat is pulling
tremendously towards her now, and the sea is fearful; again she veers
slightly—the moments seem hours. How those men pull! they are close to
her, when one awful sea catches them, and the lifeboat is swamped. It
seemed as if I felt the waves dashing over me. I gave an awful scream, and
hardly dared look again; and yet I couldn’t keep my eyes away. She was all
right, and eagerly I counted her men, we could see so plainly from our
windows. They were all right, and now she is alongside the brig, though
once or twice dashed away again. Then comes the taking of the men off.
This was almost the worst moment of all, to see them one by one dropped
into the lifeboat. One man is going nearly in; the lifeboat is dashed
right away, and there he hangs. The sea dashes against him, injures his
leg, but they get him back into the brig, and then into the lifeboat when
she can get close again, and now all are in but the captain. He hesitates;
almost it seems as if he would rather go down with his ship; but he passes
some papers, or paper like books, into the lifeboat, and then he follows,
and the men pull back. The crew of the brig are faint and exhausted; they
have had three awful days of it, but the lifeboat lands them all safely at
length at the pier. I felt as if I had been up for nights, the excitement
had been so great. If she hadn’t been a new ship and a good one, she would
have been all to pieces long ago, the sailors say; but she’s lying almost
on her beam ends and her deck to windward, with every sea dashing against
her, now the tide is ebbing.”

Whitby is the last point to be treated here in connection with the
dangerous east coast. It is an ancient town, dating long before the
eleventh century, at which latter period it had become a noted fishing‐
place. At the present time it possesses perhaps 500 vessels, large and
small, exclusive of fishing boats. There are a great number of seamen
belonging to the place who are engaged in ships on the coast, Baltic, and
Indian trade, seldom returning home, but for a few weeks in winter. That
the men must be generally provident is witnessed by the fact that there
are 800 subscribers to the Mariners’ National Mutual Pension and Widows’
Fund, a benefit society under the auspices and management of the
Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society.

Standing on the cliff above Whitby, near the ruins of the old abbey, there
is a most delightful view seawards. The town is below, mapped out in all
its varieties of streets, squares, and quays; its terraces mounting one
above another; its piers projecting into the sea; its lighthouses, docks,
and shipyards alive with busy artisans; and a capacious harbour, divided
by a bridge across the Esk, the outer part of which has accommodation for
300 sail of ships, while above there is also a large basin. “All this and
much more the eye takes in from this elevated stand‐point, which, in fine
weather, and at high tide, is most imposing. The harbour, filled to the
brim with the blue element, glitters like a polished mirror beneath the
rays of the sun. The stately vessel, spreading her snowy canvas to the
breeze, is seen passing from point to point along its winding shores. The
maze‐like coursing of the little yacht, with its slender masts and tiny
sails, skimming the surface of the water like a swallow on the wing, lends
animation to the scene. The cry of the sea‐bird as it wheels in graceful
curves, or checks its flight to pounce upon its prey in the bright flood
beneath, arrests the ear; whilst the loud ‘hurrah’ with which the brawny
shipwright greets the majestic vessel as she glides along the well‐greased
‘ways,’ and cleaves a passage for herself into the flood which is to be
her future home, re‐echoes from the cliffs and shore.”

Southward of Whitby lies the romantic Bay of Robin Hood, _alias_ Robert
Earl of Huntingdon, who lived in Richard I.’s reign. Robin, it is said,
when about to select a site for a marine residence, resolved to take up
his abode on the first spot where the next arrow from his bow should
alight, and this being the place, his name has ever since been attached to
it. The little town there is one of the most irregular and comical‐looking
places in the world, from the ravages of the sea in undermining the
cliffs. Built on the ledges of these cliffs, at all heights where foothold
could be obtained, and perched on dizzy crags that overhang the sea, or
hid in nooks approached by perilous paths, or tottering on the brink of
cliffs that vibrate as the breakers roll with smothered sobs into the
caves that perforate their base, there stand isolated houses, terraces and
streets, whole sides of which have erewhile slipped into the sea below.
The town itself is in a hole which cannot be seen till close upon it,
being so entirely locked in by peaks and promontories.

[Illustration: EARLY SWIMMING.]

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE ART OF SWIMMING—FEATS IN NATATION—LIFE SAVERS.

Lord Byron and the Hellespont—The Art of Swimming a Necessary
Accomplishment—The Numbers Lost from Drowning—A Lamentable
Accident—Captain Webb’s Advice to Beginners—Bold and Timid
Lads—Best Places to Learn in—Necessity of Commencing Properly—The
Secret of a Good Stroke—Useful and Ornamental
Natation—Diving—Advice—Possibilities of Serious Injury—Inventions
for Aiding Swimming and Floating—The Boyton Dress—Matthew
Webb—Brave Attempt to Save a Comrade—The Great Channel
Swim—Twenty‐Two Hours in the Sea—Stung by a Jelly‐Fish—Red Light
on the Waters—Cape Grisnez at Hand—Exhaustion of the Swimmer—Fears
of Collapse—Triumphant Landing on Calais Sands—Webb’s Feelings—An
Ingenious Sailor Saved by Wine‐bottles—Life Savers—Thomas Fowell
Buxton—Ellerthorpe—Lambert—The “Hero of the Clyde”—His Brave
Deeds—Funny Instances—The Crowning Feat—Blinded and
Neglected—Appreciation at Last.

“But since he(64) crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo ...
And swam for love, as I for glory;

“’Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:
For he was drowned, and I’ve the ague.”

So sang Lord Byron after his memorable swim across the Hellespont with
Lieutenant Ekenhead, of H.M.S. _Salsette_. The distance from Abydos to
Sestos is about a mile, but the distance swum was four; the current there
runs so strongly that no boat can cross direct. “It may,” says Byron, “in
some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance
being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the
other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold from the
melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had
made an attempt; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same
morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to
postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when
we swam the straits as just stated, entering a considerable way above the
European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a young
Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions it having
been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither
of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A
number of the _Salsette’s_ crew were known to have accomplished a greater
distance, and the only thing that surprised me was that, as doubts had
been entertained of the truth of Leander’s story, no traveller had ever
endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.” Byron’s allusion to the ague
caught was simply put in for effect.(65)

In presenting this chapter(66) on swimming and feats of natation, the
writer is earnest in the hope that it may lead to a more general knowledge
and practice of the art. Were it merely the healthy, manly exercise it is,
it would be worthy of all encouragement; but there is another and a more
important side to the question. Annually thousands of valuable lives are
lost which might be easily saved, not by others, but by their own
knowledge. Every father of a family should make his children learn at the
earliest opportunity, and, except in the case of very delicate children,
they will inevitably take kindly to the exercise. Young men should count
it as one of their most pleasant and useful recreations. Cricket, rowing,
riding (if even on a bicycle) are to‐day among the accomplishments of
almost all respectable youths; let all of them add swimming to the list.
The first three are health‐giving and invigorating pursuits; the art of
natation is all this, and very much more besides. Some one or more in
every large family to‐day travel or voyage frequently; usually one, two,
or more are settled in the colonies or foreign countries, to reach or
return from which the wide ocean must be crossed. And in spite of steam
and all modern facilities, wrecks are not unknown to‐day. The writer
strongly advocates the establishment of Government schools of swimming.

Every year the papers record numerous cases of drowning, but the
_un_‐recorded cases are far more numerous. Not long since the National
Lifeboat Institution published an instructive chart of the numbers lost in
one year in _inland_ waters, rivers, lakes, and ponds. It amounted to
scarcely less than two thousand persons, a large proportion being young
people, all of whom ought to have been able to swim. The full annual
record of those lost at sea and on the coasts would be something
appalling.

There is no doubt that swimming is much easier learned in youth than in
middle age, and the younger a lad is the easier it is for him to learn. Of
all places for this purpose none will be found better than a bath. It will
always be found that where the water is warm it is much easier to remain
in a long period than where the water is cold. It is for this reason that
all our fast swimmers come from inland towns. Boys at the sea have
probably but a few weeks, or at the outside but a few months, in the
course of the year in which they find it practicable to go into the water.
Rough days, cold weather, too often deter lads from bathing, though cases
are indeed occasionally found in which men will bathe in the sea all the
year round, not only in midsummer, but in mid‐winter as well.

In commencing to teach a person to swim, the first point is entering the
water, and here _ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte_. Where the learner
is very young the greatest difficulty often is to induce him to enter the
water at all. Still, most healthy boys are courageous enough in this
regard.

“Having once persuaded a pupil to walk about within his depth, the next
great point is to prove to him how great is the buoyancy of the water. I
think it will be found that, in almost all works written on the subject of
swimming, the same plan is recommended, viz., to place some object at the
bottom of the bath (such as a large stone or piece of white chalk), and
then to tell the pupil to pick it up with his hand. He will now experience
the difficult, not of keeping himself up, but of getting down. The
buoyancy of the water is so great that, supposing him to be about chest‐
deep, probably he will be unable to pick up the stone at all. He will now
find from this how very little is necessary to keep a man afloat.”

Another good plan is to let some person go into the water with the
beginner, and float on his back, resting on the learner’s hand. Then tell
him to take his hand away for a second or two at a time, and, so to speak,
balance the body on his hand. He will find the pressure of the body barely
that of a few ounces. In fact, the human body is so nearly the same weight
as an equal bulk of water that the movement of the arms and legs in
swimming is not necessary so much to keep the body afloat as to keep it
afloat in the right position. Many a drowning man has come repeatedly to
the surface, but often, unfortunately, the mouth or nose, through which he
could breathe, has not been the portion that reached the surface. Another
method by which you can give a pupil confidence is to go into the water
yourself, and prove to him by ocular demonstration how very slight a
movement of the limbs is necessary to keep the body afloat and the mouth
above water. All good swimmers know how very little movement of the hands
or feet will be sufficient for this purpose.

In commencing to learn, all boys should first learn to swim well on their
chests. Since the introduction of the side stroke it will be often found
that lads who have barely learned to swim properly at all try to imitate
the first‐class professionals, and in so doing succeed simply in making
themselves ridiculous.

“The great secret of a good stroke,” says Webb, “is to kick out the legs
wide; and here let me observe that it is a popular fallacy to imagine that
the speed of the swimmer in any way depends upon the resistance of the
water against the soles of the feet. I have often heard it observed—‘Oh!
that man would make a fine swimmer; he has got such large feet.’ Now, in
the movement of the legs the flat of the foot never directly meets the
water, except in the case known as ‘treading water.’ The propelling power
in swimming is caused by the legs being suddenly brought from a position
in which they are placed wide apart into one in which they are close
together, like the blades of a pair of scissors. In fact, the mechanical
power here brought into play is that of the wedge. For instance, suppose a
wedge of ice were suddenly pinched hard between the thumb and finger, it
is evident that it would shoot off in the direction opposite to that in
which the sharp edge points. Now a wedge of water is forced backwards, and
the resistance caused propels the body forward in an opposite direction.”
When this point is well considered, the importance of drawing the legs
well up will at once become manifest.

Again, too, in dwelling on the stroke (and by “dwelling on the stroke” is
meant resting for a few seconds in the water while the body moves
forward), care should be taken that the toes are pointed in a direction
contrary to that in which the swimmer is going. The movement of the arms
is never one in which great difficulty will be found. The two hands should
be kept perfectly flat, the palms resting on the water; and at the same
time as the swimmer strikes out his legs each hand should be brought
slowly round, one to the right and the other to the left, care being taken
that the palm of the hand is horizontal. Were the hands to be placed
sideways, it is at once evident that the water would offer but little
resistance. By keeping the hands in the position named the resistance
offered by the water in case of sinking would be very considerable. Should
the beginner doubt this, let him enter the water and stoop down, and
keeping his hand flat, bring it suddenly downwards in the water; the
resistance the water will offer prevents him from doing this with any
speed at all. On the other hand, should he strike downwards with his hands
sideways, he will find that he can do it as fast almost as he could in the
air. Now, in reaching forward with the hands the swimmer should always
endeavour to reach as far forward as possible. Let him imagine some small
object is placed in the water just out of reach, and let him struggle to
reach it; the more he reaches forward the faster he will swim. This is a
very important point.

Every boy should in learning to swim be very particular as to the kind of
stroke he acquires with his legs. Bear in mind that if once you get into a
bad style you will experience ten times the difficulty in altering it into
a correct one than you would by commencing to learn to swim afresh; for
this reason every one learning to swim should go and watch carefully some
first‐class swimmer, and note how he moves his legs, and then imitate him
as closely as possible.

Diving from a height requires, as Artemus Ward observed when he took the
census, experience, like any other business; and just as that worthy
gentleman got into difficulties with the two first old maids he met, and
whose mouths he attempted to examine, not believing their answers to be
correct with regard to age, so many a boy who has witnessed the apparently
easy feat of taking a header has come to terrible grief by finding himself
come down flat on the water, which he has shortly afterwards left with the
appearance of having had a particularly strong mustard poultice on his
chest. Now, in diving from a height of, say, six feet, the heels must be
thrown well up, the legs should be kept straight and well together, and
the two hands brought forward in front of the head, exactly similar to the
position that a man takes in making his first attempt at swimming on his
chest. The hands act simply as a breakwater, and they should be turned up
the moment the water is reached, thus preventing the diver going deep, and
also enabling him to dart forward along the surface the moment he reaches
the water. A good diver can dive from a height of forty to fifty feet, and
yet never go a yard below the surface.

On one occasion, when only fourteen years of age, a boy dived from the top
deck of Her Majesty’s ship _President_, stationed at the West India Docks.
The height above water was forty‐five feet, and those who witnessed him
state that they did not think he went more than two feet below the
surface. Neither man nor boy should attempt to dive from such a height.
Were they to slip or to fall flat, the probability is that they would be
killed on the spot. But should it at any time be necessary to take a dive
from a high place, bear in mind that you must not give the same movement
to your body as if you were going off from the height of a few feet,
otherwise you will turn completely over in the air and come down on your
back, which, should the distance be very great, would probably kill you;
and if the distance be moderate, you would certainly have the appearance
of having had a severe whipping. In diving, and in everything else, it is
practice only that will make perfect. Webb dived off the yard‐arm of a
ship quite thirty feet above the water; but if by chance any one from such
a height comes in the least degree flat, he will hurt himself
considerably.

[Illustration: DIVING.]

Many stories have been told in this work of native divers, but referring
merely to their power of remaining under water, and not their diving from
a height; and, so far as swimming goes, no black people approach a first‐
class English swimmer. Three feet of water are sufficient to dive in, but
no man in his senses would ever make a dive from any height unless the
water was at least five or six feet deep, as if by chance he should come
down a little straighter than he intended, he would inevitably dash his
brains out, in addition to breaking both his arms against the bottom of
the bath or river. Great care, too, should be taken in diving into any
open piece of water. Webb mentions a case in which a man was seen to
receive a fearful laceration of his skull from diving on to a broken green
glass bottle which had been thrown in.

Innumerable are the inventions for assisting the learner of swimming, or
for aiding those who cannot swim to float. Foremost in the latter category
must be placed what is known as the Boyton dress, an American invention.
It is a complete india‐rubber suit, and can be inflated at any point
desired, the result being that the wearer can lie down, remain in a
perpendicular or slanting direction in the water, his body being kept as
warm, and if in exertion warmer, than it would be under ordinary
circumstances. Captain Paul Boyton crossed the Channel in it without
difficulty, floating, paddling, and even _sailing_ (for a sail is part of
the gear), meanwhile feeding from the knapsack or receptacle which is a
component part of the dress, smoking, and drinking cherry brandy amid the
boiling waves. This dress would no doubt enable a shipwrecked person to
live for days, and even weeks, in the water. Its expense is not great, but
too much for general adoption. It was while wearing this dress, in
crossing the Straits of Messina on the 10th of March, 1877, that Captain
Boyton met with the adventure illustrated in our plate. We translate from
an Italian journal the following account of it:—

[Illustration: CAPTAIN BOYTON ATTACKED BY A DOG‐FISH IN THE STRAITS OF
MESSINA.]

“Disregarding the counsels of those who warned him of the perils of such a
rough sea, and one so infested with dog‐fish, Boyton let himself into the
water at eight in the morning, followed by a vessel, which more than once
lost sight of him. He rowed in his apparatus with the aid of arms which
appeared as though made of steel, when he suddenly felt himself strongly
knocked against behind. It was a dog‐fish! There was a flash; Boyton
raised himself to the middle, drew the dagger which he always carried at
his side, and repelled the assailant. Reassured, he then re‐took the oar,
drank for the third or fourth time some cognac, and about midday, with his
eyes inflamed by the heavy strokes of the sea, arrived at the port of
Messina, saluted with enthusiasm by the crowd of people, on shore and in
boats and steamers, who were anxiously awaiting him.”

Apparently one of the simplest devices for those unable to swim is that
known as the Nautilus Safety Bathing Dress, the invention of Captain
Peacock. It is simply a short shirt, made of the purest Irish flax, which
fits closely round the neck and waist, &c., by means of elastic bands. It
has an inflating tube and mouthpiece. The principle on which it is founded
is simply this: Irish flax, _when wet_, is nearly air and water proof;
dipping, then, first the shirt in water, air is blown inside by the tube
till there is sufficient inflation. Should there be any slight leakage,
more air can at any moment be blown into it by the wearer. These shirts
are, of course, comparatively inexpensive.

A seaman’s belt, invented by Captain Ward, R.N., and sanctioned by the
National Life‐Boat Institution, is highly commended by many authorities. A
schoolmaster says that he has been accustomed for many years to take from
thirty to forty boys, of all ages, during the bathing season, into deep
water, and that not merely is it perfectly safe, and free from some
objections urged against many swimming‐belts, but that its use enables
young people to swim more rapidly.

Captain Warren has invented a life‐buoy which is highly commended. It
consists of a bladder chemically prepared, to which is affixed a patent
valve, by means of which the former can be easily inflated. A second
invention of Captain Warren’s consists of 500 life‐buoys, three feet long,
made of cork or specially prepared wood, and strung on to a series of iron
rods, which are connected with the turret or mast of the ship. These are
all kept together by means of a band, which, when the vessel is sinking,
would be cut, and the whole of the buoys could be instantly released. This
apparatus would cost £250, but of course it could be made on a smaller
scale if required.

A most ingenious “Life‐Buoy Seat” has been invented by Mr. Richard Rose,
an old traveller and colonist. It is composed of two semi‐conical buckets
of block tin, the smaller end of one screwing into the other, together
forming a buoy resembling an hour‐glass in shape. Placed upright it forms
a capital deck camp‐seat, the upper end being of cork, which of course
increases its buoyancy. In the event of fire on board the two portions can
be rapidly unscrewed, and each buoy thus representing two buckets, a ship
with only two or three dozen would have an ample supply in such emergency.
Practically tested in a swimming‐bath, several bathers could not sink one
placed there for the experiment, and it took a dead weight of nearly a
hundredweight to do so. The buoy being water‐tight could, of course, be
utilised for carrying a supply of water, biscuit, or other food, valuable
ship’s papers, and so forth, and without materially impairing its
buoyancy, while several lashed together would form a raft. Two ropes are
attached to each seat. When one considers the confusion and panic that too
often attend collisions, fires at sea, and shipwrecks generally, this
invention would prove of incalculable value, as it could be utilised on
the immediate spur of the moment.

The Royal Humane Society promulgates the following golden rules for
bathers (and which apply also in part to swimmers), prepared by competent
authorities:—1. Avoid bathing within two hours after a meal. 2. Avoid
bathing when exhausted by fatigue. 3. Avoid bathing when the body is
cooling after perspiration. But—4. Bathe when the body is warm, provided
no time be lost in getting into the water. 5. Avoid chilling the body by
sitting naked on the banks or in boats after having been in the water. 6.
Avoid remaining too long in the water—leave the water immediately there is
the slightest feeling of chillness. 7. Avoid bathing altogether in the
open air, if, after having been a short time in the water, there is a
sense of chilliness with numbness of the hands and feet. 8. The vigorous
and strong may bathe early in the morning on an empty stomach. 9. The
young and those that are weak had better bathe three hours after a
meal—the best time for such is from two to three hours after breakfast.
10. Those who are subject to attacks of giddiness or faintness, and those
who suffer from palpitation and other sense of discomfort at the heart,
should not bathe without first consulting their medical adviser.

And now we must speak of the greatest swimmer of our day—one who has never
been excelled. Captain Matthew Webb swam the Channel when he was but
twenty‐six years of age. The son of a country surgeon, he had early become
fond of the sea, and obtained his first instruction on board the _Conway_
training ship at Liverpool.

The event in Webb’s life which first brought his name prominently before
the public in connection with swimming took place on board the Cunard
steamship _Russia_, then on the homeward voyage from America. One day a
tremendous heavy sea caused the ship to roll in a manner which rendered it
almost impossible for any one to keep their feet without a life‐line
(_i.e._, a rope stretched along or across the deck from one point to
another), and all of a sudden a cry arose, “A man overboard!” A poor young
fellow, Michael Hynes by name, who had been ordered aloft in the main
rigging to “clear the sheet,” had missed his hold, and fell backwards into
the water. Webb saw him fall, and within two or three seconds was after
him in the sea, but, alas! could see nothing of him, save his cap floating
on the waves. On this occasion he was thirty‐seven minutes in the water
before be was picked up by the _Russia’s_ lifeboat, the waves being
“mountains high,” and the ship going at fifteen knots. Webb was utterly
unable to save the poor fellow, who was never seen to rise again, but for
his noble attempt deservedly received the leading medal, the—“Stanhope
gold medal”—of the Royal Humane Society of London, another from the
Liverpool Humane Society, and £100 from the passengers on board the
_Russia_.

The first time that Captain Webb took up the idea of swimming the Channel
was after a “good try”—but failure—made by Johnson, to swim from Dover to
Calais. Webb commenced by an excellent swim from Dover as far as the Varne
Buoy, about mid‐channel. On this occasion he remained four and a half
hours in the water. His first public swim was from Blackwall Pier to
Gravesend, a distance of twenty miles—mere child’s play to him. After
considerable practice he made a trial trip from Dover to Ramsgate,
remaining in the water nearly nine hours. He now publicly announced his
intention of attempting to swim to Calais, and he received a considerable
amount of encouragement as well as well‐meant advice to make the attempt.
A number of extraordinary precautions were recommended to him—one,
however, being sensible enough: that being to cover his body with a
coating of some kind of grease. On the Ramsgate swim he used cod‐liver
oil, and, on the first Channel attempt, porpoise oil.

The second attempt of Captain Webb to swim across the Channel took place
on August 24th, 1875, and was crowned with success, after a display of
unequalled courage and physical endurance. At four minutes to one o’clock
on that day he dived from the steps at the head of the Admiralty Pier,
Dover, and at forty‐one minutes past ten a.m. next day he touched the
sands of Calais, having remained in the water, without even touching a
boat on his way, no less than twenty‐one and three‐quarter hours.

During the early part of the journey Captain Webb was particularly
favoured by the weather. The sea was as calm as a mill‐pond, and there was
not a breath of wind. The lugger which accompanied him across the Channel
had to be propelled a considerable distance by oars. The swimmer was
accompanied by two small rowing‐boats in immediate attendance upon
himself, one containing his cousin, Mr. Ward, who supplied him
occasionally with refreshments, and one of the referees, who had been
appointed at Webb’s own request to see fair play; the other boat was used
for the purpose of conveying messages to and from the lugger.

Everything went on favourably till nine p.m., when Captain Webb complained
of being stung by a jelly‐fish, and asked for a little brandy. He had
previously been supplied with some cod‐liver oil and hot coffee. The
weather still continued perfect, and the intrepid swimmer proceeded at a
good rate, taking a long, clean breast stroke, which drove him well
through the water. Owing to the phosphorescent state of the sea, he was
sometimes almost surrounded with a glow of light. At 10.30 he was visited
by a steam‐tug, which had put off from Dover for the purpose, and which,
strange to say, left the man who had ploughed through the waves for over
nine hours without even the encouragement of a parting cheer. At 11.45,
however, a Dover boat, on its way to Calais, gave cheer after cheer to
greet him, and one of the small boats burnt a red light, which cast a
ruddy glow over the scene, and illuminated the water all around, the face
of Captain Webb being lighted up by it, so that he was distinctly seen by
all on board the Continental mail boat.

At two o’clock next morning Cape Grisnez light seemed close at hand, and
Captain Webb was still bravely struggling on, although at this juncture
the tide not merely impeded him, but was sweeping him farther and farther
from the shore. He, however, showed signs of fatigue, and young Baker, a
well‐known diver, sat with a life‐line round him by the side of the
referee, in case of accident, as it was supposed by many that the long
exposure to cold might cause Webb to become suddenly numbed and
insensible, and so sink without a moment’s warning. But Webb is a man
among ten thousand; the collapse from penetrating cold which the best
swimmers usually experience after long exposure in the water seems unknown
to him. By nine o’clock he was within a mile of the shore, a little to the
westward of Calais, and at this juncture, young Baker, then only sixteen
years of age, plunged in and kept the exhausted swimmer company, not,
however, trying to aid him in any way except by encouragement.

[Illustration: CAPTAIN MATTHEW WEBB. (_From a Photograph by Albert
Fradelle._)]

Unfortunately, however, two hours previously a strong breeze had risen,
and the sea, which had hitherto been like a sheet of glass, was running
high, with crested waves. Webb was evidently fearfully exhausted. The tide
was running strongly away from the shore, and the swimmer was battling
against double odds when he was least fit for it. Still, at 9.45 he had
lessened the distance by one‐half; he was only half a mile from the beach.
Would he ever reach it?

Just as the now utterly exhausted swimmer was beginning bitterly to think
that failure even at this point was possible, a steamboat put off from
Calais, and her commander placed her in such a position that she acted as
a kind of breakwater, for the sea was running so high that it nearly
swamped the boats accompanying him. One last struggling exertion and he
touched ground, so weak that he could not stand. A couple of men instantly
went to his assistance, and he was able to walk slowly ashore. When the
Calais boat left he was comfortably asleep, a medical man watching by his
side.

“I can only say,” says Captain Webb, “that the moment when I touched the
Calais sands, and felt the French soil beneath my feet, is one which I
shall never forget, were I to live for a hundred years. I was terribly
exhausted at the time, and during the last two or three hours I began to
think that, after all, I should fail. On the following day, after I had
had a good night’s rest, I did not feel very much the worse for what I had
undergone. I had a peculiar sensation in my limbs, somewhat similar to
that which is often felt after the first week of the cricket season; and
it was a week before I could wear a shirt‐collar, owing to a red raw rim
at the back of my neck, caused by being obliged to keep my head back for
so long a period; for, it must be remembered, I was in the water for very
nearly twenty‐two hours.”(67)

[Illustration: CAPTAIN WEBB’S ARRIVAL AT CALAIS.]

When Webb returned to London he met with an enthusiastic reception. In the
City he was welcomed by the same uproarious heartiness that Tom Sayers
less deservedly received after his fight with Heenan. The cheering and
hand‐shaking of Webb began at the “Baltic,” increased in warmth at
“Lloyds,” and culminated at the Stock Exchange, where “bulls” and “bears”
were eclipsed by the lion of the day, and whence he had to beat a retreat
to save his right hand from being wrung off.

The following will show the value of ingenuity in the midst of great
danger. It occurred at a terrible wreck, which took place on the coast, in
the sight of hundreds of powerless spectators:—“In the midst of these
horrifying moments a man was observed to jump from the wreck into the sea.
It was concluded by the watchers that he had voluntarily destroyed himself
to avoid dying by inches and hunger. After all, who could blame him? It
was a question of only an hour or so, for hope there appeared none. But
the crowd was agreeably disappointed, for the man held his head up in the
midst of the hissing surges boldly, and although he disappeared every
moment, yet by the aid of good glasses his head was seen to bob up again,
a conspicuous black object in the surrounding foam. Expectation stood on
tip‐toe. Would he reach the shore? was asked by a hundred voices in an
instant, and everybody was anxious to do something to assist a man who so
nobly tried to assist himself. The minutes that followed were intensely
exciting; every movement of the swimmer was eagerly noticed, and it was
with difficulty that several generous spirits were prevented from dashing,
at all risks, into the sea to his assistance. Slowly, but surely, the poor
fellow approached the shore—his head well up yet. He is just within the
outer tier of the breakers—poor fellow! he will stand no chance now. See,
he is caught by a monstrous wave—he rides upon its crest, and is urged
rapidly towards the beach; the horrid wave curls and breaks; he is rolled
head over heels; he is gone. No; he rights himself, and he is taken out to
sea again by a retiring wave. Back he comes again—head over heels he goes
once more; but this time fortune pitied misfortune, for he was flung by a
wave within reach of a coast‐guard, who, at the risk of his life, rushed
into the sea and saved him. The secret of his buoyancy soon appeared.
Under each arm he had lashed (as seamen only know how) an empty wine
bottle, well corked, and he had stuffed several others under an elastic
Guernsey shirt, and buttoned his trousers over all, and with these frail
floats he came through a heavy belt of breakers in safety.”(68)

“That man has saved seventeen lives single‐handed,” we heard a marine
officer say one day at Lowestoft, pointing to a fine handsome young fellow
who sat on the beach smoking his pipe. “He ought to be well off,” said a
bystander. “He is well off,” was the answer. “He has the satisfaction of
knowing that men, women, and children thank God for his bravery every
day.”(69)

Before the establishment of a floating light off Happisburg, wrecks were
very numerous on the Cromer coast. One of the greatest philanthropists who
ever lived, Thomas Fowell Buxton, the great anti‐slavery leader, spent
much of his time at Cromer Hall, and was constantly on the shore during
bad weather, urging and directing the efforts of others, and often “giving
a hand” himself. In the storm of the 31st October, 1823, still vividly
remembered on that coast, Mr. Buxton performed an act of heroic bravery.
About noon, a collier, the _Duchess of Cumberland_, ran upon the rocks off
the Cromer lighthouse. The life‐boatmen could not be induced to venture
out, so terrific was the sea and surf. Once a wave ran up the beach and
floated the wreck. Buxton sprang into the water, hoping that others might
be induced to follow, but in vain. Captain Manby’s gun was fired several
times, but the line fell short of the ill‐fated brig, on which nine poor
sailors were seen lashed to the shrouds. At length a huge sea completely
broke her up, the water being blackened by the bursting coal. The helpless
spectators looked on, horror‐stricken. “Poor dear hearts! they’re all gone
now,” exclaimed an old fisherman; but at that instant a body—was it alive
or dead?—was seen on the crest of a wave. Without waiting for a rope, Mr.
Buxton dashed into the surf, caught the exhausted sailor, flung himself
upon him, and struggled against the strong reflux of the surf, until
others could reach him. He, with his living burden, was dragged to land,
both at that moment more dead than alive. Buxton said afterwards that he
felt the waves play with him as he could play with an orange.(70)

The record of a man in humbler life, John Ellerthorpe, foreman of the
Humber Dock gates, Hull, who deservedly earned for himself the title of
“Hero of the Humber” is very interesting. During a period of forty years
he saved _thirty‐nine_ individuals, most of whom were difficult cases, as
they fell into the Humber through intoxication.

His services were honourably recognised. Medals and other acknowledgments
from the Royal Humane Society and the Board of Trade were showered on him;
he received a donation from the Royal Bounty, a purse of a hundred guineas
from his townsmen, and other valuable testimonials. Turn we now to the
case of another hero, who saved one life more than Ellerthorpe, and until
very late in his career received no recognition whatever. A hero of the
Clyde now appears on the scene.

It is to Mr. Charles Reade, the distinguished novelist, poet, and
playwright, that we owe a “true and accurate account of the heroic feats
and sad calamity of James Lambert, a living man.”(71) Mr. Reade had read
in the _Glasgow Times_ of October 2nd, 1856, how, when a little boy was
drowning in the Clyde, an elderly blind man would have dived in but for
his granddaughter, who with a girl’s affection and unreasoning fears, had
clung to his knees and utterly spoiled his good intentions. The boy was
drowned. The poor blind hero went home crying like a child, saying, “It
was a laddie flung away; clean flung away.”

Mr. Reade, after long and weary searching, found Lambert in a wretched
lodging in Calton, a suburb of Glasgow, and easily extracted from him a
fund of anecdote, a part only of which can be presented here.

The “first case” Lambert had attended to was a twenty‐stone “drooning”
baker, who gripped him tight to his breast, and nearly succeeded in
drowning him. Lambert was then a youth of about fourteen. Another was of a
poor old washerwoman who had overbalanced herself in the water, and who
when saved wanted to go and pawn her tub that she might reward him.
Instead of which her rescuer “clappit a shellin’” in her hand, and
promised to repeat the kindness each Saturday from his own meagre wages.

When Mr. Reade had provided the poor old man with a little refreshment, he
told the following episode in his life.

“Aweel, sirr, ye’ve heerd o’ the callant they wadna let me save—Hech,
sirr, yon was a wean wastit(72)—noo, I’ll make ye the joodge whether I
could na hae saved that ane, and twarree mair. There’s a beck they ca’
‘the Plumb’ rins doon fra’ the horsebrae into the Clyde near Stockwell
Brigg. The bairns were aye for sporting in the beck, because it was
shallow by ordinar, and ye’ll see them the color o’ vilets, and no’ hauf
sae sweet, wi’ the dye that rins to the beck. Aweel, ae day there was a
band o’ them there; and a high spate(73) had come doon and catched them,
and the reesolt was I saw ane o’ th’ assembly in the Clyde. I had warned
the neer‐do‐weels, ye ken, mony’s the time. By good luck I was na far
away, and went in for him and took him by the ear. ‘C’way, ye little
deevil,’ says I. I had na made three strokes when I am catched round the
neck wi’ another callan.”

“Where on earth did he spring from?”

“I dinna ken. I was attending to number ane, when number twa poppit up,
just to tak’ leave o’ Glasgee. I tell’t them to stick into me, and carried
the pair ashore. Directly there’s a skirl on the bank, and up comes number
three, far ahint me in the Clyde, and sinks before I can win(74) to him.
Dives for this one, and has a wark to find him at the bottom. Brings him
ashore in a kind o’ a dwam; but I had na fear for his life; he hadna been
doon lang; my lord had a deal more mischief to do, ye ken. By the same
token he came to vara sune, and d’ye ken the first word he said to me? he
said: ‘Dinna tell my feyther. Lord’s sake, man, dinna tell my feyther!’”

“I never,” remarks Mr. Reade, “saw a man more tickled by a straw, than
James Lambert was at this. By contemplating him I was enabled in the
course of time to lose my own gravity, for his whole face was puckered
with mirth, and every inch of it seemed to laugh.”

“But,” said he, “wad ye believe it, some officious pairson tell’t his
feyther, in spite o’ us baith. He was just a labouring man. He called on
me, and thank’t me vara hairtily, and gied me a refreshment. And I thoucht
mair o’t than I hae thoucht o’ a hantle siller on the like occasions.”

After one or two other savings, that entitled him to a medal or two,
Lambert admitted that, “By this time, sirr, I was aye prowling about day
and night for vectims!” Mr. Reade suggested that he had the pride of an
artist, and wanted them to fall in, that he might pull them out and show
his dexterity. Lambert answered that in those days swimming was not an
accomplishment so common as now; and if such a thing as drowning was to
be, he would like to be there and save them. “Ech,” said he, “the
sweetness o’t! the sweetness o’t!”

He next told a funny story of rescuing a boy, and running up to the house
to have him properly cared for. “Then,” said he, “I’m going oot, when a’
of a sooden I find I haena a steek on me, and twa hundred folk about the
doore. Wad ye believe it, _wi’ the great excitement I never knew I wa’
nakit_ till I saw the folk and bethought me.” At the foot of the stairs he
found a bundle of linen, and he was not long in helping himself, coming
back to the room in the wife’s apron and a sheet. “The sight o’ me made
the lasses skairt and skirl;(75) for I was like a corp just poppit oot of
the grave.” When he went for his clothes they had disappeared, but at last
he discovered that a young lady had carefully kept them for him behind a
hedge, fearing that some one might steal them.

“I come now,” says Mr. Reade, “to the crowning feat of this philanthropic
and adventurous life, and I doubt my power to describe it. I halt before
it like one that feels weak and a mountain to climb, for such a feat, I
believe, was never done in the water by mortal man, nor never will again
while earth shall last.

“James Lambert worked in Somerville’s Mill. Like most of the hands, he
must cross the water to get home. For that purpose a small ferry‐boat was
provided: it lay at a little quay near the mill. One Andrew had charge of
it ashore, and used to shove it off with a lever, and receive it on its
return. He often let more people go into it than Lambert thought safe, and
Lambert had remonstrated, and had even said, ‘Ye’ll hae an accident some
day that ye’ll rue but ance, and that will be a’ your life.’ Andrew, in
reply to him, told him to mind his own business.

“Well, one evening James Lambert wanted to get away in the first boat‐
load. This was somehow connected with his having bought a new hat: perhaps
he wished to avoid the crowd of workpeople—here I am not very clear.
However, he watched the great wheel, and the moment it began to waver,
previous to stopping, he ran for his hat and darted down the stairs. But
as he worked in an upper storey full a dozen got into the boat before him.
He told Andrew to put off, but Andrew would not till the boat should be
full; and soon it was crammed. James Lambert then said it was a shame of
him to let so many on board. This angered the man, and when the boat was
so crowded that her gunwale was not far above water, he shoved her
violently off into the tideway, and said words which, if he had not prayed
God to forgive them in this world, will perhaps hang heavy round his neck
in the next.... ‘ye beggars!’ he cried.

“This rough launching made the overladen boat wobble. The women got
frightened, and before the boat had gone twenty yards she upset in dark,
icy water, ten feet deep. It was night.

“Before the boat coupit(76) athegither they a’ flew to me that could, for
they a’ kenned me. I’ the water, them that hadna a hand o’ me, had a hand
o’ them that had a hand o’ me, and they carried me doon like leed. * * *

“Sirr, when yeve twa feet i’ the grave, your mind warks hard. I didna
struggle, for it was nae mair use than to wrastle wi’ a kirk. I just
strauchtened myself oot like a corp, and let them tak’ me doon to the
bottom of the Clyde, and there I stude upright and waited; for I kenned
the puir souls would droon afore me, and I saw just ae wee‐wee chance to
save them yet. Ye shall understond, sirr, that when folk are drooning,
they dinna settle doon till the water fills their lungs and drives the air
oot. At first they waver up and doon at sairtain intervals. Aweel, sirr, I
waited for that, on the grund. I was the only ane grunded, you’ll
obsairve. A slight upward movement commenced. I took advantage, and gieda
vi’lent spang wi’ my feet against the bottom, and wi’ me, choosing my
time, up we a’ came. My arms were grippit; but I could strike oot wi’ my
feet and before ever we reached the surface, I lashed oot like a deevil,
for the quay. Aweel, sirr, wi’ all I could do, we didna wend abune a yard,
or may be a yard and a hauf and doone they carried me like leed. I
strauchtened myself as we sank, and I grunded. The lave were a’ roond me
like a fon.(77) I bides my time, and, when they are inclining upward I
strikes fra the grund; an’ this time, maur slanting towards the quay. That
helpit us, and in a dozen vi’lent strokes we maybe gained twa yards this
time. Then doon like leed. Plays the same game again, up, and doon again.
And noo, sirr, there was something that turned sair against us; but then
there was something for us, to bollance it. It was against us that they
had swallowed their pint o’ water by this time, and were nae sae buoyant;
it was for us that the water was shallower noo, maybe not more than twa
feet ower head. This wad droon us as weel as twanty; but wi’ nae mair nor
twa feet water abune us I could spring up fra the grun by mere force; for
the grun gies ye an awfu’ poower for a foot or twa. Sae noo I’m nae suner
doon than up again, and still creeping for the quay, and the water aye a
wee bit shallower. The next news is, I get sair spent, and that was bad;
but to bollance that, some folk on the quay gat rapes and boat‐hooks, and
pickit off ane or twa that was the nearest; and now ilka time I cam’ up,
they pickit ane off, and that lightened my burden; and bymby I drave a
couple into shallow water mysel’, wi’ my feet. When I was in seven fut
water mysel’, and fewer folk hauding me doon, I got to be maister, and
shovit ane, and pu’d anither in, till we landed the whole saxteen or
seventeen. But my wark was na’ done, for I kenned there were mair in the
river. I saw the last o’ my ain band safe, and then oot into the Clyde,
wherever I heerd cries, and sune I fund twa lasses skirling, takes ’em by
their lang hair, and tows them to the quay in a minute. Just as I’m
landing thir(78) twa, I hear a cry in the vara middle of the river, and in
I splash. It was a strapping lass—they caed her Elizabeth Whitelaw.
‘C’way, ye lang daftie,’ says I, and begins to tow her. Lo an’ behold, I’m
grippit wi’ a man under the water. It was her sweetheairt. She was hauding
him doon. The hizzy was a’ reicht, but she was drooning the lad; pairts
these(79) twa lovers—for their gude—and taks ’em ashore, one in each hand.
Aweel, sirr, I saved just ane mair, and then I plunged in and sairched,
but there was nae mair to be seen noo: three puir lasses were drooned, but
I didna ken that at the time. And noo I’ll tell ye a farce. I’m seized wi’
a faintness, and maks for the shore. But I gat weaker, and dazed‐like, and
the lights o’ Glasgee begins to flecker afore my een: and, thinks I, ‘I’ll
no see _ye_ again; I’m done this time.’ It was all I could do for the bare
life, to drift to the hinder part of the quay. I hadna the power to draw
mysel’ oot. I just grippit the quay and sobbit. The folk were a’ busy wi’
them I had saved; nane o’ them noticed me, and I would ha’ been drooned
that nicht: but wha d’ye think saved me, that had saved sae many?—an auld
decrepit man: haw! haw! haw! He had a hookit stick, and gied me the
handle, and towed me along the quay into shallow water, and I gat oot, wi’
his help, and swooned deed away. I’m tauld I lay there negleckit awhile;
but they fand me at last, and then I had fifty nurses for ane.”

The story of the cause of this hero’s blindness is very sad. He had dived
in the river to save another while perspiring freely. It was winter, and
the water icy cold. Soon after a great dazzling seized him, followed by
darkness. This occurred again and again, until at last the darkness
settled on him, and the light fled for ever.

When Mr. Reade first saw him, the single public honour paid him was that
he had the right, with one Bailie Harvey, to pass over a certain
suspension bridge gratis till his death, while the rest of mankind paid a
halfpenny! His only pension was one of three‐and‐sixpence a week from the
Barony Parish, Glasgow. Mr. Reade’s efforts gained him an annuity, which
he unfortunately did not live long to enjoy.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE HAVEN AT LAST—HOME IN THE THAMES.

The “Mighty Thames”—Poor Jack Home Again—Provident Sailors—The
Belvedere Home and its Inmates—A Ship Ashore—Rival
Castaways—Greenwich Pensioners—The Present System Compared with
the Old—Freedom Outside the Hospital—The Observatory—The
Astronomer Royal—Modern Belief in Astrology—Site of Greenwich
Park—The Telescopes and Observations—The Clock which Sets the Time
for all England—Sad Reminiscences—The Loss of the _Princess
Alice_—The Old _Dreadnought_—The Largest Floating Hospital in the
World—The Trinity House: Its Constitution, Purposes, and
Uses—Lighthouses and Light‐vessels—Its Masters.

“Let the Rhine be blue and bright
In its path of liquid light,
Where the red grapes fling a beam
Of glory on the stream;
Let the gorgeous beauty there
Mingle all that’s rich and fair;
Yet to me it ne’er could be
Like that river great and free,
The Thames! the mighty Thames!”

The poet’s enthusiasm may be pardoned, for, although there are scores of
rivers, considered only as such alone, that outvie the Thames, regarding
it in its relation to the sea—aye, to the whole world—it stands pre‐
eminent and alone. To the sailor the Thames and the Mersey have an
interest and importance which belong to the streams of no other country.

The reader has, in spirit, voyaged with poor Jack to the farthest corners
of the earth; he has seen much of his life of peril and heroism; he has
noted that the hardships he endures are often unrequited, and that, after
a long career of usefulness and bravery, he may lie on the shore “a sheer
hulk,” valueless to himself, possibly to die and rot in poverty and
distress. The charge of special improvidence cannot nowadays be hurled at
the sailor, as it might have been in days of old. Even Jack’s improvidence
was more excusable than the same fault in any other class whatever. The
fact is—as such valuable institutions as the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society
have proved—that there was a great desire on the part of seamen to help
themselves. The fortieth annual report of the Society (1879) states that
48,000 mariners subscribe to the benefit fund organised under its
auspices.(80) The history of this excellent association, which has now an
income of nearly £29,000, is interesting. “A worthy, philanthropic medical
man, Mr. John Rye, of Bath, had a servant who had formerly been a sailor,
and was in the habit of reading the newspapers to his master. One morning
their attention was arrested by an account of some fearful wrecks of
fishing boats, with loss of life, on the north coast of Devon. The servant
asked his master if there was any fund out of which help could be obtained
to relieve the families of those men. The master replied that he supposed
there was, but he would make inquiries from Admiral Sir Jahleen Brenton,
then Governor of Greenwich Hospital; and from him he found that there was
none. They then together drew up a prospectus, and presented it to the
late Admiral of the Fleet, Sir George Cockburn, who most heartily took the
matter up, and after circulating the appeal widely, called a public
meeting in February, 1839, at which Sir George was appointed President,
and a number of noblemen and gentlemen formed themselves into a committee,
of which the worthy Chairman, Captain the Hon. Francis Maude, R.N., is now
the sole survivor. The following month Her Majesty the Queen graciously
consented to be the Patron of the Society; and so prosperous was the
infant institution, that at the second anniversary, at which the late Sir
Robert Peel consented to preside, the sum of £1,100 was collected. The
Committee next set about to obtain the services of gentlemen to act as
honorary agents, of whom there are now upwards of 1,000; and whose duties
are to board, lodge, clothe, and forward to their homes all shipwrecked
persons. The Committee meet every Friday in London to relieve the widows
and orphans of the lost, not only at the time of their death, but by small
annual payments. There were thus 9,601 persons relieved in 1879.”(81)

[Illustration: THE HOME FOR AGED MERCHANT SEAMEN, BELVEDERE, KENT.]

Sooth to say, and in strict justice, we must not forget how much has been
done for the seaman on the banks of old Father Thames, both by Government
and private liberality. An excellent home, the “Royal Alfred Aged Merchant
Seamen’s Institution” exists at Belvedere, in Kent, started under the
auspices of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. This institution was
inaugurated, with room for the reception of 400 persons of all grades of
the mercantile marine, although nothing like that number has been as yet
accommodated at any one time. The Society also grants out‐pensions to
those who have homes or friends.

The most singular and characteristic and yet appropriate features of the
building are a number of little cabins comfortably fitted, and so much
like the real thing, that it requires only a very slight stretch of the
imagination for Jack ashore to indulge in the fond delusion that he is at
sea again. The large rooms are divided into wards, one for masters and
mates, containing ten cabins, each six feet by seven feet, and perfect
ventilation is secured by the partitions being open at the top. Each man,
by this excellent arrangement, has his little cabin to himself, and all
the sweetness of retirement should he be that way inclined. What a
contrast is this to the ungainly, unhomely, and barren shelters of our
Unions!

It speaks well for the profession that most of the inmates have seen over
forty or fifty years of service, which, judging from what we know of
service in the maritime navy, might decidedly be called active. On being
interrogated by a visitor, some of these veterans proved having most
successfully braved the dangers of the deep.

“How often have you been wrecked?” inquired the interviewer of our
“ancient mariner.”

“Why, let me see, sir”—then, counting half audibly—“one, two, three, four,
five times, I think, sir.”

The second, on being questioned, answered, simply, “Once in 1825,
sir—going to Hamburg that was; and once in 1828, on the coast of Norway;
and again on the coast of Java in ’42.” This man had also done some
memorable deeds on shore, which fully made up for his being short by “two”
wrecks of the other.

Greenwich Hospital next demands our attention, as once the great home and
asylum for the seamen of the navy, although now a hospital only. It was
founded in the year 1694, in memory of Queen Mary, who had long designed
the foundation of such an institution. It was also built as a monument of
the great victory of La Hogue. Sir Christopher Wren furnished the designs
and plans for the edifice gratuitously—a noble gift from a professional
architect, and valuable to boot. The object of the foundation was “to
encourage the seamen of this kingdom to continue the industry and
skilfulness of their employments, by which they had for a long time
distinguished themselves throughout the world;” “to encourage them to
continue also their ancient reputation for the courage and constancy
manifested in engagements for the defence and honour of their native
country;” “to invite greater numbers of his Majesty’s subjects to betake
themselves to the sea;” and so forth. In sooth, the condition of the
Greenwich pensioner was not, for a long period, particularly enviable. On
admission he was required to relinquish any pension he might have gained
in the service. Maimed men received only _tenpence_ a day, and a shilling
a week, intended for tobacco and the humbler comforts of life. The
Commissioners at one time stated that “the wives are wholly ignored, and
their circumstances are deplorable.” From the Hospital they received only
the broken meat of the hall and the rations of men on leave of absence.
The wives were often reduced to the parish. No wonder the poor old veteran
used to be so glad for a sixpence or even a “screw” of tobacco in return
for his tough yarns!

The system has been entirely changed. At present all are out‐pensioners,
and when in good health can follow other employments. On the 26th
September, 1865, the Greenwich exodus commenced. On that day nearly 200
out of the 900 pensioners of Greenwich Hospital who had accepted the
Admiralty offer of pension allowance, in conformity with an Act passed in
the previous session of Parliament, left that establishment for the
various parts of the country they had selected for their future home.
Since that time the whole have left; and the institution which, only a few
years ago, had upwards of 2,000 inmates, now contains only a few hundred
sick and disabled. Greenwich Hospital is a changed institution, and the
system of rewarding those who have spent their lives in the service of
their country is made more consistent with humanity, morality, and common
sense. Instead of hundreds of elderly but still hale and athletic veterans
wandering listlessly about the terraces and colonnades of Greenwich, and,
if the truth must be told, sometimes overstepping the bounds of sobriety
in the numerous public‐houses of the neighbourhood, there are but a
limited number of indoor‐pensioners, and those are such as may be
fittingly provided for in a place bearing the name of a hospital. They are
disabled seamen in the strict sense of the term—poor worn‐out old fellows
who require to be taken care of, and who have, perhaps, no one but the
nation to take care of them. The blind, the doting, the crippled, find
comfortable board and lodging, and, without doubt, attentive nursing in
the national hospital. But, as there are constantly new applications for
admission, it is probable that there will always be a few hundreds in the
establishment. On the first and third Thursday in each month a board sits
at Somerset House to consider the claims of applicants for admission, and
those who are passed are sent in an omnibus to the hospital. But for the
large body of men who, though too old to reef top‐sails and to work guns,
are not too old to do something for their own living, and to wish for
liberty and domestic life, there is the allowance before mentioned from
the funds of the hospital, and the power of living where and how they
please.

“What the average pension granted may be,” said a writer in the _Cornhill
Magazine_, “we have no means of knowing, but if some of the men have a
larger sum than £36 10s., so also many of them will have much less, and
will be unable to command in their homes the standard of living with which
the Hospital supplied them. They elect to go, we take it, partly because
they know the government of the place is to be changed, that it is to
become a hospital in the narrower sense of the word, and that there will
be less freedom of ingress and egress for them henceforth; but this is
only part of a more general feeling in favour of liberty among them, at
which nobody who has inquired into their condition can wonder. The
authorities at Greenwich Hospital have contrived to make a palace as dull
as a prison. The men have had no amusements but a library inconveniently
furnished. They have not been allowed to have flower‐pots in their
windows, nor to receive friends and visitors in private; and it is not
many years ago since they were forbidden to walk on the terraces. Some of
the punishments, too—such as being compelled to wear a yellow collar and
do scavengers’ work—have been harsh and injudicious. All these things have
combined with the monastic character of the place to give a character of
_ennui_ and listlessness to the Greenwich pensioner’s life, which must
have struck every observing visitor. Dulness has been relieved within the
walls chiefly by temptation without.

[Illustration: GREENWICH HOSPITAL.]

“Since the age when Queen Mary pictured to herself Greenwich as a place of
pious repose, where the sailor might end his days in the fear of God, it
has become the favourite haunt of the pleasure‐loving cockney—an emporium
of shrimps, a reservoir of beer. Those quaint figures—the ‘geese’ and
‘blue‐bottles’ of local slang—lounging about under the trees of the park,
and loitering through the streets in the dress of another age, have been
regarded by the holiday‐maker from the metropolis as parts of the
amusements of the place. They have been paid for yarns in drink and stray
shillings, and have found the doctrine that sailors lived only for grog
and tobacco accepted by their admirers as one of the glories of the
British navy. It has been well remarked that, as a whole, the old fellows
have been more decent in their lives than we had a right to expect under
the peculiar circumstances. But a chapter might be written on Greenwich
morality and its effects on the parish rates, which nobody would care to
bind up with the naval histories of Brenton or James, but which would help
to reconcile the reader to the break‐up of an institution which has had
much in it to kindle the imagination and justify the pride of our
countrymen.

[Illustration: GREENWICH PENSIONERS.]

“The break‐up is, after all, one in which people will acquiesce rather
than one at which they will rejoice. It was a noble as well as a pious
idea to gather under the roofs of a grand edifice—at once a dwelling‐place
and a naval monument, and placed on the shores of a river itself one of
the chief sources of our maritime strength—the survivors of each
generation of warriors against the enemy or the storm. Here the traditions
of one age blended gradually with the experience of the next; stories of
Shovel were passed on to those who fought under Hawke; the conqueror with
Rodney lived to welcome the heroes of Trafalgar—not as bedridden or
imbecile men, though they might be somewhat shattered—but still able to
enjoy life, and to give the vividness of reality to the narratives of the
past. All phases of naval service were represented. One of the ‘saucy
_Arethusa’s_’ smoked his pipe with an old _Agamemnon_, and men who had
first smelt powder on the Canadian lakes listened reverently to the
recollections of those who had seen _L’Orient_ explode in thunder at the
Nile. Greenwich Hospital will always be a great and useful institution—a
mighty boon, whether to the sick nursed within or to the poor pensioned
without its walls.”

Before leaving Greenwich we must certainly pay a visit to the Observatory,
a building which has such intimate relations with the sea. The account
which follows is that of M. Esquiros,(82) who particularly studied all our
institutions connected with maritime interests:—

“I entered,” says he, “a well‐lighted apartment, the walls of which were
covered with charts, engravings, photographic portraits of the moon, and
Donati’s famous comet of 1858. Mr. [now Sir George] Airy, the Astronomer
Royal, is a man who has grown grey in the study of the stars; his
energetic features indicate the incessant activity of the strong intellect
which for more than a quarter of a century has upheld the reputation of
Greenwich Observatory. On his writing‐table were heaped a quantity of
papers covered with calculations, and a maze of letters as to a thousand
matters of business. A large iron cupboard contains all the precious
documents which will, no doubt, one day serve to trace out the scientific
history of the nineteenth century. Here, for instance, are preserved the
letters and authentic documents which are destined to modify certain
received opinions as to the discovery of the planet Neptune. In this
cupboard may also be found the records of bygone errors and chimerical
ideas, which one wonders to find reappearing in this enlightened age.

“It is difficult to believe that many amongst the English still confound
astronomy with judicial astrology; but Mr. Airy preserves a very curious
collection—letters that he has received from all classes of persons,
asking what his terms are for _drawing a horoscope_. Sometimes it is a
young man wishing to know ‘who will be his wife;’ at others it is a lady,
on the eve of embarking in the great business of life, who desires to
consult the stars. Postage‐stamps are occasionally sent with these
missives, and he or she who consults the oracle promises to make known, if
necessary, the true day and hour of their birth. The fact is, that a great
many people can scarcely understand how the astronomers can contemplate
the vault of heaven by day and night without endeavouring to trace out the
secret of human destiny. Some years back a young lady dressed in good
taste applied at the door of the Observatory; she felt interested in one
of her near relations, a sailor in the Pacific Ocean, from whom no news
had been received for several years. After she had had a few minutes’
conversation with one of the assistants, she went away bathed in tears,
because the stars were not able to tell her if the object of her
affections were still alive.”

On the ground that Greenwich Park now occupies there once stood an ancient
tower, built about the year 1440, by Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, and
uncle to King Henry VI. In the time of Elizabeth it was called
_Mirefleur_. In 1642 the name of Greenwich Castle was given to it. Sir
James Moore and Sir Christopher Wren pointed out the site of this fortress
to Charles II. as the best place for the construction of an observatory.
The old feudal tower was therefore pulled down, and over its remains was
raised an edifice dedicated to the contemplation of the stars.

“The building was scarcely finished ere Flamsteed was installed in it,
with the title of Astronomer Royal, and an emolument of £100 a year. He
presided over the new establishment for more than half a century, and
spent more than £2,000 of his own money. His works will always be looked
upon in England as the starting point of modern astronomy. He may be
deemed the founder of Greenwich observatory. His successors were Halley,
Bradley, Nathaniel Bliss, and Dr. Nevil Maskelyn, the author of four
volumes, of which it is said by Delampre, ‘that if, in consequence of some
great revolution every record of science had been lost, with the exception
of this collection, in it would be found materials quite sufficient for
building up again the science of modern astronomy.’ Maskelyn was followed
by John Pond, who died in 1835; his place is now supplied by Mr. Airy.

“The Astronomer Royal is nominated by the First Lord of the Treasury, and
performs his functions under the warrant of the great seal of state; his
salary is fixed at £800 per annum. One of his principal duties is to
preserve for Greenwich observatory that character which the founder
himself wished to impress upon it. The Astronomer Royal is therefore bound
by the express terms of his commission, ‘to devote himself with the
greatest care to correcting the tables of the celestial movements, and to
determine the positions of the fixed stars, in order to furnish the long‐
desired means of discovering the longitude at sea, and of thus bringing to
perfection the art of navigation.’ It is also necessary that he should
reside in the observatory, and devote all his time to the duties of his
office, never absenting himself for any long period without having
previously obtained the sanction of the Lords of the Admiralty.

“Consulted as he is by various branches of the Government, he is able to
render assistance to the public service by his advice and information,
well assured that he himself can never be affected by any of the changes
in official power, or by any of the results of political conflict. His
residence has a garden attached to it, which is parted off from the
grounds of the park, and well planted with fruit‐trees. He has under his
control eight assistants, and ordinarily six computers.

“It is curious to see these computers in their two offices, one situated
on the ground floor near the study of the Astronomer Royal, and the other
isolated in one of the quietest parts of the observatory, all sedately
occupied in reckoning up, from morning to night, dull columns of figures.

“Before describing what Greenwich observatory _is_, it would be better
perhaps to state first what it is _not_. It relinquishes to other
inquirers the task of discovering spots in the sun and mountains in the
moon. The observations of the assistants are not directed either to the
figures of the planets or to the extraordinary movements of the double
stars, revolving one round the other in the depths of the firmament, or
the mysteries of the nebulæ. What a firmness of character, what a truly
English strength of will have these observers shown, in voluntarily
drawing a veil over some of the most splendid wonders of the heavens! At
the time of John Pond, a telescope twenty feet in length had been erected
in the establishment at great expense, but as it was a strong attraction
to visitors, he caused the instrument to be dismantled. About the year
1847 Mr. Lerebours offered to Greenwich observatory the largest refracting
telescope which had ever been constructed. The temptation was certainly a
great one; it would have been flattering to the self‐esteem of the
institution to have possessed a wonder of this sort, unique as it was in
the world. Mr. Airy need only to have said the word, and the Lords of the
Admiralty would assuredly have made the purchase. But the Astronomer, on
the contrary, held the present aloof with a determined hand. What was it
that he feared? The perfidious influence of such a siren, which, by
concentrating attention on the beauties of the heavens, would perhaps have
turned away the attention of the assistants from their daily task, and
have compromised the success of the Observatory.

“An observation of the sun takes place at least once a week at mid‐day, in
the transit circle room, and a large portion of the staff of the
establishment take a part in it; but it is at night that one can form the
best idea of the mode in which the transit of the heavenly bodies over the
meridian is duly verified.

“The first observations made with the new transit circle date from 1851,
and, from that time to the present they have never been discontinued. The
assistant who is appointed, aided by this instrument to watch the state of
the heavens, is on guard for twenty‐four hours, _i.e._, from three in the
morning until three a.m. the next day. Except under extraordinary
circumstances, the same duties are never assigned to an assistant two days
running. Having already worked some hours after sunset, he goes home to
take his evening meal, and when he returns into the transit circle room it
is quite night. The shutters, which, during the day shut in a part of the
ceiling, are now unclosed, and by means of this aperture the whole sky
seems thrown open to the room.

“Having consulted his list, and adjusted his telescope, he commences his
steady gaze. His intentness can only be compared to that of a sportsman,
or still better to that of a pointer dog, only, instead of a partridge or
a woodcock, he is eagerly waiting to see a star get up. There it is at
last! It comes into view quick and sudden as a meteor. Scarcely has it
entered into the telegraphic field of sight than it appears to approach
rapidly some objects which look like a series of transverse iron bars
placed at equal distances from each other. These, however, in reality, are
nothing but threads of the thickness of a spider’s web, stretched
according to a system in the interior of the telescope, and wonderfully
magnified by the power of the lenses.

“The assistants are all astronomers by profession, and their eyes have
been well trained by continual practice. How, then, can it happen, that
their observations do not always prove accordant one with another? There
is a physiological mystery hidden in the fact which it would be
interesting to penetrate. Each observer, although operating with the same
instrument and guided by the same plan, perceives a celestial
phenomenon—as, for instance, the transit of a star—either sooner or later
than another does. This variation is attributed to the idiosyncrasy of the
sense of sight in each individual, or to the more or less prompt manner in
which the eye telegraphs its impression to the brain. It must, of course,
be quite understood that no considerable inequalities of time are in
question here; it is, at the most, some fraction of a second that I am
alluding to; but the astronomical transit observations are of so delicate
a nature, that the slightest errors would destroy their worth. Under these
circumstances it has been found necessary to establish an average or
standard, and each observer gets to know precisely how far his visual
faculties vary from the ideal. Hence arises a question, incomprehensible
to the uninitiated, which, however, is commonly asked among astronomers
themselves—‘What is the value of your personal equation?’ This inquiry is
answered by a figure expressing the particular amount of deviation from
the standard. The most singular thing is, that the value of the personal
equation is different in the same individual as regards the various
celestial bodies. Some can very quickly discern the phenomena of a fixed
star who are much slower in perceiving those of the moon, and _vice
versâ_. In order to obviate the inconvenience which might result from the
variations in personal equations, they also have recourse to a very
ingenious plan. An eye‐piece with two tubes allows two assistants
simultaneously to observe the passage of the same star over the same
threads in the instrument; they both listen to the ticking of the clock
marking the seconds, and separately calculate the results of their
observations, which are afterwards compared. To obtain a greater degree of
certitude, they occasionally exchange places. In this way the slightest
chances of error are eliminated. The aberrations of the instrument must
also be taken into account. Notwithstanding its excellence and the
solidity with which it is fixed to stone walls sunk into the ground, it
sometimes is affected by slight vibrations, which can only be attributed
to the _terra firma_ on which it is constructed. Mr. Airy has noticed this
same phenomenon at Cambridge, whence he has come to the conclusion ‘that
the surface of the earth, commonly regarded as the base of all solidity,
is itself in movement.’

[Illustration: THE GREAT EQUATORIAL TELESCOPE IN THE DOME, GREENWICH
OBSERVATORY.]

“‘I am going to show you the clock which sets the time for all England,’
said the Astronomer Royal to me, as he conducted me into a little room
occupying one of the oldest parts of the edifice. Covered with its simple
mahogany case, this _Mother clock_, as it is called, is not unlike one of
those venerable wooden‐cased clocks that one meets with sometimes in the
old English manor‐houses. No one, however, could fail to discover that the
mechanism in this time‐keeper is new and uncommon. Its chief
characteristic is that it possesses two distinct attributes. In the first
place it marks the time most exactly; and, in the next, it communicates
this power to other clocks as well. It has therefore been called the
_Mother clock_, because it animates in the Observatory eight of its
_daughters_. Its dial is divided into three circles, one of which marks
the hours, another the minutes, and a third the seconds. One hand only
moves round each of these dials, and thus points out the generally‐
accepted measures of time.

“The Observatory transmits signals every hour to the telegraph‐office in
Lothbury, in the City of London, whence, by a network of galvanic wires,
the knowledge of the true time is spread along the lines of railway to the
extremities of Great Britain. This vast Æolian harp covers thus with its
chords nearly the whole surface of the British Isles, and vibrates in
unison with one prime mover.

“As regards the true time, these telegraphic wires have a double mission.
The current leaving Greenwich transmits the signal given by the clock at
the Observatory, and what is called a return current then communicates the
errors of the other clock on which the _Mother_ has just acted. ‘I would
never undertake to regulate a clock from which I did not get regular
replies,’ said the Astronomer Royal; and just as we were passing in front
of a galvanic apparatus, ‘Stop!’ he added, ‘the great clock at Westminster
is at this very moment giving me an account of itself; it goes well, and
is only the twentieth part of a second slow. Twice a day in this way it
keeps me informed of the state of its health.’”

Below Greenwich one of the saddest catastrophes of the century occurred in
1879, one which has its lessons for all who voyage. We refer to the loss
of the _Princess Alice_. A pleasure steamer, one of the largest and best
known of the London Steam‐packet Company, with some 700 happy merrymakers,
a large proportion of whom were children, left London Bridge on Tuesday
morning, September 3rd, 1878, for Gravesend and Sheerness, and everything,
even the temper of our uncertain climate, combined to make the day one of
real and innocent pleasure. How true is it that danger is never so near as
when we deem it farthest off. It was eight o’clock in the evening when the
_Princess Alice_ hove in sight off Woolwich Arsenal, with her living
freight of gladsome excursionists. The song that comes when toil ceases,
the careless laugh and harmless jest were going round; eager eyes watched
the dim lights of home glinting through the purple September twilight, and
no whispered thought of peril dulled the harmony of the day, when a large
steam collier, the _Bywell Castle_, loomed darkly in the gloom.

Those who feared the least and knew the most from experience were the
first to see the danger—the danger that, in the time, no human skill or
ingenuity could avert. The _Princess Alice_, steaming on at good speed,
had attained an impetus, and, together with the adverse tide and confined
space, defeated the ready efforts of the commanders of both vessels, and
the collision came. There was no time to think—no time to act; there was a
fearful cracking and tearing, during which it seemed that the _Bywell
Castle_ would walk right through the ill‐fated pleasure‐boat, and in that
dread and awe‐inspiring moment the startled eye saw its fate, and the
happy heart was stilled in horror. Only five minutes from the time the
vessels struck, and all that was then the _Princess Alice_ lay cradled in
the mud at the bottom of the Thames.

Save for the few who clambered on to the _Bywell Castle_, and the
proportionately fewer who could swim ashore, the entire human freight was
hurled into the black and fœtid river, or carried down in the cabins and
saloon of the submerged sepulchre. How terribly was this proved when the
wreck was raised! The unfortunate passengers were found packed together at
the foot of the companion ladders with no time to move hand or foot, with
no air to breathe, stifled where they stood.

[Illustration: COLLISION OF THE _BYWELL CASTLE_ AND THE _PRINCESS ALICE_.]

Collisions amongst iron ships have been so painfully frequent of late
years that it is impossible to conjecture what may be the result of this
wholesale loss of life in the future. It is doubtful, however, whether any
previous accident ever equalled in its harrowing results the loss of the
_Princess Alice_. Excepting the fatal accident to the _Grosser Kurfürst_,
the running down of the _Northfleet_ off Dungeness by the Spanish steamer
_Murillo_, comes next in horror to the cutting in two of the _Princess
Alice_. This terrible affair, and the heartless conduct of the commander
of the Spanish steamer, will make the night of the 22nd of January, 1873,
ever memorable in the dark annals of the sea; 293 persons went down with
the ill‐fated passenger ship. A sad case was that of the _Lady Elgin_, run
into by a schooner on Lake Michigan on September 8th, 1860. The _Lady
Elgin_ was an excursion steamer with 400 souls on board; she sank within
fifteen minutes of the collision and with the loss of 287 people. Then,
again, in 1854, in this fatal month of September, on the 27th, the
_Arctic_, a ship of the Collins line, came into collision with the screw
steamer _Vesta_ in a fog. This time the scene of the tragic disaster was
the coast of Newfoundland; out of a list of 368 all told, 323 were lost,
among whom were the Duc de Grammont and the Duc de Guynes. In the same
year we have to record the loss of the _City of Glasgow_ with 480 persons
on board; and the _Lady Nugent_, a British transport, which carried
reinforcements for the army at Rangoon; the total loss in this case was
400. Neither of these ships was ever heard of after leaving port; a fate
as terrible and mysterious as that which befell the _City of Boston_ and
the _Pacific_, the former of which left Liverpool on the 23rd of January,
1856, with 186; while the _City of Boston_ had 191 persons on board when
she sailed from Halifax, N.S., on January 26, 1870. Who amongst the living
does not remember that black‐letter day when news arrived in England of
the capsizing of the _Captain_ off Cape Finisterre on September 7, 1870,
with Captain Burgoyne and a complement of 500 all told, which remains the
greatest calamity that has yet befallen the British Navy.

The army, however, suffered a loss nearly as appalling in the foundering
of the _Birkenhead_ off the Cape of Good Hope, where a contingent, made up
from the 12th Lancers, 23rd and 92nd Foot, helped to make up the 438 lives
destroyed on that occasion, February 26, 1852. Nor were the greatest
horrors entirely occasioned by the unruly elements and the sometimes
pitiless sea, for added to these ever‐impending dangers was the
incombatable enemy—fire. The most heart‐rending on record of these marine
conflagrations was that which destroyed the S.S. _Austria_ on its way from
Hamburg to New York, U.S., on September 23, 1858. By this fire, out of 528
passengers and crew, 461 were either burnt to death or drowned; how many
met the more horrible death of burning can never be known, nor is it well
for the mind to dwell upon the painful subject. Going back a little
farther we find the record of the burning of the _Ocean Monarch_ in
Abergele Bay, August 24, 1848, with loss of 178 lives. Then we have the
S.S. _London_, which went down in the Bay of Biscay on January 11, 1866,
carrying down with her to a watery grave 239 out of a complement of 258.
The wrecks of the _Atlantic_ and the _Royal Charter_ are conspicuous in
the black list: the latter, an Australian clipper ship, was smashed to
pieces on the coast of Anglesea on October 26, 1859, when, while some
forty people or so managed to get on shore, 459 of men, women, and
children, were added to the ocean sepulchre. The _Atlantic_, of the White
Star Line, struck on a sunken rock off Nova Scotia, April 1, 1873, and 481
out of 931 were lost. The _Annie Jane_, of Liverpool, swells the death‐
roll by 393, by being driven on shore at Barra Island, one of the
Hebrides, on September 29, 1853; while the _Pomona_, another emigrant
ship, through carelessness in the reckoning, went ashore on the Wexford
coast on April 28, 1859, losing 386 lives. And this sad list only
represents the more prominent cases which occurred during thirty years.

Although the chief outward and visible sign of usefulness of the Seamen’s
Hospital Society exists no longer on the Thames, many of our readers knew
the old _Dreadnought_ well. She was the largest floating hospital in the
world, and no other ship housed so cosmopolitan a crew as could be found
among her 200 patients. Dysentery, scurvy, hepatic diseases in most
varieties, and typhoid, were among the medical specialities to be seen on
board, and it is probable that Budd gained much of his experience of
enteric fever from this ship, which received annually from sixty to
seventy cases of the disease. The surgical practice was equally useful,
and we believe that the first resection (that of the shoulder) in London
was performed by Busk on the _Dreadnought_. A large number of men, now
teaching in our schools, gleaned useful knowledge here, and (an important
matter in surgery) learnt how to do little things well. Although in
maintaining a necessary and constant communication with the shore, there
were the usual perils of water, including a strong current, a crowded
stream, ice, &c., no person engaged directly or indirectly in the business
of the ship was ever drowned during the half century that she and her
predecessors were moored off Greenwich. The late Dr. Rooke, one of the
ablest and kindest of the _Dreadnought’s_ officers, nobly earned the
Humane Society’s medal by saving a boy who fell off a barge close at hand;
three patients jumped overboard at different times, in a state of
delirium, but all were rescued and recovered. There were convivial
gatherings now and again in the snug recess of the admiral’s cabin, used
as a mess room by the medical staff. The _Dreadnought_ suffered many blows
from without, and was run into seriously on several occasions. But the old
ship stood it all, and was missed by the bargemen, who made a cushion of
her wherewith to cannon off to the opposite shore. There can be no doubt
that the managing committee of the Seamen’s Hospital Society acted wisely
in removing their clients to a home on shore, so that we need not say
altogether regretfully, although truly, “Take her all in all, we shall not
look upon her like again.”

Of all the hospitals there is none so interesting as a sailor’s, and that
at Greenwich, which represents the old _Dreadnought_ floating hospital, is
particularly so. It is here Jack ashore is seen at his best, and his best
is very good indeed as a general thing, especially when all the good
qualities are developed as they are when he settles down to enjoy the
autumn calm of his life, which generally begins in the hospital. Not only
are there seamen from every clime, and every creed, too, here, but one
ward is occupied by a few old naval pensioners. In this ward the first
thing that attracts the eye, and is placed prominently over the fire‐
place, is Dibdin’s simple legend of the “Sweet little cherub that sits up
aloft.” Every inmate of this ward could tell his interesting yarn of
personal experiences of the Battle and the Breeze. One old fellow is both
blind and deaf, and still happy and contented under the sympathetic care
of an ancient cherub, who has sailed through three‐quarters of a century
of life’s uncertain tide. Why the blind tar should be called “the
nightingale” has not been clearly stated, though the fact remains the
same, and may possibly refer to great vocal powers. His messmate has been
through enough battles to fill a volume; while another, an octogenarian
marine, speaks with pride of the part he took in the _Chesapeake_ affair,
which was beaten and captured _thirteen minutes_ after the first gun was
fired by the weather‐beaten _Shannon_.

“You see,” he is wont to say, as he straightens himself, “by my military
cut that I’m not a regular tar, though I’ve been in as many cutting‐out
parties as any a’most, and had the grape and canister pelting round me
like hailstones, pretty nigh as often as I remembers feeling real
hailstones. But I remembers best when the king—God bless him!—sent out
thirty barrels of porter, that me and the rest of us might drink his
majesty’s health in; that was in the time of the war with Ameriky, and
good times they was too,” a little bit of individual opinion that no one
would dream of controverting here. Next come we to another pensioner, who
sits over the fire hugging his feeble knees, and who is just in the last
year of his ninth decade. _He_ tells you of the part he took in 1805, in
the capture of two French frigates, and some of the latent fire returns as
he speaks of it; for it was a fight that lasted three days and nights
before victory was fairly ours.

Take the wards _en masse_, and we see peering out of the medley the
delicate sallow skin and long black hair of the Greek, who is estimated by
every British commander at seventy‐five per cent. below the English tar in
hauling power and endurance, while the South Sea Islander, the
Scandinavian, the dusky Turk, Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians, Spaniards,
Americans, Chinamen, are here side by side with the hardy sons of our own
isles. In one corridor there is even a Fantee, with the mark of his tribe
upon his ebon‐hued forehead, but minus feet, having lost them through
their being frost‐bitten in the Black Sea. Another and more painful case
is that of a poor fellow wrecked off Cape Horn, who, drifting for fourteen
days in an open boat, reached shore only to find that he must purchase
life at the cost of both nether limbs. The surgical operator was an
unskilled sailor, the instrument a rough ship’s knife, with which he
succeeded in performing successfully the dangerous operation, but with
what torture to the sufferer can too vividly be imagined. He is cheerful
enough now as he potters about on his stumps, full of dry humour and as
cheerful as any able‐bodied man could be. The light occupations of these
disabled sons of the sea are varied and congenial to their different
tastes, and their labour is chiefly confined to decorating the wards of
the hospital. Amongst the many inscriptions are a beautiful white wreath
with “Albert the Good” on it, and Nelson’s famous last signal. One German
sailor lad has entirely decorated one ward with a taste and elegance
simply surprising. This boy is an original, seeing that he went all the
way to Jerusalem to learn English! “In Hamburg, his native place, he heard
other boys, and occasionally travellers, say that there was a good school
there where English was taught. Thereupon, seizing his opportunity, he
worked his passage from Hamburg to Alexandria, took ship to Jaffa, and
induced the German Consul to forward him to the Holy City.” Evidently he
did not think there was anything remarkable in this singular method of
acquiring our language!(83)

The Thames Church Mission is a society established to minister to the
spiritual necessities of the vast fluctuating population of the Thames,
consisting of seamen, bargemen, steamboat‐men, fishermen, &c. Services are
held on board troop, emigrant, and passenger ships, screw colliers, and
every description of vessels; also in the mission and reading‐room which
has been opened for seamen, &c., by the bank of the river at Bugsby, near
East Greenwich. Bibles, Testaments, and Prayer‐books are sold at reduced
prices, and tracts distributed. A chaplain (licensed by the Bishop of
London to visit ministerially and officiate on board all ships and vessels
on the Thames), four missionaries, and five seamen colporteurs, constitute
the missionary staff. The Mission undertakes the sale of Scriptures to
English and foreign seamen, and gives Testaments to emigrants on behalf of
the British and Foreign Bible Society; it places on board emigrant ships
packets of tracts, and distributes the cards and circulars of the Sailor’s
Home among seamen arriving in the Thames. The field of operation extends
from London Bridge to the anchorages below Gravesend. The chaplain also
holds Sabbath services on board the training ships _Arethusa_,
_Chichester_, and _Cornwall_, and has weekly classes with the boys; and
the missionaries act as honorary agents for enrolling members of the
Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. There are many other excellent institutions
for the seamen’s benefit, from London city to Gravesend town, but which
cannot be described with the space at our command.

Every reader knows the Trinity House, but he may not be aware of its value
to the seaman, the voyager, and the interests of commerce. The Trinity
House, as it stands on Tower Hill, was built towards the end of the last
century by Samuel Wyatt. It is of the Ionic order, and has some busts of
naval heroes, whose deeds, like themselves, are of the past. Amongst its
many interesting pictures is a very large Gainsborough, representing the
Trinity Board of that day. This picture, by the way, is upwards of twenty
feet in length, and, if merit go by measurement, is necessarily a very
great picture. The Board of Trinity House has control of the beaconage and
pilotage of the United Kingdom. The Corporation existed fully one hundred
years before its original charter, which was granted in 1514, and was at
that early date known simply as the “Shipmen and Mariners of England”—a
voluntary and influential association of some standing, and at that time
protected maritime interests and gave substantial relief to the aged and
indigent of the seafaring community.

[Illustration: TRINITY HOUSE, LONDON.]

Henry VIII. was the first king who granted it a Royal Charter, in 1514, in
recognition of its well‐tried merit. In this charter it is described as
the “Guild or Fraternity of the most glorious and undividable Trinity of
St. Clement.” The Charter of James I. and all subsequent charters are
granted to “The Master, Wardens, and Assistants of the Guild, Fraternity,
or Brotherhood of the most glorious and undivided Trinity of St. Clement,
in the parish of Deptford, in the county of Kent.” The motto of the
Corporation is _Trinitas in unitate_. The Elder Brethren of Trinity House
are not always exempt from undertaking stern and unpleasant duties afloat,
as was instanced in that terrible time of trial—the mutiny of the Nore, in
1799, when they destroyed or removed every beacon and buoy that could
guide the mutinous fleet out to sea. Its culminating recognition was by an
Act of Parliament in 1836. The honorary members of this Court are men of
distinction, including some of the members of the Royal Family. H.R.H. the
Duke of Edinburgh became its Master in 1866. The duties of the Corporation
are described in their charter as follows:—

“To treat and conclude upon all and singular articles anywise concerning
the science or art of marines; to maintain in perfect working order all
the lighthouses, floating‐lights, and fog‐signal stations on the coast of
England, and to lay down, maintain, renew, and modify all the buoys,
beacons, and sea‐signals; to regulate the supply of stores, the
appointment of keepers, and constantly to inspect the stations; to examine
and license pilots for a large portion of our coasts, and to investigate
generally into all matters of pilotage; to act as nautical advisers with
the judge of the High Court of Admiralty: to survey and inspect the
channels of the Thames and the shoals of the North Sea, and other points
of the coast at which shifting, scouring, growth, or waste of sand may
affect the navigation, and require to be watched and notified; to supply
shipping in the Thames with ballast. The Elder Brethren have also to
perform the duty of accompanying the Sovereign on sea voyages.”

The light‐vessels of the Corporation are nearly fifty in number, while
there are more than eighty lighthouses. The buoys on our coasts must not
be omitted. The number in position can scarcely be approximated, while in
addition—in case of casualties—there must be kept in reserve fully one‐
half the number in position. There are also some sixty odd beacons of
different kinds. The working staff of the Trinity House is composed of
district superintendents, buoy‐keepers, store‐keepers, local agents,
lighthouse‐keepers, crews of floating‐lights, watchmen, fog‐signal
attendants,(84) crews of steam and sailing vessels, altogether making a
total of nearly a thousand men.

[Illustration: THE SIREN FOG‐HORN, FOR WARNING SHIPS OFF THE COAST.]

In 1837 the Duke of Wellington was Master of the Trinity House; in 1852
Prince Albert held that office, and Viscount Palmerston in 1862. Then came
(1866), as already mentioned, the Duke of Edinburgh, while the Prince of
Wales headed the list of a long roll of Brethren, to say nothing of the
numerous dukes and earls who have gladly accepted the same honour. The
Trinity House Corporation has successfully withstood several most
searching Parliamentary investigations, only to come out with triumphantly
flying colours, which added to the confidence generally reposed in it.

CHAPTER XXVI.

WHAT POETS HAVE SUNG OF THE SEA, THE SAILOR, AND THE SHIP.

The Poet of the Sea still Wanting—Biblical Allusions—The Classical
Writers—Want of True Sympathy with the Subject—Virgil’s
“Æneid”—His Stage Storms—The Immortal Bard—His Intimate
Acquaintance with the Sea and the Sailor—The Golden Days of
Maritime Enterprise—The _Tempest_—Miranda’s Compassion—Pranks of
the “Airy Spirit”—The _Merchant of Venice_—Piracy in Shakespeare’s
Days—A Birth at Sea—_Cymbeline_: the Queen’s Description of our
Isle—Byron’s “Ocean”—Falconer’s “Shipwreck”—His Technical
Knowledge—The “True Ring”—The Dibdins—“Tom Bowling”—“The Boatmen
of the Downs”—Three Touching Poems—Mrs. Hemans, Longfellow, and
Kingsley—Browning’s “Hervé Riel”—The True Breton Pilot—A New
Departure—Hood’s “Demon Ship”—Popular Songs of the Day—Conclusion.

“I love the sea; she is my fellow‐creature,
My careful purveyor—she provides me store;
She walls me round, she makes my diet greater,
She wafts me treasures from a foreign shore.”(85)

The sea, the sailor, and the ship, have been fertile subjects for the
poets, although countries and lands, and those who dwell therein, have
occupied by far the larger part of their attention. Sooth to say, however,
there has not yet arisen a single _great_ writer whose name could fairly
be identified with the ocean as its own particular poet. There may be
reasons for this. The poet is usually of delicate organisation, and is
more likely to be found studying Nature on the quiet shore than on the
turbulent ocean. Maybe he is practically a recluse, accessible to a few
only; and if of social nature, and not averse to companionship amid the
busy haunts of men, he yet shrinks from the roughness usual to, though not
inseparable from, the men of the sea. The modern facilities of travel,
enabling the student to con Nature with comparative ease, may some day aid
in producing a representative poet of the sea. At present the position is
vacant.

In days of old, however, the poet prophets, David the sweet singer of
Israel, and one or two writers in the New Testament, gave glimpses of the
ocean which indicated an acquaintance with the subject. Nothing can well
be finer than the Psalmist’s conception of the mariner’s life and its
dangers in the lines commencing:—

“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;

“These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.”

The prophet Jeremiah draws a beautiful though pathetic picture of the
ocean’s unrest when he says: “There is sorrow on the sea, it cannot be
quiet;” and the serious poets have followed his outlines. Milton describes
one—

“In a troubled sea of passion tossed.”

Michelet defines its “many voices,” its murmur and its menace, its thunder
and its roar, its wail, its sigh, its “sublime duets with the rocks.”

The classical writers of antiquity had little sympathy with the sea. We
have seen Horace’s opinion of that man’s boldness who first trusted
himself in a frail vessel on the merciless ocean; and, as Dryden shows us,
there was good reason for a general dread of the sea, at least on the part
of landsmen—

“Rude as their ships was navigation then,
No useful compass or meridian known;
Coasting, they kept the land within their ken,
And knew no north but when the pole‐star shone.”

Virgil’s “Æneid” is essentially a sea‐poem, yet a writer of critical
acumen considers that “in literature the sea is all the worse for Virgil
having dealt with it.... The poem, as nobody needs telling, begins its
events with a tremendous sea‐piece. In the very first sight we get of the
hero and his companions they are dividing the foaming brine with their
keels, and the initial incident is a shipwreck. The description assuredly
has overwhelming vigour in it...; an impression of unusual turmoil is
given, and that is what Virgil sought, but it is got by a jumble of
violence of every kind. Winds, billows, lightning, thunder, reefs,
shallows, eddies, are mixed together. The only detail of disaster left out
is collision among the ships, which with a fleet so crowded is the one
thing that would have occurred had this been a natural storm. Such a
tempest now rages in a transpontine theatre, and in no other part of the
world; it takes Neptune himself to still it in the ‘Æneid.’”(86) And yet
Virgil lived long by the glorious Bay of Naples; and the famous ode of
Horace, praying that he might have fair weather, shows that he had made at
least one voyage.

If a poet has a genuine feeling for his subject, the lightest epithets he
applies may tell a story. What terms does Virgil employ? They are somewhat
commonplace. Boundless, mighty, swelling, windy, faithless, deep, dark,
blue, azure, vast, foaming, salt, and so forth, are well enough, but they
do not compare with many of Shakespeare’s, and later poets. Take three of
Shakespeare’s: the “yeasty” waves, the “multitudinous” sea, and the
“wasteful” ocean. These epithets are in themselves admirable descriptions.

The works of our immortal bard are full of allusions to the sea, and show
an intimate acquaintance therewith. Perhaps Shakespeare’s knowledge is in
this instance less surprising than in some other directions, for although
we have no proof that he ever left the shores of old England, and are
quite certain that he never ventured far, his was a golden day in the
history of maritime enterprise. The reign of the Virgin Queen, during the
larger part of which he flourished, saw the defeat of the Armada, and many
another repulse in the Spanish colonies. It was the day of such naval
heroes as Howard of Effingham, Drake and Hawkins, Raleigh and Frobisher.
It witnessed the first English voyage round the world, the discovery of
Virginia—to say nothing of Virginia’s tobacco and potatoes—the
establishment of the profitable whale fishery and the disgraceful slave‐
trade, the inauguration of that long‐time monopoly the East India Company,
and numerous lesser developments in commercial prosperity.

Appropriately, then, the play of Shakespeare which more particularly than
any other deals with the sea is that which is generally placed at the
commencement of the series in the published editions. The _Tempest_ opens
with a storm “on a ship at sea.” The fury of the gale increases, and the
vessel is nearly on the rocks. “We split! we split! we split!” sings out
the honest old Neapolitan councillor, Gonzalo, adding—

“Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren
ground,
Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but I
Would fain die a dry death.”

[Illustration: THE STORM.]

[Illustration: AFTER THE STORM.]

But neither he nor his master the king suffers death by shipwreck, for
amiable and tender‐hearted Miranda intercedes with her father. Prospero
reassures her, though Ariel, it will be remembered, had been playing many
a prank on the unsuspecting mariners, and with lightning and thunder‐claps
and “sulphurous roaring,” had fairly frightened them out of their wits.
All but the mariners had “plunged in the foaming brine and quitted the
vessel”:—

“The king’s son have I landed by himself,
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs,
In an odd angle of the isle,”

Sings the “airy spirit,” adding, however—

“Safely in harbour
Is the king’s ship in the deep nook; where once
Thou call’st me up at midnight, to fetch dew
From the still vexed Bermoothes,(87) there she’s hid:
The mariners all under hatches stowed.”

And so with the kindly spirit and the rightful Duke we may leave the
tempest‐tossed mariners.

In the _Merchant of Venice_ we have admirable illustrations of the
troubles and anxieties of a merchant shipowner of the day. Antonio is sad.
“Your mind,” says Salarino, “is tossing on the ocean.” Antonio’s friends
continue:—

“_Salanio._ Believe me, sir, had I such ventures forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad * * *

_Salarino._ My wind, cooling my breath,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour‐glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand,
Vailing her high‐top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Which, touching but my gentle vessel’s side,
Would scatter all the spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing?”

So Shylock, though ready to advance the three thousand ducats to Bassanio
on Antonio’s bond, doubts whether the ships bound to Tripolis, the Indies,
Mexico, and England, may not come to grief. For “ships are but boards,
sailors but men; there be land‐rats and water‐rats, land‐thieves and
water‐thieves—I mean pirates; and then, there is the peril of waters,
winds, and rocks.” Soon after it was spread on the Rialto that Antonio had
“a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think,”
says his friend, “they call the place; a very dangerous flat, and fatal,
where the carcases of many a tall ship lie buried;” and this was followed
by the news that not one of his vessels had escaped

“The dreadful touch
Of merchant‐marring rocks.”

All, however, ends happily, and the argosies, richly laden, arrive in
safety.

Piracy on the high seas in Shakespeare’s days may be said to have been of
two kinds: that which was practically legalised, for purposes of reprisal
on foreign foes, and that which was for private and individual plunder.
How prevalent it was may be gathered from the passages indicated
below.(88)

In _Measure for Measure_ we find the freebooter’s calling satirised in the
comparison: “like the sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the Ten
Commandments, but scraped one out of the table”—that one, of course,
being, “Thou shalt not steal.” Their reckless life is literally described
by Richard Plantagenet in the Second Part of _King Henry VI._, where he
says—

“Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,
And purchase friends, and give to courtezans,
Still revelling, like lords, till all be gone”—

while Suffolk dies by pirates later on. In the same historical play King
Henry again describes his condition, harassed by the rebel Jack Cade and
the troublesome Duke of York, as

“Like to a ship, that having ’scaped a tempest,
Is straightway calmed and boarded with a pirate.”

Queen Margaret in _Richard III._ addresses three noble lords as

“Ye wrangling pirates, that fall out
In sharing that which you have pill’d(89) from me.”

In _Pericles_ Shakespeare introduces the not uncommon episode of a birth
at sea, which occurs in a terrible gale, the mother apparently dying
immediately afterwards, to be later cast into the sea in a chest, and
revive when thrown upon the shore.

And for our last Shakespearian quotation, in _Cymbeline_ we have a fine
description of our own little island and its impregnability. “Remember,”
says the Queen—

“The natural bravery of your isle, which stands
As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters;
With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats,
But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest
Cæsar made here; but made not here his brag
Of _came_, and _saw_, and _overcame_: with shame
(The first that ever touched him), he was carried
From off our coast twice beaten; and his shipping
(Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas,
Like egg‐shells moved upon their surges, cracked
As easily ’gainst our rocks; for joy whereof,
The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point
(O giglot(90) fortune!) to master Cæsar’s sword,
Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright,
And Britons strut with courage.”

Next to Shakespeare in intimate knowledge and power to portray, Byron must
be placed. What can be grander than his well‐known apostrophe to the
Ocean?—

“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain,
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
* * * * *
“Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou;—
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play—
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.”

[Illustration:

“HE SINKS INTO THY DEPTHS WITH BUBBLING GROAN,
WITHOUT A GRAVE, UNKNELLED, UNCOFFINED, AND UNKNOWN.”]

The poet _par excellence_ of the sea, partly on account of the literary
merits of his production, but more by reason of his technical correctness,
was William Falconer, the author of “The Shipwreck,” on the title pages of
all the older editions of which he is described simply as “a sailor.” His
poem, which is in three cantos, was founded on actual incidents in a
shipwreck from which himself and but two or three of the crew were saved.
Again, in 1769 he embarked on board the _Aurora_ frigate on a venture to
the East Indies, but from the time the ship left the Cape of Good Hope no
information was ever received of her, and she is believed to have
foundered with all hands, including the poet. Falconer, although a
disciple of the Muse, wrote a political satire, entitled, “The Demagogue;”
while his Marine Dictionary is, in its revised form, a recognised
authority to‐day. The poem on which his fame rests is remarkable for the
absolute correctness of its details. Take, for example, the following
passage, which could not have been written by a landsman‐poet:—

“A squall, deep lowering, blots the southern sky,
Before whose boisterous breath the waters fly.
Its weight the topsails can no more sustain—
Reef topsails, reef! the boatswain calls again!
The haliards and top‐bow‐lines soon are gone;
To clue‐lines and reef‐tackles next they run:
The shivering sails descend; and now they square
The yards, while ready sailors mount in air.
* * * * *
“Deep on her side the reeling vessel lies—
‘Brail up the mizzen, quick!’ the master cries,
’Man the clue‐garnets! let the main‐sheet fly!’
The boisterous squall still presses from on high,
And swift and fatal as the lightning’s course
Thro’ the torn main‐sail bursts with thundering force.”

And so forth. The fact is, that most readers of Falconer’s poem require
his “Dictionary of the Marine” at hand, or some old “salt” to explain the
constantly recurring nautical terms.

[Illustration: “DEEP ON HER SIDE THE REELING VESSEL LIES.”]

It is not wonderful that so many of our poets have written more or less
concerning the sea, few passing over the grand subject entirely, when we
consider England’s paramount position on and interests in it. A number of
them have produced works in which we seem to sniff the briny ocean as we
read them, while only a minority have written artificially and without a
true feeling for their subject. Much that the Dibdins(91) indited for the
concert‐room, the theatre, and to an extent for the sailor himself, is of
a trivial nature, dealing largely—too largely—with grog and sweethearts,
and more than occasionally verging on the coarse and indelicate. But among
their productions are songs with the true ring, ballads that will never
die while our language lasts or Britain “rules the waves.” Among these may
fairly be counted Charles Dibdin’s “Poor Jack,” “The Greenwich Pensioner”
(“’Twas in the good ship _Rover_”), “The Sailor’s Journal” (“’Twas post‐
meridian, half‐past four”), and, above all, that noble picture of a true
sailor, “Tom Bowling”—

“Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true‐hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many’s the time and oft;
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

“Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather
When He who all commands
Shall give, to call life’s crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom’s life has doffed;
For though his body’s under hatches
His soul is gone aloft.”

Eliza Cook(92) has followed the same vein in her “Gallant English Tar,”
and has also paid a worthy tribute to those hardy sons of Neptune, “The
Boatmen of the Downs.”

“There’s fury in the tempest, and there’s madness in the waves,
The lightning snake coils round the foam, the headlong thunder raves;
Yet a boat is on the waters filled with Britain’s daring sons,
Who pull like lions out to sea, and count the minute guns.
’Tis mercy calls them to the work—a ship is in distress!
Away they speed with timely help that many a heart shall bless;
And braver deeds than ever turned the fate of kings and crowns
Are done for England’s glory by her boatmen of the Downs!”

Perhaps no modern verses are more popular with all lovers of true poetry
than the “Casabianca” of Mrs. Hemans, Longfellow’s “Wreck of the
_Hesperus_,” and Kingsley’s “Three Fishers;” and no wonder, for they touch
a chord in every heart, while vividly portraying the perils of a seafaring
life. In the story of the “burning deck” we have the record of a true
sailor boy, who would not desert his “lone post of death.” And—

“The noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart!”

In the second‐named poem the skipper has taken his little daughter to
“bear him company.” A hurricane rises, and it is the poor frightened child
who alone hears the “fog‐bell on a rock‐bound coast.” She runs to her
father:—

“But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.”

The ship drifts into the breakers and on the cruel rocks.

“At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

“The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea‐weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

“Such was the wreck of the _Hesperus_,
In the midnight and the snow;
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe!”

[Illustration: “AT DAYBREAK, ON THE BLEAK SEA BEACH,
A FISHERMAN STOOD AGHAST.”]

In Kingsley’s poem, “three fishermen sailed away to the West,” thinking of
their much‐loved home; “three wives sat weeping in the lighthouse tower.”

“Three corses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And the sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep;
And good‐bye to the bar and its moaning.”

[Illustration: “THREE FISHERMEN SAILED AWAY TO THE WEST.”]

No more splendid tribute has ever been paid to a neglected hero than that
which appeared in the pages of a popular monthly(93) some years since,
over the honoured signature of Robert Browning.

The year 1692 was specially disastrous to France, and a fleet of twenty‐
two vessels were hotly and closely pursued by the English. The squadron
came helter‐skelter, “like a crowd of frightened porpoises” with the
sharks after them, to St. Malo on the Rance. The pilots who were on board
laughed at the bare idea of their great ships entering the rocky passage;
and Damfreville, the admiral of the fleet, was seriously thinking of
blowing up or burning all his ships, when out stepped in front of all the
assembled officers a poor coasting‐pilot.

“Are you mad, you Malouins? are you cowards, fools, or rogues?” said he,
as he hurriedly and impetuously assured the admiral that he knew every
rock and shoal, and could lead the fleet in safely.

“‘Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there’s a way!
And if one ship misbehave—
Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I’ve nothing but my life—here’s my head!’ cries Hervé Riel.

“Not a minute more to wait,
‘Steer us in, then, small and great!
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!’ cried its chief.
‘Captains, give the sailor place!
He is admiral, in brief.’
Still the north wind, by God’s grace.
See the noble fellow’s face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock.
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,
All are harboured to the last,
And just as Hervé Riel hollas ‘Anchor!’—sure as fate,
Up the English come, too late.”

So all are saved, and the crews see longingly the green heights above
Grève, all bursting out, with one accord—

“‘Let France, let France’s King
Thank the man that did the thing!’
What a shout, and all one word,
‘Hervé Riel,’
As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

“Then said Damfreville, ‘My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
Though I find the speaking hard:
Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships,
You must name your own reward.
’Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate’er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s not Damfreville.’

“Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
‘Since I needs must say my say,
Since on board the duty’s done—
And from Malo Roads to Croisie Point what is it but a run?

“‘Since ’tis ask and have, I may—
Since the others go ashore—
Come! a good whole holiday!
Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!’
That he asked and that he got—nothing more.”

Turn we now to a “new departure” in sea poetry, one partially inaugurated
by the Dibdins, carried on by Tom Hood the elder, and having of late years
William Schwenck Gilbert for its principal exponent. It is often as full
of nature as the serious productions of other poets, yet itself favours
the ludicrous and satirical side. Hood’s “Demon Ship” is a fair example—

“Down went my helm—close‐reefed—the tack held freely in my hand—
With ballast snug—I put about, and scudded for the land.
Loud hissed the sea beneath her lee; my little boat flew fast,
But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.
Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!
What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!
What darksome caverns yawned before! what jagged steeps behind!
Like battle steeds with foamy manes wild tossing in the wind.
Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,
But where it sank another rose, and galloped in its place;
As black as night—they turned to white, and cast against the cloud
A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor’s shroud:
Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run.
Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heaped in one.
With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast,
As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last.
Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;
It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave.
Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face—
I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!
I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine.
Another pulse—and down it rushed, an avalanche of brine!
Brief pause had I on God to cry, or think of wife and home;
The waters closed, and when I shrieked, I shrieked below the foam!”

After battling with the water, and half insensible, he finds himself at
last safely on board a strange vessel; a terrible face haunts him—black,
grimly black, all black, except the grinning teeth. The sooty crew were
like their master. “Where am I? in what dreadful ship?” cried he, in
terrified agony. The answer was a laugh that rang from stem to stern from
the gloomy shapes that flitted round. They guffawed and grinned and choked
to the top of their bent—

“And then the chief made answer for the whole:—
‘Our skins,’ said he ‘are black, because we carry coal.
You’ll find your mother, sure enough, and see your native fields,
For this here ship has picked you up—the _Mary Anne_ of Shields.’”

The transition from the really powerful and dramatic description of the
billows and surf to the ridiculous _dénouement_ is irresistibly and
artistically comic. Hood’s purely amusing pieces are more generally known
than the above. Take as an example “Faithless Sally Brown;” the girl who
so soon forgot her first Ben is modelled on Dibdinian lines, but the
touches of humour are infinitely more delicate.

The popularity of a class of sea‐songs which can now be heard from the
streets to the drawing‐room, and from the fo’castle to the ward‐room, is
creditable to our age. Some of these productions, in which noble
sentiments, expressed in simple and feeling words, are wedded to effective
and artistic music, help to keep alive humanity, love, and honour in the
rising generation. “The poor old slave is free” directly he climbs the
British ship; “the sailor’s wife the sailor’s star should be,” and usually
is; while the story of the poor little wounded “midshipmite” is as
touching in its way as the boy who would not leave the burning deck.

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Our voyages are ended; and we may now peacefully peruse, by the cosy
fireside, the record of the heroic deeds and the startling perils of the
sailor’s career while he is engaged in bringing to our shores the
necessaries and comforts of our daily life. While we stay at home in ease,
let us not forget this noble army of “conscripts, fighting our battles for
us;” and when the tempests howl and the lightnings flash, let us breathe
our heartfelt earnest prayers “for those at sea.”

“Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bids’t the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea.”

[Illustration]

GENERAL INDEX.

_The names of the Ships in the British Navy are printed in Italics. Those
of the Mercantile Marine and foreign vessels are printed with inverted
commas [“ ”]._

“Aaron Manby,” iron steamer, ii. 102
Abbot of Arberbrothok: the bell on the Inchcape Rock, ii. 173
Accumulator, the, for deep‐sea sounding, i. 29, 35
Acephala, iv. 128
Actinozoa, iv. 115
Adair, Captain, killed at Trafalgar, i. 11
Adams, John, a survivor of the mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 248, 249
Adams, William: his attempt to discover the North‐west Passage, iii.
142
Adrianson, Claes: his death at Nova Zembla, iii. 139, 140
“Advance,” Dr. Kane’s ship in his search for Franklin, iii. 214,
233;
the ship abandoned, iii. 247
“Adventure,” the ship of Captain Kidd, the pirate, iii. 56, 57
“Adventure,” wrecked in the Tyne, ii. 210
_ Adventure_ and _Resolution_, Captain Cook’s voyage of discovery,
iii. 277
Africa: diamond fields, i. 210
African Company: slave trade, ii. 33
African Naval Station, i. 202
Agalma rubra, iv. 118, 120
_ Agamemnon_, i. 16;
laying the first submarine Atlantic telegraph cable, iv. 101,
102
Agassiz, Prof.: on the sea‐serpent, iv. 187, 189
“Aid,” steam tug, Ramsgate, ii. 215–224; iv. 246
Airy, Prof. Sir G. B.: the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 278–282
Alaska, i. 169;
Sitka, its capital, 169, 170;
intense cold in, iii. 111, 135;
houses of the natives, 156, 157
“Albemarle,” Lieut. Cushing’s attack on the, ii. 151
“Albion,” lugger, hovelling, ii. 246;
the lugger lost, 248
Alcatras Island, San Francisco, i. 157
_ Alceste_, wreck of the, i. 82, 83
Aldrich, Lieut. P., voyage of the _Alert_, iii. 102, 107
_ Alert_ and _Discovery_: expedition to the Polar regions, highest
latitude ever reached, iii. 99–114;
departure of the ships from Portsmouth, 65, 84;
the _Alert_ described, 92;
The _Alert_ in winter quarters, 104
Aleutian Islands, i. 169, 170
_ Alexandra_, turret ship, ii. 146, 147
Alfonso XI., Gibraltar besieged by, i. 91
Alfred the Great: his ships, i. 265
Allan, Dr. John: propulsion of ships, ii. 80
Almendral, or Almond Grove, Valparaiso, i. 174
“Amazon,” burning of the, ii. 257, 278–290
Amadas, Captain, discovery of Virginia, i. 319
America: its name derived from Amerigo Vespucci, iii. 301;
probably peopled by natives of Asia, i. 139;
its colonisation, ii. 62, 69;
map of Central America, iii. 17
“America,” Pacific steam‐ship, iv. 38
American Arctic expeditions. (_See_ Grinnell, H.)
American railways, iv. 15–20
American sailors, i. 226
Amerigo Vespucci, title of America derived from him, iii. 301
“Amethyst,” action with the “Huascar,” i. 26
Amherst, Lord: wreck of the _Alceste_, i. 83
Ammonites, iv. 143
Amroth, submerged forest at, iv. 199
Amsterdam Island, iii. 257
Amusements: on board ships, iv. 33, 34;
on American railways, 27
Anderson, captain of the “Great Eastern:” laying the submarine
telegraph cable, iv. 108, 110
Anemones: sea‐anemones, iv. 123, 125
Animal life in the Arctic regions, iii. 167, 171
“Ann” wrecked: loss of a life‐boat, ii. 212, 216
Anson, Commodore, at Juan Fernandez, i. 33;
portrait, ii. 45;
his voyage round the world in the _Centurion_, 45–62;
at Cape Horn, 49;
scurvy, 50;
mutiny and desertion, 52, 53;
capture of the “Carmelo,” ii. 55, 56.
Other prizes:
capture of Paita, 55;
Tinian, Ladrone Islands, 57;
“Nostra Signora de Cadabonga,” galleon, taken, 59, 60,
61
Antarctic Ice, the _Challenger_ in, i. 33;
icebergs, 35
Antarctic Regions, the, iii. 276
Ants on board ship, i. 222
Apes at Gibraltar, i. 88, 97
Aquaria, their early and recent history, iv. 114
Arbroath, the Bell Rock Lighthouse, ii. 174
Arcachon, Bay of, its oyster‐beds, iv. 137
“Archimedes,” screw‐propeller, ii. 103
Arctic, derivation of the word, iii. 276
Arctic expeditions, iii. 84–275;
the first Arctic voyages, iii. 115–123;
other early expeditions, 123–129
“Arctic,” steam ship: collision with the “Vesta,” ii. 107;
foundering of the “Arctic,” 108; iv. 283
Argonauta, paper nautilus, iv. 150
“Arizona,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3
Armada, Spanish, i. 283–291
Armour plates and guns, i. 86.
(_See_ Iron‐clad ships.)
Armstrong, Sir W. G.: the Armstrong guns, i. 86
Arsenals established by Henry VIII., i. 282
Artillery, Marine, early history, i. 278;
gunnery of war ships, i. 14
Ascension, Island of, i. 200, 202;
abundance of turtle, 202
“Assari Tefvik” (Turkish) and “Vesta” (Russian) ships: action
between them, i. 27
_ Assistance_, the search for Franklin, iii. 207
Assyrian skin‐floats and basket‐boats, i. 258
“Astarte,” wreck of the, iv. 243
Asterias (starfish), iv. 125
Astrology, modern belief in, iv. 278
Astronomy and Astronomers: the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, Sir G.
B. Airy, Astronomer‐Royal, and his predecessors, iv. 278–282
Atlantic Ferry, the Great: history of Transatlantic navigation, iv.
1;
steerage of a steam‐ship now and forty years ago, 4, 10–12;
different routes of circumnavigation, _ib._;
Dickens’s first trip, 3–12;
dinner in a storm, 9;
sub‐marine telegraph cables: historical notices, 100
Atlantic Ocean: its depth and other characteristics, i. 29;
chart, iv. 88
Audubon: passenger‐pigeons on the Ohio, iii. 167
Aurora Australis, or Southern Lights, iii. 278
Austin, Captain: search for Franklin in the _Resolute_, iii. 207;
“Fox” expedition in search of Franklin, iii. 216
Australia, discovery of gold in, i. 151;
voyages of Dampier and Captain Cook, _ib._:
Botany Bay, _ib._:
Possession Island, 152;
Port Jackson, _ib._;
Sydney Cove, _ib._;
growth of population, 153;
transportation and free emigration, _ib._;
Sydney, 154;
hot winds, 155;
Port Philip, _ib._;
Melbourne, _ib._;
Sydney, iv. 52;
Melbourne: view in Collins Street, 53;
gold, 55
Australian Naval Station, i. 119, 131, 150
Austro‐Hungarian Arctic expedition, iii. 270;
the “Tegethoff:” two years on an ice‐floe, 271
Avatcha Bay and Mountain, i. 131, 137
Avery, Captain, the pirate, iii. 59–62
Avocado, or alligator‐pear, i. 186

Back, Captain: Arctic voyages, iii. 166, 189, 193, 194;
his voyage in the _Terror_;
nipped in the ice, 197;
his address to his men on the _Terror_, 201
Back’s Great Fish River, iii. 217
Baffin, William: his Arctic voyages, iii. 149
Bahamas, wrecking at the, ii. 244
Baker, the diver, accompanying Captain Webb in his swim across the
Channel, iv. 264
Ballantyne, R.M.: “The Floating Light on the Goodwin Sands,” iv. 245
Banks, Sir Joseph: expedition of the _Bounty_, i. 235
Baptism, ceremony of, iii. 4
Baranoff, Captain: action between the “Vesta” and “Assari Tefvik,”
i. 27
Barbary, Pirates, ii. 42
Barents, William: his voyage of discovery, iii. 129–140;
his death in Nova Zembla, iii. 139, 140
Barlow, Captain: discovery of Virginia, i. 319
Barnsfield, Edward: discovery of South Polar land, iii. 278
Barrow, Sir John: Arctic exploration, iii. 162, 166, 169
Barton, John, a Scotch pirate of the fifteenth century, i. 279
Barton, Sir Andrew, defeated, i. 257
Basco, Michael de, the pirate, iii. 19
Bastia, siege of, i. 7
Bastides, Rodrigo de: his expedition to America, iii. 303, 304
Bathing: Nautilus Safety Bathing Dress, iv. 262
Bathing: warm or tepid baths a medium for learning to swim (_See_
Swimming.)
Bay of God’s Mercy, iii. 178
Bayeux Tapestry: ships of William the Conqueror, i. 268
Beachey Head, iv. 231;
French vessel wrecked, 231, 233
Bears in the Polar region, iii. 98, 130, 131, 132, 135, 136, 137,
141, 184, 212, 219, 260, 261, 263;
flesh and liver of the bear as food, 138
Beaumaris, ii. 305
Beechey, Captain: his visit to Pitcairn’s Island, i. 249;
Arctic Voyages, iii. 166, 167
Beechy Island, iii. 98;
relics of Franklin’s last voyage, iii. 210
Beeching, James: his prize life‐boat, ii. 213
Behring, Vitus: his monument in Petropaulovski, i. 132, 135;
his Arctic discoveries and death, iii. 159–162
Belcher, Sir Edward, Polar Exploration, iii. 98
Belemnites, iv. 143
Bell, Henry: his passenger steamer, “Comet,” ii. 95;
his first advertisement, _ib._ 98
Bell Rock Lighthouse, ii. 172, 176
Bells on board ship in indicating time, i. 50
_ Bellerophon_: surrender of Napoleon, i. 212
Bellinghausen: discovery of the most southern land, iii. 279, 280
_ Bellona_: action with the “Courageux,” i. 228
Bellot, Lieut., Monument to, iii. 97
Belvedere, Kent: home for disabled and worn‐out merchant seamen, iv.
273
Bennett, Dr.: his “Songs for Sailors,” i. 8
“Bergetta” plundered by wreckers, ii. 243
Bering Sea, i. 135, 137, 169, 170;
Captain Scammon’s soundings, 138
Bermuda, i. 187:
view from Gibbs’ Hill, 188;
convicts, _ib._;
the North Rock, 189, 191;
potato and onion orchards, 190;
the floating dock, 191;
its voyage out, 191, 194
Berrio: Spanish expedition to El Dorado, ii. 9
Biblical allusions to the Sea, iv. 290
Bideford: Avery, the pirate, living at, iii. 61
Bideford Bar: wreck of the _Woolpacket_, ii. 224;
hovellers, 251
“Birkenhead,” loss of the, i. 73–75; iv. 283
Bishop Rock Lighthouse, ii. 269
Black Beard (John Theach), the pirate, ii. 63
_ Black Prince_, i. 18; ii. 143
Bladder‐wrack, iv. 201
Blake, Admiral, ii. 30
_ Blenheim_, i. 8
Bligh, Captain: Mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 235;
seized by the mutineers, 237;
cast adrift, 240
Blind crustacean from the Atlantic voyage of the _Challenger_, i.
31, 32
Blindness: snow blindness, iii. 182, 239
Blood, Rev. William, survivor of the burning of the “Amazon”: his
description of it, ii. 285
_ Blossom_: Capt. Beechey’s visit to Pitcairn’s Island, i. 249
Boat, ancient, found at New Stoke, iv. 230
Boat improperly hung on board the “Amazon,” ii. 279
Boat voyages of Behrens in the Arctic Regions, iii. 138–142;
of Captain Parry, 179;
of Dr. Kane, 251
Bobadilla: his arrest and ill‐treatment of Columbus, iii. 296, 297,
304
Boers of South Africa, i. 208
Bombay, i. 118
Bonita, a tropical fish, iv. 176
“Bonne Homme Richard”: Paul Jones’s ship, iii. 75
Boobies and Noddies taken by Bligh, mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 243,
244
Books found among the relics of Franklin’s expedition, iii. 231
Booth, Mr. Sheriff: Sir John Ross’s Arctic expedition fitted out by
him, iii. 186;
survey of Boothia Felix, 187
Boston (U.S.): the obnoxious tax on tea, ii. 67, 68;
Boston port bill; the port closed, 70, 71
Botallack Mine, Cornwall, iv. 207, 209
Botany of Ceylon, i. 119;
Cornwall, iv. 213, 216;
Juan Fernandez, i. 34;
Malta, i. 99;
St. Helena, i. 212;
Singapore, i. 144;
South Australia, i. 154;
Trinidad, i. 182;
West Indies, 182, 186, 188
Botany, Marine. (_See_ _Challenger_, Cruise of the.)
Botany Bay discovered, i. 151;
as a convict settlement, 152
_ Bounty_: History of the mutiny, i. 235–249;
discovery of survivors on Pitcairn Island, 247
Boyle, Frederick: Cape Town, i. 204, 208;
diamond fields, 210;
ostrich farming, 210
Boyton, Captain Paul: his floating dress, iv. 261
Brand, Mr., lost in the “Northfleet,” ii. 263, 264
Brande’s analysis of crimson snow, iii. 164
Brasiliano, Roche, the pirate, iii. 3, 14, 15, 16;
his escape, 15
Brassey, Mrs.: Yokohama, iv. 40;
a Japanese dinner, 42;
the “Sunbeam” in a gale, 61;
a wreck encountered, 62;
a ship on fire: fifteen lives saved by the “Sunbeam,” iv. 63;
coral fields of the South Pacific, 75
Bread‐fruit in Otaheite: expedition of the _Bounty_, history of the
mutiny, i. 235
Breakwater: The Cherbourg Breakwater and fortifications, its origin
and history, ii. 188;
progress of the works, 189;
view, 192;
Plymouth Breakwater, 190;
Portland Breakwater, 192;
Holyhead, 196;
breakwater at Venice, view, 188
Brialmont on ships and forts, i. 14
Bridport, Lord: mutiny at Spithead, i. 250
Brierly, Oswald W., Cruise of the _Galatea_, i. 205
Brighton, iv. 229, 232
Brighton Aquarium, iv. 114
_ Brilliant_: the boatswain’s mate at Trafalgar, i. 227;
action with French ships, 228
_ Britannia_, i. 5
“Britannia” training ship, i. 47
“Britannia”: Dickens’s first trip to America, iv. 5
British Columbia, i. 163;
Cariboo Mines, _ib._;
cedar canoes, i. 167
_ Briton_ at Pitcairn Island: survivors of the mutiny of the
_Bounty_, i. 248
Brooke, G. V., lost in the “London,” ii. 294
Brooklyn, New York, i. 195, 198;
Brooklyn Bridge, 196, 198
Browning, Robert: his lines on passing through the Straits of
Gibraltar, i. 87;
his poem, “Hervé Riel,” iv. 301
Brunel, J. K.: portrait, ii. 129;
designs for the “Great Eastern,” 130;
the launch, _ib._;
view and description of the ship, 130, 133;
Thames Tunnel: use of the diving‐bell, iv. 85
Bubble Companies: the South Sea Bubble, ii. 43
Bucaniers, The, iii. 1–59;
origin of the term, 2
_ Bucentaure_, i. 10, 11
Buchan, Captain: Arctic voyage, iii. 166, 167
Buchanan, Captain, of the “Merrimac,” i. 20
“Buenos Ayrean,” steel steam‐ship, iv. 3
Bulkley, Colonel, at Plover Bay, i. 138, 143
Bullata from the Atlantic, i. 32
Burgoyne, Captain, lost in the _Captain_, i. 55
Buxton, Sir Thomas Fowell: his heroism in saving life, iv. 267
Byron, Lord: his references to the Sea, i. 2; iv. 296;
his swim across the Hellespont, iv. 257;
lines on the Straits of Gibraltar, 97;
the bread‐fruit; mutiny of the _Bounty_, 238
Byron, Hon. John: wreck of the _Wager_, ii. 51–55
“Bywell Castle”: collision with the “Princess Alice,” iv. 284

Cabot, John, attempts to discover the North‐west Passage, iii. 119,
122
Cabot, Sebastian: his discoveries, i. 278; iii. 119, 121;
rewarded by Edward VI., 121
“Cacafuego,” treasure ship, taken by Drake, i. 311
Cadiz, siege of, ii. 18;
execution of De Soto, the pirate, iii. 83;
view of the town, 81
Cairns in the Polar Regions, iii. 97
“Calais‐Douvres,” iv. 6
Calcutta, i. 118;
the Black Hole, _ib._;
cyclones, 119, 120
Calicut: arrival of Vasco da Gama, iii. 299;
the city bombarded, _ib._;
view of Calicut in the sixteenth century, 300
California: discovery of gold, i. 158;
Chinamen in, 161;
earthquakes, _ib._;
named “New Albion” by Drake, 313;
“roughing it,” camping out, cooking, 166;
forest fires, _ib._;
cedar canoes, 167;
Sacramento; Oakland, iv. 28;
San Francisco, 29
Callao, i. 172;
Drake at, 310
Calthorpe, Hon. S. J. G.: his “Letters” on the Crimean War, i. 15
Calvi, the _Victory_ at, i. 7
Calypso’s Isle, i. 98
“Cambria,” its assistance in the burning of the “Kent,” i. 69–74
Cameron, John: “Our Possessions in Malayan India,” i. 144, 146, 147
Campbell, Lord George: cruise of the _Challenger_, i. 28, 33, 34,
35, 39
Canadian Voyageurs in Franklin’s expedition, iii. 190, 191, 194
Cannibalism, i. 80; iii. 121; iv. 47, 52
Canoes, river and sea: Vancouver Island and British Columbia, i. 167
Canton, i. 119, 121, 124
Canute’s ships, i. 266
Cape Alexander, Greenland, iii. 249
Cape Bounty discovered by Sir E. Parry, iii. 170
Cape Cod, Discovery of, ii. 11;
view of, ii. 64
Cape Chelyuskin, iii. 274
Cape Constitution, iii. 239
Cape Desolation, iii. 88
Cape Farewell, iii. 93
Cape Flattery, Vancouver Island, i. 163
Cape of Good Hope: its discovery; Cape Town, Table Mountain, i. 203,
205; iii. 282;
Port Elizabeth, i. 204;
Simon’s Bay, 205;
visit of the Duke of Edinburgh, 205–209;
Farmer Peck’s Inn, 206;
diamond fields: ostrich farming, 210;
mutiny suppressed, 256;
first named the Cape of Storms, iii. 282;
Waves, iv. 89
Cape Horn, i. 175, 176;
Sir F. Drake, 309;
Anson, ii. 48, 49;
the pirate Sharp, iii. 56;
view, iii. 277
Cape Joseph Henry, sledging at, iii. 112
Cape Town, Cape of Good Hope, i. 203, 205
Cape York: icebergs, iii. 100;
view of Melville Bay, iii. 228
_ Captain_ (Nelson’s ship), i. 8
_ Captain_, Loss of the, i. 54–59;
cause of the disaster, i. 58; ii. 143; iv. 283
Caraccioli, the priest‐pirate, iii. 64, 65, 67
Caribbee Islands discovered by Columbus, iii. 294;
attacked by Ojeda, 302
Cariboo Gold Mines, British Columbia, i. 163
Carlisle, A. D., B.A.: “Round the World in 1870,” iv. 29, 31
Carlsen, Captain: relics of Barents’s expedition discovered by him
at Nova Zembla, iii. 142
“Caroline:” its assistance in the burning of the “Kent,” i. 72
Carrageen: or Irish moss, iv. 202
Carthage, Ships of, i. 259
Cat, The, as a punishment, i. 51, 52
Catacombs at Citta Vecchia, Malta, i. 101, 103
Catoptric lights for lighthouses, ii. 186
Cavalli (fish) of Juan Fernandez, i. 34
Cavendish, Thomas: his circumnavigation of the globe, ii. 11
Caverns of the sea‐shore, iv. 195, 200
Cedar canoes of Vancouver Island, i. 167
_ Centaur_ at the Diamond Rock, Martinique, i. 161, 187
Centipedes, cockroaches, and spiders in ships, i. 221
_ Centurion_: Anson’s voyage round the world, ii. 45–62
Cephalopoda, iv. 139, 142
_ Cerberus_, monitor, at Sydney, iv. 54
Cerimbra Roads, Monson’s action at, ii. 21
Ceuta, Spanish fortress of, i. 97
Ceylon, i. 119, 144;
pearl fishery, iv. 67
_ Challenger_, Cruise of the, i. 28;
deep sea soundings, _ib._;
work of the expedition, and how it was done, 29;
Captain Sir George S. Nares, _ib._;
Prof. Wyville Thomson, _ib._;
sponges, zoophytes, star‐fish, crustacea, cuttle‐fish; island
of Juan Fernandez, 33, 36;
the ship in Antarctic ice, _ib._;
Kerguelen’s Land; Heard Island; sea elephants, 34;
icebergs, 35;
naturalist’s room in the ship, 37;
dredging instruments, 38;
Inaccessible Island: rescue of two voluntary Crusoes, 39
Chancelor, Richard: his journey to Moscow, iii. 122, 123
Chaplains on board ship, i. 222;
trials of Joseph Primrose, 223
Chard, Joseph: his exertions in saving life from shipwrecks, iv. 248
Charles I. and ship‐money, ii. 28;
his navy, 29, 30
Chaucer’s description of the British sailor, i. 272
Cherbourg Breakwater, history and progress, ii. 188;
view, 192
Chesil Bank, ii. 193, 195
Chicago, iv. 15;
view in Madison Street, 17
_ Chichester_ training ship, i. 45, 47
Chili, i. 172
“Chimborazo” in a gale, iv. 13
China: Hong Kong, iv. 43;
Shanghai, 44
China: John Chinaman in San Francisco, i. 161; iv. 31
“China” in a cyclone in the Pacific, iv. 39;
destroyed by fire, _ib._
China Naval Station, i. 119, 137
“China,” steam ship, iv. 31
Chinese junks at Singapore, i. 147, 148
Chinese obstructions to foreign travel, iv. 5
Chinese paintings, i. 126, 147
Chinese phrases: “Pigeon English,” i. 126;
customs and costume, 127
Chinese waiters on board ship, iv. 38
Chinese Merchants’ Steam‐ship Company, iv. 31
“Chinook jargon,” “Pigeon English,” i. 167
Christian IV. of Denmark: his encouragement of Arctic exploration,
iii. 150;
his ill‐treatment of Munk, 151
Christian, Fletcher: the mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 239–247;
shot by an Otaheitan, 249
Christian, Thursday October, son of Fletcher Christian, discovered
on Pitcairn Island, i. 247
Christmas in the Arctic regions, iii. 103, 222, 224, 263
“Cinco Chagas” (the Five Wounds) burnt by the Earl of Cumberland, i.
294
Cinque Ports, i. 267
“City of Berlin,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3
“City of Brussels,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3
“City of Richmond,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3
Cleodora, a univalve shell, iv. 145
“Clermont,” steam vessel, built by Fulton and Livingston, ii. 93
Clocks: The “Mother Clock” at the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, iv.
282
Clyde and its ship‐building yards, The, ii. 97
Coal: early trade in “sea‐coal,” i. 271
Coal in the Arctic regions, iii. 107;
in Vancouver Island, i. 168
Coast‐guardsmen and their cottages, iv. 232, 234
Cobb, Captain: burning of the “Kent,” i. 69–74
Cobden, Richard: his support of M. de Lesseps and the Suez Canal, i.
107
Cochrane, Admiral: his description of Lieutenant Larmour and the
naval service, i. 216
Cockles, iv. 204, 205
Cockroaches in ships, i. 221
Cocoa‐nut oil manufactories at Sierra Leone, i. 203
Cocos, or Keeling Coral Island: Darwin’s description, iv. 75, 76
Cod: the Newfoundland and English fisheries, iv. 175, 176
Cod‐liver oil a protection to swimmers, iv. 264
Cœlenterata: Hydrozoa and Actinozoa, iv. 115
Coffin‐ships, i. 3; ii. 112
Cold in the Arctic regions, iii. 171, 225, 236, 237, 276.
(_See_ Temperature.)
Colden, C. D.: his “Life of Fulton,” ii. 94, 150
Coles, Captain Cowper Phipps: his invention of revolving turrets, i.
54;
loss of the _Captain_, _ib._
Collins, Wilkie: the pilchard fishery, iv. 173;
Botallack Mine, 207, 209;
Looe, 212;
Cornish hospitality, 216;
pedestrianism, 218
Collins line of steam‐ships, ii. 106–108
Collinson, Captain: Search of Franklin in the _Enterprise_, iii.
211, 214
Collodon, Dr., on the diving‐bell, iv. 83
Colorado: newspapers at George Town and Central City, iv. 27
Colour of the sea, i. 35, 87; iv. 96
Colpoys, Admiral: mutiny at Spithead, i. 251
Columbus, Bartholomew, brother of Christopher Columbus: iii. 285,
295;
his visit to England, 285;
imprisoned, 296
Columbus, Christopher: his landing at Trinidad, i. 177;
history of his life and discoveries, by his son, iii. 283;
his personal character and appearance, _ib._;
voyage to Iceland, _ib._;
first application to Ferdinand and Isabella, 285;
portrait, _ib._;
first voyage, 286;
land discovered, 288, 289;
his caravels, 288;
at Cuba and Hispaniola, gold and tobacco, 290, 291;
is shipwrecked, 291;
return to Spain, royal reception, 289, 293;
second voyage, 294;
disaffection and mutiny in Hispaniola, _ib._;
return and third voyage, 295;
general mutiny, _ib._;
his arrest and subsequent ill‐treatment, 296, 297;
fourth voyage, _ib._;
his death, 297;
burial and final interment at Havana, 298;
his voyage to Greenland and Iceland, 118
Columbus, Diego, brother of Christopher Columbus: imprisoned by
Bobadillo, iii. 296;
made Governor of San Domingo, 308
Columbus, Ferdinand, son of Christopher Columbus: his history of his
father and his discoveries, iii. 283
Concerts on board ship, iv. 35
“Congress” burnt in action with the “Merrimac,” i. 20, 22, 23
Conrad, Chevalier: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps, i. 111
Conus, a univalve shell, iv. 141
Coode: construction of Portland Breakwater, ii. 194
Cook, Captain James: his discovery of Botany Bay, i. 151;
his Arctic voyage, iii. 155, 158;
voyage of the _Resolution_ and _Adventure_, 277;
discoveries, 278;
his career, 318;
his tragical death, _ib._
Cook, captain of the “Cambria:” his assistance at the burning of the
“Kent,” i. 74
Cook, Eliza, her verses on the Sea, iv. 299
“Comet,” Bell’s passenger steamer, ii. 95, 96
_ Comet_, naval steam‐tug, ii. 98
Compass on iron ships, ii. 102
Comrie, Dr. Peter, R.N.: on the discipline in training‐ships, i. 46
Copenhagen, Nelson at, ii. 65, 75
Coracles, or basket‐boats, i. 258
Coral‐islands and coral‐fishing, iv. 72, 73
Coral‐reefs in the Red Sea, i. 117
Corals of Singapore, i. 150
Coralline, iv. 201
Cordouan, Tower of, lighthouse, ii. 157
Cordova, Spanish admiral: battle of St. Vincent, i. 7, 10
Cork Harbour, ii. 308
Cornelison: his voyage of discovery, iii. 129, 133, 142
Cornwall: view on the coast of, i. 297;
sketches of the coast, iv. 207–225;
population, 215;
mines and fisheries, 215, 216;
religion, 223
Corsairs, Gibraltar attacked by, i. 92
Cost of ironclad ships of war, i. 14, 231; ii. 146
Costa Rica: towns and villages pillaged by pirates, iii. 30
Coudin, midshipman of the “Medusa,” i. 78, 80
Coupang Bay, Lieutenant Bligh at; mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 244
“Coupland” wrecked at Scarborough, iv. 254
“Courageux” taken by the _Bellona_, i. 229
Cowries, iv. 140, 141
Crabs, iv. 129, 151, 154
Crayfish, iv. 158
Cricket‐match on board ship, iv. 33
Crimean War, its lessons, i. 15, 19
Crimson snow, iii. 164
Croatoan Island, Virginia, ii. 2
Croker Mountains, an imaginary discovery by Sir John Ross, iii. 166,
170
Cromwell’s Navy, i. 232
Cromwell’s Navigation Act, ii. 30
Crossing the Line: old ceremonies, i. 229
Crozier, Captain: Arctic exploration, iii. 179, 230
Crusaders: their ships, i. 267, 269
Crusoe, Robinson: Alexander Selkirk; Defoe and the island of Juan
Fernandez, i. 33, 36
Crusoe’s Island (Tobago), i. 179; ii. 50
Crustaceans, iv. 150
Crystal Palace Aquarium, iv. 114
Cuba, i. 183;
Havana, 184;
the pirate Morgan, iii. 30, 31;
discovered by Columbus, 290
Culloden, i. 8
Cumberland, Earl of, as a pirate, i. 291, 295, ii. 16;
rich prizes, 292;
action with the “Madre de Dios,” 293;
_ Scourge of Malice_, i. 295;
voyage with Sir William Morison, ii. 17, 18
“Cumberland” sunk in action with the “Merrimac,” i. 20, 21, 22
Cunard steamers: the first, ii. 105, 106;
“Scotia,” “Bothnia,” 109;
success of the Cunard Company, 110
Cushing, Lieutenant: his attack on the “Albemarle,” ii. 149
Cust, Hon. Sir Edward, D.C.L.: his “Annals of the Wars of the
Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” i. 11, 16
Cuttle‐fish, Gigantic, i. 31; iv. 147

_ Dædalus_: Captain McQuhæ’s account of the sea‐serpent, iv. 186
Da Gama, Vasco: the Cape of Good Hope doubled by him, i. 203;
discovery of Natal, i. 211
Dahlgren guns on the first “Monitor,” i. 23
Dampier: on the bread‐fruit, i. 238;
his re‐discovery of Australia, i. 151
Dana’s “Seaman’s Manual,” i. 51;
“Two Years Before the Mast,” i. 48, 158
Dancing on board ship, iv. 34
Danes, Dr. Kane’s meeting with, iii. 253
Danish ships, i. 263, 265
Danites at Utah and Salt Lake City, iv. 25
Darien, the Indians of: Lolonois, the pirate, killed by them, iii.
28
Darling, Grace: wreck of the “Forfarshire,” iv. 64
Darling, Maggie and Jessie: their rescue of sailors in the St.
Lawrence River, iv. 64
Dartmouth, iv. 224
_ Dartmouth_ in Boston Harbour, ii. 65–69;
tea thrown overboard, 69, 72
Darwin: on coral reefs, iv. 74, 76;
on Infusoria, 113
D’Avila, Alvares: his defence of Gibraltar, i. 92
Dawkins, Captain, of the _Vanguard_: loss of the ship, i. 63, 65
De Veer, Gerrit: map of Nova Zembla, iii. 131
Davis, John, the pirate, iii. 16
Davis, John: his Arctic explorations, iii. 127, 128
Davy, Sir Humphry: fecundity of the salmon, iv. 164
Davy Jones’s Locker and its Treasures: pearls, corals, sponges,
diving, iv. 66–90
“Dead‐heads” on American railways, iv. 26
Deal: view on the coast; life‐boats, ii. 229, 232
Deal, iv. 242;
life‐boat, _ib._
Deal hovellers, ii. 247, 248
Decisive voyages in history: Diaz, Columbus, Vasco da Gama,
companions and followers of Columbus; Captain Cook, iii. 281
Deep‐sea soundings: cruise of the _Challenger_, i. 28, 30;
the accumulator and other apparatus, 29, 30, 35
“Defensor de Pedro,” the ship of De Soto, the pirate, iii. 79
Defoe’s “Robinson Crusoe:” the island of Juan Fernandez, i. 33
De Gusman: Gibraltar besieged by him, i. 91, 92
Delorme, Dupuy: “Napoleon” constructed by, i. 226
Deptford: old Deptford dockyard, i. 280; ii. 37;
Peter the Great, 38;
Saye’s Court, 39
De Quiros, Pedro Fernandez: discovery of the New Hebrides, i. 151;
his discoveries in the southern hemisphere, iii. 277
De Ruyter, Admiral, on the Medway, ii. 31
Desertion: from the navy; mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 235, 239;
mutiny of the _Nore_, 254;
the _Wager_, ii. 53
Desolation Island, iii. 279
De Soto Benito, the pirate: his cruelty, iii. 78–84;
executed, 83
“Deutschland,” Wreck of the, ii. 114, 273
De Veer: narrative of Barents’s voyage of discovery, iii. 134, 138
Devil‐fish, iv. 146
Devil’s Frying‐pan, Cornwall, iv. 225
Devonshire coast scenery, iv. 199
Devonshire boys on training‐ships, i. 46
Diamond fields of South Africa, i. 210
Diamond Rock, Martinique: the _Centaur_, i. 161, 187
Diaz, Bartholomew de: his discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, i.
203; iii. 282, 284;
sea passage from Portugal to India, iii. 281
Dibdin, Charles, and his two sons; their sea‐songs, iv. 298
Dickens, Charles: his first trip to America, iv. 3–12
Dip of the magnetic needle, iii. 187
Discipline, Value of; the _Vanguard_, i. 65;
“Kent,” East Indiaman, 64, 68, 69, 71, 74;
wreck of the _Alceste_, i. 82, 83;
loss of the “Birkenhead,” i. 74, 75;
want of discipline in the wreck of the “Medusa,” i. 75–82
Disco, _Alert_ and _Discovery_ at, iii. 92, 93;
“Pandora” at, iii. 95;
entrance to music‐hall, 96
_ Discovery_, Henry Hudson’s ship, iii. 146
_ Discovery_, Captain Cook’s ship, iii. 155, 318
_ Discovery_: departure from Portsmouth with the _Alert_, iii. 84;
narrative of the expedition, 99–114
Divers at work, iv. 85
Divers attacked by a sword‐fish, iv. 84
Diving for pearls, iv. 69
Diving for wreckage: the diving‐bell, iv. 79
Diving dress, iv. 86.
(_See_ Swimming.)
_ Dobb’s Galley_: its expedition to the Arctic regions, iii. 154
Dogs in M‘Clintock’s Arctic expedition, iii. 219, 225
Dogs, Edible, iii. 220
Dogs, Wild, at Tortuga, iii. 7
Dog‐fish, iv. 162, 164, 262
Dominica, i. 187
_ Dorothea_ in the ice, iii. 165, 166, 167
Doughtie, Master, executed by Drake for mutiny, i. 307
Douglas Pines of British Columbia used for canoes, i. 167
Dover, iv. 239, 240
Drake, Sir Francis: the Spanish Armada, i. 284, 286, 288;
his first view of the Pacific, 289, 302;
his ships, _Judith_, _Pascha_, _Swan_; his attack on Nombre de
Dios, 302;
at the Isthmus of Panama, 303;
passes the Straits of Magellan, 305;
his circumnavigation of the globe, _ib._;
natives of Seal Bay, 306;
execution of a mutineer, 307;
his ship, the _Golden Hinde_, 308;
portrait, 309;
treasure ship, “Cacafuego” taken by him, 311;
arrival at Ternate, 312;
at San Francisco, _ib._;
at Celebes, 313;
death, funeral, and character, 314
_ Drake_ taken by Paul Jones, iii. 75
Draper, Rev. Mr., lost in the “London,” ii. 294
_ Dreadnought_, i. 5
_ Dreadnought_, hospital ship, ii. 120; iv. 285
Dredges at work on the Suez Canal, i. 112, 113
Dredging in the deep sea, i. 30, 31
Dredging instruments on board the _Challenger_, i. 38
Drinkwater’s “Siege of Gibraltar,” i. 16, 91, 97
Drowning. (_See_ Swimming.)
Duel of English and French ships, i. 271
Duncan, Admiral, addressing his crew on the _Venerable_, mutiny of
the Nore, i. 253
Dundas, Lord: Symington’s steam vessel, “Charlotte Dundas,” ii. 84
Dundonald, Earl of: his “Autobiography of a Seaman,” i. 216
Dunmore, Lord: life saved by him from shipwreck, iv. 243
D’Urville, Admiral: discovery of South Polar Land, iii. 279
D’Urville, Dumont: Trepang fishery at Raffles’ Bay, iv. 127
Dust falling at Shanghai, i. 125
Dutch East India Company, ii. 13
Dutch fisheries, ii. 23
Dutch naval war, ii. 30;
Martin Tromp, _ib._;
Admiral Van Tromp, 31
Dutch shipping and English compared by Raleigh, ii. 10
Dutch voyages of discovery, iii. 129
Dyke Sand: the Goodwins, ii. 255
Dynamite, its explosive power, ii. 152

“Earl of Balcarras,” East Indiaman, ii. 15
Earthquakes: at Shanghai, i. 123;
California, 162;
West Indies, 186
Eastbourne, iv. 235
East India Company; its history, ii. 11
East India Station, i. 119
Echinoderms, iv. 126
Edinburgh, His Royal Highness the Duke of: the _Galatea_ at the
Cape, i. 205, 209
Edward III.: his fleet, i. 271, 272
Edwards, Captain Edward: expedition of the _Pandora_ to find the
mutineers of the _Bounty_, i. 244–246
Eddystone Lighthouse, ii. 156;
its history, 159;
Winstanley’s lighthouse, _ib._;
Rudyerd’s, 161–163;
Smeaton’s, 164–171;
views of former and present lighthouses, 160, 161, 168;
interior of the light chamber, 171;
portrait of Smeaton, 170
“Effort” on the Goodwin Sands, ii. 247
Egerton, Sub‐lieutenant, in Arctic exploration, iii. 105, 106
Egyptian galleys, i. 259
Eider ducks and their eggs, iii. 167, 251, 252
El Dorado, The search for, ii. 4
Electrical phenomenon at Cape Horn, i. 176
Electricity employed to remove the _Royal George_, i. 62
Ekenhead, Lieutenant: his swim with Byron across the Hellespont, iv.
257
Electric light for lighthouses, ii. 187
Elephant‐hunting in South Africa, i. 208
Elizabeth, Queen: her navy, i. 232, 282;
the Spanish Armada, 283–291;
Drake’s circumnavigation of the globe, 314;
her patronage of Gilbert and Raleigh; present to Gilbert, 316;
encouragement of Frobisher, iii. 123, 124
Elliott, General: his defence of Gibraltar, i. 16–18
El Puerto del Santa Maria, Cuba: taken by the pirate Morgan, iii. 30
“Ely”: rescue of the “Woolpacket,” Bideford Bay, ii. 251, 252
Emigration of Chinese to California, i. 162
Emigration: to Australia, i. 154;
Cape of Good Hope, 210;
America, ii. 62, 69;
Melbourne, iv. 54, 55
Engineers on board ship, i. 224–226;
engine room of the _Warrior_, 225;
rank and pay of engineers, _ib._
English sailors, i. 226
Enisco, M. F. de: his generosity to Nicuesa, iii. 309;
his expeditions, capture of gold, iii. 314
_ Enterprise_: search for Franklin, iii. 211, 214
_ Erebus_, Franklin’s ship in his last voyage, iii. 207
_ Erebus_ and _Terror_ among the icebergs, iii. 193;
discovery of relics, 227
Ericsson, Captain John: his battery in the first “Monitor,” i. 23;
portrait, ii. 97;
introduction of the screw‐propeller, 102
Espinosa, Spanish admiral: his letter to the pirate Morgan, iii. 39
Esquemeling, Joseph, a bucanier: his account of them, iii. 3, 6
Esquimalt, Vancouver Island, i. 163, 165
Esquimaux, The, iii. 117;
described by Frobisher, 123;
portraits, 172;
snow village, 173, 174;
Franklin’s fight with Esquimaux, 195;
kaiyacks and boat, 196;
Dr. Kane at Etah, 238, 251;
relics of Franklin, 225;
plot against Dr. Hayes in Dr. Kane’s expedition, 241;
a laudanum stew, 243;
snow‐houses, 244;
portrait of Kalutunah, 245;
sledges and team of dogs, 163, 225
Esquiros, Alphonse: on “English Seamen and Divers,” i. 42;
on street arabs, 47;
on Lloyd’s, ii. 125–128;
on the diving‐bell, iv. 81, 83
Etah, Esquimaux at, iii. 251
Eugénie, Empress of the French, at the inauguration of the Suez
Canal, i. 115
Euplectella (Venus’s flower‐basket,), i. 30, 32
_ Eurydice_ training‐ship: lost off the Isle of Wight, iv. 227, 228

Falconer, James; his poem “The Shipwreck,” iv. 297;
his Marine Dictionary, _ib._
Falkland Islands, i. 176
Falmouth: its history, iv. 222;
lighthouse, _ib._;
harbour, i. 72
Farmer Peck’s Inn, Simon’s Bay, i. 206
Fat: its influence on longevity, iv. 168
Faulkner, Captain R., in the _Bellona_ takes the “Courageux,” i. 228
Fearney, William, Nelson’s bargeman at the battle of St. Vincent, i.
8
Fearon, Colonel: burning of the “Kent,” i. 69
Female pirates: Mary Read and Anne Bonney, iii. 67, 68
Ferdinand and Isabella: surrender of Gibraltar to, i. 92;
their negotiations with and support of Columbus, ii. 286;
reception of him after his first voyage, 289, 293;
his second and third voyages, 295;
his arrest and subsequent treatment, 296, 297;
their conduct to Ojèda and Nicuesa, 307
Fernandez, Juan: his supposed Antarctic voyage, iii. 276
Ferry‐boats at New York, i. 196, 197
Field, Cyrus W.: his promotion of submarine telegraphy, iv. 98–100
Figuier: on sea‐monsters, i. 31;
foraminifera, iv. 112;
mussels, 130;
oysters, 131;
pteropoda, 142
Fiji Islands, iv. 47
Filey, iv. 252
Fins of fish as organs of locomotion, iv. 159
Fire: The Ship on Fire; burning of the “Amazon,” ii. 256, 278–290
Fires in Californian forests, i. 166
Fire‐ships attacking the Spanish Armada, i. 288
Fish‐life: voices of fish; Do fish sleep? iv. 178
Fish, Anatomy of, iv. 159
Fish‐bladder, iv. 159
Fish: salmon in British Columbia, i. 164, 168, 170, 171;
cod in Behring Sea, 170
Fish: Dutch fisheries, ii. 23
Fisheries of Cornwall, iv. 215, 216
Fish at Juan Fernandez, i. 34
Fiskernæs, South Greenland, iii. 164
Fitch’s improvements in steam vessels, ii. 85, 89
Fitzjames, Captain, of the _Erebus_, iii. 230
Flags of the World, Naval, ii. 1
Flamborough Head, iv. 251
Floating ice, iii. 125, 130
Floating light‐ships, iv. 244
Flogging in the Navy, i. 51–53
Flying‐fish, i. 80; iv. 162, 164
Fogs: loss of the _Vanguard_, i. 63–67
Fog in the Polar regions, iii. 111, 166, 182, 183, 259
Fog‐horns, or Siren signals, iv. 280
Foraminifera, iv. 111
Forecastle pest‐houses, ii. 121
Forest, Submerged, iv. 199
“Forfarshire,” Wreck of the, iv. 64
Fortifications of Cherbourg, ii. 189;
of Portland, 195
Fort Enterprise, Franklin at, iii. 188, 190, 193
Forts and ships of war at Sebastopol, i. 14, 15
Fossil ivory, iii. 162
“Fougueux” taken at Trafalgar, i. 11
“Fox”: the search for Franklin, iii. 215
Franklin, Sir John: his tombstone, iii. 98;
Arctic voyages, 166, 168, 178, 189, 190, 191, 193, 195;
his last voyage, 204;
portrait, 205;
memoir, 206;
the search for, 207–232;
relics found by Dr. Rae, 215;
other relics, 227, 229, 231
Franklin, Lady: her advocacy and support of Polar exploration, iii.
92, 93, 98;
search for Sir John Franklin, 207, 215, 222
Franz Josef Land, discovered by Lieutenant Payer, iii. 272
Frederick William, Emperor of Germany: Arctic expedition of the
“Germania” and “Hansa,” iii. 259
Free‐board of the _Captain_, i. 54
Free Town, Sierra Leone, i. 202, 204
Freezing, The sleepy comfort of: Dr. Kane’s experience, iii. 237
French ironclads, i. 83
French sailors, i. 226
Frobisher, Sir Martin: the Spanish Armada, i. 284, 287;
his voyages of discovery, iii. 123, 124, 126;
portrait, 128
Frobisher’s Strait, iii. 146
Frost‐bite, iii. 171
Fruit at Shanghai, i. 123;
in South Australia, 154
Fulton, Robert: steam navigation, ii. 87–95;
submarine boat, 88;
“Clermont,” 93;
portrait, 95;
his torpedoes and torpedo boat, ii. 149, 153
Funeral at sea, ii. 153
Fur‐sealing: Alaska and San Francisco, i. 170, 171
_ Fury_: Arctic voyage, iii. 172, 176
Fusaro, Lake: its oysters, iv. 136

_ Galatea_, Cruise of the, i. 205
“Gallia,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3
“Gamo,” Spanish frigate, taken by Admiral Cochrane, i. 219
Gann, John: his diving apparatus, iv. 87
Garry Island: Franklin’s flag unfurled, iii. 194
Gasparin, Madame de; her reminiscences of a thunderstorm, iv. 193
Gasteropoda, iv. 139
Gems in Ceylon, i. 119
George II.’s navy, i. 232;
laws against wrecking, ii. 237
George IV.; Lukin’s life‐boat, ii. 210
Georgia, Gulf of, i. 166, 167
Géricault’s painting of the raft of the “Medusa,” i. 81, 82
German Arctic expeditions, iii. 258
“Germania,” Arctic exploring ship, iii. 258, 267
Gerritz, Dirk, discovery of Southern Polar land, iii. 277, 278
Gibraltar, Siege of: red‐hot shot, i. 16, 17, 18;
view from the mainland, 65;
Browning’s lines on the Straits, 87;
history of the rock, 88;
sieges, _ib._;
view of the Neutral Ground, 89;
Stephens’s “History of the Place and its Sieges,” 90;
first taken by England, 93, 94;
Moorish tower, 93;
Spanish attempts to regain the place, 94, 95;
Sayer’s “History of Gibraltar,” 95, 96;
the great siege, _ib._;
the rock described, 96;
monkeys, 97;
Morgan’s attack on, iii. 33, 39
Gibraltar, a town in Venezuela, iii. 20;
taken by pirates, 21, 22, 23, 25
Gilbert, W. S.: his operettas, iv. 303
Gilbert, Sir Humphrey: colonisation and trade with America, i. 315;
Queen Elizabeth’s patronage and present, 315, 316;
voyage to Newfoundland, 316;
possession taken, 318;
Gilbert’s fate, 317, 319;
his advocacy of the discovery of the North‐west Passage, iii.
123, 126
Gilmore, Rev. W.: “Storm Warriors; or, Lifeboat Work,” ii. 217;
hovellers and wreckers, ii. 245, 247, 253
Girvan, Private, a diver: his submarine combat with Corporal Jones,
iv. 88
Glaciers, iii. 155, 166
Globe‐fish, iv. 162, 164
Globigerina, from the Atlantic, i. 32
_ Gloucester_, Commodore Anson’s ship, ii. 46, 50, 56, 57
Goats in Malta, i. 99
Goat Island, San Francisco, i. 157
Goggles worn in Arctic exploration, iii. 110
Going aloft, i. 97
Gold: in Australia, discovered by Hargreaves, i. 151; iv. 55;
in California, i. 158;
miners’ vicissitudes, 164;
Cariboo mines, British Columbia, i. 163, 164;
search for El Dorado, ii. 4, 6;
Frobisher’s voyage in search of, iii. 125, 126;
voyages of Columbus, iii. 291, 293, 294, 295;
of Ojeda, Nino, and De Bastides, 303, 306;
taken from Indians by Nicuesa, 311;
by Enisco, 314
Gold‐washing, Ancient, at St. Domingo, iii. 293
Golden State and City. (_See_ California, San Francisco.)
_ Golden Hinde_: Drake’s circumnavigating ship, i. 308–314;
Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s expedition, 318
Goodwin Sands and Life‐boats, ii. 198, 215;
wreck of the “Samaritano,” 217–223;
“Violet,” 224;
“Fusileer,” _ib._;
Portuguese brig, 225;
other wrecks, 229, 230;
loss of the “Effort,” 247;
“Albion” lugger‐hovelling: the lugger lost, 248, 249;
the sands described, _ib._;
map, at low water, 252;
rescue of “La Marguerite,” 253;
the Sands mentioned by Shakespeare, iv. 294
Gosnold, Captain: first direct voyage to America, ii. 10
Gosse, P. H.: growth of echinoderms, iv. 126;
hermit crabs, 154;
attractions of the sea‐shore, 191;
on the sea coast, 194;
enormous Medusæ, 195;
sea anemones, 196, 198;
rapid influx of the tide, 197;
Devonshire coast scenery, 199;
spinous cockle, 204
Granada: the Moors in Spain, i. 88, 90;
at Gibraltar, 94
Great American Desert, iv. 22
“Great Britain,” ii. 102
“Great Eastern,” i. 13;
its tonnage, 232;
contrasted with the _Great Harry_, 232, 233;
first and subsequent voyages, ii. 134–137;
arrival at New York, 136;
gale off Cape Clear, 128, 137;
its history, _ib._;
Brunel and Scott Russell, 130;
their portraits, 129;
view and launch of the ship, 130–133;
laying the Submarine Atlantic Telegraph Cable, iv. 3, 102–110
Great Fish River, iii. 217
_ Great Harry_, i. 275, 282;
contrasted with the “Great Eastern,” 233
Greathead’s Life‐boats, ii. 209, 210, 211
“Great Michael,” James IV. of Scotland, i. 281
Great Mogul’s ship taken by Avery, the pirate, iii. 60, 61
“Great Queensland,” blown up, ii. 122
“Great Western” steam‐ship, ii. 101, 106
Grecian ships, i. 261
Greene, Henry: his mutiny against Hudson, iii. 147;
killed by natives of Labrador, 148
Greenland, iii. 95;
its colonisation, 116, 117;
James Hall at, 143;
Henry Hudson at, 146;
William Baffin at, 149;
icebergs, _ib._;
change in the ice‐fields, 162;
Sir John Ross at, 163;
portraits of Esquimaux, 172;
a snow village, 173, 174;
view of Whale Sound, 233;
of Cape Alexander, 249
Greenwich: Peter the Great and Halley, ii. 40
Grinnell, H.: American expedition in search of Franklin, iii. 214;
the “Advance” fitted out by him; Dr. Kane’s search for
Franklin, 233;
Dr. Hayes’s Arctic expedition in the “United States,” iii. 255
_ Griper_: Arctic voyages, iii. 168, 169, 176
Grippe, or mistral, i. 107
Grog, Admiral Vernon (“Old Grog”): his grogram tunic, i. 51
Grog on ship‐board, i. 44
“Grosser Kurfürst,” Loss of the, iv. 238
Grylls, Lieut. R.N., a survivor of the burning of the “Amazon,” ii.
282, 287, 288
Guadaloupe discovered by Columbus, iii. 294
Guano ships, ii. 122, 123
Guard ships, i. 44
Guiana, Raleigh’s expeditions to, ii. 8
Guillemard’s “Over Land and Sea”: Honolulu, Fiji, iv. 47
Gulf Stream, iv. 91
Gulf Stream light‐vessel on the Goodwin Sands, iv. 245
Gulf of Georgia, i. 166, 167
Guns: gunnery of war‐ships. (_See_ Artillery)
Guy Fawkes burnt in the Arctic regions, iii. 219
“Gwenissa” wrecked near Tramore, ii. 258;
Ronayne’s bravery in saving life, 257–261

Haddock: “Finnan haddies”; fishing in Scotland, iv. 175
Hakluyt’s lines on the British navy, i. 273;
on the execution of Doughtie by Drake for mutiny, 307;
defeat of the Spanish Armada, 289;
slave‐trade, 297;
on early voyages of discovery, iii. 119
Haliburton, Judge: erection and history of the town of Halifax, i.
199
Halibut, or Holibut, iv. 175
Halifax, Nova Scotia, i. 198;
the town, harbour, lighthouses, _ib._;
history, 199;
“Blue Noses,” _ib._
Hall, Captain Basil, R.N.: “Life in Chili,” i. 174;
electrical phenomenon at Cape Horn, 176;
sharks, iv. 160
Hall, Captain C. F., his Arctic expedition in the “Polaris,” iii.
268;
his death and funeral, 268, 269
Hall, James: attempt to discover the North‐west Passage, iii. 143,
149
Halley’s diving‐bell, iv. 81
Hamilton, Bermuda, i. 187, 188
Hammerhead, iv. 162
Hannay, James, on wasteful expenditure in naval construction, i. 47
Hanno’s voyage to Africa, i. 259
“Hansa,” Arctic exploring ship, iii. 258, 260;
sinking of the ship, 261, 262;
the crew in a coal‐house on an ice‐raft, 257, 260, 263;
breaking up of the floe, 265;
eight months on the ice‐raft, 266
Hardy, Captain, at the Battle of Trafalgar, i. 10
Hargreave, E. H.: his discovery of gold in Australia, i. 151, 153
Harpa, a univalve shell, iv. 145
Harris, Corporal: his diving exploits, iv. 87
Hartstene, Captain: his search for and meeting with Dr. Kane, iii.
254
Harvey, Captain, of the _Téméraire_, at Trafalgar, i. 10
Harvey, Captain: his torpedo, ii. 153, 155
Harwich, iv. 247, 248
Hastings, iv. 236;
battle of Hastings, _ib._
Havana, i. 184;
slave labour, 185
Hawaian Islands. (_See_ Sandwich Islands.)
Hawkins, Sir John: the Spanish Armada, i. 284;
his ships; capture of slaves, 295–301;
his high‐handed trading, 297;
coat of arms, 298;
portrait, 300;
action at St. Juan de Ulloa, 301
Hayes, Dr.: his sufferings in Dr. Kane’s expedition, iii. 240, 241;
his Arctic expedition in the “United States,” iii. 255
Hayti discovered by Columbus, iii. 291;
its early history, 205
Heard Island, i. 34
_ Hecla_: Arctic voyages, iii. 169, 170
Heemskirk, Gibraltar attacked by, i. 92
Hegemann, Captain: Arctic expedition of the “Hansa,” iii. 257, 259,
267
Héhaux, Brittany, Lighthouse, ii. 178
Hemans, Mrs.: lines on shipwrecks, ii. 296;
her “Casabianca,” iv. 299
_ Henri Grace de Dieu_. (_See_ _Great Harry_.)
Henry V., his fleet, i. 273
Henry VII.: Acts for regulating the Navy, i. 277
Henry VIII.’s navy, i. 232, 273, 282;
royal navy first established, 275;
encouragement of voyages of discovery, iii. 119, 120; iv. 288
Hepburn, a sailor in Richardson’s Arctic expedition; his heroism,
iii. 189, 193
_ Herald_ sent in search of Franklin, iii. 207, 211
Hermit crab, iv. 154, 156
Hero of the Humber, John Ellerthorpe, iv. 267
“Héros,” i. 7
Herrings and the Herring Fishery, iv. 168–171;
supposed cabalistic markings of the herring, 168;
mode of curing, 169;
fisheries of Yarmouth, Wick, and Holland, _ib._;
inexhaustible supplies, 170, 171, 250
Hickley, Captain, of the _Iron Duke_: loss of the _Vanguard_, i. 63
Hiero’s floating palace, i. 260
Hirst, Robert: his escape from the _Captain_, i. 55, 57
Hispaniola discovered by Columbus, iii. 291
History of the sea, i. 1
Hoboken, New York, i. 195
Hobson, Captain W. R.: “Fox” expedition in search of Franklin, iii.
216, 226;
his discovery of a record of the expedition, 226, 229, 230
Hodder, Edwin, “Heroes of Britain in Peace and War,” iv. 267
Hogg, James, the Ettrick shepherd; growth, changes, and migration of
the salmon, iv. 165, 166
Holothuria: trepang fisheries, iv. 127, 128
Holyhead Breakwater, ii. 197
Holystoning a ship’s deck, i. 49
Home for Disabled and Worn‐out Merchant Seamen, Belvedere, Kent, iv.
273
Honduras discovered by Columbus, iii. 296
Hong Kong, i. 119.
(_See_ Victoria.)
Honolulu, View and account of, iv. 33, 45, 46
Hood, Admiral Lord, i. 4, 6
Hood, Captain: Arctic exploration, iii. 189, 193
Hood, Thomas: his poem, “The Demon Ship,” iv. 303
Horace: on the Sea, iv. 290, 291
Hore’s voyage of discovery encouraged by Henry VIII., iii. 120
Horses, Wild, at Tortuga, iii. 7
Hotham, Admiral, i. 7
Hovellers: at the Goodwin Sands, ii. 199;
hovelling _v._ wrecking, 245;
services of hovellers, _ib._;
hovellers associated with wreckers, 247;
dangers of the hoveller’s life, 249;
wreck of the “Woolpacket,” 251
Howard of Effingham, Lord: defeat of the Spanish Armada, i. 284
Howe, Admiral Lord: mutiny at Spithead, i. 250, 251
“Huascar” and “Shah”: action between them, i. 26
Hubner, Baron: the passage from San Francisco to Japan, iv. 35–37;
Yokohama, 40
Hudson, Henry: his Polar voyages, iii. 144, 146;
mutiny, cast adrift and lost, 147, 148;
Hudson River, Bay and Strait, iii. 144, 146
Hudson River, i. 195; iii. 144;
its discovery, 146
Hudson’s Bay Company and the Californian currency, i. 165, 167; iii.
151, 154;
the search for Franklin, 207
Huer, or watcher, in pilchard fishing, iv. 173
Hull, E. W.: his device for saving life at the wreck of the
“Killarney,” ii. 315
Hummocks in the Polar Seas, iii. 97, 137, 181
Hunt, Mr. Ward: on the loss of the _Vanguard_, i. 67
Hurricanes, iv. 95
Hydrozoa, iv. 115
Hyères, naval fight off, i. 7

Ice in the Polar Seas, iii. 99–114, 125, 133;
formation of “young ice,” 172;
old and young ice, 172, 182, 200, 260;
“the edge of the pack,” 180;
cutting ice docks, 208;
ice mountains, 209;
hummocks, 181;
Back’s account of the growth of ice, 200
Ice and snow on American railways, iv. 21, 28
Ice. (_See_ Antarctic ice.)
Icebergs, i. 35; iii. 149, 155, 162, 166, 170, 197, 201, 218, 264,
265, 277;
an iceberg breaking up, iii. 129, 133;
narrow escape of Dr. Kane in the “Advance,” iii. 234
Icelandic explorers of the Arctic regions, iii. 16
Ice Point and Ice Haven, Nova Zembla, iii. 139, 142
“Impératrice:” chest of gold recovered by divers, iv. 86
Inaccessible Island: rescue of two voluntary Crusoes, i. 39
Ince, Henry: the sea serpent, iv. 185
Inchcape Rock: bell signal, ii. 173;
lighthouse, 173–176
Indiana, iv. 14
_ Inflexible_, turret ship: its cost, i. 231; ii. 144
Infusoria: their propagation, iv. 113
Ingram: his escape from the _Royal George_, i. 61
Inman line of steam‐ships, ii. 111
“Inverness,” plundered by wreckers, ii. 241, 244
_ Investigator_: search for Franklin, iii. 211–213;
the ship abandoned, 214
Ipswich, iv. 247
Irish moss or Carrageen, iv. 202
Iron and wooden ships, i. 9, 13, 84, 138–146
Ironclad war ships, i. 13, 14, 18, 19, 26, 27, 54;
their cost, 59, 66, 83, 231; ii. 148;
_ Iron Duke_ and _Vanguard_, i. 63–66;
circular ironclads, ii. 148;
rams, 155;
turret ships. (_See_ Monitors.)
Iron steamers introduced, ii. 99, 102
_ Iron Duke_: loss of the _Vanguard_, i. 63–66
Irons’s “Settler’s Guide to the Cape of Good Hope,” i. 210
Isabella of Spain: Gibraltar surrendered to, i. 92.
(_See_ Ferdinand and Isabella.)
Island of Desolation, iii. 279
Islands of the Pacific: Map, i. 245
Isle of Wight, iv. 227
Ismaïlia, on the line of the Suez Canal, i. 110, 114
Isthmus of Panama, Drake at the, i. 303
Ivigtut: visit of the “Pandora,” iii. 95
Ivory, fossil, iii. 162

Jamaica: views in, i. 180, 181;
Kingston town and harbour, 183;
sugar plantations, 183;
Blue Mountain Peak, _ib._;
treasure taken by the pirate Morgan sent there, iii. 50;
the island discovered by Columbus, 94
James II.’s Navy, i. 232; ii. 22
James, Sir Henry: on the loss of the _Vanguard_, i. 67
James Town, St. Helena, i. 212
Japan: i. 127–131;
customs and costumes, 130;
election and revenue of the Tycoon, _ib._;
Fusiyama Mountain, 129, 131;
a tea mart, 133;
Yokohama, iv. 40;
a Japanese dinner, 42
Java, i. 144
Jelly‐fish, iv. 116, 147
Jennings, Captain Henry: a bucanier, iii. 3
Jersey City, New York, i. 195
Jervis, Sir John: battle of St. Vincent, i. 7, 9
Jessop, Josias: Smeaton’s assistant at the Eddystone Lighthouse, ii.
165, 166
“Jesus:” Sir John Hawkins’ ship; the slave trade, i. 299
Jiddah, i. 117;
view from the sea, _ib._
John, King: his fleet, i. 271
John, King of Portugal: his patronage of Bartholomew Diaz, iii. 281
Johns, Rev. C. A.: “The Loss of the Amazon,” ii. 278, 288;
smuggling on the Cornish coast, iv. 210;
search for treasure trove, 222
Johnson, Dr.: on the perils of the sea, i. 42
Jones, Lance‐corporal: his diving exploits, iv. 88
Jones, Paul, the privateer, iii. 71–78;
portrait, 77
Juan Fernandez: Robinson Crusoe’s island, i. 33, 36; ii. 50
“Judith,” Sir John Hawkins’s ship, i. 299, 302
Junks, Chinese, i. 147–149

Kalosh Indians in Alaska, i. 169, 170
Kalutunah, an Esquimaux, iii. 242;
portrait, 245
Kamchatka, Kamtschatka: i. 131, 135, 137;
orthography of the word, iii. 160;
Russian expedition to, 160, 162
Kanakas, as sailors, i. 43
Kane, Dr.: his expedition in search of Franklin, iii. 230–254;
portrait, 236
Kangaroos, i. 151
“Keels” on the Tyne, i. 263
Kellett, Captain: search for Franklin in the _Herald_, iii. 207,
211;
“Fox” expedition in search of Franklin, iii. 216
Kempenfelt, Admiral: lost in the _Royal George_, i. 60
“Kent,” East Indiaman, burning of the, i. 64–74
Kentish Knock Light‐ship, ii. 273, 274
Kerguelen’s discoveries in the Southern hemisphere, iii. 277
Kerguelen’s Land, i. 34
Kidd, Captain Robert, the pirate, iii. 56–59;
his trial and execution, 58, 59
“Killarney,” Wreck of the, ii. 304–317;
rescue of survivors, 316
King, Governor: his description of Australia, i. 153
King crabs, iv. 152
Kingman, Captain: phosphorescence of the sea, iv. 97
Kingsley, Charles: on sailors; Amyas Leigh, i. 43;
Trinidad, Jamaica, Havana, 180, 182, 185, 186;
his “Three Fishers,” iv. 299
Kingston Harbour, Jamaica, i. 181, 183;
the Palisades; Port Royal; town of Kingston, i. 183
Kitchiner, Dr., on oysters, iv. 133
Knight, John: attempt to discover the north‐west passage, iii. 143;
remnants of his expedition, 145, 153
Knights of St. John of Malta, i. 98, 99, 101, 103
Knights Templars, i. 101
Knock Sands, ii. 254
Knowles, Captain, lost in the “Northfleet”: his bravery, ii. 263–267
Knysna, Cape of Good Hope, i. 208, 209
Koldewey, Captain: Arctic expeditions; the “Germania” and “Hansa,”
iii. 259
Kondylostoma patens, a microscopic infusorian, iv. 113
Kraken: sea‐serpent, iv. 149.
(_See_ Sea‐serpent.)

La Cosa, Juan de: his expeditions to America, iii. 303, 304, 307,
308, 309, 310;
his character and death, 309, 310, 311
Lacquer‐work in Japan, iv. 40
“Lady Franklin”: the search for Franklin, iii. 207
La Hogue, battle of, ii. 32
Lake Menzaleh, on the Suez Canal; catching pelicans, i. 112, 116
“La Marguerite,” on the Goodwin Sands, ii. 253
Lambert, James, a blind native of Calton, a suburb of Glasgow: his
heroism in saving life from drowning, iv. 268
Land crabs, iv. 152, 153
Land’s End, iv. 207
Lapland, Dutch Expedition to, iii. 142
La Perouse: his monument in Petropaulovski, i. 132
Lardner, Dr.: steam navigation, ii. 106
Lascars, as sailors, i. 43
Las Casas: his account of Spaniards in America, iii. 312, 313
Laube, Dr.: Arctic voyage of the “Hansa,” iii. 259, 263
Laudanum stew given to treacherous Esquimaux, iii. 243
La Valette: his defence of Malta, i. 102
Lay’s torpedo, ii. 151, 153
Leake, Sir John: his defence of Gibraltar, i. 94
Leeuw, Hannequin, the pirate, i. 275
Leigh, Amyas, the hero of Kingsley’s “Westward Ho!” i. 43
Lentzé, Herr: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps, i. 111
Lesseps, F. M. de: the Suez Canal, i. 107
Letters of Marque, i. 270; iii. 2
Lewis, Richard: “The Life‐boat and its Work,” ii. 210
Lewson, Admiral Sir Richard, ii. 19
Liessou, M.: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps in the Suez Canal,
i. 110
Life saved from shipwrecks; statistics, ii. 320; iv. 262, 267
Lifeboat, The, ii. 209–235;
its origin and history, 210;
Lionel Lukin, _ib._;
Wouldhave and Greathead, _ib._;
George IV., _ib._;
Duke of Northumberland, 211;
Viscount Stratford de Redcliffe, _ib._;
National Life‐boat Institution, _ib._;
Sir William Hillary, 212;
saving life on the “St. George,” 213;
“self‐righting,” 214;
“Aid,” steam‐tug, Ramsgate, 215–234;
“Ann,” loss of a lifeboat, 212, 216;
“Samaritano” wrecked; saving of life, 217–223;
loss of a Portuguese brig, 225–228;
lifeboat and carriage, 217;
group of lifeboat men, 229;
“Providentia,” 230–236;
at Penzance, iv. 219;
at Padstow, 221;
Deal, 242
Lighthouse, The, and its history, ii. 156;
Pharos of Alexandria, 158;
Roman Pharos, Dover, _ib._;
Tower of Cordouan, 157;
the Eddystone, its history and construction, 156, 159–171;
lighthouses of the British Channel, 171;
the “Bell Rock” lighthouse on the Inchcape Rock, 173;
lighthouse on the Skerryvore Rocks, 175–178;
lighthouse of Héhaux, Brittany, 178–181;
lighthouses on land; Maplin Sands light, 182;
Port Fleetwood, _ib._;
iron lighthouses, _ib._;
the lanterns, 183, 187;
tallow candles, _ib._;
coal fires, _ib._;
Argand burner, 184;
reflectors, _ib._;
electric light at sea, 185;
flashing, revolving, and coloured lights, 184, 186;
lanterns obscured by moths, bees, and birds, 187;
St. Anthony’s Point, Falmouth, iv. 222;
Bishop Rock Lighthouse, ii. 269, 270;
Lizard light, iv. 208;
Wolf lighthouse, 210
Light vessel on the Goodwin Sands, iv. 244
_ Lightning_, Scientific cruise of the, i. 30
Lima, i. 172;
Sir F. Drake at, 310
Limpets, iv. 40
Lindsay, W. S., his “History of Merchant Shipping,” i. 3, 266; ii.
11, 14, 99, 117, 119; iv. 10
Lisbon, view in the 16th century, iii. 281
Liverpool: statistics of shipping, ii. 198;
“Liverpool,” tugboat at the wreck of the “Deutschland,” ii.
273, 274
Livingston, Robert R.: his association with Fulton; early steam
vessels, ii. 90–93;
“Clermont,” 93
Living wonders of the ocean, iv. 160
Lizard Rock and Lizard Light, iv. 208, 223;
shipwreck, 224
Lloyd’s: classification of ships, ii. 123;
interior and exterior of Lloyd’s, 124, 125;
history of Lloyd’s, 125, 126;
Underwriter’s room, 128
Lobsters, iv. 151, 154, 157
Lobster fishing, iv. 156
Lobster, blind, from the Atlantic, i. 31, 32
“Locker,” the word; “Davy Jones’s Locker and its Treasures;” pearls,
corals, sponges, diving, iv. 66–90
Loggan Stone, iv. 208
Lolonois, Francis, the Pirate, iii. 16–28
London: statistics of shipping, ii. 198;
Great Storm of 1703, 207
“London,” swamped at sea, ii. 289–297
Longfellow’s “Wreck of the Hesperus,” iv. 299, 300
Longitude, first taken by observation of heavenly bodies, iii. 149
Longwood, St. Helena, residence of Napoleon, i. 213
Looe, Cornwall, iv. 212;
Looe Island, 214
Lord, Major, on lobsters, iv. 151, 155
_ Lord Warden_, i. 59
Lost at Sea: ships never heard of, iv. 283
Low, Captain Edward, a ferocious pirate, iii. 71
Lucas, Captain of the _Redoubtable_ at Trafalgar, i. 10, 11
Lunar halo, iii. 221
Lyon, Capt.: Arctic exploration, iii. 175, 176;
extreme danger of the _Griper_, his prayers for preservation,
177

Macao, i. 121
Macartney, Lord: suppression of mutiny at the Cape, i. 256
MacClean, Mr., C. E., his co‐operation in the Suez Canal, i. 110
McClintock, Sir F. Leopold: the “Fox” expedition in search of
Franklin, iii. 216;
relics of Franklin obtained from Esquimaux, 227;
portrait, 224
MacGahan, J. A., of the _New York Herald_: his account of the cruise
of the “Pandora,” iii. 92
MacGregor, Lt.‐General Sir Duncan, K.C.B., burning of the “Kent,” i.
68, 69, 71
Mackay’s “Popular Delusions”: the South Sea Bubble, ii. 43
Mackerel and Mackerel Fishing, iv. 176
Maclure, Capt.: Search for Sir John Franklin in the _Investigator_,
iii. 211;
North‐west passage found, 212;
portrait, 213
Macquarie, Governor: on the population of Australia, i. 153
McQuhæ, Capt., his account of the sea‐serpent, iv. 186
Madagascar, English pirates at, iii. 62
“Madre de Dios,” taken by the Earl of Cumberland, i. 293
Madrepores, iv. 122, 124
Magdalena Bay, Spitzbergen, iii. 166, 167
Magellan, Ferdinand de: discovery of Magellan’s Straits, iii. 316;
of the Philippine Islands, 317;
battle with Indians, Magellan killed, _ib._
Magnetic Pole discovered by Sir James Ross, iii. 187
Mahoney, Gunner, his swim across the Hellespont, iv. 258
Major, R. H., F.S.A. Arctic exploration by the brothers Zeni, iii.
47
Malacca, Islands in the Straits, i. 129;
view in the Straits, 145
Malay population of the Cape of Good Hope, i. 206
Malay prahus, i. 149
Malay sailors, i. 43
Malta, i. 96, 98;
view, 96;
Valetta, 98;
climate, fruits, inhabitants, 99;
buildings, history of the island, _ib._;
defended by the Knights of St. John, 100;
catacombs at Citta Vecchia, 101, 103;
Maltese cross, _ib._;
sieges, 102;
taken by Napoleon, _ib._;
won by England, _ib._;
scene of St. Paul’s shipwreck, 103;
garrison, 104
Mammoth: Bones of the, fossil ivory, iii. 162
Mangosteen, the apple of the East, i. 150
Mansvelt, the pirate, iii. 30
Manure ships, ii. 122
Maories of New Zealand, iv. 51, 52
Maplin Sands lighthouse, ii. 182
Maracaibo: Lolonois the pirate at, iii. 19;
the town attacked, 21, 22, 24;
taken by the pirate Morgan, 37;
letter from the Spanish admiral, iii. 39;
fire ship, 40;
Morgan’s escape, 43, 44
Margate life‐boats, ii. 254, 255
_ Marigold_, Drake’s vessel, lost, i. 308
Marine artillery. (_See_ Artillery)
Markham, Commander, A. H.: _Alert_ and _Discovery_ expedition, iii.
92, 102, 107, 108, 110
Marquesite, supposed to contain gold, iii. 125, 126
Marryat, Captain, on sailors, i. 42, 44;
ceremonies on crossing the line, 230;
old war ships, 215
Marshall: his discovery of gold in California, i. 158
Martin, Frederick: “History of Lloyd’s and Marine Insurance,” ii.
126
Martin, John Bohun, Captain, lost in the “London,” ii. 291–295
Martinique: the Diamond Rock; the _Centaur_, i. 161, 187
Masquerade on board the _Terror_, iii. 200
Matamana, Cuba; Lolonois the pirate at, iii. 25
Matavia Bay: mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 244
Mauna Kea, a Japanese volcano, iv. 47, 49
Mauna Loa, a Japanese volcano, iv. 47
Maxwell, Sir Murray, captain of the _Alceste_; wreck of the ship, i.
82
May, gunner of the _Captain_; his escape, i. 57, 58
“Medical Life in the Navy,” by Dr. Stables, i. 220
Medina Sidonia, Duke of, commander of the Spanish Armada, i. 288
Mediterranean: Round the World in a Man‐of‐war, i. 87‐214;
“The Mediterranean,” by Rear‐Admiral Smyth, _ib._;
ancient and modern names of the Mediterranean, _ib._, 88;
history and description of Gibraltar, 88;
saltness of the water, 97;
gales and storms, 104
Medusæ, iv. 116, 195
“Medusa,” Wreck of the, i. 75;
the raft, 76, 77, 78;
starvation and illusions of the sufferers, 79;
combats, cannibalism, and murder, 80, 81;
Géricault’s painting of the raft, 81
Mehemet Ali and M. de Lesseps, i. 108
Melbourne, South Australia, i. 155; iv. 53, 54
Melville Bay, iii. 97;
view of Cape York, iii. 228
Menai Straits, ii. 300
Mendoza, Don Fernando de: his ship, “Madre de Dios,” taken by the
Earl of Cumberland, i. 293
Men of Peace: naval life in peace times: the cruise of the
_Challenger_, i. 28
Men of the Sea: how boys become sailors; Amyas Leigh; training
ships; old guard ships; routine and work on board; “watches” and
“bells;” grog; the cat, i. 42–54
Men of War: The _Victory_, i. 4;
Siege of Toulon, 6;
Battle of St. Vincent, 7–9;
Nelson’s bridge, 8;
Trafalgar, 10–13;
iron and wooden ships, 9, 13;
Crimean War, 15;
Bombardment of Sebastopol, 14, 15;
red‐hot shot and Gibraltar, 16, 18;
Ironclads, 13, 14;
the _Warrior_ and “La Gloire,” 18;
the “Merrimac,” its history, 19;
the “Cumberland” sunk, 20, 21, 22;
the “Congress” burned, _ib._;
the first “Monitor,” its engagement with the “Merrimac,” 23,
24, 25;
the “Shah” and “Huascar” engagement, 26;
the “Vesta” (Russian) and the “Assari Tefvik” (Turkish) ships,
action between them, 27;
instruction on board, 49;
officer’s life on board, 214;
ward‐room, captain’s cabin, 215;
between decks in the eighteenth century, 217;
doctors, 220;
officers and seamen of the eighteenth century, 221;
chaplains, 222;
engineers, 224;
American, English, and French sailors, 226;
ceremonies on “crossing the line,” 229;
ward‐room, meals and music, 231;
mess and wine‐caterers, _ib._;
present force of the Navy, _ib._;
cost of ironclads, 231;
history of the Navy, 232;
naval volunteers, 232;
rapid firing, _ib._;
artillery volunteers, 233;
drills, 234;
Royal Naval Reserve, 234;
pursers, their dishonesty, mutiny of the Nore, 250
(_see_ Mutinies and);
Round the World on a Man‐of‐War, 87
Menzaleh, Lake: on the Suez Canal, catching pelicans, i. 112, 116
Mermaids, iii. 146
“Merrimac:” its work of destruction in Hampton Roads, i. 20–22;
engagement with the “Monitor,” 23–25;
its history, 18; ii. 139
“Miantonoma:” monitor steamer, ii. 139, 140;
its circumnavigation of the world, 142
Michelet: his references to the sea, i. 2; iv. 290;
Infusoria, iv. 112;
Medusa, 117;
Echinoderms, 126;
Cephalopoda, cuttle‐fish, octopus, 143
Microscope: “the sixth sense of man,” iv. 112
Middleton, Sir Henry: East India trade, ii. 13
Midshipmen, i. 47
Miller, Patrick: propulsion of ships by steam, ii. 81–83
Milne, Admiral: his report on the loss of the _Captain_, i. 59
Milne‐Edwards, Dr.: his diving apparatus, iv. 113
Milner, Rev. John: Duke of Edinburgh’s visit to the Cape, i. 205
Milton: his reference to the sea, i. 2; iv. 290
Mindry, Robert: his “Chips from the Log of an Old Salt,” i. 44
Mines of Cornwall, iv. 215
_ Minion_, Sir John Hawkins’s ship, i. 299
“Minnesota,” i. 20, 24
Mirage in the Straits of Fuca, i. 163
Mississippi scheme, ii. 42
Misson, Captain: the pirate, iii. 64–67
Missouri river, iv. 16
Mistral, or Grippe, i. 107
Mocha, i. 117
Mocha fleet attacked by Captain Kidd, iii. 56
Mock suns (parahelia), iii. 132, 150, 152
Mock moons, iii. 221
Molluscs: phosphorescence of the sea produced by, iv. 97
Monitors: the first engagement with the “Merrimac,” i. 22–26;
a “dummy” monitor, ii. 138;
the first “Monitor,” 139
Monkeys: at Gibraltar, i. 88, 97;
in Trinidad, 182;
eaten at Singapore, 150
Monson, Sir William: his “Naval Tracts,” his daring deeds, ii. 15;
his captivity, 17;
at the Siege of Cadiz, _ib._;
destruction of the Spanish fleet, 18;
action at Cerimbra Roads, 19, 21;
on Dutch fisheries, 23;
expedition against pirates, 24;
adventure at Broad Haven, 25
Monsoon, i. 129; iv. 95
Montesino, M. de: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps, i. 111
Moon, the. (_See_ Mock Moons.)
Moore, Captain: search for Franklin in the _Plover_, iii. 207, 211
Moore, Lieutenant: his swim across the Hellespont, iv. 258
Moore, Frank: his “Rebellion Record;” the “Merrimac;” and the
“Monitor,” i. 19
Moors in Spain, i. 88, 90, 93, 94
Morgan, Captain Henry: the pirate, iii. 29–51;
portrait, 41
Mormondom; town of Echo, Utah, Salt Lake City, iv. 23
“Morning Star” chased by De Soto the pirate, iii. 80
Morrison, R. J., R.N.: loss of the “Rothsay Castle,” ii. 298
Morton’s sledge journey; in Dr. Kane’s expedition, iii. 239;
the open sea discovered, 239, 241;
with Captain Hall in the “Polaris,” iii. 268
Mounts Erebus and Terror, iii. 280
Mount St. Elias, Alaska, i. 170
Mount’s Bay and Mount St. Michael, Cornwall, iv. 223
Müller, S.: his “Life of Vitus Behring,” iii. 160
Mundy, Colonel: on Sydney, Australia, i. 154
Munk, Jens: his Arctic voyage, iii. 150
Murchison, Sir Roderick J.: his advocacy of Polar exploration, iii.
92
Murex, a univalve shell, iv. 144
“Murillo,” the “Northfleet” wrecked by her, ii. 263–267
Murphy, J. M.: American railways, iv. 18;
salmon of American rivers, 166
Murray, Mrs. William, shipwrecked; “Ten Terrible Days,” iv. 56
Musquitoes, i. 222
Mussels, iv. 129, 132
Mutiny: on the raft of the “Medusa,” i. 79;
at Portsmouth, 225;
of the Nore, 249;
the “Lennie” mutineers, 235;
of the _Bounty_, 235–249;
the crew at Otaheite, 236;
mutineers seizing Captain Bligh, 237;
Bligh cast adrift, 240;
on the _Wager_, ii. 52

Nagasaki, i. 129
Nanaimo, Vancouver Island, i. 168
Napoleon I. at St. Helena, i. 212
Napoleon III.: introduction of ironclad war ships, i. 18
“Napoleon,” steam screw, constructed by Dupuy Delorme, i. 226
Nares, Sir George S.: cruise of the _Challenger_, i. 29;
cairns erected by him, iii. 97, 99;
expedition of the _Alert_ and _Discovery_, 99–114;
portrait, iii. 85
Natal, i. 211
Naukum, a native of Plover Bay, i. 138
Nautilus, iv. 143, 149
Naval architecture, History of, i. 258
Naval cadets, Training of, i. 47
Naval flags of the world, ii. 1
Naval service: officer’s life on board, i. 214
Navigation Act passed by Cromwell, ii. 30
Navy office established by Henry VIII., i. 282
Negrelli, M. de: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps in the Suez
Canal, i. 111
Negroes in the West Indies, i. 183, 185, 188
Nelson, Lord: his glorious career, i. 7, 9, 10;
as a model commander; Trafalgar, 227;
career and anecdotes of, ii. 71;
his encounter with the bear, 73;
Calvi and Bastia, loss of his eye, _ib._;
Battle of the Nile, burning of “L’Orient,” 74;
coffin presented to him, _ib._;
rewards, 75, 77;
Battle of Copenhagen, 65, 75;
portrait, 76;
his body taken to Gibraltar, i. 96
Nelson’s bridge at the battle of St. Vincent, i. 8
Nevada, Silver mines at, iv. 26
“New Albion,” California so named by Drake, i. 312
Newfoundland: possession taken by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, i. 318;
Captain Roberts the pirate at, iii. 63
Newhaven, iv. 231
“New Holland,” early name for West Australia, i. 151
New South Wales, so named by Captain Cook, i. 152
Newspapers in America, iv. 27;
in Arctic ships, iii. 170
New York, i. 195–198;
map of the harbour, 195;
Brooklyn Bridge, 196;
the Broadway, 197;
ferry‐boats, _ib._;
climate, 198;
view of New York Bay, iv. 12
New York to Chicago by rail, iv. 14
New Zealand: Auckland, North, Middle, and Stewart’s Islands, iv. 48;
gold‐fields, 50;
war with the Maories, 51
Niagara, iv. 14;
the first submarine Atlantic telegraph cable, 101, 102
Nicaragua: Lolonois the pirate at, iii. 28
Nicuesa, Diego de: his expedition to America, iii. 307;
his release from his creditors, 309;
quarrel with Ojeda, 311;
fight with Indians, _ib._
Nino’s voyage to America, iii. 303
Noah’s ark, i. 258; iv. 56
Noddies and boobies taken by Bligh: mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 243,
244
Noel, Commander R.N.: on torpedoes, ii. 152
Nombre de Dios, attacked by Drake, i. 302
Nordenskjöld, Professor: discovery of the north‐east passage, iii.
159;
his Swedish Arctic expeditions, 257;
his six Arctic voyages, 274;
accomplishment of the north‐east passage, _ib._;
the “Vega,” _ib._
Nore, mutiny of the, i. 249, 251–256
Norfolk: sketches of the sea coast, iv. 247–251
Norman ships, i. 266, 268
North American naval station, i. 108
North Cape, iii. 169
North‐east passage: early voyages for discovering the, iii. 115–123,
129, 151;
the passage made by Professor Nordenskjöld, 274;
north‐eastern voyages of the Dutch, 129
“Northfleet,” wreck of the, ii. 260, 263–267
North polar regions, map, iii. 89
North Pole: expeditions to approach it, iii. 87;
projected passage over the Pole, 144, 151
_ North Star_, search for Franklin, iii. 213
North‐west passage, iii. 142, 143;
reward offered by Government for its discovery, 154, 155;
Sir John Ross’s expedition, 163, 205;
discovered by Sir John Franklin, 206;
found by Maclure, 212
Northumberland, Duke of: his interest in the Lifeboat, ii. 211;
his prizes, 213
_ Northumberland_, Napoleon I. on board the, i. 213
Norwegians, Arctic voyages of the Vikings, iii. 115, 116
Norwegian ships, ancient, i. 90
Norwegian ships, sanitary arrangements, ii. 120
“Novara” (Austrian frigate), deep‐sea soundings, i. 28
Nova Zembla, Gerrit de Veer’s Map, iii. 131;
Barents at, 133, 137;
Henry Hudson at, 146

Oar‐weed, iv. 200
Ocean, the, its Living Wonders, iv. 111–158.
(_See_ Atlantic and Pacific.)
_ Ocean_, Lord Collingwood’s ship, in a storm, i. 105
Octopus, iv. 148
Officer’s life on board a man‐of‐war, i. 214
Officers of East Indiamen, their privileges, ii. 14
Ojeda, Alonzo de, a follower of Columbus: voyages to America, iii.
301, 304;
imprisoned by Ocampo, 306;
his escape, 305, 306;
another voyage, 309;
fight with Indians, 310, 311;
quarrel with Nicuesa, _ib._;
wounded by Indians, 312;
his strange adventures and death, 312, 313, 314
Old and young ice. (_See_ Ice.)
Ommaney, Capt., search for Franklin in the _Assistance_, iii. 207
Onions in Bermuda, i. 190
Opium‐eating and smoking, iv. 38
Orellana, Don Josef Pizarro attacked by him, ii. 48
“Orient,” steam‐ship, iv. 3
Osborn, Admiral Sherard, on the loss of the _Captain_, i. 58;
his advocacy of Polar Exploration, iii. 92;
his biography of Franklin, 206;
search for Franklin in the _Pioneer_, 207, 208, 210
Ostrich farming in South Africa, i. 210
Otaheite, the crew of the _Bounty_ at, i. 236, 238
Ounimak Pass, Aleutian Islands, i. 171
Owen, Professor R., F.R.S., on the Sea‐serpent, iv. 187, 188
Oxenham, John, his connection with Drake, i. 303;
his embarkation on the Pacific Ocean, 304;
executed at Lima, 305
Oysters, British, mentioned by Juvenal, i. 262;
natural history and cultivation, iv. 130–138;
dredging for oysters, 137.
(_See_ Pearl Oysters.)

Pacific Ocean, its depth and other characteristics, i. 28;
Map of Islands, 245;
discovered by Balboa, 303;
Drake’s first view of it, 289, 302;
seen by the pirate Morgan, iii. 47;
storm in 1865, i. 139;
“patent smoke‐stack,” _ib._
Pacific Ferry, The: San Francisco to Japan and China, iv. 31–40;
to New Zealand and Australia, 45–55
Pacific Naval Station, i. 156
Pacific Railway, Life on the, iv. 19;
scene in the Sierra Nevada mountains, 20;
snow‐shed, 29
“Pacific” steamer lost, ii. 108
Paddle‐boats, History of, ii. 77, 78
Padstow, Wreck at, iv. 221
Paléocapa, M.: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps in the Suez
Canal, i. 111
Palos: departure of Columbus on his first voyage, iii. 293
Panama, i. 171;
taken and burnt by the pirate Morgan, iii. 47–49;
Spanish ships taken by the pirate Sawkins, iii. 51–54;
view of the town, 52
Panama, Isthmus of, Drake at the, i. 303
_ Pandora_ sent to find the mutineers of the _Bounty_, i. 244;
the ship wrecked, 246
“Pandora,” Cruise of the, iii. 91–99
Papin: propulsion of ships, ii. 80
Paraguayan torpedo blowing up a Brazilian ironclad, ii. 154
Parahelia, or mock suns, iii. 132
Parker, Richard, ringleader of the mutiny of the Nore, i. 252–256;
hanged, 256
Parker, Sir Peter: mutiny at Spithead, i. 250
Parma, Prince of, in the Spanish Armada, i. 284, 286, 290
Parr, Lieutenant, his arrival on board the _Alert_, iii. 113
Parry, Sir. W. E.: Arctic expedition, iii. 163, 168, 170;
boat and sledge expedition, 178;
career after his Arctic voyages, 184;
his death, 185
Parsees, i. 118
Pasley, Colonel: raising of the _Royal George_, i. 62
Patagonia, Drake in, i. 308
Payer, Lieutenant Julius, Arctic expedition of the “Germania” and
“Hansa,” iii. 259;
his discovery of coal in the Arctic regions, 267;
Austro‐Hungarian Arctic expedition in the “Tegethoff,” 271;
two years on an ice‐floe, _ib._;
sledge expedition, 272;
discovery of Franz Josef Land, _ib._;
fall of sledge into a crevasse, 273
Payerne’s “Submarine Hydrostats,” iv. 86
Peace, Men of: naval life in peace times; the cruise of the
_Challenger_, i. 28
Pearls from America taken to Spain, iii. 303
_ Pearl_, Commodore Anson’s ship, ii. 46, 50
Pearl oysters: pearls, real and artificial, iv. 67, 68, 69;
history and practice of the pearl fishery, 70
Pearson, Captain, his ship taken by Paul Jones, iii. 77
Peat‐bogs, Falkland islands, i. 177
Pemmican: an Arctic dinner, iii. 210;
mode of preparing, 216
Penguins and their eggs, i. 40, 41, 177; iii. 280
Penny, Captain W., search for Franklin in the “Lady Franklin,” iii.
207, 210
Pensioners, Greenwich, iv. 286
Penzance, iv. 219
Perez, Father, his support of the plans of Columbus, iii. 286
Perils of the Sailor’s Life, i. 54, 67
Perim Island, in the Red Sea, i. 117
Perrault, the Canadian voyageur, dividing his store with Richardson
and his crew, iii. 192
Peru, i. 172
Peter the Great: at Amsterdam, ii. 33–38;
portrait, 33;
in England, 38–41;
receiving a deputation, 36;
Saye’s Court, 39;
rise of St. Petersburg, 41
Petersen, Christian, with Captain Nares in the _Alert_;
his illness and death, iii. 105;
the “Fox” Arctic expedition, 216, 218, 220, 227, 236, 241, 252
Petropaulovski, i. 131, 132;
Avatcha Bay, 131;
scenery, 131, 134, 137;
town attacked by the allied fleets, 132;
double wedding, 135
Pett, Phineas: his improvements in war ships, i. 232;
the _Prince Royal_, ii. 22;
_ Royal Sovereign_, 29
Phillip, Captain, his voyage to Botany Bay, i. 152
Phipps, Captain, his Arctic voyage, iii. 154
Phipps, William, a fortunate diver, iv. 80
Phœnician fleets, i. 259
Phœnician remains in Malta, i. 103
Pholades, rock‐borers, iv. 203
Phosphorescence of the sea, iv. 96, 97
Physalia, iv. 119, 120, 121
Pierre le Grand, the pirate, iii. 7;
Spanish admiral’s ship taken by him, 8, 9, 12
Pigeons: pigeon despatched by Sir John Ross, iii. 211
“Pigeon English” in China, i. 126;
“Chinook jargon,” 167
Pilchards: the pilchard fishery, iv. 173, 216
Pillars of Hercules, i. 87
Pim, Lieut., of the _Resolute_, his meeting with Captain Maclure,
iii. 213
Pindar, his reference to the sea, i. 2
Pinto, Fernando Mendez, shipwrecked in Japan, i. 129
Pinzon, Vincente Yanez, his voyage to America, iii. 303
_ Pioneer_, the search for Franklin, iii. 207, 210
Pipe‐fish, iv. 162, 164
Pipon, Capt., his discovery of the survivors of the _Bounty_, i.
247, 248
Piracy, ii. 235;
pirates at Singapore, i. 146;
Scotch pirates in the 15th century, 279;
Barbary pirates, ii. 42;
Drake as a pirate, i. 309;
the Earl of Cumberland, 291–295;
Captains Quelch and Bellamy, and others, ii. 63;
“Black Beard” the pirate, _ib._;
“The Pirates and Bucaniers,” iii. 1–59;
their early history, 2;
Captain Jennings, 3;
Esquemeling’s account of the bucaniers, _ib._;
pirate vessels, 17th century, 4;
their mode of dividing spoils, 11, 45;
“Pirates of the 18th century,” 59–71;
female pirates, Mary Read and Anne Bonney, iii. 69;
Shakespeare’s allusions to pirates, iv. 294, 295
Pitcairn Island: survivors and descendants of the mutiny of the
_Bounty_, i. 247–249
Pitt, William, of Jamaica, his song on sailors, i. 42
Pittsburg, iv. 14
Pizarro, Francisco, voyage with Ojeda, iii. 309
Pizarro, Don Josef: disasters of his fleet, ii. 47
Plagues in the 14th and 15th centuries, i. 91
Plimsoll, Samuel: portrait, ii. 112;
unseaworthy ships; his efforts, ii. 113
_ Plover_: search for Sir John Franklin, Plover Bay, i. 138: iii.
156, 207, 211;
village at Plover Bay, 156
Plymouth, iv. 224
Plymouth Adventurers, ii. 11
Plymouth Breakwater, ii. 192
Plymouth men lost in the _Captain_, i. 55
Pniel, South Africa, diamond fields, i. 210
Poe, Edgar Allan, his story of a descent into the Maelström, iv. 94
Poets on the Sea, the Sailor, and the Ship, iv. 290–304
Point‐à‐Pitre, Guadaloupe, i. 186
Polar bears. (_See_ Bears.)
Polar region: extent of our knowledge, iii. 86;
a fabulous account, 87–91;
theory of a Polar Sea, 255, 257
“Polaris:” Capt. Hall’s Arctic expedition, iii. 268;
the ship run ashore, 270
Polaris Bay, iii. 107
Polynesia, Map of the islands of the Pacific, i. 245
Ponce de Leon, conqueror of Porto Rico and discoverer of Florida,
iii. 314;
search for a miraculous fountain, 315;
Tortugas discovered by him, _ib._
Pontoppidan, Bishop: the sea‐serpent, iv. 184
_ Porcupine_, Scientific cruise of the, i. 30
Port Elizabeth, Cape of Good Hope, i. 204
Porter’s torpedo‐boat, ii. 153, 154
Port Fleetwood lighthouse, ii. 182
Port Foulke, Dr. Hayes’ winter quarters, iii. 256
Port Jackson, Australia, i. 152, 154
Portland: fortifications, ii. 195;
the Verne, 196
Portland Breakwater: convict labour, ii. 191, 193, 195
Port Philip, South Australia, i. 155
Port Royal, Jamaica, i. 183
Port Saïd, i. 110, 113
Portsmouth, Mutiny at, i. 225, 251
Port of Spain, Trinidad, i. 179
Port Stanley, Falkland Islands, i. 176, 178
Portuguese exploration: King John of Portugal and Bartholomew Diaz,
iii. 281, 284;
Columbus, 284;
Vasco da Gama, 298
Portuguese man‐of‐war, iv. 119
Portuguez the pirate, iii. 13;
his escape, 13, 14
Possession Island, Australia, i. 152; iii. 280
Prahus of the Malay Archipelago, i. 149
Prairie on fire, iv. 22
Prairie schooners, iv. 18, 22
Prawns, iv. 157
Praya diphyes, a Medusa, iv. 117
“President,” devoted to the Naval Artillery Volunteers, i. 234
Press‐gangs, i. 43
Pricket, Abacuk: his account of the mutiny against and abandonment
of Hudson, iii. 147
Primrose, Joseph, a minister on board the “Polly”: his trials, i.
223
_ Prince Royal_, built for James II., ii. 22
“Princess Alice” lost in the Thames, iv. 282
“Princess Alice” on Goodwin Sands, ii. 251
Pringle, Admiral: mutiny at the Cape, i. 256
Printing presses in Arctic ships, iii. 103
Protozoa, iv. 111
Pteropoda, iv. 139, 142
Puerto Bello taken by the pirate Morgan, iii. 33
Pullen, Captain: search for Franklin in the _Herald_, iii. 211;
in the _North Star_, 213
Pullman railway car, iv. 16
Purpura lapillus: a univalve shell, iv. 145

Quarles, Francis; lines on the sea, iv. 290
Quatrefages, M.: the lighthouse of Héhaux, Brittany, ii. 178;
Hydrozoa, iv. 118
Queen Charlotte’s Island, i. 167
“Quieda Merchant,” Moorish ship, taken by Captain Kidd, iii. 57

Rae, W. F.: his account of California, i. 158;
the Rocky Mountains, iv. 21
Rae, Dr.: relics of Franklin’s last voyage found by him, iii. 215
Raffles, Sir Stamford, at Singapore, i. 143
Rafts: timber‐rafts at Singapore, i. 146;
raft of the “Medusa,” i. 76–82;
Géricault’s painting, 81;
foundering of the “Arctic,” ii. 108
Rain in the Arctic regions, iii. 182
Raleigh, Sir Walter: the Spanish Armada, i. 285;
colonisation and trade with America, 315;
Queen Elizabeth’s patronage, 316;
“Bark Raleigh,” _ib._;
colonisation of Virginia, ii. 2;
search for El Dorado, 4;
arrival at Trinidad, 4, 33;
portrait, 5;
mountains of Guiana; river Orinoco, 8;
fabulous tales, _ib._;
his observations on trade and the state of the navy, 10
Ralph the Rover: the bell of the Inchcape Rock, ii. 173
Rams of ironclads: loss of the _Vanguard_ and “Grosser Kurfürst,”
ii. 155
Ramsay, David, patents for steam‐ships, ii. 79
Ramsgate: iv. 241;
wrecks on the Goodwin Sands, ii. 212–235;
map of Ramsgate and the Goodwin Sands at low water, 252
Ramsgate Life‐boat and the “Aid” steam‐tug, ii. 215
“Ranger,” Paul Jones’s ship, iii. 72, 75
Rats on board ship, i. 222;
on the sea‐coast, iv. 197;
on Looe Island, 214
Raw meat: its medicinal value in Arctic regions, iii. 244
Rawson, Lieut., in Arctic exploration, iii. 102, 105, 106, 107
Razor‐fish, iv. 128, 129
Red‐hot shot, first record of, i. 91;
at Sebastopol, 16;
at Gibraltar, 16, 18
Red Sea, i. 115;
passage of the Israelites, _ib._;
its name; coral and animalculæ, 117;
islands, _ib._
_ Redoubtable_, at Trafalgar, i. 10, 11, 12
Reed, Sir E. J.: cost of ironclad war‐ships, i. 14;
designer of the _Iron Duke_ and _Vanguard_, 67;
big guns and armour plates, 6;
“Our Ironclad Ships,” ii. 144, 146
Reindeer in Spitzbergen, iii. 167;
at Hammerfest, 179;
venison, 246
Relics brought back by the Franklin search expedition, iii. 229
Renaud, M.: his co‐operation with M. de Lesseps in the Suez Canal,
i. 110
Rendel, J. R., C.E.: his co‐operation in the Suez Canal, i. 110;
Portland breakwater, ii. 194
Rennie, James: his advocacy of steam war‐vessels, ii. 98
Rennie, John: the Bell Rock lighthouse, ii. 173, 176;
Plymouth breakwater, 190;
his use of the diving bell, iv. 81
Rensselaer Harbour: winter quarters of Dr. Kane in the “Advance,”
iii. 235
_ Rescue_: the search for Franklin, iii. 214
_ Resolute_: the search for Franklin, iii. 207
_ Resolution_: Arctic voyages, iii. 155
_ Resolution_ and _Adventure_: Captain Cook’s voyage of discovery,
iii. 277
Restoration Island named by Lieutenant Bligh: mutiny of the
_Bounty_, i. 244
Reticulosa, iv. 111
Reynaud, M.: Héhaux lighthouse, Brittany, ii. 178–181
Rhizopoda, iv. 111
Rhodosperms, iv. 200
Richard I., first maritime code, i. 268;
laws against wrecking, ii. 237
Richardson, Sir John: portrait, iii. 185;
his adventure with wolves, 189, 190;
his attempt to swim the Coppermine River, iii. 191, 193
Riou, Capt., his death at Copenhagen, i. 152
Roanoake; its colonisation, ii. 2
“Roanoake,” i. 20
Robber crab, iv. 152
“Robert J. Stockton,” iron steam‐ship, ii. 103, 104
Roberts, Captain Bartholomew, the pirate, iii. 63, 64
Roberts, Lady: her help in the wreck of the “Killarney,” ii. 314,
317
Robin Hood’s Bay, iv. 256
Robinson Crusoe: the island of Juan Fernandez, i. 33–36
“Rob Roy:” Napier’s steam‐vessel, ii. 98
Rock‐borers, iv. 203
Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Railway, iv. 21
Rodney’s naval victory, i. 186
Rôles d’Oleron: laws against wrecking, ii. 237
Roman ships and galleys, i. 261
Ronayne, John: his bravery in saving life, ii. 257–261
Rooke, Sir George: Gibraltar taken by him, i. 94
Rose, Richard: his life‐buoy seat, iv. 262
Ross, Sir John: portrait, iii. 161;
his Arctic voyages, 163;
his voyage in the _Victory_, 186;
search for Franklin in the _Felix_, 207
Ross, Sir James Clarke: Arctic voyage, iii. 163;
Arctic exploration, 179, 181, 184;
discovery of the magnetic pole, 187;
“Fox” expedition in search of Franklin, 216, 225;
discovery of the South Polar Land; Victoria Land, Possession
Island, and Mount Erebus, 280
“Rothsay Castle,” wreck of the, ii. 288, 297–304
Round the World on a Man‐of‐war, i. 87–214
“Round the World in Eighty Days,” iv. 1
_ Royal George_, loss of the, i. 59–62;
its removal by Colonel Pasley, 62;
diving operations, iv. 86
Royal Humane Society, iv. 263
Royal Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 278–282
_ Royal Sovereign_, Charles I.’s ship, ii. 29
_ Royal Sovereign_, i. 5
Rudyerd, John, second Eddystone Lighthouse, ii. 161;
destroyed by fire, 160, 163;
death of a keeper, _ib._
Russell, J. Scott, F.R.S., “The Fleet of the Future: Iron or Wood,”
i. 85; ii. 101;
portrait, 129;
construction of the “Great Eastern,” 130
Russian America, Alaska, i. 169, 170
Russian Arctic Explorations, iii. 185
Russian attempts to discover the north‐west passage, iii. 159;
Russian Arctic voyages, 159–162
Russian ironclads, i. 83

Saba Island, West Indies, i. 185
Sabine; Arctic expedition, iii. 163, 170
Saïd Pacha and M. de Lesseps, i. 108
Sailors: Lascars, Malays, and Kanakas, i. 43;
Devonshire boys on training ships, 46;
rating of sailors (able, ordinary, and boys), 51;
their hardships, 53;
flogging, 51–53;
perils of the sailor’s life, 54;
their conduct on board the _Terror_, iii. 199.
(_See_ Discipline.)
St. Catherine’s Island, taken by the pirate Morgan, iii. 45
St. Domingo: drawing by Columbus of its discovery, iii. 292;
early gold‐washing at, 293;
war, mutiny, and famine, 295;
Diego Columbus made governor, 308
St. Elias, Mount, Alaska, i. 170
St. George’s Island, Bermuda, i. 187, 189
St. Helena, i. 212, 213
St. John’s, Newfoundland: possession taken by Sir Humphrey Gilbert,
i. 318
St. Juan de Ulloa, Sir John Hawkins’s action at, i. 299, 301
“St. Lawrence,” i. 20
St. Lucia, i. 187
St. Paul’s travels; his shipwreck at Malta, i. 103, 104
“St. Valentine,” treasure‐ship, taken by Monson, ii. 21
St. Vincent, Battle of, i. 7, 8, 9
St. Vincent, Lord: suppression of the mutiny on the _St. George_, i.
256;
portrait, 257
Salmon, the, its natural history, iv. 163–168;
parr, smolt, grilse, _ib._;
abundance of its ova, 164;
tinned salmon from America, 166
Salmon: fisheries of California, Vancouver’s Island, British
Columbia, Alaska, i. 164, 168, 170, 171, 202;
mode of curing, iv. 167;
salmon leaps, _ib._
Saltness of the sea, i. 87, 97; iv. 90
Salt Lake, Great; Salt Lake City, iv. 23;
Cape Douglas garrison, 24, 25;
street in the city, 25
Salvador, i. 8
“Salvador del Mundi,” i. 9
“Samaritano,” wrecked on the Goodwin Sands; Margate and Ramsgate
lifeboats, ii. 217–223
Samphire, iv. 231, 233
Sandgate: loss of the “Grosser Kurfürst,” iv. 238
Sandwich: seal of the town, i. 274
Sandwich in the mutiny of the Nore, i. 252
Sandwich Islands: Honolulu; the king, iv. 45;
the ex‐queen Emma, 46;
sugar cultivation, _ib._;
volcanoes, 47
Sandy Hook Light, New York, i. 196
San Francisco: the bay; its entrance, the “Golden Gate,” i. 157;
the city, 158;
its history, _ib._;
society, 161;
view of the bay, 160;
a timber wharf, 156;
“John Chinaman” in San Francisco, 161;
Chinese theatres, _ib._;
earthquakes, 162; iv. 29, 30;
Drake at, i. 313
San Joseph, i. 8
San Juan Island, i. 166;
British camp, i. 165
“San Nicolas,” i. 8
San Salvador, the first land in the New World discovered by
Columbus, iii. 288
Santangel, his support of the plans of Columbus, iii. 286
Santiago, i. 172
“Santissima Trinidada,” i. 8, 10
Saracens, their ships, i. 269
Sardines: mode of fishing for, iv. 174
“Savannah,” the Atlantic first crossed by her, ii. 105
Saving life at sea. (_See_ Hovellers, Life, and Lifeboats.)
Saw‐fish, iv. 162
Sawkins, Captain, the pirate, iii. 51–55
Scaliger, J. C.: history of paddle‐boats, ii. 78
Scallops, iv. 138, 140
Scammon, Captain, soundings in Behring Sea, i. 138
Scandinavian early explorers of the Arctic regions, iii. 116
Scarborough: iv. 253;
shipwrecks, loss of the “Coupland,” 254
“Schiller,” loss of the, ii. 267
School on board the “Fox” in the Arctic regions, iii. 219
Scilly Islands, ii. 268–270
Scoresby: changes in the Greenland ice‐fields, iii. 163, 178
Scotland, pearl fisheries of, iv. 71
Scott, Mr.: buried at sea in the “Fox” Arctic expedition, iii. 221
Screw‐propeller, history of its invention, ii. 102
Screw steamer, plan and section of stern, ii. 101
Scurvy: on board in Anson’s fleet, ii. 50, 119;
in the expedition of the _Alert_ and _Discovery_, iii. 106,
107, 111, 114;
in Munk’s Arctic voyage, 150;
in Vitus Behring, Ischirikoff, and Parry’s voyages, 161, 162,
176;
in Dr. Kane’s expedition, 239
Sea, the: its living wonders, iv. 111;
its saltness, agitation, and waves, iv. 90;
the Gulf Stream, 91;
tides, 92;
its colour and phosphorescence, 96, 97
Sea‐anemones, iv. 123, 196–198
Sea coasts: “Sketches of our Coasts,” Cornwall, iv. 207–225;
South coasts, 225–247;
East coasts, Norfolk, Yorkshire, 247
Sea of Ancient Ice, voyage of the _Alert_, iii. 101
Sea‐cucumber, iv. 126, 128
Sea‐elephants, i. 34; iii. 279
Sea‐shore: “By the Sea‐shore,” iv. 190–207;
calm and storm, 192
“Sea‐goers” in guard‐ships, i. 45
Sea‐horse, iii. 155, 156; iv. 162
Sea‐lion, iv. 188
Seamen. (_See_ Sailors.)
Sea‐monsters, fabulous, i. 31
Sea‐polyps from the Atlantic: voyage of the _Challenger_, i. 31
Sea‐serpent: various accounts of it, drawings, conjectures, and
probabilities, iv. 184–190
Sea‐sickness, i. 50
Sea‐sickness and remedies, iv. 6, 7
Sea songs and poems, by Dibdin and others, i. 8, 42; iv. 298–304
Sea‐trees, Falkland Islands, i. 178
Sea‐urchins, sea‐slugs, iv. 125
Sea‐weeds, iv. 200
Seal of the town of Sandwich, i. 274
Seals: on inaccessible island, i. 40;
their flesh as food, iii. 94, 217–219, 251
Sebastopol, siege and bombardment of, i. 14, 15
Selkirk, Alexander, on the island of Juan Fernandez, i. 33
Selkirk, Lady: plate taken from her by Paul Jones, iii. 73, 74;
returned five years afterwards, 75
“Serapis” taken by Paul Jones, iii. 77
Seton, Major: loss of the “Birkenhead,” i. 71
_ Severn_: Commodore Anson’s ship, ii. 46, 50
“Shah” and “Huascar:” action between them, i. 26
Shakespeare’s allusions to the sea, iv. 291–295;
“The Tempest,” 292;
“Merchant of Venice,” 294;
“Measure for Measure,” Henry VI. part ii., “Richard III.,”
“Pericles,” “Cymbeline,” “Antony and Cleopatra,” “Hamlet,” 295
Shakespeare’s Cliff, iv. 240
Shanghai, i. 122, 125
Sharks and Shark Fishing, iv. 160;
common shark; tiger shark, 161;
the shark worshipped in Africa, 162
Sharp, Captain, the pirate, iii. 55
Shells, Univalve, iv. 139
“Shenandoah:” her exploits in the American war, i. 139;
American whale ships burnt, iii. 157
Sheshaldinski, Peak of, Aleutian Islands, i. 171
Ships and shipping interests, History of, i. 258–ii. 156
Ship‐building, History of. (_See_ Naval Architecture.)
Ship‐money raised by Charles I., ii. 28
Shipwrecks and their lessons, ii. 297
Shipwrecks; Falconer’s poem, iv. 297
Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society, iv. 226, 249, 258, 272
Shrimps, iv. 158
Sieges of Gibraltar, i. 90
Sierra Leone, i. 202, 204;
Drake at, 314
Sierra Nevada, iv. 20, 27, 28;
snow‐shed, 29
Siffante, south‐west wind, i. 107
Signals of distress, ii. 266, 275; iv. 289;
necessity for electric communication, ii. 277
Sigurd, King, the crusader, at Gibraltar, i. 90
Silver Mines in Nevada, iv. 26
Simon’s Town, Cape of Good Hope, i. 206
Singapore, i. 143;
spices, foliage, fruit, climate, 145, 146;
scenery and commerce, 147;
new harbour, 146, 147;
corals, 150;
Kling gharry drivers, 150;
tiger hunting, _ib._;
views, 152, 153
Singhapura, Strait pirates, i. 146
Sinope, Battle of, i. 15
Siren signals, iv. 289
“Sirius,” ii. 106
Sirocco, i. 107
Sitka, the capital of Alaska, i. 169, 170
Skeletons of Franklin’s crews found by McClintock, iii. 230
Skerryvore Lighthouse, ii. 175–178
Slave‐trade: established, i. 295;
slaves taken by Sir John Hawkins, _ib._;
the African Company, ii. 33;
views of Columbus on slavery, iii. 295, 302;
slaves from America taken to Spain by Columbus and others,
295, 302, 307
Sledges in Arctic exploration, iii. 99–114, 133;
sledge journeys by McClintock, iii. 225;
by Morton, in Dr. Kane’s Arctic expedition, 239;
by Dr. Kane’s, 248;
by Capt. Parry’s, 179;
by Lieut. Payer’s, 272
Sleep in the Arctic regions, iii. 251
Sleepy comfort of freezing: Dr. Kane’s experience, iii. 237
Slip water bottles, for deep‐sea sounding, i. 29, 38
Smeaton, John: biographical notice, ii. 164;
third Eddystone lighthouse, 165;
portrait, 170;
diving bell, iv. 81
Smiles, Samuel: Smeaton and the Eddystone Lighthouse, ii. 164, 170;
Plymouth Breakwater, 191
Smith, Sir Sidney, i. 6
Smith, William, Discovery of South Polar Land, iii. 278
Smith’s Sound, view in, iii. 149;
discovered by Baffin, 150;
explored by Dr. Kane, 233
“Smoke‐stack, Patent,” on the “G. S. Wright,” i. 141
Smuggling, iv. 210, 234
Smyth, Rear‐Admiral: “The Mediterranean,” i. 87
Snow and ice: on American railways, iv. 21, 28;
at Plover Bay, i. 139;
crimson snow, iii. 164.
(_And see_ Ice.)
Snow‐blindness, iii. 179, 182, 239
Snow houses, iii. 244
Snow village in Greenland, iii. 173, 174
“Sofia,” Swedish Arctic expedition, iii. 257
Soldier crab, iv. 154
Soldiers at sea; burning of the “Kent,” i. 69, 70, 72;
loss of the “Birkenhead,” 74, 75;
wreck of the “Medusa,” 77, 78, 79, 80
Solen or razor‐fish, iv. 128, 129
Songs, Naval, i. 42, 43
“Souffleur, The,” or the Blower. Mauritius, iv. 95
Southampton, iv. 225
South‐east American Station, i. 175
South Sea Bubble, ii. 42–44
South Virginia Company: colonisation of America, ii. 11
Southey’s “Life of Nelson,” i. 8, 10;
“British Admirals,” 274, 275, 278;
defeat of the Armada, 290;
Sir John Hawkins and the slave‐trade, 298;
Drake’s circumnavigation of the globe, 314;
anecdotes of Drake, 315;
exploits of Sir William Monson, ii. 19;
sea anemones, iv. 197
_ Sovereign of the Seas_, launched by Phineas Pett, i. 232
Spalding’s diving‐bell, its failure, and his death, iv. 81
Spanish Armada defeated, i. 283–291
Spanish galleons taken during the Commonwealth, ii. 31;
taken by Alison, 59–61; iii. 3
Spanish expedition to El Dorado, ii. 9
_ Speedy_, commanded by Admiral Cochrane, i. 219;
action with the Spanish frigate “Gamo,” _ib._
Spiders in ships, i. 221
Spinola: action at Cerimbra Roads, ii. 19, 21
Spinous cockle, iv. 204
Spithead, mutiny at, i. 251
Spitzbergen: discovery of, iii. 142;
Magdalena Bay, 166, 167;
animal life in, 167, 257
Spolasco, Dr.: wreck of the “Killarney,” ii. 305
Spondylus, iv. 138, 140
Sponges: “Venus’s Flower‐basket,” i. 30, 32;
sponge fishing off the coast of Greece, iv. 65, 77
Sprat, iv. 173
Spray of the ocean, iv. 92
Spry, W. J. J., R.N.: cruise of the _Challenger_, i. 28
Squat lobsters, iv. 158
“Squirrel,” Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s ship, i. 318
Stables, Dr., R.N., on the punishment of the “cat,” i. 52, 53;
“Medical Life in the Navy,” i. 220
Staines, Sir Thomas: his discovery of the survivors of the _Bounty_,
i. 247, 248
Stamp Act in America, ii. 66
Star‐fish from the Atlantic; voyage of the _Challenger_, i. 31; iv.
125, 128
Stations, Naval: American, i. 102;
Pacific, 156;
Australian, 119, 131, 150;
China, 119, 137;
East India, 119;
Southeast American, 175;
West Indian, 178;
North American, 198;
African, 202
Steam‐power essential in deep‐sea sounding, i. 29, 30
Steam as a motive‐power for ships: early history, ii. 79–97
Steam‐ships first used for Arctic exploration, iii. 186
Steam war‐ships first introduced, i. 225
Steel ships, i. 84
Stephens, F. G.: “History of Gibraltar and its Sieges,” i. 90
Stephenson, Captain H. F.: winter quarters of the _Discovery_, iii.
100, 101;
_ Alert_ and _Discovery_ expedition, iii. 92
Stevenson, Allan: the Skerryvore lighthouse, ii. 175–178;
revolving and other lights, 186
Stevenson, Robert, Rennie’s assistant at the Bell Rock Lighthouse,
ii. 175
Stewart, Captain A.: search for Franklin, iii. 207
Stirling, J. D. Morriss, on the sea‐serpent, iv. 187, 189
Storms: the great gale of 1703;
Defoe’s account, ii. 199–209;
other accounts, 201, 202, 203;
“The Storm,” “After the Storm,” and other illustrations, iv.
292, 293, 296, 297, 300, 301
Straits of Gibraltar: scenery, i. 97
Stratford de Redcliffe, Viscount: his verses on the lifeboat, ii.
211
Strombus, a univalve shell, iv. 144
Sturgeon and its roe; caviare, iv. 162
Submarine telegraph cables, iv. 98
Submerged forest, iv. 199
Suez, i. 110, 114, 115
Suez Canal: procession of ships at its opening, i. 97;
M. de Lesseps’ published works on the Canal; its origin and
completion, i. 107–115;
statistics, 115;
bird’s‐eye view, 109
Sugar plantations, Jamaica, i. 183
Sun, The. (_See_ Mock Suns.)
Sun at midnight in the Arctic regions, iii. 264
“Sunbeam:” voyage of circumnavigation, iv. 40; 61, 62
Sun‐fish, iv. 162, 164
Sunshine in the Polar regions, iii. 109
Surgeons in the navy, i. 52
_ Swallow_, i. 7
_ Swallow_, Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s ship, i. 318
Swamped at sea: loss of the “London,” ii. 289, 290–297
Swedish Arctic expeditions, iii. 257
Swedish ships: sanitary arrangements, ii. 120
Sword‐fish, and mode of fishing for it, iv. 177, 178
Sydney, South Australia, i. 154;
its natural productions, _ib._;
the Domain; the botanic garden, 155; iv. 52
Symington, William: steam navigation, ii. 82;
his experiments, 83, 84, 92;
portrait, 85
Symons, Captain, lost in the “Amazon,” ii. 278, 282

Table Bay, Cape of Good Hope, i. 207
Tallack, W.: “Malta under the Phœnicians, Knights, and English,” i.
98
Tandon, Moquin, on sea‐monsters, i. 31
Tasman: his discovery of Tasmania, i. 151;
discovery of New Zealand, iv. 51;
the Maories, _ib._
Taylor, James: steam navigation, ii. 81, 83
Tchuktchi Indians: iii. 158;
building a hut, 157;
Professor Nordenskjöld at a Tchuktchi village, 275
Tea in Chili, i. 175;
Japanese, i. 133; iv. 43
Tea tax in America, ii. 67–69, 72;
thrown overboard, 69, 72
“Tegethoff:” Austro‐Hungarian Arctic expedition, iii. 271;
two years on an ice‐floe, _ib._;
the ship abandoned, 274
Telegraphy: submarine cables, iv. 98
Telescope, equatorial, at the Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 218
_ Téméraire_, i. 5, 10, 11;
her engines, i. 225
Temperature: of the depths of the sea, i. 30;
of the Atlantic Ocean, 37;
extreme cold in the Arctic regions, iii. 103, 105, 111, 135,
136, 171, 225, 236, 237, 276
Tenney, Matthew: his heroism on board the _Cumberland_, i. 22
Teredo, iv. 128
Ternati, Drake at, i. 312, 313
_ Terror_ and _Erebus_ among the icebergs, iii. 193, 197
_ Terror_: voyage of the _Terror_ under Captain Back, 196;
the ship nipped in the ice, 204;
Franklin’s last expedition, 207;
discovery of relics, 227, 230
Thames: Great Storm of 1703, ii. 204;
poetry of the, iv. 272
Theatre at Lima, i. 172
Theatres, Chinese, in San Francisco, i. 161
Theatricals: on the “Great Britain,” iv. 34;
“Royal Arctic Theatres” on the _Alert_ and _Discovery_, iii.
103;
on other Arctic ships, 170
“Thémistocle,” i. 7
Thermometers for deep‐sea sounding, i. 30, 37, 38
Thirst, sufferings from, ii. 16
Thomas, Captain, lost in the “Schiller,” ii. 267, 270
Thomson, J., “The Straits of Malacca,” i. 144
Thomson, Professor Wyville; cruise of the _Challenger_, i. 29
Thorne, Robert, his voyage of discovery, iii. 119
Thorpeness, Suffolk, iv. 247;
enterprise of Joseph Chard, _ib._
_ Thunderer_; her engines, i. 225
Tides of the Ocean, iv. 92
Tilbury Fort; Great Storm of 1703; West Indiamen wrecked, ii. 205
Time, mode of reckoning it in ships; “watches,” “bells,” “dog‐
watches,” i. 50
Time, difference between London and San Francisco, iv. 30
Timor, Lieut. Bligh at; mutiny of the _Bounty_, i. 242
Tobacco in Cuba when discovered by Columbus, iii. 290
Tobago; Crusoe’s Island, i. 179
Top‐knot, a minute flat‐fish, iv. 206
Torpedo (fish), iv. 160
Torpedoes: Fulton’s submarine boat, ii. 88;
Marquis of Worcester’s inventions, 146;
Bishop Wilkins’s subaqueous vessel, or “ark,” 148;
Schott, Knuffler, Fulton’s torpedoes, _ib._, 149;
Cushing’s attack on the “Albemarle,” 151;
“Lay” torpedo, _ib._;
Porter’s, Fulton’s, Lay torpedo, Spar torpedo, 153;
Paraguayan torpedo, 154;
Harvey torpedo, 153, 155;
Whitehead or “fish” torpedo, 155
Torres, Luis Vaes de; Torres Strait, iii. 277
Tortuga, bucaniers at, iii. 5, 6;
wild dogs and horses, iii. 7;
its discovery; turtles, 315
Torture: Spaniards tortured by pirates, iii. 38
Toulon, Siege of, i. 6
“Trades’ Increase,” East Indiaman, ii. 13
Trafalgar, Battle of, i. 10–13, 227
Training Ships, i. 44;
the _Chichester_, 45, 47;
course of instruction and drill, 48, 49;
saluting officers, 48;
incessant work, 49; iv. 287
Transportation of convicts to Australia, i. 154
Treasure ships, i. 311; ii. 19, 55, 56, 59–61; iii. 60, 63
_ Trent_ in the ice, iii. 165, 166, 167
Trepang fisheries (Holothuria), iv. 127, 128
Trevethick, Robt., portrait, ii. 97
Trinidad, Columbus landing at, i. 177, 178; iii. 295;
visit of Amerigo Vespucci, 302;
Raleigh at, ii. 4, 33
Trinidad, Port of Spain, i. 179–182
Trinity House and the Trinity Corporation, iv. 287–289;
duties of the Board, 289;
light‐vessels and staff of the Corporation, _ib._;
royal and noble Masters and Brethren, _ib._;
fog‐horns or Siren signals, _ib._
Tripe de roche: rock‐lichen as food, iii. 241
Tristan d’Acunha, i. 38, 201
Triton, a univalve shell, iv. 144
Trochus, a univalve shell, iv. 141
Trollope, Anthony: “The West Indies and the Spanish Main,” i. 179,
182, 183;
Bermuda, 187, 188;
New Zealand, iv. 51;
Sydney, 52;
Melbourne, 54
Tromp, Martin, ii. 30
_ Tryal_, Commodore Anson’s ship, ii. 46, 50, 55
Tunny: tunny‐fishing, iv. 177
Turbo, a univalve shell, iv. 141
Turret‐ships: “Monitor,” “Merrimac,” “Miantonoma,” ii. 139, 140,
141;
interior of a turret‐ship, 142;
“Brooklyn,” “Ohio,” _Captain_, _Vanguard_, _Warrior_, _Black
Prince_, 143;
other turret‐ships:
_ Inflexible_, 144, 145;
_ Alexandra_, 146, 147
Turtle at the Island of Ascension, i. 202
“Tuscarora:” deep‐sea soundings, i. 28, 30
Twain, Mark: his account of the Bermudas, i. 189
Tyre, Ships of, i. 259

Unclassed ships, ii. 123
_ Union_ gun‐boat, i. 6
“United Kingdom,” steam‐ship, ii. 98, 99
“United States,” Dr. Hayes’s Arctic expedition, iii. 255
Univalves, iv. 139
Unseaworthy ships, ii. 112–119
Upernavik, Danish settlement at, iii. 254
Urchins: sea‐urchins, iv. 126, 128
Utah, iv. 23

Valetta, i. 98
Valparaiso, i. 172, 173
Vancouver: his discoveries, iii. 319
Vancouver Island: Esquimalt; Victoria, i. 163, 165;
Exploring Expedition, 167;
cedar canoes, _ib._;
“Chinook jargon,” _ib._;
Nanaimo, 168
Vandepat, Admiral, anecdotes of, i. 218
Vane, Captain Charles, the pirate, iii. 69;
betrayed by a former friend, and executed, 70
_ Vanguard_ (Nelson’s ship), i. 105; ii. 74
_ Vanguard_, loss of the, i. 33, 63–66; ii. 143
Van Tromp, Admiral, ii. 31
Vasco da Gama: the Cape doubled by him, i. 203;
discovery of Natal, 211;
his first voyage to India, iii. 298;
arrival at Calicut, 299;
second expedition, _ib._;
arrival at, and death in, Cochin China, 300;
portrait, 301
Vasco Nuñez, his discoveries in the Pacific, iii. 314
Vasco Perez de Meira; his siege of Gibraltar, i. 91
Veddahs, wild men of the woods in Ceylon, i. 119
“Vega”: Professor Nordenskjöld’s Arctic voyage, iii. 274
_ Venerable_: mutiny of the Nore, i. 254
Venetian ships, i. 262
Venice, Breakwater at, ii. 188
“Venus’s Flower‐basket,” i. 30, 32
Verne, Jules: “Round the World in Eighty Days,” iv. 2, 5
Verne: citadel of the Verne, Portland, ii. 196, 197
Vernon, Admiral (“Old Grog”), i. 51
“Vesta” (Russian) and “Assari Tefvik” (Turkish) ships: action
between them, i. 27
Victoria (Hong Kong), described by Baron Hübner, iv. 43
Victoria, Vancouver Island, i. 163, 165
Victoria Land discovered by Sir James Ross, iii. 280
_ Victory_: Sir John Ross’s Arctic ship, iii. 186, 225
_ Victory_: Queen Elizabeth’s ship, i. 292
_ Victory_: Nelson’s ship, i. 4–12, 96, 227
Vikings: their galleys, i. 263;
their Arctic voyages, iii. 115
Viking ship discovered at Gokstad, iv. 230
Villeneuve, Admiral of the French fleet at Trafalgar, i. 11
Virgil’s “Æneid,” references to the sea, iv. 291
“Virginia,” “Merrimac,” i. 19
Virginia discovered by Amadas and Barlow, i. 319;
named by Queen Elizabeth, _ib._;
colonisation of, ii. 2
Vogt, on the _Agalma rubra_, iv. 118
Voices of fish, iv. 178
Volante, a carriage in Havana, i. 184
Volcanoes: in the Antarctic region, iii. 280;
in Japan, iv. 47;
in New Zealand, 50;
in the West Indies, i. 186;
volcanic origin of Bermuda, i. 187
Volunteers, Naval, i. 232–234
Voluta, a univalve shell, iv. 141

_ Wager_, Commodore Anson’s ship, ii. 46, 51, 54
“Waisters” in guard ships, i. 45
Walker, Dr. David: “Fox” expedition in search of Franklin, iii. 216
“Walnut Shell” boat, for Franklin’s second expedition, iii. 194
Walrus, iii. 146, 157, 166;
early description of it, 130
Walrus meat, iii. 238, 240, 245, 263
Walter, Rev. R., “Anson’s Voyage Round the World,” ii. 46
Warburton, Eliot, “The Crescent and the Cross,” i. 98;
lost in the “Amazon,” ii. 283
_ Warrior_, the first English ironclad, i. 18, 85; ii. 143;
her engine‐room, i. 225, 226
Warwick, the King‐maker: his piracies, i. 276
“Watches” and “dog‐watches,” i. 50
Watt, James: the steam‐engine, ii. 80;
portrait, 97
Waves off the Cape of Good Hope, iv. 89
Webb, Capt. Matthew, his “Art of Swimming,” iv. 258;
his wonderful feats in natation, iv. 258–266;
portrait, 265
Weddell, Captain: voyage to the South Seas, iii. 279
Weever‐fish, iv. 205, 206
Weppner, Margharita: Falls of Niagara, iv. 15;
San Francisco, 30
West Indian Islands, map, iii. 17
West India Naval Station, i. 178
West Indies: the home of the bucaniers, iii. 2
Weymouth’s attempt to discover North‐West Passage, iii. 143
Weyprecht, Lieutenant: Austro‐Hungarian Arctic expedition in the
“Tegethoff,” iii. 271
Whales and whale‐fishing, iv. 179–184;
Northern and Southern whales, 180, 181;
sperm whale, spermaceti, 181, 182;
blubber and oil, 182;
harpooning, 183;
whales in North Pacific, 32
Whalers of Behring Sea, i. 139, 140
Whale Sound, Greenland, iii. 233
Whirlpools: iv. 92, 93, 95
Whitby, iv. 256
White, John, first governor of Virginia, ii. 2
White, Walter: “A Sailor Boy’s Log‐book,” i. 48
Whitehaven attacked by Paul Jones, iii. 72
Whitehead torpedo, ii. 155
“White Star” Line of Steam‐ships, ii. 111
“White Star” Liner crossing the Atlantic, iv. 1
Whitstable oyster beds, iv. 137
Whitworth, Sir Joseph; big guns and armour‐plates, i. 86
Wilkes, Lieut., discovery of South Polar land, iii. 279
Wilkins, Bishop; submarine vessel or “ark,” ii. 148
William the Conqueror’s ships, i. 266
William III.’s Navy, i. 232
Willoughby, Sir Hugh, his disastrous voyage, iii. 122
Wind in the Polar regions, iii. 111
Winds in the Mediterranean, i. 107
Wine for sailors in the French Navy, i. 51
Winstanley, Henry, first Eddystone Lighthouse, ii. 159, 199
Wolf Rock, Land’s End, iv. 210;
Lighthouse, _ib._
Wolves, Sir John Richardson’s adventure with, iii. 189, 190
Woman at Sea, iv. 56–65
Women, Life saved by, iv. 221
Wooden and Iron Ships compared, i. 9, 13;
“The Fleet of the Future: Iron or Wood,” by J. Scott Russell,
F.R.S., 85
Wood, Sir Andrew, of Largo: his victory over English ships, i. 277,
278;
commander of the “Great Michael,” 281
Wood, Rev. J. G.: sea‐weeds, iv. 200, 202
Woodcroft, Bennett, on “Steam Navigation,” ii. 79, 81, 83, 84;
the screw propeller, ii. 104
“Woolpacket,” wreck of the, ii. 224;
hovellers, 251
Worcester, Marquis of; his inventions: torpedoes, ii. 146;
use of steam, ii. 79
Worden, Lieutenant, wounded in the first “Monitor,” i. 24
Worley, Captain, the pirate, hanged, iii. 70
Wrangell: Russian Arctic exploration, iii. 185
Wrecks, Statistics of, i. 3; iv. 285
Wreckers, ii. 304, 310
“Wrecking,” as a profession, ii. 235;
the king’s privileges, 237;
Cœur de Lion and his enactments, _ib._;
the Rôles d’Oleron, _ib._;
false pilots, _ib._;
laws of George II., _ib._;
false lights, 238;
waiting for a wreck, 241;
wreckers at work; murders; actual examples, 239;
wreckers executed, 240;
plunder of the “Inverness,” 241, 244;
police attacked by thousands, 242;
“Bergetta” plundered, 242;
arguments of wreckers, _ib._;
wrecking at the Bahamas, 244;
“hovelling _v._ wrecking,” 245;
moral aspect of “wrecking” 256
Wreck Register of the National Life‐boat Institution, ii. 318
“Wright, G. S.,” telegraph steamer, i. 138, 143

Xavier, Francis: Christianity introduced by him into Japan, i. 129

Yarmouth, iv. 248;
herring fishery, 250;
shipwrecks; loss of the “Osprey,” 249, 250
Yeh, Commissioner: capture of, i. 122
Yellow Sea, i. 122
Yokohama, i. 128, 129, 130; iv. 40
Yorkshire: sketches of the sea‐coast, iv. 251
Young, Captain Allen: cruise of the “Pandora,” iii. 92–98;
“Fox” expedition in search of Franklin, 216, 218
Young, Brigham: Mormonism, iv. 2–4
Ysbrants: his voyage of discovery, iii. 129
Yukon river, i. 170

Zeigai Islands in the Red Sea, i. 117
Zeni, The Brothers: their Arctic exploration, iii. 117
Zoology, Marine. (_See_ _Challenger_, Cruise of the.)
Zoophytes, i. 31; iv. 111

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES

1 Mrs. Brassey: “A Voyage in the _Sunbeam_.” Her trip occupied eleven
months.

2 From a rare work in the author’s possession, entitled, “Songs of the
Ship; or the British Seaman’s Jovial and _Everlasting_ Songster.”

3 Margharita Weppner, Author of “The North Star and the Southern
Cross.”

4 “American Notes for General Circulation.”

5 The late Mr. W. S. Lindsay, in his “History of Merchant Shipping,”
stated that Mr. and Mrs. Inman, “greatly to their credit, made a
voyage in one of their earliest emigrant steamers, expressly for the
purpose of ameliorating the discomforts and evils hitherto but too
common in emigrant ships.”

6 Margharita Weppner.

7 “Westward by Rail.”

8 _Vide_ page 18.

9 Pronounced _Kanyon_. The word is of Spanish origin, and signifies a
deep rocky defile.

10 All in the territory, and there are now a large number of miners,
who are not believers in the Mormon faith, are considered outsiders
and “Gentiles.”

11 The highest newspaper offices in the United States, and, it is
hardly to be doubted, in the world, are in Colorado. Georgetown,
8,452 feet elevation, has one; Central City, has two dailies,
published at 8,300 feet above the sea level.

12 Although the railway had remained intact, avalanches had occurred
that winter in the mountain districts of Nevada and Utah,
accompanied by serious loss of life.

13 “A Ramble Round the World.” Translated by Lady Herbert.

14 A. D. Carlisle, B.A., in “Round the World in 1870.”

15 A. W. Guillemard: “Over Land and Sea. A Log of Travel Round the
World in 1873‐4.”

16 E. K. Laird: “The Rambles of a Globe Trotter in Australia, Japan,
China, Java, India, and Cashmere.”

17 This fine vessel while lying at anchor in the roadstead of Yokohama,
on the 24th of August, 1872, was destroyed by fire. In seven minutes
after the first flames were discovered the ship from stem to stern
was one sheet of flame. At the last moment the captain, terribly
burnt, threw himself in the water and was rescued. Three Europeans
and sixty Chinamen were either burnt to death or drowned. The
Chinese, determined not to lose their savings, dawdled a little, and
then threw themselves all together on a ladder, which broke with
their weight. The gold found on their corpses proved that not one
had returned poor from California. It is needless to say that
Hübner’s description of the size of the _America_ is incorrect.

18 “A Voyage in the _Sunbeam_.”

19 Hübner.

20 _Vide_ “Over Land and Sea.”

21 E. K. Laird: “The Rambles of a Globe Trotter.”

22 In “Australia and New Zealand.”

23 In 1872 there were 41,000,000 sheep and 4,340,000 horned cattle in
Australia. The tinned meat and extract works employ a large number
of hands at good wages.

24 Let the reader compare the following verses of Genesis:—“In the six
hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, the seventeenth
day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great
deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.”—Chap. vii.,
verse 11.
“And it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the
first month, the first day of the month, the waters were dried up
from off the earth: and Noah removed the covering of the ark, and
looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry.
“And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the
month, was the earth dried.”—Chap. viii., verses 13 and 14.

25 Vol. III., First Series, page 509.

26 This chapter is based on the works of Tennant, Darwin, Gosse,
Figuier, and other authorities.

27 About £48,000.

28 In “The Origin of Species.”

29 The bulk of this chapter is derived from the following works:—“The
Conquest of the Sea,” Siebe; “English Seamen and Divers,” M.
Esquiros; an Article in “The Shipwrecked Mariner,” Vol. XXII.; &c.

30 “Tales of Mystery and Imagination.”

31 This account is mainly derived from the “History of the Atlantic
Telegraph,” by Dr. Henry M. Field; “The Story of Cyrus Field;” and
Dr. Russell’s letters in the _Times_.

32 Leblond: “Voyage aux Antilles.”

33 “A Year by the Sea‐side.”

34 “La Mer.”

35 The popular idea regarding the necessity for the letter _r_ in the
open months for oyster‐eating is tolerably correct in Europe, but
will not apply to all parts of the world.

36 The varied information concerning the oyster contained in this
chapter is mainly derived from Bertram’s “Harvest of the Sea”;
Figuier’s “Ocean World”; and from an interesting little _brochure_
entitled “The Oyster, Where, How, and When to Find;” &c.

37 The ancients masticated their oysters, and did not bolt or gulp them
down. Many distinguished modern authorities agree with them. Dr.
Kitchiner says it must be eaten alive. “The true lover of an
oyster,” says he, “will have some regard for the feelings of his
little favourite, and contrive to detach the fish from the shell so
dexterously that the oyster is hardly conscious he has been ejected
from his lodging till he _feels the teeth_ of the piscivorous
gourmet tickling him to death.”

38 “The Harvest of the Sea.”

39 _Vide_ “The Natural History and Fishery of the Sperm Whale.”

40 In “The World of the Sea.” M. Tandon is commenting on the account
published by M. Sabin Barthelot, then French Consul at the Canary
Islands.

41 This account of the crustaceans is derived from the works of Milne‐
Edwards, Pennant and Bell, Gosse, Couch, Broderip, Rymer Jones and
Major Lord, Figuier and Tandon.

42 Louis Cecil.

43 The contents of this chapter are derived from Dr. Bertram’s “Harvest
of the Sea,” Figuier’s “Ocean World,” Hartwig’s “Sea and its Living
Wonders,” Murphy’s “Rambles in North‐Western America,” &c.

44 The reader interested in further details will do well to peruse J.
Mortimer Murphy’s “Rambles in North‐Western America.”

45 A very stout man, placed where no food is obtainable, will (health
and age being identical) live longer than a lean one. There is a
recorded case of a fat man living nearly sixty days without food.

46 In his “Rambles beyond Railways.”

47 This watcher also receives a percentage on the “take” of fish.

48 The contents of this chapter are derived mainly from the works of
Owen, Beale, Maury, Scammon, Gosse, and Timbs.

49 Formerly, when spermaceti was only used in medicine, many tons of it
were annually thrown into the Thames as useless, the supply being so
much in excess of the demand.

50 From an article entitled “Shipmates I have Known,” in _The
Shipwrecked Mariner_: Journal of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society.

51 The bulk of this chapter is derived from Philip Henry Gosse’s
“Naturalist’s Rambles on the Devonshire Coast;” “Tenby: a Seaside
Holiday;” “A Year at the Shore;” the Rev. J. G. Wood’s “Common
Objects of the Sea‐shore;” and Madame de Gasparin’s charming idyl,
“By the Sea‐shore.”

52 “By the Sea‐shore.”

53 The reader may have found in his own experience that a garment which
has been well drenched in salt water will always attract damp,
however much dried by the fire. The only remedy is to thoroughly
wash it in fresh water, and then dry it.

54 This account is mainly derived from Wilkie Collins’s “Rambles beyond
Railways,” and the Rev. C. A. Johns’s “Week at the Lizard.”

55 “A Week at the Lizard.”

56 The writer acknowledges his indebtedness to a series of papers
entitled “Visits to the Sea Coasts,” published in the _Journal of
the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society_. That noble institution relieved
in 1878‐9 no less than 3,452 shipwrecked persons, by clothing them,
and forwarding them to their homes, and in the case of fishermen,
helping them to repair damage done in gales, &c., to their boats and
fishing‐gear. Seven thousand four hundred and ninety widows of
mariners were relieved during that period, while 2,400 receive small
_annual_ allowances. A Seamen’s Provident Fund is also managed by
the Society, to which 50,000 mariners contributed. During the period
mentioned above ten gold and silver medals, a handsome sextant, and
£25 in money, were awarded for saving fifty‐one lives on the high
seas or abroad. The society also organised the “Royal Alfred Aged
Merchant Seamen’s Institution,” the home of which, at Belvedere,
Kent, shelters about 100 poor mariners, and relieves by an out‐
pension a still larger number. Readers of this work who have been
moved by the many tales of peril and heroism undergone and displayed
by seamen and fishermen, will do well to remember, and remember
practically, this worthy and most economically‐managed society.

57 _United Service Gazette._

58 _United Service Gazette._

59 This account of the loss of the _Grosser Kurfürst_ is condensed from
an article in the _United Service Gazette_.

60 R. M. Ballantyne; “The Floating Light on the Goodwin Sands.”

61 “Visits to the Sea Coasts,” in _The Shipwrecked Mariner_.

62 Sarah Doudney.

63 In a letter to _The Shipwrecked Mariner_, January, 1873.

64 Leander.

“Who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!”

65 The feat of swimming across the Dardanelles was also successfully
accomplished by Lieut. Moore and Gunner Mahoney, of H.M.S.
_Shearwater_, on the 25th November, 1872.

66 We are indebted to Captain Webb’s “Art of Swimming,” edited by A. G.
Payne; “The Channel Feats,” &c., by “Dolphin”; the Journals of the
National Life‐Boat Institution and the Shipwrecked Mariners’
Society.

67 It will be remembered that Captain Webb has since remained
respectively _sixty_ and _seventy‐two_ consecutive hours in the
water, with, of course, little attempt at natatory exertion.

68 _United Service Magazine._

69 Edwin Hodder; “Heroes of Britain in Peace and War.”

70 “Memoirs of Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart.,” edited by his son.

71 The _brochure_ which Mr. Reade wrote with the view of raising a fund
for poor Lambert is entitled, “A Hero and a Martyr.” It was printed
mainly for private circulation.

72 _A wean wastit_—a child thrown away.

73 Flood.

74 Tense of the old verb “wend”—to go.

75 Run and squeal.

76 Upset.

77 Fan.

78 These.

79 Those.

80 The scale of relief to members, their widows, orphans, or parents
(when dependent) is as liberal as one could expect. A fisherman or
mariner receives compensation for loss of boat or clothes; a widow
with two children may obtain as much as £19 2s. 6d.; and with four
children, £25 10s.

81 Extract from address of H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh at annual
meeting.

82 “English Seamen and Divers.”

83 Condensed from an article by W. Senior in the _Shipwrecked Mariner_.

84 The most powerful fog‐horns introduced into this country are those
known as the Siren signals, which are illustrated in our plate. This
name is given to them on account of the sound being “produced by
means of a disc, with twelve radial slits, being made to rotate in
front of a fixed disc exactly similar. The moving disc revolves
2,800 times a minute, and in each revolution there are, of course,
twelve coincidences between the two discs; through the openings thus
made steam or air at high pressure is allowed to pass, so that there
are actually twelve times 2,800 (or 33,600) puffs of steam or
compressed air every minute. This causes a sound of very great
power, which the cast‐iron trumpet, twenty feet in length,
compresses to a certain extent, and the blast goes out as a sort of
sound‐beam in the direction required.” The Siren, which was
originally designed in New York, and was first adopted by the
American Lighthouse Board, can be heard in all kinds of weather at
from two‐and‐a‐half to three miles, and on favourable occasions at
as many as sixteen miles out at sea.

85 Francis Quarles.

86 “Virgil’s Sea Descriptions,” _Cornhill Magazine_, October, 1874.

87 Bermudas.

88 Let Shakespearian students note the allusions to piracy contained in
the following references:—_Twelfth Night_, Act V. scene 1; _Measure
for Measure_, I. 2, and IV. 3; _Merchant of Venice_, I. 3; Second
Part of _Henry VI._, IV. 1, 9; _Richard III._, I. 3; _Antony and
Cleopatra_, I. 4, II. 6; _Pericles_, IV. 2, 3–V. 1; _Hamlet_, IV. 6.

89 Pillaged.

90 Wanton.

91 The father, Charles Dibdin, and his two sons, one of the latter of
whom was the author of the popular “All’s Well.” Many popular sea‐
songs, written by others during the epoch of the Dibdins and later,
are, however, very commonly but erroneously placed to their credit.
Among those often ascribed to them are the following, really written
by the subjoined authors:—“The Death of Nelson” (S. J. Arnold), “The
Bay of Biscay” (Andrew Cherry), “Rule, Britannia” (J. Thompson),
“The Saucy Arethusa” (Prince Hoare), “The Storm” (“Cease, rude
Boreas”: G. A. Stevens), “The Sailor’s Consolation” (“One night came
on a hurricane”: W. Pitt), “Ye Mariners of England” (Thomas
Campbell), “Ye Gentlemen of England” (Martin Parker). The well‐known
song “William and Susan,” in the nautical drama “Black‐eyed Susan,”
is in like manner sometimes attributed to Douglas Jerrold, the real
author of the ever‐verdant play, but the ballad itself was written
by Thomas Gay.

92 The reader not familiar with the poetical works of this authoress is
recommended to peruse “’Tis a Wild Night at Sea” and “The Rover’s
Death.”

93 The _Cornhill Magazine_, March, 1871.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs
and are near the text they illustrate.

An illustration which was missing from the List of Illustrations has been
added to it.

The following changes have been made to the text:

page iii, dash added after “Soaped Rails”
page iv, dash added after “The First Idea of the Atlantic Cable” and
after “The Employment of the _Great Eastern_”
page vi, dash added after “Bold and Timid Lads” and after “The ‘True
Ring’”
page 11, quote mark added after “petulantly.”
page 38, double “the” removed before “captain”
page 66, quote mark added before “I saw”
page 74, quote mark removed after “breadth.”
page 90, “suphuretted” changed to “sulphuretted”
page 91, period added after “hour”
page 133, dash removed after “that” and added before it
page 134, second quote mark added before “That”, “The oysters” and
“True,”
page 153, comma removed after “lucky”
page 165, quote mark added after “stage.”
page 256, quote mark removed before “If”
page 299, quote mark removed before “Rover’s”
page 303, quote mark added before “new departure”
page 304, quote mark added after “sea.”
page 308, “vovage” changed to “voyage”
page 310, “Fiskernœs” changed to “Fiskernæs”

Additionally, the punctuation in the General Index has been regularized in
several places.

Differences between the table of contents and the chapter summaries have
not been corrected. Neither have variations in hyphenation been
normalized.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism. Volume 4" ***

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