This is a modern-English version of The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism. Volume 4, originally written by Whymper, Frederick.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.
A Captivating Tale of Adventure, Danger, & Bravery.
ILLUSTRATED.
Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.
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Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co.:
LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
| CHAPTER 1 | |
| THE GREAT ATLANTIC FERRY. | PAGE |
| 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—"Mid-level"—Castle Garden, New York—Voyage Safer than by the Bay of Biscay—The Chimborazo in a Hurricane | 1 |
| 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 Mud”—Episodes of Railway Travel—Rough Roads—Indian attempts at catching Trains—Ride on a Snow Plough—Sherman—Female Vanity in the Rocky Mountains—Soaped RailsUnderstood. Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.The Great Plains—Summer and Winter—The Prairie on Fire—A Remarkable Bridge—Coal Discoveries—The “Hills”—The City Gates of Mormondom—Echo and Weber Cañons—The Devil’s Gate—Salt Lake—Ride in a "Mud Wagon"—The City of the Saints—Mormon Industry—A Tragedy of Former Days—Mountain Meadow Massacre—The “Great Eggshell”—Theatre—The Silver State—"Deadheads"—Up in the Sierra Nevada—Alpine Scenery—The Highest Newspaper Office in the World—Snowed in—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? | 14 |
| CHAPTER 3 | |
| 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—"Review"—Meeting the USA—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 | 31 |
| CHAPTER 4 | |
| 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—"Cash a Check"—Gold, Coal, and Iron | 45 |
| CHAPTER 5 | |
| 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 | 56 |
| CHAPTER 6 | |
| 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 MO—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 | 66 |
| CHAPTER 7 | |
| 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 it down!”—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 | 79 |
| CHAPTER 8 | |
| 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 “Whisperer” at the Mauritius—The Colour of the Sea—Its Causes—The Phosphorescence of the Ocean—Fields of Silver—Principally Caused by Animal Life | 90 |
| CHAPTER 9 | |
| DAVY JONES’S LOCKER—SUBMARINE CABLES. | |
| The First Channel Cable—Now-a-days 50,000 Miles of Submarine Wire—A Noble New Englander—The First Idea of the Atlantic CableUnderstood. Please provide the text for modernization.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 EasternUnderstood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.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 | 98 |
| 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 Humanity"—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 “Jellyfish”—Polyps—A Floating Colony—A Marvellous Organism—The Graceful Agalma—Swimming Apparatus—Natural Fishing Lines—The Portuguese Man o' War—Stinging Powers of the Physalia—An Enemy to the Cuttle-fish | 111 |
| CHAPTER 11 | |
| 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 | 122 |
| CHAPTER 12 | |
| THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (keeps going). | |
| 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 | 139 |
| CHAPTER 13 | |
| THE OCEAN AND ITS LIVING WONDERS (kept going). | |
| 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 Parties” in British North America—Eel-grass—Cray-fish, Prawns, and Shrimps | 150 |
| CHAPTER 14 | |
| 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 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 | 159 |
| CHAPTER 15 | |
| OCEAN LIFE—THE HARVEST OF THE SEA (wrapped up). | |
| 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 “Put away”—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? | 168 |
| CHAPTER 16 | |
| MONSTERS OF THE DEEP. | |
| Mark Twain on Whales—A New Version of an Old Story—Whale as Food—Whaling in 1670—The Great Mammal’s Enemy the "Assassin"—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 | 178 |
| CHAPTER 17 | |
| 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 | 190 |
| CHAPTER 18 | |
| 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—"Trash," and the difficulty of obtaining it—Results of a Basketful—The Contents of a Shrimper’s Net—Miniature Fish of the Shore | 199 |
| CHAPTER 19 | |
| 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 "Homage"—Profits of the Pilchard Season—Cornish Hospitality and Gratitude | 207 |
| CHAPTER 20 | |
| SKETCHES OF OUR COASTS—CORNWALL (continued). | |
| Wilkie Collins’s Experiences as a Pedestrian—Taken for "Map creator," “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 | 218 |
| CHAPTER 21 | |
| SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS—SOUTHAMPTON. | |
| 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 Beach”—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 | 225 |
| CHAPTER 22 | |
| SKETCHES OF OUR SOUTH COASTS (wrapped up). | |
| Eastbourne and its Quiet Charms—Hastings—Its Fishermen—The Battle of Hastings—Loss of the Gross Elector—The Collision—The Catastrophe—Dover—The Castle—Shakespeare’s Cliff—"Over 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 | 235 |
| CHAPTER 23. | |
| 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 got 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 | 217 |
| CHAPTER 24. | |
| 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 LadsUnderstood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.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 “Clyde Hero”—His Brave Deeds—Funny Instances—The Crowning Feat—Blinded and Neglected—Appreciation at Last | 257 |
| CHAPTER 25 | |
| THE HAVEN AT LAST—HOME IN THE THAMES. | |
| The “Powerful 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—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 | 272 |
| CHAPTER 26 | |
| 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 "Aeneid"—His Stage Storms—The Immortal Bard—His Intimate Acquaintance with the Sea and the Sailor—The Golden Days of Maritime Enterprise—The Storm—Miranda’s Compassion—Pranks of the “Light and Free Spirit”—The The Merchant of Venice—Piracy in Shakespeare’s Days—A Birth at Sea—Cymbeline: the Queen’s Description of our Isle—Byron’s "Sea"—Falconer’s "Shipwreck"—His Technical Knowledge—The “True Ring”Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.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 | 290 |
| GENERAL INDEX | 305 |
Illustration List.
THE OCEAN.
Chapter 1.
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.
The “Grand Tour” of Past Times—The only Grand Tour left—Around the World in Eighty Days—Freshwater Sailors and Nautical Women—Modern Steamships and their Speed—The Orient—Competitors—Routes around the World—Sir John Mandeville on the Subject—Challenges in Certain Areas—The Great Atlantic Ferry—Dickens’s Adventures—Seasickness—Night at Sea—The Ship's Rights—And then Wrongs—A Funny Situation—Current First-class Accommodation—The Struggles of Steerage—Mark Tapley—Massive Emigration of Third-class Passengers—Discomfort and Hardship—Attempts to Enhance the Steerage—“Intermediate”—Castle Gardens, New York—A journey safer than through the Bay of Biscay—The Chimborazo in a hurricane.
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 [pg 2]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:—
We all know what the “Grand Tour” meant a few generations ago and how, without it, no gentleman’s education was considered complete. Nowadays, almost anyone who has thirty or forty pounds can take the journey, and the only truly grand tour left is the one around the [pg 2] world. M. Verne tells us—inferentially, at least—that it can be done in eighty days, while Puck, as we know, says you can put a "wrap around the earth in forty minutes." But this claim from the popular French author, like many others in his vivid and picturesque works, should be taken with a grain of salt. It could be possible, undoubtedly, but it’s quite questionable whether anyone has actually managed the feat. If one could guarantee the absolute “connection”, as it’s technically called, of all the steamship lines that would need to be used, it might be feasible; or better yet, one ship with excellent steaming and sailing capabilities could complete the "Journey Around the World" in the specified time. But M. Jules Verne, as we remember, depicts his hero stopping at various places and performing acts of bravery and chivalry on the way, such as the episode of rescuing a Hindu widow from the Suttee; finding time to relax and drink in San Francisco “bars,” and being attacked by Indians who threaten to disrupt the overland train; and yet, despite all the delays, he still manages to reach London in time to win his bet. The very idea of describing a journey around the world as an act of eccentricity is particularly French. The Englishman who can afford to make the trip is usually envied by his friends, and not seen as mildly mad. We have before us a list of travel books, all published in the last few years and available at public libraries. Thirteen of these works describe journeys around the world, and they are mostly written by amateur rather than professional authors. It’s so easy to take the trip these days that two of these accounts are modestly and humbly labeled as "Walks" while one of the best is by a clever and enthusiastic lady, 1 whose wonderful husband, both in and out of Parliament, has earnestly and persistently studied "poor Jack" best interests. This lady is clearly no novice sailor and would put to shame the landlubber described in a very old song:—
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.
Another work by a teenager is titled, "By Land and Ocean; or, the Journals and Letters of a Young Girl who traveled to South Australia with a woman, then alone to Victoria, New Zealand, Sydney, Singapore, China, Japan, and across the American Continent." However, perhaps the most remarkable of modern female travelers is a German woman,3 who left Paris with only seven and a half francs in her pocket, yet managed to travel around the entire globe. It must be acknowledged that she had many friends abroad who helped her and connected her with others who could and did assist her in every way. Still, the journeys and travels she undertook show that she had a considerable amount of courage.
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 [pg 3]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.
The speed of a journey is extremely important and is definitely worth considering for a trip around the world. Verne’s title would have seemed like the ramblings of a lunatic if it had been released before the steam age, while in the early days of this powerful technology that has now changed the world, it would have seemed ridiculous. The wooden Cunarder that took Charles Dickens on his first trip to America forty years ago took twice as long as what it takes now for the same voyage; as a journalist pointed out, there’s a significant difference between such a vessel and ships like the Arizona (Guion line), the Germanic (White Star line), the *Berlin* (Inman line), and the Gallia (Allan line), much like the difference between the Edinburgh or Glasgow mail coaches and a modern express train. The Arizona has completed the round trip—from Queenstown, Ireland, to Sandy Hook, New York, and back—in fifteen days. The Inman line is especially celebrated for its fast trips, with their “crack” steamer, the *Berlin*, making the outward journey in seven days, fourteen hours, and twelve minutes, and the return in seven days, fifteen hours, and forty-eight minutes. The Brussels and the Richmond City have performed almost as impressively, while other steamships from the same line have completed the trip in just a few hours more. Imagine worrying about minutes on a 3,000-mile journey! The impressive steamship named after the Orient Company has sailed from England to Australia in thirty-seven and a half days, which is nearly half the time that other steamships required a few years ago. This grand vessel is said to be second in size only to the Great Eastern; it has a displacement of 9,500 tons and an indicated horsepower of 5,400, carrying enough coal for the entire journey—around 3,000 to 4,000 tons. However, it won’t be without competition, as at the time of writing, the Barrow Shipbuilding Company is building a larger iron ship for the Inman line's Atlantic service, featuring engines with 8,500 horsepower and capable of reaching speeds of sixteen or seventeen knots; it will have four masts and three funnels. Additionally, another vessel of equal or greater power is being constructed for the Cunard Company. Furthermore, the largest steel steamship, or any type of ship, has been launched at Dumbarton. It is mainly intended for the cattle trade between the River Plate, Canada, and England. It exceeds 4,000 gross tons and has been named the Buenos Aires resident. The amounts of money spent on building these amazing ships are enormous. The Orient reportedly cost close to £150,000 without its fittings, with one-third of that amount spent solely on its engines. Yet, a third-class or steerage ticket to the Antipodes on this ship costs just fifteen guineas, while emigrants can travel to the United States or Canada on almost any of the finest steamships from 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.”
Many paths can, of course, be taken around the world, with England being the ultimate destination in all cases. As the charming Sir John Mandeville says in the first chapter of his "Travel":—"In the name of God, glorious and mighty, anyone wanting to travel across the sea to the City of Jerusalem has several routes to choose from, whether by sea or land, depending on where they are coming from: many of them lead to the destination. But don’t expect me to list all the towns, cities, and castles that people might pass through, as that would make for a very long story; instead, I will highlight some countries and the key places that travelers should go through to find the right way."
“Although,” says Mr. Simpson, the popular artist, in his work entitled “Meeting [pg 4]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.
“Even though,” says Mr. Simpson, the popular artist, in his work titled “Meeting the Sun,” “The reference here is specifically to Jerusalem, but in the Prologue, he mentions that he was born in the ‘Town of Saint Albans,’ and ‘crossed the sea in the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ MCCCXII, on the Day of Saint Michael. Since then, he has spent a long time overseas, traveling through many different lands, regions, kingdoms, and islands. He has gone through Tartary, Persia, Armenia, both minor and major; through Libya, Chaldea, and much of Ethiopia; through Amazonia, the Lesser and Greater India, a significant part; and many other islands around India, where many diverse peoples live with various customs, laws, and different types of people.’ ” He further adds in his "Book" that traveling all around the world was not uncommon 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 [pg 5]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.”
"The world is huge," yet the practical routes for a journey like this are very few. There's the overland route through Siberia, which goes from St. Petersburg to Moscow and then directly east through Siberia to Lake Baikal. From there, it takes about a month to travel south across the Mongolian Desert to Beijing. Alternatively, one could take a journey down the great Amur River, where the Russians operate several steamers, to Nikolaevsk; then sail to San Francisco and return home via America and the Atlantic. “When,” says Mr. Simpson, "The Shah and Baron Reuter are constructing railways through Persia, which may slightly increase travel options. Perhaps once Russia modernizes all of Central Asia, a new route to China might open up. However, until that fortunate time arrives, unless travelers are willing and able to live like a dervish or someone similar, like M. Vambéry, it's better to avoid the risks in these regions. Many have tried to travel from India to China and vice versa, but so far no one has been successful. The difficulties of such a journey are significant, not only because of the different cultures involved but also due to the challenging terrain of that area. However, these challenges can be overcome; one of the most remarkable expeditions of modern times was undertaken by the two Jesuit missionaries, Huc and Gabet, who traveled from Beijing to Lhasa. When they were ordered to leave the capital of the Great Lama, they aimed to head toward Calcutta, as it was the closest and easiest route, but their efforts were in vain. Due to strict policies enforced by the Chinese Government, no one is permitted to cross the borders between China and India." The writer adds that while traveling in Tibet, he heard of many groups wanting to cross the border in that area, simply to have a few days of hunting a specific animal they wished to bring home, but he never met anyone who could fulfill that desire. One man told him he had taken some pieces of bright red cloth and other enticing bribes for the officials on the Chinese side, but it was all in vain. “It’s difficult to comprehend why this intense jealousy is present, but there’s no denying it.”
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.
But setting aside any ideas of traveling overland through Europe, Asia, or Africa, our trip will be mostly by sea, except for the transcontinental route across America. Right now, that route is the best way to quickly and comfortably get to any part of the Pacific. The major railway is a huge connection tying the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans together. The Suez Canal and the Panama route have been discussed here—the first one quite extensively; and we definitely need to include a description of a railroad that is so closely linked to the sea. But first, we need to get there.
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 works4—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 journey across the “Great Atlantic Ferry” is now easy, and for first-class passengers, it's almost luxurious. How different it was about forty years ago, even on the best steamships of that time! Charles Dickens vividly described his experiences on board the Britannia, one of the earliest ships in the Cunard fleet, in one of his less-read works4—at least among today's generation. The small cupboard called a “state room;” the dingy saloon compared to "a huge hearse with windows on the sides;" the sad stove where the forlorn stewards were warming their hands; the stewardess, whom Dickens thanks "for her religiously false story about the January trips;" the excitement before leaving the dock; the captain’s boat and the neatly dressed little captain; the last late mail bags, and the departure are all described from real life, as only the great novelist could portray them. And now they're off.
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 says “Ingoldsby,” and it's definitely true of some London sailors and Cheapside adventurers, who, when they leave port, are much more dressed up than any of the crew. These pretend sailors become very weak when the seawater removes their bravado. Barham tells us about one Anthony Blogg:—
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.
The large steamships of most lines traveling to far-off places are relatively smooth and steady in their movements, and there’s actually a higher chance of getting seasick on an English or Irish Channel boat than on a trip across the Atlantic. The waves in those channels are more turbulent and choppy than those in the wide ocean. The use of the twin boat, Calais-Douvres, has reduced a lot of the discomfort on one of our Channel lines. Interestingly, Native Americans often use a couple of canoes in much the same way as the designer of the double-hulled vessel mentioned earlier. I have seen, in the Straits of Fuca, locals transporting all their belongings on top of planks, placed over and tied to two canoes. One idea for improving the steamboat service across the Channel to France is to build a huge vessel, 650 feet long and 150 feet wide, a ship as long as the Great Eastern and twice her width, powered by both paddles and screws. It should be able to carry several trains and have a covered station on board, complete with all the necessary passenger lounges. Floating platforms would connect this large steam ferry with the shoreline railways, allowing it to depart or arrive at any time during 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 [pg 7]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.
“Are you a good sailor?” asks one passenger to another just after leaving Liverpool. “Oh, I guess I’m no worse than anyone else,” comes the response; while some are bold enough to say, “Yep.” However, Dickens noticed that on the first day, very few people lingered over their wine, and everyone seemed to have an unusual fondness for the fresh air. Still, except for one lady, “who rushed off pretty quickly at [pg 7]dinner-time, right after getting the best piece of a bright yellow boiled leg of mutton with very green capers,” there were few sick passengers on 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.
The topic of seasickness is an uncomfortable one and doesn't deserve much space here. Every seasoned traveler, and many newcomers, have their own remedies, so maybe we can share our prevention method. It's simply for the person affected to wear a really tight belt around their waist. Many fellow passengers have been advised to try this, and it has consistently worked well. The strange motion and sometimes the smells on the ship cause the feelings of nausea. A tightened belt stabilizes the whole body, and as long as the person isn't prone to bile issues, it quickly helps both physically and mentally. If they are feeling bilious (which often happens due to farewells and celebrations before the trip), the worst recommendation is usually given to them—the standard brandy available on board. However, enjoying a small amount of very fine aged liqueur cognac can actually be beneficial. An expert (Dr. Chapman) suggests applying ice, wrapped in a rubber bag, to the spine. In various travel guides, remedies like marmalade, cayenne pepper, port wine, chutney, and West Indian pickles are advised for this ailment. However, the person suffering would likely be better off eating fresh or canned fruits that have a cooling effect. But back to the journey—Dickens describes the first night at sea with vivid emotions.
“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.”
"For someone who's used to situations like this," he says, "This is a really striking moment on the ship. Later, when the novelty wore off, it still held a unique interest and charm for me. The darkness through which the massive black shape moves with confidence; the rushing water, clearly audible but barely visible; the wide white shimmering trail left behind in the ship's wake; the lookout men at the front, almost invisible against the dark sky except for how they block out some shining stars; the helmsman at the wheel, with the glowing chart in front of him, a small light in the darkness, like something alive and divinely aware; the mournful sighing of the wind through the blocks, ropes, and chains; the light spilling from every crack, corner, and tiny piece of glass on the decks, as if the ship were filled with hidden fire, ready to burst through any opening, wild with its unstoppable force of destruction."
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.
Irresistibly funny, as well as true, is his description of the ship during bad weather. It’s the third morning. I wake up abruptly to a terrifying scream from my wife, who wants to know if we’re in danger. I prop myself up and look out of bed. The water jug is bouncing around like a playful dolphin; all the smaller items are floating, except my shoes, which are stuck on a carpet bag, high and dry, like a couple of coal barges. Suddenly, I see them fly into the air, and I notice the mirror, which is fastened to the wall, stuck firmly to the ceiling. At the same time, the door completely vanishes, and a new one opens in the floor. Then I start to realize that the state room is upside down.
“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 [pg 8]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.”
Before any plans can be made that fit this new situation, the ship rights itself. Just when you think you can say ‘Thank Heaven!’ it tips again. Before you can yell that she is wrong, she seems to surge forward, moving like a creature that’s running on its own, with broken knees and weak legs, through every kind of [pg 8]hole and pitfall, constantly stumbling. * * * And so she keeps staggering, swaying, wrestling, leaping, diving, jumping, pitching, throbbing, rolling, and rocking, going through all these actions, sometimes in turns and sometimes all at once, until you feel like shouting 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.”
Dickens tells a funny story about a ridiculous situation he found himself in. Around midnight, we hit a wave that burst through the skylights, flung open the doors above, and crashed down into the ladies’ cabin, causing sheer panic for my wife and a little Scottish lady—who, by the way, had earlier sent a message to the captain through the stewardess, asking him, with her compliments, to immediately attach a steel conductor to the top of every mast and to the chimney, so the ship wouldn’t get struck by lightning. They, along with the previously mentioned handmaid, were so terrified that I didn’t know what to do with them. Naturally, I thought of some kind of restorative or comforting drink, and nothing came to mind except hot brandy and water, so I quickly got a tumblers’ worth. Since it was impossible to stand or sit without holding on, they were all huddled together in one corner of a long sofa—a fixture running the entire length of the cabin—where they clung to each other, expecting to be drowned at any moment. When I approached them with my remedy and was about to give it, with plenty of encouraging words, to the nearest person, to my dismay, I watched them all roll slowly to the other end! And when I staggered down to that end and held out the glass again, my good intentions were thwarted once more by the ship lurching, causing them to roll back! I must have chased them up and down that sofa for at least fifteen minutes without successfully reaching them, and by the time I finally did, the brandy and water had spilled so much that it was down to a teaspoonful.
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.
What a difference it is compared to the accommodations and comfort of most modern steamships, with their luxurious lounges located in the middle, where there is the least motion; their spacious and airy state rooms, heated by steam, with running water and fitted with electric bells; their music room with a piano and harmonium, their smoking room, bathrooms, library, and even a barber’s shop. The dining experience is as well done as at the best hotels on land, and the menu for the day is as extensive as that of a first-class restaurant, while everything you might want to drink, from simple bottled beer to rare old wine, can be obtained from the steward. And as long as the passengers are feeling decent, there will be fun games, music, and possibly private plays and other regularly organized entertainments. The idea of a “Punch and Judy” show in the middle of the Atlantic seems pretty funny; but we've heard of a case where even this kind of entertainment has been provided on a big steamship! On long trips, it’s not uncommon for someone to start a handwritten daily or weekly journal, with many passengers contributing. These have often been published later for private circulation as mementos of a lovely journey.
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 [pg 10]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 there’s the thrill of spotting “a sail is visible,” and watching it grow bigger as the ships get closer. Some passengers keep a lookout almost as eagerly as the sailors assigned to do so. Maybe the captain or the officers have mentioned that they’ll pass one of their own ships or a rival company's [pg 10]vessel that day. How many eyes strain to see that first little puff of smoke on the horizon! What loud cheers as the two massive steamships approach each other! What a wave of anxious excitement when it’s announced that a boat is coming over from the other ship, and how eager everyone is to hear the latest news! They may have gone seven or eight days without any updates, and during that time, so much could’ve happened in the world!
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?
Then again, the sea itself, with its changing beauty and grandeur, holds great interest for most travelers. Isn’t there a chance of spotting an iceberg, a whale, or even the legendary 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.
In March-April 1869, the writer crossed the Atlantic in beautiful weather. The ocean was, for the ten days of the journey, almost completely as calm as a lake; even the female passengers came out of their cabins two or three days earlier than they would have normally. Among them was a 75-year-old woman who was running away—from her husband, as she told the other passengers—and heading to join her children in the States. She had “put up with it” for fifty years, but now, she said, she was going to spend her remaining years in peace. Here was a champion of “women's rights!” Unfortunately, upon arriving in New York, there was no one there to meet her, and she was taken back on board the steamer. What happened to her afterward, we don’t know.
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 owners5 to make the steerage an endurable place of temporary abode.
The struggles of steerage passengers have been vividly depicted by Charles Dickens. He tells us that "Any man who managed to stay upbeat in the cramped steerage of that fine and fast ship, the Screw, must have done so entirely on his own, bringing his good spirit like his supplies, without any assistance from the ship's owners. A dark, cramped, stifling cabin filled to the brim with men, women, and children at various stages of illness and distress is not the most cheerful place to be. But when the steerage cabin of the Screw was as packed as usual, with mattresses and beds crammed on the floor, leaving no space for comfort, cleanliness, or decency, it wasn't just a challenge to keep a good mood; it actually encouraged selfish and rough behavior." Dickens goes on to paint a grimly accurate picture of the passengers, with their ragged clothes, limited supplies of poor food, and their strong sense of family. He notes that every form of suffering stemming from poverty, illness, exile, and long, uncomfortable travel in bad weather filled that cramped space, and the image, almost shocking in its raw honesty, was not exaggerated for that time. However, you couldn’t describe any steerage situation in today's world like that, because, due to government regulations, improvements in travel, competition, and the commendable goal of ship owners to enhance their vessels’ reputations, today’s steerage is comparatively decent; though it still isn’t what it should be, nor has the pace of improvement matched that of cheaper railway accommodations. Even so, it seems to be in the ship owners' interest5 to make steerage a tolerable temporary home.
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.
In 1879, nearly 118,000 steerage passengers left the port of Liverpool for the United States. It’s important to note that this was from one port, definitely the main one for emigration, but certainly not the only British port used for that purpose. Also, keep in mind that these emigrants were headed solely for America. According to the U.S. census of 1870, there were about 5,600,000 foreign-born people living in the country at that time, and this number has continued to grow significantly. At least nine-tenths of them arrived by ships flying the Union Jack, and among these, three-fourths or more traveled as steerage passengers. This highlights the significance of the issue.
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.
Recently, there has been a lot of focus on dividing the steerage space so that friends and families can stay together when possible. Married couples and single women now have separate areas. The sleeping arrangements, however, are a weak point. They consist of simple wooden bunks, and passengers must provide their own bedding, as well as their own plates, mugs, knives, forks, spoons, and water bottles. Nowadays, the food supply is generally sufficient, and on some lines, it is provided as desired. The menu is typically as follows: Breakfast: coffee, fresh bread or biscuits, and butter, or oatmeal porridge and molasses; Dinner: soup, beef or pork, and potatoes—fish may replace the meat; on Sundays, pudding is often included; Tea: tea, biscuits, and butter. Passengers are allowed three quarts of fresh water daily. A passenger with a few extra shillings can often get some additional items from the steward, and many, of course, bring a small supply of minor luxuries on board with them.
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.
For those with limited finances who are thinking about moving abroad, the "Mid-level" (second-class) on some Atlantic steamers to the U.S. and Canada is a good option. For just a couple of guineas more than the steerage rates, you can get excellent state-rooms, usually with four to six berths each, complete with bedding and bathroom facilities. Intermediate passengers have their own separate general lounge, and the food is decent and plentiful. Since steerage passengers need to bring so many things themselves, traveling second-class can end up being nearly as affordable.
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.
Almost every reader will remember Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley on board the miserable Screw. For instance, "the latter woke up with a strange feeling that he had been dreaming about falling asleep in a four-poster bed that had flipped over during the night," which made some sense, as "The first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes was his own heels looking down at him from a nearly vertical angle, as he later mentioned." "This is the first time I've ever stood on my head the entire night." Mark remarked.
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 [pg 12]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.”
The lesson Dickens teaches about the importance of staying positive on a ship and helping others keep their spirits up, as shown by poor Tapley, is really significant. If anything can reveal someone's true character, it’s life on a packed ship. Who could forget Mark calling 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 about people who aren’t your responsibility,” Martin said petulantly. “All right,” Mark replied; “she’ll do that. It’s a fair division of labor, sir. I wash her boys and she makes our tea. I could never make tea, but anyone can wash a boy.” The woman, who was sick and frail, recognized his kindness—rightly so, as she had been covered every night with his great coat while he slept on bare boards with just a rug. “If a ray of sunshine peeked through the dark sky,” Dickens continues, “down went Mark into the cabin, and soon he returned 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 living or not that he thought could use some fresh air. If an hour or two of nice weather in the middle of the day encouraged those who usually didn’t come on deck to crawl into the lifeboat or lie down on the spare spars and try to eat, there was Mr. Tapley in the middle of it all, handing out salt beef and biscuits, pouring tastes of grog, cutting up the kids' snacks with his pocket knife for their convenience, reading aloud from an old newspaper, singing a lively old song for a select group, writing letters for those who couldn’t, joking with the crew, nearly getting blown overboard, emerging half-drenched from a spray shower, or lending a hand somewhere: but always doing something for everyone’s entertainment.”
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.
Dickens painted his picture from real life, and while it's an extreme example, there are still many Mark Tapleys to be found. In fact, unless an emigrant can stay happy and cheerful despite the clear challenges of even the best steerage conditions, they might as well have stayed home. If they can handle those difficulties well, they have the qualities that will make them good colonists or settlers, ready to "rough it" at any time. Before we move on from the topic of steerage passengers and emigrants, it's worth noting that the United States Government does everything it can upon their arrival in New York to protect them from scams and provide them with reliable information. At the depot in Castle Gardens, where third-class passengers arrive, there are interpreters, money changers, train ticket offices, and accommodations for them; it’s mostly their own fault if they fall into the traps of New York—because New York has its traps, just like every other big 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.
The risks of traveling across the Atlantic aren't as severe as those faced by ships heading south through the Bay of Biscay, which frightens passengers bound for Australia, India, China, and other destinations in the East. At the beginning of 1880, the fine S.S. Chimborazo struggled to return to Plymouth, having lost three people overboard and one killed due to injuries sustained on the ship. Off Ushant, a fierce gale hit, causing the vessel to roll heavily, and by the next morning, the storm had turned into a hurricane, flooding the ship and threatening a fate like that of the London. Just before 9 A.M., a massive wave struck the ship, tipping it over and overwhelming the deck with unstoppable force. The steam launch, six heavy boats, the smoking room, the saloon companion, and everything on the spar deck were swept overboard among the waves in just three seconds, as if they were mere toys, while, in addition to the previously mentioned fatalities, seventeen other passengers were injured to varying degrees. Just before the ship was hit, the smoking room was crowded with passengers, who were asked by the captain to leave to make room for some helpless sheep that were struggling about, and this likely saved their lives. “As,” said a prominent newspaper, The damaged ship arrived at Plymouth Harbour on Tuesday morning, her broken stanchions and skylights, her faulty steering mechanism, and the debris scattered on her deck showing how severe the terrifying experience had been. This inspired many heartfelt and silent prayers of gratitude from her rescued passengers as they thought about the dangers they had just narrowly escaped. It is in such moments that the limitations of human language are sharply felt. There's no doubt that, if it weren't for the skilled seamanship of Captain Trench and his crew, the outcome would have been much more tragic.
CHAPTER 2.
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?
The Great Transcontinental Railway—New York to Chicago—Niagara in Winter—A Woman's Impressions—A Pullman Dining Car—Omaha—“The Great Muddy”—Experiences of Train Travel—Bumpy Roads—Native Americans Trying to Catch Trains—A Ride on a Snow Plow—Sherman—Women’s Vanity in the Rocky Mountains—Slippery Tracks—The Great Plains—Summer and Winter—The Prairie on Fire—An Impressive Bridge—Coal Discoveries—The “Buttes”—The Gates of Mormondom—Echo and Weber Canyons—The Devil’s Gate—Salt Lake—Take a ride in a “Mud Wagon”—The City of the Saints—Mormon Industry—A Tragedy of the Past—Mountain Meadow Massacre—The “Great Eggshell”—Theater—Silver State—“Dead Heads”—In the Sierra Nevada—Alpine Scenery—The Highest Newspaper Office in the World—“Snowed in”—Cape Horn—To the Fertile Plains—Sunny California—Sacramento—Oakland and the Golden City—Recent Experiences of Travelers—San Francisco as a Port—What’s Next?
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.
Sufficient mention of New York has already been made in this work. The tourist or traveler heading around the world via the great transcontinental railway and San Francisco has a choice of routes starting from the commercial capital of America, and as far as Omaha, all with identical fares for a "through ticket" to the Pacific. You can travel through the Pennsylvania mountains and valleys, catching glimpses of the coal and coal oil fields, with the region generally being heavily wooded. The Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh, and Fort Wayne Railway runs through truly magnificent scenery, and the road's construction has been quite challenging, involving extensive cuttings, embankments, and long tunnels. The route winds its way through the mountains, and at one point, known as the "Horseshoe Bend," the line curves back so much that it almost overlaps itself. A train following yours can look like it’s going in the opposite direction. The only significant city on this route before reaching Chicago is Pittsburgh—busy, coal-filled, sooty, and grimy—a place that brings to mind Staffordshire, filled with iron and cutlery works. It’s located in charming scenery, where the Monongahela, Allegheny, and Ohio rivers meet, though it stands out as a stark blot in the lush and serene surroundings. After leaving Pittsburgh, the railroad travels through a refreshingly beautiful and fruitful area, nourished by the Ohio. “Long stretches of green meadows, surrounded by hills and valleys, shady areas, cozy farmhouses, and stylish villas, along with steamers, barges, boats, and timber rafts—almost as big as those famous Rhine rafts—on the river, create a varied and very attractive view.” Next, you arrive in Indiana, a land with fairly good soil, troublesome swamps, and a prevalence of fever and ague, inhabited by an indolent and shiftless population. Overall, it’s a place that’s best 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. [pg 15]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 mentioned6 thus describes her impressions:—
But the tourist’s favored route from New York to Chicago is briefly known as “The Great Central Station.” At Niagara, it crosses a bridge over the river just below the magnificent Falls, where you can get a decent view. Most tourists naturally take a day or two to stop at the Falls, where there are great hotels. They've been described so often that every schoolkid knows all about them. They're especially worth seeing in winter, when tiny icebergs and floes crash and grind with the water. Below the Falls, these can accumulate to a significant height, and in some places, the river is completely frozen over. From the rocks, massive icicles weighing hundreds of tons hang down. The contrast between the rushing green waters and the crystal ice and untouched snow around them is stunning. [pg 15]Some sense of the water volume can be gathered from this fact: the Niagara River a mile and a half upstream from the Falls is two and a half miles wide and very deep. At the Falls, all this water is constricted to about 800 yards in width. A traveler already mentioned6 describes her impressions this way:—
“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!’
“I don’t think even the most vivid imagination can completely understand the incredible beauty of this natural wonder. Like all extraordinary things we're not used to measuring or thinking about, Niagara needs time to appreciate. Our minds also need time to adjust to its grandeur and to take in its harmonies from the powerful sounds that ultimately fill our souls with their intense rhythms, and whose constantly changing yet consistent theme—similar to the compositions of Handel or Beethoven—resonates through every part of our 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.”
The main impression Niagara leaves is its constant, overwhelming power and beauty. This is what gives the Falls their unique charm; no matter how much you want to leave, you find yourself returning again and again, like a restless needle drawn to a magnet. There's nothing in nature that has left such a clear, lasting, and awe-inspiring impact on my mind as this massive sight; this huge body of water moves quietly but quickly along its course above the Falls, rushing more wildly and joyfully as it nears the edge, until it plunges into the abyss, contributing to the grand symphony that, for thousands of years, has risen in low, thundering tones to the Creator’s throne, day and night, in every season.
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.
Passing by all the intermediate points, the traveler finally arrives at the Garden City, Chicago. Once regarded as a western city—900 miles west of New York—it is now seen as almost an eastern one. It’s important to note that this city, with a population of half a million, is a port. Large sailing vessels and steamers arrive and depart daily, and through Lake Michigan and the interconnected chain of lakes, they can access the ocean directly. There are miles of wharfs, and it is generally considered one of the "livelier" business hubs in America. Beautifully laid out and constructed, the city now hardly shows any signs of the devastating fire that in 1871 destroyed three-fourths of its finest streets.
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” [pg 16](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
From Chicago to Omaha, the different routes don't offer much interest for the average traveler, so while we travel together, let’s have dinner in a Pullman hotel car. When you enter, you'll be greeted with an overwhelming menu that starts with soups and ends with ice cream and black coffee. Dinner is served at small individual tables, and the cleanliness of the tablecloths and napkins, the shine of the plates, and the crystal-clear glassware leave nothing to be desired. You can get a glass of iced water since they have an ice cellar, and you can order anything from a bottle of beer to Burgundy, port, or champagne. Cigars are also available "onboard;" at the specific point indicated, you won't pay more than seventy-five cents (about three shillings) for dinner. It's true that the drinks tend to be quite pricey: a “quarter” [pg 16](i.e., twenty-five cents, a quarter of a dollar) for any small drink, fifty cents for a very small bottle of Bass, and wines are expensive relative to that. Still, you get to eat at your own pace instead of rushing out with a crowd at the food stations where the trains typically stop three times a day. We have Mr. W. F. Rae's word that "No royal person can be more comfortably accommodated than someone staying in a Pullman car, as long as the car is a hotel type."7
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.
At Omaha, on the Missouri, the Pacific Railway proper begins, although various New York and other lines, as we’ve seen, connect with it. The river, casually called "The Great Muddy," because of the color of its water and its many sand and mud banks, is crossed at this point by a nice bridge. Talking about those banks, which are always shifting, there’s a story about a local man who, years ago, before steam ferries were common, wanted to cross the Missouri near this spot. He didn’t know how to get across until he noticed a sandbank “doing the dishes,” as they say, to the surface of the water near the shore he was on. He jumped onto it, and it moved so quickly that it carried him right across the river, and he landed safely on the other side! The story is an embellished version of reality. The shifting sandbanks make navigation risky, and skilled river pilots are well paid.
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 [pg 17]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.
The literature about railways is still pretty much unexplored. It's true that almost every day something interesting happens related to it: whether it's a major improvement, a terrible accident or a close call, or the launch of an important new line. The quirks of train travel—both good and bad—often brighten up the pages of our comic magazines, while the technical side is thoroughly covered in specialized journals. But the reality is that all of this is temporary, and railways can hardly be said to have a literature of their own yet.
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.
The following episodes mainly talk about the impressive railway we're discussing, which is definitely the longest direct route on the planet. The railway spans 3,300 miles from New York to San Francisco, and the ticket for the entire journey is about two feet long! It would be better described as a collection of tickets or coupons. The writer has traveled across the American continent twice using this route, with his first trip taking place upon its completion in 1869. As a correspondent for a daily newspaper, he had plenty of opportunities to explore it in detail. In Chicago, he enjoyed meeting Mr. Pullman, who generously shared information that was quite new to the British public at that time. He was already trying to get his famous cars introduced in England; as history revealed, it took him several years just to have them tested. He is known for a witty remark related to this. He spoke highly of our country but, like many Americans, thought we were slow to embrace new ideas. “It is a grand country,” he said, “a grand country. But you have to be born very young there,” meaning that otherwise, you might grow old waiting for even a promising idea to come to fruition.
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.
When the writer first traveled across the continent, the railway was far from finished. With tracks laid at a pace of seven, and sometimes even ten miles a day, you couldn't really trust them; a lot of the road was poorly ballasted, and many bridges were makeshift wooden structures that didn’t feel stable. The train often had to crawl along, and passengers would frequently get off and walk ahead, easily outpacing the locomotives, only to be found relaxing on boulders by the side of the track, having enjoyed a quick smoke for fifteen minutes. Mr. James Mortimer Murphy, in his “Rambles in Northwestern America,” shares similar stories about an even rougher route he took from Wallula, along the Columbia River, to a location in Washington Territory. That railroad was just fifteen miles long and used wooden rails. After managing to get an interview with the president, secretary, conductor, and brakesman—actually just one person—he was given a ticket and placed on some rough iron in an open truck, with instructions to hold on tight and avoid standing on the floor if he valued his limbs. The shabby little engine grunted a few times, let out several wheezy puffs, gave a cat-like scream, and eventually got the train moving at an exhilarating top speed of two miles an hour, “rocking,” as the narrator puts it, “like a canoe in choppy water.” The man who represented all the train officials didn’t board but told the engineer to keep going and that he’d catch up in about an hour. Not long after I started moving, I understood why I wasn’t allowed to stand on the floor of the truck: a piece of hoop iron that covered the wooden rails in some areas curled up into what is called a ‘snake head’ and pushed through the wood with such force that it nearly stopped the train. Once that was fixed, the engine continued on, and after seven hours, it brought one exhausted passenger—eyes stinging from the smoke and coat and hat nearly burnt off by sparks—to a station made up of a makeshift board shack, with wind howling through the gaps, having covered the entire fifteen miles in that time. The drivers of the passing “prairie schooners,” which are the wagons pulled by eight or more pairs of mules or oxen, sometimes dared the president of the line to race them in his old machine, but he turned them down and calmly walked alongside his train. This quirky railway has since been replaced by a much better one, but to be fair to the original line, it is now, and has been for a long time, in excellent condition, and is serviced daily by numerous express, emigrant, and freight trains.
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,” [pg 19]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.
The Native Americans have never really caused the transcontinental railway companies much trouble since the lines were completed. But early on, there’s a story about the Chien or Dog Indians, from whom the town of Cheyenne gets its name. They had a strong dislike for the iron horse with fiery eyes and decided to conquer it. Around thirty of them hopped on their ponies and charged at an oncoming train. It’s probably unnecessary to mention that pieces of defeated warriors were found scattered along the track soon after, and the tribe hasn’t tried that stunt again. An even better story is about the Piute Indians of Nevada, who attempted to catch a train but ended up with something much fiercer instead. Annoyed by the roaring beast, they set up an ambush, and as it got closer, they skillfully threw a lasso—just like the one used for catching cattle—over the “smokestack,” "bit off more than I could chew", [pg 19]and held on to the other end of the rope. The engine continued on its path unharmed, but the wild stunts the Indians performed as they were dragged along at twenty-five miles an hour over the rocks and boulders by the side of the track were probably more entertaining for the passengers than for them.
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!
Most readers will have heard of the famous “Cape Horn” high in the Sierra Nevada mountains, where the Central Pacific Railway goes around the edge of a steep cliff. The traveler is there between six and seven thousand feet above sea level; and at the specific point being discussed, there’s a drop that goes almost straight down to a depth of fifteen hundred feet. Above, the same rocky outcrop rises to an even greater height. The grandeur of the spot is undeniable, but for the passengers, the ridiculous often makes an appearance. Most women and many anxious men visibly flinch at this moment, and after taking a quick look down at the wild Truckee River rushing around the base of the cliff, they retreat to the other side of the train, where they only face a rough rocky wall just a foot or so away from the carriages. Are they trying to balance the train? Maybe like an ostrich, they think they’re out of danger when the threat is just out of sight!
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 too far from the spot mentioned above, on the western side of the mountains where the slopes are especially steep, an amusing accident happened a few years ago. A train, going at a fast speed, split in two; the locomotive and several cars went ahead while the second half of the train trailed behind at a slower pace. Eventually, the lead car of this section derailed, uncoupled, and tipped over onto the embankment, barely stopping at the edge of a ravine that would have been deadly if it had fallen. A large man, reminiscent of Falstaff, was in one of the front cars that were still attached to the locomotive. As soon as the train came to a stop, he jumped off and ran back to the accident scene, hurrying, stumbling, and scrambling over the rough road and the intrusive tracks because his wife was in one of the last cars, and he feared the worst. Finally, he reached the wreck, where he saw his wife standing there, calmly waving a handkerchief after climbing out through one of the windows, nearly uninjured. She had just been looking after the only person who was hurt. That person, in a panic to grab something as the carriage rolled over, had clutched the hot stove and ended up with some burns that were bad but not life-threatening.
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 [pg 20]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!
Not exactly a nuisance is an institution closely tied to American trains—the roaming boy who offers you one minute a newspaper, the next a novel, and then anything from a cigar or a box of sweets to a “prize pack.” These packages come in all values, from a twenty-five cent pack of stationery to a bound book for a dollar and a half, about one in a hundred of which might actually contain a cash prize. The writer had been a regular customer for paper-covered novels, and his plan was to sell the books back at half-price, then buy a new story, which of course worked out well for the boys. As a result of these and other purchases, he was one day able to win a five-dollar “dollar” in a prize package. He was somewhat annoyed later to discover that he had really been used as the "decoy duck." The news of his winnings spread through the carriage and even across the train, and the enterprising young boy quickly [pg 20]sold a dozen or so of the same packages, and, it should be noted, the same number of buyers. There were no more prizes that day!
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 newspaper is published regularly on the overland trains of the Pacific Railway. There are telegraph stations all along the route, and the latest news is handed "onboard" to the editor, writer, typesetter, and printer—represented by, or condensed into, one and the same person—as soon as the train arrives, and is immediately “set up” and printed. Thus “specials” "extra deals," and "special extra deals" follow one another in rapid succession, keeping 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 [pg 21]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?”
A term that has become popular here started on the Pacific Railway during the writer’s time in California. A terrible accident happened near Oakland, where one [pg 21]train with the long cars common in the United States collided and literally “collapsed” another. This expression was used in a rather interesting way in San Francisco for a while after that. If a business person in a rush bumped into someone—say, coming around a corner—the other person would shout, “Hey! Are you trying to spy on someone?”
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 writer will not soon forget his ride from Laramie to Sherman, a stop on one of the ridges of the Rocky Mountains where the Pacific Railway crosses at an elevation of over 8,000 feet. With a pass from the company, the friendly station master at Laramie had no issue with him riding along with a locomotive that had a snow plow attached in front, leaving ahead of the regular train. The plow was a rough example of its kind, not much different in shape from the ram of an ironclad, and was made of sheet metal covering a strong wooden frame. But it did its job well, pushing the soft snow aside in waves and sprays, reminiscent of a big ocean liner moving through the waves. The snow had piled up in some spots to five or six feet deep on the tracks, but this was easy for the plow, and the workers, sitting on the coal, weren’t needed. The biggest danger on the line, which is now well protected by large snow sheds—basically wooden tunnels—and snow fences, comes from snow that has melted, frozen, thawed, and frozen again until it turns into solid ice. The wheels of a locomotive reaching such a spot either spin uselessly without moving forward or completely come off the tracks.
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.
The mention of the impact of ice on the tracks brings to mind a story shared by Colonel Bulkley, who led the Russo-American Telegraph Expedition. During the Civil War in the U.S., the colonel was in charge of a construction team that set up temporary telegraph lines to keep up with the advancing Northern army. A train driver was supposed to stop every night to pick them up but one night he forgot, forcing the exhausted crew to walk about twelve miles in the dark to the nearest village. Naturally, the men decided this couldn't happen again, so the next morning they stocked up on several boxes of bar soap. What for? To soap the tracks! Colonel Bulkley excitedly recounts how they applied it for about a quarter of a mile, how the train eventually reached that spot, and after traveling a short distance due to its speed, almost came to a stop. The men jumped on and shared the story with everyone. The engineer, the next day, made sure 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 [pg 22]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.”
“Some writers strongly suggest that travelers visit Sherman station,” says Mr. Rae. The reasons to visit include stunning mountain views, fresh air, and chances for fishing and hunting. Spending time in the Rocky Mountains offers a unique experience. Life there must give, in every way, a completely new feeling. However, some new experiences aren’t as pleasant, even though they’re definitely fresh. There’s no doubt that there are plenty of amazing trout in the streams near Sherman. Still, fishing enthusiasts should be careful about getting too carried away with their enjoyable hobby. Catching big fish is thrilling, but getting hit by arrows is definitely not fun. That situation is one of the risks to consider. A few weeks before my trip, one of the conductors on my train learned, through firsthand experience, that fishing in the [pg 22]Rocky Mountains has clear and painful downsides. After taking a few days off, he set out with his fishing rod, ready to have a good time. While casting his line with innocent excitement, he was shocked to find himself targeted by arrows from wild Indians. He ran to safety and, much to the surprise and relief of his friends, he recovered from his injuries. His story didn’t make me eager to face a similar 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.
The Great Plains, where the “prairie wagons”8 struggle and the trains now speed by, have their own bleak appeal. In summer, they are hot and dusty, and looking at endless sagebrush and the occasional prairie dog or hen isn't exactly exciting; plus, the constant sight of skeletons bleaching in the sun—those of overworked mules, horses, and oxen, and sometimes human remains—can be quite depressing. But on a winter evening with moonlight, when the snow has melted during the day and turned into iced at night, they look like one vast glittering lake, with the snow-covered hills serving as islands. Buffaloes, once abundant, are now rarely seen near the railway. In the more fertile areas of the plains closer to the Missouri, in Nebraska and nearby states, it’s also possible to witness the occasionally stunning sight of a prairie fire from the train. One evening in May 1868, I was with others in a Pullman car when we spotted huge clouds of smoke rising on the horizon. As the train got closer, it became clear that the prairie was on fire for miles, though fortunately it was a good distance from the track. The flames shot up fiercely into the peaceful, starry sky; the settlers' homesteads, trees, and hills were silhouetted against the destructive blaze, while a thick canopy of smoke hung over everything, creating a scene that would not be easily 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.
West of the high point where Sherman is located, the railway line slopes steeply down to the Laramie Plains, with trains descending not just from their own weight, but with the brakes securely applied. At Dale Creek, this section of the line crosses a stunning bridge. It's 650 feet long, and at the center of the deep ravine, it rises 126 feet high. It's made completely of wood, was built in just thirty days, and is an impressive puzzle of trestle-work. “Multiple passengers,” says Mr. Rae, “Who would prefer to miss a stunning view rather than risk a broken neck, breathes easier and openly expresses relief once the train has safely crossed this impressive wooden bridge.” Now the train is speeding along again; in twenty miles, it descends 1,000 feet. Next, they arrive at Laramie City, surrounded by good grazing land. This is followed by the plains known as “The Great American Desert,” another barren area covered in sagebrush. And yet—aside from the fact that even sagebrush has its uses, as a decoction of it is recommended for treating ague—the desert has been shown to hold valuable resources. At Carbon and other stops along the line, rich coal deposits have been discovered and are being mined profitably. Initially, there was concern that all the coal needed for the railway would have to be brought from far-off places.
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.
Among the wonders of the plains are the massive rocks and cliffs known as the "Buttes," which often rise from relatively flat ground in isolated areas. Seen at dusk, their often strange shapes look bizarre and otherworldly, and the effect is intensified by the complete silence and emptiness around them, with their mocking echoes responding to the chugging trains being the only sounds heard. Some of these rock formations are column-shaped, while others are pyramid-like; some even resemble heads, human or otherwise. Now they rise in massive walls, showcasing colors as stunning as those of the cliffs at Alum Bay in the Isle of Wight; they often reach several hundred feet in height. One, notably described by the writer, had the exact shape of a giant dog sitting on its hind legs.
As the train approaches the confines of Mormondom some specially grand scenery is met and passed. The stern and rugged ravine known as Echo Cañon9 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.
As the train approaches the boundaries of Mormondom, it encounters some particularly stunning scenery. The steep and rugged ravine known as Echo Canyon9 is bordered by steep, nearly vertical sandstone and conglomerate cliffs, with many crags standing like guardians, rising high towards the sky over the fast-flowing, roaring Weber River. Near the Mormon town of Echo, there’s a cliff that’s 1,000 feet high, which extends beyond its base by fifty feet. There’s also a rock known as "The Valley Sphinx," because it resembles the original. After this, Weber Canyon follows, where you can see a remarkable and nearly vertical split in the cliff, well-known as "Devil's Slide." Further along, the train reaches “The Devil’s Gate,” where the steep rock walls close in together and the dark hills draw near. Here, the river transforms into a boiling, furious rapid, white with foam, rushing forward with incredible force, and carrying tons of boulders in its unstoppable path. Some of the early railway bridges were completely washed away by it, and numerous challenges arose during the construction of the line, with significant tunneling clearly required in some areas. But all obstacles were successfully overcome. As they emerge from the dark, rough canyon, the relatively fertile and cultivated Weber Valley looks like a perfect slice of Paradise in contrast.
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 [pg 24]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.
Few travelers, no matter how quickly they need to move, will go through Utah without making a quick stop in Salt Lake City, which is now very different from what it was when Captain Burton wrote his "City of Saints." The Mormon capital isn’t on the main line of the Pacific Railway, but it is connected by a short twenty-five-mile branch line. Ogden is the “intersection” for Salt Lake, and it has a pretty decent station with dining areas, book stalls, and other amenities. The last time the writer passed through this part of Utah in winter, the (spirit) thermometer on the platform at Ogden read −16° F, or 48° below freezing. On the first visit, the branch railway was just getting started, so he took a "mud wagon," a kind of box on wheels—if you can even call it that—which was driven at breakneck speed. He’s not sure how many miles he traveled up and down because of the bumps, but he was very tired when he finally arrived. Still, the journey had plenty of interesting sights. For example, nearly the entire way, and sometimes just a few hundred yards away, was the Great Salt Lake—the Dead Sea of America—whose waters are said to be [pg 24]one-third salt. This might be an exaggeration, but its shores are white with mineral deposits, and it took the Mormons years to irrigate a lot of the surrounding land to wash away the salty buildup. They had to redirect fresh water through hillside ditches, etc., often from quite a distance. The effort paid off, as the road from Ogden to Utah goes through several thriving towns and past numerous lovely homesteads set among gardens and orchards of peach and apple trees, with signs of diligent farming everywhere.
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.
At one point, there was some resistance among the Mormons to the building of the transcontinental railway through their territory because they were worried about the influx of outsiders that actually happened. However, the late Brigham Young either had a broader perspective or realized it was pointless to resist the inevitable, and he even took contracts to help build the railroad, later constructing the branch line to the city. It was cleverly stated by the NY Herald that “railway communications corrupt good Mormons,” to which President Young reportedly replied that "he didn't care about a religion that couldn't stand up to a railroad." In fact, up until relatively recently, several thousand new recruits, mainly from Great Britain and northern European countries, have been transported over it each year.
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 [pg 25]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.”
This isn't the place to talk about the mysterious aspects of Mormonism. It's easy to make jokes about it and quote Artemus Ward, who said, "While Brigham had a unique religion, he had multiple wives." The truth is that, in many cases, Mormons have only one wife, even though they theoretically support polygamy. Another point [pg 25]is that no Mormon was permitted to have more than one wife unless he could show that he had enough resources to support her. Hard work was a foundational principle in Brigham Young’s teachings, despite being mixed with elements of fanaticism and superstition, which has led to thousands of people, mostly struggling, who settled in a seemingly barren area, now owning homes and farms. Through sheer effort, the desert has truly “blossomed like a rose.”
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.
Salt Lake City has been carefully planned, with wide, well-maintained streets, and nearly every home, except for those in a small business area, has a large garden. The days of the “avenging angels” or Danites are gone, and nowadays, every person’s life and property are safe, even though at one time many people who were suspected or unwanted simply disappeared, as our American cousins would say, “found missing.” On one horrific occasion—the Mountain Meadow massacre—an entire group of emigrants traveling to California who had set up camp near the city were killed by Indians, who were undoubtedly incited to this act by the Mormons. A Mormon Church leader, Bishop Lee, was executed by the United States authorities for his role in the incident. The emigrants, who traveled with their families in large numbers, certainly aggravated the Mormons by taunting them and sometimes stealing their cattle and belongings. For many years, a garrison of United States troops has been stationed at Camp Douglas, not far from Salt Lake City, to protect Gentiles and to help maintain order.
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!
One of the best things about this unique community is the noticeable lack of drunkenness and excess. Most Mormons don't drink alcohol at all and typically consume only tea, coffee, or the clear water that flows through the streets from the beautiful, snow-covered Wahsatch Mountains, which are a prominent part of the scenery in Salt Lake Valley. Salt Lake City features a remarkable building known to the faithful as “The Tent of Meeting,” and to those less reverent as the “Big Eggshell,” due to the oval shape of its roof. It can seat 8,000 people or even more when crowded. It has the second-largest organ in America. The writer attended a service there honoring some missionary Mormons who were about to leave for Europe. The Salt Lake theater is another highlight of the area, hosting a talented group of Mormon amateur actors and actresses. We once saw about twenty-five members of Brigham Young’s family sitting in the front rows. In the past, it’s said that payment at the entrance was made "as is," where a Mormon might bring a ham, a fat sucking pig—not live—a bag of dried peaches, or even a dozen mop handles in exchange for tickets!
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.
Taking a final look at the great Salt Lake, passing through Corinne, where just six weeks after it was founded a bank and a newspaper office had already been set up in tents, the train continues through a mostly barren area on its way to Nevada, the Silver State, a place where life is only bearable if you’re making money fast. Those who want to see some of the silver mines with relative ease can “get off” the train at Reno, then take a branch rail to Virginia City and Gold Hill, locations where you can observe mining life in action. The silver mines in Nevada and nearby regions have produced so much silver that, as most of us know, its value has actually decreased. Many of the millionaires in San Francisco made their fortunes 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 [pg 27]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.
In the United States, the distances between major cities are so vast that the ticket prices, while generally reasonable, can still be too steep for those on a tight budget, and empty wallets are everywhere. As a result, many people try to sneak onto trains. The writer remembers a “dead-head” who, along this particular route, managed to evade the guard's attention for several stops but was eventually caught and kicked off a dozen miles or more from the nearest town. The “dead-head,” similar to a stowaway on a ship—where as many as fourteen have been hidden on one vessel without being discovered until they were far out at sea—is an unacknowledged part of the U.S. railway system. Perhaps due to stricter enforcement of the ticketing system, few people try to travel for free on English railways, even though it was reported that a sailor was found asleep under a carriage, with his arms and legs wrapped around the brake rods, having almost completed the journey from London to Liverpool unnoticed. However, sailors are used to rough conditions, noises, and shocks from being exposed to the elements and so on. Readers may recall that a few years ago, when a Great Western train collided with another train crossing its path, a sailor was discovered sleeping in a half-third-class carriage, and he was quite upset when he woke up to tell about his close call. All of this may seem like a digression, so let’s get back to our topic—“dead heads.” Some members of this group have claimed they’ve traveled all over the U.S. for free. Kind-hearted guards—always referred to as “conductors” in America—often turn a blind eye to their presence, but more strict officials have been known to stop the train outside long tunnels or on the side of unsafe open trestle bridges and firmly tell the drifter to “get!” This person has often managed to cross the entire continent. Kicked off one train, booted from another, left stranded in the snow between faraway stations, occasionally allowed a short ride on an open freight car, walking when it's not possible to ride, stealing when it’s easier than asking for charity, and vice versa, he finally makes it to California, where, to give credit to a beautiful land and kind-hearted people, even a vagrant isn’t left to starve. After all, doesn’t the wanderer deserve some reward for his efforts? Perhaps in that place, which is now more known for its corn, hops, and wine than gold, he may, under better circumstances, become a better and more successful person.
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
Few tourists or leisure travelers will miss the chance to make a quick visit to the stunning lakes and small ponds nestled among the eternal snows of the Sierra Nevada mountains, which separate the Silver State from the Golden State, and are crossed by the Pacific Railway at an elevation of 7,042 feet above sea level. From the Summit and Truckee stations, there are all the necessary facilities to reach Donner, Tahoe, and other lakes, offering a chance to stay among some of the most breathtaking scenery in the world. The space allotted in this chapter wouldn’t be enough to describe even the basic details of the grand mountain peaks, one of which rises to an altitude of 14,500 feet; the forests filled with magnificent trees; the tranquil valleys "dressed in greenery;" the waterfalls, cascades, and rushing torrents of this Alpine region, which is within half a day’s journey from San Francisco, and just three or four hours from areas that enjoy the climate of Southern Italy for eight months of the year. Comfortable coaches take you to key points, where you’ll find cozy inns, or during the summer months, travelers can enjoy some tent living and outdoor camping to great advantage, with the mountain climate being fresh, invigorating, and pleasantly warm. At the main lakes, boats are available, and on one or two, small steamers run regularly. You can fish and hunt to your heart's content. Sierra mountain trout is unmatched anywhere; meanwhile, sports enthusiasts can hunt anything from California quail to a grizzly bear—the latter, especially, *if they can*. At most popular resorts, you can get the morning newspapers from San Francisco the same day, while Truckee proudly has its own local paper, published at, let it be noted, 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 [pg 28]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.
One of the writer's memories of the Sierra region isn't very pleasant, especially since it was during winter. He had been warned before leaving San Francisco that the railway might be “snowed up,” just like it was in 1871-2, when there was a blockade for several weeks. He was advised to travel to New York via Panama. He had made that trip before and wanted to experience the continent in winter, when the journey from the Sierra Nevada Mountains to New York stretches through 3,000 miles of snow. So he set off, and for about twelve hours, everything went smoothly. But right at the “summit” of the railway line, which is the highest point among the Sierra Nevada, near the station of the same name, the train suddenly came to a stop in the darkness of a long “snow-shed” tunnel. To make matters worse for some, the engine left the train and ran off, leaving the conductor absent for a long time as well. The carriages weren't well-lit, but they were warm enough, thanks to the heated stoves. Unfortunately, memories of previous blockades and half-starved passengers didn't help reassure the stuck travelers. Few people slept that night; in one carriage filled with crying babies and shouting women, it was nearly impossible. Some older travelers, who managed to stay upbeat, tried to lift everyone's spirits and shared their wicker-covered demijohns—flasks just weren't sufficient for a seven-day journey that could stretch on indefinitely—with those who hadn’t brought anything. One person even attempted to break the monotony with a song, but it didn’t quite work, and a sense of sadness prevailed. But that didn’t last long. Around seven the next morning, there was a commotion; a whistle in the distance; another one closer, which, despite being hoarse, sounded like heavenly music; and within minutes, the good locomotive arrived, coupled with the train, and took it to the nearest station, where breakfast awaited anyone who wanted it. And what a breakfast it was! Trout, chicken, venison, hot bread, buckwheat cakes, and molasses, along with the usual and some unusual side dishes you’d find at a typical American meal. Travelers shouldn’t expect to find all these luxuries at places further inland, where you might only get beans and bacon, hot bread, tea or coffee, and perhaps some stewed dried apples or peaches. This is understandable, as everything has to be brought from far away, and the stations were built solely for the railroad, often lacking any dwellings except for those directly associated with it.
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, [pg 29]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.
And so we go down, first to the foothills, and then to the sunny plains of California. You can often see signs of mining, both old and new: flumes and ditches with rushing water, old shafts, mills, and boarding houses. But the glory has faded, or rather transformed into the more lasting vineyards, fields, and orchards. Some of the best wines and fruits come from these foothills. Now we cross the American River and arrive in Sacramento, the state's legislative capital, a city surrounded by lovely suburbs, beautiful homes, and grand mansions. From there, to San Francisco, you can choose to take a boat ride on the Sacramento River to the Bay, or one of two railroads—once so close to the Bay City, few want to linger, so they hurry on. The train takes you through a highly cultivated area to Oakland, the Brooklyn of San Francisco, where many of its wealthy merchants live. Here, flowers bloom all year round. When we left California in winter, we saw roses, daisies, verbenas, pansies, violets, [pg 29]hollyhocks, calla lilies, and camellias, all growing outdoors. This isn’t particularly surprising, since in our own country, in Devonshire and Cornwall, especially in Penzance, a similar observation could be made. In Oakland, the railroad extends out on a wooden pier or bridge, about a mile and a quarter long, into 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.
Of San Francisco and its beautiful bay, these pages have already provided some information. It serves as the main hub for everything related to commerce and travel between all parts of America and much of Europe and the Pacific overall. The successful miner, trader, or farmer from Nevada, Oregon, Colorado, and other remote areas spends their money there, as the capital of coast trade of all kinds centers there. This is the reason for its success and diverse 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.
In discussing the cosmopolitan traits of the Golden City, a traveler (Mr. Carlisle) mentions that one of the advantages, given that he came from the far-off Japan, is how close the city is to Europe when it comes to receiving news.
“The city of San Francisco is eight hours behind London in the matter of time, [pg 30]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.
The city of San Francisco is eight hours behind London, which is a big advantage. When the grain merchants arrive at their offices in the morning, they find a report from the Liverpool market waiting for them. Each morning newspaper includes several columns filled with telegrams from the previous evening from all over Europe, and it's common to see a notification like this among those telegrams:—‘The Times of today has an article that states,’ & etc., & etc., summarizing that morning’s main editorial.” The author can illustrate this point with a real incident from his own experience. Every reader will remember the horrific explosion in Regent’s Park, which caused significant damage and occurred around 3:30 AM. At that time, he was serving as the "editor for telegrams," & etc., for the California, the oldest newspaper on that coast. The news of the explosion reached him via telegram at 11:30 the the night before, which, ironically, was before it actually happened! As a result, the Alta was able to deliver the unfortunate news to all of its readers—some as early as 4 AM the next morning—while the early editions of the London newspapers naturally had no information about it, as they were printed before it occurred.
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 [pg 31]and assured future success is the fact that the steamship companies of the whole Pacific make it their leading port.
Mr. W. F. Rae, a writer previously referenced regarding the character that the city sadly developed in its early days, remarks:—“After being the butt of jokes for its lawlessness and lack of morality, the city of San Francisco has turned into a place that is as moral as Philadelphia and much more orderly than New York in just over ten years.” The reality is that one must obtain a "permit" to carry a revolver at all, and that permission cannot be legally granted to anyone with a troubled or dangerous background. A hefty fine is imposed on anyone wearing a pistol without the necessary authorization. The same writer states:—"It's widely known among travelers that California is extremely rich. For some, like me, it's been a pleasure to find that California also has surprising natural beauty and unique treasures." He quotes with approval Lieutenant-Governor Holden’s speech at a celebratory gathering in Sacramento, California, after the completion of the Pacific Railway. “Why, dude,” said the Lieutenant-Governor, a gentleman who had played a significant role in the successful completion of that grand project, "We have the bravest men, the most beautiful women, and the chubbiest babies of anywhere on Earth!" Baron Hübner, in his published work, 13 speaks of the climate, "It's always spring." and then, commenting on the reduced yield of gold, accurately notes, "Its true wealth comes from the fertility of the soil." Furthermore, Margharita Weppner, the previously mentioned German traveler, says, speaking of a fruit exhibition she attended:—“What I saw there could only be found in California; I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the tropics.” She adds enthusiastically:—"This beautiful city of the golden land is my favorite in America. I love it because of the enjoyable lifestyle its people have and the amazing healthiness of the climate." The current writer has chosen to compile information from these independent sources rather than relying solely on his own extensive experience; however, he can attest to the truth of every one of the above statements. One of the greatest strengths of San Francisco’s current [pg 31]and promising future success is that the steamship companies throughout the entire Pacific make it their main 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?
From San Francisco, the traveler eager to explore the world can head to New Zealand and Australia, stopping in Honolulu in the Hawaiian Islands and Fiji along the way; or they can make their way to China, with a stop in Japan, on steamships that probably offer some of the most spacious accommodations available; or they can reach Panama and various South American ports, visiting Mexican ports on the way, on steamships that cruise over the calmest part of the Pacific Ocean; or, once again, they can take enjoyable trips northward to ports in California, Oregon, and British Columbia; or, yet again, southward to ports in Southern California. These routes are consistently running, and this list is far from exhaustive. Where to next?
CHAPTER 3.
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.
The American Steamships—A Heavenly Company—Top Cargoes—Bodies and Caskets—Boredom of the Trip—Feelings Triggered by the Ocean—Entertainment on Board “Chalked”—Cricket at Sea—Balls Overboard—A Six-Day Walking Match—Theater—Wax Figures—The Officers Onboard—Engineer’s Life—The Head Waiter—“Inspection”—Meeting the USA—Excitement—Her Future Destiny—A Cyclone—In Yokohama—Fairy Land—The Bazaars—Japanese Houses—A Dinner Menu—Music and Dancing—Hong Kong, 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 traveller14 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.”
A very ordinary trip nowadays for those traveling around the world is from San Francisco to China, stopping in Japan along the way. The steamships of the Pacific Mail Company are mainly used for this route, and a journey on a vessel like the China, which is one of the top ships in the fleet, is almost always a pleasure. The China is a steamship over 4,000 tons, costing 800,000 dollars, or roughly £160,000. She often carries 2,000 tons of tea on a return trip, not to mention about five to fifteen hundred Chinese passengers. A traveler14 mentioned earlier states that with only 580 passengers on board, half a ton of rice had to be served daily, along with a small amount of meat and vegetables. One of the main cargoes on the outbound trip from San Francisco is corpses and coffins, as few Chinese are ever buried outside their home country. In the beautiful and spacious lounges of these steamers, there are always Chinese waiters, who are said to be very attentive and quiet in their movements. African American waiters are polite and eager to help, but tend to be a bit more fussy; in this regard, “John” is a significant improvement over "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 [pg 32]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.”
"Another indicator," said a prominent magazine “of the new energy revitalizing that long stagnant mass, the Chinese Empire, has just arrived from San Francisco,” and the author goes on to explain a new development in their business ventures. It appears that there has been an organization called the Chinese Merchants’ Steamship Company for some time, whose stockholders are wealthy [pg 32]local merchants and officials, who own many coastal steamers. The company is now planning to launch a route from China to the Sandwich Islands and San Francisco, and it’s quite likely that Chinese emigrants will prefer these steamers over others. The manager of this Celestial "P&O" is Tong Ken Sing, a savvy native of Singapore; and, the writer adds, "With the expert leadership of this man of his time, who is equally knowledgeable about 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:—
After leaving the “Golden Gate” the entrance to the San Francisco Bay, and passing the rocky Farallon Islands, where a company brings a million sea-bird eggs to the city each year, travelers on this route won’t see land until they reach Japan. The steamships don’t stop anywhere on the way. Passengers have to entertain themselves on board, and every passing sail becomes incredibly interesting. But there’s always the sea itself, in its changing states of calm or turbulent majesty. "The look of the open sea," says Frédol, “Far from the shore, the endless ocean is for those who love to create their own world, where they can freely explore their thoughts, filled with grand ideas of the Infinite. Their searching gaze rests on the distant horizon; they see where the ocean meets the sky in a hazy outline, where the stars rise and fall, appearing and disappearing in turn. Eventually, this constant change in nature stirs a vague feeling of sadness ‘which,’ says Humboldt, ‘lies at the root of all our heartfelt joys.’ ” When the Breton fisherman or sailor sets out to sea, his heartfelt prayer is, “Hold onto me, my God! My boat is so small, and Your ocean is so vast!” “We discover in the sea,” says Lacepède, "unity and diversity, which make it beautiful; grandeur and simplicity, which provide it with sublimity; power and vastness, which inspire our awe." That vast stretch of water isn’t just a liquid desert; it’s full of life, even if that life isn’t always visible. The creatures living in the waters through which the good ship travels are as numerous as those on land; though, unless the great sea serpent makes an occasional appearance, a traveler on the Pacific by this route is bound to have a similar experience. He says:—
“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 [pg 33]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.
"There are few signs of life outside the ship. Sometimes a whale is spotted, but for many days, most passengers think it’s just something very ‘like one,’ until, as days pass, everyone sees a spray of water suddenly shoot up from the sea for no clear reason, or a dark shape cutting through the blue surface for a moment before disappearing into the unknown depths. Occasionally, one or more seabirds are seen following the ship's wake, gracefully moving back and forth across the white foam, trying to match their natural speed to that of the steam-powered giant. These birds come in only two types: ‘Mother Carey’s Chicken,’ and another that sailors call the ‘Cape Hen’—a brown bird that's slightly larger and has longer wings than a seagull. Both types of birds can be seen when we’re far out at sea, at least 1,000 miles from the nearest land." The author of these pages has seen whales in the North Pacific keep up with the ship he was on for half an hour or more. One time, a large whale was swimming alongside the steamer so closely that rifle and pistol shots were fired at it; some likely hit their target, yet the massive [pg 33]mammal showed no signs of even temporary annoyance, and it’s reasonable to believe it was not much more affected by the shots than targets at Wimbledon would be 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.
Occasionally, the sailors earn a bit of variety and profit from passengers when they visit the fo'c'sle for the first time. The sailors quickly draw a chalk line around the newcomers on the deck, and each visitor who gets "chalked" has to pay a fine in the form of a bottle of rum. This, however, grants them freedom aboard the ship for all time.
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 traveller15 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 [pg 34]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.
One of the deck games that is popular on long trips is a form of quoits, played with rings and marked spaces, or sometimes on a spike driven into the deck. A traveler gives an amusing account of a cricket club that was formed on the ship he was on. Imagine playing cricket at sea! He says:—The Lord Warden cricket ground is located on the main deck, and since there's not much room for the ten members, they always play single-wicket matches. The stumps are about two feet tall and are secured in a frame to keep them stable on the deck. Although bails are available, they're never actually used. The club has several bats made from different materials. Most are carved from a thick piece of wood and [pg 34]tend to break easily; however, one bat made of elm, named after Cape Verde, lasted for weeks of intense play and was more valuable to the club than the priciest bat from Cobbett. A member of the Marylebone Club intended to give this durable little elm bat a final place in the Pavilion at Lord’s, but tragically, the ‘big hitter,’ while aiming for a big shot, lost his grip on it, and it is now lost to us forever. The boatswain provided spun-yarn balls at sixpence each, but these didn't last long, with four or five often going overboard during an afternoon's play; nearly 300 were used up on the trip. "The gate," continues the narrator, “is positioned right in front of the weather poop ladder, with the bowling crease thirteen yards further ahead, next to the deckhouse. Behind the bowler is an outfielder, while mid-on or mid-off, depending on the direction of the ship, faces the midshipmen’s cabin and sometimes needs to leap over the boom-board above it to search for a lost ball among a mess of boats and spare spars.... Scoring runs on a ship is quite challenging, as the ball has the upper hand over the bat, which is the opposite on land. A cricketer who doesn’t appreciate the slope at Lord’s would be totally baffled by the tilt of a ship's deck in a strong wind. A good eye and hard, straight hits helped a lot, but a solid defense and the strategic ‘placing’ of the ball near the winch often worked just as well, especially on a wet wicket. The highest score of the season was eighteen, which included two shots that landed on the forecastle—a very rare achievement.” The games were very popular and were watched by appreciative groups of passengers. On the same ship, a glee club was formed, and one evening during Christmas week was dedicated to theatricals by the "Shooting Stars of the Southern Seas." Dancing is quite common on board, and, of course, it often faces challenges; a sudden lurch of the ship can send couples tumbling or create a chaotic pile.
Another traveller16 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:—
Another traveler16 gives us some funny notes about the private performances held on the legendary old steamship UK. He was the stage manager and shares:—“I had a lot on my plate since I was in charge of costumes and needed to make sure everyone was prepared. One of the tasks was to get a chignon. I found myself in a tough position because I didn’t want to ask a woman to lend me one, even though it was obvious she wore a hairpiece. So, I ended up taking some oakum from the carpenter, made three big rolls, and it turned out to be a success. The stage was set up in the saloon, and we had footlights along with a gorgeous screen of flags, etc.” Special prologues were written for these shows, one of which, for the performance of the "Taming a Tiger" and the "Belle Area," went like this:—
Then came mention of some of the amateurs who had already played before the passengers:—
Then came the mention of some of the amateurs who had already performed for the passengers:—
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.
and so on. The performance happened while the ship was continually rocking. Mr. Laird mentioned that he had to focus almost as much on his balance as on anything else; but since he always had to seem shaky in front of his master in the show, it went pretty well, except for one time when he went flying awkwardly 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:—
On another occasion, there was a show called “Mrs. Jarley's Wax Museum,” where five kids dressed up as different characters, pretending to be wound up to make them move. The standout was a cannibal turned missionary, while another was Fair Rosamond, and a third played the Marquis of Lorne. The missionary handed out pamphlets, and Queen Eleanor alternately offered a dagger and a cup of cold poison to Fair Rosamond. A well-organized concert followed, and a comedy skit along with a spoken conclusion wrapped up this last performance on board the UK. After recounting the voyage and the fun on board, it continued:—
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.
the fact is that a clergyman on board once accidentally chose the latter for morning service! The epilogue ended by wishing good luck to all the officers and crew and to the good old ship.
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.
Baron Hübner has shared in his previously mentioned published work some fascinating memories and detailed observations from his trip to Japan from San Francisco. Here are a few excerpts.
“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. [pg 36]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 [pg 37]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.”
“July 4.—The sky is a soft gray. The ship is painted entirely white: the masts, deck cabins, deck, tarps, benches—all white. This deck runs smoothly from stern to bow, making it great for walking. I spend almost all morning there alone. The first-class passengers sleep in really late; the second-class passengers—that is, the Chinese—don’t get up at all. [pg 36]They go to bed in San Francisco and stay in their bunks until they reach their destination. You never see them on deck. The sailors, having finished their tasks, also vanish. And it’s easy for them with this weather! After leaving the Golden Gate, the sails were raised and have remained untouched since then. The breeze is just strong enough to fill them and keep us steady. This creates complete calm. The smoke rises straight into the sky. So the sailors have it easy. They sleep, smoke, or hang out downstairs with their friends. The two men at the helm—who are American—are also out of sight since a lookout tower blocks their view along with the rudder and the officer on duty. So I have the entire deck of this massive ship to myself. I walk back and forth, four hundred feet from one end to the other. The only obstacle is a head-high iron crossbar that connects the two sides of the ship in the middle. It’s painted white like everything else, so it’s hard to see. In every situation in life, there’s always a flaw or a pain point—or at least something that dims the experience. On board the China, my dark spot is that annoying white bar. I keep bumping [pg 37]my head against it, and it unpleasantly reminds me of how fragile everything is. It’s very thin, yet if I believe the engineer, it’s this bar alone that, in rough weather, prevents the enormous hull of the ship from splitting in half. There are moments when your life hangs by a thread; here it hangs on an iron bar. That might be better, but it’s still 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.
The luxury ships of the company that were in operation at the time were, while probably the most comfortable in the world, not necessarily the safest. The distance from San Francisco to Japan is 5,000 miles, and apart from a few hundred miles along the coasts of Japan, the ocean is like one big, calm lake. However, cyclones happen in the Japanese seas, during which the tall American vessels are not secure.
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.”
Baron Hübner shares some notes about the passengers aboard, which included nine different nationalities. Among them was a dignified and respected Parsee merchant, a merchant prince in his own right, who wanted to explore European customs and had traveled as far as San Francisco. However, what he encountered there left such a negative impression on him that he immediately booked a return trip. What he saw genuinely disgusted him. “The guys,” he remarked, "Their lack of dignity is unbelievable! You would never see drunks and immoral women wandering the streets of our towns."
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.
Hübner also sketches the officers on board. The chief engineer is depicted as a thoughtful and reflective man—a Roman Catholic, deeply passionate about his faith, who spends his time alternating between studying theology and practical mechanics. His cabin, which opens to the deck on one side and the machinery on the other, has a well-chosen, though small, collection of scientific and classical books, and is decorated with flowerpots that he keeps thriving through constant care, despite the sea breezes. These flowers were a gift from his young and beautiful wife, whose portrait hangs on the wall. He could only see her for a couple of weeks every three months.
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-[pg 38]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:—
The Baron describes the waiters on board as follows:—The head waiter is from Hamburg. He and his white partner have an easy job; they mostly supervise the Chinese workers and spend the rest of their time flirting with the ladies’ maids. They are the only two slackers in the service. Thirty-two Chinese men take care of waiting on passengers and serving at the tables. Although they’re short, they look great in their black caps, matching long black pigtails that reach their heels, dark blue tunics, large white trousers, gaiters or white stockings, and black felt shoes with sturdy white soles. They form neat groups and work systematically. Imagine a huge cabin where a small table for twenty-two guests seems lost, while all these little Chinese men flutter around, serving in the most respectful way and without making a sound. The Hamburg chief, lazily leaning against a console with one hand in his pants pocket, directs the movements of his obedient crew with a finger from his other hand. 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.”
“July 6.—Every day at eleven in the morning and eight in the evening, the captain, followed by the purser, inspects the ship. In the morning, all cabin doors are opened except for the ladies' cabins; as soon as they step out, the captain visits them with the same level of attention. Any matches found are thoroughly confiscated. This morning, the captain invited me to join him, and I got to see firsthand the perfect order and discipline on the ship. The most fascinating area was the kitchens, which are usually avoided. The head cook and his German assistants proudly showed us around their space. Each cook was at their station, eager to reveal every hidden part of their area. It felt like a deep inspection of conscience. The supply and storage rooms were impressive, stocked with high-quality, plentiful items, organized and labeled like products in a pharmacy. The Chinese quarters are located on the lower deck, housing about 800 crew members. They mostly stay in their bunks, smoking and chatting, enjoying the rare luxury of five weeks of complete relaxation. Despite the large number of men packed into such a relatively small space, the ventilation is so effective that there’s no stuffiness or bad odors. The captain checks every nook and cranny, and everywhere we looked we found the same impressive cleanliness. One small area is designated for opium smokers, where we saw individuals caught in a destructive habit—some eagerly inhaling the poison, while others already appeared affected, lying on their backs, fast asleep, their deathly pale faces making them look like corpses.”
A common occurrence, but always of great interest to the passengers, is thus described:—
A frequent event, but always intriguing for the passengers, is described as follows:—
“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 [pg 39]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 7.—Breaking from our usual lazy routine, today we're all feeling excited and restless. The China is supposed to meet up with the America, which was expected to leave Hong Kong twenty-five days ago. Our sails are filled with eager little Chinese sailors, all eyes locked on the horizon. The captain and officers are huddled near the bowsprit, telescopes aimed in the same direction. Even my Spanish friend has stepped away from his engine, his flowerpots, and his wife's portrait to gaze at the slightly rippled blue sea, which, as usual, is completely free of sails. No America! The captain's heart sinks. He checks his charts, instruments, and consults his officers, all to no avail. The day passes without any sign of the steamer. Dinner is quiet and gloomy. Everyone seems lost in their thoughts, and the captain looks clearly worried. It seems that the company's directors are determined to ensure their two boats meet. For them, it's proof that their captains have taken a direct route and that the San Francisco boat has crossed a third of the Pacific without issues. The passengers eagerly seize this rare opportunity to write to their loved ones. For the captains, it’s a point of pride. They take pleasure in showcasing their skills and their ability to navigate straight across this vast body of water, despite the unpredictable and complex currents of the Pacific.”
“July 8.—At five o’clock in the morning the second officer rushed into my cabin—‘The America17 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.”
“July 8.—At five o’clock in the morning, the second officer burst into my cabin—‘The America__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ is in sight!’ I quickly threw on my clothes and rushed on deck. The morning is beautiful, and this massive steamer, the largest after the Great Eastern, approaches grandly. The usual salutes are exchanged, and the America’s boat brings us a copy of their log, a list of the passengers, newspapers from Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Yokohama, and importantly, takes our letters for America and Europe. A few moments later, she continues on her way. What a magnificent and striking sight! By six o’clock, she has already vanished beyond the horizon. At the time of our encounter, we had covered 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.’
The China faced a cyclone, or at least the outer edge of one, which Hübner describes vividly. He says:—At that moment, the ocean was truly breathtaking. In the choppy sea, the foam was blown horizontally toward the east. The water looked almost black, with a few flickers of light scattered throughout. The sky was a dreary gray; to the west, there was a darker curtain of the same color. The thermometer was still dropping quickly. Above the waves, I suddenly noticed a cloud of white flakes; they were tiny pieces of Joss paper that the Chinese were tossing into the sea to appease their gods. I walked past the open door of the engineer, who was watering his plants. The passengers were all gathered in the lounge. Some of them were nearly in tears. At noon, the sky cleared a bit, and everyone’s faces brightened significantly. I've often noticed that people in danger, whether real or imagined, behave like children; even the smallest thing can make them laugh or cry. The master baker from Bombay, the Chinese merchant, and the two Japanese looked particularly noteworthy because they seemed completely unfazed. The baker leaned over and whispered to me, ‘The company is very foolish to have a Chinese crew; the Malays are much better. Chinese sailors panic at the slightest danger and would be the first to jump into the lifeboats.’ Fung-Tang shares a similar low opinion of his fellow countrymen. He tells me, ‘Chinese are good people, very good; bad sailors, very bad!’ I respond, ‘If we sink, what will happen to Fung-Tang?’ He replies, ‘If good, placed 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 [pg 40]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.”
“July 20.—In the middle of the night, the ocean suddenly calmed. The China has left the cyclone zone. The weather is beautiful; the sea is smooth as glass. But at [pg 40]four o'clock in the afternoon, we unexpectedly find ourselves surrounded by huge waves, and there’s not a hint of wind. They say this was probably the center of the typhoon yesterday. It has either calmed down or moved on; but the sea, which it whipped into a frenzy, is still restless, like the pulse of a feverish patient after the fit has passed.”
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.
Yokohama, whose name means “across the ocean and coast,” has been briefly described in these pages. Travelers have shared some interesting stories about it, and since it would be one of the main stops on a world tour, we can include a bit more about it.
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.
Baron Hübner essentially says that with every step you take, you wonder if it’s all a dream, a fairy tale, or a story from the Arabian Nights. Upon arriving there from San Francisco, the shift from American to Oriental culture is especially noticeable. The Baron highlights the politeness and exceptional cleanliness of the people. Even the laborers, carrying heavy cases or baskets on bamboos balanced on their strong shoulders, pause to chat and laugh in such a pleasant way that work seems to have lost much of its hardship. "Misery," he states, “is unknown to them; so is luxury.” If the Japanese have reached this happy balance, it would be a shame to disrupt their calm existence by introducing a so-called civilization, along with its costs and new needs.
“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.
"What makes the scene more appealing," says the same expert, “is the cheerful look of the countryside and the breathtaking beauty of the sunset during this season (summer). The sky is bright crimson, with large clouds of Sèvres blue; the long promontory of Thanagawa is covered in mother-of-pearl; and on the deep violet sea, the faint outlines of ships and junks contrast with the sky—one swaying with the waves, while the others move across the water like ghosts.” Winter in Japan is quite cold, as Mrs. Brassey found out;18 for icicles were hanging from the shrouds and riggings of the Sunbeam.
Mrs. Brassey gives some life-like pictures from Yokohama.
Mrs. Brassey shares some realistic images 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.
“After we touched down,” she says, We went with the Consul to the local town to check out the curio shops, which are a specialty of the area. The locals are really talented at making all sorts of curiosities, and the factories producing what are called ‘antique bronzes’ and ‘old china’ are two of the most impressive sights in Yokohama. The way they scrape, crack, chip, repair, and color the different items, cover them in dust, partially clean them, and forge the marks and signatures of famous makers shows off their creativity more than their honesty. Still, if you know where to look, you can find quite a few genuine old relics from the temples and from the large houses of the diminished Daimyos, 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.”
"There are many dealers, and the number of travelers, especially from America, is on the rise. When we first checked out the shops, we thought they were stocked with beautiful items, but even just one day of shopping with more experienced people has improved our taste and taught us a lot; although we still have much to learn. There are some very impressive-looking lacquer cabinets, priced from 5 shillings to £20. However, they are only made for the foreign market. You won’t find such items in a Japanese home."
A really fine piece of old lacquer is often worth a couple of hundred pounds.
A really nice piece of old lacquer is often worth a few 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.
It’s said that modern Japanese people have lost the skill of making lacquer. For example, I heard that many beautiful lacquer items, both old and new, were sent from Japan to the Vienna Exhibition in 1873, but the prices were so high that few were sold, and almost all had to be sent back home. Just as the ship carrying these items reached the Gulf of Jeddo, it hit a rock and sank in shallow water. A month or two ago, there was a successful attempt to raise the ship and recover the cargo, and it was found that the new lacquer had turned into a mushy mess, while the old lacquer remained completely unharmed. I’m sharing this story as it was told to me.
“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.
After a long day of shopping, we went for dinner, Japanese style, at a tea house. The place was run by a very friendly woman who welcomed us at the door and personally took off our really dirty boots before letting us step onto her clean mats. This was nice, but she could have provided us with something to wear instead of those uncomfortable items because it was a freezing cold night, and the highly polished wooden floors and steep staircase felt really chilly against our bare feet. The room we were shown into was such a perfect example of a room in any Japanese house that I might as well describe it once for all. The woodwork on the ceiling and the framework of the screens were all made of beautiful dark polished wood, somewhat similar to 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 [pg 42]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.
The outer walls under the veranda, along with the dividers between the rooms, were simply wooden lattice screens covered with white paper, sliding in grooves. This design lets you enter or exit from any part of the wall you choose, making it impossible to guess where the next person will come from. With this setup, doors and windows aren’t needed and don’t exist. You can open a small section of your wall to look outside or a larger section to step out. The floor was covered with several layers of very fine mats, each about six feet long and three feet wide, which felt wonderfully soft to walk on. All mats in Japan are the same size, and everything related to building a house uses this standard for measurement. Once you've established your foundations and wooden structure based on the size of these mats, it’s super easy to go to a store and buy a pre-made house that you can put together and furnish in the minimalist Japanese style in just 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.”
On one side of the room was a slightly raised platform, about four inches off the floor. This was the seat of honor. On it sat a stool, a small bronze decoration, and a china vase with a branch of cherry blossoms and a few flag leaves arranged elegantly. Pictures hung on the wall behind, which changed every month according to the season. There was no other furniture in the room. Four attractive Japanese girls brought us thick cotton quilts to sit on and braziers filled with burning charcoal for warmth. In the center of the group, another brazier was placed, protected by a square wooden grate, and over it all they laid a large silk eiderdown quilt to retain the heat: this is how all rooms, including bedrooms, are heated in Japan, leading to very frequent fire incidents. The brazier can be knocked over by someone restless or careless, and in an instant, the whole place can catch fire.
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.
The following gives a description of a Japanese meal:—Soon, the soft bedding and brazier were removed, and our dinner was served. A small lacquer table, about six inches high, was placed in front of each person, featuring a pair of chopsticks, a bowl of soup, a bowl for rice, a sake cup, and a basin of hot water. The four Japanese maidens sat among us, tending the fires to keep the sake warm and lighting the tiny pipes they provided, encouraging us to take a puff after each dish. Sake is a type of spirit made from rice, always served hot in small cups. It’s not bad this way, but we found it quite awful when it was 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.
"Everything was cooked and served well, though some of the ingredients in the dishes, as you’ll see in the upcoming menu, were pretty unusual for us. Still, they were all eatable, and most were actually delicious."
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.
Soup.
Shrimp and Seaweed.
Prawns, Egg Omelet, and Preserved Grapes.
Fried Fish, Spinach, Young Rushes, and Young Ginger.
Raw Fish, Mustard and Cress, Horseradish, and Soy Sauce.
Thick Egg Soup with Fish, Mushrooms, and Spinach; Grilled Fish.
Fried Chicken and Bamboo Shoots.
Pickled Turnip Tops and Roots.
Rice as desired in a large bowl.
Hot Sake, 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, [pg 43]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.
The meal wrapped up with a large lacquer box of rice, from which we filled our bowls; we used chopsticks to bring the rice to our mouths. We handled these alternatives to spoons and forks pretty well, and it’s easy to pick up the skill of using them. The long breaks between the dishes were filled with songs, [pg 43]music, and dancing by professional performers. The music was somewhat harsh and monotonous, but the songs were nice, and the dancing was graceful, although it resembled more of a pose than actual dancing, with a lot of focus on the fans and long flowing skirts. The attractive girls wore distinctive outfits to highlight their profession and seemed completely different from the quiet, simply-dressed waitresses who were very attentive to us. Still, they all appeared cheerful, carefree, and simple, and they really seemed to enjoy the little childish games they played among themselves in between.
“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.”
"After dinner, we savored some genuine Japanese tea that tasted like hot water poured over fresh, fragrant hay. After a quick glance at the kitchen, which, although small, was immaculate, we put on our boots and were kindly shown out by our wonderful hostess and her helpful assistants."
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.
Recommending that you check out the intriguing works mentioned earlier, let's wrap up our written journey at its natural endpoint, regarding the route from San Francisco, in China, the destination that American vessels will take us to in about a week.
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!
Hong Kong is a major commercial port, but it hasn’t lived up to the high expectations set for it. It hasn't developed at the same pace as Shanghai. Its location is beautiful. "Imagine the Rock of Gibraltar, on a grand scale, facing north. In front of us is terra firma. Let’s climb up to the flagpole, proudly sitting at the mountain's peak. The sun, now low in the sky, casts striking, surreal, and dramatic lighting over the sky, land, and sea. Woe to any artist who tries to capture such effects! They would be fortunate to 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.
To the south, the sun and fog are fighting over the islands, which right now look like dark clusters on a shimmering gold background, outlined in silver. To the north, we see the town, officially called Victoria but commonly known as Hong Kong. It stretches out below us, but we can only see the rooftops, courtyards, and streets; beyond that, the harbor is filled with frigates, corvettes, gunboats, and steamers from major companies, along with countless smaller steam and sailing vessels of various sizes. Ahead of us, about three or four miles away, there’s a tall line of rocky cliffs, bare and rugged, but tinted by the setting sun in shades of pink and crimson, looking like a massive coral bracelet. That’s the mainland. To the west are two channels that lead to Canton and Macao; to the northeast is a third channel, which is how we got here. The sea in this area resembles a lake, bordered on one side by solid land and on the other by the peaks and summits of the Hong Kong cliffs. I've seen softer and more harmonious light effects in many other places, but I've never witnessed anything as uniquely strange as this.
“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, [pg 44]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
"Victoria is charming, friendly, and impressive: a mix of English and tropical elements—a combination of cottages and palaces. You won't find a happier blend of nature's beauty and city life, merging English comfort with the vibrant energy of the south. The well-kept, smooth, and spotless streets wind along the rock, sometimes passing between houses with colorful façades playfully hidden by verandahs, and other times alongside gardens, bamboo fences, or stone railings. It feels like Ventnor or Shanklin viewed through a magnifying glass and lit up by bright electric lights. Everywhere you look, there are beautiful trees—banyans, bamboos, [pg 44]and pines. You could walk from one end of Hong Kong to the other and still be in the shade. No one thinks of walking. Instead, you only see chairs or palanquins. The coolies, their heads shaded by large straw hats, carry you quickly. There's nothing better than a night stroll in an open sedan chair. The lower part of town is lively and bustling; you see officers and soldiers in red uniforms with dark complexions (Sepoys), Parsees, Hindoos, Chinese, Malays, European ladies in elegant dresses, and men and women with light brown skin, dressed like Europeans (mixed-race Portuguese). As you ascend, it becomes quieter. Gradually, the town blends into the countryside. Climb a bit higher, and you’re among bare rocks without trees but filled with fragrant shrubs, and there’s a nice smooth road, offering glimpses of stunning views here and there."19
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 [pg 45]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.”
Shanghai, as another major port, is definitely a spot for leisure tourists and showcases a fantastic example of English entrepreneurship. Naturally, it serves as the port for Suchow, located ninety miles up the grand Yangtze River. Close to the city, its flat, green, cultivated banks remind one of the Humber in Yorkshire. The port is bustling with foreign ships, including large American steamers, boats from the English P. and O. Company, French "Messageries," merchant steamers coming straight from London, Liverpool, and Glasgow, along with a plethora of sailing vessels. While it may not have much to offer in terms of picturesque views, commercially it’s very active, with nine-tenths of the invested capital being English, and the white population consisting of at least six Englishmen for every other foreigner combined. There are three "concessions," which are areas granted by the Chinese to the English, French, and Americans for commercial purposes. With stone being scarce, these concessions are lined with massive wooden wharves, slips, and piers, located outside warehouses, depots, and stores. There are streets filled with shops where you can find anything that could be bought in the Strand or Oxford Street. In this regard, Hübner points out, neither Yokohama nor any other European city in Asia, except for Calcutta and Bombay, can compare to Shanghai. The Chinese don’t use numbers for their shops and warehouses; instead, they prefer mottos and descriptive titles, a practice that the major English firms have also embraced. Messrs. Dent & Co. have the name "Precious and Obliging," while Messrs. Jardine & Co. are known not as number 45 or anything like that, but as "Honest and Harmonious."
CHAPTER 4.
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.
The Hawaiian Islands—King and Parliament—Beautiful Honolulu—A Government Hotel—Theater Covered in Honeysuckle—Island Productions—Amazing Volcanoes—Damage from Lava Flows and Earthquakes—Heading to Fiji—A Rapidly Christianized People—A Native Hut—Dinner—Kandavu—The Jungle—Canoes Loaded with Fruit—Unusual Ideas of Value—New Zealand—Its Features—Strong English Sentiment—The New Zealand Company and Its Issues—The Maoris—Trollope’s Account—Facts About Cannibalism—A Chief Playing Bagpipes—Australia—Beauty of Sydney Harbour—Its Fortifications—Volunteers—Its War Fleet of One—Charming Melbourne—No Squalor—No Workhouses Needed—The Benevolent Asylums—Great Place for Working Men—Cheap Meat, etc.—Wages in Urban and Rural Areas—Life in the Bush—“Cashing One’s Check”—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.
A popular route now to New Zealand and Australia is via San Francisco, Honolulu, and Fiji, with most of the journey typically over the calmer parts of the Pacific; it takes the traveler, 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, [pg 46]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.
Honolulu, the capital of the Hawaiian Islands, is now a developed and enjoyable city, while the natural beauty of the islands is diverse and plentiful. You no longer need to worry about the fate of poor Captain Cook. Most of the 50,000 locals wear semi-European clothing: men in coats and trousers made of nankeen, and women dressed more colorfully in long robes that are fastened at the neck, often in pink or other bright colors. Approximately 10,000 white residents live across the islands, with a significant portion being English and American. Honolulu is the government center and home of King Kalakaua, who was known as "Calico" in the United States and is, in fact, a lightly toned, good-looking, and quite intelligent man. The former Queen Emma, who visited England a few years back, has a villa beautifully located a few miles outside of town. The king focuses on improving the lives of his people and, a few years ago, when funding was approved for a new palace, he declined to accept it for at least two years. The Hawaiian Parliament consists of a House with seventeen nobles and twenty-eight commoners, who, oddly enough, meet in the same chamber and have equal voting power. There are always several Europeans or Americans in this council.
Mr. Guillemard thus describes Honolulu20:—“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.
Mr. Guillemard thus describes Honolulu20:—The town, situated on low land by the shore—partly on land reclaimed from the sea thanks to the architects of the coral reef—looks plain and small from the harbor. However, once we go ashore for breakfast, we notice impressive public buildings and numerous shops, with neat houses surrounded by lush shrubs and flowers, showing signs of a lively trade and a sizable population. The streets are narrow, and the houses are wooden, with no decoration or consistency. In the side streets, charming villas with verandas peek out from tropical greenery, honeysuckle, roses, lilies, and various flowers unfamiliar to English eyes. Small fountains shoot sparkling jets of water into the hot, still air; and there’s music as well, as we occasionally hear the sound of a distant piano, suggesting that waking up early is common in Honolulu and implying a siesta at midday.
“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.
"But here we are at the magnificent Hawaiian Hotel, a stunning building with a porch, set back from the road in a beautiful garden. The green lawn, cool deep shade, and trickling fountain are especially refreshing after the bright glare of the hot sun, even though it’s not quite seven a.m. The theater, partly obscured by plenty of honeysuckle and fan palms, is less than fifty yards away, but it looks small next to the hotel. This was built by the Government at a cost of £25,000, and it’s wonderfully designed and furnished." Its large, airy rooms and cool porches, shaded by lush passion flowers, along with its fantastic food and iced American drinks, all come together to make it a great place to relax.
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.
In the streets, Mr. Guillemard noticed groups of brightly dressed girls on horseback, their dresses cinched at the waist with colorful scarves that draped over the horses' tails. They sported cheerful straw hats adorned with flowers, and now and then, a dark-eyed beauty could be seen wearing a necklace made of blossoms. The girls rode side-saddle up and down the main streets, filling the air with their joyful laughter. Mosquitoes were plentiful, but in compensation, there were also delicious melons, guavas, mangoes, bananas, and other fruits.
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.
The sugarcane was first grown on these islands in 1820; now over 20,000,000 pounds of sugar are produced each year with the help of Hawaiian and Chinese labor and steam mills. Less than a quarter of the land suitable for this purpose is currently being cultivated, even though some of the plantations cover thousands of acres. Hides and wool are key 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.
A few hours’ sail from Honolulu, you can find some of the largest and most amazing volcanoes in the world. Two of them, Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, are each over 13,000 feet tall. The eruptions from the massive crater of Kilauea, which is 10 miles around, are terrifying. One explosion sent streams of red mud three miles away, killing thirty-one people and 500 head of cattle. This was followed by several earthquakes that destroyed numerous houses. Then came a powerful tsunami, which swept away three villages and killed seventy people. Next, a new crater formed on Mauna Loa, from which four fountains of red-hot lava shot up to 600 feet high. A lava flow, eight to ten miles long and half a mile wide in some areas, consumed everything in its path. At one point, it plummeted like a molten waterfall over a cliff several hundred feet high. The interior of Hawaii is like a massive underground lake of fire, and if it weren’t for the natural safety valves provided by craters, it would be torn apart by continuous earthquakes.
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.
And now the passenger has ahead of him two weeks of the calmest part of the ocean known as the Pacific. He shouldn’t be surprised if the temperature rises to around 90° in the lounge. The direct distance from San Francisco to Sydney is 6,500 miles, and Fiji is naturally on the way; however, taking a detour to New Zealand significantly lengthens the journey. It’s worth noting that these islands were officially annexed to Britain in 1874, after unsuccessful attempts at establishing a mixed native and European government. The population at that time was 140,000; a year or two later, 40,000 of the native people sadly fell victim to measles, another unfortunate consequence of civilization's reach. The Wesleyan missionaries, in particular, have worked so hard in these islands that more than half the population are now Christians. There are 600 chapels across the 140 islands in the Fiji group. Previously, the natives were particularly notorious for cannibalism. They not only killed and ate the victims of their island wars, but no shipwrecked or vulnerable person was safe among them. Many were slain on a whim by the chiefs, especially during the construction of a house or canoe, or when hosting a native delegation. Widows were strangled upon their husbands' death, and slaves were killed when their masters died. The introduction of Christianity and partial civilization has changed all that for the better; today’s natives are described as mild and gentle, and rarely quarrel. One of their customs is to powder their closely cropped hair with lime, which is often dyed. Their huts are made of dried reeds, tied to a sturdy frame of poles, with tall arched roofs, but they lack windows or chimneys. Each hut has two low doors, through which one must crawl. The best native huts have a divider between the living area and bedroom, and all are furnished with mats. The only furniture is a short piece of wood on two small legs, used as a pillow! Clay pots are used for cooking their main diet of yams and fish. Many of them nowadays have houses that are well furnished with mats, curtains, baskets, jars, etc.
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 [pg 48]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’.
Mr. Guillemard describes a tropical dinner served for himself and his friends in one of these huts. They used a couple of banana leaves as dishes, on which they were offered boiled fish and a half dozen yams or sweet potatoes. A large block of rock salt was handed to them for their use. Next came ripe coconuts. Dried leaves of somewhat tasteless wild tobacco, quickly and neatly rolled up and tied with a fiber, formed the after-dinner cigars, which the women lit 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 natural resources of this group are vast and include breadfruit, taro, coconuts, yams, bananas, plantains, guavas, oranges, and lemons, both wild and cultivated tobacco, sugar, cotton, and coffee. The rubber tree is grown, and among the main exports are dried coconuts and mother-of-pearl. Currently, there are relatively few white settlers—perhaps only about 2,500 across all the islands—creating countless opportunities for settlement, and Fiji, along with many neighboring islands, will likely soon provide new 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 point visited by the steamers is Kandavu, located on one of the southernmost islands, where Mount Washington, a stunning mountain, rises 3,000 feet into the clouds. A visitor remarks:—“From the eastern tip of the land, miles of coral reef extend out, where the ocean waves crash beautifully, and beyond this barrier, we bring our pilot on board. The entrance to Kandavu harbor is narrow and complex, and here the Macgregor, one of the mail steamers, ran aground on a hidden reef and remained stuck for several days.” The passage has been properly marked and lit, and the New Company has built offices and stores, and set up 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?
The view of Port Ugaloa from the entrance is breathtaking. On our left, the coral reef surrounds a calm lagoon in the softest, lightest green; in front of us, hills and mountains are blanketed from bottom to top with lush greenery and capped with fluffy clouds; and on our right, Ugaloa Island splits the bay's waters, Its slopes teeming with cocoa palms and banana trees, where you can occasionally catch sight of the low brown huts of locals hidden among the foliage.... The L. brothers are with me as we land at Ugaloa, coming ashore near a small cluster of huts just above the coral-strewn beach. It's Sunday afternoon, and a local missionary is preaching to about fifty men, women, and children squatting on their heels on the mat-covered floor of a neat, whitewashed mission house. Among the congregation is a tall local man holding a thick stick, maintaining silence by tapping the heads of those not paying attention. The preacher is passionate and lively; however, Fijian isn’t exactly a pleasant language to listen to, characterized by some strange guttural sounds and spoken very quickly. When the sermon finishes, a hymn is recited and sung in a somewhat monotonous, dirge-like chant, and the congregation disperses. We are immediately surrounded by an olive-skinned crowd; the women’s dresses are examined closely since a white woman has rarely been seen in Kandavu before this year. The men display their watches and chains, and soon everyone is caught up in an animated conversation filled with shouting and gestures. Why is it that people always raise their voices when trying to help a foreigner understand their native language?
“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.
“We wander off into the bush and quickly get lost in a forest filled with ferns, vines, banana trees, cocoa palms, and chestnut trees. We meet a young local and gesture to him that we’re thirsty and would like some green coconut juice. He grabs the trunk with both hands and practically climbs up the palm tree, and soon our thirst is more than satisfied. He accepts his douceur casually and then tucks it away in a corner of his sulu using a piece 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.
Monday morning begins bright and clear, and our sleep is soon disrupted by the chatter of a hundred locals, all of whom have a fleet of fruit-filled canoes next to the steamer. These canoes are uniquely shaped, roughly carved from tree trunks, and they remain stable on the water thanks to an outrigger made from a log that’s about half the length of the canoe, secured in the middle with a few light poles sticking out four or five feet from its side. They’re usually powered by a long oar used between the poles, similar to sculling from the back of a boat; but sometimes we see the regular short paddle used at both ends. Some of the larger canoes set up a large sail, but they don’t seem to manage the wind very well when sailing, which they use much less than 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!”
"The scene on deck is quite entertaining. Up front, fifty locals, their olive skin smudged and dirty from the dust, are busy filling up the coal bunkers from the hold, definitely earning their shilling a day; on the back deck, just as many more are carrying lemons, large bunches of bananas, coconuts, shells, coral, matting, tappa—a soft, white fabric that the locals call ‘marse’—and a few clubs and other weapons, making solid sales with the passengers. Everything goes for a shilling. ‘Shillin’ is the only English word all the locals know; in fact, this handy coin seems to be the ‘almighty dollar’ of Kandavu. You pick a lemon and ask, ‘How much?’ The reply is ‘Shillin’; but you can buy the man’s entire stock of sixty, basket and all, for the same amount!"
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.
Our next stop is particularly interesting for British colonists. New Zealand, although one of the newest, is now one of England’s most promising outposts. Auckland, located on the North Island, is the port where the steamers arrive. The harbor is quite beautiful, and locals 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 traveller21 says of the (Thames) gold fields:—“Mines here, like everywhere else, are now dull. At one time there [pg 51]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.
Every schoolboy knows that New Zealand has two large islands and one small island, known as North Island, South Island, and Stewart Island. One of the notable features of the coastline is its indents; the country has plenty of beautiful natural harbors and ports. The total land area of the islands is nearly as large as that of Britain and Ireland combined, with about half of that area consisting of excellent soil. The climate is similar to England’s but with a twist: there are many more sunny days, and winter is much milder. The islands are volcanic; on the North Island, Mount Ruapehu, a peak that is always covered in snow, reaches a height of 9,000 feet, while in the same range, Mount Tongariro, an active volcano, rises to 6,000 feet. The highest mountain range is on the South Island, where Mount Cook stands at 14,000 feet. It’s easy to see that such a country has abundant evergreen forests with lush vegetation. These forests are mixed with lovely fern-covered hills and treeless grassy plains. Water is everywhere; however, none of the rivers can be navigated by large ships for more than about fifty miles. One significant advantage of the country is the lack of harmful reptiles or insects: there isn’t even one that is as bothersome as an English wasp. The pigs, brought over by Captain Cook, roam freely across the island, and there's plenty of both large and small game: red and fallow deer, pheasants, partridges, and quail. Anything that grows in England can thrive there, while crops like grapes, corn, taro, and sweet potatoes flourish in many areas. A traveler says about the (Thames) gold fields:—“Mines here, like everywhere else, are now unexciting. At one point, the population was 22,000, but now it’s only 13,000. Everyone you see seems to have lost in the gold rush, and I have no clue who the lucky person that wins is—one never seems to encounter them.” This rather random statement should be taken with a grain of salt, since the gold-fields have sometimes had significant yields. However, mining is always somewhat like 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.”
Mr. Anthony Trollope reflects on the strong British sentiment in New Zealand, where he felt completely at home. He found Australia to be influenced by a kind of boastful Americanism. “The New Zealander,” he says, 22 "He's the most John Bullish of all John Bulls. He agrees that England is better than anywhere else in the world, but he's even more English than any Englishman back 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.
Discovered by Tasman in 1642, England only started to take an interest in the islands more than 125 years later when Cook surveyed the coasts. The missionaries arrived first in 1814, and a British Resident was appointed in 1833. Throughout this time, a random process of colonization was happening, with the natives selling parts of their best lands for a few cast-iron hatchets, muskets, poor-quality blankets, or cheap trinkets. In 1840, a Lieutenant-Governor was appointed from Britain, and his presence was definitely needed. The previous year, a group calling itself the New Zealand Company had made fake purchases of some of the best land in the country, claiming about one-third of its total area! The dishonest and aggressive way this company dealt with the natives and the Government caused many complications and led to serious wars with formidable natives. The New Zealand Company was acquired by the Government in 1852 for £268,000. Between 1843-47, and again in 1861 and afterward, England had to fight the Maoris—enemies they learned to respect. Finally, tired of war, all our troops were pulled back, leaving the colonists, who knew the countryside and bush life better than most of the soldiers, to defend their homes and ultimately succeed in their fight. The natives are now generally peaceful and subdued, with many even focusing on agriculture and commerce. Nine years ago, they numbered 37,500 but are rapidly disappearing.
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 [pg 52]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.
Physically and intellectually, the Māori are the most impressive semi-savage natives on the planet. Mr. Trollope is an author and traveler whose opinions matter, and he provides the following brief overview of their traits and character:—“They're,” he says, "An active people, with the average man standing at about 5 feet 6½ inches tall, they are nearly equal in strength and weight to Englishmen. In the past, they wore matting, but now they wear European clothing. Previously, they would remove their beards, and every prominent New Zealander had tattoos; nowadays, they often have beards, and young men typically don’t get tattooed. Their hair is black and coarse, but not as woolly as that of Black people or Hindus. Their noses are usually broad, and their mouths are large. In other respects, their features resemble those of Europeans. I found the men more attractive than the women, and the tattooed men looked better than those who stopped the practice. The women still uphold the tradition of tattooing their upper lips. The Māori had their own mythology and believed in an afterlife; however, they did not recognize [pg 52] a single supreme God. For them, as for other tribes, virtue mainly consisted of bravery and self-control. Their greatest passion was revenge, which one tribe would seek against another, sometimes leading to the complete destruction of tribes. The decline of their population since the arrival of the English has been due to civil war as much as the negative effects of civilization. They seem to have developed a habit of fighting from behind stockades or in fortified pā (villages), which has been quite disastrous for us in our conflicts with them. Before they obtained guns from us, their weapons were not very lethal, mostly consisting of short javelins and stones thrown from slings. However, the horror of their warfare was something they seemed very aware of. When a prisoner was captured in battle, he would be 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 don't believe people were killed for food in New Zealand, even though it's obvious that the feast, when it was ready, was enjoyed with a gruesome pleasure."
“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.’ ”
“I’ll quote a passage from Dr. Thompson’s work on cannibalism, and then I’ll be done with the topic. ‘Whether cannibalism began right after the New Zealanders arrived from Hawaiki or not, it's clear that one of Tasman’s sailors was eaten in 1642; that Captain Cook had a crew eaten in 1774; that Marion de Fresne and many other explorers faced this terrible fate; and that the early settlers and later missionaries have all confirmed the widespread occurrence of cannibalism in New Zealand up until 1840. It’s impossible to know how many New Zealanders were consumed each year, but the number wasn’t small, as suggested by two confirmed accounts from European witnesses. In 1822, Hougi’s army ate three hundred people after taking Totara on the River Thames, and in 1836, during the Rotura war, sixty people were cooked and eaten in just two days.’ I’ll also add a translation from the same book of part 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. Even though I’m full from the soft brains of Putu Rikiriki and Raukauri, my hatred urges me to indulge even more with those of Pau, Ngaraunga, Pipi, and my most exquisite treat, the flesh of the despised 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.
Mr. Laird testifies to their cleanliness, but says that they are, like most savages, and for that matter, most white men, very wasteful. If a bad potato or other crop happened, they would eat it all at once, and end up half starving later.
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.”
The same author tells a great story about the laid-back attitude of a prominent Maori chief who was invited to dinner at Government House during H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh's visit. After dinner, the Duke's main bagpiper came in and played. When asked how he liked the music, the chief replied simply: “It's too loud for me, but it works fine for the white man.”
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.
And now we are approaching that vast continent which has attracted and will continue to attract so much interest from immigrants, who, to some extent, must be adventurers and seafarers. Australia, a country nearly as large as the United States, will be a true paradise for poor people for many years to come.
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 [pg 53]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, [pg 54]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.
The American steamers from San Francisco dock at Sydney, which Mr. Trollope describes as a beautiful place: "I struggle to express to my readers how beautiful Sydney Harbour is to me;" he thinks it surpasses Dublin Bay, Spezzia, and [pg 53]New York. The colonists, left to their own devices—since England has no troops stationed there now—have built strong defenses. Mr. Trollope tells us about five separate armed fortresses, equipped with Armstrong guns, rifled guns, and eighteen-ton guns, featuring loopholed walls and pits for riflemen, as if Sydney might become another Sebastopol. "It was demonstrated," he says, “how the entire harbor and city were controlled by these guns. There were open batteries and casemated batteries, shell rooms and gunpowder magazines, [pg 54]barracks rising here and trenches dug there. A boom was to be placed across the harbor, and a whole array of torpedoes was ready to be submerged, all of which could be set up and operational in an hour or two. I was told that ‘they’ could never get across the trenches, break the boom, escape the torpedoes, or survive for even an hour under the fire of the guns. ‘They’ wouldn’t stand a chance against Sydney. There was a lot of military enthusiasm and a widespread belief that ‘they’ would come out worse for it.” New South Wales and Victoria have about 8,000 volunteers and a training ship for young sailors, while a massive monitor, the Cerberus, presented by the mother country, serves as its entire naval fleet.
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.
Of Melbourne, Victoria, we've already talked about it. There are many cities with bigger populations, but few have grown so large so quickly. It doesn't owe anything to its natural surroundings; “the internal appearance of the city is,” Mr. Trollope tells us, “certainly magnificent.” It's laid out in a rectangular grid like Philadelphia; the width of the streets contributes to the city's impressive look, along with the large public gardens scattered throughout. “You can’t walk around Melbourne without noticing all that has been done for the general well-being of the people. There’s no squalor to be seen—though there are parts of the city where people undoubtedly live in poor conditions... But anyone looking for such misery in Melbourne would have to search for it specifically.” There are no workhouses; in Victoria, they are generally replaced by “Benevolent Asylums.” In Melbourne, around 12,000 poor people receive assistance each year, some treating the institution as a temporary shelter, while others use it as a permanent refuge. These places are mostly, but not entirely, funded by the government. “If a pauper,” Trollope says, “were suddenly taken from an English union workhouse to the Melbourne Benevolent Asylum, he might think he had moved to Buckingham Palace,” given how well the residents are fed and cared for. There are no proper workhouses anywhere in Australia, and the charity provided to these asylums is generous and not given grudgingly.
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.
The width of the streets and the overall grandeur have their downsides, with the long travel time to reach far parts of the city being the most significant. Melbourne has a great, completely free Public Library and a University, just like Sydney. Melbourne is the hub of a railway system, and affluent people mostly live outside the city; in the south and east, 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 [pg 55]short term. Some of these prices rule all over the country, but are liable to rule lower, rather than higher, outside of Melbourne.
Mr. Trollope says:—"There's probably no city in the world where an average working person can provide better for themselves and their family through their job than they can in Melbourne." The pay for mechanics is a bit higher than at home, and all the essentials of life are cheaper. With meat at 4d. per pound, butter starting from 6d., bread, tea, and coffee at similar or even lower prices, coal being about the same or slightly higher, and potatoes, vegetables, and fruits often much cheaper, everyone can live well and abundantly. Eating meat three times a day is common all over Australia, and in some areas, the price is as low as 1½d. or 2d. per pound. Wages for skilled mechanics and artisans average around 10s. a day; gardeners earn about 50s., and laborers around 30s. each week; male servants in the house make £40 to £50 a year; cooks earn between £35 to £45 per year, and girls working as housemaids, etc., make 8s. or 10s. each week. It’s typical to hire the latter for this [pg 55]short term. Some of these prices are consistent across the country, but they tend to be 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 ranges23 it would be the shepherd’s diet invariably.
In the countryside, sheep shearers can earn between 7 shillings to 14 shillings a day for about four months each year; shepherds make about £30 to £40 per year, which includes food. A typical laborer earns around 15 to 20 shillings a week, also with food included: this typically consists of 14 pounds of meat (usually mutton), 8 pounds of flour, 2 pounds of sugar, and a quarter pound of tea. If fruits or vegetables are in abundance, those would be included as well. However, the staple diet of meat, bread, and tea is common throughout the country. On the large sheep runs and cattle ranges, this would be the standard diet for shepherds.
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.
Mr. Trollope advises the struggling man to save for three or four years and then invest in land, which can be bought in some places for 3s. 9d. an acre, payable to the Government in five installments of ninepence per acre. Of course, he would need money to build a house, buy farming tools, etc. The major issue for most workers in the bush, whether they’re shepherds, shearers, miners, or at other remote locations, is that their forced separation from civilization and social life leads them to reckless behavior when they finally save up some cash. The tavern owners in the nearest town or station profit the most, as many men, who are perfectly steady and sober for ten or eleven months of the year, often indulge in drinking binges until their earnings are gone. This practice is called “knocking down” one’s cheque, and it’s common for them to hand their cheques to the publican, who lets them drink and eat indiscriminately until he deems it spent. Mr. Trollope tells a good story about a man who regularly did this but, on one occasion, after finding some loose change, “planted” his cheque in an old tree and went to his usual pub to get deliberately drunk. The publican showed clear doubt about whether to serve him freely. Why hadn’t the man brought his cheque like usual? Eventually, the tavern owner put him to bed, but even though he was drugged and disoriented, the man was observant enough to notice that the host had searched his clothes, hat, and boots for the missing cheque. The next morning, he was shamefully kicked out of the tavern, but he didn’t care: he found his cheque safely in the tree by the roadside, and he surprised his boss by returning to the station a week or two earlier than expected, richer than he had ever come home before. Let’s hope he was cured of that folly for good.
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 gold output of Australia from 1851 to 1871 was 50,750,000 ounces. However, gold fields tend to deplete faster than most mines, and Australia has a more sustainable source of prosperity in its coal and iron fields, which are located close to each other. The coal is already being mined with great profit and is one of the main fuels for steamships in 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.
The steamship route back home from Australia goes through the Indian Ocean (often stopping at Sri Lanka), then it reaches the Mediterranean through the Red Sea and the Suez Canal. These points of interest have already been fully described in earlier chapters of this work.
CHAPTER 5.
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.
Poets’ Thoughts on Early Navigation—Who Was the First Female Navigator?—Noah’s Journey—An Exciting Story—A Damaged Ship—A Strong Storm—A Birth at Sea—The Ship's Fate—Women and Children in a Lifeboat—Drunken Crew—Hunger, Cold, and Wet Conditions—Exposed to the Tropical Sun—Death of an Innocent Baby—Sharks Nearby—A Thieving Sailor—Talk of Cannibalism—A Sail!—The Ship Passes By—Despair—Finally Rescued—Experiences of a Woman Yachtsman—Almost Swamped and Swept Away—An Abandoned Vessel—The Sunbeam Service—Ship on Fire!—Risks of a Coal Cargo—The Crew Rescued—Brave Lady Passengers—Two Modern Heroines and Their Actions—The Story of Grace Darling—The Longstone Light and the Wreck of the Forfarshire—To the Rescue!—The Death of Grace Darling.
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:—
So sings Waller, and his words just echo a feeling that was expressed even more powerfully by Horace, who wrote nearly two thousand years ago:—"Surely, it took the strength of oak and triple brass to surround the heart of the one who first trusted a fragile vessel to the ruthless ocean." And once again, to highlight the agreement among poets on this matter, Dr. Watts remarked:—
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 days24 are the earliest females on record who embarked in a great vessel on a boundless expanse of waters.
Now, if all this is said about man, what can we say about the woman who first took a leap of faith into the vast ocean? Who was she? It would be quite challenging to answer that question satisfactorily, but there’s no doubt that “Noah's wife and the three wives of his sons,” whose journey and required stay in the ark lasted no less than twelve months and three days24 are the earliest women on record to set sail in a large vessel on a limitless body of water.
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.
These pages have already shared stories about many women who went to sea, but until now, no section has focused on this topic specifically. Nowadays, it's common for women to take long trips to and from far-off places, as we've often seen. One woman, about nineteen years ago, experienced the horrors of a shipwreck, and her struggles afterwards were beautifully narrated by her in a piece titled "Ten Awful Days." The account, which is worth reading in full, is here significantly shortened for obvious reasons.
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, [pg 57]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.”
One day late in 1861, a grain-filled ship, a beautiful clipper, could be seen slowly and gracefully sailing out of the majestic bay of San Francisco. On board were a few ladies with children, including Mrs. William Murray, the author, who had been advised to take the long journey home on a traveling clipper instead of the overcrowded steamers going to Panama and New York. Let her tell the story. “The sun,” she says, “The sun was shining as it always does in California, [pg 57]making the sea, the rocks, and the huge city truly sparkle with sunlight. I took one last look back at the happy home of the last six years, at the place where my husband and brothers had to stay behind, and all I could see through my tears was the sea that kept us apart. Our friends watched us leave on what looked like a brave ship. It had been chosen above all others for its apparent perfection. There were people in San Francisco who knew that the ship was unseaworthy (having been seriously strained during its last trip to China) and that it shouldn’t be trusted with the lives of vulnerable women and children, but 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.
The dreaded Horn had been easily navigated in good weather, and on the evening of January 4th, 1862, they had been at sea for eighty-six days; they expected to reach England in ten more. The sailors had forecast a stormy night, and a fierce gale quickly followed that prediction. The wind grew stronger, and the ship rolled so much that people on board were often knocked off their feet. That night, a child was born on the ship, and the caring lady passengers did everything they could 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 [pg 58]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.
"At sunrise," Mrs. Murray says, I took my little girl by the hand and went on deck. The storm had settled a bit, but the sea looked dark and gloomy, and the swell of the huge, heavy waves seemed to mock our vulnerability. The sailors had been working all night, moving around like they were in a brutal game: some were desperately working the pumps while singing lively sea shanties to coordinate their efforts; others were busy tossing hundreds of bags of grain into the sea to lighten the ship. This, I think, more than anything else, made me realize how serious our situation was. I wandered around, too miserable to stay still, until the captain gathered us all in the cabin for food, saying it was pointless to try to save the ship and we would need all our strength. I remembered my unsuccessful attempt to eat some bread, but the poor little kids had their breakfast and seemed to enjoy 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.
"We were each given a big bag made of sailcloth and told by the captain to fill it with our warmest clothes."
“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.”
"All my belongings were on board, including many keepsakes from close friends, pictures of loved ones I’ll never see again, and I knew losing my money would be a big deal. In total chaos, I looked around and crammed my bag with stockings and a couple of warm shawls. On top of a box, I noticed a small package that a lady from California had asked me to deliver to her mother in Liverpool. I added that to my bag, and she got it... There hadn’t been any plan to clear away breakfast, and with the ship rolling worse by the minute, everything had fallen to the floor and was flying around in every direction. Boxes, water jugs, plates, dishes, chairs, and glasses were rolling from one end of the saloon to the other. Children were screaming, sailors were shouting and cursing, and above all, there was the creaking of wood and the deep sound of water quickly rising in the ship's hold, which groaned and struggled like a living thing in pain."
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.
How ridiculous things can get even in tough times is shown in this story. A little boy was caught trying to help himself from the medicine cabinet, especially focused on a broken calomel bottle! Lamp oil was used to make him throw up, and it saved his life. Meanwhile, the first mate, whose decision and strength were crucial, had lost it and drank a lot of whisky. He was drunk, and many of the sailors were too, having followed his lead. The captain had been busy organizing food and water for the boats and gathering the ship’s papers. He had left the task of lowering the boats to his officers. When he heard about the drunkenness on deck, his first thought was to get the women and children off immediately, because if the sailors took the boats, what would happen to them? Two boats had already been damaged while being lowered into the sea, and only two were left. Forty-seven people had to squeeze into two fragile boats, fifteen hundred miles from land: delicate women, helpless children, and drunken, desperate men.
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 [pg 59]flannel, with the poor little atom of mortality tightly clasped in her arms. I thought she would die before the day was over.”
With the help of the most sensible sailor, the captain’s boat was lowered. They first loaded in some small mattresses, pillows, blankets, a barrel of water, sacks of biscuits, and navigation instruments. Then the passengers were lowered down by ropes. “It’s incredible,” says Mrs. Murray, “When I think about it now, it’s unbelievable that during our descent we weren’t thrown against the side of the ship. We had to wait for the right moment each time as the ship tilted. Then a command was given, and we were lowered down like sheep. My heart stopped when my little one was going down, and then I followed. It was a horrifying sight for a woman to see that poor woman whose baby was born the night before, looking like a corpse in a long white flannel gown, holding that tiny bundle of life tightly 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.
At last, they were all in the boat: four women, five children, the second mate, and sixteen sailors. The captain stayed on the ship to ensure the safety of the intoxicated people who couldn't take care of themselves, and then he came off. The boat looked tiny next to the tall ship! They had to quickly get out of her reach because she was rolling so heavily that the waters around her churned like a whirlpool.
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.”
Away they drifted, a tiny dot on the ocean. Before night fell, a storm came with thunder, lightning, wind, and rain that lasted through the darkness, soaking them completely. "I sat up," says the narrator, "for about twelve or fourteen hours on a narrow plank, holding my child in my arms, feeling utterly miserable, cold, and hopeless, soaked to the skin, blinded by the salt spray, with my face and hands aching badly from 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!”
During the storm and confusion, most of their biscuits got soaked in salt water and became useless. It was also found out that the food meant for the captain’s boat had accidentally been thrown into the other boat, so they had to put everyone on a strict allowance: half a pint of water and half a biscuit each day per person. Besides the biscuits, there were only a few small tins of preserved strawberries and corn, which were given to the women. "How the poor children cried from hunger as the days went 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.
The boat leaked from the start, and the sailors took turns bailing out the water with small cans. Exposed to the harsh tropical sun for hours, nearly driven crazy with thirst and holding her child in her weak arms—she was too exhausted to stand—Mrs. Murray says that often she would sit for hours with no thoughts at all, staring blankly at 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 [pg 60]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.
"We had," she says, Three days of complete stillness. The sun beat down on us relentlessly, and I thought about how great it would be to simply jump into the sea and quietly sink to my death beneath its waves. I lost all desire to live—everything felt awful. I can’t recall the days individually; looking back, they all merge into one long stretch of suffering. I remember that on the third day, poor Kitty’s baby died—it had been struggling since the start. It never had a chance to survive due to a lack of proper care or nourishment. The poor mother cried bitterly when it finally grew cold in her arms, but its death was a kind release. Wrapped in a brightly colored shawl, it was thrown overboard, but it was so light that it wouldn't sink and floated for hours on a sea so calm under the hot sun that barely a ripple could be seen. Finally, it disappeared suddenly, taken by a hungry shark, and when those dreadful creatures surrounded our boat later, it only added to our misery. Up until then, we had been throwing the children into the sea every morning to keep them healthy, but we didn’t dare continue that with those terrifying beasts nearby. I can’t forget one small incident that could have led to a sailor’s death. On the day of the wreck, I had put two or three bottles of ale and one of claret in the boat, thinking they might be very useful. On the third or fourth night, when we were shivering helplessly after a heavy rain, we thought we should open a bottle of ale for the women and children, but there wasn’t a single bottle to be found. The captain's rage was terrifying, and if it weren’t for the ladies’ plea, he swore 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.
It was on the morning of the tenth day that the horrifying idea of eating the children crossed the minds of three or four desperate men. The captain and a few trusted companions decided to kill the would-be murderers that night while they slept. The final and deadly hour of their great suffering seemed to have arrived. On the morning of the tenth day, a sail was spotted, and a white towel was raised to get her attention. She came close enough for the captain to see that she was flying the Hamburg flag, and then "walked by on the other side." Loud and angry curses erupted from the sailors. The women looked at each other in fear, and the children cried out as the predatory gazes of the would-be cannibals turned back to 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 [pg 61]captain, for he was fearful that if their number was discovered the vessel might pass them, as had that seen in the morning.
But heaven was kind, and again a sail was spotted. It came closer and closer as the hungry sailors rowed faster. Then a wild shout went up, "She’s stopped!" and there she was, resting in the water, curious about what kind of people they were. “Row faster, guys, and keep the women and kids quiet,” called out the [pg 61]captain, worried that if their numbers were noticed, the ship might sail past them like the one they'd 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!”
“Oh, what a lovely afternoon,” Mrs. Murray says, "That's when we were rescued—such brilliant sunshine, such clear blue skies, and such a shimmering, glowing sea, as if even the unpredictable ocean was celebrating with us. Eventually, we were right next to the ship and saw groups of people gathering to look at us—dark, tanned faces since they were all Spaniards, but full of compassion, curiosity, and shock. They took us in one by one, and when they saw the women and small children, they cried. They couldn’t speak our language and looked at us in confusion, but when I (thankfully, who could speak Spanish) knelt on the deck and said ‘Gracias a Dios’ (Thank God), they opened up, and a flood of questions came along with laughter, tears, and handshakes. How wonderful those kind-hearted men were! How grateful I am to each and every one of them as I write this, from the honorable captain down to the lowest of his crew. And they brought us bread, wine, and water—precious water, how refreshing 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.
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 nearly faced a serious accident. "We were all just sitting," writes that lady, "or standing at the back of the boat, admiring the beautiful dark blue waves trailing behind us, with their curling white crests towering high. Each wave, as it came closer, looked like it would drown us, but instead it surged gracefully by, rolling and shaking us from bow to stern, and sending sprays of water on board... A new hand was steering, and just when an unusually large wave caught up with us, he unfortunately let the boat turn a little. In an instant, water came rushing over the back, above Allnut's head. The boy was nearly swept overboard, but he managed to grab the rail and, with quick thinking, wedged his knees into the sides. Kindred, our boatswain, seeing his danger, rushed forward to save him, but was knocked down by the returning 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.
The coil of rope where Captain Lecky and Mabelle were sitting was completely lifted by the waves. Fortunately, he had wrapped it around his wrist with a reefing point, and while holding onto Mabelle with his other arm, he clung on tightly; otherwise, there would have been no way to rescue them. She was completely calm, simply saying, ‘Hold on, Captain Lecky, hold on!’ He replied, ‘All right.’ Later, I asked her if she thought she was going overboard, and she said, ‘I did not think at all, mama, but felt sure we were done for.’ Captain Lecky, used to much larger ships, didn’t realize just how close we were to the water in our little boat and was understandably surprised. Everyone else was soaked, except for Muriel, who Captain Brown held high out of the water in his arms, and she quickly chimed in amidst the chaos, ‘I’m not at all wet, I’m not!’ Luckily, the children don’t know what fear is. The maids, however, were very scared, as some water had splashed into the nursery, and the skylights had to be screwed shut. Our studding-sail boom also snapped with a loud crack when the ship lurched, and the jaws of the fore-boom broke.
“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.”
Not long after this adventure, we all went to sleep, grateful that everything turned out well; but for me, it wasn't a peaceful rest. About two hours later, I was jolted awake by a huge wave crashing down on me and flooding the bed. I quickly jumped up, only to land in another puddle on the floor. It was completely dark, and I had no idea what was going on, so I hurried up on deck and discovered that, as the weather had calmed down a bit, a kind sailor, knowing I loved fresh air, had opened the skylight a little too soon, and one of the big waves had come on board, drenching 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.
The Sunbeam came across a wreck, and the description of its inspection will be intriguing. Mrs. Brassey says:—When I stepped onto the deck at six-thirty, I found a gray, steamy, calm morning, suggesting it would be a really hot day with no 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.
At around 10:30 a.m., the shout of ‘Sail on the port helm!’ sparked a wave of excitement, and in just a few minutes, everyone had grabbed their telescopes and binoculars to look at the object that caught our attention, which was soon revealed to be a wreck. The crew was ordered to turn the helm to starboard and head directly for the vessel; many speculated and bombarded those with the glasses with questions. ‘What is it?’ ‘Is there anyone on board?’ ‘Does it look like it’s been abandoned for a while?’ Before long, we got close enough to send a crew on board while we anxiously watched from the bridge. We could now read her name—the Carolina—adorned with a beautiful yellow design on her stern. She weighed between two and three hundred tons and was painted light blue with a red stripe. Under her white bowsprit, a flashy figure of a woman served as her figurehead. Both masts had been broken off about three feet above the deck, and the railings were missing, leaving only the covering board and stanchions, allowing every wave to wash over her. The roof and supports of the deck-house and the stairway were still standing, but the sides had disappeared, and the ship's deck was so damaged it looked like a quail's back. We saw the men on board rummaging around, apparently quite pleased with their discovery; soon, our boat returned to the yacht for some barrels, as the Carolina was loaded with port wine and cork, and the men wanted to bring some of the wine back on board. I changed my clothes, put on my sea boots, and made my way to 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 [pg 63]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.
We found the crew really excited about their discovery. The wine must have been really fresh and strong because the smell of it sloshing around the deck was almost intoxicating. One barrel had already been poured into the ocean, and they tried hard to get some of the casks out intact, but it turned out to be impossible without taking more time than we were willing to spend. They managed to retrieve three half-empty casks, but they were damaged, so they discarded them overboard. The full casks would have required special equipment to lift them through the hatches. Accessing the wine was incredibly challenging, as it was stored under the cork, and there were also a bunch of cabin walls and fittings floating around because of the rolling waves of the Atlantic. Standing on the deck-house roof and looking into the hold, which was filled with floating bales of cork, barrels, and pieces of wood, while watching the sea surge all around the deck at water level, was quite a sight. I saw a large modern iron [pg 63]cooking stove swaying from side to side, but almost everything else that could move, including masts and ropes, seemed to have been taken by previous occupants. It would have taken too long to tow her into port, or they could have salvaged about £1,500, while blowing her up would have needed more explosives than they had on board. So, she was left drifting aimlessly, posing a danger to any vessel approaching her at full speed, almost as much as a sunken rock would.
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.
Later, the owner of the Sunbeam was truly helpful, as they came across a magnificent ship, fully under sail and on fire, carrying a load of smelting coal. The ship's red Union Jack was flown upside down, and its signals relayed the alarming message, “Ship's on fire!” This was followed by the signal, “Come aboard right now,” and a crew was quickly sent to rescue them. They were well-armed on purpose, as there were few signs of fire or smoke on board, leading to concerns about a possible mutiny. Within minutes, the boat returned with the chief mate, a striking Norwegian who reported that his ship was the Monkshaven, sixty-eight days out from Swansea and headed for Valparaiso. The fire had started five days earlier, and by the morning after it was discovered, the crew had moved all their clothes and supplies on deck and tossed overboard anything that could catch fire—tar, oil, pitch, spare spars, and more. The hatches were then secured, but all attempts to control the fire failed. The officers and crew had been living on deck under a canvas cover, with water a foot deep even there. When the hatches were opened briefly, thick clouds of hot, suffocating yellow smoke rushed out, driving everyone back. In such situations, it's often hard to pinpoint where the fire is located, as it could break through the deck or burn a hole in the hull at any time. The risky nature of such cargo can be seen in the fact that for every three vessels leaving for Valparaiso or Callao, one catches fire, though the flames are often brought under control. They had faced a terrible storm and, while burning, signaled to a large American steamship, which rudely ignored them and continued on. Once all the men were transferred to the yacht—since it was impossible to save the barque—the poor guys were almost ecstatic with joy and excitement. Soon after, the doomed vessel was blazing like a tar barrel, and the yacht circled close enough for everyone on board to feel the heat. Adding fifteen more mouths to feed was a serious burden on the passengers and crew of the Sunbeam, which meant their water rations had to be reduced, but otherwise they had everything they needed, and a week later they were moved to the Pacific Company’s mail steamer Illimani, which was on its way home. The satisfaction that Mr. and Mrs. Brassey must have felt from being able to save fifteen lives is easy to imagine.
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.
One of a woman's best qualities is her willingness to help when others are in need, and this has not been limited to just her home country. Late in 1879, the British India Steam Navigation Company’s steamer Eldorado narrowly escaped disaster in the Bay of Biscay. The dishonest Lascar crew abandoned their posts and gave up hope, but the passengers “passed” coal to the stoke-hole and worked hard to bail out water; many women even volunteered to help, and two American women served as stewardesses, providing coffee and supplies to the others.
How often of late years have female swimmers saved life? The case to be cited, and [pg 64]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!
How often lately have female swimmers saved lives? The case I'll mention, which happened in fresh water, is just one of many that could be reported here. On December 5, 1879, two men needed to cross the St. Lawrence River, from La Rue Island to a wharf on the main shore. It was an extremely cold day, and a strong gale was blowing fiercely from the northeast up the river. The men loaded their small boat with a sleigh and had managed to reach the middle of the channel when a sudden, violent gust of wind capsized the boat. The men clung to it while it was upside down and tried to "tread" the water to reach the shore, but it was no use; the cold was so severe that their legs were numb above the knees, and they felt lost. They stayed in this dangerous position for quite a while, shouting loudly for help until their throats were sore. Making a final effort, they shouted again, and this time their cries were heard at the house of Mr. Darling, who lived close to the shore with his family. He was ill in bed, but his wife and daughters, Maggie and Jessie, were at home since the men and boys were working in the fields nearby. When they heard the last desperate shout of the drowning men, they quickly opened the door to see them struggling in the river—a stream wider and stronger than anything in Europe. The mother’s first suggestion was to send someone to fetch the men from the fields, but before that could happen, brave Maggie and Jessie—the latter just sixteen—had launched the skiff and were rowing with all their strength through the rough waters and fierce storm. They faced great difficulty reaching the exhausted and helpless men, but eventually their brave effort paid off, and within ten minutes, the poor guys were being warmed by their father's fire. Brave Maggie and Jessie! Truly worthy successors to your namesake, the heroine of 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 story of Grace Darling must be familiar to our readers. The circumstances that required her courage and kindness were as follows:—
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 [pg 65]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.
The Forfarshire, a medium-sized steamer, departed Hull for Dundee on the evening of September 5th, 1838, carrying a significant load of cargo along with sixty-three passengers and crew members. Shortly after leaving the Humber, the boilers began to leak, and by Thursday morning, the weather had turned extremely stormy, shrouding the vessel in thick mist. The steamer managed to navigate past the Fern Islands on its way north early Thursday evening, but struggled against the heavy seas, while it became clear that the leak in the boilers was worsening. As night fell, conditions became increasingly turbulent, and somewhere off Berwick, it was discovered that water was pouring down onto the furnace fires. Off St. Abb’s Head, the engineer reported that the machinery could no longer function; the sails were then raised, allowing the ship to be driven southward by the wind. Before dawn on Friday morning, the roar of waves crashing nearby was heard, and the captain desperately tried to steer the vessel between the islands and the mainland through a passage known as the Fair Way, but the Forfarshire wouldn’t respond to the helm, being tossed around uncontrollably by the violent sea. The scene at this moment defies description. Complete darkness surrounded the doomed vessel, as massive waves crashed over it, drowning out the desperate screams of the passengers. A few minutes later, the ship struck a rock, its bow violently smashing against it. At that moment, [pg 65]eight crew members rushed to a lifeboat and managed to lower it, with one nearly naked and frantic passenger jumping in after them. The ship was now at its breaking point.
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.”
A moment or two after the first shock, another massive wave hit her, lifting her high into the air and then slamming her down with a deafening crash on the sharp reef, with such force that she literally broke in half. The entire upper section of the ship, including the main cabin filled with passengers, was swept away and sank almost immediately. Everyone in that part of the ship was swallowed by the ocean. Good George Herbert is right when he says, "Anyone who wants to learn how to pray should 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.
The front part of the ship was stuck on a rocky ledge; if the Forfarshire had drifted just a few yards further southwest, it would have escaped its terrible fate, as the rock there drops almost straight down into deep water. Meanwhile, at the Fern Lighthouse, a mile away, no one had seen the actual incident, but at seven o’clock, they noticed the ship lying on the rock. The weather was so bad that the lighthouse keeper, Mr. Darling, doubted he could help. However, his daughter Grace urged him to go out in the boat at all costs and offered to take one oar. Mr. Darling, encouraged by her, agreed despite knowing the danger, and both his wife and daughter helped him launch the boat. After a tough struggle through the churning waves, they reached the rock, where they found nine people shivering in the cold and wet, terrified for their lives. To highlight the bravery shown in this rescue, it's worth noting that if it hadn't been low tide, the boat wouldn't have been able to pass between the islands; Darling and his daughter knew the tide would be coming in on their way back, and their combined strength would not have been enough to row back to the lighthouse. Without the help of the survivors, everyone would have been stuck on that deadly rock. The joy of those rescued was immense, along with their surprise and amazement at discovering that one of their rescuers was a young girl. Back at the lighthouse, food and warmth quickly restored their energy. Among those rescued was a grieving mother who had watched 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.
Grace Darling’s name and fame are historic; she lived only a short time after the tragic event just mentioned, but long enough to receive the honors she deserved for an act of unmatched heroism, even being recognized by the Queen and receiving a generous amount of money from the public.
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.
was not, as one might think, a strong girl, but rather, quite fragile. Her spirit gently departed a few months after the event mentioned above.
CHAPTER 6.
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.
Clarence’s Dream—Davy Jones’s Locker—Origin of the Term—Ocean Treasures—Pearl Fishing—Mother of Pearl—Formation of Pearls—Art and Nature Combined—The Fisheries—The Divers and Their MO—Risks of the Industry—Betting on Oysters—Famous Pearls—Cleopatra’s Expensive Beverage—Scottish Pearls Are Highly Valued—Coral—Its Role in Nature—Fishing Industries—Hard Labor and Low Wages—The Gear Used—Coral Atolls—Darwin’s Studies—Theories and Realities—Features of the Reefs—Beauty of the Underwater Gardens—Triumphant Polyps—The Sponge as a Sea Creature—Fishing Industries—Harpooning and Diving—Worth of Sponges.
So dreamed Clarence on a memorable night, and, indeed, what treasures, known and unknown, must not the ocean cover!
So dreamed Clarence on a memorable night, and, seriously, what treasures, known and unknown, must the ocean hide!
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 well-known term that titles this chapter, with its commonly understood meaning, is familiar to every schoolboy, yet its origin is quite unclear. Mr. Pinkerton, an insightful contributor to the valuable inquiry source, Notes and Questions, argues as follows, and his opinion deserves respect. He states:—"I have concluded that the phrase comes from the Biblical story of the prophet Jonah. The word locker on a ship typically refers to a place where something specific is stored, like ‘the bread locker,’ ‘shot locker,’ and so on. In the ode found in the second chapter of the Book of Jonah, the prophet, praying for rescue, describes his situation with these words:—‘In the midst of the seas; and the floods surrounded me; the depth closed in on me; the earth with her bars was around 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.”
"The sea can be aptly named Jonah’s locker: the place where Jonah was confined or trapped. Eventually, Jonah’s locker could easily become Jones’s locker, with Davy, a common Welsh companion to the Welsh name Jones, contributing to it; the original meaning 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.
However this may be, we would now like to talk about the hidden treasures of the ocean and its explorers. First, let’s take a look at the pearl, coral, and sponge fisheries, 26 as they are somewhat incorrectly named, since this will lead us to the topic 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 pearl oyster (Meleagrina margaritifera) is the most valuable and fascinating of all the nacre (mother-of-pearl) bearing shells. The shell is nearly round and greenish on the outside; it produces the finest pearls under good conditions and the nacre that is useful in many industrial applications. In short, fine pearls and nacre have the same origin. The nacre lines the entire interior of the shell, and it is the same secretion that forms pearls when it adopts a round shape; in one case, it is layered as nacre on the bivalve’s walls, and in the other, it forms a pearl inside the animal’s flesh. Therefore, the only difference between nacre and pearls is the shape they take. The finest pearls—“frozen drops of dew,” as the Orientals poetically call them—are secretions of nacrous material that cover foreign objects accidentally caught under the mollusc's mantle. If the animal is bothered by the intrusion of a grain of sand and can't remove it, it covers it with a natural secretion, allowing the pearl to grow gradually. Usually, when you break the pearl, you'll find some foreign object at its center, which acted as the nucleus for this formation; it could be a sterile egg of the mollusc, a fish egg, or a grain of sand, around which the beautiful and highly valued gem has been deposited in concentric layers.
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.
The Chinese and other Eastern countries take advantage of this fact in the natural history of this bivalve to create pearls and cameos. By inserting a small round grain of sand, glass, or metal into the mantle of the mollusk, or inside its body, they trigger a process that eventually produces a pearl—either free or attached 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.
Pearls are sometimes created in whole strands by inserting quartz grains connected by a string into the mantle of a type of Meleagrina; in other instances, a dozen enameled figures of seated Buddha have been made by inserting small plates of embossed metal into the valves of the same species. The pearls start off quite small but grow larger as annual layers are added to the original nucleus, with their brightness and color shifting along with the nacre from which they are formed. Sometimes they are transparent, silky, shiny, and varying in iridescence; at other times, they can appear dull, muted, 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.
The pearl oyster is found in very different latitudes. They can be seen in the Persian Gulf, along the Arabian coast, in Japan, in American waters, and on the islands of the South Pacific; however, the most significant fisheries are located in the Bay of Bengal, Ceylon, and other regions of the Indian Ocean. The Ceylon fisheries are monitored by the government, and every year, before the fishing season begins, an official inspection of the coastline is conducted. Sometimes the fishing is carried out by the State, while at other times it is contracted out to groups of speculators. In 1804, the pearl fishery was awarded to an investor for £120,000; however, to prevent depleting all the beds at once, the same area of the gulf isn’t fished every year. In fact, sometimes the oysters surprise scientists and practical finders by migrating.
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 [pg 68]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 [pg 69]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 [pg 70]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.
The great fishery for mother-of-pearl takes place in the Gulf of Mannar, a large bay to the northeast of Sri Lanka. It uses 250 boats that come from different parts of the coast; they arrive at the fishing grounds at dawn, signaled by a signal gun. Each boat's crew consists of twenty people and a Black worker. There are ten rowers. The divers split into two groups of five men each, who take turns working and resting; they dive to depths of forty to fifty feet, with seventy being the maximum they can manage, and eighty seconds being the longest time the best diver can stay underwater, while the usual duration is only thirty seconds. To help them dive faster, a large stone is tied to a rope. The oars are arranged to create a platform across which planks are laid on both sides of the boat; to this platform, the diving stone is suspended. The stone is shaped like a pyramid and weighs thirty pounds or more; the rope that holds it sometimes has a sort of stirrup at the lower end to hold the diver's foot. When he’s about to dive, he places his right foot in the stirrup, or if there isn’t one, he rests it on the stone with the rope between his toes. He holds the net for collecting the shellfish in his left hand; then, grabbing a signal cord with his right hand and pinching his nostrils with his left, he dives, keeping his body vertical and balanced over his foot. Each diver is naked except for a piece of cloth around his waist. Once he reaches the bottom, he lifts his foot from the stone, which immediately rises back to the platform. The diver then lies face down and starts to collect all the suitable shells within reach, putting them in his net. When he wants to come up, he pulls the signal cord and is pulled up as quickly as possible. A skilled diver rarely stays more than thirty seconds under the water at a time, though some can hold their breath longer; however, they typically repeat the dive three or four times, and under favorable conditions, even up to fifteen or twenty times. The work is extremely hard, and they have short lifespans. When they return to the boat, they sometimes cough up water mixed with blood from their mouth, nose, and ears. They are also at high risk from swordfish and sharks, which often ambush and frequently eat the unfortunate divers. They continue to fish until midday, but are expected to return long before dark. Mrs. Brassey explains that when a boat with pearls returns to shore, the shells are divided into equal piles—one-fourth goes to the crew and three-fourths to the government inspector. They keep whichever pile he chooses to kick, making it uncertain which pile contains the best pearls, so the odds remain decent. The piles are then divided and auctioned off in bulk, and then subdivided again. Gambling is such a strong cultural tendency that even the most impoverished person will buy a few shells, hoping to find a valuable pearl; and if they don’t, they still have their oyster! “Some of the oysters are taken in sealed sacks to Colombo, Kandy, and other inland locations to allow people to indulge their love for gambling and speculation.” Sir Emerson Tennant notes that the exhausted pearl oyster shells from the Condatchy fisheries, which date back two thousand years, have formed a vast bank on the beach, stretching for miles. In earlier times, the Ceylon fisheries were more profitable than they are now. In 1797, they reportedly produced £144,000, and in 1798, as much as £192,000. In 1802, the fisheries were rented out for £120,000; but for many years, the banks have been less productive and now yield only about £20,000 per year.
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.
The people living around the Bay of Bengal, the Chinese coast, Japan, and the Indian Archipelago are all involved in pearl fishing, with the total production estimated at around £800,000. Similar fisheries, like those in Ceylon, operate on the Persian coast, in the Arabian Gulf, along the coast of Muscat, and in the Red Sea. When they reach their fishing spots in the Red Sea, the fishermen arrange their boats a safe distance apart and anchor in water that’s about eight to nine fathoms deep. The dive process is quite simple. Before diving, the divers attach a cord connected to a bell on their boat to their bodies, put cotton in their ears, and press their nostrils shut with a piece of wood or horn. They seal their mouths completely, tie a heavy stone to their feet, and then dive straight down to the sea floor, where they collect any shells they can reach, tossing them into a bag strapped around their waists. When they need to come up for air, they ring the bell, and help is provided for their ascent. The oyster beds near the island of Bahrein yield about £240,000 from pearl fishing, and if we include the other fisheries in the area, the total from the Arabian coast would likely be around £350,000. Similar fisheries also exist in South America. Before the Mexican conquest, pearl fisheries were located between Acapulco and the Gulf of Tchuantepic; later, they were established around the islands of Cubagua, Margarita, and Panama. The potential for profit was so promising that cities quickly sprang up around these areas. During the reign of Charles V, America sent pearls worth £160,000 to Spain; today, the annual yield is estimated to be valued at £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.
Pearls are, of course, the most valuable product of the animal. When they stick to the shells, they are removed with pincers; but usually, they are found in the soft tissues of the oyster. In this case, the substance is boiled and then sifted to collect the tiniest pearls because larger ones can sometimes be missed during the first process. Months later, when the mollusk has decayed, unfortunate Indians can be seen sifting through the rotten mass, looking for small pearls that may have been overlooked by the workers.
The pearls adherent to the valve are more or less irregular in their shape; they are sold by [pg 71]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.
The pearls attached to the valve come in various irregular shapes and are sold by weight. Those found inside the animal and separated are known as *virgin pearls*. They can be round, oval, or pear-shaped and are sold individually. When cleaning them, they are collected in a bag and treated with powdered nacre to make them perfectly pure in color, round in shape, and polished. Finally, they are passed through a series of copper sieves to size them. There are about a thousand sieves, nested within each other, with holes that determine the pearl's size and its commercial classification. For example, sieve No. 20 has twenty holes, No. 50 has fifty, and so on, up to No. 1,000, which has that many holes. Pearls caught in sieves Nos. 20 to 80, referred to as *mill*, are first-order pearls; those that fit between Nos. 100 and 800 are called vivadoe, or second-order pearls; and those that pass through all the others and are retained in No. 1,000 are known as *tool*, or seed pearls, and are third-order. Afterward, they are strung together, with small and medium-sized pearls threaded on white or blue silk, arranged in rows, and tied with a ribbon into a top-knot of blue or red silk. In this form, they are displayed for sale in rows and sorted by color and quality. Small or seed pearls are sold by measurement 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.
We can't be surprised at how much these beautiful creations of nature have always been valued. Our Lord mentions a "merchant searching for quality pearls," and once refers to a “valuable pearl.” The ancients highly regarded them. Ahasuerus had a room decorated with valuable pearls. Julius Caesar offered Servilia, Brutus's mother, an "Orient pearl" worth the equivalent of a million sesterces;27 Cleopatra’s lavish drink is estimated by Pliny to be worth about £80,729; Lollia Paulina, Caligula's wife, would wear around £200,000 worth of them on special occasions.
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.
In our own country, Sir Thomas Gresham ground up a pearl worth £65,000 during Queen Elizabeth’s time and drank it, like Cleopatra, except he mixed it with wine instead of vinegar. He did this out of vanity to outdo the Spanish ambassador, with whom he had bet that he could host a more lavish event 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.
Scottish pearls, which have a slight bluish tint, were highly praised in the Middle Ages and were shipped to London from the Tay and Isla rivers; according to Rev. Mr. Bertram, the trade that continues today has become quite significant.
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.
The pearl, according to the same source, is found in a type of mussel that has a broad hinge connecting its shells. “Scotland's pearl fisheries,” he adds, “could be a source of wealth for the people living along the major rivers if managed wisely.” Mr. Unger, a gem dealer in Edinburgh, has recognized the potential of Scottish pearls as valuable gems and has set a price scale based on their size and quality. The beautiful pearls from our Scottish rivers are now sought after even more than orient pearls. Empresses, queens, and noblewomen have purchased these gems in large quantities. Mr. Unger estimates that pearl-finders received around £10,000 during the summer of 1864. The successful fishing spots have included the classic Doon, the Forth, the Tay, the Don, the Spey, the Isla, and many notable Highland rivers.
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.
Moving on to another of the ocean's stunning treasures, coral, it's important to note that the commercially valuable coral used for ornaments is quite different from the coral found in coral islands, and from a scientific standpoint, it doesn’t fall into the same classification at all. The coral used in jewelry, carvings, and decorations belongs to the group Corallinæ, of the order Gorgonidae, whereas the coral found in reefs or islands is part of the larger group of Madrepores.
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 coral was long considered a sea plant, but what was once thought to be a flower is actually a type of polyp that lives in colonies. A branch of living coral is a collection of animals connected by a common tissue, yet they seem to exist separately. This branch definitely originates from an egg and consists of two distinct parts—the first being hard, brittle, and stony; the second being external, soft, and fleshy. The latter is a united family of polyps, which are animals with feelers or tentacles that are very sensitive and capable of reproduction or budding. However, this topic is too scientific to cover fully here. The Greeks called it a “child of the sea,” and, as with many other things, they were correct. The fisheries are mainly located in the Mediterranean, and the fishing is mostly done by sailors from Genoa, Leghorn, and Naples. It is such a tiring job that it's a common saying in Italy that anyone who has to go to the coral fishery must either be a thief or an assassin. This saying gives you a pretty clear idea of the occupation. The best fishermen can only earn four to six hundred francs (£16 to £24) during the six-month season. They work eighteen hours a day and often get little more to eat than unlimited biscuits and water. The fishing boats vary in size from six to fifteen tons; they are strong and designed for the job. They have a large lateen sail and a jib or staysail. The back of the boat is designated for the capstan, the fishermen, and the crew, while the front is reserved for 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.
The lines, wood, and metal used in coral fishing are called the engine; it includes a wooden cross made from two bars firmly connected at the center. Below it, there’s a heavy stone that holds the lines, which are arranged like a bag. These lines have large openings, loosely tied together, similar to a typical cleaning tool.
“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....
The equipment holds thirty of these bags, designed to collect everything they come into contact with at the ocean floor. They fan out in all directions as the boat moves. Coral tends to latch onto the tops of rocks and grows there, forming banks, and it's to these rocks that the swab connects to retrieve the valuable catch. Over time, experience turns into almost instinct for the Italian fisherman, guiding them to 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, [pg 74]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.
When the captain believes he's found a coral reef, he throws his gear overboard. Once the equipment is at the bottom, the boat slows down, [pg 74]and six or eight men operate the capstan while the others steer and adjust the sails. Two forces are influencing the lines—the boat's horizontal movement and the capstan's vertical action. Because of the uneven rocky bottom, the gear moves in stops and starts, and the boat shifts depending on the bumps created by the capstan or sails. The engine grabs the jagged rocks below, lifts them, and then drops them again. This way, the swab floating around goes under the rocks where the coral is and gets snagged on it. Securing the lines to the coral and pulling them back is extremely labor-intensive. The gear fights against the crew's strongest and most persistent efforts for a long time as they work the capstan, half-clothed under the scorching Mediterranean sun, all while the captain urges them to work harder; the sailors adjust the sails and sing a slow, monotonous tune, improvising the names of the most respected saints from the seafaring Italian community in a kind of chant.
“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.
“The lines are finally pulled in, tearing or breaking apart massive blocks of rock, which are then brought aboard the ship. The cross is now set on the side of the vessel, the lines are laid out on the deck, and the crew works on gathering the results of their efforts. The coral is collected, and the branches of the valuable alcyonarian are cleaned and stripped of shells and other harmful growths that come with them; finally, the product is taken to and sold at the ports of Messina, Naples, Genoa, or Leghorn, where jewelry makers purchase them. Look, dear reader, at the hard work, exhaustion, and danger involved in retrieving the beautiful jewelry you wear from the ocean's deepest depths.” 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. Darwin28 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.
Although the corals of the so-called coral islands are mainly just interesting curiosities, they are quite fascinating from a scientific and artistic perspective. Darwin has reasoned very convincingly about how reefs are formed. He says:—The early explorers thought that coral-building animals naturally created their large corals for protection in the lagoons. However, that's not accurate because those large types, which are crucial for building the reef on the exposed outer shores, can't survive in the lagoon, where other more delicate, branching types flourish. Furthermore, this perspective suggests that many species from different genera and families are working together for a single purpose; however, there is not a single case of such collaboration found anywhere in Nature. The most widely accepted theory is that atolls are formed from underwater craters, but when you look at the shape and size of some of them, this idea starts to lose its credibility. For instance, the Suadiva atoll has a diameter of forty-four geographical miles one way and thirty-four miles another; Rimsky is fifty-four by twenty miles; Bow atoll measures thirty miles long and about six miles wide on average. Additionally, this theory does not apply at all to the Northern Maldivian atolls in the Indian Ocean, one of which is eighty-eight miles long and between ten and twenty in breadth.
The various theories which had been propounded as to the existence of the coral [pg 75]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.”
The various theories about the existence of coral islands were unsatisfactory, which led Mr. Darwin to reconsider the whole subject. Numerous soundings taken around the Cocos atoll showed that at ten fathoms, the prepared tallow in the hollow of the sounding rod came up perfectly clean, marked with the impression of living polyps. As the depth increased, these impressions became less common, but sand particles attached, until it was clear that the bottom was made of smooth mud. From these observations, it was obvious to him that the maximum depth at which coral polyps can build reefs is between twenty and thirty fathoms. There are huge areas in the Indian Ocean where every island is a coral formation, raised to the height that waves can throw fragments and winds can pile up sand; and the only theory that seems to explain all these circumstances is the subsidence of vast regions in this ocean. “As mountain after mountain and island after island gradually disappeared beneath the water,” he says, "New bases could continuously support the growth of corals. I challenge anyone to explain in any other way how so many islands can exist across such vast areas, all of them being low and entirely made of coral, which definitely need 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.
Darwin’s description of the island of Cocos, or Keeling, is as follows:—The ring-shaped reef of the lagoon island is mostly lined with small islets. On the northern or leeward side, there's an opening that lets boats pass into the anchorage inside. As I entered, the scene was quite captivating and beautiful; its charm completely depended on the vibrant colors all around. The shallow, clear, and calm water of the lagoon, mostly resting on white sand, looks a vivid green when illuminated by the sun above. This brilliant stretch, several miles wide, is surrounded on all sides by either lines of bright white waves that separate it from the dark, rolling ocean water, or by strips of land topped with the flat crowns of coconut trees that rise against the blue sky. Just as a few white clouds create a nice contrast against the blue sky, bands of living coral darken the emerald-green water of the lagoon.
“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.
The next morning, I landed on Direction Island. The piece of land is just a few hundred yards wide; on the lagoon side, there was a white, chalky beach that felt really oppressive in the heat of this humid climate. On the outer coast, a solid, wide, flat coral rock helped cushion the impact of the rough open sea. Except near the lagoon, where there's some sand, the land is entirely made up of rounded pieces of coral. In such loose, dry, rocky soil, only a tropical climate could support such rich 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.”
"On some of the smaller islands, nothing looked more elegant than how the young and mature coconut trees came together to form a beautiful grove, perfectly complementing each other's symmetry. A beach of sparkling white sand surrounded those enchanting areas."
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; [pg 76]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.
Mrs. Brassey writes excitedly about some coral reefs in the South Pacific. It’s really impossible to describe the beauty of the scene in front of us. Underwater coral forests of every color, filled with sea flowers, anemones, and echinoderms, shining with a brilliance only found in dreams; schools of the brightest and fastest fish darting in and out; [pg 76]shells, each perfect for a conchologist’s collection, slowly creeping along with their living occupants: this is what we saw when we looked down from the side of the boat into the depths below. The surface of the water sparkled with every shade imaginable, from the lightest aquamarine to the brightest emerald, from the pure light blue of turquoise to the deepest dark blue of sapphire, sprinkled here and there with patches of red, brown, and green coral rising from the mass below. In front of us, on the shore, there was a lush growth of tropical plants, shaded by palms and coconut trees, and brought to life by native women in red, blue, and green clothing, and men in colorful outfits, carrying fish, fowl, and bundles of coconuts balanced on poles like the grapes brought back from the land of Canaan by the spies.
“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.”
“At 5 p.m., we went out on the Glance and the Flash to the coral reef, now illuminated by the setting sun. Who can describe these incredible underwater gardens that we looked at through ten and twenty fathoms of clear water? Who can list or describe the strange creatures moving around and darting here and there among the coral formations that are their home? There were shells in rare shapes, more vibrant than if they had been polished by the hand of the most skilled artist; crabs of all sizes scuttling and sliding along; sea anemones spreading their delicate tentacles in search of food, and many other types of zoophytes slowly crawling over the reef. Scarlet, blue, yellow, gold, violet, spotted, striped, and winged fish—short, long, pointed, and blunt, in all sorts of 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:—
Darwin talks about the beauty of the outer shore of these lagoon islands. He says:—"There’s a simplicity in the barrier-like beach, with its line of green bushes and tall coconut trees, the flat expanse of dead coral rock scattered with large loose pieces, and the crashing waves stretching out in both directions. The ocean pours its waters over the wide reef, seeming like an unstoppable, powerful enemy; yet we witness it being resisted, and even overcome, through methods that may initially seem weak and inadequate. The ocean shows no mercy to the coral rock; the massive fragments scattered across the reef and piled on the beach near the tall coconut trees clearly demonstrate the relentless strength of the waves. There are no calm moments; the long swell caused by the gentle but constant trade winds, always blowing in one direction across a vast area, creates waves nearly as powerful as those in stormy temperate regions, and they never cease. It’s hard to watch these waves without believing that an island, no matter how strong its rock—whether porphyry, granite, or quartz—would eventually be worn away and destroyed by such overwhelming force. Yet these low, unassuming coral islets endure and thrive; for here, another force, like a competitor, joins the battle. The organic forces take particles of lime from the foamy waves one by one and build them into a well-structured form. Even if a hurricane shatters thousands of large pieces, what does that mean against the combined efforts of countless architects working day and night, month after month? Thus we see the soft, gelatinous body of a polyp, through the laws of life, overcoming the immense mechanical force of the waves of an ocean that neither human ingenuity nor the lifeless works of nature could withstand." The poet captured the essence of the matter correctly when he wrote:—
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.
And now we come to the last of the important fisheries involving divers—that of the sponge. The ancients recognized that sponges showed signs of life, but they were unsure whether to classify them as animals or plants. Rondelet—the friend of the famous Rabelais, who was humorously referred to by the merry curate of Meudon as Rondibilis—was a physician and naturalist from Montpellier who promoted the idea that these organisms belonged to the plant kingdom. Later in life, Linnæus reconsidered and placed sponges in the animal kingdom, as he concluded they fit that classification. Sponges live on the ocean floor at depths of 500 to 1,250 fathoms, nestled in the crevices of rocks, always adhering to and attaching themselves not only to inorganic materials but also growing on algae and other organisms, spreading, standing upright, or hanging down depending on what supports them and their natural surroundings.
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 [pg 78]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.”
Figuier tells us that all naturalists now accept that sponges are animals, even though they used to be thought of as the simplest and most obscure form of animal life, so close to the plant world that it was hard to tell some species apart. “Several of them, however,” says Mr. Gosse, “if seen through a lens underwater while alive, show strong currents constantly flowing from certain openings, and we can reasonably conclude that the water being pushed out must be taken in through some other route. When we cut the mass open, we find that the entire structure is filled with irregular canals that connect with each other; some of these canals are narrow and connect to the surface through tiny but numerous pores, while others are wide and open with large openings; through the former, the water is taken in, and through the latter, it is expelled.”
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.
At present, sponge fishing mainly happens in the Greek Archipelago and along the Syrian coast. The Greeks and Syrians sell their catch to Western nations, and the trade has significantly expanded recently. Fishing typically starts in early June on the Syrian coast and wraps up by the end of October. However, July and August are especially good for harvesting sponges. Latakia contributes about ten boats to the fishery, Batoum provides twenty, Tripoli sends about twenty-five to thirty, Kalki has fifty, Simi contributes around 170 to 180, and Kalminos has more than 200 boats. Each boat's crew generally consists of four or five men who spread out along the coast for two or three miles, looking for sponges under the cliffs and rocky ledges. Lower-quality sponges are collected in shallow waters, while the more desirable varieties are found at depths of twenty to thirty fathoms. The first group of sponges is fished with three-pronged harpoons, which often damages them. In contrast, the finer sponges are gathered by divers who use a knife to carefully detach them. As a result, the price of a sponge retrieved by diving is significantly higher than that of one caught with a harpoon. Among divers, those from Kalminos and Psara are particularly famous; they can dive to twenty-five fathoms, stay underwater for a shorter time than Syrian divers, yet still bring up a larger yield. The fishing in the Archipelago mainly supplies lower-quality sponges for sale, while the Syrian fisheries offer many finer types, which are popular in France and are typically medium-sized. Meanwhile, sponges from the Barbary coast are larger, of finer quality, and highly sought after in England. Sponge fishing also occurs at various other locations in the Mediterranean, but it lacks proper management, which leads to unsustainable practices. Nonetheless, the trade is growing each year; however, it is only a matter of time before the trade dwindles, as the high demand is depleting these underwater sponge populations faster than they can regenerate.
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.
The finer types of toilet sponges sell for a high price, often reaching up to forty shillings per pound for the best specimens, a cost that few commercial products achieve, making them accessible only to the wealthy. Therefore, it’s very important to pursue M. Lamiral's underwater project. With help from the Acclimatisation Society of Paris, some experiments have already been conducted in this area.
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.
On the Bahama banks and in the Gulf of Mexico, sponges grow in shallow water. The fishermen—Spanish, American, and English—set a long pole or perch into the water next to the boat, lowering it down onto the sponges; this makes them easy to collect.
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.
The fine, soft Syrian sponge is known for being light, having a pale color, and its cup-like shape. Its surface is rounded and spiraled, with countless small holes, while the concave side has larger canals that extend to the outside, making the top often full of holes. This sponge is sometimes whitened using harsh alkalis, but this process not only damages its texture but also alters its color. It's mainly used for personal care, and it tends to be expensive. Large, round, and soft specimens can fetch very high prices. There are many other varieties recognized in the commercial market.
CHAPTER 7.
Davy Jones's Locker and those who plunge 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.
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 it down!”—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 from Whitstable—Dollar Row—Various Stories—Battle at the Bottom of the Sea—A Mermaid Tale—Hit 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.
The art of unassisted diving has been discussed, and now we turn to divers and diving that uses scientific tools. Without these advancements, how could we expect to recover anything significant or valuable that has sunk into the ocean? How could we properly construct massive breakwaters, piers, and bridges, or inspect and clear blocked ports and channels?29 Some of the greatest accomplishments of modern practical science would not have been possible without their support.
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 [pg 80]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.
Every reader understands the basic principle behind how a diving bell works. If you turn a glass upside down in a deep container of water, the liquid will only rise to a certain level inside, no matter how deep you submerge the glass. If you insert a tube into a hole in the glass and blow down into it, the water level drops even more. This is what happens when air is pumped into a modern diving bell. While descending in a diving bell and staying underwater, you may feel slight discomfort when breathing and maybe a tingling sensation in your ears. This isn’t due to a lack of air; rather, it’s because the air inside the bell is actually denser than the air outside. The air, pushed down by the powerful air pump, is compressed upward by the water. Readers might recall that Robert Fulton and his friends [pg 80]were able to stay underwater in his submarine for over two hours, with the air supplied from a large globe containing highly compressed air that was released as needed. The stale air was expelled through tubes in bubbles to the surface.
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 [pg 81]king, and became the founder of the noble house of Mulgrave, which has played no inconsiderable part in the affairs of the United Kingdom.
As early as 1663, an Englishman named William Phipps, the son of a blacksmith, came up with a plan to recover treasures from a Spanish ship that had sunk off the coast of Hispaniola. Charles II provided him with a ship and everything he needed for the venture, but it didn’t go well, and William Phipps ended up in dire poverty. Despite this setback, he remained determined and started a subscription list in England, with the Duke of Albemarle among the contributors. In 1667, Phipps set sail on a 200-ton ship, having agreed to split the profits among the twenty shareholders who contributed capital. Initially, his search was fruitless, and just as he was starting to lose hope, he discovered a rich vein of gold. The lucky diver returned to England with £200,000; he kept £20,000 for himself, and the Duke of Albemarle received £90,000. Phipps was knighted by the [pg 81]king and became the founder of the noble house of Mulgrave, which has played a significant role in the history 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 was just over a century and a half ago that the famous astronomer Halley—one of the first to start experiments in underwater exploration that continue to this day—went down to a depth of fifty feet in a diving bell he had built. It was made of wood and covered in sheets of lead. The air that became stale from breathing was released from the chamber through an air valve, while fresh air was supplied by barrels that went up and down alternately on both sides of the bell, similar to buckets in a well. These metal-lined barrels each held about thirty-six gallons of compressed air and were connected to the inside of the bell by leather tubes. As soon as one of these air containers was empty, another was lowered. Halley himself noted that in 1721, using this device, he was able to dive with four other people to a depth of nine or ten fathoms and stay underwater for 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.
It is to Smeaton, the famous engineer of the well-known Eddystone Lighthouse, that the diving-bell owes its main features, as he was the first to get rid of Halley’s somewhat awkward device and use the power of the air pump; he also built the first cast-iron bell. In 1779, he used the diving-bell to fix the piles of Hexham Bridge in northern England, as the foundations of the structure had been eroded by the strong current. A few years later, a tragic accident happened due to 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.
In 1783, Mr. Spalding from Edinburgh, who had made some improvements to the mechanical setup of Halley’s bell but had kept the barrel air system, set out to recover some of the cargo from an East-Indiaman that had sunk on the Kish Bank in Ireland. He and his assistant went underwater, and after the first air supply ran out, they sent down the barrels as usual. When no signal was received for a while, the bell was pulled up, and Mr. Spalding and his assistant were found dead. It’s believed that they somehow failed to release the air from the barrels into the bell, which led to their suffocation. The barrel system was always somewhat dangerous due to its tendency to malfunction, and if Spalding had used Smeaton's design, he might not have died in that way.
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:—
The improved diving bell was quickly adopted by engineers and played a significant role in the projects that transformed the port of Ramsgate. The renowned engineer Rennie frequently used the diving bell to secure the foundations of the eastern jetty and to shield certain areas from the sea's forces with a sturdy masonry barrier. It was also heavily utilized in building the Plymouth Breakwater. M. Esquiros, who observed the divers during this major project, provided an intriguing description of their MO:—
“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 [pg 82]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....
“But now,” he says, We approached the breakwater—this structure built by giants—next to which we quickly found an old, dismasted ship. This vessel looks rough and has a kind of makeshift roof. Living in it, like a floating home, are the workers who still do their jobs at the breakwater. They switch between a month on the ship and a month on land. One of their small sources of income comes from selling decorative items, which they say they carve from the rocks they pull up from the ocean floor using their pocket knives. Soon, I heard the loud thumping of machinery, growling and puffing like marine beasts; it was the wheezing noise of the air pumps that supply the bells when submerged underwater....
“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.
I then saw a small boat being rowed by a sailor, gliding under the edge of the bell. From this hollow, I spotted a pair of large, loose boots that came up above the knees. Behind them was another pair of big boots, which made me think two men were climbing into the skiff. The boat quickly appeared from beneath the dome it had been half-hidden under, and I saw it return to the vessel with two workers on board, soaked up to their waists and covered in mud. They had just finished their half-day working underwater and looked worn out. Their dark skin had a bright red flush on their cheeks and foreheads. The position of the bell hadn't changed at all; it was like they wanted to give it a chance to dry off and get some fresh air. It was lunchtime for the crew at the site. I had just observed the process of raising the bell to the surface; now I needed to see it lowered back down 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.’...
The same little boat that brought the two workers to the big floating house took them back after an hour's break, to the area near the diving bell, which, hanging just above the water, looked a lot like a giant iron box with an open bottom. The process of getting ready for the descent is actually pretty impressive, and to an excited imagination, it could easily resemble preparations for a death sentence. Everything is set for this: the scaffold, the hidden cell, and the threatening waves are all present. Fortunately, the divers don’t see it that way at all; instead, they appear proud to walk safely along the ocean floor, where many others have met their end. Nevertheless, the boat soon positions itself under the bell, which is raised about three or four feet above the water's surface. The two workers climb inside one after the other, using an iron ring hanging from the arched roof that they can easily grab. They take their seats on two wooden benches positioned at a certain height within the bell. Sometimes four or even six workers have to squeeze into this unusual vehicle. Once everything is in place, the boat departs, and a moment later, the foreman's voice gives the command, ‘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.
In areas where the water is stirred up by sand, the diver often finds himself in a kind of twilight or underwater fog, which makes him turn on his lamp. More often, though, the light is bright enough for him to read a newspaper in small print. There’s even a story about a woman who wrote a letter in the diving bell and dated it like this: ‘16th June, 18—, at the bottom of the sea.’ Her bravery got her the nickname among the divers 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 [pg 83]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.”
I also wanted to put my mind at ease about the fate of the poor workers I had seen descending in the diving bell. The foreman assured me they had all the comforts they needed. Don’t they have seats to rest on, a wooden ledge for their feet, and a bunch of tools and necessities hanging from a cord [pg 83]or hooked onto the walls of their hut, which is almost as well-equipped as Robinson Crusoe's? From all this, I had to conclude, unless the foreman was being a bit sarcastic, that the divers felt quite ‘at home’ in the bell. The truth is, they spend a significant amount of their lives in it. Almost all of them initially experience intense pain, which they describe as ‘a toothache that goes into the ears,’ along with a humming in their heads, ‘as if someone had let a swarm of bees loose there;’ but these annoying symptoms fade away after the second or third dive. Their confidence in this dry chamber, nearly isolated amid the ocean’s chaos, sometimes border on recklessness. In 1820, Dr. Collodon from Geneva, who had descended in a diving bell off the coast of Ireland, realized that at his current depth, a stone or any small obstruction could block the air valve, allowing water to flood into the bell. He shared this uneasy thought with one of the divers with him. The diver just smiled and pointed to one of the glass portholes above them. The doctor looked closely and discovered that the glass was cracked enough for air bubbles to escape freely. This was a much more serious issue than the unlikely possibility of an air valve blockage. The diver was aware of the cracked glass and didn’t mind at all.
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.
Some time ago, when I went down in the diving bell displayed in London, a seal that was swimming in the tank would press its nose against the little glass windows and look in, almost as if it were curious about what a visitor was doing there in his environment! Unfortunately, the same seal later met a tragic end. When the water was drained from the tank, the seal got into the pipes below and then into the sewers. It was found, still alive, some time later in the sewers of Euston Road, quite far away, but eventually succumbed to the toxic conditions of the filthy water.
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 [pg 84]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.
M. Esquiros continues:—“ ‘They are just starting to work’ was soon pointed out to me by the supervisor, who monitored every movement of his workers, even underwater. The type of work they do varies greatly depending on the task. The two divers who just went down were assigned to clear the area around the breakwater's foundation. As soon as they hit the bottom, they jump off their seat and, armed with a pickaxe, start digging into the wet sand to pull out the stones. Often, the tide or other factors churn up the water around the rocky base of the breakwater. The workers then struggle to see clearly and complain that ‘the water is muddy.’ Generally, though, the water is so clear that even a passing cloud can be seen on the ocean floor. The workers can operate with nearly as much ease and energy as if they were on land. Their movements, along with the surrounding conditions, sometimes create a thick mist that makes it hard to see nearby objects; they clear it by [pg 84]requesting an ‘air bath.’ The air pump speeds up and sends them an extra blast of air, which quickly clears 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 [pg 85]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.”
"I quickly learned to recognize their hard work; sacks filled with muddy sand and buckets full of stones were constantly being pulled up to the surface by ropes. It looked like the entrance to a mine, with unseen forces bringing up chunks of rock; but in this case, the mine was the sea. Their digging method didn’t allow them to stay in one spot for long. The divers had already signaled to move to a different area on the bottom of the sound. How would they manage this? As for air and movement, the men inside the diving bell relied completely on the equipment operating on the surface. The main source of movement is a type of traveller on four wheels, which runs on two tracks, allowing it to move in any direction. As soon as the signal was sent from below, the bell was lifted from the seabed like a heavy balloon. This was done using chains, and the diving bell stayed still in the water for a minute or two, like the pendulum of a stopped clock. But then the traveller started to move, and since it also acts as a crane, the pulley on the surface and the bell underwater shifted positions at the same time. The divers called this ‘travelling.’ They could move north and south, east and west, forwards and backwards. While on the move, if they hit a rock blocking the bottom, they would signal to stop, and the bell would hold still before slowly descending towards the stones. If [pg 85]they had gone a little too far and needed to backtrack, they would communicate again with the men on the surface, and the helpful machinery would quickly bring them back to the exact spot they wanted."
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 [pg 86]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.
The diving bell has often helped engineers by allowing them to go down and check the damage that could 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 the extent of the disaster for himself. After descending nearly thirty feet, he found a serious opening in the masonry, but the hole was too narrow for the bell to enter. It was necessary for someone to dive in, and brave Brunel immediately said he would do it. Grabbing hold of a rope, he plunged into the hole, where he reportedly stayed for almost two minutes, mentally assessing the damage. He was so focused on his examination that he let go of the rope just as his companions above, worried by his lengthy absence, were pulling it up. He barely managed to grab it again and was fortunately pulled back safely into the bell.
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 diving suit was a later development and owes much of its current practical design to French scientists. The purpose of the suit, made of canvas, rubber, and metal, is to allow the person wearing it maximum freedom of movement, while also providing a sufficient supply of breathable air. The air reservoir is made of steel and can withstand high pressures. The diver carries this equipment on their back; from it extends a breathing tube, ending with a rubber mouthpiece that is held between the diver's lips and teeth.
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.
The life of a diver is definitely tough. During the diving operations on the Royal George, Private John Williams, early in the season, seriously injured his hands while trying to lift a part of the wreck with sharp edges and broken bolts. After a few days of rest, he came back in his diving gear and dove again, but due to intense pain in his ears, he was out of commission until July 11th. When he descended again, he was severely injured when his air pipe burst just above the water. This was marked by a loud hissing noise on the deck. It took a few seconds to find and temporarily seal the rupture. He was quickly pulled up, and when they removed his helmet, he looked horrific. His face and neck were swollen and bruised, blood was flowing heavily from his mouth and ears, and his eyes were closed and bulging. Although he was partially suffocated, he was still able to talk about what had happened. A sudden shock had left him frozen, followed by a crushing pressure, as if he were being squeezed to death. A month in Haslar Hospital restored his health, and upon returning to the wreck, he immediately resumed his demanding 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 following is a remarkable example of a salvage operation carried out with the help of divers. The packet boats Ganges and l’Impératrice crashed in the outer port of Marseilles. The Impératrice had a broken wheel and damage to the officers' quarters. One of the cabins contained a chest full of gold, which fell into the thick mud at the bottom of the port of Marseilles. It was essential to recover this valuable package the next day. The sea was rough, and the exact location of the accident was unknown. The box wasn't very sturdy; it was black. At the estimated location, a 60-kilogram weight was dropped. This weight had two cords marked in meters; two divers pulled them in opposite directions, each taking the knot that corresponded to one meter, moving in circles while checking the ground at each step. After searching for three hours, the gold was found and returned to its owner, who had anxiously watched the operation. This salvage was completed on February 19th, 1867, by M. Barbotin, who was the contractor for underwater work in 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 [pg 87]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 diving bell has been greatly improved by a Frenchman, M. Payerne. His “Submarine Hydrodynamics” can descend or rise at the command of those inside. Thirty people can work in it comfortably for several hours without any issues. It is, therefore, of [pg 87]great help in clearing ports and making other underwater tasks easier. The machine's principle is really smart. On the outside, it looks like a big rectangular box with a smaller one on top, completely sealed except for the bottom. Inside, there are three main sections. The hold connects to the upper section through a large shaft. In between is a third section, or orlop deck, which only links to the others through stop-cocks. The hydrostat stands twenty feet tall, and its base, which rests on the sea floor, covers an area of 625 square feet. It can be made to rise and fall on command and will easily float around like a raft. This clever machine has proven to be very useful. The port of Fécamp was blocked with shingle, preventing vessels above a certain tonnage from entering. The hydrostat was used to clean the port, reopening it for 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.
The old divers love to share stories about the glory of their trade and are especially interested in any news about the fate of the ships from the Armada. This enthusiasm has been fueled as much by the achievements of the Mulgrave family's ancestor as by the good luck of John Gann from Whitstable. Many years ago, the old diver worked along the Galway coast and spent his evenings in a pub that fishermen often visited. One of these fishermen, sharing a long-standing local legend, told Gann that one of the Spanish ships had sunk not far from that coast and hinted that he could show him the exact spot. After finishing his own work, Gann made a deal with the fisherman, and together they spent weeks searching the indicated area for any signs of the wreck. Eventually, they were rewarded when they snagged something with their grapples. Gann took out his diving gear, and sure enough, the legend was proven true when they discovered a stash of dollars that had originally been packed in barrels. However, the barrels had decayed, leaving the gold arranged in barrel shapes. With the money he recovered, John Gann built a row of houses in his hometown of Whitstable, naming it Dollar Row to commemorate the discovery.
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.
Corporal Harris, almost entirely due to his own hard work, removed the wreck of the Perdita in just over two months. This mooring lighter had been sunk in 1783 during Mr. Tracy's unsuccessful attempts to raise the Royal George. It measured about sixty feet in length and was buried in mud fifty fathoms south of that ship. The visible timbers were only two feet six inches above the bottom, making Harris’s effort to clear the wreck truly Herculean. Completely worn out, he asked for a break of a day or two to regain his strength, and then he returned to work with his usual dedication and positivity.
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.
There was a sort of selflessness and lack of jealousy in Harris's character that, while the competition among the divers made them somewhat selfish, highlighted his kindness. He met a fellow diver named Cameron at the bottom, who took him to the area where he was working. For quite a while, Cameron had been struggling to lift a large, awkward piece of timber without success when Harris stepped in to help. In just a few minutes, using Cameron’s breast-line to communicate the necessary signals, he got the heavy load onto the deck. Although it was officially credited to Cameron, the event was so well-regarded that it was noted 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.
Lance-Corporal Jones, working on the wreck of the Royal George, one day dropped from his slings a crate containing eighty 12-pounder shot. With remarkable success, he exposed the rest of the kelson for recovery, and then, going deeper, pulled up nearly thirty-five feet of the keel from the mud in two hauls. He also weighed a small six-ton vessel belonging to a Mr. Cussell, which was carried by a strong current onto one of the lighters. Becoming entangled, the boat quickly filled with water and sank, grappling with the ladder of one of the divers as it went down, grounding a short distance from the gap between the lighters. Jones was chosen to use his skills to rescue her. Immediately descending, he secured the chains under her stern, and while trying to hold them in place by wrapping them around the mast, the tide changed, causing the vessel to swing around, and the mast fell over the side, burying Jones under her sails and rigging. Despite the danger, his fearlessness and calm presence of mind never left him. Working his way out from under the canvas and carefully untangling himself from the mass of ropes that trapped him, he finally managed to get free. A thunderstorm broke out, and responding to a call from above, he went back to the deck; but as soon as the storm calmed, he disappeared again, cleverly jamming the slings, and the boat was hoisted up; however, it had become a total wreck and was taken ashore.
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 [pg 89]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 dangerous yet intriguing incident happened during the Royal George diving operations between Corporal Jones and Private Girvan, two competing divers. In a moment of frustration, they got into a fight at the bottom of the sea after both grabbed the same piece of timber from the wreck, and neither was willing to let go. Eventually, Jones, worried about a clash with Girvan—who was a strong guy—secured his bull-rope and tried to escape using it. But before he could, Girvan grabbed him by the legs and attempted to pull him down. A struggle broke out, and Jones managed to free himself from Girvan’s grip. He then took a stronger hold of the bull-rope and kicked Girvan, which broke one of the lenses on Girvan’s helmet. Water [pg 89]immediately flooded in, and he could have drowned if he hadn't been pulled back on board right away. However, after a couple of days in Haslar Hospital, he recovered, and the two underwater rivals went back to work together with great friendliness.
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.
A diver's "Children's Story" shouldn’t be skipped. The main character, “Jack” (a diver who “lived once upon a time”), had spent a few weeks collecting the remnants of a shipwreck when one day he noticed a pale woman’s face at one of the windows of his diving bell, her long hair tangled with seaweed. He had often heard about the beauty of mermaids, known for being even more beautiful than the most stunning of women; but Jack never imagined any being could be as perfect as this. With a voice softer than the gentle waves, she said to him, "I am one of the spirits of the sea. Because of your kind nature, I've chosen you among your peers, and I will protect you, but only on one condition: you must recognize me in whatever form I decide to take." The beautiful spirit vanished, and Jack was left astonished but filled with a deep sense of joy. He thrived in everything he attempted. However, eventually prosperity went to his head. He kicked and mistreated a polyp, a type of devil-fish, but still a creature that had done him no harm, not realizing the beautiful spirit was hiding beneath that ugly exterior. A few days later, a tragic event happened, and Jack drowned. Moral: Listen to the wise advice of kind mermaids—when you encounter 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 [pg 90]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!
And now for our last story, a true one. Several years back, a large ship carrying a valuable cargo, including gold bars, was struck and sunk by a steamship in the Thames between Northfleet and Gravesend. It was later successfully raised [pg 90]by Captain George Wilson, from Milton, the famous oyster hub near Sittingbourne in Kent, which is also known for its divers. However, the main focus is on the names of the ships involved. The UK was hit by the Queen of Scotland!
CHAPTER 8.
The Ocean and Its Various 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.
The Salinity of the Sea—What It's Made Of—Tons of Silver in the Ocean—Currents and What Causes Them—The Great Gulf Stream—Its Features—A Scientific Achievement—The Tides—The Highest Recorded Tides and Waves—Whirlpool Effects—The Maelström—A Description from Norway—Edgar Allan Poe and His Story—Saved from the Vortex—The __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ “Prompter” at Mauritius—The Color of the Sea—Its Causes—The Phosphorescence of the Ocean—Fields of Silver—Primarily Caused by Marine 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.
Many aspects and occurrences of the ocean have been mentioned in the previous pages; however, there are aspects that have not yet been addressed and 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.
Its saltiness is due not just to the presence of sodium chloride, or what we call common salt, but also to many other minerals, including magnesium and potassium chlorides, magnesium and lime sulfates, calcium carbonate, hydrogen sulfide, magnesium bromide, ammonium hydrochloride, iodine, iron, copper, and even silver, varying in amount depending on the location. The copper plates of a ship examined in Valparaiso showed clear signs of silver deposits. Estimates suggest that the ocean contains 2,000,000 tons of silver. In 1,000 grains of seawater, there are thirty-eight grains of these elements along with some organic matter. The salinity of the sea is generally higher near the poles, though there are exceptions. In parts of the Irish Channel, the water contains salts equal to one-fortieth of its weight, while the salinity rises to one-sixteenth of its weight off the coast of Spain. In many areas, the ocean is less salty at the surface than at the bottom. Its saltiness increases its density and 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.
Maury, a recognized expert, identifies the salty properties of the sea as one of the main forces driving ocean currents. “Ocean brine,” he states, “is the law of the earth; from it, the sea gets its dynamic powers, and the currents draw their main strength.” Imagine a long tank, or a swimming pool, divided in the middle by a watertight wall, with fresh water on one side and salt water on the other, both at the same level. It's clear that if the barrier was removed, the waters wouldn't simply stay side by side as before; the denser water would tend not only to mix with the lighter water but also to create a current under it. The same goes for salt waters of different densities.
“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 [pg 91]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 sea,” says Figuier, “is a scene of constant motion; ‘its vast surface rises and falls,’ reflecting the image proposed by Schleiden, ‘as if it had a gentle breathing force; its movements, whether gentle or intense, slow or quick, are all affected by temperature changes.’ ” Heat expands its volume, thereby [pg 91]lightens it; cold increases its density, causing it to sink. These are some of the clear reasons for its currents. The duration and strength of winds and tides are additional disruptive factors. An oceanic wonder like the great Gulf Stream can only be understood after a thorough investigation of all the factors that contribute to its existence. Dr. Maury describes it well. He says:—“There’s a river in the middle of the ocean: during the worst droughts, it never dries up, and during the heaviest floods, it never overflows; its banks and bed are filled with cold water, while the current is warm; it starts in the Gulf of Mexico and flows into the Arctic seas; this powerful river is the Gulf Stream. There’s no other flow of water like it in the world; its current is faster than the Amazon's, more intense than the Mississippi's, and its volume is over a thousand times larger.” This powerful water current has a significant impact on the climates of Northern Europe, 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.
The Gulf Stream,
as it flows out of the Florida Channel, is thirty-four miles wide,
2,200 feet deep, and moves at about four and a half miles per
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 tides are produced by two sets of massive waves that travel around the Earth each day—a larger set caused by the moon's gravity, and a smaller set caused by the sun. The moon, being closer to the Earth, has a much greater influence, but tides also depend on various local factors. The eastern coast of Asia and the western side of Europe experience extremely high tides, while in the South Sea Islands, they barely reach twenty inches. The Mediterranean has barely any tide since it’s separated from the ocean by a narrow strait. The highest tide ever recorded happens in the Bay of Fundy, located south of the isthmus that connects Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. There, the tide can rise to heights of forty, fifty, or even sixty feet, while the bay north of the isthmus only experiences seven or eight feet. It’s said that a ship got stuck on a rock during an exceptionally high tide, and by morning, the crew discovered they and their ship were hanging in mid-air, well above the water. The winds have a huge impact on the tide's height and the waves. The highest waves recorded are found off the Cape of Good Hope (p. 89) during high tide, influenced by a strong north-west wind that has crossed the Atlantic, pushing its waters around the Cape. “The waves over there,” says Maury, "rise up in long ridges with deep troughs between them. They roll high and fast, throwing their white caps into the air, resembling the green hills of a prairie covered with snow, playfully chasing each other. Still, their movement is dignified and their roll majestic. Many traders heading to Australia, after rounding the Cape, find themselves followed for weeks by these magnificent swells, driven fiercely by the ‘brave west winds.’ These waves are said to reach heights of thirty or even forty feet; however, no precise measurements of wave height have been recorded." Waves off Cape Horn are slightly shorter. Spray crashes over the Eddystone Light, which stands 130 feet tall. After a massive storm in Barbados in 1780, some heavy old cannons were found on the shore, thrown up from the ocean floor. When waves in their retreat encounter obstacles, whirlpools form, like those in the Straits of Messina, between the rocks of Charybdis and Scylla, made famous by Homer, Ovid, and Virgil, once greatly feared but now little regarded.
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 [pg 93]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 [pg 94]part. This is the view held by most of the Norwegian peasantry and fishermen to-day.
The most famous whirlpool, the Maelström, off Lofoten in Norway, is created by opposing currents. One detailed account comes from a Norwegian named Jonas Ramus, who refers to it as the Moskoe-strom (channel or stream):—“Between Lofoten and Moscow,” he says, The water is about thirty-six to forty fathoms deep; however, on the other side, towards Ver (Vurrgh), it gets shallower, which makes it dangerous for ships to pass without risking a collision with the rocks, even in calm weather. When the tide is rising, the current races inland between Lofoten and Moskoe with incredible speed; but the roar of its furious outgoing tide towards the sea can't be matched by even the loudest and most terrifying waterfalls, and the noise can be heard for several leagues away. The whirlpools and pits are so large and deep that if a ship gets too close, it will definitely be sucked in and dragged down to the bottom, where it will crash against the rocks; once the water calms down, the wreckage resurfaces. However, these calm moments only happen during the transition between ebb and flood and in peaceful weather, lasting only about a quarter of an hour before the violence gradually returns. When the current is at its strongest, especially during a storm, it's dangerous to get within a Norwegian mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been swept away because they didn't anticipate it before getting too close. Sometimes, whales also get too near to the current and are overwhelmed by its strength, resulting in their desperate cries and bellowing as they fight to escape. A bear once tried to swim from Lofoten to Moskoe but was caught by the current and pulled down, its roars loud enough to be heard from the shore. Large logs from fir and pine trees, after being swept into the current, come back to the surface broken and tattered, almost as if they had bristles on them. This clearly shows that the bottom is made of jagged rocks, among which they are tossed around. The current is driven by the ebb and flow of the sea, cycling between high and low tide every six hours. In 1645, early on the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it roared with such noise and power that the very stones of the houses along the coast fell to the ground. Kuchu and others spread the idea that the maelström is a watery abyss that penetrates the earth and opens up in some very remote [pg 94]location. This is the belief held by most of the Norwegian peasantry and fishermen today.
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.
Who could read the works of Edgar Allan Poe and ever forget his exciting and detailed story about descending into the maelström? 30 It shows the mark of careful research and is largely based on true events. Two brothers, the most adventurous fishermen on their coast, were used to fishing closer to the maelström than anyone else. Although it was a risky gamble, they would catch more fish in a single day than the others could in a week at the farther fishing spots. The risk to their lives replaced the need for hard work, and their courage was like their 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 [pg 95]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.
In a terrible hurricane, they were pushed through the surf into the center of the whirlpool, where (as is often the case in reality) the wind almost stopped, and the water surface was lower than that of the surrounding ocean. "If you've never been at sea during a heavy storm, you can't grasp the chaos created by the wind and spray combined. They blind you, deafen you, and suffocate you, stripping away any ability to act or think." Now the two fishermen brothers had a moment of respite, like death-row inmates in a prison allowed small indulgences while their fate was still uncertain. The vessel spun around the belt rather than floated, getting closer and closer to the deadly inner vortex and making wild lurches toward the abyss. “The boat appeared to be suspended, almost like magic, halfway down the sleek interior of a funnel, enormous in size and depth, with perfectly smooth sides that could easily be confused for ebony, except for the mind-bending speed at which they rotated and the strange glow they gave off as the rays of the full moon ... poured in a cascade of golden light along the dark walls, extending deep into the darkest areas of the abyss.” They were caught in dizzying swings and jerks. Above and below them were swirling pieces of boats, timber, crates, barrels, and tree trunks. Then a hope arose from remembering one detail: due to the variety of buoyant debris thrown up by the moskoe-strom on the coast of Lofoden, some items were not damaged at all. Moreover, light and cylindrical objects were the least likely to be sucked into any watery vortex: there are solid scientific reasons for this. “I,” says the survivor, I no longer hesitated about what to do. I decided to strap myself to the water barrel I was holding, cut it loose from the counter, and jump into the water with it. I got my brother's attention with gestures, pointed to the floating barrels nearby, and did everything I could to make him understand my plan. Eventually, I thought he got it, but whether that was true or not, he shook his head in despair and refused to leave his spot by the ring-bolt. I couldn’t reach him; time was running out; so, with a heavy heart, I resigned him to his fate, secured myself to the barrel with the straps that held it to the counter, and jumped into the sea without hesitating for another moment. The boat soon made a few rapid spins and then sank to the bottom forever, taking the unfortunate brother with it. “The barrel I was tied to sank just a little beyond halfway down to the bottom of the gulf from where I jumped overboard, before a noticeable shift happened in the [pg 95]nature of the whirlpool. The angle of the sides of the huge funnel became less steep over time. The whirlpool's spinning started to become less intense.” Slowly, the waters rose, and he found himself in full view of the shores of Lofoden, above where the moskoe-strom pool had been. He was picked up by a boat; the people on board were old friends and daily companions, but they didn’t recognize him any more than they would have recognized a traveler from the spirit world. His hair, which had been jet 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.
Thus far Poe. It shows how the vivid imagination of a great poet, dealing with facts, can present those facts to the reader in an artistically lifelike and graphic way.
Another remarkable whirlpool is that of Corrievreckan, off the Hebrides, in the south of Scotland, shown in an illustration on page 93.
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.
A different phenomenon can be found on the south side of Mauritius, at a spot called “The Souffleur” or “The Blower.” “A big chunk of rock,” says Lieutenant Taylor of the United States Navy, “extends out into the sea from the mainland, connected by a strip of rock just two feet wide. The constant crashing of the massive waves has eroded it on all sides, giving it the appearance of a Gothic structure with several arches. In the center of the rock, which rises about thirty-five to forty feet above the sea, the water has carved out two vertical passages that are smooth and cylindrical, as if sculpted by a chisel. When a heavy wave crashes in, it instantly fills the hollow caverns below; and with no other way out, the water rushes up these shafts with incredible force, shooting up to a height of about sixty feet while roaring loudly. As the wave recedes, the vacuum below causes the wind to rush into the two openings with a loud humming sound that can be heard from quite a 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.
"My friend and I arrived before high tide. After climbing over the rocky area, we sat down near the chimneys, where I suggested we make a sketch. I had just started when a huge wave came crashing in, splashing over the rock and scaring us away."
“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.
"Our Black guide informed us that we needed to hurry back across the narrow bridge since the sea would get rough with the rising tide. We didn't waste any time and made it back dry enough, so I had to do 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.”
In about forty-five minutes, the view was incredible. I'm not exaggerating when I say the waves rolled in, long and unbroken, reaching a full twenty-five feet high, until they hit the headland and crashed over it, sending spray flying to the mainland; and from the middle of this foam, the Souffleur erupted with a sound that we later heard clearly from two to three miles away. Standing on the main cliff, over a hundred feet above the sea, we got completely soaked.
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.
To the combined effects of tides and waves, we can also link the monsoon hurricanes that frequently hit the Indian Ocean. The air might have been completely still just before enormous waves, accompanied by whirlwinds, crash in. “During the changing monsoon season, the winds break free from their controlling forces and seem to rage with a fury strong enough to shake the very foundations of the deep,” and ships are often literally spun around or lifted up entirely, leaving their crews utterly powerless.
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,
Turning to another subject we've touched on before—the color of the sea—it's worth noting that as sea water, it is actually colorless on its own. Its different colors come from reflection, the types of bottoms it covers, or the presence of actual animal, vegetable, and mineral materials. The ocean,
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.
is azure blue or ultramarine, turning greener closer to shore. Some days, it is mostly green, while others are dull and gray. A bottom of white sand gives a grayish or apple-colored green; chalk results in a pure, clear green; if the bottom is brownish-yellow sand, the green is understandably duller. In the Bay of Loango, the water appears deep red due to the red bottom. The Red Sea gets its color from floating microscopic algae and red coral bottoms. Sea water, concentrated in the salt marshes of southern France by the sun’s heat, also appears red: this is caused by a microscopic red-shelled animal. These tiny creatures only show up when the salt water reaches a certain concentration, and they die off once it gets even denser. Navigators often pass through patches of green, red, white, or yellow water, with the colors coming from microscopic crustaceans, jellyfish, zoophytes, and marine plants.
The pleasing phenomenon known as the phosphorescence of the sea is generally, though [pg 97]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.
The beautiful phenomenon known as the phosphorescence of the sea is generally, though [pg 97]by no means entirely, caused by countless tiny globular creatures called Noctiluca. Captain Kingman reported traveling through an area twenty-three miles long, so filled with phosphorescent material that at night it looked like a massive field of snow. "There were barely any clouds in the sky," he tells us; “Yet the sky about 10° above the horizon appeared as dark as if a storm were coming; the brightest stars shone with a faint light, and the ‘milky way’ of the heavens was almost entirely obscured by the light we were sailing through.” Several types of mollusks and jellyfish emit their own light, while phosphorescence is often a result of the breakdown of animal matter.
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.
A French author describes the effect created by the mollusks known to scientists as Pyrosoma, on a trip to the Isle of France. He says:—The wind was fierce, the night was dark, and the ship was moving fast when what looked like a giant sheet of phosphorus appeared ahead, floating on the waves and covering a large area in front of the vessel. After passing through this fiery mass, it became clear that the light came from organized creatures swimming at different depths around the ship. The ones that were deeper appeared as glowing red spheres, while those at the surface looked like glowing red cylinders. Some of the latter were caught; they ranged in size from three to seven inches. The outside of these creatures was covered in long, thick bumps that shimmered like diamonds, which seemed to be the main source of their light. Inside, there were many long, narrow glands that glowed intensely with phosphorescence. When these animals are still, their color is an opal yellow mixed with green; however, with the slightest movement, they contract spontaneously and emit a bright light, shifting through various shades of deep red, orange-green, and azure blue. A ship crashing through these phosphorescent fields appears to cut through a layer of white flame, a field of glowing silver, spraying sparks in all directions.
CHAPTER 9.
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.
The First Channel Cable—Today 50,000 Miles of Submarine Wire—A Distinguished New Englander—The Original Concept for the Atlantic Cable—Its Feasibility Acknowledged—Maury’s Observations on the Atlantic Seafloor—Deep-Sea Measurements—Ooze, Composed of Millions of Shells—English Partnership with Field—The First Cable of 1857—Paying Out—2,000 Fathoms Deep—The Cable Snap—Deep Disappointment—The Cable Installed and Working—Another Challenge—The Use of the __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__. Great Eastern—Stowing Away the Heavy Wire Rope—Departure—Another Accident—A Traitor on Board—Cable Recovered from the Sea Floor—Setback—Start of the 1866 Expedition—Prayer for Success—A BlessedFriday—Connecting to the Shore Cable—The Beginning—Daily Updates—Getting Closer to Trinity Bay—Finally Successful—The Old and New Worlds Linked.
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 1850, a copper wire insulated with gutta-percha was laid beneath the sea between England and France, marking the first significant achievement of its kind in connecting the two largest countries in Europe. Today, Great Britain is linked to the European continent by a dozen cables, and over 50,000 miles of underwater wires are quietly transmitting messages around the globe. Thirty years of dedicated scientific work have connected the entire world. You can send a telegram or “wire” your commands to distant China or Japan; you can find out the market rates for wheat in the farthest reaches of the New World; you can correspond with your wife in England while you're at the Antipodes. Puck’s vision of putting the “girdle round the earth” has been fully realized. The tale of the achievements made at the very bottom of the ocean would take a long time to recount; here, we can only focus on one of the most remarkable—the story 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
In November 1819, a remarkable American, whose story should be remembered, was born. Cyrus W. Field has rightfully earned a respected name in both the United States and abroad for his unwavering determination and courage.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—
The New Englander has today, and has always had, many of the best qualities of the Old Englander. In Field they were clearly shown. In his “vivid vocabulary” there was—
for the worst disappointment only stirred him to fresh exertion.
for the worst disappointment only motivated him to work harder.
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.
Field was born in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, a quiet little village nestled among the green Berkshire hills, a place that would please the eyes of any true artist. He was the son of a country pastor who, despite a modest income of one hundred fifty pounds a year, and thanks to the educational opportunities available to everyone in the United States, provided his nine children with a high-quality education. Several of these children went on to make a name for themselves later in 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.
While this energetic man's actual success is undeniable, it is Professor Morse, who stated that "telegraphic communication could definitely be established across the Atlantic Ocean," and a great Roman Catholic bishop, who deserve the credit for the idea. Bishop Mullock of Newfoundland, while idling on his yacht off Cape North, the northern tip of Cape Breton, thought about how his neglected island could benefit from being included in the communication route between Europe and America, because he realized that Nature had provided a straightforward way to the mainland for a cable. Inspired by this idea, he wrote to one of the St. John's newspapers, and his letter is now a great example of clear explanation. Around the same time, Mr. Frederick N. Gisborne, a practical telegraph operator, promoted the idea of linking St. John's with the mainland, and one evening he piqued Mr. Cyrus Field's interest in his plan. “After he left,” writes his brother, Mr. Field picked up the globe from the library and began spinning it. While looking at the globe, he first realized that the telegraph could be extended even further to connect across the Atlantic Ocean. Maury, the renowned marine scientist, and Professor Morse also reached the same conclusion around the same time as others in England. The story of the financial challenges and eventual successes related to the launch of the first cable might not interest the reader; it's enough to say that a group of six New York millionaires provided the initial funding—one and a half million 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.
And now Field started making progress by consulting top scientific experts on both sides of the Atlantic. Was it possible to run a cable across the ocean? If it was laid, could it actually send messages? The first question was about mechanical issues only, like the ocean's depth, the type of ocean floor, and the effects of currents and winds. The second question dealt with pure science and how the electric current behaves—Could a lightning bolt travel from one shore to the other across the vast sea? Maury provided the answer to the first question, noting that between Ireland and Newfoundland, the seabed formed a plateau, or raised land, which seemed to have been created specifically to support the wires of an electric telegraph and protect them from damage. He mentioned that its slope was quite even, gradually increasing from the shores of Newfoundland to a depth of 1,500 to 2,000 fathoms as you got closer to the Irish coast. It was neither too deep nor too shallow: deep enough to keep the cable safe from ship anchors, icebergs, and currents; shallow enough to ensure that the wires could be easily placed on the seabed. Professor Morse also offered a reassuring answer. He expressed his confidence in the project, stating that it could be done 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 [pg 100]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 [pg 101]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!”
The Company committed to conducting a series of careful soundings to determine the exact nature of the ocean floor where the cable connecting Newfoundland to Ireland would need to be laid. Mr. Field requested assistance from the American Government, which promptly sent the Arctic, led by Lieutenant Berryman, on this essential mission. She departed from New York on July 18, 1856; the next day, Mr. Field left for England on the steamship Baltic to organize the Atlantic Telegraph Company. The Arctic continued to St. John’s and then made her way across the ocean, reaching the coast of Ireland in three weeks and conclusively showing, based on her survey, the existence of a vast plateau under the ocean, extending from the New World to the Old. To be completely sure, Mr. Field asked the British Admiralty "to conduct any additional soundings needed between Ireland and Newfoundland, and to confirm those taken by Lieutenant Berryman." In response, the Admiralty dispatched the Cyclops, under Lieutenant Dayman, a highly skilled officer, who carried out his task with great enthusiasm and success. He found that the water depth on the so-called telegraphic plateau—the elevated land which nature had raised between the two continents—never exceeded 2,500 fathoms, or 15,000 feet. This depth is almost trivial compared to the enormous depths elsewhere in the Atlantic, where you could easily hide the highest snow-covered peak of the Himalayas; however, it's still a significant depth because if the peak of Teneriffe were “thrown into the sea,” it would disappear, along with the island and mountain; even the colorful peak of Mont Blanc would only be a few hundred feet above the waves. The only exception to this uniform depth occurs about 200 miles off the Irish coast, where within an area of about a dozen miles, the depth drops from 550 to 1,750 fathoms. In 14° 48′ W., according to Dayman, there's 550 fathoms of rock, and in 150° 6′ W., there's 1,750 fathoms of ooze. In just over ten miles, there's a change in depth of fully 7,200 feet. It was believed that this steep drop would be the main concern in laying down the cable; to alleviate the existing anxiety, Lieutenant Dayman conducted a further survey. The results showed that the drop wasn’t sudden; the steep bank or underwater cliff turned out to be a gradual slope of nearly sixty miles. Over this long slope, a writer in the Times noted, the difference between its highest and lowest points is only 8,760 feet, meaning the average incline is about 145 feet per mile. A good gradient for a railway is typically considered to be 1 in 100 feet, or about 53 feet per mile; so, the incline on this supposed bank is only about three times that of a regular railway. These surveys found that the ocean floor was made up of a soft ooze, as soft as the moss that clings to old, damp stones by the riverbank. And what is this ooze made of? The microscope revealed the astonishing fact that it consists of countless tiny shells, too small to be seen with the naked eye, yet each one is perfect, unbroken, and undamaged. These organisms live near the water's surface but sink to the bottom after death, where they find a calm and peaceful resting place. It has been rightly said that a significant cycle of life and death has been ongoing for ages in the tranquil embrace of the ocean. Myriads upon myriads, since the dawn of creation, have been falling—falling like snowflakes, until their remains form a thick layer of beautiful organisms covering the ocean floor. "The importance of this discovery," says Dr. Field, The issue with a submarine telegraph was obvious. It would also need to be placed on the ocean floor, alongside the relics that had been drifting in the deep for ages. If these tiny shells could rest below without damage, then an iron cable could definitely rest there too. There were no strong currents down there; no rough waves disturbed that dark sea. The waters were calm, and there too could rest the essential link that would connect one continent to another. And when it came to the potential damage from the surrounding elements, it could remain there, carrying the thoughts of generations to come, until the sea decided to reveal its secrets. Everything indicated that the Atlantic cable project was achievable. All that was left was to gather the necessary capital for its development. But this could only be done by forming a large and influential company, as the enterprise had outgrown the resources of Mr. Field and his small group of New York merchants. While working to present his proposal to London's capitalists, Mr. Field found advice and encouragement from many distinguished figures in the scientific community, including notable supporters like Glass and Elliot, who are now well known as manufacturers of sea cables, and the celebrated engineers associated with the scientific achievements of the time—Brett, Bidder, Robert Stephenson, and Brunel. The latter was then constructing the massive ship that would later be named the Great Eastern; one day, as he took Mr. Field to view her colossal hull at the yard in Blackwall, he exclaimed—and, as history has shown, prophetically—"There's the ship to lay your 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 [pg 102]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 Atlantic Telegraph Company was established, and 2,500 miles of cable were produced and loaded onto the British naval ship Agamemnon and the U.S. ship Niagara. On the evening of August 7th, 1857, the fleet set sail; as planned, the Niagara began to slowly lay out the cable. However, before five miles had been laid, the heavy shore end of the cable got tangled with the machinery due to carelessness from one of the crew members, causing it to break. The Niagara returned, and the cable was “under run” the entire distance. Finally, the end was lifted from the water and “spliced” to the massive coil, and as it safely settled into the “salt sea ooze,” the proud ship continued on her journey. Saturday, we hear, had beautiful weather. The fleet made good progress at a speed of four to five miles an hour, and the cable was laid out slightly faster than the ship's speed to accommodate any seabed irregularities. Meanwhile, regular communication was maintained with the shore, and the electric signals flashed continuously between the ship and land. The electricians updated Valentia on their progress, and the officers sent messages to friends in America to take the steamer from Liverpool. The skies seemed to favor the mission. Everything went smoothly, like a joyful wedding bell. The coil came out of the ship's hold without any tangles, unwinding easily as it dropped into the sea. Occasionally, there was a brief scare when the cable slipped off the wheels, an accident caused by the sheaves being too narrow and deep as well as the tar that hardened in the air. This issue was fixed in later trips. Despite that, everything functioned well, and as long as the powerful brakes held back their grip, the operation could continue. The next day, Sunday, went just as well, and by Monday the expedition was over 200 miles from shore. They had safely crossed the shallow coastal waters and passed over the undersea slope described earlier, reaching the deeper waters of the Atlantic, where the cable sank to a depth of at least 2,000 fathoms. Yet the iron cable remained buried in the deep silence, and every moment, the telegraph room recorded the ongoing flow of mysterious electric currents. Around four o’clock on Tuesday morning, however, a sudden disruption occurred. According to the published account, the cable was running out at a speed of six miles an hour while the ship was only making four. To stop this issue, the engineer applied the brakes firmly, which caused the machine to halt. This put a heavy strain on the submerged section of the cable. The ship's stern was down in a wave trough, and as it rose on the swell, the pressure became too much, causing the cable to snap. Instantly, a cry of despair echoed through the ship. She was halted in her forward motion, and within five minutes everyone gathered on deck, their emotions beyond words. One witness wrote:—“Tears filled many tough guys' eyes. The level of interest from everyone—both officers and soldiers—in this project was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, so it’s no wonder there was so much emotion when we didn’t succeed.” Captain Hudson remarked:—“It felt like a family that had lost a close friend, as both the officers and the crew were really committed to the success of the mission.” The cable broke in 2,000 fathoms of water after about 330 nautical miles had been laid, approximately 280 miles from Valentia. This marked the beginning of a series of setbacks, ultimately leading to eventual success.
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.
The same ships set sail again in June of the following year, and as planned before departure, reached a junction point in the middle of the stream, where the ends of the two cables were connected, and the ships separated, with the Agamemnon heading for Valentia and the Niagara heading for Trinity Bay, Newfoundland. Both vessels arrived at their destinations on August 5th, and two days later, the completion of the project was first “cabled” across the vast Atlantic, causing great celebration, it could be said, in two worlds. Congratulations poured in from both ends, and success seemed assured. Unfortunately, less than a month later, all communication came to a halt; the electric current wouldn’t flow through the massive wire rope; there was a leak somewhere. But it had been clearly demonstrated that messages could be transmitted under the given conditions. This was progress.
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.
Passing over all the financial arrangements related to a new attempt, which didn't happen until 1865, we find Brunel’s prediction came true. The largest ship in the world was chartered to lay another cable.
The work of stowing away the cable on board the Great Eastern, where it was coiled up [pg 103]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
The task of storing the cable on the Great Eastern, where it was coiled up [pg 103]in three massive tanks—one at the back, one in the middle, and one at the front—started in January and wasn't finished until June. This gives the reader an idea of the incredible size and capacity of the Great Eastern when you consider that, even though the cable measured 2,700 miles, a visitor to the giant ship initially had no clue it was on board! Here’s the account from a writer who visited the ship and its unique cargo. The details are fascinating. "Time's up," he says, after a general look at the marvels of the enormous vessel—"It’s time to check on what we primarily came to see—the telegraph cable. To our surprise, we couldn’t find it anywhere, even though we were told there are nearly 2,000 miles of it already on board, and the last piece, long enough to stretch from Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s, is being loaded. We walk back and forth on the deck of the Great Eastern without seeing this cable that’s supposed to connect the Old World and the New, and we only figure out where it is after someone points it out to us." The writer then describes how it’s loaded onto the ship:—On the side opposite where we landed, deep below the deck of our giant ship, there's a vessel topped by a wooden structure that looks like a house, and from this vessel, the amazing telegraph cable is silently pulled into the vast hold of the Great Eastern. The process is so quiet and smooth, aided by a small steam engine, that we barely notice it. In fact, unless someone pointed it out to us, we would never guess that this little iron cord, about an inch in diameter, sliding over a few rollers and through a wooden table, is of global importance—a thing that could affect the lives of entire nations and even shape the course of civilization. Following the path of the iron rope, we now arrive at the most incredible sight.... We find ourselves in a small wooden cabin and look down over a railing into a vast cavern below. This cavern is one of the three ‘tanks’ where the two-thousand-mile cable is temporarily stored. The silent agent of electricity gently enters here in a stunningly quiet manner, laid down in coils, layer upon layer. It’s almost dark at that great depth below, and we can only faintly see the human figures through whose hands the coil passes to its resting place. Suddenly, the men begin to sing. They start a low, mournful sea shanty, something reminiscent of Kingsley’s
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 [pg 104]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.”
The sounds coming from the dark, deep cavern have a shocking effect, leaving an indescribable impression. We move forward; however, the sailors' song about managing the Atlantic telegraph cable lingers in our minds like a dream. Even though our guide leads us all over the massive ship—through endless galleries, passages, staircases, and promenades; through stunning salons filled with mirrors, marble, paintings, and lavish upholstery made ‘regardless of expense’; and through areas packed with dazzling, enormous steam machinery, where the hidden power of coal and water generates the force that drives this massive ship across the seas—we don't truly appreciate what we see; our imaginations are worn out. The echo of the sailors’ song inside the Great Eastern won't leave our thoughts. It brings to mind visions of the future of the mysterious iron coil beneath our feet: how it will be rolled out from its confined space, how it will sink to the Atlantic floor or stretch from mountain to mountain deep below [pg 104] the turbulent waves, and how two great nations, from one race and the forerunners of civilization, will communicate through this amazing coil, breaking the barriers of distance and time. Who can help but dream here? It is truly a remarkable story of civilization, this Great Eastern and this Atlantic telegraph cable. Even if our time produced nothing else, this alone would be the triumph of our era.”
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 [pg 105]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 Great Eastern left the Thames on July 13, 1865. After several mishaps, it turned its massive bow towards the sunset and continued its journey in style. Everything was going well until July 29, when shortly after noon, a fresh alarm was raised. And rightly so, because the insulation was completely damaged, and the electric current was spilling uselessly into the sea. Since the faulty part had gone overboard, they had to turn the ship around again and retrieve the cable until they found the defective piece. This was a tough task, as they were in water two miles deep. However, the pioneers of this great project were undeterred, and after working all afternoon, they managed to get the damaged cable on board around ten o'clock at night. It was immediately stored away, and Sunday morning brought a wave of relief and joy after the anxiety of the previous day. On Monday, the miles of cable that had been pulled up and coiled in large piles on the deck were carefully examined to figure out what went wrong. The source of the problem was soon identified. Near the end, a piece of wire was forced through the core, as if it had been driven in. This kind of mishap raised suspicions of sabotage. It was noted that the same crew of workers was in the tank as when the initial fault occurred. Mr. Canning called the men over, and [pg 105]showing them the cable and the wire, asked for an explanation. They all said it must have been done on purpose and expressed regret that there was a traitor among them—of course, the unknown traitor was presumably one of those lamenting the situation. It seemed hard to believe that anyone could be low enough to conspire stealthily against the success of a beneficial mission, but similar acts had happened before in a cable in the North Sea, where the criminal was eventually caught and punished. In this case, there were certainly motives to carry out such a deed. The drop in the stock on the London Exchange caused by the loss of the cable could hardly be less than half a million pounds. However, it was impossible to pin the act on anyone since nothing was proven; with both the instigator and the perpetrator remaining unknown, a troubling sense of suspicion lingered in the minds of Mr. Field and his colleagues. They realized they had to be vigilant; thus, it was agreed that the gentlemen on board would take turns keeping watch in the tank. The Great Eastern continued its journey, and for three days during which they covered 500 miles, no further issues occurred. However, a few days later, a defect was discovered in the cable, and they had to pull in a short section of the last cable that had been laid. Unfortunately, the machinery proved too weak for the task, and with a breeze picking up, the cable rubbed against something until it snapped cleanly in two. In one leap, it shot through the stoppers and plunged into the sea. “The shock of the moment,” Dr. Russell tells us, "was as sharp as the snap of the cable itself," such 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.
The seemingly wild attempt was quickly made to recover the cable. It was decided that the Great Eastern should move upwind and east of where it was when the cable went down, lower a grapnel, and slowly drift across the area where the lost cable was likely resting. So the enormous ship traveled about thirteen or fourteen miles and then stopped in calm water. The grapnel consisted of two five-armed anchors, each weighing several hundred pounds, one of which was attached to wire rope, with five miles of it on board, and sent down into the sea. The rope slipped away, yard by yard, depth by depth; the ocean, like the leech’s daughter still crying for 'more' and 'more,' kept sinking into the dark depths of the water. 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)—yes, that’s enough; the grapnel has hit the bottom of the Atlantic; the search has begun. The next morning these efforts paid off, as the massive serpentine cable was snagged and raised seven hundred fathoms (4,200 feet) towards the surface, but unfortunately fell back to the ocean floor. A second attempt managed to raise it a mile and a half, but when a swivel broke, it sank again. These attempts used up a significant amount of the wire rope, and every effort had to be made to repair and strengthen the fishing equipment, keeping the mechanics on board fully occupied. Great forge fires were lit on the deck, which illuminated the ocean at night for quite a distance, creating a striking and dramatic scene. A third and fourth attempt was made to lift the cable, but despite Field and his team’s relentless determination, they were unsuccessful, and the bow of the great ship sadly turned towards home.
In spite of these failures no abatement of public confidence in the eventual success of [pg 106]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.
Despite these failures, public confidence in the eventual success of [pg 106]the project remained strong when the expedition returned to England. Nearly a quarter of a million pounds sterling was privately pledged privately for the next attempt, and when the subscription books were opened to the public, the entire amount required was raised in just two weeks. Some minor improvements were made for the successful 1866 cable; notably, it was galvanized.
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:—
When the day came for the final big push, the event was kicked off with a special prayer and request. Dr. Field describes that moment as:—
“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.’
"Has there ever been a better place or a better time for prayer than right here, in front of the vast sea where they were about to risk their lives and fulfill their sacred duty? The very first expedition started with a prayer. Exactly nine years ago, at this same spot, everyone removed their hats and bowed their heads at the solemn words of supplication; and there the Earl of Carlisle—who has since passed away—encouraged them with strong religious hopes, describing the ships sent 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.
With this spirit in mind, the officers and directors gathered at Valentia the day before the expedition set sail and held a religious service. It was a memorable moment. There were clergy and soldiers, scientists and doers, scholars who looked pale from studying and adventurers who were tanned from the sun and storms. Everything was quiet and peaceful. Not a single gun disturbed 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 acknowledged their dependence on a higher Power. Their preparations were complete. Everything that could be done by man had been accomplished. They had utilized every resource of science and skill. The outcome now rested with Him who controls the winds and the waves. Therefore, it was entirely fitting that before setting out, they should commit themselves to Him who alone spreads out the heavens and governs 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.
In all this, there's something nostalgic, something that reminds us of the great figures from a past and better time: like the Pilgrim Fathers praying on the deck of their small ship in Leyden, just before they found safety and a home in the forests of the New World, and like Columbus and his crew holding a solemn service before leaving Spain. So, with hard work and prayer, this important expedition was set to sail once more from the shores of Ireland, carrying the hopes of science and civilization, with courage and skill looking out from the front of the ship across the rough waters, and a faith, reminiscent of Columbus, guiding the way.
“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 [pg 107]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:—
On Friday, July 13th, 1866, the fleet finally set off from land. Was Friday a bad luck day? Some of the sailors thought so and would have preferred to leave a day earlier or later. But Columbus sailed on a Friday and discovered the New World on a Friday, so this expedition set sail on a Friday too, and luckily, reached land on the other side of the Atlantic on the same day of the week! As the ships disappeared over the horizon, Mr. Glass and Mr. Varley went up to their lookout, not to see but to listen for the first voice from the sea. The ships headed for the buoy marking the end of the shore line, but the weather was thick and foggy with frequent rain showers, making it hard to see far out on the water. For an hour or two, the ships sailed in circles like seagulls hunting for food. Finally, the Medway spotted the buoy bouncing on the waves, fired a signal gun, and headed straight for it. The cable was quickly pulled from its 100 fathoms deep resting place and secured to the back of the Great Eastern; the watchers on shore, who had been waiting rather impatiently, saw the first flash and Varley read, ‘Got the shore-end all right; going to make the splice.’ Then all was quiet, and they knew that the delicate operation was in progress. Quick, skilled hands stripped the covering from a foot of the shore-end and the main cable until they reached the core, then swiftly unwound the copper wires, laying them together as closely and carefully as a silk braid. This delicate creation of the sea was then wrapped in protective layers, covered with multiple coats of gutta-percha, hemp rope, and strong iron wires, all tightly secured with heavy bands, and the splicing was complete. Signals were now sent through the entire cable to the Great Eastern and back to the telegraph house at Valentia, and the total length of 2,440 nautical miles was reported as perfect, allowing them to set off with light hearts. It was nearly three o’clock. As they turned west, the following was the ‘order of battle’: the Terrible went ahead, positioned on the starboard bow; the Medway was on the port side, and the Albany was on the starboard quarter. From that moment, the voyage proceeded steadily. In fact, it was almost monotonous due to its uninterrupted success. The weather was variable, shifting between sunshine and rain, fog and squalls; but there was no heavy sea to disrupt their course, and the distance covered remained fairly consistent each day, as shown in the following table:—
|
Distance Run. Miles. |
Cable Paid Out. 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 [pg 108]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 [pg 110]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.
This table shows that the ship's speed was exactly as per the "running time" set before it left England. During the last journey, it was believed that it had occasionally gone too fast, putting the cable at risk. Therefore, it was decided to proceed slowly but steadily. By keeping to this moderate pace, the average speed from the time the splice was made until land was sighted was just under five nautical miles an hour, while the cable was paid out at an average of just below five and a half miles. This resulted in a total slack of about eleven percent, indicating that the cable was laid almost in a straight line, considering the swells and dips at the sea bottom. Friday, July 27.—Shortly after 2 p.m. yesterday, we spotted two ships to the west, which were quickly recognized as steamers. The Terrible, moving ahead, signaled us about an hour later that H.M.S. Niger was one of them, along with the Albany. As soon as Captain Bunce of the Niger reached the Terrible, he sent a message on board. Shortly after, the Albany positioned itself on our starboard side and signaled that it had spotted the Niger at noon, bearing E. by N., and that the Lily was anchored at the agreed spot in the entrance of Trinity Bay, as discussed with the Admiral. The Albany also reported passing an iceberg about sixty feet high. At 4:20 p.m., the Niger approached our port side very closely, and Captain Bunce, sending the crew into the rigging and manning the yards, gave us three cheers, which the Great Eastern returned enthusiastically. Then, she steamed ahead towards Trinity Bay. The Albany was instructed to head straight for Heart’s Content, clear the northeast side of the harbor of ships, and put a boat with a red flag for Captain Anderson to guide to for anchorage. Just before dinner, we spotted an iceberg on the southern horizon about ten miles away, likely the one the Albany had encountered. It looked to be around fifty or sixty feet tall. The fog rolled in thickly around 8 p.m., and between then and 10 we were continuously exchanging gunfire and burning blue lights with the Terrible, which, along with the Niger, was searching for the Lily station-ship. The Terrible was signaled to come up and take her position and informed us that they had found the Lily, which was about four miles away, bearing ENE. Later that night, Captain Commerell mentioned that if Captain Anderson could slow the Great Eastern, he would send aboard the surveyor, Mr. Robinson, R.N., who had arrived on the Niger; around 3 a.m., the engines were slowed down, after which the Terrible came alongside with that officer. Catalina Light, at the entrance of Trinity Bay, had been spotted three hours earlier, and the outline of the coast was visible as well. The fog was still heavy! According to Mr. Robinson, they considered themselves lucky if they had one clear day in seven at the entrance of Trinity Bay. Now, here we are (6 a.m.) within ten miles of Heart’s Content, and we can hardly see more than a ship's length. The Niger is ahead, and its repeated gunfire helps us know exactly where we are. Fortune smiled on us, as the dense fog gradually lifted from both sides of Trinity Bay as 8 o'clock approached, revealing the entrance to Heart’s Content, with the Albany moving towards the harbor, the Margaretta Stevenson, a survey vessel, steaming out to meet us, and the path marked with buoys by Mr. T. H. Kerr, R.N., along with a fleet of fishing boats at the entrance. It was clear that Heart’s Content was ready to welcome us as best as it could. The British and American flags waved from the church, telegraph station, and other buildings. We had dressed the ship, fired a salute, and cheered three times when soon, Captain Commerell of H.M.S. Terrible came 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, we received a message with the last words of a leader from that 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 honored among the benefactors of their race.’ ‘Treaty of peace signed between Prussia and Austria!’ It was then time for the chief engineer, Mr. Canning, to prepare for the splicing on board the Medway. Accompanied by Mr. Good, M.P., Mr. Clifford, Mr. Willoughby Smith, and Messrs. Temple and Deane, he went aboard; the Terrible and Niger had sent their paddle-box boats to help. Soon after, the Great Eastern steamed into the harbor and anchored on the northeast side, quickly surrounded by boats filled with visitors. Mr. Cyrus Field had gone ashore before the [pg 110]Great Eastern left the area, intending to telegraph to St. John's to hire a vessel to repair the cable that had unfortunately broken between Cape Ray, in Newfoundland, and Cape North, on Breton Island. Within a couple of hours, the shore end will be landed, and it’s hard to imagine a better day for completing this final operation. Tomorrow, Heart’s Content will wake up to realize that it is a highly-regarded place in the world, the western landing point for that marvel of electric communication with the eastern hemisphere, which is now successfully and, we hope, permanently established. This simple record tells the significant story of this memorable voyage. In England, the progress of the expedition was known daily, but on the American side of the ocean, all was uncertain. Some had gone to Heart’s Content, hoping to witness the arrival of the fleet, but not as many as the previous year, as the memory of the last failure was too vivid, and they feared another disappointment. But still, a dedicated few were there keeping their daily watch. The correspondents of the American papers reported only a long and anxious wait until that morning when the first ship appeared on the horizon. And now the hull of the Great Eastern emerged, shining gloriously in that morning sky. They are coming! Instantly, excitement exploded on shore. Boats launched to row towards the fleet. The Albany was the first to round the point and enter the bay. The Awful followed closely behind. The Medway paused for an hour or two to connect the heavy shore end, while the Great Eastern, gliding in calmly as if she were not doing anything extraordinary, dropped anchor in front of the telegraph house, trailing behind her a chain of two thousand miles to connect the Old World with the New. That same afternoon, as soon as the shore end was landed, Captain Anderson and the fleet officers went together to the little church of Heart’s Content to give thanks for the success of the expedition. A sermon was preached based on the text, "There will be no more sea," and everyone joined in the heartfelt prayers and thanksgivings of the Church of England. Thus, the voyage concluded as it began.
(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.
Although the expedition reached Newfoundland on Friday the 27th, the news didn't get to New York until the 29th because the cable across the Gulf of St. Lawrence was broken. It was early Sunday morning, before the church bells rang for prayer, when the news arrived. The first announcement was short—“Heart’s Content, July 27th.—We got here at nine o’clock this morning. Everyone is fine. Thank God the cable is laid and working perfectly.—Cyrus W. Field.” This was soon followed by a dispatch to the Associated Press, detailing the voyage and concluding with a well-deserved acknowledgment of the skill and dedication of everyone who contributed to its success. Mr. Field said: "I can't find the right words to express my admiration for the men who have skillfully managed the nautical, engineering, and electrical departments of this project, despite challenges that need to be seen to be truly appreciated. In fact, everyone on the telegraph fleet and everyone involved in the project has done their best to ensure the cable was made and laid perfectly." Other dispatches followed quickly, providing updates on the latest events of the war in Europe. All this confirmed the great achievement and filled many people with wonder and gratitude that Sabbath day as they went to church and gave 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.
Perfection in Nature's Smallest Creations—A Note on Scientific Classification—Protozoa—Blind Life—Rhizopoda—Foraminifera—A Theft Revealed by Science—Microscopic Workers—Paris Chalk—Infusoria—The “Sixth Sense of Man”—Fathers of Nations—Milne-Edwards' Submarine Explorations—The Saltwater Aquarium—The Compensating Balance Required—Brighton and Sydenham—Practical Uses of the Aquarium—Medusae: their Beauty—A Poet's Description—Their General Characteristics—Battalions of “Jellyfish”—Polyps—A Floating Colony—An Amazing Organism—The Elegant Agalma—Swimming Mechanism—Natural Fishing Lines—The “Portuguese Man o' War”—The Stinging Powers of the Physalia—A Threat to the Cuttlefish.
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.
Pliny says that "Nature is most perfect in her smaller creations." How gradually, yet beautifully, do the lower forms of life develop into the higher! Here we should keep in mind the following: Scientific naturalists, logical thinkers who organize the facts of Nature with systematic and nearly mathematical precision, have categorized the forms of animal life into divisions, classes, orders, families, genera, and species. However useful, these divisions are simply human inventions, open to change as knowledge grows— even subject to clear error. Linnæus tells us that Nature doesn't make leaps.—Nature does not jump or leap from one stage to another, but transitions almost seamlessly, with life blending 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.
A word often used in relation to the simpler forms of marine life also deserves a brief mention. The term marine creature, which comes from two Greek words meaning animal and plant, seems fitting for describing many of the organisms found in the deep sea. However, the term as it is currently used refers to an animal, and only an animal, no matter how 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 simplest forms of marine life are found in the broad group known as Protozoa. Although they are diverse, they can generally be described as lacking a structured skeleton or nervous system; they are animals, many of which are microscopic, leading a vegetative existence. "In their unclear and unseeing life," says Figuier, "Do they have consciousness or instinct? Are they aware of what happens just three-thousandths of an inch away from their microscopic bodies? Only the Creator knows the answer to this mystery."
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 limits of this work prevent us from including details. The group Protozoa includes the sponges already described, the Rhizopods (Amoebas), grounded creatures, and the Infusoria, tiny organisms so small that a drop of water may hold millions of them.
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 Rhizopods are found in both fresh and salt water, but marine ones are much more common. They are tiny blobs of clear jelly, with such an incredibly small amount of matter that their transparency is so high that the eye, even with a microscope, can only see them by carefully adjusting the light. However, they are known to have tiny feet or feelers and a digestive system—some of them are surprisingly greedy eaters for their size—which can be seen filled with microscopic algae or seaweeds. It's thought that they reproduce by splitting parts of their bodies, which then grow into separate organisms.
The Reticulosa, or Foraminifera, form an order of this group. They are small calcareous [pg 112]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.”
The Reticulosa, or Forams, make up an order within this group. Typically, they are tiny calcareous [pg 112]shells that are almost invisible to the naked eye and either contain or used to contain a living organism. The sand on the beach is often made up of about half of these shells. M. d’Orbigny discovered that there were 440,000 of these small shells in just three grams (forty-six grains troy) of sand from the Antilles. Ehrenberg, the German microscopist, was once asked by the Prussian Government to help investigate the theft of a special case of wine. It had been packed in sand that could only be found on an ancient coastline in Germany, and this information helped catch the thief. The Foraminifera, small as they are, have contributed to creating huge deposits, blocking navigation in bays and straits, and filling up ports, as can be seen in Alexandria. They are found in various geological layers and exist in vast numbers in the chalk cliffs of this country. In the Paris chalk, their remains are so plentiful that a block just over a cubic yard is estimated to contain three billion! “As,” says Figuier, "The chalk from these quarries has been used to build Paris and the towns and villages in the surrounding areas. It can be said that Paris and other major population centers nearby are constructed from the shells of these tiny animals."
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.
The Microorganisms almost confuse naturalists trying to classify them, while we might never have known about them if not for the microscope, “the sixth sense of man,” as Michelet aptly put it. In tropical areas, water collected from great depths was found to contain 116 species; in the Antarctic, even the ice was found to hold nearly fifty different species. The largest types are barely visible to the naked eye. They're usually nearly colorless, but some are green, blue, red, brown, and even blackish. Some of the larger ones are noted for having hairy cilia, which act like paddles, while others seem to use them to help bring food to their mouths.
| 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 [pg 113]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!
The Infusoria reproduce in several ways: through budding, like plants, through sexual reproduction, and by fission—i.e., the spontaneous splitting of the organism into two parts. “With this way of spreading,” says Dujardin, "An infusorian is half of the one that came before it, a quarter of its parent, an eighth of its grandparent, and so on." The process is illustrated in the accompanying [pg 113]figures, where A and B are the adults, C shows the same organism in the process of separation, and D is after the separation is complete. “However,” says Figuier, "This method of reproduction helps us understand the almost miraculous multiplication of these organisms. The numbers are beyond precise calculation. However, we can estimate how many offspring come from a single individual through fission. Research shows that after a month, two Stylonichiæ can produce over 1,048,000 individuals, and in just forty-two days, a single Paramecium can generate more than 1,364,000 copies of itself." In a year, it could proudly say it’s the parent of an Infusorian nation!
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.
Many of the Infusoria undergo transformations, while others can stay in a dried and inactive state for long periods, only to come back to life later. One of the largest of these fascinating organisms, which can actually reach the size of one-twelfth of an inch, is the Kondylostoma patens, known for its insatiable appetite. It feeds on seaweed and is found along every shore, from the Mediterranean to the Baltic.
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.
The creatures in the ocean are definitely far more numerous than those on land. Charles Darwin pointed out that our forests on land don't support nearly as many living beings as the forests under the sea. Its surface and depths, its plains and mountains, its valleys and cliffs, are full of organisms that have no equivalent on land, and although we only partially understand them today, the invention and use of aquariums have made studying them much easier.
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:—
Many years ago, Dr. Milne-Edwards, during a trip around the coast of Sicily, used a diving suit to help him go underwater and explore the sea floor. It consisted of a metallic helmet with a glass visor that sealed tightly against his neck with water-tight packing. It was connected to an air pump above by a flexible tube; the diver had a rope attached so he could be pulled up quickly and a signal cord for emergencies. He wore heavy lead shoes that kept him stable and allowed him to stay upright in the water. Milne-Edwards descended several fathoms into the water, doing so safely. There was no need for Ariel’s song for him:—
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.
for he was able safely and successfully to explore in the most hidden corners and nooks of the rocks and sea many amazing creatures, the knowledge of which had been previously unknown to 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.
The invention, or rather the introduction, of the salt-water aquarium makes it possible for anyone today to comfortably and leisurely study the habits and quirks of marine animals. There’s a drawing from 1742 of an aquarium that still exists. Sir John Graham Dalyell, a well-known writer, had a simple one early in this century. A sea anemone that was taken from the ocean in 1828 and placed in this glass tank was, according to his biographer, alive and well in 1873, which means M. Figuier is wrong in claiming M. Charles des Moulins made the first suggestion for it. In fact, the ancients kept fish and mollusks in tanks not for scientific reasons, but for food, feeding and observing their habits and needs to prepare them for the table. These were practical aquariums.
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.
M. des Moulins, however, along with Gosse and Warington in our own country, deserves full credit for advocating the creation of these beautiful sources of rational pleasure and improvement, and for demonstrating how to keep them functioning properly. Des Moulins also proposed that the animal life within requires the presence of plant life to remain in a natural state. In freshwater aquariums, duckweed was found to be effective, and a similar concept is now applied to marine plants in saltwater aquariums. Seaweeds typically don’t survive well when transplanted, but seawater is so filled with seeds or germs that by placing a few stones or rocks in the tank, a growth of marine vegetation is guaranteed.
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.
Our own fish houses at the Zoological Gardens opened in 1853, while those of the French Acclimatisation Society in the Bois de Boulogne were launched in 1861. Now, almost every capital has one on a large scale. The one in Naples is particularly well-known. At the continental fishery exhibitions held in Amsterdam, The Hague, Boulogne, Havre, Arcachon, etc., temporary aquariums are always 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 dimensions of the great aquarium at Brighton are as follows: Its area is 716 feet by 100 feet, with the main tank alone holding 110,000 gallons of water, and featuring a 130-foot long plate glass front through which you can observe the behavior of very large fish. The rockwork in the tanks is man-made and perfectly designed to provide shelter for the fish and crustaceans living in them. Managing a large aquarium requires constant care, and it’s actually quite easy to harm its inhabitants by changing the water too often—essentially by being overly attentive.
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 [pg 115]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.
The aquariums at Brighton and the Crystal Palace are constructed and managed quite differently. At Brighton, there's no actual circulation of water between tanks; however, water can be replaced from the sea if needed. The amount of water in the reserve tanks is relatively small compared to the show tanks, and aeration is achieved by pumping air into the tanks through large tubes. In contrast, the Crystal Palace aquarium maintains a constant circulation of water from one tank to another; the reservoir holds five times more water than the show tanks. Aeration there is done by running a main pipe along the length of the tanks, from which a small stream of water flows from a tap into each tank, breaking the surface and distributing countless tiny bubbles of air throughout the water, giving it a bright and sparkling appearance. It's not ideal to constantly change the water, especially since certain species, like flatfish, can foul it significantly. The solution is to introduce animals that serve as nature's scavengers. Various small animals are necessary to feed the larger ones. “Since animal and plant life support each other, the right materials for maintaining the ‘compensating system’ must be carefully provided. Mr. W. R. Hughes from Birmingham suggests growing sea lettuce (*Alva latissima*) in tanks, as it helps oxygenate the water and serves as food for the fish; the starter plants should be added in the fall when they are abundant with spores.” The author of the article in the “Encyclopædia Britannica,” from which most of this information is drawn, hopes that the aquarium will prove practically useful and help answer many questions about fish life and growth that we still don't understand today. “It would,” he states, “contribute to better management of our fisheries and increase our food supplies if we knew as much about herring or haddock as we do about salmon.” It’s well known that valuable food fish are often caught during the wrong seasons and in a wasteful way.
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.
Moving on to higher forms of animal life, the polyps and jellyfish mentioned by earlier authors, now classified as Cnidaria, we discover creatures that are more advanced than those we've just discussed. Generally speaking, their bodies are soft and gelatinous, they have digestive systems and alimentary canals, and in almost all cases, the sexes are distinct, with reproduction sometimes being sexual and other times occurring through budding or gemmation. This brief introduction should be understood in a general sense, as there are many exceptions 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 [pg 116]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.”
The sub-kingdom Cœlenterata is naturally divided into two groups: the Hydrozoa and the Actinozoa. An example of the first group is the freshwater hydra, while the common sea anemone is part of the second group. The main difference between the two is that in the first group, the stomach cavity is not separate from the main body cavity, and the reproductive buds are external; in contrast, in the second group, the stomach cavity extends down like a partially closed sac into the main body cavity, with reproductive buds forming between the walls of the stomach cavity, making them internal. Nonetheless, in both groups, there is a direct connection between these two cavities—this connection is evident in the Hydrozoa and can often be seen in sea anemones, where young [pg 116]anemones appear at the mouth of the parent anemone after they escape from the main cavity into the stomach cavity of its body.
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 [pg 117]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.
The class Hydrozoa includes seven orders, the first and most important of which is the Medusæ, with the common "jellyfish" being a well-known example. This large order (Medusidæ) is characterized by a disc that is more or less convex on top, resembling a mushroom or an open umbrella. The edges of this umbrella, as well as the mouth and suckers, usually have tentacles or feelers and cilia. Taken from the sea, a Medusa weighing fifty ounces will quickly dissolve into just a few grains of solid matter. These floating umbrellas or mushrooms, as we might call them, come in many shapes and are considered some of the most beautiful creations of nature. Sometimes the creature is as clear as crystal, sometimes opalescent, at times delicately rose-colored or azure-blue, occasionally yellow, violet, and even reflecting a rainbow of colors. The Medusæ are creatures with very little solidity, made up mostly of water, which makes it hard to see how they survive the waves and currents; the waves wash over them without causing harm, and storms disperse them without killing them. When the sea pulls back or they are removed from their natural habitat, their bodies break down, the creature decomposes, and they disappear entirely; if the sun is intense, this breakdown can happen in an instant, so to speak. If they are touched even lightly while swimming, they retract their tentacles, fold up their umbrella, and sink into the depths of the sea. At certain times of the year, the Medusæ are laden with numerous tiny eggs that hang in clusters—like crystalline roe—from their bodies, which eventually develop into 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.”
After all, we must turn to the poets if we want to describe the beauties of Nature properly. Michelet, talking about the Medusa, says:—“Why was such a beautiful creature given this name, with all its terrible associations? I’ve often been captivated by these castaways we often see on the shore. They’re small, about the size of my hand, but strikingly beautiful, with soft, light shades of opal-white blending into a cloud of tentacles; a crown of delicate lilies—the wind had knocked it over; its crown of lilac hair floated around it, while the delicate umbel, which is its actual body, lay underneath. It had touched the rock—crashed against it; it was wounded, its fine hair, which also serves as its organs of respiration, absorption, and even love, torn.... This lovely creature, with its visible innocence and the iridescence of its soft colors, lay there like a gliding, trembling jelly. I paused beside it, carefully slid my hand underneath, lifted the motionless body, and set it back in a natural position for swimming. When I gently patted it in the nearby water, it sank to the bottom, showing no sign of life. I continued my walk along the shore, but after ten minutes, I returned to my Medusa. It was undulating in the wind; it had actually moved, swimming gracefully, its hair flowing around it as it did. It slowly pulled away from the rock, not in a hurry, but it still moved, and soon I saw it far 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 [pg 118]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.
The jellyfish are found in all oceans and usually live in deeper waters, though they're often spotted at the surface. They typically travel in large groups and can cover miles and [pg 118]miles of ocean. They are a key food source for whales. These creatures are very greedy, devouring small mollusks, young crustaceans, and annelids in a single bite. Their mouths are located in the center of the underside of their bell. They range in size from very small to about a yard in diameter, and describing all the different types would take the rest of this book, as there are so many. It's been found that these jelly-like beings breathe through their skin, have a distinct circulatory system, and can feel some sensations. Most of them cause a stinging pain when they come into contact with human skin, and until recently, they were referred to as Jellyfish, or “jellyfish,” based on Cuvier’s classification.
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.
Nearly all the other Hydrozoa are marine organisms and include many beautiful species. For instance, consider the polyp known as Praya diphyes, which has a double, bell-shaped body with a long tail-like set of feelers, resembling a floating fishing line; or another delicate member of the same family, Galeolaria aurantiaca, the orange galeolaria. Here we find two floating bladders connected by a polyp colony; the floats help support an entire colony! However, the large order Physophoridæ deserves more attention due to the graceful forms of delicate tissue and color it showcases.
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.”
These sea creatures are primarily swimmers, equipped mostly with true swimming bladders, which vary in number and shape; they always float on the surface. M. de Quatrefages, the renowned French naturalist, describes one of these organisms, Apolemia contorta, telling the reader "Imagine an axis of flexible crystals, sometimes over a meter (about forty inches) long, with hundreds of bodies attached by long, transparent stalks or peduncles. Some of these bodies are elongated, while others are flat, resembling a flower bud. If we add to this a string of bright red pearls and countless thin filaments of different thicknesses that animate and move all these parts, we still only have a very limited and incomplete understanding of this incredible 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; ... [pg 119]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.
The Agalma rubra is described by Vogt, a well-known expert. “I get it,” he says, “Nothing is more graceful than this agalma as it drifts just beneath the water’s surface, its long, transparent, garland-like strands extended, their tips clearly defined by clusters of bright vermilion red, while the rest of its body blends in with the transparency; the whole creature usually swims at a slight angle near the surface, but it can quickly change direction. I’ve seen some of these garlands over three feet long, with swimming bladders larger than four inches, causing them in the big container where I kept them, to have the column of swimming bladders touch the bottom while the air-filled bladder floated on the top. Shortly after being captured, the columns contracted so much that they were hard to see, but when left to relax in a large vase, all their shrunken parts gracefully spread out around the vase, with the column of swimming bladders remaining upright, the float at the surface while the various appendages began to move around. The polyps, spaced along the main stem, which were rose-colored, started to move in all directions, taking on a thousand unique shapes; ... [pg 119]but what fascinated me the most was the constant movement of the fishing lines, sometimes retracting quickly. Anyone who has witnessed these living colonies finds it hard to pull away from the captivating sight, where each polyp seems to act like a fisherman, casting its line with baited hooks, pulling it back when it senses a nibble, and casting again when it feels let down.” The agalma is also described as well-equipped; its tendrils have powerful stinging capabilities.
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 [pg 120]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 [pg 121]is some evidence on the other side which would indicate that on occasions, at least, it is poisonous.
One family of the Physophoridæ includes the fascinating creature known as the Portuguese man o' war, due to its slight resemblance to a small boat with a sail up; it's also known by sailors as the sea-bladder. The bladder is about eleven or twelve inches long and one to three inches wide. Its appearance is glassy, transparent, and has a purple tint. Above the bladder is a crest that is clear and pure like crystal, with purple or violet veins; sailors believe this crest acts like a sail. “This bladder-like structure, with its floating crest, is simply a hydrostatic device that helps the animal float and adjust its specific gravity.” From the bottom of the bladder hangs a mass of organs, most of which are very thin, highly flexible, moving threads that can be several feet, and sometimes even several yards, long. Their stinging capability is strong; these graceful creatures can be dangerous opponents. One French writer recounts, "One day, while I was sailing in a small boat, I noticed one of these little creatures and wanted to see what it was. As soon as I grabbed it, its tentacles wrapped around my hand, sticking to it like glue. I hardly noticed its coldness before it felt like I had plunged my arm up to the shoulder into boiling water. The pain was so unusual that it took a lot of effort for me to hold back my scream." Another traveler, 32 while swimming in the surf of the Antilles, was stung by one. "I quickly removed it," he says, "but many of its threads stayed stuck to my skin, and the pain was so intense that I almost fainted." In this instance, there was no serious harm, but during the voyage of the Princess Louise around the world, a sailor was nearly killed by one. Frédol, the historian of the expedition, reports that one of the officers spotted a magnificent Physalia floating near the ship. A young sailor jumped into the sea to catch the creature. As he swam towards it, he managed to grab it, but the creature wrapped him up with its many thread-like tentacles, which were almost a yard long. Overcome by a burning pain, the young man shouted for help. He barely had the strength to swim back to the ship and climb aboard before the pain and swelling became so severe that he developed brain fever, raising serious concerns for his life. There is debate about whether the Physalia is poisonous when consumed. It has been widely believed in the Antilles that they are, and that sometimes the locals used them, after they were dried and ground, to poison both people and animals. Fishermen there think that fish that have eaten parts of the Physalia are no longer safe for humans to eat. A French doctor, M. Ricord-Madiana, who lived in Guadeloupe, conducted many experiments to try to answer the question. He discovered that ants and flies consumed them without harm; a dog, a puppy, and a chicken ingested parts of them with little trouble, with the dog only appearing to experience a serious sting in its mouth but recovering quickly. The eager experimenter then ate some, and had his servant eat the chicken that had fed on Physalia, and there were no negative effects; he later consumed twenty-five grains of the dried and powdered creature in a bit of broth, and experienced no harm. Yet there [pg 120]is some evidence suggesting that, at times, it can indeed be 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.
The habits of the Physalia are only partially understood, even though many scientists have studied them. Among all the creatures in the ocean, “none” according to Gosse, 33 Nothing captures the imagination of onlookers quite like this; definitely none is more recognizable than the small creature that floats in the sunlit waves as the ship moves 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 side of the ship, casually observing this ocean traveler as it quickly rises and falls on the long, gentle swells of the smooth surface. From a distance, he realizes that comparing the creature to a ship is quite appropriate, as it could easily be mistaken for a child’s toy boat, shining with all the bright colors in which it left the toy store.
“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.
“Not infrequently, one of these tiny vessels gets so close to the ship that, with a bucket and the help of a quick-thinking person who jumps into the ‘chains’ with a boat-hook, it can be captured and brought on deck for a closer look. However, a dozen voices quickly warn you not to touch it, as experienced sailors know very well its fearsome means of defense. It doesn't look much like a ship now that it's up close. It's an elongated bag made of tough membrane, with a shape that varies greatly, as no two are alike in this regard; they also vary in size, ranging from less than an inch to the size of a man’s hat. Once, on a trip to Mobile, while navigating around the Florida reef, I spent nearly an entire day passing through a fleet of these little Portuguese men-of-war, which dotted the calm sea as far as I could see and must have stretched for many miles.” It is often seen along the coasts of Devon and Cornwall, brought there by the Gulf Stream.
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.
The Physalia is the natural enemy of the cuttlefish and the flying fish. One that’s just an inch long can numb and kill a fish bigger than a herring. “Each tentacle moves as quickly as a flash of light or as suddenly as an electric shock, grabbing and stunning them, wrapping around their bodies like a snake wraps around its prey.” Mr. Bennet, who went on the expedition with Admiral Fitzroy as a naturalist, describes how they catch their prey using their tentacles, which alternate between contracting to half an inch and then shooting out with incredible speed to several feet, dragging the helpless and entangled prey to their sucker-like mouths and stomach-like cavities among the tentacles. Others have noticed bold little fish unharmed among the tentacles, proving that even a Physalia can be friendly 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.
An accompanying satellite of the Physalia is the Velella, a smaller creature from the same family, particularly plentiful in tropical waters, but also frequently found in other areas. It has stinging abilities as well.
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—
It is the modern thinkers we should turn to for any real scientific study of these lower aspects of Nature. The later poets have also embraced the spirit of the times, and in some ways, what they express is more artistically true, and therefore more in tune with nature, than that of the purely hard scientists. Crabbe beautifully captures this gift of our time, the study of Nature enhanced by the insights of science. Today, it is both the privilege and benefit of any intelligent person—
CHAPTER 11.
The Ocean and its Living Wonders (to be 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.
The Madrepores—Brain, Mushroom, and Plantain Coral—The Beautiful Sea Anemones; their Structure and Behavior; their Constant Hunger—The Gorgons—Echinoderms—The Starfish—Sea Urchins—Incredible Shells and Spines—An Urchin’s Prayer—The Sea Cucumber—The Trepang, or Holothuria—Trepang Fishing—Dumont d’Urville’s Description—The Trade of this Edible—The Mollusks—The Teredo, or Shipworm—Their Damage on the Holland Coast—The Retreating Razorfish—The Edible Mussel—History of their Farming in France—The Bouchots—Occasional Risks of Eating Mussels—The Best of Bivalves—The Oyster and its Structure—Differences in Size—American Oysters—Expensive in Some Cities—Amount Consumed in London—Polite Exchange—How Romans Valued them—The “Breedy Creatures” brought from Britain—Vitellius and his Hundred Dozen—A Rip-off: Poor Tyacke—The First Person Who Ate an Oyster—The Fisheries—Destructive Dredging—Lake Fusaro and the Oyster Farms—Scientific Farming in France—Success and Profits—The Whitstable and Other Beds—Methods Used.
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:—
Among the interesting and relatively familiar types of ocean treasures, we must include the Madrepores, which are often thought of as corals but are actually a distinct scientific group separate from the valuable coral found in commerce. The Madreporidæ are quite numerous and consist of colonies of polyps. The poet has accurately described them:—
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.
The polyps of the madrepores look like flowers when their upper disc is spread out and their tentacles are extended in the water. When they contract, they hide away in the calcareous cells that have formed with them, becoming part of the madrepora. These beautiful and intriguing natural creations come in many different shapes. Some are tree-like, such as Stylaster flabelliformis, which creates a perfect forest of trunks and branches. Others are star-shaped; many have cylindrical or oval shapes, like the well-known Brain coral (Meandrina cerebriformis). Another genus is called
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 Sea Anemones (Kiwi family) are now, thanks to the popularity of aquariums, fairly well-known to most readers. Although they are definitely animals, they look much more like flowers. They come in the brightest colors and elegant shapes.
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, [pg 124]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.
The body of the Sea-anemone is "Cylindrical in shape, it has a large, distinct muscular disc at the bottom that allows it to cling tightly to different surfaces. At the top, there's an upper disc with many rows of tentacles that vary only in size. These tentacles can be brightly colored, creating a sort of collar made of contractile and sometimes retractable tubes, each with an opening that can shoot jets of water at the animal's discretion. They are arranged in circles and evenly distributed around a central mouth. These are its arms." The stomach of the sea-anemone is responsible for both digestion and reproduction. The young are actually expelled from the mouth along with the leftover food. "The daisy-like anemones in the Paris Zoological Gardens," Frédol tells us, “often release their young, which spread out and attach themselves to different parts of the aquarium, eventually growing into mini anemones just like the parent. An actinia that had a big meal expelled part of it about twenty-four hours later, and in the leftover food were discovered thirty-eight young individuals.” According to one author, this birthing process is just a case of indigestion! Sea-anemones can be cut apart or torn to pieces, and each fragment will eventually grow into a new anemone. “They adhere,” says Dr. Johnson, “to rocks, shells, and other foreign objects using a sticky secretion from their larger base. However, they can release their grip and move to a different spot whenever they want. They usually do this by slowly gliding along at about half an inch every five minutes, or by flipping their bodies and using their tentacles like feet, as Reaumur claims and as I saw once. Lastly, they can inflate their bodies with water to become more buoyant, detach themselves, and be carried away by the random movement of the waves. They eat shrimp, small crabs, whelks, and various types of shelled mollusks, likely any creature within reach that isn’t strong or fast enough to escape their many tentacles. The size of the prey is often surprisingly large compared to the predator, sometimes even equal to its own size. I once had a specimen of Actinia crassicornis that was about two inches in diameter, [pg 124]which somehow managed to swallow a shell of Pecten maximus the size of a regular saucer. The shell, stuck in its stomach, was positioned in a way that completely divided it into two halves, making the body stretch tight and flat like a pancake. All connection between the lower part of the stomach and the mouth was, of course, blocked; yet instead of starving and dying from lack of food, the animal turned what was definitely a bad situation into an opportunity for extra enjoyment and double meals. A new mouth, with two rows of numerous tentacles, appeared where the base used to be, leading to the lower stomach; the individual had effectively become a sort of Siamese Twin, but with a deeper connection and extent in its merging.” The Actinia are both greedy and gluttonous. They grab mussels and crabs, and when they need to expel the harder parts of the latter, they can turn their stomachs inside out, much like turning out one’s pocket! Their tentacles can be offensive; if a person touches them, their hand becomes inflamed, and small fish can literally die from contact with them.
In Provence, Italy, and Greece, some varieties are used for food, the Green Actinia being in special repute.
In Provence, Italy, and Greece, some varieties are used for food, with the Green Actinia being particularly well-known.
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.
The Gorgons are fascinating types of coral; some are barely a twelfth of an inch tall, while others can reach several feet in height. The stunning Fan Gorgon, which can often be eighteen inches or more tall, gets its name from its shape, and there are many other beautiful examples of tree-like gorgons. Their structure is double; the outer layer can be gelatinous or, on the other hand, fleshy and chalky. They are full of life.
A vast natural group is that of the Echinodermata, which includes five orders, or [pg 125]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.
A large natural group is the Echinoderms, which contains five orders, or [pg 125]families, including starfish, sea urchins, and sea cucumbers, also known as sea slugs (Holothurias), which are significant food sources for many people in Asia. The term Echinodermata refers to animals covered in spines, but this group also includes many members that do not fit that description.
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 [pg 126]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 Starfish (Asterias) can be found in almost every ocean and at all latitudes, although they are more diverse in tropical waters. Their colors range from yellowish-grey to orange, red, or violet. The body of the asterias has a fascinating structure, sometimes consisting of as many as 11,000 overlapping pieces, along with spines and tubercles. If you find one stranded on the beach, it may seem like it can't move. However, that's not the case, as they can slowly crawl over small areas and even climb the sides of rocks. Frédol says:—"If a starfish is flipped onto its back, it will stay still at first, with its arms tucked in. But soon, the arms start to extend like little feelers; it moves them back and forth as if trying to find the ground. Then, it bends them towards the bottom of the vase and attaches them one by one. Once it has enough arms connected, the creature flips itself over. It’s not unusual, while walking [pg 126]along the beach, to see one of these starfish walking on the sand." even though they are often found dead in that location.
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.
The starfish's mouth is on its underside and is almost directly connected to its stomach. It eats a lot and will even go after mollusks. In the past, it was thought that the starfish would pry open an oyster with one of its rays or arms, but that seemed unlikely since the oyster could easily shut its shells on the intruder. It's now generally understood that the starfish releases a harmful substance into the oyster's shell, forcing it to open.
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 “Sea urchins” seem to get their name from Aristotle, and their spiky exterior and structure have caught the attention of naturalists throughout history. Some have 3,000 to 4,000 spines, and their organization is truly remarkable. They are encased in a spherical hollow structure that grows as they do. Gosse explains how it works. The structure can never be shed, and it’s clear that the deposits formed inside would only reduce the space, which actually needs to expand. The growing animal feels its body getting bigger day by day as it processes food. It cries out, ‘Give me space! A bigger house, or I’ll die!’ How is this problem solved? Ah! There’s no issue. The infinite wisdom of the Creator offers a clever solution. The shell isn’t made in one piece, or ten, or even a hundred. It consists of six hundred separate pieces that form the hollow structure, all perfectly fitted together, maintaining a flawless symmetry. Even though they are thin, they keep their positions accurately, and the somewhat fragile shell has all the strength and stability it needs because each piece is surrounded by a layer of living tissue; vascular tissue runs between the joints where one piece connects to another and spreads over the entire outer surface. Their spines are used for protection and movement; each spine has several muscles to control 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
The poet-scientist, Michelet, has beautifully described the animal’s nature, letting it express itself as follows. “I was born,” says the humble Echinoderm, “Without ambition; I don’t want any of the amazing gifts that those mollusks have. I wouldn’t create mother-of-pearl or pearls; I have no desire for bright colors, a luxury that would draw attention to me; even less do I want the grace of your mesmerizing jellyfish, whose flowing, fiery tentacles attract notice and lead to trouble. Oh, mother! I want just one thing, to be—to be free from these external and compromising traits; to be sturdy, strong, and round, as that is the shape that would make me least vulnerable; in short, to be a centered being. I have very little desire to travel. Rolling occasionally from the surface to the sea floor is enough traveling for me. Sticking firmly to my rock, I could solve the problem that your favorite, man, seeks in vain—that of safety. Excluding enemies and welcoming all friends, especially water, air, and light, would, I know, require some work and constant effort. Covered in movable spines, enemies will stay away from me. Now, bristling like a bear, they call me an urchin.”34
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 [pg 127]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 term “sea cucumber” accurately describes the shape of the Holothuria, which is generally a worm-like cylinder, ranging from about an inch or two to [pg 127]thirty inches long, and, in rare cases, up to forty inches. The animal has thick, leathery skin and features a mouth surrounded by tentacles that spread out like a flower when it's undisturbed. They tend to shy away from bright light. One large edible species is widely found in the Mediterranean and is consumed in Naples and other places. However, in the Indian, Malayan, and Chinese seas, the Holothuria edulis, known there as trepang, is a significant part of the local diet. Thousands of fishing boats are used in the trepang fisheries. Malay fishermen will harpoon them using a long bamboo pole with a sharp hook from as far as thirty yards away. In four to five fathoms of water, local divers capture them by hand, often bringing up several at once. After they are boiled and flattened with stones, they are laid out on bamboo mats to dry first in the sun and then by smoking. Finally, they are packed in sacks and shipped mainly to Chinese ports, where they are regarded as a delicacy.
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.
The great French navigator, Dumont d’Urville, observed the methods used while in Raffles Bay. An hour after four boats arrived, all the men were busy ashore cooking the catch in boilers set over makeshift stone furnaces, after which they were dried on thatched roofs. Captain d’Urville boarded one of the Malay vessels, where he was warmly welcomed by the padrone, or captain. “He,” the navigator recounts, “showed us around his small ship. The keel looked solid enough; even the lines had some elegance, but the storage area was definitely messy. From a kind of bridge made of bamboo and old debris, we peered into the cabin, which looked like a chicken coop: bags of rice, packets, and boxes were all crammed together. Below was the water supply, some cured sea cucumber, and the sailors’ sleeping quarters. Each boat had two rudders, one at each end, that lifted out of the water when the boat ran aground. The vessel had two masts, without shrouds, which could be hinged down onto the bridge whenever needed; they carried the usual sail. The anchors were made of wood, as the Malays rarely used iron; their ropes were made of rattan fiber. Each boat's crew consisted of about thirty-seven members, with six men on each smaller boat. During our visit, everyone was busy fishing, with some anchored near us. Seven or eight of them, almost naked, were diving for sea cucumbers; the padrone was the only one not involved. A scorching sun beat down on them, but it didn’t seem to bother them, something no European could handle. It was nearly noon, and according to our Malay captain, that was the best time for fishing. Indeed, each diver surfaced with at least one creature, and sometimes two, in hand. It appears that the higher the sun is in the sky, the easier it is to spot the creatures on the ocean floor. The divers moved so quickly that they barely touched the boat before tossing the animals into it and diving again. When the boat was full, it headed to shore, replaced by an empty one.” The Holothuria caught there were five to six inches long. D’Urville tried it when it was prepared and said it tasted like lobster, although his crew seemed to enjoy it more than he did.
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 sub-class Acephala are, as their name suggests, headless mollusks, and although they are sometimes partially naked, they are generally very well protected by shells. Considering that there are over 4,000 species of bivalve mollusks, it's clear that describing more than a few typical and prominent examples is impossible.
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.
The genus Teredo includes marine worm-like creatures that have a strong and irresistible urge to bore into wood, no matter how hard it is. Ships have been quietly and secretly compromised, until their planks have become as soft as sponges or crumbled to dust under the feet of their crews. The holes created by these tiny miners completely damage the inside of a piece of wood, without showing any signs of their destruction on the outside. Piles and piers have been completely ruined, and ships have sometimes sunk because of them. At the start of the last century, half the coast of Holland was at risk of flooding and severe destruction because the piles that support its dikes were being attacked by the teredo, causing hundreds of thousands of pounds in damages from this pesky worm. It has now been found that the worm has a strong dislike for iron oxide, and wood treated with it is safe from its destruction. Other species in the same group can even bore through 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.
Another important bivalve is the well-known Solen or razor fish varieties of which are found all over the world. “These shellfish,” says Figuier, “live with their shells buried upright in the sand, not far from the shore; the hole they've dug, which they never leave, can sometimes be as deep as two yards. Using their large, cone-shaped foot, which is wider in the middle and pointed at the end, they quickly lift themselves to the entrance of their burrow. They can bury themselves quickly and disappear at the slightest hint of danger.”
“When the sea retires, the presence of the Solen is indicated by a small orifice in the [pg 129]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.”
“When the tide goes out, you can spot the Solen by a small hole in the [pg 129]sand, from which bubbles of air occasionally escape. To draw them to the surface, fishermen sprinkle a bit of salt into the hole; the sand stirs up right away, and the creature shows just above its shell. You have to grab it quickly because it disappears fast, and trying to catch it a second time usually fails. You can often stop it from retreating by sliding a knife underneath; it digs into the sand so quickly that it’s tough to catch by hand alone. The creature is a type of marine worm.”
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.
But of the Acephalous Mollusca, none are more important to humans than the mussel and oyster, specifically the pearl-producing types of the latter that have already been discussed. Both are well-known to everyone.
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.
The Mytilus edulis, the edible mussel that people buy, known as the “poor man’s oyster” has a byssus, a group of hairs or threads that allows it to cling to rocks. In its natural state, it’s not as suitable for human consumption as it is when farmed. Their history, if you can call it that, goes back to 1236 when a barque captain named Walton, an Irishman, was shipwrecked in the bay or creek of Aiguillon, a few miles from Rochelle. At first, the exile survived by hunting sea birds in the nearby marshes, where he also began to notice some unique aspects of mussel life, being a keen observer.
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 [pg 130]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.
Walton noted that many mussels preferred to attach themselves to the part of posts or stones just above the marsh mud. Those in this position quickly became plumper, fatter, and more suitable for eating compared to those buried in the mud. He quickly recognized the potential for a new industry. “The practices he introduced,” wrote a notable French author long ago, “were so well adapted to the needs of this new industry that, after six centuries, they are still the rules governing the rich legacy he created for a large population.” He set up long rows of twelve-foot posts, about six feet high above the muddy water, spaced a yard apart, with each pair forming a V shape; several radiated from a central point. The posts were woven with branches to create continuous hurdles, which are now called bouchots. He also set up isolated posts, and one of his key ideas, similar to modern oyster farming, was to catch the spat that would otherwise be washed away to sea with the tide and lost. “Today, these lines of hurdles create a perfect little forest at Aiguillon; there are about a quarter of a million piles alone. In July, the bouchotiers, as the workers in this cultivation are called, launch their punts, head into the marshes, and use hooks to detach the densely clustered masses of young mussels from the piles. They collect them in baskets and transport them to the bouchots, creating a perfect hedge of fascines and branches at various heights. Each stage receives the mollusks appropriate for it. In their early life, mussels can’t handle being exposed to air and stay submerged, except during spring tides. These are collected in sacks made of old mats or suspended in the gaps of the basket-work. The mussels are moved through stages until they reach the highest bouchots, which remain above water at all times.” A few years ago, the entire bay produced nearly half a million pounds sterling.
“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.
“While,” says Figuier, "Praising the mussel as an important food source, we can't overlook that it has caused very serious reactions in some individuals, indicating that for them its meat acts like a poison. The symptoms, typically appearing two to three hours after consumption, include weakness or lethargy, a tight throat, and swelling of the head, along with intense thirst, nausea, frequent vomiting, skin rashes, 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.
The reason for these attacks isn't very clear; they've been attributed to copper pyrites near the mussel, small crabs that act as parasites inside the mussel's shell, or the spawn of starfish or jellyfish that the mussel might have eaten. However, the true cause of this kind of poisoning is probably individual susceptibility. The solution is pretty straightforward: use an emetic and drink a lot of slightly acidic beverages. They are consumed quite a bit in most parts of the U.S. coastline, and the author has eaten them regularly, boiled, stewed with tomatoes, etc., and in soup, without any negative effects.
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 Septem[pg 131]ber.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
The bivalve model must always be Ostrea edulis, the common oyster. This mollusk, which some might consider low on the natural hierarchy, actually has a complex and delicate structure. It has a mouth, heart, stomach, liver, and intestines; its blood is colorless, but it has a proper circulatory system; and it breathes underwater, like fish do. “Without a leader,” says Figuier, The oyster doesn’t have a brain; the nerves start near its mouth, where there's a large ganglion. From there, a pair of nerves extend to the stomach and liver, ending in another ganglion behind the liver. One nerve branch sends sensations to the mouth and tentacles, while the other goes to the respiratory gills. Oysters don’t have sensory organs. They are stuck in one place, attached to a rock since they were young, so they can't see or hear; touch appears to be their only sense, which is found in the labial tentacles of the mouth. The oyster can produce hundreds of thousands of eggs—some say as many as 2,000,000; it releases them after a period of incubation. Nothing is more fascinating than to observe a bed of oysters during the spawning season, which typically runs from June to the end of Septem[pg 131]ber.35 Every adult—for the oyster is sexless—releases a living cloud, a perfect mist of embryonic life. The spat soon disperses, and unless the young oyster attaches itself to something solid, it becomes prey for other marine creatures. Microscopic in size when it leaves the parent, it grows to about the size of a large pea after a month; within a year it can reach an inch and a half in diameter; in three years it's a quite respectable size, and after a short period 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.
Oysters come in all sizes, with some so large that they need to be cut. In New York, the paradise for oyster lovers, they range from the size of a half-dollar to five or six inches long. The shores of Long Island stretch 115 miles and are one continuous oyster field, while Virginia is said to have nearly 2,000,000 acres of oyster beds. Americans really enjoy bivalves, which are probably one of the healthiest types of easy-to-digest food available. They’re particularly good for those who are unwell when made into a stew with milk and a bit of oatmeal, or as soup; when someone can’t eat anything else, they can usually enjoy oysters. As all food enthusiasts know, they tend to stimulate rather than suppress the appetite, which is why it’s common practice in modern French dining to have half a dozen oysters before the soup is served. “There is no food item,” says a French writer, “not even bread, that can cause indigestion in certain situations; but oysters never do... We can eat them today, tomorrow, forever, and in abundance, without worrying about indigestion.” Those few who can’t eat them—and there are some—are truly to be pitied. Their high value in some countries is illustrated by the fact that a few years ago in St. Petersburg, they cost a paper rouble, or about a shilling each; in Stockholm, they were fivepence each. Just two or three years ago in England, their price skyrocketed to nearly four-fifths of that price; but now, thanks to widespread farming and large-scale imports of excellent American oysters, they’re affordable for everyone.
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 [pg 132]than when thus operated on by yourself, so that you do not ‘job’ the knife into your hand!”
Of the number of oysters eaten in London alone, who can even make a rough estimate? Imagine, if you will, the delightfully polite exchange that happens every Christmas between our oyster-loving country relatives and our turkey and goose adoring Londoners. The turkey, along with a couple of pheasants or hares, has arrived. "Such an awesome gift," says the author of "The Oyster" "quickly comes back with a nice cod packed in ice and two barrels of oysters. They taste so good when enjoyed at a country home, opened by you, with the barrel proudly displayed on the table, its top removed and wrapped in the whitest napkin. * * * It’s also a pleasure to open some of the lovely oysters for your pretty cousin and see her sweet little mouth open, just like Lesbia’s sparrow did for its piece of—not sugar, which didn’t exist back then—but a bit of honey! How delightful it is, after the young lady has finished her half-dozen, to treat yourself! The oyster never tastes better [pg 132] than when you've opened them yourself, making sure not to ‘jab’ 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.
The Greeks didn't say much about oysters, but they viewed Britain much like we see Greenland today. The Romans, on the other hand, really valued them. Horace, Martial, Juvenal, Cicero, Seneca, and Pliny all talked about the different qualities of oysters; it was Sergius Orata who introduced oyster beds, creating the layers or stews for oysters in Baia. "That was a time when luxury was everywhere, and wealthy men like Licinius Crassus, the massive slave trader, reached the highest honors. This dealer in human lives in the so-called land of freedom served as consul alongside Pompey the Great and once needed 10,000 tables to fit all his guests. We don’t know how many barrels of oysters were eaten at that famous dinner, the ‘Ephemerides’—as Plutarch refers to The Times and Morning Post of that era—but since oysters were as popular as turtle soup at our major City events, we can only imagine the quantity. We do know that oysters commanded very high prices in Rome, as noted by the author of the ‘Tabella Ciberia’; and back then, just like today, the high cost of any luxury on the table meant that having a generous supply was crucial when someone like Crassus hosted half the city to boost 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 [pg 133]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.
"But the Romans had a soft spot for the ‘breedy creatures’, as our dear old friend Christopher North calls them in his unique ‘Noctes.’ During Nero's time, about sixty years later, the consumption of oysters in the ‘Imperial City’ was almost as high as it is now in the ‘World’s Metropolis;’ and I remember reading somewhere that during Domitian's reign, the last of the twelve Cæsars, a staggering number of millions of bushels were consumed each year in Rome, far more than I would dare to confirm. However, these oysters were only from the Mediterranean—mainly the small ones from Circe and the even smaller Lucrinians; and this excessive demand wiped out the beds during that great fly-catcher's reign. It wasn't until Agricola's wise administration in Britain that the Romans started getting their famous Rutupians from the shores of Kent, from Richborough and the Reculvers—the Rutupi Portus of the ‘Itinerary’, with the latter, Regulbium, near Whitstable at the mouth of the Thames, marking the northern boundary–that Juvenal praised them as he did; and he was right; for in the entire world, there are no oysters like them, and of all the ‘breedy creatures’ that glide, or have ever glided, down the throats of humanity, our ‘natives’ are probably the most delicious." The Roman emperors later on always made sure 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 bite37 was able to tell whence the particular breed came.
Vitellius ate oysters four times a day and reportedly finished 1,200 of his own native oysters at each meal! Seneca, who praised the benefits of being poor, consumed several hundred a week. Horace is really excited about them; he mentions the people who first introduced him to them and the name of the gourmet who could identify the specific breed just by the first bite37.
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.”
The shell often shows where it comes from, and without a doubt, the modern oyster dealer, if not the average eater, can usually tell correctly. Because while London swears by her Milton and Colchester "locals," Edinburgh has her Pandores and Aberdours, and Dublin has her Carlingfords and “Powldoodies of Burran.”
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, [pg 134]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.
"There’s a little spot," says the author of the entertaining but truthful little work mentioned earlier, "On the shores of Cornwall that I can’t ignore, because one of the colonies along the Thames, which the Whitstable boats still get their annual supply from, originated there. The Helford River flows into Mount’s Bay and empties into the sea opposite Mount St. Michael’s. In the estuary of that small river, [pg 134]a man named Tyacke, within the memory of the ‘oldest inhabitant,’ rented some oyster beds, famous among Cornish food lovers for a variety of oysters that, it is said, the Phoenicians, ‘a long time ago,’ found to be much better than the watery ones they had back home. These Helford oysters are regularly shipped to London.... Determined to take a risk, Tyacke loaded a fishing boat with the best catch from his beds and sailed along the southern shores until he passed the Isle of Thanet and reached the mouth of the Thames. Little did the excited oyster-dredger know that the river would consume his entire cargo; but that’s exactly what happened. It had long been clear to those on board that oysters, like people, need to be fed during the journey to represent their origin well. Now the voyage had been long and exhausting, and the oysters hadn’t been fed; so Tyacke got into his boat and requested a meeting with the landowner when he reached shore. He asked for permission to drop off his oysters and feed them. This was granted, and after a few days, the spores of ulva latissima and enteromorpha, along with many delicate fibrous plants thriving there, which delighted the oysters, made them plump and healthy, perfect for shipping again. It’s said that four days on such a diet can turn a skinny oyster into a green and plump one, and Tyacke, pleased with the progress he observed each day, let his stock feed for a week. It was around evening when he realized, as the tide was low, that if he wanted to reach Billingsgate by the next morning, it would be wise to re-ship his oysters before going to sleep. The boat was lowered; but as he tried to land, he was warned off by the landowner, who stood there with several intimidating men, armed with cutlasses and guns, clearly anticipating the Cornishman’s intentions and determined to stop him at all costs."
“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.”
Tyacke found himself in a situation like many naive people who get taken in by a con artist. A hundred years ago, the law wasn’t focused on justice, and justice didn’t revolve around the law. This might still be true today, and the story of the lawyer who ate the disputed oyster and gave each side a shell may still be relevant, just like when the writer 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:—
It is said that the oyster, a delicate, refined creature, really loves music. One of the oyster’s historians mentions that an old ballad is still sung by many tough sailors as they troll their dredging nets:—
Shakspere, it may be remembered, alludes to “an oyster crossed in love.”
Shakespeare, as we might recall, refers to “an oyster 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.
Raised out of his native waters, the oyster makes the journey to the first stop on his destined travels alongside others of his kind. If it takes a long time, he is carefully provided with refreshing seawater. If properly cared for, he arrives at the wharf just as lively as when he was first taken from his home. Look at the excellent American “Blue Points,” which are now commonly sold in England. However, when he reaches the port, the oyster often first experiences the harsh realities of captivity, as he is shoveled into carts and barrows, tossed into sacks, and he can consider himself quite lucky if he gets a drink of salted water instead of seawater.
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
An old saying goes that "He was a brave guy who was the first to eat an oyster." Mr. Bertram shares how the discovery happened. Once, a man in a gloomy mood was walking along the shores of a beautiful estuary, listening to the sound of the ‘sad sea waves’—or, as Mr. Disraeli would say, ‘the melancholy main’—when he spotted a very old and ugly oyster shell, covered in parasites and weeds. It looked so unappealing that he kicked it aside with his foot; the mollusc, shocked by such rude treatment in its own home, gaped wide in indignation, preparing to close its shell even tighter. Noticing the beautiful cream-colored layers shining inside the shell and thinking the inside might be interesting or beautiful, he picked up the old ‘native’ for a closer look, inserting his fingers inside. The annoyed mollusc, probably thinking this was another form of disrespect, snapped its shell shut on his finger, causing him a lot of pain. After tending to his injured finger, our curious gentleman instinctively put it in his mouth. ‘Delightful!’ he exclaimed, eyes wide; ‘What is this?’ and he sucked his finger again. Then it hit him that he had discovered a new pleasure—he had opened up a source of immense delight for everyone. He quickly acted on this realization. With a stone, he pried open the oyster's shell and cautiously tasted a piece of the mollusc itself. ‘Delicious!’ he exclaimed; and right there, with no other seasoning than its own juice, and without the usual drinks we have today, like ‘foaming brown stout’ or ‘pale Chablis’ to wash it down—and honestly, it didn’t need either—this solitary, nameless man enjoyed the very 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.”
The authorities all agree, as mentioned earlier, that while some cooked oysters can be good, if you want to enjoy them at their best, you have to eat them naturally. In Wilson’s "Noctes Ambrosianae", we find the following:—"I never appreciated the condiment until after the long period of hunger; and in September, after four months without the oysters, I can easily eat them plain, just in their own juice, until I've had about fifty; and then, of course, just when I start to feel a bit full, I first add pepper to a few; and then, after about a dozen that way, some with vinegar, and finish off, like you, with a bit of mustard, until all that’s left is the shells.... There’s really no limit to enjoying oysters.”
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 [pg 136]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.
Oyster fishing is done in many different ways around the world. Off the coast of Minorca, divers go underwater with hammers and collect as many oysters as they can carry. On the English [pg 136]and French coasts, a very destructive method is used; a heavy dredge net with an iron frame is thrown overboard, tearing oysters off the ocean floor and leaving many buried in the mud. "In France," says Figuier, Oyster dredging is done by fleets of thirty or forty boats, each operated by four or five crew members. At a designated time, under the supervision of a coastguard in a small boat flying the national flag, the group begins fishing. The process in the Thames estuary is quite similar, although there’s no official monitoring. Each boat carries four or five dredges shaped like a typical clasp purse. These dredges are made of netting with a sturdy iron frame, which helps to scrape the seabed and keeps the mouth open while applying the right pressure as it moves over the oyster beds. The tension in the rope indicates when to pull in, resulting in a catch that includes a mix of seaweed, starfish, lobsters, crabs, sea anemones, and stones. This way, the common oyster beds on both sides of the Channel were effectively plowed by oyster dredgers, similar to how a farmer turns over a field. As a result, the fields became nearly depleted. This led to the scientific farming methods we use today, which have proven to be very successful from a business perspective.
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.
In Italy, the Neapolitan Lake Fusaro—the Acheron of many classical poets—is a large oyster farm that dates back to Roman times. It is a salty, marshy pond shaded by beautiful trees; its maximum depth is only six feet, and its bottom is black, with mud of volcanic origin. The main idea behind the oyster farming there is to protect the young oysters. The fishermen of Lake Fusaro store, in a way, in safe areas, the oysters that are ready to release their spawn. On the bottom of the lake and around it, there are round, pyramid-shaped piles of stones and man-made rock formations, surrounded by wooden posts. Other posts have lines strung between them, with each cord holding bundles of young branches and twigs. During the spawning season, the young oysters, coming from their parents on the stones or rocks, are caught by these setups. They have, in a way, a resting place provided for them on the posts and bundles.
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 [pg 137]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.
The system implemented in France was introduced by M. Coste and based on his research of the Fusaro park. In 1858, he reported to the Emperor that out of twenty-three oyster beds that once existed at Rochelle, Marennes, Rochefort, and the Islands of Ré and Oleron, only five remained, and that a similar sad situation could be observed at other locations known for their oysters. The motivation from this report has resulted in very positive outcomes in France. Coastal communities are now actively participating in oyster farming. Oyster parks, inspired by those in Fusaro, have been established. M. Coste suggested in his appeal to the Emperor that the State, through the Administration of Marine and using its boats, should take steps to replant the entire French coast to revive the damaged oyster beds, expand the healthy ones, and create new ones wherever the sea floor permits. The first serious effort to follow the recommendations of the esteemed Academician was made in the Bay of St. Brieuc. In April of the same year that his report was received, work started by planting 3,000,000 mother oysters that had been collected from common grounds; brood from the oyster beds at Cancale and Tréquiers was laid out in ten lines on tiles, pieces of pottery, and shell valves. After eight months, the status of the beds was evaluated, and a quick dredging yielded 2,000 oysters ready for eating, while two random fascines produced nearly 20,000 oysters ranging from one to two inches in diameter. The publicity surrounding these findings generated significant practical interest, and soon the culture expanded dramatically. The Bay of Arcachon turned into a massive production area, with 1,200 capitalists, mostly small ones, collaborating with an equal number of fishermen, having planted a total of 988 acres of oysters by 1870. In this manner, the State established two model farms for experimental purposes at a minimal initial cost of £114; by 1870, it was valued at £8,000 and contained 5,000,000 oysters, both large and small. There were then 1,200 parks actively operating on the Isle of Ré, with 2,000 more under construction.
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.’ [pg 138]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.
In our own country, the Whitstable Company has seen great success. “The layings in Whitstable,” Mr. Bertram tells us, "cover about a mile and a half square, and the oyster beds have been so successful that they’ve earned the nickname ‘happy fishing grounds.’ [pg 138]Whitstable is situated in a sandy bay created by a small branch of the Medway, which separates the Isle of Sheppey from the mainland. This bay, extending from the town of Whitstable at its eastern end to the old town of Faversham, several miles inland, is entirely occupied by oyster farms that support a maritime population of over 3,000 people. The various companies contribute around £160,000 per year for labor, in addition to the jobs created in Whitstable for building and repairing boats, dredges, and other supplies needed for oyster fishing. The aim of these companies is to cultivate oysters for the London and other markets, protect the spawn or flotsam, as the dredgers call it, released on their own beds, and provide, through purchase or other means, the new brood needed to replenish the beds that have been harvested." The small Bay of Pont on the Essex coast, which is sixteen miles long and three miles wide, currently employs 150 or more boats, with crews dedicated to collecting brood oysters aged eighteen months to two years 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.
The Thames, or “local” system, works like this: Every year, there's a thorough inspection of the beds, which are dredged so carefully that almost every single oyster is checked. The younger ones are relocated to the best spots for their growth, and the same goes for all grades. Dead and unhealthy oysters are taken out, and starfish and all kinds of predators are eliminated.
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.
The Scallop (Pecten) isn't a true oyster, even though it can be cooked and treated like one, with good results. Its name comes from its channeled edges and surfaces, which look a bit like the teeth of a comb. Centuries ago, they were called Pilgrims’ Shells; during the middle ages, pilgrims often decorated their clothes or hats with these bivalves, of which there are nearly two hundred known species. They are much more active creatures than oysters, able to move around with some agility by forcefully ejecting water between their shells, propelling themselves through a kind of recoil. Another interesting bivalve mollusk is the Spondylus, a genus mostly found in warmer seas, some species of which are highly valued by conchologists. Their strong, vividly colored shells are covered in spines and feet. One of the most notable species is known to naturalists as Spondylus regius, which is always scarce and at one time was extremely rare. In relation to this mollusk, M. Chenu tells a story about an enthusiastic collector. “M. R——,” says Chenu, He was a Professor of Botany at the University of Paris and, as is sometimes the case, knew more than he had in wealth. Invited by a stranger, he wanted to buy one of these shells for a very high price, possibly between 3,000 to 6,000 francs (around £120 to £240). The deal was made, and the price was settled; it just needed to be paid. The money the Professor had was only part of what the merchant required for his shell, and he wouldn't let it go without payment. M. R——, prioritizing his desire for the shell over his limited finances, secretly gathered some of his modest silverware and went out to sell it. Without discussing it with his wife, he exchanged his silver for tin items and then hurried to the merchant to secure the desired Spondylus, which he believed to be S. regius.
“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.”
Dinner time arrived, and we can imagine the shock of Madame R——, who couldn’t understand the strange change in her plate. She came up with a thousand painful theories about it. M. R——, on the other hand, came home happy with his shell, which he had carefully tucked away in a box in his coat pocket. But as he got closer to the house, he paused, starting to worry for the first time about how he might be received. The criticism he expected felt a little easier to bear when he thought about the treasure he was bringing home. Finally, he arrived home, and Madame R——’s anger was justified; the poor man was overwhelmed with guilt over the distress he had caused his wife, and he completely lost his nerve. He forgot about his shell and, in his anxiety, sat down in a chair without fixing his clothes properly. He was only reminded of his treasure when he heard the box break. Fortunately, the damage wasn’t too severe—only two spines of the shell were broken—but the good man’s sorrow made such a strong impression on Madame R—— that she forgot her own loss and focused all her energy on comforting 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.
It can be added that these interesting bivalve mollusks are often found attached to branches of coral, which they stick to tightly.
CHAPTER 12.
The Ocean and Its Living Wonders (ongoing).
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.
The Univalves—A Higher Level of Animal—The Gasteropoda—Limpets—Used for Bowls 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-foot Molluscs—The Cephalopod Molluscs—The Nautilus—A Relic of a Noble Family—The Pearly Nautilus and Its Uses—The Cuttlefish—Michelet’s Comments—Hugo’s Actual Experiences—Gilliatt and His Fight—A Grand Description—The Devil-Fish—The Scientific Cuttlefish—A Creature with Three Hearts—Real Examples Compared to the Kraken—A Monster Almost 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.
And now that the bivalves have had their time, let's shift our focus to a higher class of animals, which nature has been more generous to. Unlike the first-mentioned mollusks, these animals have heads. "This head," says Figuier, “is still carried humbly; it is not yet os sublime dedit; it is pulled along an inch or so off the ground, and doesn't resemble the proud and magnificent organ that tops and adorns the bodies of larger and more powerful animals.” The Acephalous, or “headless” must now make way for the Cephalous, or headed mollusks. Scientists divide these further into three main classes: Gastropods, Pteropods, and Cephalopods.
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.
The name of the Gastropods comes from two Greek words meaning belly and foot; the why this title is that these animals move using flattened discs located under their bellies. The snail, slug, and cowrie are the main examples of this class.
In the Pteropoda (from Greek words signifying wing and foot) locomotion is effected by membranous fins or wings.
In the
Lastly, the Cephalopoda are so called because they have prominently, as a class, [pg 140]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.
Lastly, the Cephalopods are named for their distinct heads and feet, with movement accomplished by a group of tentacles (arms or legs, whichever you prefer). The cuttlefish and octopus (also known as devil-fish) are examples of this significant group of animals.
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.
The vastness of the subject makes it impossible to cover all the details, and for obvious reasons, we can only look at a few of the creatures that live in the sea. Among the “Gastropods,” which is their common name, limpets are a numerous family. They were scientifically named Kneecap (meaning deep dish or knee-cap) by Linnæus, as the shape of their shells justifies this title. Some are oval, others are circular, but all end in an elliptical cone. They come in various forms, with some being smooth while others have ridges or scales on the outer surface, and their edges are often notched. Their colors are very diverse. The head of the animal has two horns and two eyes; its foot is a thick fleshy disc, and when it wants to cling to a rock, we all know how hard it is to pry it off since the foot acts like a sucker. Some species from the coast of Africa and the Antilles, etc., have beautiful shapes, like Patella umbellata, P. granatina, P. longicosta, and others. Even though they are often eaten, they are very tough and hard to digest. In the southern seas, they can grow quite large; for example, in the Straits of Magellan, the locals use species that are as big as a washbasin for cooking.
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.
Well-known shells include those from many species of Trochus; the spiral shell contains a spiral creature inside. This also applies to some of the fifty species of Turbo, which often feature beautiful marbled colors on the outside and a stunning nacre lining inside. Additionally, there are the winding pyramidal shells of Turritella, many of which can be found in every ocean. Moreover, which old mantelpiece wasn’t decorated with a pair or more of cowrie shells (Cypræ), found in every sea? They range from the small whitish money cowrie, which is still used as currency in parts of Africa today, to larger, attractive shells. The animal inside this shell is elongated and has a head with a pair of long tentacles, each boasting a very large eye. The foot, as one specific example will demonstrate (Cypræ tigris), is an oval sucker that has great sticking power.
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 [pg 141]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.
In every conchologist's collection, you'll find some of the mitre shells, named for their similarity to a bishop's mitre, mostly sourced from the Indian and Australian seas. Then there are the Volute, known for their oval and elegant shapes. The creature inside these shells has a large head with two tentacles and a mouth full of hooked teeth. Its foot is quite large and extends from the mouth of the [pg 141]shell, which is often decorated with vibrant colors and intricate patterns and grooves. Additionally, the Conus genus, aptly named for its shape, includes some shells that can be quite expensive. These typically tropical shells are more uniform in shape than many of those previously mentioned, but they are stunningly varied in color and minor details. The “community members” have large heads with snouts, and their mouths have hard teeth. A good collection will also definitely include examples of the genus Cassis, mostly from the Indian Ocean.
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.
Among the one-shell mollusks, the Purpuras have a respected reputation; they provided the Greeks and Romans with the vibrant purple dye that was reserved for the cloaks of royalty and elite citizens! The genus Purple is known for its oval, thick, pointed shell. The creature itself has a large head with two swollen, cone-shaped tentacles close together, each featuring an eye on the outer side. It moves around using a large foot in search of bivalves. The larger and more significant species are found in warmer seas, particularly those around 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.
The purple mentioned in the Scriptures related to fine linen came from the Phoenicians and was sourced from Tyre. Sir William Wilde uncovered several circular holes in a rocky cliff not far from the ruins of that city, where he found a large quantity of crushed and broken shells of Purpura. He believed these had been crushed in bulk by Tyrian workers to create the dye. Shells of the same species (Murex trunculus) are still commonly found along that coast today. Aristotle stated that the Tyrian dye came from two mollusks that lived in the Phoenician coasts and seas. According to the great Greek philosopher, one of these had a very large shell with seven spiral turns, covered in spines, and ending in a strong beak; the other had a much smaller shell. It is thought that the latter corresponds to the Purple snail, which is abundant in the English Channel. Both Reaumur and Duhamel derived a purple color from it, which they used as a dye and found to be permanent. The true method of producing the Tyrian purple remains undiscovered to this day.
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.
The genus Harpa includes some beautifully marked and colored shells, with H. ventricosa being a striking example. These are mainly found in the Indian Ocean. The Rock Shells (Murex) are abundant in every sea, but are more vibrant and intricate in warmer waters. They are known for their bright colors and unique shapes. The shell is elongated with a long spire, often covered with rows of spiky protrusions. The genus Triton, which includes about one hundred species, is grouped with the genus Murex due to similarities. The Marine Trumpet (Triton variegatum), which can grow up to sixteen inches long, is a great example. The genus Strombus has among its species large, ornately decorated shells that are often used in grottoes or rock gardens. Some say the streets of Vera Cruz are paved with them. The most unusual and fascinating marine shells found in a naturalist's collection belong to the genus Pteroceras. They come in fresh, brilliantly shaded colors.
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.
And now to the Pteropods, commonly known as "swift feet" mollusks, a name that many people consider unsatisfactory in scientific terms. However, this is of little concern to the average reader. These fascinating little mollusks can swiftly move through the deep blue seas they typically inhabit, reminding us of the movements of a butterfly or another flying insect. They can “suddenly come to the surface, rotate in a specific area, or swim while looking like they’re staying in the same place, all while keeping their elevation.” "If," Figuier goes on, Whenever anything startles them, they tuck in their flippers and dive to a safe depth in their watery home. They spend their lives in the open ocean, far from any shelter except what the gulf weed and other algae provide. In both appearance and behavior, these small and sometimes microscopic creatures resemble the young of other types of mollusks. They are plentiful in both tropical and arctic seas and can be so numerous that they color the ocean for miles. They are the primary food source for whales and seabirds in colder regions, rarely coming close to shore. Only one or two species have been accidentally seen on our coasts, likely carried there by currents or storms that pushed them off course. Dr. Leach noted that in 1811, during a trip to the Orkneys, he observed several damaged specimens of Clio borealis on the rocks of the Isle of Staffa. A few days later, he borrowed a large shrimp net and, while rowing along the coast of Mull, managed to catch one alive when the sea, which had been very stormy, calmed down; it’s now at the British Museum. Professor Huxley has informed us that these creatures have hearing organs, can sense light and heat, and likely odors, but they have very rudimentary eyes and tentacles. They possess respiratory organs, hearts, and livers, and are definitely social, gathering in large 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.
We now turn to the highest class of mollusks—on paper, that is, because in reality, most of them are either hard to get close to or, in any case, are not particularly friendly companions.
“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.
“Cephalopod mollusks,” says Figuier, a writer who, with his descriptive skills, is both a creative scientist and a scientific artist, "are actually very organized for mollusks, as they have a strong sense of sight, hearing, and touch. They appeared alongside the first animals on Earth and are still quite numerous today, although they no longer have the important role they once did in the early days of life on our planet. The Ammonites and Belemnites thrived in the thousands among the creatures that filled the seas during the Mesozoic era of Earth's history." Professor Owen divided Cephalopods into two major orders: Tetrabranchiata, or animals with four gills, and Dibranchiates, which have two gills. The first order currently has only one genus, that of
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.”
On the sea, this descendant of a faded family is a graceful sight, and in nice weather, it raises its head and tentacles to take a general look at the ocean. On land, though, it doesn't look as impressive, since it has to drag itself across the ground with its head down and its body and shell up. The shell has a neatly spiraled shape and is divided into compartments; this likely inspired the design of water-tight compartments. A tube for breathing runs through these compartments. In the outermost section is the owner of the vessel, covered by its mantle like a captain wearing a pea jacket or a sou’wester. The creature has many tentacles and two large eyes, allowing it to keep a good “watch 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.
The Pearly Nautilus, commonly found in the Indian seas, is sometimes eaten. Its shell can grow up to eight inches tall and is still used by Hindu priests as the conch to call their followers to prayers. It produces a beautiful nacre, which is used for decorative purposes. In the East, they make drinking cups from it and decorate them with engravings. Many retired sea captains have them in their homes today, and before people became so familiar with Asian products, they were often seen in the houses of the wealthy.
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.
The order Dibranchiates includes six families, mostly of impressive and unappealing nature. They consist of cuttlefish, squids, and argonauts, which we should primarily focus on. What amazing things have been written about them! The French have discovered a rich topic in them.
“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 [pg 144]languished, or which may linger or languish, of the slow and feeble creation whose fecundity had encumbered the globe.
"It's now," says Michelet, However, it’s essential to describe a much more serious world—a world filled with violence and murder. From the very beginning, with the first signs of life, violent death emerged; a sudden and harsh refinement, practical but brutal purification of everything that has suffered, or that could suffer or fade away, from the slow and weak creation whose abundance had weighed heavily on the planet.
“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.”
“In the ancient formations of the Old World, we discover two types of killers—a nipper and a sucker. The first is represented by the imprint of the trilobite, an extinct order that was one of the most destructive of lost creatures. The second is found in a massive fragment, a beak nearly two feet long, which belonged to a large sucker, or cuttlefish (sepia). If we can judge by this beak, this creature—if its other body parts were to scale—must have been enormous; its powerful, unstoppable arms could have been twenty to thirty feet long, resembling those of some giant spider. In its battle against the mollusks, it remains a mollusk itself; that is, it is always an embryo. It presents the strange—almost ridiculous, if it weren’t also terrifying—sight of an embryo going into battle; of a fierce and cruel fetus, soft and transparent, yet determined, driven by a murderous intent—for it doesn’t fight just for food: it seeks to destroy. Even when satisfied, and perhaps close to bursting, it continues to destroy. Without any defensive armor, there is no peace under its threatening murmurs; its safety lies in aggression. It sees every creature as a potential enemy. It strikes out with its long arms, or rather tendrils, equipped with suckers, without distinction.”
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.”
Victor Hugo’s description of the monster, the devil-fish (or octopus), with whom poor Gilliatt has that terrifying encounter, will stick in the minds of everyone who has read it. The poet-novelist claims he based his story on real events he witnessed himself. “Near Breck-Hou, in Sark,” he says, "They show a cave where a devil-fish, a few years back, grabbed and drowned a lobster fisherman.... I, the author of these lines, have seen with my own eyes, at Sark, in the cave known as the Boutiques, a pieuvre (cuttlefish) swimming and pursuing a swimmer. When it was captured and killed, this specimen was found to be four English feet wide, and you could count its four hundred suckers. The monster extended them out convulsively in its death throes."
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.
Hugo’s amazing description of the monster, although often technically inaccurate mainly due to exaggeration, deserves a mention here. He understands the facts of nature with the appreciation of an artist rather than that of a 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 insignifi[pg 145]cant. 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....
“It’s tough,” he writes, For those who haven’t seen it, believing in the existence of the devilfish can be a challenge. Compared to this creature, the ancient hydras seem insignificant. At times, we can’t help but consider that the blurry shapes that float through our dreams might encounter attractive forces in the realm of possibility, allowing them to take form and create living beings from these dream creatures....
“If terror were the object of its creation, nothing could be more perfect than the devil-fish.
"If the goal was to inspire fear, nothing could be more effective 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 whale is huge, while the devil-fish is relatively small; the tararaca hisses, but the devil-fish is silent; the rhinoceros has a horn, yet the devil-fish doesn't; the scorpion has a sting, but the devil-fish has none; the shark has sharp fins, whereas the devil-fish lacks fins; the vespertilio bat has wings with claws, and the devil-fish has no wings; the porcupine has quills, but the devil-fish has none; the swordfish has a sword, while the devil-fish has no sword; the torpedo produces an electric shock, but the devil-fish does not; the toad has poison, and the devil-fish has none; the viper has venom, but the devil-fish is venomless; the lion has claws, and the devil-fish has none; the griffon has a beak, while the devil-fish has no beak; the crocodile has jaws, but the devil-fish lacks 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 devil-fish has no muscles, no scary sounds, no armor, no horns, no stingers, no claws, no tail to hold or hit, no sharp fins or wings with claws, no spikes, no swords, no electric shocks, no venom, no talons, no beak, and no teeth. Yet, it is the most intimidating creature of all. So, what is the devil-fish? It’s 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.
The swimmer, captivated by the beauty of the area, bravely ventures into the waves of the open sea, where the tranquil waters hide the wonders of the deep, or explores the recesses of distant rocks, in unfamiliar caves teeming with sea plants, shellfish, and crustaceans, beneath the vast entrances of the ocean, faces the risk of encountering it. If that happens to you, don't be curious—just get away. The intruder comes in wonder but departs in fear.
“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.
This frightening sight, sometimes spotted among the rocks in the open sea, is a grayish shape moving through the water. It’s about as thick as a man's arm and nearly five feet long. Its outline is jagged, resembling an umbrella turned inside out, without a handle. This irregular mass slowly glides toward you. Suddenly, it opens up, and eight tentacle-like arms shoot out around a face with two eyes. These arms are alive; their movement resembles flickering flames. When fully extended, they look like the spokes of a wheel four or five feet in diameter. It's a shocking display! It lunges at its prey.
“The devil-fish harpoons its victim.
“The devil-fish spears its prey.”
“It winds around the sufferer, covering and entangling him in its long folds. Under[pg 146]neath 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 wraps around the person in pain, enveloping and trapping them in its long layers. Beneath it is yellow; above, a dull, earthy color; nothing could make that odd shade appear like dust. Its shape resembles a spider, but its colors shift like a chameleon. When disturbed, it turns violet. Its most frightening trait is its softness. Its layers ensnare; its touch paralyzes.
“It has an aspect like gangrened or scabrous fish. It is a monstrous embodiment of disease.
"It looks like spoiled or infected fish. It’s a terrible depiction of sickness."
“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.
It holds on tightly to its prey and can't be pulled away—thanks to its ability to suck out air. The eight antennae are thick at the base and gradually narrow to sharp points. Below each of these feelers are two rows of pustules that decrease in size, with the largest ones near the head and the smaller ones towards the tips. Each row has twenty-five pustules, so there are fifty pustules per feeler, and the creature has a total of four hundred. These pustules function like suction cups. They are tough, cylindrical, hard, and a grayish color. In the larger species, they taper down from the size of a five-franc coin to that of a split pea. The animal can extend and retract these small tubes at will, and they can penetrate more than an inch deep.
“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 sucking mechanism has all the precision and finesse of a keyboard. It shows up clearly at one moment and disappears the next. The most delicate sensitivity can't compete with the adaptability of these suckers—constantly adjusting to the animal's internal movements and its external surroundings. The creature has the characteristics of a 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.
“This creature is what sailors call poulps, which science classifies as Cephalopoda, and what ancient myths refer to as krakens. English sailors call them ‘devil-fish,’ and sometimes bloodsuckers. In the Channel Islands, they are referred to as pieuvres.
“They are rare at Guernsey, very small at Jersey; but near the island of Sark are numerous and very large....
"They're rare in Guernsey, pretty small in Jersey; but around the island of Sark, they're common and quite 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 swimming, the devil-fish stays mostly hidden, almost like it’s in a sheath. It swims with all its parts pulled in tight. You could think of it as a sealed sleeve with a fish inside. The bulge of its head pushes the water aside and moves forward in a slight wave-like motion. Its two eyes, although large, are difficult to see, blending in with the color 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?
"When hiding or hunting for its prey, it pulls back, shrinks, and becomes more compact. In this state, it’s hardly visible in the dim water. At those times, it looks like just a small ripple on the surface. It seems anything but alive. The devil-fish is clever. When its target least expects it, it strikes without warning. A sticky mass filled with hostile intent—what could be more terrifying?"
“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.
“In the beautiful blue depths of the clear water, this ugly, hungry polyp finds happiness. It always hides—this contributes to its frightening reputation. When they are seen, it's usually only after they've been caught. At night, especially during the hot season, the devil-fish shines in the dark.”
“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.
It has no blood, no bones, no flesh. It's soft and flabby: a skin with nothing inside. Its eight tentacles can be turned inside out, like the fingers of a glove. It has one opening in the center of its arms, which initially looks like neither a vent nor a mouth. It is, in fact, both. The opening serves a dual purpose. 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.”
“The jellyfish in the Mediterranean is gross. Touching that moving, gelatinous mass that wraps around the swimmer, where hands sink in and nails scratch without any result, which can be torn apart without killing it, and which can be removed without completely eliminating it—that fluid yet clingy creature that slips through fingers is disgusting; but nothing compares to the shocking sight of the devilfish, that Medusa with its eight tentacles.”
Let us examine the creatures scientifically.
Let’s take a scientific look at the creatures.
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—
The bodies of these impressive animals are soft and fleshy, with heads that stick out; they have the usual sensory organs, and their eyes are especially noticeable. “Not to overwhelm the reader with anatomical information,” says Figuier, "Let's note that the cuttlefish has a strong and intimidating stare. Its bulging eyes and golden iris are considered quite captivating." The mouth is equipped with a pair of hard mandibles or beaks, similar to those of a parrot, and is surrounded by several fleshy tentacles that, in most species, have numerous suckers and even claws. The arms or tentacles are used for various purposes—moving, swimming, attacking, and defending. The suckers cover the internal surface of the eight tentacular arms, with each arm having about 240 of them. "The cuttlefish," says the aforementioned writer, "would easily answer the question asked by Don Diego in Corneille—
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.
for they have three hearts. After that, it's unnecessary to mention that they have lungs and a circulatory system. Both men and women can blush and change color; so can the cuttlefish; but it turns darker instead of lighter, and its emotions have a different effect—numerous small warts suddenly appear on its skin.
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-[pg 149]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.
Despite the exaggerations of some writers, many of these animals are indeed quite large, as confirmed by reliable sources. Mr. Beale, who was searching for shells on the rocks of Bonin Island, was grabbed by one that had a wingspan of four feet, although its body was only about the size of a clenched fist. He described its cold, slimy grip as nauseating. He killed the creature with a slash from a large knife, but he had to free himself from its arms piece by piece. In the museum in Montpellier, there's one that's six feet long. Péron, a French naturalist, spotted one in the Australian seas that measured eight feet. Travelers Quoy and Gaimard found the skeleton of a massive mollusk in the Atlantic Ocean, which they estimated weighed 200 pounds. At the College of Surgeons, there is a beak or mandible of a cuttlefish on display that is larger than a human hand. In 1853, a gigantic specimen washed up on the coast of Jutland, providing many loads of flesh and other organic material.
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.
Who hasn’t heard of the kraken, the nightmare of the northern seas? Naturalists and others a long time ago believed certain Scandinavian writers who insisted there was a huge sea monster capable of capturing and destroying ships. This kraken was said to wrap its arms around a three-masted vessel. "If," joked De Montfort, "My kraken will take them; I'll make it extend its arms to both sides of the Straits of Gibraltar." A Bishop of Bergen claimed a whole regiment could easily maneuver on the kraken’s back. However, all of this probably came from seeing some extraordinarily large creature. An apparently well-documented fact is the following, confirmed 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 steam corvette Alecton ended up between Teneriffe and Madeira, encountering a sea monster of the cuttlefish type, described as being fifty feet long, not including its eight arms; it had two fleshy fins; they estimated its weight to be nearly two tons. The commander allowed shots to be fired at it, one of which clearly struck the creature in a vital area, as the waves turned red with blood. A strong musky smell was noted. This is typical of many 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.”
The musket shots didn’t have the desired effect, so they tried using harpoons, but those didn’t catch on the soft, intangible flesh of the sea creature. When it broke free from the harpoon, it dove under the ship and came up on the other side. Eventually, they managed to get the harpoon to grip and secured a bowline hitch around the back of the creature. However, when they tried to pull it out of the water, the rope sank deeply into the flesh and split it in two, with the head, arms, and tentacles sinking into the sea and swimming away, while the fins and back end were brought aboard: they weighed about forty pounds. The crew wanted to chase it in a boat, but the captain refused, worried it could tip over. "Probably," says M. Moquin-Tandon,40 “that this giant mollusk was ill or exhausted from a recent battle with another deep-sea creature.”
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!
Most cephalopods release a dark fluid that they can shoot out in moments of danger, creating a cloud of obscurity around themselves. The Romans knew about this fluid and used it to make ink. Today, it's the main ingredient in Indian ink and sepia. There's a story about an English officer stationed abroad who went for a walk on the beach just before dinner. He stumbled upon a cuttlefish hiding under a hollow rock. For a while, they both stared at each other in silent surprise, but the cuttlefish ultimately had the upper hand. The startled creature suddenly shot a jet of its black fluid onto the officer’s trousers, which was particularly irritating since they were made of white duck fabric!
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 powdered bone of the cuttlefish has been used for a long time, mixed with chalk and other ingredients, as a toothpaste, so the “horrible monster” of Virgil actually has some value 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 sixth family of the Dibranchiata includes just one genus, Argonaut, with the paper nautilus being a delightful example. "Floating gracefully on the sea's surface, adjusting its small sail to catch the breeze just enough to ripple the waves, look at this beautiful living vessel! This elegant little boat that dances with the current isn't made by human hands; it's a creation of nature: it’s the argonaut, whose species, adorned in a thousand vibrant colors, roam in countless swarms on the ocean's surface!" The Greek and Roman poets saw it as a beautiful model of the ship crafted by the skill and bravery of the person who first challenged the fierce waves. Encountering it was seen as a good omen. "O fish truly valued by sailors!" sang Oppian; "Your presence brings gentle and friendly breezes: you bring tranquility, and you are its symbol!" Aristotle and Pliny both provided detailed descriptions of it. In India, the shell is highly valued, and women view it as a fine accessory. Dancing girls carry them and elegantly 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.
The paper nautilus has more than just its little sail to help it move; it can also push water against the waves to move forward. They are shy and careful creatures that live in families and are usually found far out at sea; they never come close to the shore.
CHAPTER 13.
The Ocean and its Living Wonders Please provide the text for modernization.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.
The Crustaceans: A Tough Group—Young Crabs and Their Quirks—With Shells and Without—Regeneration Abilities—The Biter Bitten—Coconut-Eating Crabs—Do Crabs Like Being Boiled?—Land Crabs and Their Migrations—Nerve-Racking Excitement—The King Crab—The Hut Crab—A True Story—The Hermit or Soldier Crab—Aggressiveness—Crab Wars and Human Wars—Reproductive Crustaceans—Setting Lobster Traps—Technical Differences—How Do Lobsters Shed Their Shells?—Fishermen’s Insights—Lobster Behavior—Its Fertility—The Supply for Billingsgate—The Season—“Lobster Fun”in British North America—Eelgrass—Crayfish, 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 [pg 151]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
In the Crustacea, we find the most basic type of jointed animals. They have feet, breathe through gills, and get their name from their hard, crusty shell, which is mainly made of lime with some coloring. Almost all of them have claws, which many of them know how to use for offense. "They've been compared," says [pg 151]Figuier, "to the heavily armed knights of the Middle Ages—both bold and ruthless; dressed in steel from head to toe, with helmets and armor, and guards for arms and thighs—there’s almost nothing missing to make the comparison complete." They have the ability to shed their calcareous shell, making them as vulnerable as they were once intimidating.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.”
"Among all the unusual and fascinating types of marine life," says Lord, Few can rival the absurdity of baby crabs, or Zoëa, as they are sometimes called. These intriguing little creatures look nothing like their parents, and no respectable adult male or female crab would ever claim them as their offspring. The juvenile crab is a quirky little being, with a head that barely qualifies as one, and a pair of bulging eyes resembling two old-fashioned lanterns stuck together, a tail far too long for its body, and a spear that's just as long as its silly little form, attached where its collar should be.... Master Crab's internal structure is as peculiar as its outer appearance. You might think one pair of jaws would suffice for any living creature with basic needs, but it has eight, and instead of displaying its teeth for inspection, it keeps them safely hidden in its stomach, making it incredibly difficult to access them in case of a crab's toothache. With such tools, food is sure to be thoroughly chewed. A crab's liver is a strange organ to consider and occupies a significant part of the soft interior of the shell-like casing where the heart and other organs are located. The well-known delicacy referred to as the ‘cream’ or ‘fat’ of the crab is, in fact, liver, and nothing more. The lungs, or gills, consist of those fringe-like appendages commonly known as ‘dead men’s fingers.’ The process of shedding their shell, mentioned earlier, is typical among all crustaceans; and our friend the crab, when it feels its shell getting a bit snug, manages through some extraordinary means not only to break free from it along with its shell-armored claws and powerful pincers, but also to perform other amazing feats that make those of the Davenport Brothers seem trivial.
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 [pg 152]slightly smaller than himself, and was then himself attacked and eaten by a companion, realising the old adage concerning fleas—
Nearly all crustaceans are tough and destructive, fighting not just against their enemies but also among themselves. They don’t care much if they lose a claw or a tail, because after a few weeks of rest, those limbs grow back. Tandon notes that lobsters “which in an unfortunate encounter lost a limb, sick and weakened, reappear after a few months with a perfect limb, strong and ready for action.” On the Spanish coast, a specific crab is caught just for its claw, which is considered a delicacy; this claw is removed, and the injured crab is thrown back into the sea, likely to be caught again, with the process repeated later on. Crustaceans are mostly carnivorous and are not picky about what they eat. However, some show a strong preference for oysters. Sometimes, they eat each other. Mr. Rymer Jones recounts a story of one crab that attacked and began to eat another slightly smaller than itself, only to be attacked and eaten by a companion, illustrating the old saying about fleas—
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.
Some crustaceans, however, have a plant-based diet. The Robber Crab from the Polynesian Islands can not only open a coconut but also savor its insides. The crab starts by ripping off the fibers at the end where the fruit is, always using its right claw. Once that’s done, it hits it with its large claws until a hole is created; then it slips its slender claws inside, and by twisting and turning, it takes out the contents of the nut.
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 right way to boil crabs has always been a topic of debate among doctors. So, who should decide? It's hard to deny that there's a level of cruelty involved in taking a life, but figuring out whether it’s better to slowly stew them in warm water or to drop them directly into boiling water requires "the discoveries of a boiled crab" to clarify things; and until a crustacean-related study with that or a similar title comes out, we will keep putting our armored victims into water at 212 degrees Fahrenheit, leaving the issue of whether it's appropriate to others who are willing to tackle 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.
The West India Islands are home to the Land Crab (Gecarcinus ruricola), a type of crustacean that climbs up to the higher ground at certain times of the year. As the spawning season approaches, a massive gathering of these crabs takes place, and entire legions, unaware of any warnings, rush forward to join the living tide heading toward the sea. Through the tangled jungle, down rocky ravines, over fallen tree trunks, and through the dense underbrush of the forest, they come in a relentless stream of thousands, constantly moving as the bright stars light their way. They pass over banks, hedges, walls, and even houses in this crustacean race, with no flags needed to guide them along the right path. Instinct leads the way, and the blue sea is their destination; nothing can stop their march.
“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.”
Cuffee and his friends, who have been chatting and sharing stories under their cocoa-leaf roofs until they were half asleep, suddenly turn into the wildest and most uncontrollable lunatics when they realize what's happening at night. They leap into the air, shout, scream, and dance like crazy, while the fastest among them rush off to ‘de massa’ with the shocking 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 promise and catches the pilgrims by the basketful, despite their claws. And black-faced, woolly-haired Aunt Lilly, the cook, grins like ivory dominoes in a dark box as she imagines white rice, coconut milk, spicy capsicum pods, and stewpans in a delicious and mouthwatering display before her; and ‘massa’ himself takes an extra sip from the cold sangaree jug, sleeps soundly, and dreams of the crab feast to come.
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 [pg 153]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 [pg 154]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.”
The King Crab from the eastern seas can grow to a massive size, and the spear-like weapon it's equipped with is used by the Malays as a fighting tool. In contrast, there’s the tiny nut-crab, with its awkward little legs tucked under its [pg 153]body, which adventurous sailors sometimes collect for their friends back home, believing that the shells, when cut and polished, will make beautiful brooches and shirt pins. Major Lord shares a funny story about a grumpy old quartermaster on an Indian station who One day, during a break on shore, he stumbled upon a good number of these lucky stones, as he called them. To keep his treasures safe, he wrapped them in an old silk handkerchief and hid them, along with some cash and a few cakes of Cavendish tobacco, in a corner of his chest. It turned out that a thieving crewmate, unable to resist the allure of tobacco and money, completely overlooked the natural history aspect and took the opportunity to steal the tobacco and cash, leaving the lucky stones behind. The next day, when our old friend came to get his usual supply of weed, he was horrified, shocked, and furious to see the pebbles moving around, scurrying across his best jacket, the handkerchief wide open and, unfortunately, empty. ‘Well!’ he shouted; ‘I can’t believe this! Look here, mates! These blessed stones have come to life, every single one of them. They’ve chewed up all my tobacco and spent every dime of my money! And now I’m going to [pg 154]throw the little rascals to Davy Jones’s locker. Overboard is where I’m tossing them.’ And that’s exactly what he did, probably to the delight of the wrongly accused crabs.
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-day42 sings of our wars—
The Hermit, or Soldier, Crab, except for a kind of armor or helmet, has a soft, flexible skin. Aware of its own vulnerability, it always hides in a safe spot, often vacating the shell of another sea creature. When it outgrows its borrowed home, it looks for a bigger one. It's a very skittish creature that hides at the slightest noise. However, among its own kind, it’s strong, greedy, and fierce. When two hermit crabs encounter each other, a fight is likely to start, although it rarely happens. “Each one reaches out its long pincers, trying to touch the other, like a spider trying to catch a fly at its most vulnerable moment; but when they realize the other is fully armed and well-protected, they usually decide to be cautious and back off, even though they are eager to fight. However, they do have some real skirmishes, showing off their claws in a threatening way, tumbling over each other, but they end up more frightened than hurt.” Mr. Gosse recounts a struggle that ended tragically. One hermit crab came across another comfortably settled in a shell much larger than its own. It grabbed the other crab's head with its strong claws, yanked it out of its home in an instant, and quickly took its place, leaving the unfortunate crab squirming on the sand in agony. "Our struggles," says Bonnet, "rarely have such high stakes; they compete against each other for a place to live." A young poet of today42 sings of our wars—
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.
Both crabs and lobsters are incredibly prolific, laying thousands of eggs. It's estimated that each female produces between 12,000 and 20,000 eggs in a season, yet these shellfish are always expensive in London! In France, Figuier tells us, the legal size for marketable lobsters is set at a minimum of eight inches long; anything smaller is considered illegal. The London market gets its supply from all over our coasts, particularly from Norway. In Kamble, near Southampton, one owner has storage ponds or tanks for up to 50,000 at a time, and he regularly sends his boats 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 [pg 155]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.
The Lobster (Homarus vulgaris) is found in large numbers all around our coasts. Who among those who have visited our seaside resorts hasn’t either helped pull up lobster traps or, at the very least, seen the fishermen coming back with their catches? And what could be better than a lobster boiled, say no more than half an hour after being caught from the sea? It tastes nothing like the poor creature that has been transported by boat [pg 155]or train to London, and tossed around in carts, markets, and shops, until he longs for someone to just boil him and get it over with. Lobster pots are essentially wicker-basket traps. The hole at the bottom allows easy entry, but makes it hard for the lobster to escape. They’re baited with scraps, and the location of each on the rocks or sand below is marked by a buoy. Each fisherman has his own unique mark on them; and it’s bad news for anyone who steals a lobster, just like it is for crab thieves! 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.”
Mr. Pennant says that large lobsters are best from mid-October to early May. The smaller ones are good all summer long. If they are four-and-a-half inches long from the top of the head to the end of the back shell, they’re called "large" lobsters; if they’re under four inches, they’re called “half size,” and two of them count as one of size. If they’re under four inches, they’re referred to as “paws.”
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.
There’s no doubt that up to a certain age, lobsters shed their shells every year, but how this happens isn’t fully understood today. "It’s believed that the old shell is shed, and the lobster stays hidden until the new shell hardens enough to protect it from other armored creatures. The most plausible theory is that the shell comes off in pieces, similar to how it works for crayfish. The biggest mystery, though, is how the lobster pulls the soft part of its claws out from their hard shells. Fishermen say that the lobster becomes weak and loses weight before it sheds its shell, making it easier to pull its limbs out." It sheds tears first, and the 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. [pg 156]Lobsters are prolific creatures, and it is well that they are so, considering the enormous quantities consumed every day in England alone.
The common English lobster, as seen in the fishmonger’s shop, is very different from its relatives in the ocean. “The curled-up position,” says Major Lord, When it is on display, its posture isn't the typical one it assumes in its natural habitat, except when it uses its amazing ability to swim backwards. This ability is so effective that a single swift movement of its uniquely shaped, oar-like tail can launch it like an arrow, three or four feet, with incredible precision, allowing it to quickly escape into crevices and corners among the rocks where it can't be chased. Its eyes, mounted on stalks, aren't limited by sockets and give a wide field of vision both in front and behind. Their compound structure, made of many square lenses, makes them very sharp and effective. The slightest shadow passing over the pool where the lobster might be crawling or swimming often triggers one of these rapid retreats, making it vanish into a crack or hole with a speed no acrobat could ever match. Down in the deep channels between the rocks at the bottom of the sea, there are few dangers to fear, except from the sea robbers themselves. Here, lobsters thrive, and it's common to use wicker traps or trunk nets to catch them. These nets are usually made by attaching several strong wooden hoops to long bars and covering them with netting. Their layout is similar to that of a crab pot, but they have two entrances instead of one, and twine is used instead of willows or twigs to prevent the lobsters from escaping. Heavy stones are attached to keep them underwater. Fish scraps are used as bait, and corks at the ends of the lines help locate and retrieve them. [pg 156]Lobsters reproduce in large numbers, which is fortunate given how many are eaten daily 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.”
It has been estimated that each adult female will produce between 18,000 and 20,000 eggs, and there's little doubt that with proper management and a relatively small investment, artificial fertilization of the eggs could be successfully and profitably implemented in this country. Recently, there has been a lot of focus on this subject in France, where many interesting experiments have been conducted. The number of lobsters brought to Billingsgate Market each season shows the importance of lobster fishing, along with the large amounts of money involved. Estimates suggest that 150,000 lobsters from the coasts of England, Ireland, Scotland, and the Channel Islands are delivered to Billingsgate every season, not including the Norway lobsters, which are even more abundant, with over 600,000 imported each season. It's common for a single day's supply for that major seafood market to hit as high as 25,000, and here in the early morning, long before busy London fully wakes up, you can witness a scene of activity and excitement that truly rewards those who get up early. Steam billows in clouds above the huge piles of freshly boiled crustaceans and mollusks, and carts of all sizes and designs fill the streets.
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 regular lobster season runs from March to August. Around the middle or end of August, they shed their shells, making them unfit for human consumption. However, just like silkworms after shedding their skin, they start eating eagerly as soon as their new shells are strong enough for them to venture out. Their short period of hiding and not eating is more than compensated for by a binge of heavy feeding. They quickly regain their plumpness and condition. Unlike some crustaceans that don’t care for their young, mother lobsters keep their little ones close until the young lobsters are big enough to fend 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.
The coasts of British North America and many parts of the U.S. coastline are full of armored creatures of various types. In some areas, catching them can be quite entertaining—like organizing a picnic or lobster party. A boat is equipped with plenty of food, drinks, and a large pot. Long poles with split ends are also prepared. As the boat is slowly moved through the shallow waters, everyone keeps a sharp lookout below. When a lobster is spotted, the split end of the pole is quietly lowered, very carefully, until it’s just over the unsuspecting lobster's back. A quick downward thrust secures the lobster with a pincing motion, bringing him to the surface despite his claws and the nips he delivers to the tough, unyielding wood. A shaded rock or nice spot along the shore is usually chosen as the place to eat and cook the catch from the lobster hunt.
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.
The bays, shallows, and river mouths along the coast of Prince Edward Island are filled with a type of seaweed known to the locals as "eelgrass," which is a favorite food for lobsters, thriving like a rich underwater garden. The lobster catchers head to these prime hunting spots and, wading just above their shins, gather as many as they need. A bushel basket can be filled this way in under 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.
Like the branching growths of underwater life that connect the plant and animal worlds, we find crustaceans living, so to speak, on the fringes of other species and linking the shrimp, crab, and lobster families together; they share characteristics of each but are identical to neither. Such are the so-called Squat Lobsters, or Galathea. Their unique alertness makes them somewhat hard to catch. Like lobsters, they have exceptional vision and can move backwards quite well. Their horns are extremely long and so sensitive that even the slightest touch immediately reveals the nature of an approaching object, allowing the startled squat lobster to hide safely between the rock crevices, from which it's not easy to remove them.
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 spiny lobster, crawfish, crazy, or crowder is quite recognizable to most readers, thanks to its thorny shell, long horns, strong pincers, and generally intimidating look. Like many other crustaceans, the cray enjoys living among rough, submerged rocks and is caught in traps set for regular lobsters and crabs. While its meat is tougher and sweeter, which doesn’t sit well with dedicated lobster lovers, a well-prepared spined lobster is definitely not to be overlooked. Certain areas of the Pacific Ocean and the warm waters of the East are home to large populations of them. Numerous locations along the coast of South America, as well as the bays and inlets around the island of Juan Fernandez, are literally packed with them. To illustrate the abundance of various creatures available for catching in these waters, here's a quote from Hon. F. Walpole:—Fishing offered the best return for effort, and a boat could be filled in four hours using just a hook and line. Fish of every size and color, and seemingly every kind of appetite, were everywhere, eagerly biting any bait. The bottom was completely covered with large crawfish; some must have weighed at least five pounds. No hook was needed—a simple piece of anything lowered on a string to the bottom was enough; they noticed it, grabbed it, and held on until you caught them by their long feelers and brought them into the boat, where they would scurry around and extend their feelers as if searching for more bait.... We had crawfish for breakfast, crawfish for lunch, crawfish for dinner, and crawfish for any extra meals we could squeeze in between. The coral reefs around the island of Mauritius provide a home to many crawfish, which are larger and more vibrantly colored than those found in our waters.
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.
The prawn and shrimp are part of the same group as the lobster and crab, and species of these crustaceans are found in all oceans. They are the cleanup crew of the sea, feeding on any dead matter they encounter; because of this, they are especially valuable in aquariums. Most of our readers are probably familiar with the art of shrimping from trips to seaside resorts on the south coast. In tropical regions, prawns can grow to the size of a small lobster—up to nine or ten inches long, with three being enough for a meal. In Dublin, prawns measuring six to seven inches are sold and are considered great for eating.
CHAPTER 14.
Ocean Life.—The Catch 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.
Fish and Their Swimming Mechanism—The Swim Bladder—Scientific Classification—Cartilaginous Fish—The Torpedo—A Living Electric Battery—The Shark—Its Interest in Humans as Food—Stories of Their Strength—Catching a Shark—Their Impact on Whaling—The Tiger Shark—African Belief in the Creature—The Dogfish—The Sturgeon—Massive Reproduction—Caviar—The Bony Fish—The Flying Fish: Its Abilities; Its Predators—The Early Life of a Salmon—The Parr, the Smolt, and the Grilse—Thriving in the Sea—The Ponds at Stormontfield—The Salmon’s Predators—The Ettrick Shepherd—Canned Salmon and Its Origins—Fish as a Surplus in N.W. America—Canoes Blocked by Them—The Fisheries of the Columbia River—The Fishing Season—Methods of Catching Salmon—The Factories and Processes Used.
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.
And now we move on to even more complex structures. Fish deserve a spot in a discussion about their natural habitat, the ocean. Fishes, which always live in water, have amazing features that help them swim.
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 scientific classification of fish that is commonly used is by Muller. He divided them into five groups: Leptocardia, Cyclostomata, Sharks, Ganoids, and Teleosts. The first group is represented by a single genus, Amphioxus, a small slender gelatinous fish, rarely more than two inches long, and commonly found on sandy coasts. The second order is characterized as serpentine, lacking fins, and with a mouth designed for suction. The lamprey is a well-known 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 [pg 160]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 third order, Sharks, includes various types of cartilaginous fish that come in many shapes; rays, dogfish, skates, torpedoes, sharks, and sawfish are all part of this significant group. The torpedo is capable of delivering a strong electric shock. Redi, an Italian naturalist from the seventeenth century, was the first to study them in detail. He captured and landed an electric ray, and when he pressed it with his hand, he felt a tingling sensation that spread to his arms and shoulders, followed by an uncomfortable trembling. This electric ability dies with the animal. Dr. Walsh conducted some fascinating experiments with them. He placed [pg 160]a living torpedo on a clean wet towel and connected brass wires to it. Surrounding the torpedo were eight people, standing on insulating materials. One end of the wire was put in a basin filled with water. The first person had a finger from one hand in this basin and a finger from the other in a second basin, also filled with water. The second person had a finger in the last basin and a finger from the other hand in a third basin, and so on around the circle of eight people. The end of the second wire was submerged in the last basin in the series, thus creating a complete electric circuit. When the experimenter touched the torpedo, a fairly strong shock was felt by everyone involved. When the torpedo was placed on an insulating support, it demonstrated its energy by delivering forty or fifty shocks to several people in a short time 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.
The family Carcharidae includes true sharks, with some species growing up to twenty or even thirty feet long. They are feared by all other fish and mollusks. "But the prey that attracts them the most is humans; the shark has a special fondness for them, but it’s the kind of love a gourmet has. According to some travelers, when various types of human food are on offer, the shark prefers Europeans over Asians, and both over Africans." They have been known to leap directly onto a fisherman’s boat and even snatch a sailor from the rigging. Commerson recounts this:—A black man's corpse was hung from a yard-arm 20 feet above sea level. A shark was seen desperately trying to reach the body, which it eventually did, tearing it apart in front of the horrified crew. The shark’s mouth is located on the lower part of its head, and the animal must turn in the water to grab something above it. On the African coast, locals take advantage of this; they swim towards the shark and time their attack to slash its belly with a large, strong knife when it turns. The adult shark has six rows of menacing teeth, creating 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.
Captain Basil Hall describes how sharks are sometimes captured. The sharp, curved dorsal fin of a massive shark was spotted, rising about six inches above the water and cutting through the smooth surface of the sea like a fine line, as if a sickle had been dragged across it. ‘Messenger, get a piece of pork from the cook,’ shouted the captain, taking charge with as much excitement as if an enemy cruiser had come into view. ‘Where’s your hook, quartermaster?’ ‘Right here, sir,’ replied the quartermaster, testing the point and claiming it was as sharp as any lady’s needle, and in the next moment, he pierced a huge chunk of pork weighing four or five pounds with it. The hook, which is as thick as a little finger, has a curve about the size of a man’s hand when half-closed and is six to eight inches long, while a sturdy line, with three or four feet of chain attached to the end of the mizzen topsail halyard, is now thrown 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 [pg 161]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.
Sometimes, the moment the bait is thrown over the back of the boat, the shark lunges for it with such eagerness that it actually jumps partially out of the water. However, this is rare. On these occasions, it swallows the bait, the hook, and a foot or two of the chain all at once, without chewing, and bolts off with the deceptive prize so quickly that the rope snaps as soon as the coil is pulled out. It takes a lot of skill in the hand that holds the line at this moment. Someone clumsy is likely to be too quick and yank the hook out before it has sunk deep enough into the shark’s stomach. The key to the sport is to let the beast swallow the entire bait, and then give the line a sharp tug, causing the barbed point to lodge in the wall of the stomach. When the hook is first set, it comes out like a log-line from 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.
The sudden jerk when the shark is pulled up often flips it completely upside down. However, no sailor thinks about yanking it on board just by the rope attached to the hook. To avoid breaking the line, snapping the hook, or tearing the jaw off, a running bowline is used. This noose is slid down the rope and placed over the shark’s head, then secured at the point where the tail meets the body; at this point, the first part of the fun is considered done. The defeated foe is easily pulled up over the taffrail and tossed onto the deck, much to the crew’s delight. Even then, it can still be a very tough opponent. The flesh of the shark, although sometimes consumed, is tough and leathery.
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.
On several of the smaller islands of the Spanish Main, whaling stations have been set up. After the enormous fish are caught, they are towed by boats to one of these stations, where the blubber is removed and taken ashore in large white blocks to the boiling-house, where a simple setup is used for "auditioning" the oil. Sometimes, right after a whale is killed, sharks gather around it in such large numbers and consume the blubber so greedily that if the distance is far and the currents are against them, most of the blubber can be eaten away before the whale is towed ashore, wasting the fishermen's efforts.
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.
The tiger shark is a more terrifying creature than others of its kind because it can capture its prey without having to roll onto its back or side. It can do this thanks to the large size of its mouth and the location of its mouth, which is near the front of its snout instead of underneath like in other types of sharks.
“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.
Once the whale's body has been stripped of its blubber, it is towed out at high tide far enough from the station to ensure it will be washed away by the receding tide. This is crucial because the smell from such a huge pile of decaying flesh, which has been exposed to the scorching tropical sun for three or four days, is more than just 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.”
"Now is the opportunity for the shark hunters. They gather the remains, tow them to a suitable spot in the Bocas, which is what the channels between the islands are called, and anchor them there. Everything is set now, and all that's left to do is to eagerly and quietly wait for the hungry beasts to come for their midnight feasts."
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 canoes used for shark hunting are about twenty feet long. There’s a deep groove cut into the bow to guide the rope once the fish has been caught. A coil of fifteen fathoms of rope, neatly arranged under the seats, is secured at one end to a strong chain, with a harpoon attached at the other end. A lance is kept on board to help deliver the final blow to the shark when it has worn itself out enough.
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.
The people from various parts of the African coast worship the shark, viewing its stomach as the pathway to heaven. Three or four times a year, they row out and offer the shark poultry and goats to satisfy its hunger. That's not all; once a year, a child is sacrificed to the creature, which has been specifically fattened for this occasion from birth until the age of ten. On the party day, the unfortunate child is tied to a post on a sandy point at low tide; as the water rises, the sharks come. The child may scream, and the mother may cry, but it makes no difference; even the child's own parent believes that this terrible sacrifice will guarantee her child's entry into heaven.
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.
The dogfish—from which we get the skin called shagreen, used for glasses and other cases—along with the fierce and hungry hammerhead and the sawfish, all belong to the same large group. The sawfish will attack any creature in the ocean, even daring to challenge the whale. It measures between twelve and fifteen feet long, and its defensive weapon can be up to two yards long. Sometimes it rushes at the side of a ship with such force that it leaves its sword broken in the wood.
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.
Of the fourth great order, Ganoidea, the sturgeon is the most notable example. It's primarily a sea fish, although it swims upstream at certain times, much like salmon. It’s especially recognized for the number of bony plates or scales on its back and belly. In the ocean, the sturgeon feeds on herring, mackerel, and other fish; in rivers, it eats salmon. It's caught in traps or nets. The prepared roe, cleaned, soaked in vinegar, and partially dried, is the caviar of the Russians. The eggs of a female sturgeon can weigh over one-third of its total body weight, and since they can sometimes reach nearly 3,000 pounds, the production of caviar becomes an important and profitable industry.
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.
The fifth order, Teleostei, or bony fishes, includes a long list. This group features the round and glowing sunfish, the spiny pufferfish, the bony trunkfish, the armored pipefish, and the seahorse, which has a head similar to a horse and swims upright. It also contains flying fish, eels, herring, salmon, carp, cod, flatfish, mullets, tunas, and many others too numerous to mention. It is the most significant order for human purposes.
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.
The flying fish have been briefly mentioned earlier in this work. Captain Basil Hall noted a flight of 200 yards; they have landed on a ship that is fourteen or fifteen feet high and into the rigging of a battleship twenty feet above the water. They are often stressed by the attacks of other fish, and when they take to the air, they frequently become targets for gulls and other seabirds. Sharks and dolphins are their main predators. Their shiny, silver brilliance is especially stunning in the bright 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.
Among the most important bony fishes is definitely the salmon, which includes three well-known species, Atlantic salmon (the salmon itself), S. fario (the salmon trout), and S. trutta (the trout). The early life of the salmon is fascinating. The baby fry is primarily very defenseless, and for the first two or three weeks of its life, it carries a portion of the yolk from the egg it hatched from as a food source. This generally lasts it about twenty to forty days. It takes two years before the young salmon swims out to sea. In the first stage, the young salmon is called a parr; in the second stage, it is a smolt, i.e. a parr with a covering of silvery scales. The smolt, which during its two or more years in the river has only grown to six or eight inches, returns from the sea after a couple of months weighing three or four pounds, and after six months, ten or twelve pounds. At this point, it is a grilse.
Dr. Bertram says of the salmon’s growth:—
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.
The feeding in the ocean has to be good, and the fish need to be in the right condition in the saltwater to ensure such rapid growth—speed that is confirmed by every trip the fish takes to the ocean. Different fish have been tagged in their juvenile stage to show this; and with each migration, they return to their breeding streams heavier and healthier. What salmon eat while in saltwater isn't well understood, as their digestion is so fast that it's hard to find any food in their stomachs when they are caught and examined. There have been speculations, and some of them are likely close to the truth; however, the old story of the salmon's quick journey to the North Pole and back turns out to be just as much a myth as the theory used to explain the herring migration.
“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....
None of our naturalists have yet figured out the mystery of salmon life that turns half of the fish into sea-going smolts, while the other half remain as parr. This has been studied at the breeding ponds at Stormontfield, but the question is still unanswered. There's another uncertainty about salmon life that I want to bring up—whether the fish makes two trips to the sea each year; and also, whether it's likely that a smolt stays in salt water for nearly a year before becoming a grilse. It's commonly thought that a salmon only spends a very short time in salt water; and since it's one of the fastest-swimming fish we have, it can quickly reach a distant river. Therefore, it's really important for us to understand what it does when it's not migrating from one body of water to another; because, according to some naturalists, it could quickly decline in the river and become unable to handle even minimal effort....
“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 [pg 164]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.
At every stage of its life, the salmon faces threats. When spawning, the female is surrounded by a swarm of predators that instinctively gather at the breeding grounds to feast on the eggs. Hungry pike, sluggish perch, greedy trout, and even other salmon lie in wait, ready to gulp down the tasty roe carried away by the current. Waterfowl quickly swoop down on the precious eggs as soon as they are left by the fish; and if they manage to escape the grasp of the cormorants, the eggs might get washed away in a flood, or the spawning bed's location might shift, destroying the eggs due to insufficient water. For instance, a whiting weighing about three-quarters of a pound was caught in the Tay with three hundred fertilized salmon eggs in its stomach! If this fish continued to feed like this throughout the spawning season, it would be difficult to measure the loss our fisheries would suffer from its greed. Once the eggs ripen and young fish hatch, they are defenseless and vulnerable to all the predators mentioned earlier; meanwhile, parr have been taken from our streams in such large quantities that they are used as pig feed and fertilizer! Some economists estimate that only one out of every thousand eggs grows into a full-sized salmon. Mr. Thomas Tod Stoddart calculated that 150,000,000 salmon eggs are laid in the River Tay each year; of those, only 50,000,000, or one-third, survive to the parr stage; then 20,000,000 of those parr eventually become smolts, but their number ultimately drops to 100,000, with 70,000 caught by fishermen and just 30,000 left for breeding. Sir Humphry Davy estimated that if a salmon lays 17,000 eggs, only 800 would reach maturity. Thankfully, the female fish produces 1,000 eggs for every pound of her weight; because a lower reproductive rate, given the significant loss of life shown by these numbers, would have long ago—especially considering the destructive fishing methods used a few years back—led to the extinction of this valuable fish.
“The first person who ‘took a thought about the matter’—i.e., as to whether the [pg 165]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 first person who really considered whether the parr was or wasn’t the young of the salmon was James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. In his usual impulsive manner, he went out to confirm his beliefs. While tending to his sheep, he had many opportunities to observe the fishing streams, and like most people in his situation, he was quite skilled with a fishing rod. While fishing in the tributaries of several Border salmon streams, he often caught parr as they were becoming smolts, and after careful observation, he concluded that the little parr were actually young salmon. Hogg didn’t keep his discovery to himself; the more other naturalists challenged his findings, the more he proclaimed them loudly. He had suspected for a long time that parr were the early stage of salmon. He would catch a parr with some scattered scales; he would look at the fish and find it odd; then he would catch another, slightly more covered in silver scales, but those scales were all loose and not attached to the body. Then he would catch a smolt, clearly a smolt, fully covered in white silver scales, yet those were still quite loose on the skin, coming off in his hands. Once he removed those scales, he saw the parr with blue finger marks underneath, and it became as clear to the shepherd as it is that a lamb, if allowed to live, will grow into a sheep. Confused by this, he tagged a large number of the smaller fish and offered rewards (usually whisky) to the local people for bringing him those that had clearly undergone the transformation he anticipated. Once he was sure of his conclusion, the Shepherd immediately shared his newfound knowledge. ‘What will the fishermen of Scotland think,’ he said, ‘when I assure them, based on long experience and observation, and from the word of someone with no interest in misleading them, that every insignificant parr filling the cockney fisher's basket is a salmon lost!’ These earnest efforts from the enthusiastic Shepherd of Ettrick faced strong opposition from the late Mr. Buist of Stormontfield, but they ultimately proved effective, thoroughly convincing him that parr were indeed young salmon in their first __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ stage."
The following amusing dialogue on the habits of the salmon once took place between the Ettrick Shepherd and a friend:—
The following amusing conversation about the habits of salmon once happened 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.’
“Shepherd:—‘I believe that every salmon returns from the sea to spawn in its own waters.’
“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?’
Friend:—‘Hey, Jamie! How can it figure that out? How, in all that's amazing, can a fish, swimming through muddy water from the ocean, know when it reaches the place where it was born, or that it has arrived at the stream where it came from?’
“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!’ ”
“Shepherd:—‘What blows my mind isn’t how the fish return, but how they make their way to the sea initially, especially since they’ve never been there before!’ ”
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 canned salmon, now widely popular in England, which was an expensive luxury just a few years ago, is now affordable for everyone. It mainly comes from the Columbia River in Oregon and other areas along the North Pacific coast. In Northwestern America, this fish is extremely common in the market. In a city like San Francisco, it sells for eight cents (4d.) per pound. Further up the coast, a large fish can be bought for a quarter to half a dollar. Even farther north, you can trade a piece of tobacco or a few needles for a twenty or thirty-pound salmon. They're so plentiful that I have seen them on the shores of streams and creeks feeding into the Fraser River in British Columbia, lying in piles, bleeding, gasping, and dying, having literally crowded each other out of the water. “Schools” of them are often so densely packed that they block the movement 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?
The salmon fisheries of the Columbia, one of the largest rivers in the world, provide jobs for 4,000 people during the season, and nearly all the canned salmon consumed in Europe comes from there.44 There are many rivers along the northwest coast that are just as accessible, and the industry is still in its early stages; meanwhile, salted, pickled, or smoked salmon hardly ever makes it to England from there. As will be evident, there are great opportunities on that coast for hundreds of newcomers, with or without capital. Of course, having capital is always the better option. 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.
Some ten or so different types of salmon and salmon-trout, according to Mr. Murphy, enter the rivers of North-Western America, but only one is chosen for commercial use. Two of the finest-eating varieties—the silvery-white and spring salmons—are never canned because their schools are less numerous and the fish themselves are smaller. The hook-nosed and dog salmons are rarely eaten, except by Native Americans; no one has yet been found who would eat the humpback salmon. The blue-back, or weak-toothed salmon, which is also an inferior fish, is only exported to the Sandwich Islands, where locals are said to actually prefer its lean and fibrous meat over the more delicately-flavored and juicy varieties. The salmon mostly caught is referred to by the Indians as the "Tyhee," or chief; it is plentiful, large, and delicious; it has those "well-rounded" qualities that make it especially suitable for both commerce and cooking. It is the Chinook salmon of the scientists.
The fishery season on the Columbia lasts from the beginning of April to the end of [pg 167]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.
The fishing season on the Columbia runs from early April to the end of July, and the fishing areas stretch along the river for over a hundred miles. Some processing facilities hire their own workers to manage the nets, while others buy fish directly from fishermen. The price for fish weighing between fifteen and forty pounds ranges from 25 cents to 50 cents (about one to two shillings). These prices might seem absurdly low if it weren't for the abundance of fish and how easily they can be caught. A group of four men can catch anywhere from 300 to 2,000 salmon in just twenty-four hours! Taking the lowest estimate—300 at 25 cents—results in 75 dollars (or £15) to split among the four fishermen. But that would be a poor catch. A thousand fish is pretty common. At the lowest price, that would mean 250 dollars (£50) to share. Of course, you also have to account for the wear and tear on the boat and fishing equipment.
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.
Large amounts of fish are caught in weirs. The Native Americans, knowing that salmon usually try to avoid strong currents, construct low stone walls extending about ten to twelve feet into the river from the shore. This creates calmer water, which attracts the salmon, making them easy to catch with nets or by spearing. In some spots, there are so many salmon that an Indian can often flick them out of the water with a quick, skillful snap of his paddle to his partner on the beach, who will then promptly hit them on the head and gut 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.
At the curing houses, mostly owned by Americans, the labor is primarily done by Chinese workers under the supervision of white men. “John” quickly and skillfully guts the fish and removes its head; then he cuts it into pieces, which are boiled first in salt and then in fresh water. Next, the tins are filled and sealed, leaving only a small hole at the top. The tins are then submerged in boiling water, and when all the air is removed, a few drops of solder effectively seal them until they're needed for serving. The process is basically the same as what's used to preserve 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.”
Many British and Irish waterfalls are famous for their salmon jumps. In Inverness-shire at Kilmorack, at Ballyshannon in Donegal, and Leixlip near Dublin, as well as in Pembrokeshire and elsewhere, these jumps are well-known, and many have osier baskets placed below to catch the fish when they miss their leap. Anglers have even shot them mid-leap, so to speak. At the Falls of Kilmorack, Lord Lovat came up with the idea of setting up a furnace and frying pan on a rocky ledge overlooking the river. After their unsuccessful attempts, some of the unfortunate salmon would accidentally fall into the frying pan. The noble lord could then brag that the resources of his country were so plentiful that by just placing a furnace and frying pan on the riverbanks, the salmon would jump in on their own without any help from the angler. However, it’s more likely that Lord Lovat knew the best way to enjoy salmon is to cook it fresh from the water, before the rich parts of the fish lose their firmness.
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 [pg 168]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.
In our country, the Tweed, Tay, Spey, and Severn are all well-known rivers for salmon; a Tay fish can sometimes weigh up to sixty pounds. It's interesting that adult salmon don’t eat in the rivers. "Juvenile experiences seem to stay in their memory, causing them to snap at a shiny artificial minnow or a flashy fly, but they never jump out of the water; the bait has to go down to them, and once hooked, they shake it off like a terrier does with a rat." Their excess fat allows them to survive on their own reserves, similar to how Asiatic and African doomba sheep do when avalanches and heavy snow block their food sources.45 They become much thinner while in fresh water; their color dulls, and their flavor significantly declines. Izaak Walton’s claim that "The farther they are from the ocean, the bigger and better they become." is completely incorrect, as they only gain weight in the sea. In March 1845, the Duke of Athole caught a ten-pound salmon in the Tay after it had spawned, attached a medal to it, and released it back into the sea. That same salmon, with its medal, was caught again five weeks and a few days later after being in the rejuvenating salt water. It had more than doubled in weight, reaching twenty-one pounds.
CHAPTER 15.
Ocean Life—The Harvest of the Sea It seems like your request is incomplete. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.finished).
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?
The Clupedidae—The Herring—Its Hidden Meanings—A Warning for Royalty—The “Great Fishery”—Fishing Techniques—An Evening with the Wick Fishermen—Fish That Leap to Their Deaths—The Significance of Deep-Sea Fisheries—Report from the Commissioners—Reproductive Rate of the Herring—No Concerns About a Fish Shortage—The Shad—The Sprat—The Cornish Pilchard Fisheries—The “Huer”—Getting the “Tuck”—A Major Catch—Gigantic Halibut—Newfoundland Cod Fisheries—Cruel Practices in Tuna Fishing—The Mackerel—Its Courage and Affection for Humans—Garum Sauce—The Fierce Swordfish—Fishing with Torches—Spear Through a Ship’s Side—General Thoughts on Fish—Fish Life—Conversations—Musical Fish—Joy and Excitement—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.
A significant and important group of bony fish is classified under the family name Clupedæ. It includes valuable fish like herring, pilchard, shad, and anchovy. This family is just as interesting to merchants as it is to food enthusiasts.
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 [pg 169]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 hardly needs an introduction here, but it’s worth noting that its back, which is indigo after death, appears greenish when it’s alive. The strange markings often found on herring have led some uninformed fishermen to think they signify mysterious, secretive messages. On one November day nearly three hundred years ago, two herrings were caught off the coast of Norway that had marks resembling Gothic printed characters. “They were presented to the then King of Norway, Frederick II, who was so terrified by the markings he saw on the backs of the innocent fish that he turned pale, believing they announced his imminent death and that of his queen.” A council of scholars was called, and the learned ones solemnly reported that the words implied, “Very soon you will stop fishing for herrings, just like everyone else.” Some more diplomatic scientists offered a different explanation, but it didn’t matter, as the king died the following year, and his former subjects became convinced that the two herrings were celestial messengers sent to announce their 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.
The herring is found everywhere in the Northern Ocean, from the coasts of France and England to Greenland and Lapland. They are very social fish and travel in huge schools, appearing suddenly and unpredictably in any given area. On the coast of Norway, the electric telegraph is used to alert fishing towns when the schools are approaching, which can always be seen from a distance by the waves they create. In the fjords of Norway, herring fishing is a primary source of livelihood for the coastal population. In 1857, the Norwegian government laid a 100-mile submarine cable around the coast, with conveniently placed stations onshore to notify the fishermen. In Holland, catching and curing herring is a highly profitable industry; the fishery is thus known as “the great” while whaling is referred to 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 herring. Two hundred years after his death, Emperor Charles V. solemnly ate a herring at his tomb, honoring the memory of the creator of a major national industry.
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.
In our country, there is also a significant trade in fish. Yarmouth sends out 400 vessels that range from forty to sixty tons, with the larger ones carrying a crew of twelve. In 1857, three fishing boats from this seaport brought home 3,762,000 fish. A few years ago, the town of Wick in Scotland had 920 boats involved in the fishing industry.
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:—[pg 170]“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 Dutch use lines that are 500 feet long, with fifty or more nets for each line. The top part of these nets is buoyed with empty barrels or cork, while they are weighed down with lead or stone. They can be lowered by extending the cord attached to the buoys. The mesh of the nets is designed so that if a herring is too small to be caught in the first mesh, it can pass through and get caught in the next one. Dr. Bertram went out in a Wick boat to the fishing grounds. He says:—[pg 170]Finally, after a long cruise, our commander, who had been silent for half an hour, jumped up and rallied us to action. ‘Get up, men, and let's do this!’ was the command for the night. We immediately started preparing to shoot the nets by lowering the sail. All around us, there was a busy world of boats; many had their sails down, nets floating in the water, and their crews resting. Others were still moving around anxiously, their captains, like ours, eager to find the right spot to fish. Eventually, we were ready; the ‘dog,’ a large inflated bladder to mark the far end of the line, was thrown overboard, and the nets, breadth by breadth, followed as quickly as the men could pay them out, until the massive line was completely in the water, creating a perforated wall a mile long and several feet deep, with the ‘dog’ and the marking bladder floating and bobbing in long zig-zag patterns, looking like the imagined coils of a great sea serpent. After three hours of calm under a beautiful sky, the stars—
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.
They began to dim their fires, and the gray dawn revealed that it was time to evaluate the situation. We discovered that the boat had quietly drifted with the tide, pulling us far from the harbor. The skipper sensed there were fish in his net, and the movement of a few floats made it almost certain; he decided to check the drifts. ‘Hurrah!’ shouted Murdoch from Skye; ‘there’s a ton of fish, skipper, no doubt about it.’ Murdoch’s report was spot on; our nets were full of shimmering herrings—so much so that it took a long time to haul them in. It was a breathtaking sight to see the glistening fish rising like a sheet of silver from the water, each letting out a weak death-chirp as it was tossed into the bottom of the boat. In the past, the fish would be left tangled in the net until the boat reached the harbor; but now, as the net is pulled on board, they are immediately shaken out. As our silvery catch pours into the boat, we roughly estimate our haul at fifty crates—a fantastic night’s work. Wick boats are not, however, always this lucky. The herring fleet has been caught in fierce storms more than once, resulting in the loss of valuable lives, boats, and nets.
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?
Early in December, 1879, a strange epidemic of suicide hit the herrings and sprats in Deal Roads, and they rushed ashore in such huge numbers at Walmer that the fishermen got fed up with hauling them away, leaving them on the beach for anyone who wanted to take some. Nature seems to occasionally limit overpopulation, but if that's true, there’s no need to worry about herring shortages, because nature wouldn’t help out the fishermen who are always battling against it. Such mass suicides happen in other animal species too. In Africa, swarms of ants have been seen intentionally marching into streams, where they were quickly eaten by fish. Rats have migrated in vast numbers, stopping nowhere, both day and night, and have fallen prey to large birds and carnivorous animals. A few years back in the Seychelles, several hundred turtles banded together to die on the island in front of the harbor, and they went through with it. Were they suffering from rabies, delirium tremens, or some other illness? Even the cheerful and lively butterfly has been known to migrate in enormous clouds from the land straight out to sea, with no chance of ever reaching another shore. What could be the reason for such a suicidal behavior?
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.
It’s hard to overestimate the value of deep-sea fisheries; according to reliable statistics, England and Wales alone employ nearly 15,000 boats, with almost double that number of "hands," plus over 14,000 others who occasionally work on the coasts. The report by Commissioners Frank Buckland and Spencer Walpole, who were tasked with investigating fishing methods in these two countries and how well they follow proper practices, is therefore both important and interesting. There were concerns that deep-sea fishing, which certainly results in the capture of countless young and useless fish, might have similar negative effects as the wasteful fishing and dredging seen with salmon and oysters.
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 [pg 172]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.
The Commissioners assure us that there’s no reason for alarm or for new laws. The generous sea is practically endless. “Thinking about,” wrote a commentator on the Report, So much has been discussed about the intentional destruction of fish spawn, and it’s surprising to hear that no one ‘has ever seen the eggs of soles, turbot, plaice, and similar fish after they are released from the parent,’ while regarding fish in general, the Commissioners add: ‘As far as we know, there is, with one exception—herring spawn—no well-documented case of the spawn of any edible fish being raised in a trawl net or caught in any other net.’ With these words, one concern about the sea lessens. Nature, despite her flaws elsewhere, knows how to take care of herself here. She continues her life-giving processes out of our reach, wrapped in a mystery that even today’s sharpest observations can’t reveal, as the Commissioners remind us that, generally speaking, ‘little is known about the seasons when sea fish spawn or where the spawn is released; even less is known about how long it takes for the spawn, once released, to develop.’ But while the spawn can elude human influence, the young fish aren’t so fortunate. It’s clear that a massive waste of fry of all types occurs around our coasts. Trawlers, shrimpers, seine nets, and fixed engines all target these tiny creatures, destroying tons each year. At first glance, it appears to be a serious problem. However, the Commissioners argue so convincingly about its significance that it ultimately becomes a minor concern. Starting with the undeniable fact that all animals have ‘a tendency to reproduce faster than their means of survival,’ Messrs. Buckland and Walpole emphasize that this especially applies to sea fish; they use the prolific herring as an example. Imagine British waters containing sixty thousand million female herrings, each laying twenty thousand eggs; the total number of eggs that, without natural or artificial limits, would reach maturity is twelve hundred million million—an expression that’s easy to write but impossible for the mind to fully grasp, much like the concept of eternity. To put it simply, these countless numbers, if packed into five hundred-foot cubes, could create a wall around the Earth two hundred feet wide and one hundred feet high. The implication from such incredible figures is that human destruction has a minor impact. One herring is caught for every half-million eggs, while the original population would stay stable if just one egg out of ten thousand matured. While not every fish is as abundant as the herring, the argument applies to each species in its own way, and can be generally summarized [pg 172] that the rate of spawn and fry that must die is so high that the effects of human activity are almost insignificant. Concerning the related important question of whether the fish supply is decreasing, the Commissioners have no doubts. They state, ‘far from the fish stock decreasing, we believe that, overall, the supply of fish is at least as great as it ever has been; there are even reasons to think that it is actually increasing.’ On the other hand, they mention a common belief that the catch of flat fish, like soles and plaice, is decreasing; the local explanation almost everywhere points to the destruction of fry. However, while the Commissioners do not dispute the reported decrease, except in the case of soles, they do not accept the proposed cause and generally do not see a need for restrictive legislation. The outlook for our ocean fishing, both as an industry and as a food source, is therefore positive. The harvest from the sea is steady, and although there might be local variations, the return for those "who gather what they didn't plant" is reliable.
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.
Of the shad, although not as widely recognized as herring, there are twenty known species. During the spawning season, this fish often swims close to the mouths of large rivers. It's found in the spring in the Rhine, Seine, Garonne, Volga, Elbe, and many of our own rivers. In some Irish rivers, the number of shad caught has been so large that no amount of effort has been enough to pull in the net. It can sometimes grow to a considerable size, weighing between four and six pounds. Shad caught at sea is considered to be coarser tasting 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.
The sprat has sometimes been mistaken for the young herring, and the debate about this has occasionally heated up. Some anatomists claim that the only difference is size. It has a serrated belly, which Bertram compares to the tuck in a child’s dress, designed for growth. “Fishing for sprats,” he says, "Is as clear an example of ruining something valuable as the grilse slaughter occurring in our salmon rivers." But Figuier points out to that writer that young herrings are caught without the serrated belly, and that the curer’s purchase is determined by the rough belly of the sprat and the smooth belly of the herring. Sprats are often so plentiful that they can’t be sold, and are then actually used as fertilizer.
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.
The pilchard visits our coasts year-round, with the main fisheries located in Cornwall. Wilkie Collins painted a vivid and engaging picture of the "look-out" for their arrival and capture.46 He writes: A newcomer in Cornwall, taking his first walk along the cliffs in August, wouldn't get far without seeing something that would seem really odd and even unsettling. He would spot a man standing at the edge of a cliff right above the sea, waving a bush in a very unusual way, gesturing to the right and left, waving it over his head, and sweeping it past his feet; in other words, acting like someone dangerously insane. The stranger would be even more surprised to learn that the man acting like a madman was actually being paid a guinea a week to wave the bush.__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ And if he moved a bit closer to get a better look at the lunatic and noticed a well-manned boat below carefully tracking the bush’s movements, his confusion would likely be total, and he would seriously question the sanity of the locals.
“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 [pg 174]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.
"But a few words of explanation would change his mind. He would learn that the man was an important figure in the pilchard fishery in Cornwall, that he had just seen a shoal swimming toward the shore, and that the men in the boats were following his signals as they organized to catch the fish that so many depend on for their livelihood." These watchers are locally known as "guides." They can easily spot the approaching shoals, as they darken the water and create a cloud-like effect. As they get closer, you can see the fish leaping and playing on the surface by the hundreds; sometimes there are so many that the fish at the back push those in front onto the shore, where they are caught 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 boats, each weighing around fifteen tons, carry a large, long seine net, kept afloat by corks and weighted down by lead. The main goal in the fishery, directed by the "color" on the cliffs, is to herd the fish 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.
“The main goal now is to surround the entire shoal. The leads drop straight down to the bottom on one side of the net, while the corks keep the other side floating at the surface. Once the net has completely encircled the shoal, the two ends are secured, trapping the fish within a long, netted barrier. The challenge now is to let as few pilchards escape as possible while finishing the process. Whenever the ‘huer’ sees that the fish are startled and separating at any spot, he waves his bush, and the boat heads in that direction, where the net is immediately thrown; the fish are skillfully guided and blocked in all directions. After this work is done, the silence of intense anticipation that has filled the air is broken by shouts of joy from everywhere—the shoal is captured.” The seine is now seen as a huge reservoir of fish and can stay in the water for a week or more. The pilchards are gathered from it using a smaller net called the “tuck in.” When this net has gone all the way around the seine, everything is set for the big moment—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.
Now there's a buzz of excitement on the sea and shore; every small boat in the area heads out filled with spectators. Boys are shouting, dogs are barking, and the high-pitched voices of the boys mix with the deep voices of the ‘seiners.’ Standing in a row in the seine-boat are six or eight strong, sunburned guys, pulling with all their might at the ‘tuck’-net, and loudly shouting the nautical ‘Yo, heave ho!’ together. The net lifts higher and higher; the boys and onlookers cheer louder and louder; the ‘huer,’ who has been calm and composed until now, loses his cool and waves his cap in triumph. ‘Hooray! hooray! Yoy—hoy, hoy! Pull away, boys! Up she comes! Here they are!’ The water churns and swirls; the ‘tuck’-net breaks the surface, revealing a bustling, writhing mass of shiny, glimmering, silvery scales—a solid mass of thousands of fish, each one desperately trying to escape, appears instantly. Boats as large as barges rush in around the nets, dozens of baskets are produced, and fish are scooped up with them and tossed out, like coals from a sack, into the boats. Soon the men are ankle-deep in pilchards; they leap onto the benches and keep working until the boats can’t hold any more. They’re almost at the rim before they head back to shore. At the little fishing cove of Trereen, Mr. Wilkie Collins tells us, 600 hogsheads, each containing 2,400 fish or more, were caught in just over 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.
The sardine is part of the Clupedæ family. Its commercial name comes from Sardinia, but it's found throughout the Mediterranean, the coast of Brittany, and other places. Along the coast of Brittany, these fish are caught in floating nets and placed in willow baskets, layer by layer, with each boat returning to port after catching 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.
Space won't allow for more than a brief mention of flat-fish, or Flounders. These fish use their tail fin to swim and can easily move up or down in the water, but they have a harder time turning left or right compared to other fish. Most flat-fish, like soles, turbot, flounders, and plaice, are caught with trawl nets. Some of the larger ones are caught by spearing.
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 halibut is a large fish that can reach up to seven feet long and weigh as much as 300 pounds. One that was brought to Edinburgh measured seven and a half feet long and three feet wide, weighing 320 pounds. In Norway and Greenland, fishermen use a long line with about thirty smaller lines attached, each with a barbed hook, to catch them. The main line is connected to floating planks that mark the spot where it’s dropped.
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 Gadidae family includes some of the most important fish in commercial fishing, like whiting, haddock, and cod, which are well-known for their appearance and characteristics.
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.
The cod fish is a very eager eater and has a huge stomach. It feeds on mollusks, crabs, and small fish, and has even been known to swallow bits of wood. It's primarily a sea fish and is never found in rivers. Since the time of John Cabot, the English, French, Dutch, and Americans have been fishing extensively in the waters off Newfoundland; 2,000 English vessels, crewed by 32,000 sailors, are engaged in this pursuit. The modern cod-smack is built like a clipper, has large tank wells for keeping the fish alive, and costs about £1,500. The fish are caught using nets or lines. Bertram tells us that each fisherman has a line that is fifty fathoms long, equipped with a hundred hooks, baited with mussels, pieces of herring, or whiting. “Upon reaching the fishing area, the fishermen toss overboard a cork buoy topped with a six-foot flagpole. The buoy stays in place thanks to a line called the ‘pow end,’ which reaches the bottom of the water, anchored by a stone or grapnel. The fishing line is also attached to the ‘pow end’ and is let out as quickly as the boat moves, which is about four to five knots per hour. If the wind is unfavorable for the direction the crew wants to set the line, they use oars. Once the line, or ‘taes,’ is fully extended, the end is dropped, and the boat goes back to the buoy. The ‘pow’ line is then pulled up with the anchor and fishing line attached. The fishermen then reel in the line, along with the fish. Eight hundred fish could be, and often have been, caught by eight men in just a few hours using this method; however, many fishermen now say they feel lucky if they catch one fish for every five hooks on an eight-lined ‘taes’ line.” Along our coasts, cod are mainly caught using deep-sea lines, with many shorter lines attached, armed with large hooks. One man has caught 400 fish in ten hours, and eight men have caught 160 fish in one day off the Dogger Bank. The coasts of Norfolk and Lincoln provide a large supply; the fish caught are stored in well-boats and taken to Gravesend, from where they are transferred to market boats and sent to Billingsgate. The store-boats, with their wells that allow water to circulate, cannot go any further upstream because the fresh water of the Thames, and possibly some of the not-so-fresh water, would kill the fish.
The haddock is also taken with lines. In the village of Findhorn, Morayshire, large [pg 176]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 haddock is also caught with fishing lines. In the village of Findhorn, Morayshire, a large number of high-quality haddocks are dried and smoked using hard wood and sawdust. This gives rise to the term “Finnan haddies,” which, when sourced, are the best for culinary use, offering a superior flavor.
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 mackerel (Mackerel) is a highly valuable fish for people. The tuna, bonito, and mackerel provide a huge supply of great food, with the tuna being particularly prized in parts of France, where it’s considered better than any other fish. It's known as the salmon of Provence. They grow much larger than mackerel, with some reaching lengths of seven, eight, or even nine feet, and weighing up to 400 pounds. They are especially plentiful in the Mediterranean, where they are typically caught in nets. In Provence, they are driven into a confined area called the madrague, where the fish end up trapped in shallow water. Then "the carnage begins. The unlucky creatures," says Figuier, "are hit with long poles, boat hooks, and other tools. Tuna fishing shows a very distressing scene at this final stage; large fish die from the blows of many fishermen, who perform their bloody task with dramatic flair. The sight of the poor animals, some injured and nearly dead, trying unsuccessfully to escape from their brutal attackers, is very difficult to watch. The sea, stained with blood, long carries the scars of this horrific 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.
The bonita is mainly a tropical fish, similar to the mackerel, but more than twice its size. It is the main predator of the flying-fish and has electrical or stinging abilities, as anyone trying to hold a live fish experiences a violent shaking, almost like paralysis, and finds their tongue tied, only able to make a few spasmodic sounds.
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 common in all European seas. It's called the mackerel by the French, the macarello by modern Romans, the mackerel by the Swedes, the bretal in some parts of Brittany, the scombro by the Venetians, the lacesto by the Neapolitans, and the horse by the Spaniards. It's one of the most widely appreciated 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.
The mackerel is very aggressive and has enough guts to go after fish that are much bigger than itself. It will even go after humans and is said to have a taste for them, in a culinary sense. A Norwegian bishop from the sixteenth century documented an incident where a sailor was attacked by a school of mackerel while he was swimming. His friends came to help, but although they managed to scare off the fish, it was too late; he died a few hours later.
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.
This fish is generally caught using drift nets that are about 20 feet deep and 120 feet long, well buoyed with cork, but without weights to sink them. The meshes are made from fine tarred twine. They are at their best in June and July. In ancient times, people made a spicy sauce from their fat, called fish sauce, which sold for the equivalent of sixteen shillings per pint. It was sharp and unpleasant but had the effect of stimulating lackluster appetites. Seneca claimed it destroyed the stomach lining and harmed the health of the wealthy eaters of his time. A 16th-century traveler, Pierre Belon, found it highly valued in Constantinople.
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 [pg 178]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.
The powerful swordfish is also decent eating, especially when it's younger, and there are fishing operations to catch them in the Mediterranean. The fishermen in Messina and Reggio fish at night, using large boats equipped with torches, with a mast where one of them stands to signal the approach of their prey, which is then harpooned by someone at the front of the boat. This fish can grow to five or six feet long, with its sword making up about thirty percent of its length. It’s a natural enemy of whales and even takes issue with boats passing through its territory. There are many examples of ship hulls being pierced by it. In 1725, some carpenters examining a vessel that had just returned from the tropics found the sword of one of these fish embedded in its lower timbers. They claimed that to drive a pointed iron bolt of the same size to the same depth would take eight or nine strikes with a thirty-pound hammer. It was also clear from the position of the sword that the fish had followed the ship while it was under full sail; it had penetrated the metal sheathing and three-and-a-half inches of the timber.
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.
And now, before we move on from the smaller and medium types of ocean life to the deep-sea giants, a few general observations are worth mentioning. Pliny listed 94 species of fish; Linnaeus identified 478; today's scientists recognize over 13,000, with about one-tenth being freshwater fish. This explains why only a few of the more significant, useful, or interesting species have been covered 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.”
A tough scientist once described fish life as "quiet, dull, and joyless." Modern science has proven all of these claims wrong. For starters, there are species known to “play jaw harps, trumpets, and drums.... Musical fish are a proven reality, as they can be heard in schools playing their jaw harps in unison, and other types have been caught in the act of trumpeting and drumming.” As we have seen, Bertram mentions the "death chirp" of the captured herring. The use of the telephone has shown 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 about a large fish, Barbes macrocephalus, which makes a distinctive “cluck,” or persuasive noise, that can be heard up to forty feet away from the water. He also mentions a bivalve from Eastern Assam that actually “sings loudly at 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.
How fish life could be described as boring and lifeless will confuse anyone who has watched them in a large aquarium, where every move shows pleasure or at least excitement. Now think about their life in the ocean. All around them is life—life that is always active. The ancients said, and Pliny agreed, that you could find anything or everything in the water that you could find on land, plus much more. There's the thrill of the chase, where they might be the ones being chased or the ones doing the chasing. “Not just,” said a writer in a major daily newspaper, "Can they enjoy escaping from sharks, just like we would from tigers if they walked the streets, while watching the ocean's giant creatures glide through their territory, or finding fun and learning from flying fish or perch climbing trees, the playful behaviors of sunfish and pipefish, the clever tricks of the ‘angler-fish,’ the electric abilities of some, the glowing features of others, the poisonous traits of certain species, or the strange appearances of others? Not only is all the variety of experiences found on land also available in water, but there’s an even wider range and more diversity. The ocean floor is filled with wonders, and the rocks are packed with marvels." 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.
An accomplished ichthyologist, Mr. F. Francis, has sparked the ongoing debate, "Do fish nap?" Very few fish, with the dogfish being one of the rare exceptions, can actually close their eyes. On the flip side, some humans, especially infants, can sleep with one or both eyes open, and the hare is said to be able to nap in the same way. Fish seem to need sleep due to their constant movement, but in reality, no scientist has ever observed one sleeping.
CHAPTER 16.
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.
Mark Twain on Whales—A New Take on an Old Story—Whales as Food—Whaling in 1670—The Great Mammal's Enemy, the “Killer”—The Animal's Habitat—The Fisheries—The Sperm Whale—Spermaceti—The Hunt—The Capture—A Legendary Creature—The Great Sea Serpent—Tales from Norway—An Archdeacon's Account—Tales from America—From Greenland—Mahone Bay—A Tropical Sea Serpent—What is the Creature?—Sighted on a Voyage to India—Off the Coast of Africa—Additional Accounts—Professor Owen's Views on the Matter—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.
Some years ago, when a person with a disability wrote to Mark Twain asking for his thoughts on the value of fish as “brain food” Twain's response was straightforward:—"Fish food is great: it's packed with phosphorus and nutrients. In your situation, I recommend a small whale!" Unfortunately, Mark Twain made a common mistake. The whale is not a fish; it's a mammal: it nurses its young. The writer has tried whale meat—that is, a small piece of it. Whale brain, wrapped in batter and prepared like a fritter, is actually quite tasty.
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.
The British whaler from around 1670 is quaintly described by Frederic Martin, who visited Spitzbergen and Greenland that year. He says:—Whoever on the ship's crew spots a dead whale yells, ‘It's mine!’ and as a result, the merchants have to pay him a ducat for being alert. Many of them often climb up the mast hoping to earn a ducat, but they usually end up disappointed. When the dead whale is secured to the ship, two small boats hold onto the other side of the whale, with a man or boy in each holding a long hook to secure the boat to the ship. The harpooner stands at the front of the boat or on the whale, wearing a leather suit, and sometimes they wear boots. Below the hook, some sharp nails are fixed to help them maintain their grip. The two men who cut off the blubber have set wages for this task, which is about four or five rix dollars. First, they cut a large piece from behind the head, near the eyes, which they call the kenter-piece, meaning the winding-piece; as they cut all the other blubber in rows from the whale towards the tail, they make this large kenter-piece wider and larger than the rest. Once this piece is cut all around the whale, it extends from the water to the cradle (the round circle surrounding the middle of the mast, shaped like a basket), indicating the size of the whale. A strong, thick rope is attached to this kenter-piece, with the other end secured beneath the cradle, lifting the whale out of the water so they can access it, which causes the ship to tilt to that side because of the whale's great weight. You can tell how tough the blubber is because a hole is made in this piece, through which the rope is attached, but not too deep into the fat, allowing them to turn the whale as needed. Then they cut another piece nearby, which is also pulled up into the ship and cut into pieces about a foot square. The knives used are about the length of a man, including the handles. 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 [pg 180]“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.
Mr. Brierly tells us that the most significant natural enemy of the whale along the coast of Australia is the “awesome,” a type of large porpoise with a blunt head and big teeth. These [pg 180]"killers" often attack the whale, harassing it like a pack of dogs, and sometimes kill it. The whalers see these creatures as valuable allies because when they spot from the lookout that a whale has been heave-to by them, they can be pretty sure of capturing it. The killers show no fear of the boats and will attack the whale simultaneously; if a boat gets damaged, which happens often, they won’t hurt the men when they’re in the water. The Australian natives around Twofold Bay say the killers are the spirits of their own people, and when they see them, they pretend to point out specific individuals they’ve known. Some are quite large, exceeding twenty-five feet; they blow from their heads, just like whales do.
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 [pg 181]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.”
The homes of whales are not well understood. The question of where the northern whale breeds has long puzzled whalers. It's a cold-water animal. Maury asks:—“Is the nursery for the great whale located in the Polar Sea, which is surrounded and blocked off by ice to prevent human interference? This natural barrier raises another question: Where does all the food for the young whales come from? Do the active whalers from the Gulf Stream transport it through deep-sea channels where predators can’t reach it? It was generally thought that the northern whale, which now inhabits the Polar Sea, used to migrate annually to the warmer Atlantic regions as far as the Bay of Biscay, and that hunting pressure from whalers forced it to retreat to icy waters. However, this view has been found to be incorrect, stemming from a confusion between two different whale species. Like other whales, the northern species migrates and shifts its location with the seasons; systematic records kept by Danish settlers in Greenland show that the same individual often shows up at the same time in the same fjord. The females of the southern whale visit the coasts of the Cape in June to give birth and then return to deeper waters in August or September. It was believed that the northern whale migrated for similar reasons. However, this is no longer accepted as true. Its movements are now thought to be solely related to climate changes, especially ice movements in Baffin’s Bay. It lives entirely among glaciers, so it is found in the south during winter and in the north during summer. Whaling has reduced its population but has not altered its way of life. It is now stated that the whale once thought to have visited the North Atlantic is actually a completely different species, which is much more aggressive and dangerous than the northern whale, and also smaller and less rich in oil. The fishing of the northern whale ended toward the end of the last century, but it is believed to not be completely extinct. On September 17th, 1854, a whale and its calf showed up near St. Sebastian in the Bay of Biscay; the mother escaped, but the calf was captured. Based on a drawing of its skeleton, MM. Eschricht and Rheinhardt from Copenhagen believe it belonged to a species different from the Greenland whale, leading to the name ‘Mysticete’ being applied to various whales.”
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.
The sperm whale, according to Maury, prefers warm waters, while the correct whale thrives in cold waters. Records from American whalers indicate that the tropics are like a sea of fire to the right whale, which it cannot navigate; and that the right whale from the northern hemisphere is a different species from the one in the southern hemisphere; and that the sperm whale has never been recorded as passing around the Cape of Good Hope— it goes around Cape Horn instead.
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 [pg 182]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.
Mr. Beale has done more to explain the habits and shape of this whale than any other writer. Its most distinctive feature is its head, which has a very thick, blunt end, making up about a third of the animal's total length. When viewed from the front, the head has a broad, flat surface that is rounded and tapered on top, significantly wider on the sides, and gradually narrowing below, somewhat resembling the bow of a ship. On the right [pg 182]side of the snout, there’s a cavity that secretes and stores an oily substance, which after death solidifies into a material called spermaceti, of which a large whale can contain up to a ton. The mouth stretches nearly the entire length of the head, and the throat is wide enough to allow the passage of a human body, providing a stark contrast to the narrow throat of the Greenland whale. Just beneath the black skin of the sperm whale lies the blubber, or fat, known as “the blanket,” which has a light yellowish color and produces sperm oil when melted. A specimen captured in 1829 near Whitstable measured sixty-two feet long. The oil was valued at £320, not including the spermaceti.49 Many years ago, the Samuel Enderby, a whaler, returned from the south with a cargo of sperm oil worth £40,000.
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.
This whale swallows large amounts of small fish and has been known to spit out a fish as big as a medium-sized salmon. This species is social, and the groups, called “schools” consist of females and young males. Mr. Beale saw 500 to 600 in one school. Each female school is accompanied by one to three large "bulls," or “teachers,” as whalers call them. Adult males usually go off in search of food. A large whale can produce eighty, and sometimes even one hundred, barrels of oil. Among the whale's habits are "breaking" which is when it leaps out of the water and falls back on its side, creating a splash that can be seen from the mast-head six miles away on a clear day; while "going forward," the whale can reach speeds of ten to twelve miles per hour, which Mr. Beale believes to be its top speed; "lob-tailing" is when it slaps the water with its tail. There are many dangers and narrow escapes during the capture process.
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.
In 1839, the bones of a sperm whale were discovered among debris in a tower of Durham Castle. A letter dated June 20th, 1661, from the Surtees Collection, indicates that it had washed ashore at that time and was skeletal to decorate this old tower. Clusius mentioned, in 1605, a sperm whale that had been thrown ashore seven years earlier near Scheveling, where Cuvier believed its head was still preserved, and there is a similar ancient relic still displayed 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 [pg 183]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.
The whale chase is an exhilarating scene. Sometimes the whale positions itself upright, with its head down and raising its tail high, smashing the water with tremendous force. The sea churns, and vapor fills the air; the splashing can be heard several miles away, like the roar of a distant storm. Occasionally, it leaps out of the water, showcasing its entire body above the waves, mesmerizing seasoned whalers but terrifying those witnessing this incredible sight for the first time. Other movements, equally indicative of its immense strength, capture the attention of sailors from miles away. The whale's entire structure is perfectly adapted to its environment, evident in the toughness and thickness of its skin and the layer of blubber underneath, which, if we can use a simple analogy, acts like an extra warm coat to keep it insulated and prevent its warm red blood from cooling down in the icy waters. Special adaptations allow it to dive deep without injury. The openings of the nostrils close with valves, expertly designed to keep water out of the lungs despite the pressure. In one species, they are shaped like cones that fit snugly into the nostrils like corks in a bottle, holding tighter under greater pressure. Perhaps the most remarkable feature of the whale is its ability to dive to astonishing depths below the surface and endure the incredible pressure of the water above it. On one occasion, observed by Mr. Scoresby, a whale was struck from a boat. The animal immediately dove, pulling down a rope nearly one mile long with it. With this much rope let out, the situation for the crew became critical. They had to either cut the line and face a significant loss or risk being pulled underwater by the whale. The crew was instructed to move to the back of the boat to counterbalance the pulls from the whale, which occasionally pulled the front down to within an inch of the water. The boat remained in this perilous situation for a while, bouncing up and down with the whale’s tugs, but it never moved from the spot where the harpoon was first thrown. This indicates that the whale must have gone straight down, as moving in any other direction would have dragged the boat with it. Mr. Scoresby and the crew were saved by the timely arrival of another boat equipped with fresh ropes and harpoons. When struck, a whale can dive to depths of up to 800 fathoms; since the surface area of a large whale is about 1,500 square feet, at that depth, it has to withstand pressure equivalent to 211,000 tons. The transition from the pressure it experiences at the surface, estimated at around 1,300 tons, to such an enormous increase must be incredibly exhausting.
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.
Strange incidents are reported about harpooning. On September 24th, 1864, as the Alexander, from Dundee, was sailing around in Davis’s Straits, a whale weighing around twelve tons was spotted nearby. Boats were launched, and the crew captured the whale. When they cleaned it, they discovered a piece of a harpoon, about eighteen inches long, embedded in its body, two or three inches beneath the skin; one side was engraved with the words—“Traveler,” Peterhead, and on the other side, “1838.” This vessel was lost in 1856 in the Cumberland Straits whale fishery; it is therefore clear that the harpoon must have been in the whale since 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 [pg 184]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!”
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 small trip in the long-boat during one voyage, and we had to set up camp for the night with as much comfort as our limited resources would allow. The shore was wild and desolate—it felt truly lonely, sad, and sandy. What was strange yet welcome were the massive carcasses of whales, stranded like wrecks on the vast shore, with some cases having their backbone intact like a sturdy keel and the great ribs still standing, looking like a long hogshead without the staves. We landed for the night, took down our sails, and spread them over the bleached ribs of a whale’s skeleton. After dinner, we had a comfortable sleep under the most unusual roof I’ve ever rested beneath." This was on the north-west coast of Africa; and the sailor concluded that whales come ashore to die. "And in my opinion," he says, “It’s as poetic as it is comforting. I like [pg 184]to imagine these great travelers from the depths reaching the shore when the flames of life dim, and the powerful waves, their childhood playmates, giving them one last boost onto the beach!”
And now for that great mythical or actual animal the sea-serpent.
And now for that great mythical or real creature, 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.
For many years, a huge, snake-like creature has been thought to live in the ocean, although it’s rarely spotted. There has always been a strong belief in its existence in Norway and the fjords, where it’s been reported to appear often. It's also said that the shores of New England have seen this sea 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 [pg 185]receding coils or undulations, and the head, which resembled that of a horse, elevated some two feet out of the water.
Bishop Pontoppidan, who wrote a history of Norway, his home country, around the middle of the eighteenth century, gathered a lot of testimonies about its occasional sightings. Among other accounts, he mentions that of Captain de Ferry of the Norwegian Navy, who spotted the creature while in a boat rowed by eight men near Molde in August 1774. The captain and two crew members provided a statement about this to a magistrate. The creature was described as having the general shape of a serpent, moving on the surface in receding coils or undulations, with its head, resembling that of a horse, raised about 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.
In the summer of 1846, many reputable people claimed that they had spotted a sea serpent near Christiansand and Molde. Numerous affidavits were published in the newspapers, which, despite some minor discrepancies, consistently reported that a very long creature (ranging from about fifty to a hundred feet) had been seen multiple times, often by different witnesses. Everyone agreed that the eyes were large and glaring, the body was dark brown and relatively slender, and the head, which was compared in size to a ten-gallon barrel, was adorned with a long, flowing 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.
An account of one of these encounters, which took place on May 28, 1845, was published by Rev. P. W. Demboll, Archdeacon of Molde. Those present included J. C. Lund, a bookseller and printer, G. S. Krogh, a merchant, Christian Flang, Lund's apprentice, and John Elgenses, a laborer. These men were fishing in the Romsdal Fjord, and the sighting happened around seven in the evening, a short distance from shore, near the ballast place and Molde Hove. Lund shot at the creature, which followed them until they reached shallow water, at which point it dove and vanished.
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.
In 1817, the Linnæan Society of New England published “A report about a large marine animal, believed to be a serpent, spotted near Cape Ann, Massachusetts, in August,” that year. Considerable effort was made to gather evidence, and the statements of eleven witnesses with solid and trustworthy backgrounds were certified under oath before the magistrates. The estimated length was between fifty and a hundred feet, and the head was compared to that of a sea turtle, a rattlesnake, and a serpent in general, although in this instance there was no sign 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.
Again, in the Boston Daily News for November 25th, 1840, there's a letter from Hon. T. H. Perkins of that city, confirming his own personal sighting of the marine serpent at Gloucester Harbour, near Cape Ann, in 1817. This communication was written as a letter 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.
Captain Perkins talks about the animal’s movement being like the vertical motion of a caterpillar, not like that of a common snake, whether on land or in water. This backs up Mr. M‘Clean’s report, the minister of a parish in the Hebrides, who saw a serpentine monster about eighty feet long in 1809. He clearly states that it seemed to move by undulations up and down, which is not only opposite to everything known about snakes but, due to their vertebrae structure, also impossible. Hans Egede mentions seeing 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, [pg 186]Commander J. M. R. Ince, R.N. It was written by one of the eye-witnesses, Mr. Henry Ince, and signed as follows:—
On May 15, 1833, a group made up of Captain Sullivan, Lieutenant Maclachlan, Ensign Malcolm from the Rifle Brigade, Lieutenant Lyster from the Artillery, and Mr. Ince, the ordnance store-keeper in Halifax, set off from that town in a small yacht to Mahone Bay for a fishing trip. About halfway there, they came across a shoal of grampuses acting strangely excited, and to their surprise, they saw the head and neck of a snake, at least eighty feet long, following them. This event was reported in the Wildlife biologist for 1847. The editor noted he got the information from Mr. W. H. Ince, who had it from his brother, [pg 186]Commander J. M. R. Ince, R.N. It was written by one of the 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.
The dates attached to the names were the ones 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.”
Great interest was stirred in 1848 by a report of a huge sea serpent spotted at latitude 24° 44′ S and longitude 9° 20′ E, in the tropics, not far from the coast of Africa, by the officers and crew of Her Majesty's frigate Daedalus. Unlike other sightings, it wasn't during bright, clear weather, but rather a dark and cloudy afternoon with a long ocean swell. Captain Peter M‘Quhæ, in his report to the Admiralty published in the Times on October 13th, confidently described it as “a massive snake, with its head and shoulders always about four feet above the water's surface;” and he added: "From what we could estimate by comparing it with the length of our main topsail yard visible in the water, there was at least sixty feet of the creature à fleur d’eau, and none of it seemed to be used for moving through the water, either vertically or horizontally. It moved quickly, so close under our lee-quarter that if it had been someone I knew, I could have easily recognized their features with just my eyes; however, it didn’t deviate from its southwestern path, which it maintained at a speed of twelve to fifteen miles per hour, seemingly with purpose. The diameter of the serpent was about fifteen or sixteen inches behind the head, which undeniably looked like a snake's; and during the twenty minutes it was visible through our binoculars, it never submerged. Its color was a dark brown with a yellowish white patch around the throat. It had no fins, but something that looked like a horse's mane, or rather a clump of seaweed, was seen on its back."
(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 [pg 187]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.
Drawings made from a sketch by Captain M‘Quhæ were published in the Illustrated London News on October 28, 1848. Lieutenant Drummond, the officer on duty at the time, also shared his own impression of the animal, which differs slightly from the Captain’s account, particularly in describing the head as more elongated, mentioning a back fin (even though Captain M‘Quhæ clearly states no fins were seen), and providing a lower estimate of the visible part's length. Lieutenant Drummond said:—The head of the creature, which along with the dorsal fin was the only part visible, was long, pointed, and flattened on top, measuring about ten feet long; the upper jaw jutted out significantly. The fin was perhaps twenty feet behind the head and could be seen occasionally. The Captain also said he saw the tail, or another fin, at about the same distance behind it. The upper part of the head and shoulders appeared dark brown, while the area under the jaw was brownish white. It moved steadily and straight, keeping its head slightly elevated and level with the [pg 187]water, occasionally disappearing beneath a wave for a brief moment, seemingly not to breathe. It was traveling at around twelve to fourteen miles per hour, and when it was closest, it was approximately 100 yards away. In fact, it really looked like a large snake or eel. Lieutenant Drummond’s account is more credible since it comes from his journal, providing the precise impressions from that moment, while Captain M‘Quhæ’s description was recalled from memory after he returned to England.
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.”
These statements sparked a lot of discussion at the time. Mr. J. D. Morriss Stirling, a gentleman who had lived in Norway for a long time, along with a writer in the News on November 2, 1848, under the name “F. G. S.,” suggested that the monster had a connection to the large fossil reptiles known to geologists as the Enaliosauria, specifically mentioning the genus Plesiosaurus, or giant lizard, with a snake-like neck. This view was also shared by Professor Agassiz, as stated in the report of his lectures in Philadelphia in 1849, and was reiterated in his “Geological Studies.”
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.”
A master in science, Professor Richard Owen, now stepped into the discussion, and in a very competent article in the News, November 11, 1848, gave his opinion against the idea of the animal being serpentine and concluded that it was, in his view, a seal. He based this partly on the description of its appearance and partly on the fact that no remains of any dead marine serpent had ever been found. He states: “When thinking about whether creatures worthy of the title ‘great sea serpent’ really exist, or if any of the massive marine reptiles from the past might still be around today, I find it less likely that no part of these reptiles has ever been discovered in a recent or non-fossilized form. Instead, it seems more probable that people have been misled by a quick glimpse of an animal that was partly submerged and moving fast, which might have appeared unusual to them. In other words, I believe the absence of recent remains of great sea serpents, Krakens, or Enaliosauria serves as stronger evidence against their actual existence than the claims that have shaped public opinion in their favor. More proof from eyewitnesses could be found for ghosts than for 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.
However, Captain M‘Quhæ boldly defended himself, arguing against the idea that he had confused one of the Phoca species with a snake. He was strongly supported by Mr. R. Davidson, Superintending Surgeon, Nagpore Subsidiary Force, in a letter from Kamptee published in the Mumbai Bi-monthly Times for January 1849. This gentleman stated that an animal, "there's no more accurate description than the one given 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 as they returned 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 [pg 188]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.”
Again, a letter was published in the Wildlife biologist for 1852, sent by Captain Steele of the 9th Lancers to his brother, Lieutenant-Colonel Steele of the Coldstream Guards. He reported that while traveling to India on the Bartram, he and everyone on the team saw “the head and neck of a giant snake.” This was supported by a letter from one of the ship's officers, who stated:—“His head seemed to be around sixteen feet above the [pg 188]water, and he kept moving it up and down, occasionally revealing his large neck, which was topped with a huge crest shaped like 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.
Another theory was presented in the London Sun on July 9, 1849, by Captain Herriman of the British ship Brazilian, who, on February 24, 1849, found himself stuck in the calm sea almost exactly where Captain M‘Quhæ spotted his monster during his journey 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.”
"I saw," wrote Captain Herriman, "Something was directly ahead, about half a mile to the west, extending along the water for around twenty-five to thirty feet, and clearly moving away from the ship in a steady, wavy motion. The head, which seemed to be several feet above the water, had something like a mane flowing down to the part that was floating, and about six feet from the tail, it split into a kind of double fin." However, as he got closer in a small boat, Captain Herriman realized that his monster was nothing more than "a huge piece of seaweed, obviously torn off from a coral reef, and drifting with the current that constantly flows west in this area, which, along with the swell from the dying storm, caused it to move in a wavy, snake-like manner."
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.
In the Times of February 5, 1858, a letter from Captain Harrington of the ship Spanish reported that he and his crew had spotted a huge serpent on December 12, 1857, about ten miles northeast of St. Helena. This account led to another witness supporting the seaweed theory. Captain Fred. Smith, of the ship Beijing, provided a very similar story to Captain Harrington’s, explaining that on December 28, 1848, at latitude 26° S and longitude 6° E, he had captured what he thought was a serpent, but it was actually a massive piece of seaweed covered in barnacles that looked like snakes.
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.”
This last accusation brought up “An Officer of H.M. ship Dædalus,” whose testimony, in the Times of February 16, 1858, completely discredits the seaweed theory in that famous case. He states that, “At its closest point, which was no more than 200 yards away from us, the eye, the mouth, the nostril, the color and shape were all very clearly visible to us ... I felt it looked more like a lizard than a snake, since its movement was steady and uniform, as if it were propelled by fins, rather than having any wave-like motion.”
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.
That there is some powerful creature of the deep ocean that is rarely seen is more than possible; it’s highly likely. But which of the known categories of living beings can we place this massive ocean wanderer in? First of all, is it even an animal? Twice, huge clumps of seaweed have been mistaken for the Kraken, but in both cases, the distance from the ship was estimated to be half a mile. Meanwhile, Captain M'Quhæ claims he was within 200 yards, and Mr. Davidson was only thirty-five yards away from the creature. Given these facts, we can reasonably dismiss the seaweed theory.
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.
Professor Owen would categorize the sea serpent as a mammal, but elephant seal is the only seal that can be compared to the Daedalus creature in size, reaching between twenty and thirty feet long. However, the officers claim that at least sixty feet of their creature was visible at the surface. Additionally, the seal's front paws are located about one-third of the way along its total length from the snout, yet no signs of fins were observed. Furthermore, the large Elephant seal does not have a mane; the only seals that might be considered to have one are the two types of sea lions—the Otaria jubata and Platyrhynchus leoninus—which are much too small to be relevant in this comparison.
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.
It’s very possible that the great unknown is a reptile, and its habits in the ocean are not an issue. In the Indian and Pacific Oceans, there are many examples of true sea snakes (Hydrophidae), which live only in the sea. However, none of these are known to be longer than a few feet, and as far as we know, none have made 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 [pg 190]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.
The most likely solution to the mystery is the theory proposed by Mr. Morriss Stirling and Professor Agassiz, suggesting that the so-called sea serpent is most closely related to those remarkable creatures, the Enaliosauria, or marine lizards, whose fossil remains are commonly found in the Oolite and the Lias. If you could see the Plesiosaur alive, you would observe nearly its entire length on the water's surface, moving quickly without any noticeable ripples, powered by unseen strong paddles below, while its long, snake-like neck would likely be held at an angle, carrying a reptilian head with a moderately sized eye and a mouth that didn’t extend beyond the eye. Add to this a body covered in leathery skin like that of a whale, give the creature a length of about sixty feet or more, and you would have almost an exact match for the apparition that caused such astonishment aboard the Daedalus.
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.
In support of the existence of such an animal, Captain the Hon. George Hope reports that while on H.M.S. Fly in the Gulf of California, with the sea perfectly calm and clear, he observed at the bottom a large marine creature resembling an alligator in head shape and overall figure, but with a much longer neck and four large flippers instead of legs, similar to 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 two major objections to this theory are: first, the unlikely possibility that such forms have survived from the time of the secondary layers to today; and second, the complete lack of any parts of the carcasses or unfossilized skeletons of these animals in museums. However, many fossil types of marine animals have been passed down, with or without interruption, from ancient geological periods to the present. Among these are the Port Jackson Shark (Cestracion) and the gar-pike (Lepidosteus), which have come down to us continuously, as well as the Chimera percopsis of Lake Superior and soft-shelled tortoises (Trionychidae), which have shown more or less noticeable disappearance. The absence of dead animals is not very convincing evidence against the existence of the sea serpent; its carcass would only float for a short time, and the rocky shores of Norway are unlikely to keep any fragments washed up by the waves; many whales are known to naturalists from just two or three specimens over 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.
The conclusion of the best naturalists is that the existence of the sea serpent might actually be true, and it could turn out to be a modified type of the secondary Enaliosaurians, or perhaps some intermediate form between them and the elongated Whales and dolphins.
CHAPTER 17.
By the Beach.
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.
Appreciating the Beach—Its Diversity and Fascination—Stormy Weather—The Green Waves—On the Cliffs—The View of the Sea from There—Madame de Gasparin’s Daydreams—A Description of a Storm—The Voice of God—Calm—A Giant Jellyfish off the Coast—Nighttime on the Sea—Boating Trip—Inside a Cavern— Colonies of Sea Anemones—Rock Pools—Southey’s Description— Treasures for the Aquarium—A Rat Story—Quickly Rising Tide and Its Dangers—Tragic Fate of a Family—Life Under the Water.
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 [pg 191]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 seaside is nowhere more deeply appreciated than on our own rocky island surrounded by water, as the popularity of so many of our coastal resorts clearly shows. The wonders [pg 191] of the shore are so numerous and diverse that it would take many volumes like this one to fully capture them. So, here, the topic can only be briefly covered.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.
"The beach," says Gosse, a writer who is both an artist and a scientist in his descriptive skills, “is never dull. Other places tire us out quickly; we can’t spend all our time admiring the scenery, no matter how beautiful it is, and no one stands staring into a field or at a hedgerow bank, even if it's full of the most amazing flowers, for half an hour straight. But we can and do stand watching the sea, hesitant to leave it: the changing tide and the constantly rolling, breaking, and receding waves are so much like the events of life that we observe with an interest and anticipation similar to how we watch the actions of living beings.” The shore, in all its different aspects, has unique beauties and characteristics of 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.
"So amazing," says the same writer, Those powerful waves crash onto this long beach. They come in steadily, with a deliberate rhythm that highlights their strength, emerging from the dark sky hanging over the southern horizon. They come on! come on! come on! each wave following closely behind the one before it, always getting nearer and nearer, always looking bigger and bigger, like the unstoppable forces of a massive invading army, fiercely confident in its power; and now and then, as one dark wave breaks and creates a crest of foam, we might imagine seeing the banners and flags of the threatening forces waving 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.
They keep rolling in, each wave curling over its green crest and rushing up the sloping beach, creating a long stretch of the purest, whitest foam. Even snow doesn't look as purely white as that foaming water. Look at how it churns and sparkles! How it boils and bubbles! How it rings and hisses! The wind howls sharply from the stormy clouds, dropping to a moan at times and rising to a roar at others; but we can't hear it because it's drowned out by the relentless crashing of the powerful waves on the shore and the clattering of the retreating pebbles. Along the curve of the shore, the sharp, hoarse voice fades, becoming softer and smoother as it moves away; while the echo of the towering cliffs confines, repeats, and mixes it with the next waves until they all blend together in one overwhelming 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.
“But let’s climb these slippery rocks and carefully make our way over those jagged ledges, jumping across the gaps that open up below to show the hissing waters. Let’s try to reach the high ground of that ridge we see about fifty feet above the beach. It’s dangerous to scramble over rocks that are often slimy with treacherous seaweed and covered in sharp, jagged bits of limestone; sometimes we climb a steep spot, gripping these rough edges with our hands while our toes struggle to find a foothold in the cracks; other times we’re descending to a ledge that hangs ominously, then inching along a narrow shelf, moving just a few inches at a time, while our fingers nervously cling to the rocky cliff and our minds try to forget the daunting drop below, and what might happen if—ah! that ‘if!’ let’s throw it to the wind. One more long leap across a gap, a jump 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 [pg 192]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 [pg 193]points, and the brown leprous coating of barnacles with which their lower sides are covered is broadly seen between the swelling seas.
“Yes, here we are on the bluff, looking out to sea right into the wind. From the water or from different spots along the shore where we can see this promontory, we might think it looks like a relatively smooth slope of stone. But getting closer gives us a completely different perspective. It’s a wilderness of jagged points and huge tower-like structures of solid limestone marble, stacked on top of each other in the most breathtaking chaos. We’ve found a comfortable place where we can safely lean between two of these masses and gaze down longingly at the very stage of this elemental battle. Isn’t this view worth all the effort, trouble, and risk of climbing up? The rocks below are lined with large isolated peaks and blocks, rising from the sea in various sizes and unique shapes, mostly covered by the high tide, but now the receding tide reveals their daunting [pg 193] points, and the brown, unhealthy-looking barnacles coating their lower sides are clearly visible between the rolling waves.
“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.
It rolls heavily in the long, deep swells of the ocean from the southwest; and as it gets closer, with massive waves driven into foaming peaks by the howling wind, each powerful wave crashes against these rocks like an army of seasoned soldiers attacking an unbeatable fortress. Unbeatable, indeed! For after unleashing its fury in a towering wall of swirling water and foam, it shoots up straight to an incredible height, as if trying to conquer the heights it couldn't bring down, only to become, in the next moment, a shattered mass of water that murmurs and shrieks in the pools below. The island's blocks and peaks absorb the incoming surge in a massive flood, which, as the wave retreats, pours off through the gaps in a hundred beautiful jets and cascades; while in the narrow straits and passages, the rushing sea boils and swirls in curling sheets of snowy whiteness, churning the surface; or where it breaks away, in a delicate pea-green hue, the color made by the bubbles seen through the water as they rise to the surface from the depths where they formed—the evidence of the unseen battle fiercely raging between land 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.
The howling winds, as the storm grows stronger and more intense, strip the tops off the crashing waves, sending mist flying like a shower of salty sleet high up where we stand. The foam, forming and gathering around the base of the cliff, is lifted in large masses by the same force and slams against the jutting rocks, swirling like clumps of wool and sticking like mortar to the cliff face until it covers vast areas, reaching many feet above the highest tide level. The seagulls dart through the storm, crying out, sometimes struggling against the wind, using their long wings to make slow progress. Then, giving up the futile effort, they turn and get blown away, but after regaining their balance, they return in sweeping arcs, only to be thwarted again. Their white bodies sometimes stand out against the dull grey sky, at other times disappearing into the white foam, then reappearing against the dark rock. Their piercing cries ring close to our ears before merging with the roars of the wind and waves, all adding to the wild intensity of the scene.
“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.”
"But the spring tide is nearly at its lowest point; a rocky path winds down from our height to a hollow in the cliff, where under these conditions we might be able to reach a sea cave that we could possibly enjoy 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.
Madame de Gasparin, during her trip to Italy, shares her thoughts on a thunderstorm, reflecting the dreams of an excited poet-traveler.52 She says:—"Last night, a storm hit Chiaveri. Three storms in one! and we were right in the middle of it all."
“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, [pg 194]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.
The thunder rumbles on for a long time with a deep, serious sound that fills the sky, then suddenly crashes. The lightning strikes straight and orderly—not in a wild zig-zag pattern, but as a concentrated burst of electric light. Sometimes the brilliance flashes behind the castle, outlining the dark silhouette of its square tower, as black as ink, [pg 194] against the palaces opposite it. Other times, the light ignites in the east, lighting up the square, the houses, and the fortress with a bright white glow that stings the eyes. The air is ripped apart by fierce winds, and the sound of crashing waves creates a backdrop of wild sorrow. Angels of destruction are passing by tonight; you can hear the hiss of their swords. What is human life? Nothing. What is a man? A worm. In moments like these, even the bravest among us thinks about their choices.
“I can understand seriousness; I have no patience with fear.
"I understand being serious; I can't stand 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.”
“There was a time when, during intense storms, my mother would tell me: ‘Come!’ We would step out into the storm's full might. ‘Listen,’ my mother would say; ‘it is the voice of God!’ Then she would make me clasp my hands; she prayed, and a sense of peace filled 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.
And again about a storm somewhere else, Madame de Gasparin says:—The strong voice fills the air with chaos. No more words; it's all there in its anger.
“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.
“There it is, stretching out to the farthest horizons. The clouds drift by, switching between grey and black; then the mist clears, letting the sun shine through, and the deep blue illuminates the vastness of space.”
“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.
Near the shore, clusters of green waves with a menacing, dangerous hue—heavy, thick masses driven by a violent surge, lit by a faint ray—crash and break with a loud roar; and foamy cascades, pouring down in torrents, surge up, only to quickly calm and wash 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.
“This sea is furious! It's full of spite, like a wicked fairy. It's howling all around, recklessly sinking proud ships, intoxicated with screams, wild with strength; and then, almost mockingly, it creates swirling magic circles, surrounding and overwhelming you, relishing it, only to pull back, leaving the sand dotted with colorful 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.
"We stand still, feeling small in front of this huge force. But our spirit is lifted, recognizing that it is greater than the ocean, stronger than the waves—she who can touch the divine."
“But a ray or light has shone out....
"But a ray of light has appeared....
“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 now that the sun is spreading diamonds over the sea, and the anger of the waves is turning into sparkling laughter, let's run along the shore and embrace 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.”
"So, sometimes we escape the storm, and other times we face the wind as we rush into the chaos, heading towards that pile of rocks where the waves crash. From afar, they rise up—they look like giants! When they hit the rocks, they break apart, and the playful foam scatters its flakes onto the pine trees clinging to the mountainside. After that, there's a soothing calm."
“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. [pg 195]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.
"Looking down," says Gosse, in one of his charming seaside works, As the sea became smoother, looking more like a mirror with each moment while the light afternoon breeze calmed down, we could see deep into the water from our elevated position. Before long, I was excited to spot one and then another of the massive jellyfish, the Great Rhizostome, gliding diagonally across the shiny surface. Its large bluish-white disc, about fifteen or eighteen inches wide, moves forward through rhythmic contractions and expansions that mimic the beating of a giant heart. With each pulse, a surge of fluid is pushed out, propelling it quickly through the water. The thick stalk with its eight arms trailing two feet below follows behind the disc, and the combined weight and resistance of the water create the angled movement typical of these giant jellyfish. We observed these huge, awkward creatures for a long time, even as evening turned to night, leaving us nearly as the only ones wandering on the hill. But what a night it was! So calm, so warm, so solemnly still and quiet; even the gentle sound of the waves at the cliff's base was soft. There was no moon, but countless stars sparkled, and in the northwest, a bright glow filled the sky, rapidly moving over the northern cliffs. Those cliffs, their features lost in darkness, loomed like a massive black wall in front of us, perfectly mirrored in the smooth sea, making it impossible to distinguish between solid and shadow. The dark mass, appearing twice as tall, seemed to rise from a line just a few hundred yards away, creating an atmosphere that felt strange, unnatural, and unrecognizable, even though we understood its origins.
“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.
“Let’s make our way down the cliffside path, thick with brambles and ferns, where the hawthorn and honeysuckle buds are starting to bloom, while the blackbird sings sweetly in the quickly greening bushes, and the lark joyfully greets the rising sun above us. Over there on the pebbles is a newly painted boat in white and green, meant to attract young ladies with dreams of the sea; it’s pulled up safely onshore, but soon the strong arms of a friendly boatman, who has come out of his little cave under the rock to see who’s there, will pull her down to the water's edge, and ‘for the sum of a shilling an hour,’ will take us across the calm, pond-like sea to wherever we want to go.”
“ ‘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.
“Please get on, sir. Ladies, please join us. Little one, you too.” Now, as we settle into the fresh canvas cushions at the back, the boat scrapes roughly over the white pebbles, and we’re on the water.
“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.
“First, let's go to the caves just outside that tall point over there. The low tide will let us take the boat inside, and the calm sea will reduce the chances of hitting the rocks, especially since the watchful boatman will have a boat-hook ready to keep us safe. Now we’re sitting in the shade of the tall arch, gently bobbing and swaying on the slight swell, which, although smooth on the surface, is always noticeable when you're in a boat near rocks, making this approach riskier than someone on land might think.”
“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.
"Still, the water, despite the waves, is calm and encourages you to gaze into its clear depths, where small fish swim and hover above the dark plants."
“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. [pg 196]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.”
The cave walls curve around us, smooth and shiny from waves over countless years, gradually merging into the large shapes and features of the broken ceiling, from which a couple of what looks like samphire hangs down. [pg 196]But take a look at the clusters of smooth anemones or beadlets (Actinia mesembryanthemum) gathered on the walls, many clinging to the stone several feet above the water. They have been exposed for hours and are just fine. They are closed, their many tentacles hidden within the folds of their upper bodies, making them look like balls or hemispheres, or semi-ovals of flesh; or like ripe fruits, so plump, shiny, juicy, and vibrant that we’re tempted to reach out and grab one to eat. Some look like greengages, some Orleans plums, some magnum-bonums, their rich colors so varied; but look below the water, and you’ll see they’re just as numerous but look completely different. These are all widely open; the tentacles stretch out in an arch around the edges, forming a broad flat disc, much like a many-petaled flower in stunning colors; indeed, we might imagine that here we see blossoms and there the ripened fruit. Don’t forget to notice the beads of pearly blue that dot the edge all around at the base of the overhanging tentacles. Some people think these might be eyes; however, this idea has no anatomical basis and is, unfortunately, meaningless, though I can’t tell you what purpose they actually serve.
1, 2, 3. A. sulcata. 4. Phymactis sanctæ Helenæ. 5. Actinia capensis. 6. A. Peruviana. 7. St. Catherine. 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—
Southey must have had the deep, rocky pools of the Devonshire coast in his mind when he wrote—
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.
It is in the rock-tide pools that some of the most sought-after treasures of the aquarium can be found. There are the small clusters of pink coralline, Southey’s “stone tree structures”; there are the red banana leaves of the Delesseria, the purple clumps of Polysiphoniæ and Ceramia, the wide emerald green leaves of Ulva, and the wavy, feathery Ptitola and Dasya. Then everywhere you can find the beautiful Chondrus crispus, with its spreading fan-shaped fronds divided into segments, each segment of every frond shimmering with a stunning iridescent blue.
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.
Mr. Gosse was lying one evening on the grass, looking down at a Devonshire cove that marked the end of a large cave. Even though it was low tide, the sea didn’t pull back enough to allow access to the cove from the shore. Soon, he spotted a large rat making its way deliberately to the water’s edge, peeking under every stone, moving back and forth very systematically, and going into the crevices, exploring them one by one. Finally, he emerged from a hole in the rock, holding a white object in his mouth that was about the size of a walnut, and slowly scurried away in a direction the observer hadn’t seen him take before, until he could no longer follow him with his eyes because of the cliffs’ overhang. What could he possibly have found? He clearly knew what he was doing. From his retreat into the cave, once the sea had completely cut it off, the clever little creature must have had his hiding place in its depths, far up and out of reach of the sea, where he would be comfortably settled when the waves crashed and broke wildly through the cove, lighting up millions of flickering lamps among the clustered polyps 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:—
The arrival of the tide is often, as we all know, very quick on the sands, and it disconnects the communication between rocky islets and the shore in a rather dangerous way. Mr. Gosse, in describing such an influx on a section 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 [pg 198]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.”
In the evening, we walked down to check out the place and got so wrapped up in watching the tide come in that we ended up staying quite late. A breeze was blowing from the south, pushing the sea against the opposite entrance of the cave from where we were standing; the funnel-shaped cliffs on that side directed the incoming waves, creating a kind of ‘bore,’ and covering large areas that had just moments before been dry with churning water. We were pushed from stone to stone and from spot to spot like a retreating army facing a victorious enemy; but we lingered, eager to see the meeting of the waters and the isolation of the rock. It's at this point that the advance can be really deceptive. There was a narrow stretch of dry sand about twenty feet wide when my wife, who had seen this happen before, said, ‘It’ll all be over by the time you count to a hundred.’ Before I could get to fifty, it was completely covered by 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.
A sad fate befell a big family gathering nearby a few years back. They had walked across the sands to Fern Cliff and set up their picnic in a cave nearby, completely unaware of the rising tide. When they realized they were trapped, there was no way to escape, and the overhanging rock prevented any chance of climbing out. They all drowned, and their bodies were recovered one by one as the sea washed them ashore.
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.
All the types of anemones found on the rocks above the water can also be seen below, each showcasing their beauty in a much more enchanting way. The entire underwater wall is like a flowerbed filled with the most vibrant flowers, standing upright. The eye is overwhelmed by their number and variety, unsure of what to focus on first. Here are the rosy anemones (Sagartia rosea), which have a sturdy, fleshy column of rich sienna-brown that becomes lighter towards the base. The top is speckled with faint spots that indicate where certain organs with adhesive properties are located. The disc is a soft neutral shade, featuring a crimson mouth in the center and a ring of abundant tentacles in a beautiful rose-purple, similar to the rich color of the flower called General Jacqueminot. In the specimens that are fully opened, this tentacle fringe resembles a blossom where the petals hang over the hidden column, spreading to about an inch or more in width. However, others show various degrees of expansion, each revealing distinct phases of beauty. Among these are a few with the characteristic-colored tentacles but with a creamy white column and disc, and one where the disc is a bright orange leaning toward scarlet. They are all such lovely little creatures! Alongside these charming roses, there are larger ones that appear even more plentiful. They often measure an inch and a half in diameter when fully expanded, with some even larger. You can easily recognize them by the outer row of tentacles, and sometimes even some of the inner ones, which are scarlet. Upon closer inspection, you see that this rich hue comes from a core that spills into the clear tentacle. This species is commonly known as the scarlet-fringed anemone (Sagartia miniata). The inner rows of tentacles, which are individually larger than the outer ones, are pale and marked at the base with strong black bands. The disc varies widely in color, but the column is mostly the same rich brown we saw in the rosy variety. Yet, while these are the typical colors, there are specimens that diverge significantly from them, with some being so close to the roses that they are barely distinguishable from them. The beauty of these underwater gardens cannot be overstated.
CHAPTER 18.
By the Seashore )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.
A Submerged Forest—The Grandeur of Devonshire Cliffs—Fortified Walls—A Natural Fortress—Collection of Seaweeds—The Title is a Terrible Misnomer—The Bladder Wrack—Practical Uses—The Harvest Season for Collectors—The Massive Laminaria—Useful for Knife Handles—Marine Rope—The Red-Seeded Group—Munchausen’s Gin Tree Defeated—The Coralline is a Plant—Stunning Varieties—Irish Moss—The Green Seeds—Tips for Preserving Seaweeds—The Boring Pholas—How They Drill—Sometimes Through Each Other—The Spinous Cockle—The “Red noses”—Hundreds of Peasants Rescued from Starvation—“Garbage,” and the challenge of getting it—Results of a Basketful—The Contents of a Shrimpers Net—Small 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 tells us in his “Tenby,” about a real submerged forest near Amroth. Pieces of soft, decayed wood regularly float to the surface, and the locals refer to them as "seagrass." It's often full of holes made by the shells of Pholas candida, which are nestled in as closely as possible without crowding each other. Other pieces are solid, resistant to the knife like sturdy oak timbers from a ship. Sometimes, during storms, entire trunks, roots, and branches are pulled up, floating to the sea's surface and washing ashore. Some of these have been found "At the low point of the autumn spring tides, which still show fresh axe marks, proving that the sea has advanced since the land was inhabited by civilized people." Several types of trees, including elm, willow, alder, poplar, and oak, have been discovered among the large fragments that were washed up. A detailed account of the sea's encroachments on various parts of our coasts could fill a large book.
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.
Mr. Gosse describes some of the Devonshire coastline beautifully. “Right now,” he says, We are under Lidstep Head, a headland that rivals its so-called “proud” counterparts in steepness and height. I've never seen cliffs like these before. The layers are completely vertical and perfectly straight, resembling enormous towers, castles, and abbeys at every turn, with cracks that look just like loopholes and doors. Large areas are enclosed, as if by massive walls. The sea surface was particularly calm, and we decided to glide into one of these places, just like stepping into a ruined castle or a vast abbey; room after room opened up, separated by what I can only call walls of rock, towering high and as straight as any architect’s level could create, with the smooth sea as our floor. If the tide had been high instead of low during a spring tide, we could have explored this vast enclosed area; but as it was, the giant upright rocks jutted out of the water like massive altars and tables. The sea was completely clear, and we could see down to the base of the cliffs where purple-ringed jellyfish were drifting around. Overall, it was a place of unusual beauty; we felt as if we were in a palace of sea spirits, as if we were somewhere we shouldn’t be, and when a gull called out above us with its short, hollow, mocking laugh, we jumped and looked at each other as if something eerie had challenged us, even though the sun was shining brightly over the tops of those massive 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. [pg 200]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.”
“We left this natural palace feeling a bit regretful; however, the tide was almost at its lowest point, and I wanted to explore the rocks to see what I could discover about natural history. The guys agreed, and we quickly moved past this truly amazing coastline. [pg 200]Soon, we arrived at the Droch, where a cavern more impressive than any we had seen before appeared. On a beach of yellow sand, its massive arch stands tall with a secondary entrance; the stone archway is built with remarkable lightness and seems as if it was sculpted by a skilled mason. Dark domes can be seen inside, high up in the vaulted ceiling, and pools of still, clear water reflect the rugged walls. This is definitely a stunning 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.
The easiest maritime objects to collect are the so-called “seaweeds” which Rev. J. G. Wood aptly calls a “awful name,” used reluctantly. They are actually beautiful sea plants, often delicate in form and color; even the larger and more common varieties have an interesting aspect, with some having practical uses. One of the first things to catch your eye on almost any beach is the common bladder-wrack (Fucus vesiculosus), that dark olive-brown seaweed familiar to anyone visiting our coasts. It’s recognizable by its air vessels, which pop when stepped on or roughly compressed, much to the delight of kids at the beach. This slimy, slippery weed makes walking on rocks somewhat perilous, though this doesn't usually deter young British women and their friends from navigating its tangled masses. A larger species (Fucus serratus) can grow up to six feet long. It’s used as fertilizer and even as feed for cattle; it’s also great for packing lobsters, crabs, etc., when they need to be transported inland. These and similar algae, the general term for seaweed, are referred to as Melanosperms, or black-seeded, named for the dark olive color of their seeds or spores, which they contain in abundance.
(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.
The best time for collectors looking to gather a good haul is during spring tides, when, as Mr. Wood tells us, a careful exploration of the beach for an hour or two can sometimes yield results equal to several days of hard work with a dredge. "It’s best to go down to the shore about half an hour before the lowest tide, so you can follow the receding waters and save time." At these low tides, naturalists or amateur collectors discover a new variety of vegetation that contrasts with the more delicate forms found higher up on the beach, like trees in a forest compared to ferns and undergrowth. Massive plants, some reaching eleven feet in length, of the oar-weed (Laminaria digitata), are plentiful. It gets its scientific name from the flat, thin-fingered fronds it has. Its stem is used for making handles for knives and other tools, as it is incredibly tough and strong. One solid stem can provide a dozen handles, and when dried, it’s as hard as horn.
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.
Among the same group is a very unusual rope-like marine plant, barely thicker than a regular pin at the base where it attaches to the rock, but swelling to the size of a large swan’s quill in the middle. When you touch it, it feels oily, as it is naturally slimy and covered in countless fine hairs. It can range in length from one to twenty, thirty, or even forty feet. It's worth noting that seaweeds don't have true roots; instead, they attach using discs or suckers. They get their nutrients from the seawater, 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.
Another sub-class of algae are called 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 the low water mark, you can find large clumps of dense, reddish, thread-like foliage, sometimes sticking to the rock and other times to the stems of the great Laminaria. This belongs to a large genus, Polysiphonia ("multi-tubed"), with the specific name Urceolata, or pitchered—it’s actually covered with tiny jars or containers of colored 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.
"That famous author and experienced traveler, Baron Munchausen," says Mr. Wood, “claims that he came across a tree that produced fruit filled with the best gin. If he had explored our coastlines or any coastlines for that matter and examined the coastal vegetation, he would have found a plant that could have inspired a story about a tree made of wine bottles, with each part being a different bottle filled with claret. It’s true that the plant isn’t very big, typically only nine or ten inches tall, but when looked at under a microscope, it could appear much larger.” The scientific name of this marine plant means “juicy branch.” It can be found sticking to rocks or large seaweed, and it truly looks like a series of miniature red wine bottles connected together.
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 [pg 202]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.
The common coralline (Corallina officinalis) is one of the red seaweeds, even though it was long mistaken for true coral. It's an interesting plant; it accumulates so much calcium carbonate in its structure that when the living part dies, the chalky part stays behind. When alive, it has a dark purple color, which fades when taken out of [pg 202]the water, leaving just the white, stony skeleton. However, it is indeed a real plant, as shown by dissolving the chalky parts in acid; what's left is a plant structure that looks exactly like that of other algae in the same sub-class. It’s a small plant, usually no taller than five inches, but it grows in lush patches wherever it can find an ideal 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.
A beautiful marine plant is the Delesseria sanguinea, with its stunning scarlet leaves, and the branches reaching five or six inches long. It has a very “ancient, fishy smell,” a scent that once noticed is hard to forget. Additionally, everyone will recall the little seaweed bouquets and landscapes on cards sold at trendy seaside resorts, featuring a bright, pinky-red variety that stands out for its charming beauty. This is the Plocamium coccineum, which is even more beautiful under the microscope, revealing that even the tiniest branchlets, barely thicker than a hair, each have their own 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.
Some seaweeds are eaten, like the so-called "Carrageenan," or Irish moss, which is used in both jelly and as a thickener. It's one of the Rhodosperm algae. To prepare it for eating, it's washed in fresh water and then dried; it becomes hard and stiff. When boiled, it turns into a thick jelly that's considered nutritious and is consumed by both the sick and food lovers. Calico printers use it as a thickener. It's also boiled in milk to help 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.
A lovely little seaweed, Griffithsia selacea, can stain paper a nice pinkish-scarlet color when its membrane breaks. When it comes into contact with fresh water, the membrane usually bursts, releasing the coloring matter with a faint crackling sound.
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.
The Green algae, or green-seeded algae, can release a lot of oxygen under certain conditions, making them very useful in aquariums. This group includes sea lettuce, which was mentioned earlier, common seagrass, and many smaller, more delicate species.
“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 [pg 203]use of hot water will generally accomplish the desired end. Animal glue or gum-water cannot he recommended.
“If” says Mr. Wood, If a naturalist wants to dry and preserve the algae he finds, he can usually do it without too much hassle, though some plants are much trickier than others. It's important to wash them thoroughly in fresh water to remove the salt, which, being hygroscopic, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ would attract moisture on a humid day or in a damp place, potentially ruining the entire collection. Once they are thoroughly washed, the best specimens should be separated and placed in a wide, shallow container filled with clear fresh water. Pieces of white card, cut to the right size, should then be slipped under the specimens, which can be easily arranged as they float above the submerged card. You should be able to use your fingers for this, but a camel’s-hair brush and a needle can also be useful. Once the specimen is properly arranged, the card is lifted out of the water, bringing the piece of seaweed with it. It’s not hard to get the plants to stick to the paper since most algae have a gelatinous substance that acts like glue and holds them down securely. If not, the [pg 203]use of hot water will usually achieve the desired result. Animal glue or gum-water cannot be 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.
Every visitor to the beach has noticed rocks with countless holes, almost as if they were made deliberately. A few good hits with a sturdy hammer on the chisel can split off a large piece of the coarse red sandstone. The holes go through the rock, but they are all empty or only filled with the black, foul-smelling mud that the sea has washed into them. These holes are too shallow; they're all abandoned; the stone is too high above the low-water mark; we need to look at a lower level. Try here, where the lowest spring tide barely leaves the rocks exposed. Look! Now we’ve uncovered the inhabitants. Here, snugly nestled in the tubular holes, are large mollusks with broad, ivory-like shells that can't quite contain the pale flesh of their larger bodies, and the long, thick yellow siphons sticking out from one end, reaching far up the hole toward 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.
We take one out of its hole, completely helpless and unresisting, but clearly showing its anger at the unexpected interruption with quick spasms from its rough yellow siphons, each followed by a forceful water fountain, a polite spray of seawater in our faces; with every contraction, the base swells until the tightly pressed valves of the sharp shell seem ready to burst through its surface.
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.
Strangely enough, these animals have drilled holes in the stone, and they can even bore into much harder rock, like compact limestone. The way they do this has confused philosophers for a long time. Some argued that the animal produces an acid that can dissolve various types of stone, as well as wood, amber, wax, and other materials where the excavations sometimes occur. However, it's hard to believe there could be a solvent for such diverse substances and to figure out how the animal’s own shells resist its effects, especially since no such acid has ever been found through the most thorough tests. Others argue that the rough points on the shell act like a rasp, which the animal uses by rotating on its axis to wear away the stone or other materials; but it's still puzzling how the shell itself doesn't get worn down during this process.
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, [pg 204]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.
Actual observation in the aquarium has shown that the second hypothesis is the correct one. M. Cailliaud in France and Mr. Robertson in England have demonstrated that the Pholas uses its shell like a rasp, wearing away the stone with the rough edges at the front of the valves. A bit of a heated debate took place between these two gentlemen over who would be credited first with this valuable discovery. M. Cailliaud himself used the valves of a dead shell and, trying to replicate natural conditions as much as possible, actually drilled a hole by making them rotate. Mr. Robertson in Brighton showcased live Pholades to the public while they were boring into chunks of chalk. He describes it as "a functional mix of three tools: a hydraulic device, a rasp, and a syringe." However, the first and last of these functions can only be considered as secondary to the removal of debris once the hole has been made, with the rasp being the main tool. If you look at these living shells, you'll notice that the front part, where the foot extends, is lined with stony points arranged in both transverse and longitudinal rows; the transverse ones come from raised ridges radiating from the hinge, while the longitudinal ones come from the edges of the shell's successive growths. These points closely resemble those found on a steel rasp in a blacksmith’s shop. It’s interesting to note that the shell is protected from wearing away itself because it is made of aragonite, a material much harder than what the Pholas burrows into. Yet, when we compare specimens, we can see that some have their rasping points worn down much more than others, with many of the older ones being nearly smooth.
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.”
The animal shifts in its burrow from side to side while working, using its foot to stay attached to the inside, so it only partially rotates back and forth. The material is ground down into fine powder, which is periodically expelled from the hole by the contraction of the branchial siphon. A lot of the finer particles are carried away by the current and settle as soft mud between the valves and the stone. Mr. Hudson, who observed some Pholades working in a tide pool in the chalk, noted the periodic release of clouds of chalk powder and saw piles of the same material collected around the entrance of each burrow. The ejections happened without any regular schedule. Mrs. Merrifield mentions an interesting observation:—A woman observing some Pholades working in a basin of seawater noticed that two of them were boring at such an angle that their tunnels would intersect. Intrigued by what would happen next, she continued to watch and discovered that the larger and stronger Pholas drilled straight through the weaker one, as though it were just a piece of chalk rock.
(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 [pg 205]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 [pg 206]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.”
"What," says Mr. Gosse, "Is that thing lying on the stretch of sand, where the shallow water ripples, washing the sand around it and soon leaving it dry? It looks like a stone, but there’s a bright red knob on it that just vanished. Let’s watch the wave pull back and run out to it. It’s a great example of the large spinous cockle (Cardium rusticum), which makes these sandy beaches at the bottom of Torbay famous. In fact, this species [pg 205]is rarely found anywhere else, leading it to often be called the Paignton cockle in literature. It’s quite a tasty bonne bouche when cooked properly. The late Dr. Turton—a leading expert in his time on Devonshire natural history, especially about shells and shellfish—says that the locals around Paignton know the ‘red-noses,’ as they call the large cockles, and search for them at low spring tides when they can be seen lying in the sand with their fringed siphons just above the surface. They collect them in baskets and panniers, and after soaking them for a few hours in cold spring water, fry them in a batter made from breadcrumbs. These cockles haven’t changed their habits or habitats; they are still found in the same places as they were a century ago. They haven’t lost their status either; in fact, they’ve gained popularity among more sophisticated diners now, as locals, aware of the market, gather the flavorful cockles for the trendy people of Torquay, while settling for the smaller and less desirable species (Cardium edule), which tends to prefer the muddy flats of estuaries over sandy beaches, although it's not uncommon here. This smaller type, while much less tasty than the larger spinous kind, is a more significant part of human food due to its wide distribution, high abundance, and ease of collection. Whenever the tide goes out and leaves mud exposed, you can be sure to find the common cockle, and hundreds of men, women, and children can be seen trudging over the sinking surface, barefoot and hunched over, picking up thousands of shellfish to be boiled and eaten at home, or to be shouted through the lanes and alleys of nearby towns by loud boys who yell all day long, ‘Here’s your fine cockles, here! Here they are! Here they are! Twopence a quart!’ " However, it’s on the northwestern coast of Scotland where the greatest abundance of these mollusks exists, forming not a luxury but a necessity for the poor, semi-barbaric population. The residents of these rocky areas have an unfortunate reputation for relying on this humble diet. "Where the river meets the sea at Tongue," says Macculloch in his "Highland and Island Homes of Scotland," "There is a significant low tide, and the long sandbanks are filled with cockles in almost unmatched numbers. At that time (a year of food shortages), they created a unique scene at low tide, packed with men, women, and children who were busily digging for these shellfish as long as the tide allowed. It wasn't unusual to see thirty or forty horses from the nearby [pg 206] countryside brought in to transport loads of them for many miles. This was known to be a time of scarcity, and without this resource, I believe it’s not an exaggeration to say that many people must have died from hunger."
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.”
One of the easiest ways to collect samples is from the debris from fishermen’s nets and baskets; however, it’s really tough to get trawlers to bring back any of their “trash.” Generally, money “makes the mare move” in whatever direction you want, but it seems to lose its power when the task at hand is simply putting a shovelful of "trash" into a bucket of water instead of just tossing it overboard. No, they don’t have time for that. You try to build a friendship; you sit and chat with them, thinking you’ve successfully gotten into their good graces enough to convince them to take on the not very difficult job of bringing in a tub of “garbage.”
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 situation isn't completely hopeless, though. Sometimes Mr. Gosse has a tub of garbage delivered to him; it's usually more worthless than valuable. The boys are sometimes more receptive to offers than the men, especially if the master has his own son with him. In that case, the boy has a better chance to make some money for himself than when he’s alone. "If you ever," Gosse says, "If you want to try your luck with a bucket of trawler’s 'rubbish,' I strongly recommend that as a first step to 'catching your hare,' you start 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.”
The last load I sorted created a massive pile when dumped onto a board, but it was pretty disappointing upon closer inspection. It mostly consisted of just one or two types of hydroid zoophytes, and those were the most common ones. However, that doesn’t mean that a smart and observant person couldn’t have discovered a much wider variety; many species were likely overlooked and thrown overboard when this stuff was packed into the basket. But since they were small or needed to be picked out one by one, they were ignored, while the long, tangled strands of the Plumularia falcata could be grabbed quickly like picking up a handful of pea straw from a field, with its value often judged, as is typical with beginners, by the quantity rather than the diversity or quality.
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 [pg 207]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.
Mr. Gosse noticed several times while looking at the contents of shrimpers’ nets a pretty little flatfish that constantly lives on sandy beaches and in pools. It's often found alongside shrimps, some of which it’s almost the same size as, although it can sometimes grow to a maximum of four or five inches. Despite its small size, it's related to the impressive turbot. The naturalist mentioned above brought it home and observed its behavior at his convenience. “In a white bowl,” he states, “It was a delightful little creature, though it was hard to observe because the moment the lens got too close, it would flinch in fear and often jump onto the table. Once its panic faded, it would relax and allow me to gently move it around, just fluttering the edges of its dorsal and ventral fins quickly as I nudged it.” This is called the Top-knot, named for the extension of its dorsal fin. The little Sand Launce, with its shiny, pearly sides, is a common fish along the shore. It has a notable projection of its lower jaws, almost like a spade, which it uses to scoop out a spot in the wet sand to hide in. The Lesser Weever, known as Sting-bull, Sting-fish, and Sea-cat by English fishermen because it can cause severe inflammatory [pg 207]wounds, is another small fish measuring about four or five inches long, and is also a resident of the sands. Young Skate can be found as well. The Wrasse, the Globy, the Blenny, and many other small fish are seen in the pools and caves along 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.
Of crabs, prawns, and crustaceans, of shellfish and rock fish, and mollusks in general, these pages have already provided a detailed account. They are even more at home in the sea than on land.
CHAPTER 19.
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.
Land’s End—Cornwall and Its Contributions to the Navy—The Great Botallack Mine—An Interesting Sight Outside—Pumping Out the Atlantic Ocean—The Sound of the Sea Heard Inside—During a Storm—The Miner’s Fears—The Loggan Stone—A Foolish Lieutenant and His Little Joke—The Consequence—The Once-Fearsome Wolf Rock—Rotating Lights—Are They Helpful to the Mariner?—Smuggling in Cornwall—A Coastguard Smuggler—Landing 150 Kegs Right Under the Officers' Noses—A Cornish Fishing Town—Looe, the Ancient—The Old Bridge—The Beauty of the Place from Afar—Closer Look—Charming Streets—The Locals—Looe Island and the Rats—An Unusual Method of Getting Rid of Them—The Poor in Cornwall Better Off than Anywhere Else—Mines and Fisheries—Keeping On “Tribute”—Earnings from the Pilchard Season—Cornish Hospitality and Appreciation.
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
The Land’s End is particularly intriguing for readers of this work, as its name suggests a point beyond which one cannot go, except into the vast ocean. There’s a certain aura of mystery and interest surrounding this location. What is this endpoint like? It is the farthest western point of one of the most rugged counties in England, a place that has produced some of the country’s greatest individuals and has always been closely tied to maritime history. Cornwall has provided more resilient sailors to the Royal Navy and merchant marine than any other county, except possibly Devonshire. One should consider its sparse population when evaluating this fact. Its fishermen and miners are among the best in the world. Therefore, some insights into the Cornish coasts and coastal life may be appreciated.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 [pg 208]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!”
One of the great features of Land’s End is the famous Botallack Mine, which stretches thousands of feet out into the ocean. Wilkie Collins, in a fantastic description of his visit to the old mine, says:—The view was, in its own way, just as impressive and remarkable as the first glimpse of the Cheese-Wring itself. Here, we saw a scaffolding situated on a rock sticking out of the waves—there, a steam pump was running, lifting gallons of water from the mine every minute, on a small ledge of land halfway down the steep cliff. Chains, pipes, and conduits extended in all directions from the edge; weathered wooden platforms over deep ravines supported large beams of timber and heavy coils of cable; rickety little wooden houses were built where gulls might have nested elsewhere. It didn’t seem like there was a single flat piece of ground anywhere for any part of the mine’s operations to stand on; yet, there they were, performing all the tasks they were designed for, as safely and effectively, on rocks [pg 208]in the sea and down the cliffs on land, as if they had been carefully built on smooth, solid ground above!
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!
The Botallack is primarily a copper and tin mine and has produced a lot in the past. Mr. Collins explored it to quite a depth and discovered saltwater trickling in from the ocean above through openings in the rock. At one point, he noticed a large wooden plug, about the size of a man’s leg, shoved into a crack in the rock. It was installed to stop the sea from flooding the mine! Imagine using a plug to actually 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.
"We're now," says Mr. Collins in his narrative, “400 yards out under the bottom of the sea, and twenty fathoms, or 120 feet below sea level. Coast trade ships are sailing above us. Two hundred and forty feet below us, men are working, and there are even deeper tunnels below that.... After listening for a few moments, a distant, otherworldly noise becomes faintly audible—a long, low, mysterious moan that never changes, felt as much as heard—a sound that seems to come from some unimaginable distance—from some far-off invisible height—a sound unlike anything heard above ground, in the open air, a sound so profoundly mournful and still, so ghostly and striking when heard in the earth's depths, that we instinctively remain silent, as if enchanted by it, and do not think to share with each other the strange awe and amazement it has inspired in us since the very beginning.”
“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.”
“Finally, the miner speaks again and tells us that what we hear is the sound of the surf crashing against the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us, along with the waves breaking on the beach beyond. The tide is currently coming in, and the sea isn’t unusually rough right now, so the sound is soft and distant at this moment. But when storms reach their peak, and the ocean throws wave after wave of water against the cliffs, the noise is incredible; the roar heard down in the mine is so intensely fierce and terrifying that even the bravest workers are afraid to keep going. Everyone rushes to the surface to get fresh air and stand on solid ground, fearing, even though no such disaster has ever occurred, that the sea will come rushing in on them if they stay in the caverns below.”
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 [pg 210]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!”
One of the great sights at Land’s End is the famous Loggan Stone. After climbing up some sketchy-looking spots, you’ll come across a solid, irregular mass of granite that’s estimated to weigh eighty-five tons, resting only on its center atop another rock, which is itself supported by several others around it. "You are informed," says Wilkie Collins, “By the [pg 210]guide, turn your back to the top stone; place your shoulders under a specific part of its lower edge, which is completely detached from the supporting rock below. In this position, push upwards slowly and steadily, pause for a moment, then push again, and keep repeating this until, after a few moments of effort, you feel the entire massive structure above you moving as you press against it. Increase your efforts, then turn around and see the heavy Loggan Stone being moved by nothing but your own shoulders, slowly rocking back and forth with an alternating rise and fall of at least three inches at the outer edges. You’ve turned eighty-five tons of granite rock into a child’s cradle; and just like a child’s cradle, those eighty-five tons have rocked at your command!”
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.
In 1824, a lieutenant in the royal navy, who was in charge of a gunboat cruising off that coast, heard that people in Cornwall generally believed no human could or should ever move the Loggan Stone. Driven by a reckless ambition, he took a few crew members ashore and managed to tip it over using levers. His little prank was spotted by two laborers, who quickly 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.
All of Cornwall was on edge, and the anger was widespread, from philosophers who thought the Druids had put it in its place, to those who saw it as a county attraction and a vacation spot. The guides who took tourists to see it and the hotel owners were outraged. Complaints were sent to the Admiralty, and the unfortunate lieutenant was ordered to put it back.
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.
Fortunately, the huge stone hadn't fallen all the way over, or it would have crashed down a cliff into the sea, but it was stuck wedged in a crack of the rock below. With strong beams, chains, pulleys, and winches, and a hard week’s work from several men, it was put back in place, though it's said it never regained its original balance. The lieutenant was nearly ruined by it, and it's said he never fully paid off the cost of this repair by the time he died.
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.
About eleven miles from Land's End, there's a dark porphyry rock, the highest point of which rises seventeen feet above low water. It's called “The Wolf,” and before they built a lighthouse on it, no rock had been more dangerous for sailors. It's battered by a powerful sea, exposed to the full force of the Atlantic, and it sits right in the path of ships entering or leaving the channel. In 1860, the Trinity House started building a lighthouse on it, which stands 116 feet tall with a revolving dioptric light. “The first flash,” a leading journal reported, "The light from the Wolf Lighthouse was first lit on January 1, 1870, and in the last ten years, it's difficult to quantify the benefits it has provided, serving as a useful guide in the middle of the busiest shipping route in the world." The Wolf light alternates flashing red and white every half minute. However, a prominent expert on the matter, Sir William Thomson, strongly argues against all revolving lights, claiming that, for example, the Wolf is harder “to grab,” in nautical terms, than the fixed beacon of the Eddystone.
The Rev. C. A. Johns, writing about 1840,55 says that smuggling was still practised [pg 211]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.”
The Rev. C. A. Johns, writing around 1840, says that smuggling was still being practiced until just a few years before. Most families along the coast were somewhat involved in it, and many of the houses had, and still have, hidden underground rooms that could only be accessed through a cupboard in the parlor, which had a false back. Old, grey-haired adventurers talked with clear enjoyment about their thrilling escapades from their youth and their many narrow escapes. One tough old guy, in particular, who had stopped being a smuggler and had risked his life many times to save the crews of shipwrecked boats, recounted how he was chased by a king’s boat, how he jumped overboard and swam for his life, and how he dodged blow after blow from an oar or cutlass by diving, finally making it safely to shore. The rowers chasing him might not have given it their all, and the blows may have been deliberately inaccurate, since back then there were many sailors in the navy who had been smugglers and shared a sense of camaraderie with their kind. “I can myself,” says Mr. Johns, “remember speaking about forty years ago with a coastguardsman who had been a smuggler, and who, along with his mates, had been captured by a revenue cutter. He and another guy were tried and convicted, and sentenced, as was common at the time, to five years’ service in the navy. While on the ship that was set to take them to a foreign station, anchored at Spithead, they escaped from confinement and jumped into the sea at night, planning to swim to shore. They hadn't gone far when the sentinel on board spotted them, raised the alarm, and they were shot at. My source made it to shore safely, hid for a while, and, fearing to return to his hometown, joined the preventive service. When I saw him after several years, he was visiting friends in his village, close to where he had done his early daring deeds. His partner wasn’t so lucky; either he was hit by a bullet or wore himself out before he reached shore and drowned. In any case, 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. [pg 212]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.
Around the same time, Mr. Johns tells us, he was enjoying a warm summer evening at the beach near a small fishing village in a remote part of the county. It was around four o’clock, the sea was as calm as glass, and the wind was so light that the boats in sight were either stopped or barely moving with their oars. Only one fishing boat, about a hundred yards from shore, had its sails hanging limply from the mast but seemed to be slowly drifting toward a pier that extended between the beach where he was standing and the coastguard's houses. Just as it got close enough for the pier to block the view of its hull from the houses, there was a loud splash, like boxes or barrels being thrown into the water quickly. At the same time, a group of men ran down the beach into the water up to their waists, then dashed back to their houses, each carrying a bundle of something. A few minutes later, the boat capsized; this was likely intentional, but since it was in shallow water, no harm was done. Some seemingly innocent fishermen soon righted the boat and bailed it out. Mr. Johns found out later that they had successfully unloaded 150 kegs of spirits right under the noses of the coastguard. It was a risky move, but the smugglers had figured the officers wouldn’t expect such a thing in calm weather—and they were right. Smuggling usually happened during storms or on dark, cloudy nights. On some occasions, the people from these fishing towns and the surrounding countryside banded together and resisted the revenue officers, sometimes even throwing stones and firing guns at them. [pg 212]
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.
The ancient sites in Cornwall have inspired a significant amount of scholarly writing, but apart from the vivid and engaging accounts by Wilkie Collins, Philip Henry Gosse, and to a lesser extent, the previously mentioned author, the county isn't widely recognized. Mr. Collins’s description of Looe, an old fishing town in Cornwall, is definitely worth reading. He writes: The first stop we aimed for in the morning was the old bridge, which turned out to be a very picturesque and unique structure. Its construction dates back to the early fifteenth century. It is three hundred eighty-four feet long and has fourteen arches, none of which are the same size. The sturdy buttresses built between each arch have triangular spaces at the top that serve as interesting resting spots for pedestrians, with the roughly paved road being just wide enough for one cart to pass at a time. At one point, there was an oratory or chapel dedicated to St. Anne standing on some of these buttresses, but now there are no remnants of it. Nevertheless, the old bridge still stands strong on its ancient foundations; and no matter where you view its silver-grey stones and unique arches from, it enhances the charm of the beautiful landscape surrounding 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.
Looe has been acknowledged as a town since the reign of Edward I, and it remains one of the most charming and unspoiled places in England today. The river divides it into East and West Looe, and the view from the bridge, looking toward the two small clusters of houses, is quite unique. On either side, there are tall, beautifully wooded hills; occasionally, a cottage peeks out from among the trees, with the winding path leading to it sometimes hidden by thick foliage and at other times visible as a delicate, serpentine line of soft grey. Midway up the slopes are the gardens of Looe, built on stone terraces stacked above each other, showcasing the true garden architecture of the mountains of Palestine, magically transferred to the side of an English hill. In this soft and pleasant atmosphere, hydrangeas are common in flowerbeds, fuchsias grow tall and lush even in the simplest cottage gardens, myrtles thrive near the seaside, and delicate tamarisk is the wild plant found in every farmer’s hedge. Looking further down the hills, you can see the town stretching out toward the sea along both sides of the river in a maze of narrow streets; interesting old quays extend over the water at various points; coastal trade vessels are being loaded and unloaded, built in one place and repaired in another, all in view; and the scene, with its hills, harbor, and houses combined so quaintly, is finally framed by the English Channel, just visible as a small strip of blue water trapped between the ridges of two promontories extending out 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.
“This is Looe from a distance, and it doesn’t lose any charm up close. There aren't any straight streets here; no strict architect has come to arrange the old stone houses into boring uniformity. Sometimes you go down steps to reach the ground floor, and other times you climb an outdoor staircase to get to the bedrooms. It’s the perfect place for a game of hide-and-seek, just like when it was first invented. Every house has at least two doors leading to different paths; some even have three, opening into a courtyard, a street, and a wharf, all in different directions. The shops have their own quirky charm, just like the town itself. You might call someone a Jack-of-all-trades as a high compliment—because here, one shop mixes a bit of everything: selling medicine, cheese, stationery, groceries, and Italian products, plus a collection of odd items like wrinkled apples, dusty nuts, broken slate pencils, and shabby costume jewelry. The uplifting message you get from the first window, filled with short biographies of murdered missionaries and serious pamphlets against drinking and tight clothing, is overshadowed by the second, showcasing the temptations of gingerbread, shirt studs, and attractive white Sunday hats for two-and-ninepence each. No one can honestly claim they have seen all that British creativity can achieve for expanding British trade until they’ve thoroughly explored the shopfronts 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 [pg 214]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.
Finally, after making your way through the streets and arriving at the beach, you'll see a picturesque little bay created by the tip of a green hill on the right and some impressive jagged slate rocks on the left. In front of this coastal area of the town, there's a solid wall made of rough stones to guard against high tides. This is where the locals come to unwind and chat, look out for any ships heading out into the Channel, and discuss the appearance and skills of the small fleet of Looe fishing boats comfortably anchored at the mouth 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.”
"There are about fourteen hundred residents, and they are as cheerful and straightforward as you'll find anywhere. They mostly earn their living through fishing and coastal trade. The women play a significant role in heavy labor alongside the men. You often see them hauling coal from the ships to the dock in quirky hand carts; they laugh, shout, and constantly bump into each other, but these little disruptions seem to help rather than hinder them in getting their work done. As for the men, they all seem to share one common interest. All day long, they are fixing boats, painting boats, cleaning boats, rowing boats, or just standing around with their hands in their pockets, watching boats. The children look and act like children in every way. They gather in small, serious groups and have secret conversations in a language we can’t understand. If they ever fall down, get their clothes dirty, throw stones, or make mud pies, they do these childish things in the dead of night so no outsider can see them."
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 [pg 215]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!
A mile or so out at sea, there’s a green triangle-shaped hill called Looe Island. A few years ago, a ship was wrecked on the island, but not only was the crew saved, but several free rats that had somehow boarded the ship were also rescued through their own efforts and wisely decided to set up permanent homes on the solid ground of Looe Island. Over time, these rats multiplied quickly, and being trapped within the island’s boundaries by the sea, they soon became a major nuisance. There was a real threat to the crops on all the small patches of land cultivated on the island—it seemed uncertain if anyone who ventured there alone wouldn’t meet the same fate as Bishop Hatto and be eaten by rats. Given these circumstances, the people of Looe agreed to make a united and determined effort to eliminate the entire rat colony. Normal methods of extermination had already been tried with no success. It was said that the dead rats left on the ground somehow came back to life faster than they could be picked up, skinned, or tossed into the sea. Rats that were badly wounded managed to escape to their burrows, recover, and multiply again even more rapidly than before. The main challenge was not just how to kill the rats, but how to wipe them out completely so that everyone would know that there wouldn’t be a chance of even one returning. This was the problem, and it was practically and triumphantly solved in the following way: All the townsfolk were called together for a massive hunt. The rats were caught using every trick imaginable; once captured, they were immediately and passionately smothered in onions; the bodies were then respectfully displayed on clean china dishes and promptly eaten with vengeful delight by the people of Looe. Never before had there been such a thorough and successful method of rat extermination. Every man, woman, and child who could eat could attest to the death and destruction of all the rats they had consumed. The town’s tally of dead rats was not reported through death records, but through restaurant menus; they were getting rid of a nuisance by the bizarre method of eating the nuisance! Day after day passed, and hundreds of rats vanished, never to return. They had resisted ordinary attacks from dogs, ferrets, traps, sticks, stones, and guns, but when their attackers added smothering onions, boiling pots, hungry mouths, sharp teeth, strong digestions, and gastric juices, what could they do but surrender? The destruction that now rained down on them was swift and certain—everyone who wanted a meal had a vested interest in hunting them down to the very last one. In a short time, the island was free of the intruders. Cheeses remained untouched; haystacks were unharmed. 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.
Many reasons, Mr. Collins tells us, helped protect the poor in Cornwall from the worst consequences of poverty that those in most other parts of England often face. The last census reported the county's population at 341,269, with an area of 1,327 square miles. When you do the math, you'll see this is significantly below the average population density of a square mile across the rest of England. So, the number of people available for work doesn't seem to exceed the demand in Cornwall. The county's remote location keeps it from experiencing a large influx of outsiders who might compete with locals for jobs. Mr. Collins encountered a farmer there who was not overwhelmed during harvest time by people looking for work on his land; instead, he had to go out to find laborers in a nearby town, unsure if he would find enough people who weren't already occupied in the mines and fisheries to help harvest his crops in time for two shillings a day and as much “food and drink” as they wanted.
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.
Another reason that has recently helped keep Cornwall free from the burden of having too many working-class people is often overlooked. Emigration has been more common in that county than, perhaps, in any other part of England. In 1849, nearly five percent of the population from the Penzance Union left their home for Australia or New Zealand. The potato blight is considered the main reason for this, as it significantly damaged the growth of a vegetable that brought large profits to Cornish farmers when sold in London markets, and on which the poorer people in Cornwall relied as a staple food along with fish.
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 [pg 216]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.
It’s the mines and fisheries that make up for Cornwall's land being too poor to farm in many areas, except at such high costs that no regular farmer can afford. The local workforce relies on the endless resources in the ground and the huge schools of pilchards that come to the coast each year for their steady income when farming doesn’t work out. Miners usually earn between forty to fifty shillings a month, but they have ways to earn more. By what’s known as working “on tribute,” which means agreeing to dig out the metal deposits for a cut of the metal's worth, some have been known to make as much as six or even ten pounds a month. Even if they have bad luck with mining ventures or lose their jobs because a mine closes, they can usually find some farm work, which pays about nine shillings a week outside of harvest time. However, they rarely have to rely on this option. They have access to a piece of common land along with the cottages they rent, and farming this land helps support them and their families during tough times until they can get back to work, where they might earn in one month what a farm laborer makes in a year.
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.
The fisheries not only provide jobs for everyone living on the coast, but during the pilchard season, many farm workers get involved too. Around ten thousand people—men, women, and children—depend on the fisheries for their livelihoods, which are so incredibly productive that the "drift," or deep-sea fishing, in Mount’s Bay alone is estimated to generate about £30,000 a year on average.
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.
To the jobs secured for the poor in the mines and fisheries, you can also add the benefit of affordable rent and living in Cornwall. Good cottages are available for rent at around fifty or sixty shillings to a few pounds a year. Turf for fuel grows abundantly on the vast areas of common land that cover the region. A wide variety of vegetables are plentiful and inexpensive, except for potatoes, which have greatly decreased due to disease, leading to winter supplies being imported from France, Belgium, and Holland. However, early potatoes, harvested in May and June, are still grown in large amounts and sell for a high price when exported. Grain typically sells just above average prices. Fish is always accessible to the poorest people; in a good season, a dozen pilchards can be bought for one penny. Thankfully, the poor in Cornwall don’t share the silly prejudices against fish that many lower-class people in other parts of England do. Their local pride is in their pilchards; they enjoy discussing them, especially with visitors, and rightly so, as they rely heavily on these small fish, which the sea provides in almost endless quantities each year.
“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 [pg 217]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.
“Cornish hospitality,” says Wilkie Collins, We encountered many situations, but one stands out. When we arrived late in a village, we had some trouble getting the innkeeper's attention. While we waited at the door, we heard a man from a nearby cottage, who we had asked for directions earlier, asking a female family member if she could prepare a spare bed. We noticed this man walking toward us, but we had picked up the pace, and we waited outside the inn for about fifteen minutes before he got home. When the woman said she couldn’t help, he told her to put clean sheets on his own bed and came out to let us know that if we couldn’t get a room at the inn, we were welcome to stay at his place for the night. Later, we learned that he had looked out the window after arriving home, recognized us in the moonlight while we were still knocking on the inn door, and got out of bed to assist us. When we finally got into the inn, he declined our invitation to join us for dinner, wished us a good night, and went back home. I should also mention that another bed was offered to us at the vicarage by the local clergyman, who made sure we were settled with our landlady before leaving and invited us to breakfast the next morning. This is the kind of hospitality you find in [pg 217]Cornwall, a county where, notably, a stranger is even more of a stranger regarding local sympathies; where national pride is usually overshadowed by local sentiment; and where someone identifies as Cornish in much the same way a Welsh person identifies 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.
"Likewise, another example from my own experience will best demonstrate the anxiety that we often observed in the Cornish poor about showing their gratitude for any kindness they received. The stories I share here to highlight the character of the people shouldn't be considered insignificant; it's through these small details that we genuinely understand the signs of good or bad in the nature of those around us, just like feeling the pulse of a single artery can indicate the overall strength or weakness of the entire body."
“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 [pg 218]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.”
On the granite cliffs at Land's End, I ran into an old man who was seventy-two years old. I asked him a few questions about the incredible rocks scattered along this part of the coast. He immediately started sharing all his local stories, speaking in a high, shaky voice that was barely audible over the crashing waves and the strong wind whistling through the rocks around us. Despite this, the old man kept talking non-stop, hobbled ahead of me, up and down steep paths, and right along the edge of a scary cliff, all with a calmness as if his sight was clear and his steps as steady as they had been in his youth. Once he showed me everything he could and was completely worn out from talking, I gave him a shilling as we were parting ways. He looked genuinely surprised by the payment, which the reader might think was quite small. He thanked me loudly and then quickly led me, with many secret nods and gestures, to a spot in the grass where he had laid out a clean [pg 218]handkerchief containing a small collection of his own items, including barnacles, bits of rock and ore, and samples of dried seaweed. He pointed to these and insisted that I take anything I wanted as a gift in return for what I had given him. He refused to let me buy anything, saying he wasn’t a regular guide and that I had already paid him more than an old man like him was worth. Whatever I took from his handkerchief had to be a gift. I could tell by his attitude that he would be truly upset if I argued against this, so as a gift, I took one of his pieces of rock. I didn’t want to take away his joy of doing something nice just because I had a few more shillings in my pocket than he did.
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.
Wilkie Collins's Experiences as a Pedestrian—Taken for “Mapper,” “Trodger,” and Hawker—An Exciting Wreck at Penzance—The Lifeline sent out—A Stubborn Captain—A Brave Coastguard—Five Fearless Young Women—Falmouth and Sir Walter Raleigh—Its Rapid Development—One of its Institutions—A Dollar Mine—Religious Fishermen—The Lizard and its Connections for Voyagers—Origin of the Name—Mount St. Michael, the Scenic—Her Majesty’s Visit—A 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.
Mr. Collins’s experiences as a pedestrian are amusing. He says:—We stop at a small pub along the road to grab a pint of beer. In the kitchen, we see the landlord and a tall customer. They both look at us, as we expected; the tall guy, after a quick glance at our backpacks, fixes his gaze on us and sits up straight on the bench without saying anything—he's clearly ready for whatever we might do. We start chatting with the landlord, a friendly and talkative guy, who is really eager to know who we are, if we don't mind sharing. We ask him what he thinks we are. ‘Well,’ says the landlord, pointing to my friend's backpack, which has a square ruler attached to it for architectural drawing, ‘I think you’re both mappers; mappers who come here to create new roads; you might even be here to build a railroad, I suppose. We’ve had mappers in this county before. I know a mapper myself. Here’s to your good health.’ We raise our glasses to the landlord’s health in return and deny being ‘mappers;’ we tell him that we’re just walking through the countryside for fun and taking any roads we can find, without any intention of making new ones. The landlord is curious, then, if that’s the case, why we carry these heavy packs on our backs? Because we want to bring our stuff with us. Couldn't we pay for a ride? Sure, we could. But we prefer walking? Yes, we do. This last answer completely shocks the tall customer, who has been closely listening to our conversation. It's clearly too much for him to accept; he pays his bill and leaves in a hurry without saying a word. The landlord seems convinced, but it’s just an act; he watches us suspiciously despite himself. We leave him standing at the door, keeping an eye on us for as long as we’re visible, clearly still convinced that we are ‘mappers,’ but ‘mappers’ of a questionable kind, whose determination poses some unknown threat to the safety 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!’
"We enter a different area. Here, the public opinion isn’t very positive. Some of the groups lining the road begin to speculate about who we are before we’re fully out of earshot. Then we hear a conversation, spoken in serious, hushed tones. Question—‘What could 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.
“This is especially embarrassing because it’s true. We really do trudge along, so we’re rightfully, though a bit awkwardly, called trudgers or ‘trodgers.’ But it gets worse a little later. People view us as objects of pity. It’s a lovely evening. We stop and lean against a bank by the road to watch the sunset. An elderly woman comes tottering by in high shoes, looking very comfortable and well-dressed. She sees our backpacks and immediately stops in front of us, starting to moan sadly. Not sure what she means at first, we politely ask if she is feeling unwell? ‘Ah! poor fellows, poor fellows!’ she sighs in reply, ‘having to carry all your stuff on your own backs! very hard! poor lads! very hard indeed!’ and the kind old lady walks away, groaning about our unfortunate situation and mumbling something that sounds a lot like a promise 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!’
“In another part of the county, we gain more recognition. We pass a cottage; a woman looks out at us over the low garden wall and somewhat hesitantly calls us back. I approach her first and she says: ‘Excuse me, sir, what do you have to sell?’ Then, an old man stops us on the road, cheerfully taps our backpacks with his stick, and says, ‘Aha! You’re merchants, huh? Things to sell? I ask you, do you have any tea?’ (pronounced tay). Further on, we see some miners breaking ore. As we walk by, we hear one asking in amazement, ‘What do they have to sell in those packs on their backs?’ and another responds confidently, as if he knows the answer, ‘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.”
Unfortunately, it's impossible to fully convey to the reader how serious the situation was, the surprised looks, and the sincere tones that accompanied the various popular guesses about our purpose and place in life, which added to their comedic effect at the time. Interestingly, whenever these guesses were asked as questions, any joking responses we gave didn’t seem to connect or be understood by the locals. Serious answers received just as little recognition as jokes. Everyone asked if we could pay for a ride, and no one believed that we actually preferred to walk if we could. So we quickly gave up any hope of providing information at all, and we wandered through the countryside comfortably as mappers, walkers, tradespeople, guinea pig sellers, and poor, burdened vagabond boys, either together or one at a time, depending on what the locals wanted.
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.
Penzance is the most westerly port in England. It has a grand pier that's 700 feet long, along with a lighthouse whose red light can be seen nine miles away. There's a lifeboat, and its crew has performed many brave acts. Out of a population of around twelve or thirteen thousand in the area, at least twenty-five percent are tough sea workers—fishermen or sailors. Just a couple of years ago, it was the site of a very exciting event.
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 [pg 220]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 [pg 221]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!
A French brig, the Ponthieu, ran aground near the town during a strong south-west gale. The Marazion rocket apparatus was successfully used, and the line was thrown over the wreck, but the crew, not knowing how to operate it, tied it [pg 220]loosely to the ship instead of pulling it tight. One crew member managed to reach shore safely using it. The Penzance lifeboat was then launched, but when it arrived at the distressed vessel, the French crew, despite being in great danger with waves crashing over them, ignored the lifeboat, seemingly under the captain's orders not to abandon ship or even throw a line. The wind and sea grew stronger; the ship was clearly doomed and about to break apart. The lifeboat crew pleaded in vain. They were ultimately warned off and had to leave after serious warning. However, witnessing the inevitable loss of life, the brave coxswain of the boat decided to go back. In the end: five lives were saved. The captain remained stubborn, and eventually, a coastguardsman, all credit to him!, volunteered to undertake the risky task of going to the wreck using the rocket line, carrying a letter from the French Consul urging the captain to leave. In front of hundreds of anxious spectators, the coastguard made his way through the waves, often submerging for several seconds and risking being swept away. The captain, observing from the brig, remained frozen, even when his rescuer reached the bows. Just then, a massive wave crashed over the hero of the rocket line, and everyone on shore feared for his life. Fortunately, he managed to grab hold of the rope, and more dead than alive, he was pulled ashore. Meanwhile, the brig was breaking apart quickly. The masts toppled overboard. The stern, where the captain stood, was the first to crumble and then completely swept away. It was believed that the captain had died, but soon he was spotted among the wreckage, climbing onto the foreyard, where the sail provided him some shelter. The coastguardsmen fired two more rockets, and one line fell close to [pg 221]the captain. He grabbed it, but even then seemed uncertain whether to save himself or go down with his ship. After fifteen minutes, the will to survive compelled him to tie the rope around his body, and the reckless man was hauled ashore. Within an hour, nothing remained of the vessel except a few floating pieces of wood. The cheers that welcomed the captain’s rescue were weak compared to those that greeted the coastguardsman who risked his life trying 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.
The coastguardsmen, however, don’t have a monopoly on bravery in Cornwall. There are courageous women there, some of them quite young.
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.
Towards the end of October 1879, a well-deserved ceremony took place in Padstow, where five young women received silver medals and certificates on vellum, awarded by the National Life-boat Institution. The four Misses Prideaux Brune and Miss Nora O’Shaughnessy bravely took a boat through rough seas, risking their own lives to save an exhausted sailor from a capsized boat, two of whose companions had already drowned before they arrived. Samuel Bate, the former assistant coxswain of the Padstow life-boat, was towing the ladies' boat behind his fishing vessel when they saw the accident and asked to be released. Reluctantly, he agreed, and he notes that they rowed “like tigers” to the rescue through the raging sea, convinced that the man would have died like his companions had it not been for their swift arrival. Such courageous young women make us even prouder of Cornwall, which has given England—and indeed the world—so many remarkable individuals.
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.
The Cornish coast, despite its beautiful scenery and interesting spots, isn't as well known by tourists and artists as it deserves to 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.
Falmouth has a fascinating history. When Sir Walter Raleigh visited on his way back from the Guinea coast, where guinea pigs originated, he found just one lone house outside the main residence of an old county family. His keen eye noticed the excellent harbor and entrance, which could hold 500 vessels, and he suggested to the Council the benefits of turning it into a port. Since then, its fortunes grew; it soon became a central hub for the arrival and departure of foreign mail. Today, on the high headland of St. Anthony’s Point, a lighthouse flashes brightly every twenty seconds to guide incoming ships and steamships, which have sometimes numbered up to 2,000 in a year. It features a patent slip, dry docks, and all the necessary facilities for shipping interests. The town is connected to a large oyster and trawling fishery and has a small fleet of pilot cutters. There’s a sailors’ Bethel with a library and reading room, and the Royal Cornwall Sailors’ Home is a well-known institution. Another of Falmouth's notable "institutions" could serve as a model for others. 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.
The Rev. C. A. Johns tells us that near Gunwalloe, Cornwall, the land rises, and the coast becomes rugged for a short distance. The cliffs, while not very tall, are steep and leave no way for any unfortunate ship that might be forced close to the rocks to escape. Around 1785, a ship loaded with wool, and carrying two and a half tons of money, was driven ashore a few hundred yards west of the church and soon broke apart. Ever since then, after a storm, people have found dollars on the beach, but never in enough quantity to make the search worthwhile. However, no large-scale efforts to recover the valuable cargo were made until 1845, when people were surprised to hear that a group of adventurers planned 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.
This isn't the only failed treasure hunt that has taken place at Gunwalloe. According to some, near the church in the sandbanks, or at Kennack Cove, the infamous pirate Captain Avery is said to have buried several chests of treasure before departing England on a voyage he never returned from. The belief in this story was so strong that Mr. John Knill, the Customs collector in St. Ives, obtained a treasure trove grant around 1770 and spent some money searching for it, but his efforts were in vain.
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 [pg 223]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 ship had broken apart between two rocks not far from the base of the cliff, and it was decided to build a kind of coffer-dam, from which the water would be pumped out and the money collected at a leisurely pace. Crazy as the plan was, the work actually started; a path was cleared in the cliff face, iron rods were secured into the rocks, and several wooden beams were laid down when a breeze came in from the southwest, and within a few hours, weeks of work were wiped out. The wooden structure was torn apart as if it were just a flimsy wicker cage, and the shore was quickly covered with debris. It's unlikely that this attempt will be made again. The investors were strangers in this case, which explains why the project was even attempted, as anyone familiar with the coast would know that while the sea can be relatively calm for many consecutive days, it never stays that way long enough to finish a project that requires time and faces challenges even in the best weather; indeed, a normal breeze hitting this shore stirs the sea into such a frenzy that no incomplete structure could survive the force of the waves.
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.
The lower classes in Cornwall are mostly Methodists and quite religious. In Scotland too, strict observance of the Sabbath is common among the poor. The Northern Flag, in response to a journalist advocating for the fishing industry to operate on Sundays, published an article stating that no group in Scotland, overall, loves, respects, and enjoys the Sabbath more than the people who live by the sea. At Wick, the largest herring fishing station in the world, where fishermen come from all over the coast, not a single fisherman was seen in the streets at ten o'clock one Sunday morning. Within half an hour, groups of men and women were making their way to various places of worship, and when the church bell rang to signal the start of service, the streets were nearly impassable—men, women, and children, all dressed neatly and not in work clothes, were streaming to church in every direction.
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.
No visitor to Cornwall ever misses the Lizard, the southernmost headland in Britain, a rocky area that has stirred more intense and varied emotions than anywhere else on our coasts. The emigrant, often wrongly believing he's leaving his homeland for good; the soldier heading off to faraway battlefields; the sailor bound for distant foreign ports; the lover saying goodbye to his beloved; the husband parting from his wife—each of them has strained their eyes for one last view of the island they cherish and might never see again! And when the lighthouse's light fades from view, how sadly they all “transform into” their berths to reflect, yes, “maybe to dream,” about the joyful past and uncertain future. The feelings are so different for those returning home: the emigrant with his savings, the weathered veteran who emerged from fierce battles unscathed, and the sailor who survived the challenges of dangerous seas; the lover now ready for the girl he adores; and the husband ecstatic to share great news with his loyal wife. The first sighting of that uniquely named rocky point is greeted with cheers and congratulations.
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.
The Lizard Rock gets its name, according to different sources, first because of its shape; second due to the snake-like color of its cliffs; and third, it’s said to come from the Cornish word Liazherd, meaning a projecting headland. Its two magnificent lights can be seen out at sea from twenty miles away.
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.
Mount’s Bay, a few miles further west, has great anchorage, but it's more interesting to visitors because it features an isolated pyramidal cluster of impressive rocks, which, along with their castle, are a delight for landscape artists. The old castle on the rocky islet rises to a height of 230 feet. The island is connected to Marazion, a village on the mainland, just 400 yards away, by a stone causeway. In 1846, Her Majesty Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited the area, and the event is commemorated on a plaque embedded in the pier's wall, as well as a brass footplate marking the spot where the Royal feet first touched the shore. There’s a cozy little harbor, and the mentioned pier can accommodate several hundred vessels unloading at the same time. The population of Mount St. Michael is made up 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.
Plymouth, Devon, with its impressive breakwater and rich history, has been frequently mentioned in these pages. Not too long ago, it was the site of a remarkable rescue. Five boys were playing on the beach in front of the Hoe when they ventured into a cave in the rocks and stayed there until the tide, which was rising rapidly due to a storm outside, trapped them inside. Their screams were heard from the road and promenade above, and hundreds of people quickly gathered. The waves were crashing wildly on the beach and surging into the cave where the scared boys were huddled, shivering from the cold and wet, shaking with fear at their seemingly unavoidable fate. No boat could survive the rough surf or dare to approach the rocks. But the seamen’s cleverness came to the rescue; ropes were obtained, and two sailors, George Andrews and Thomas Penny, were lowered over the steep cliffs through the blinding spray and crashing foam to the entrance of the rocky cave. Here, still attached to the ropes, they let the sea carry them into the cave far enough to grab a boy, and when the signal was given, they were pulled back up. This process was repeated, and amid loud cheers, the fifth and final boy was rescued.
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.
Has the reader ever visited Dartmouth, one of the most beautiful places in Britain? The men, and, as history suggests, the women too, of that ancient town held their ground when the French, in 1404, after burning and looting Plymouth, thought they would have an easy target. The people of Dartmouth bravely fought back against the invaders, achieving such success that the commander of the fleet, three barons, and twenty knights were captured. Yet, from a relatively small population, just like today, a significant number were seafarers.
CHAPTER 21.
Sketches of our Southern 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: its History—Vast Trade—Major Port for Top Cruise Lines—The Tale of a Runaway Ship—The Isle of Wight—Tragic Loss of the __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Eurydice—Result of the Court-martial—Retrieving It from the Sea—“London by the Coast”—Newhaven and Seaford—Beachy Head—An Attempt to Climb It—A Shipwreck There—Useful Knowledge in Emergencies—Saved by Samphire—The Coast Guard: Past and Present—Their Comparatively Comfortable Situation Today—The Coast Guard During the Smuggler Era—Public Sentiment 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.
Southampton, one of the key towns in southern England, has a rich history, existing even before the Conquest, with many Roman remains nearby. What schoolboy doesn’t know the story of King Canute and his courtiers, who flattered him by saying that even the winds and waves would obey him? The Danish king was too strong-willed to buy into that nonsense; to prove to his sycophantic courtiers that he didn’t have powers that belong to the Creator alone, he supposedly sat by the seaside and loudly commanded the waves to stop. But the fluffy waves didn’t listen, and eventually washed over the feet of the king and his groveling court. The location where this famous event happened is still pointed out in the area around 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.
Nearly surrounding the town are the remains of the ancient buttresses and towers of the wall that once enclosed it; the old Water-gate on the western shore, from which merchants set sail, still stands. In the old Domesday Book, it’s noted as an important burgh. Southampton gained significance during the Crusades when thousands of troops, crusaders, and armored knights departed from there or, caught by bad weather, camped in the area. It quickly became a major 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
Southampton has great natural benefits for communication with the sea. The town is located on a rising piece of land, surrounded by the confluences of the rivers Test and Itchen, and connects to the Solent and English Channel through the beautiful stretch of water known as Southampton Water, which is surrounded by lovely scenery and is navigable for the largest steamers. At its entrance is Calshot Castle, a coastguard station right by the water, while halfway between that point and the town are the picturesque ruins of Netley Abbey. It features a tidal dock covering sixteen acres, along with several graving and other docks. As a result, it serves as a departure point for the fine vessels of the Peninsular and Oriental line, the Royal Mail (West Indies and Central America), North German Lloyds’, Hamburg, and Havre steamships to New York, as well as the Union Line for African ports, along with countless smaller steamships and steamboats for Havre, the Channel Islands, and the Isle of Wight. Its residents consider it the Liverpool of the South; while that might be a bit of an exaggeration, it has certainly become one of the main ports in 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, [pg 227]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.
And now for the story of a steamboat that tried to escape from Southampton on its own. This strange event happened a few years ago and could have had disastrous consequences. The steam-tug Belmont was towing the Walton Hood, a passenger ship headed for Australia. After bringing her down to the Channel, they set the sails on the ship, and the Belmont began to release her before heading back to Southampton. For some unknown reason, the ship collided with the tug, hitting her with a violent crash that knocked over her mast and funnel and tipped her onto her side. The shock also got the crew moving; they all jumped aboard the Walton Hood, leaving their steamer in the care of a dog and two cats. The steam from the Belmont was up, and after a series of plunges and sounds, she righted herself and got clear of the ship. She tore away her bulwarks, made a turn, and headed for land. Her fate seemed certain as her erratic maneuvers made her appear like a crazed ship fleeing from some pursuer. With her mast and funnel hanging over the side, her bulwarks smashed, and the long tiller thrashing wildly, the dog on board was barking, howling, and yelling furiously, making the scene both funny and serious. Something clearly needed to be done to save her. The captain and crew regained their composure, got a boat from the ship, and set off in pursuit. “Row hard, guys; give it your all!” was the quick command. "Yes, sir!" was the prompt reply, [pg 227]and the strong oars bent to the vigorous efforts of the rowers. The boat sped forward in the chase, but by this time, the steam-tug had changed direction and headed back toward the point where she had started. After going in a complete circle, she set off again on a zigzag course and headed straight for Calshot lighthouse. The men on lookout spotted her position, and after launching and manning their own boat, they also set off in pursuit. The race became genuinely exciting, as the course of the steam-tug was completely unpredictable, depending on how her helm swung to and fro in the waters of the Channel. By now, however, she had covered some distance, and eventually, her speed started to drop as her steam ran out, and her paddles stopped from sheer exhaustion. The crew from the lighthouse was the first to board her, and her own crew arrived about twenty minutes later. Finally, she was put back into working order and safely brought into dock. It turns out the crew had some justification for leaving her, as the vessel was leaking badly and was in imminent danger of sinking.
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.
From Southampton Traveling to the beautiful Isle of Wight is a natural transition. To fully describe its coasts, fishing villages, seaside resorts, and other points of interest would take a large volume. Cowes and Ryde, with their regattas and generally festive atmosphere; Osborne, with its royal residence; Shanklin and Blackgang “Chinese”; Ventnor and Niton; Alum Bay and “the Needles” will be familiar to most of our readers. Inseparably tied to this cheerful little island is an event that brought sadness not just to the families of hundreds directly affected, but across the entire country. It should be mentioned that we are referring to the tragic loss of the fine training ship Eurydice, with its living cargo of three hundred young and promising sailors, in sight of land and home, just as they were nearing the haven of their hopes after long foreign service.
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 [pg 228]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
On the morning of March 25th, 1878, the country woke up to one of the most tragic and unexpected disasters that has hit the navy this century—not to mention the Captain, as there had always been some doubts about how the bulky ironclad would perform in a strong gale. "One of the best corvettes of her class that has ever sailed," said an expert, “Commanded by a captain and crewed by highly experienced officers, with a young but well-trained crew that was large enough to have ‘torn her to pieces,’ the ship capsized, leaving only two survivors on board. Such a tragedy, considering its full extent and the loss of life, is unmatched in modern naval history. About forty years ago, a man-of-war schooner (the *Pincher*), which was seriously over-masted, capsized in a heavy squall near the ‘Owers,’ not far from the same area, losing all her crew while accompanying a corvette. However, the *Eurydice* was not over-masted, and she sank in broad daylight in calm water. Yet, who can claim—no matter how skilled they are—‘The *Eurydice* wouldn't have gone down if I were in charge?’ The truth is, this very tragic disaster could have affected any sailor. With a favorable wind, calm water, and close to her anchorage, while sailing too close under the high land of the Isle of Wight, she failed to notice the hurricane-like squall approaching in time to prepare for it, and the ship was literally forced underwater; the accumulating weight ultimately capsized her beyond recovery. There have been comments regarding the open ports, but with a fair wind, smooth water, and Spithead nearby, what danger could possibly exist that would require them to be closed after such a nearly completed sea voyage? If the *Eurydice* had faced the same squall at sea, she would have survived it.”57
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 [pg 229]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.
The court-martial that convened on August 27, 1878, aboard the Duke of Wellington flagship, led by Admiral Fanshawe, C.B., Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth, reported that the ship sank due to wind pressure on the sails during a sudden and extremely dense snowstorm, which caught her off guard as it approached, largely obscured by the nearby high land. "Some of the upper half-ports on the main deck were open at the time, which greatly contributed to the disaster; however, the court thinks that the choice to have the upper half-ports open was reasonable and typical considering the wind and weather conditions leading up to when the storm started." The court-martial's verdict noted that the captain was often on deck during the afternoon and did not place blame on anyone aboard. It deemed the ship, which had served for ten years at sea, to be generally stable. Many other authorities, however, disagreed, believing she was top-heavy and was definitely 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.
After exactly twenty-three weeks from the day the ship sank, the Eurydice was safely towed into Portsmouth harbor on Sunday, September 1st. "The recovery of the ship is an impressive example of perseverance and determination to succeed. The elements, which had consistently tried to hinder the efforts to raise her, made one last effort to sabotage these attempts on Thursday night and Friday morning. It became so serious that the Admiralty decided it wasn't wise to continue and ordered that the ship be dismantled on-site. However, Rear-Admiral Foley and his committed team refused to give up on recovering the ship, and he vowed to bring her into harbor. He fulfilled that promise."58 The divers could only work during slack tides and in very good weather since the undercurrents along the Isle of Wight coast were 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.
The Eurydice initially rested in seven and a half fathoms (forty-five feet) of water, plus another eight or nine feet of mud that surrounded the wreck. Strong wire ropes were attached to the inner sides of the ports; the other ends were secured to the four floating hulls positioned over and across the Eurydice. Once everything was set and the tide reached its lowest point, the process of pinning her down began—that is, the ropes were pulled tight and secured to the lifting vessels, so that as the tide rose back to its peak, the entire group of lighters, along with the sunken vessel, was lifted as well. At that point, the steam tugs took their positions and towed the unfortunate craft towards shallower waters until she rested on a bank under the Culver cliff, with one side and her upper deck above water at low tide. Even then, the attempts to float her were frequently disrupted. Just when everything seemed ready for lifting, rough seas would come, forcing them to abandon the efforts, and the lighters would return to Portsmouth. She was partially raised in August 1878, after four months of continuous work. After being left for a few days under the Culver cliff, the Eurydice was lifted enough to clear the bottom and towed along with the lifting vessels to St. Helen’s Sands. When she was finally lifted and towed to Portsmouth by the Coffee grinder, there were two tugs on her port side and one on her starboard, with their steam pumps actively working and continuously pumping out 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 [pg 230]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.
Brighton—"London by the Beach" as it's often called—is, to many, one of the most captivating English beach resorts. It's both popular and trendy, frequented by both the masses and the "top ten." Its seaside location is delightful, and there are plenty of charming coastal and inland spots nearby. It has evolved from a small fishing village into a town with at least 120,000 residents. One notable aspect of Brighton is the sturdiness and elegance of its public and private buildings, and its streets are the best maintained in the entire country. The town stretches, along with its suburbs Kemp Town and Cliftonville, for four miles along the coast and is largely protected by a sea wall. The famous chain pier measures 1,130 feet in length, and the Aquarium, which has been described elsewhere, 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.
The climate in Brighton is mild and pleasant during both summer and winter, with winter similar to that of Naples. This is likely a big reason why it’s such a popular destination for people recovering from illness or worn out from work. Great opportunities for swimming, boating, and yachting are available for visitors; there are no better promenades anywhere. Riding or driving across the Downs or to nearby countryside spots (including England’s stunning ancestral home, Arundel) is enjoyable for anyone in a reasonably comfortable situation. In the hustle and bustle of fashionable life, one might forget its strong connection to the sea, but it has an excellent fleet of mackerel and herring boats, as well as several lifeboats belonging to the Lifeboat Institution, the Humane Society, and the town.
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.
In 1833, at New Stoke near Arundel, the remains of an ancient boat were discovered in the bed of what used to be a creek flowing into the river Arun. It was made from half of an oak tree trunk, hollowed out like the Native Americans in North-west America do today. The boat measured thirty-five feet four inches in length and four feet six inches in width. In 1822, an even larger oak boat was found in the river Rother near Maltham, Kent, which measured sixty-three feet by fifteen feet, was partially decked, caulked with moss, and had 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 [pg 231]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.
These discoveries fade into the background compared to one made in 1880 on the Gokstad farm, near Sandefjord, a popular holiday spot for Norwegians. A hill or mound, which tradition pointed to as the burial site of some powerful king or chief, was found to contain the entire hull of an ancient Viking ship. It's definitely an old relic, probably over 1,000 years old. The Gokstad vessel, made entirely of oak, is seventy-five feet long from bow to stern and sixteen feet wide at its widest point; it has a low profile, only drawing five feet of water. The planks were fastened together with iron nails, and the twenty ribs are connected to the planks at the top with rivets and at the bottom with ties. In the middle of the ship's bottom, there is a heavy beam, both ends shaped like a fish's tail. This beam supported the mast, of which some pieces are still standing in place, while the upper part that was cut off was found inside the ship. The mast appears to have been about twenty-two feet long. Remnants of two or three small boats were also discovered, some pieces inside the ship and others nearby. In the front part of the vessel, they found a large copper kettle and a water cask, along with remains of sails and ropes, and some large oars. The ship was built to accommodate sixteen oars. A hundred wooden shields had once been lined up under the ship's edge, matching the number of the crew, with the center pieces of iron, or bosses, still remaining. The arrangement of the shields matches that in the famous Bayeux tapestry, which depicts, among other things, the ships of William the Conqueror. The old vessel had served as the final resting place for a great Viking. It was their custom to bury their chiefs this way. The ship was typically positioned with its bow facing the sea, so that when Odin, the Jove of northern mythology, called upon the brave chief, he could set sail directly toward Valhalla, the heaven of his dreams.
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.
Newhaven, a little further east, has a decent tidal harbor and some local trade, but its main highlight is the rapidly growing passenger traffic between it and Dieppe, headed for Paris or London. Anyone who hasn't taken that route is definitely encouraged to do so. The boats, some made of steel and equipped with all modern amenities, are among the best in the Channel service, usually making the trip to Dieppe in about five to five-and-a-half hours. The journey through Normandy and the Seine Valley is varied and interesting, making it a better choice than traveling from Calais or Boulogne. Close to Newhaven is the once-thriving town of Seaford, which is now not much more than a charming fishing village, known for occasionally catching mackerel in huge quantities, and providing shelter and anchorage for large vessels during 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.
Still further east, at the far southern tip of Sussex, is the impressive Beachy Head, known for many shipwrecks in the past. Climbing this massive chalk cliff would be quite a challenge; however, the slope of broken debris, mixed with sparse grass and samphire, while steep, doesn’t appear impossible, and it actually is manageable up to a certain point. The writer and his brother once got pretty close to the top, but then the loose rocks began to tumble down, taking both climbers with them. After many unsuccessful attempts to find a grip on the samphire and taking breaks whenever they could, neither of them was too upset to finally reach the rocky beach, despite being quite bruised, battered, and torn. There they discovered that the rising sea had blocked their way back to Eastbourne, and before they could get to the shore, they had to wade through the quickly rising tide around one or two jutting edges 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 [pg 232]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.
In November 1821, a terrible storm hit Beachy Head, during which a French ship was driven ashore and wrecked. Everyone on board was swept into the sea, and only four survived the disaster by climbing to the top of a pile of rocks that had fallen over time from the cliffs above. Their dangerous situation was clear; the tide was slowly rising, and trying to reach the land would mean certain death. The night was pitch black, and the thunder and lightning made it even more terrifying. The men realized that they would either be pulled under by the rising tide or smashed against the rocks, so they decided to surrender to the mercy of the waves, hoping to be washed up somewhere safe. At that moment, one of the men noticed, during flashes of lightning, a plant growing among the stones they were on, which he recognized as samphire. He also knew that it never grew in areas that could be completely covered by water. He quickly shared this information with his companions and convinced them to stay where they were until morning, believing that the tide wouldn't rise high enough to reach their spot. The [pg 232]event confirmed his knowledge and the accuracy of his observation, for when dawn came, the poor men were seen and rescued from their perilous situation.
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 [pg 233]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 [pg 234]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.”
No part of the south coast used to need more careful watching than the area for many miles on either side of Beachy Head. The coastguardsman had his hands full back then; his job is easier now. "One of the most delightful views that enhance our island's shores," writes the Saturday Review, The clusters of cottages are used by the coastguard. They aren't exactly charming, as their design is pretty basic, likely a result of government contracts kept low due to competition. However, they usually provide a comfortable contrast to the often dreary and unwelcoming surroundings. These cottages date back to when our coasts were regularly patrolled, and a blockade was strictly enforced against free-traders. You can find them in every imaginable spot. Nowadays, they’re thoughtfully placed on elevated areas near seaports or resorts, arranged neatly around a small square with a tall flagpole in the center. Sometimes, you might stumble upon them unexpectedly, tucked away in a ‘gap’ or ‘chine’ where a small stream trickles down to the sand through a deep cleft carved by time in the chalk cliffs. Most commonly, they sit atop sand dunes, offering a wide view in all directions over a ‘promontory, cape, and bay.’ They often stand out as a noticeable landmark on a flat area of grass-covered sand, where the gently sloping shore is crisscrossed by a maze of changing channels, and where mudbanks, submerged by rising tides, create a perfect haven for loud sea birds. Regardless of their location, they usually give off the same general impression. They are sturdy and watertight, suggesting a cozy refuge with inviting interiors when the wind howls through the flagpole’s rigging, pushing sand and gravel along the beach and churning the pebbles in the surf with a dull, rhythmic roar. They feature low flat roofs with overhanging eaves, small, securely locked windows, and their spotless white paint gleams in any sunlight that comes their way. In the neatly-fenced little gardens in front, there’s a tough but somewhat successful battle taking place against the harsh elements, while the shell-strewn paths are always impeccably maintained. As you approach them on a warm summer afternoon, you can sense the salty breeze mixed with a hint of tar. It may not carry the same warmth or romance as the resinous scents from the pine forests of Bayonne or Arcachon, under the harsh sunlight of Gascony; but it’s definitely refreshing and quite inviting. The use of pitch [pg 234] and tar aligns with the nautical spirit of the residents. Everything is paid for, caulked, and sealed, from the keels of the white-painted boats turned upside down to the felt-covered shingles on the outbuildings, the cottage window frames, and the yard fences. Everything, even the hidden rubbish piles, is tidy and well-organized, reflecting an easy discipline and a strong habit of cleanliness 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. [pg 235]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.”
Then the Feedback goes on to describe the exciting and risky job of the coastguard when import duties were high, and fortunate smugglers made quick fortunes. The whole local community was against them. Half the residents occasionally engaged in smuggling and made a good profit from it. Those were days of heavy drinking, and farmers almost openly supported a trade that brought kegs of cheap gin and barrels of fine French brandy straight to their doorsteps. As for the women, aside from their romantic feelings for daring lawbreakers, they all favored the men who filled and sweetened their comforting tea, which would otherwise be totally out of their reach. Even gentlemen with the King’s commission to maintain peace were said to turn a blind eye to the ‘fair trade’ for a little something in return, showing no surprise at the sudden appearance of mysterious barrels hidden in obscure corners of their properties. There were specific stash spots, in dry caves, remote farmhouses, or secluded barns, whose locations were kept secret, yet were common knowledge among unsavory characters. There were signaling codes easily understood by everyone except the coastguard, warning of danger or a good opportunity, depending on the situation. The officer overseeing the station was alert and could sense trouble in the most innocent situations. The smoke rising from a pile of burning weeds might indicate a warning for an incoming vessel. A fishing boat heading out to sea, seemingly engaged in legal work, might actually be on a similar mission. It was then the duty of the day-watch to carefully examine every vessel that appeared off the coast, with his natural vigilance heightened by the potential prize money that could come his way. The nighttime patrol was far from a mere formality. The thicker the fog, the more likely something was happening out of sight; the lookout’s ears were always tuned to catch, among the sound of waves, the whispers of quiet voices or the splash of muffled oars. The walk was also quite risky and rarely taken alone; for, besides the deep-rooted hostility between smugglers and coastguard officers, those were times when violence was common, and a man’s life was worth little compared to the safety of a cargo valued in hundreds or thousands of pounds. If he were to accidentally fall off the cliff, everything could be settled before he was missed; when a smuggling boat came ashore, there were plenty of hands ready to unload its cargo; and unless the nearest coastguard got help from elsewhere, they had little choice but to watch helplessly. Boats from nearby fishing villages swarmed around the smuggler; strings of horses, handled by heavily armed people, made their way from the farms inland to the shoreline. [pg 235]The contraband goods, in kegs and bags easy to handle for quick unloading, were transferred from the ship to the boat, from the boat to the beach, and from the beach to the pack-saddle with incredible speed; and when the mounted groups set off, those who helped with the unloading hurried to disappear as quickly as they had arrived. During these moments, the smugglers gained an advantage, and all the coastguard could do was wait patiently for revenge with even greater vigilance. However, they often succeeded in thwarting the smugglers' plans, as moving even one cargo in three was quite profitable for the smugglers. The government agents kept such a sharp lookout that more often than not, the smugglers' sympathizers could only assist by signaling danger, forcing the heavily loaded smuggling vessel to turn back in despair, possibly with a revenue cutter in hot pursuit; or even better, catching the smugglers in the act of unloading and executing a valuable capture. Of course, a successful operation like this wasn't just about pleasure and pride. The smugglers and their friends, faces blackened for disguise, were sure to fight back if they had any chance. While they were busy in the bay and the unloading was in full swing, their watchmen would signal an alarm, and the coastguard's long boats could be seen quickly approaching the shore, sneaking up like wolves on their prey from around the nearest point. The attacking force would fire their muskets and rifles freely if they got within range, and the attackers had to understand that the enemies on the water likely had allies on land in the form of excise officers backed by soldiers. Thus, the next act in the drama was a sauve qui peut, conducted with varying levels of order, and heavily relying on cutlasses and firearms. It’s quite possible the victors had to count the dead and gather the wounded; and so the romance and excitement of those days were mixed with a very real element of danger.
CHAPTER 22.
Sketches of Our Southern 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.
Eastbourne and its Tranquil Beauty—Hastings—Its Fishermen—The Battle of Hastings—Loss of the Grosser Kurfürst—The Collision—The Disaster—Dover—The Castle—Shakespeare's Cliff—“Over the Downs so free”—St. Margaret’s Bay—Kingsdown—Deal—A Brave Deed—Ramsgate and Margate—The Floating Light on the Goodwin Sands—Ballantyne’s Self-Imposed Imprisonment—His Experiences—The Ship—The Light—One Thousand Wild Ducks Caught—A Signal from the “South Sand Head”—The Answer—Living 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 [pg 236]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.
The coastline northeast of Beachy Head is rugged and interesting until you reach Eastbourne, one of the quietest and prettiest seaside towns on the south coast, which has recently been greatly improved thanks to the generous spending of His Grace the Duke of Devonshire, the main landowner in the area. Some of the promenades are lined with trees on the boulevard. The swimming and boating are both excellent; nearby are the ruins of Pevensey, an old Norman castle, and Hurstmonceaux, a red-brick castle from the medieval period, covered in ivy and surrounded by trees. It’s a favorite spot for artists, who flock there in large numbers every year. Eastbourne has around a hundred fishermen [pg 236]engaged in herring and mackerel fishing. They have a benefit association or club, where they pay a monthly fee, and when their nets are damaged or lost, part of the money needed to repair or replace them is provided. There's also a lifeboat service that 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.
And next in line is historical Hastings, which currently stretches for almost a mile along the sea, or if we include the fashionable town of St. Leonard’s-on-Sea, its coastline totals nearly three miles. Many readers will recognize the lovely valley where it’s located, which opens up to the sea on the south. Hastings is otherwise protected by steep hills and cliffs, providing a warm, balanced, yet refreshing climate; in terms of healthiness, it ranks among the popular beach resorts. It has a stable population of about 35,000, including 700 fishermen and boatmen. In one week, the herring catch can be worth £5,000. A boat designed for the herring or mackerel season costs £350, while one for trawling is valued at £200. The mackerel season starts in April and lasts until late July, while the trawling season begins and ends two to two and a half months later. The herring season starts in September and goes until late November. There’s a church in Hastings, located under the eastern cliffs, specifically for the convenience 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.
The famous battle of Hastings was fought on October 14, 1066. When the alarm sounded, both sides quickly got ready for battle; however, the English had spent the night before in revelry and celebration, while the Normans focused on their religious duties. In the morning, the Duke gathered his top officers and ordered the battle signal to be raised. Then the entire army, moving together and singing the hymn or song of Roland, advanced orderly and eagerly toward 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 [pg 238]memory of the eventful fight is kept green by the name of Hastings, and Battle Abbey, in its immediate neighbourhood.
Harold took advantage of the high ground and set up trenches to protect his sides. He decided to play it safe and avoid fighting the cavalry, where he knew he was at a disadvantage. The men from Kent were positioned in the front, a honor they always claimed. The Londoners held the standard, and the King, along with his brave brothers, Gurth and Leofwin, got off his horse to lead the infantry, vowing to either win or die. The initial assault from the Normans was fierce, but the English matched their bravery, forcing the Normans to fall back. William quickly moved to support his men with a select group, boosting their morale, which in turn made the English retreat. However, they regrouped, helped by the terrain, and to win, William resorted to a tactic that could have led to his downfall if it failed. He ordered his troops to feign a retreat to lure the enemy out of their position. The English chased after them, and the Normans turned to face them in the open field, pushing them back with heavy losses. This trick was used again with similar success, but a large part of the English remained steadfast and seemed ready to fight for victory. While they were under fire from Norman archers behind them, they were also attacked by heavily armed infantry in front. Harold was struck down by an arrow while bravely fighting at the front of his men. With their leader gone, the English lost heart and fled in all directions. The memory of this significant battle lives on with the name Hastings and in the nearby Battle Abbey.
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.
Sadly, all readers must look back on the morning of Friday, May 31, 1878, when the Great Elector sank off Sandgate, so close to shore that the people on land were sure the commander could beach her before she had a chance to go down, a completely mistaken belief. Just before this tragic event happened, the German squadron, led by Admiral Von Batsch, was sailing with a light easterly wind blowing down the Channel, showcasing the impressive yet numerically small force. The sea was perfectly calm, the weather was nice, and there seemed to be no more reason to expect impending danger than if they had been anchored in the sunlit harbor 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.
The squadron consisted of three ships, sailing in two columns—the King Wilhelm, which carried the admiral’s flag, and the Prussia on the port side, with the Great Elector on the starboard side, and they were less than two ship lengths apart from the admiral; in fact, it's said that there was hardly even one length between them.
“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.
“In this formation, the German squadron came across two sailing ships going against the wind,” says the writer of the article we’re quoting, “On the port tack, they crossed the bows of both divisions. The Grosser Kurfürst had to give way first, which she did promptly and by the rules, turning her helm and passing behind the first of the two sailing ships. However, the König Wilhelm, which was close to the Grosser Kurfürst at that moment and steering parallel to her, initially tried to cross in front of the sailing vessel but quickly realized there wasn’t enough room. She then changed course and made a sharp turn to port, also passing behind the sailing vessel. Meanwhile, the Grosser Kurfürst had returned to her original course and was now crossing the bows of the König Wilhelm as she came under the stern of the sailing barque almost at a right angle to her original path. The captain of the Grosser Kurfürst, Graf Von Montz, noticing how dangerously close the König Wilhelm was, immediately ordered his ship to full speed, hoping to cross in front of her, but there wasn’t enough space. He then instructed to turn the helm to port, hoping to align his ship alongside the König Wilhelm, but unfortunately, there was neither time nor space for that.” Everything might have gone smoothly up to this point, as it seems the King William was under the command of an "capable and seasoned officer;" he had ordered the helm to be turned to avoid the sailing vessel and then commanded the helm to be "quickly stabilized," intending to line up next to the Greater Elector; but the helmsman got confused and instead of steadying the helm, he turned it more to port. The King Wilhelm was sent full speed in reverse, and the inevitable crash couldn’t be avoided. There was chaos 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 King Wilhelm took everything from the moment it hit the Great Elector to the back, “tearing off the armor plating like peeling an orange.” The bowsprit of the King Wilhelm got tangled in the rigging of the doomed ship and knocked down the mizzen top-gallant mast on the quarter-deck, and the quarter boats were swept away "like pieces 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.
The doomed ironclad sank in just seven minutes; there was barely enough time for the officers and crew to think, let alone take effective action. The boats that hadn't been destroyed could barely be launched; the hammocks had been stored away in an unusual spot, making it impossible to access them. This left a completely viable escape route unavailable for the 280 poor souls who drowned.
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
The first lieutenant's experience as the ship was sinking right before the eyes of several people on shore is incredibly interesting. He felt himself being pulled in and describes an intense pressure on his ribs, as if the water was forcing him down. Then he encountered another surge of water that quickly spat him back up to the surface, where he grabbed onto a piece of debris and saved his life. A terrible fate struck around thirty unfortunate sailors, who, despite the commands and pleas of the boatswain standing on the forecastle, jumped over the bow and tried to swim away. But the sinking ship was too fast for them, and they got caught in the netting stretched under the jibboom, and, tangled up, were pulled down with the ship. The damaged King Wilhelm was quickly 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.
Dover isn’t as widely recognized as many less interesting spots along the south coast, since most people traveling to or from the Continent typically ignore it. It has been mentioned a few times in these pages, but there hasn’t been any detailed description of its unique attractions yet.
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.
It’s located not far from the South Foreland, in the far southeast corner of Kent, on the narrowest part of the English Channel, and only about twenty miles from the opposite coast of France. So, it’s the port for ferries crossing to Calais on the Continental service, a journey that usually takes around one hour and fifteen minutes. If you decide to take the now-famous Calais-Dover, the comfortable twin vessel, you probably won’t need the tips on motion sickness that were mentioned in a previous chapter. Dover, although not commonly used as a resort, has great facilities for visitors—bathing machines and all the usual amenities you’d expect. Its grand hotel, “The Lord Warden,” is one of the best in England and has hosted many crowned heads and aristocrats, as well as the less notable, but perhaps equally deserving, 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:—
On the eastern side of the town is the elevated and impressive fortress known as the Castle, which has already been described. Not far from it, the chalk cliff rises 370 feet above the sea, and nearby stands a stunning piece of brass artillery, 24 feet long, called "Queen Elizabeth's Pocket Pistol," which was presented to her Majesty by the States of Holland. It's said to fire a 12-pound ball over a distance of seven miles. The piece is intricately decorated with various designs representing the benefits of peace and the horrors of war. On its breech is the following motto in Dutch, which, when translated, means:—
To the westward of the town rises the majestic headland named after our immortal [pg 240]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:—
To the west of the town stands the impressive headland named after our legendary bard. Shakespeare’s cliff reaches a height of 350 feet today, but back in the great dramatist’s time, its peak was much higher, as shown by the massive boulders and piles of debris at its base, caused by frequent landslips and falls. Shakespeare captures the essence of this magnificent cliff:—
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. [pg 241]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.
From the heights above Dover, the views are stunning. Looking out to sea, you can see the beautiful bay, the Straits, and the Downs, with its constantly changing fleets—ships from all over the world. [pg 241]If you stretch your vision a bit further, you can spot the tall white cliffs of the French coast; Cape Grisnez near Calais (which is on low land and therefore hard to see), 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.
The history of Dover is undeniable. Julius Caesar made his first landing in Britain here in August, 55 B.C. Picts and Scots, Danes and Normans, all attacked it one after another; during the Conquest in 1066, the town was devastated, with almost everything reduced to ashes except for twenty-nine houses. But when it became one of the Cinque Ports, it quickly gained significance, and the people of Dover played a major role in the successful attack on Philip IV’s fleet, which resulted in France losing 240 ships. That furious king retaliated by burning most of Dover; however, by 1296, the British navy not only cleared the Channel of the enemy but also conducted several raids along the coast of France. During the time of the Armada, Dover, along with the other Cinque Ports, outfitted six large ships for the Queen’s service at a cost of £43,000, which helped lure the great Galleas of Spain onto a shoal, followed by engaging and burning it.
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 [pg 242]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.
Riding or walking over the Downs, you can spot some interesting places on or near the coast. At St. Margaret’s Bay, seven miles north of Dover—where I can personally vouch for the amazing lobsters, as I've both caught and eaten them—there’s a charming little fishing village with the “Fisherman’s Inn” nestled among the trees at the base of steep cliffs. This is where the early tests for a potential Channel Tunnel were conducted. Further along is Kingsdown, a fishing village and lifeboat station, whose crew and boat have provided excellent service in saving lives. From there, you can see Walmer Castle and the old town of Deal, which I've mentioned frequently regarding lifeboat efforts on the Goodwin Sands, also clearly visible. Anchored in Deal Roads, or departing or returning, are ships, big and small, flying the flags of all the maritime nations. This trip from Dover to Deal and back can easily be done by any reasonable walker in a day, with time to visit all the key spots mentioned. You can walk from Dover to St. Margaret’s Bay entirely over the Downs, but from there to Deal, you can simply follow the coast.
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 [pg 243]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.”
Coming closer to home, the writer has to share a story of “daring-do,” which will prove—if further proof is needed after what has been shared about the men of Deal, Walmer, Kingsdown, Ramsgate, and Margate—that the men of North and South Foreland are not weak descendants of their forefathers, who sailed and fought and died with Blake and Nelson. This happened in Deal on a bleak Sunday morning in December. A strong gale was blowing from the southwest, and boats in the relatively sheltered Downs were anchored. As various congregations left their places of worship, umbrellas turned inside out, and children were either swept off their feet or clung to their parents in fright, with the wind and spray along Deal beach being blinding. Let the “Chaplain” (the pseudonym of the excellent clergyman who oversees the Missions to Seamen) tell the story. “Just then,” he writes, “in response to the sound of a distant gun, the bell rang to man the lifeboat, and the Deal boatmen courageously answered the call. They rushed for the life-belts and the coxswain’s house. Coxswain Robert Wilds had been guiding the lifeboat through the surf for fifteen years and knew the boat’s capabilities for rescue. Along with the coxswain, fourteen men made up the crew, and with great effort, they launched the lifeboat down the steep beach towards the rescue. There were three ships on the Goodwins. The crew of one managed to escape to their boats and, not being in the worst part of the sands, got safely around the North Foreland to Margate. Another schooner, thought to be Danish, vanished 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—specifically, the South Spit, where even on a calm day the writer has encountered treacherous and peculiar waves. By that time, the barque’s main and mizzen masts were gone, and the crew was clinging to the weather bulwarks while waves crashed over them—so much so that the captain was nearly exhausted from cold and prolonged exposure. The Deal lifeboat, the Van Kook, sailed a bit to windward of the doomed barque and dropped anchor, veering down towards her. One cable was too short, so another was added, and closer and closer came the lifeboat. If the cable snapped and the lifeboat slammed into the ship, it’s likely none would have survived to tell the story; or if they drifted downwind of the barque, the wrecked crew would have perished, as the lifeboat wouldn’t have been able to work back upwind to reach her again. No friendly steam-tug was nearby to assist the lifeboat if they failed on their first attempt, and both the crew in distress and their rescuers knew what was at stake and that this was their last chance. But the lifeboat crew declared, “We’re bound to save them,” and with all the calmness of their heritage, yet “daring all that men dare do,” they focused their efforts on getting close enough to the wreck to throw their line, while also keeping a safe distance to protect the boat. They were soon tossed around and battered by the enormous waves crashing in and over them, and no other boat could have survived a moment in the chaotic waters swirling around them. Despite the self-emptying design of the remarkable boat, the waves poured into her so quickly that she was filled to the gunnels while alongside the vessel, and as each wave hit, the coxswain shouted, “Look out, men!” They gripped the thwarts and held on tightly, breathless, for dear life. One wave slammed the lifeboat against the ship, damaging her fore air-box, so they had to pull away for everyone's safety. Another wave knocked two men down under the thwarts. The lifeboat’s throw-line was finally secured aboard the barque, and the crew began to move one by one to the lifeboat through the raging waves, whenever the seas allowed. Rescued from the brink of death, the crew of the barque were so shocked by the lifeboat's submerged state and the terrifying turmoil of water around them that some wanted to return to their sinking ship; but the coxswain and crew understood the capabilities of their brave boat. “Raise the foresail and cut the cable,” and with thirty-four souls aboard, the lifeboat was tossed like a feather, sometimes sailing directly with the wind, then suddenly “taken aback,” plunging into the surf on the way home. One of the rescued crew members had previously been saved by the same boat (the Van Kook) twice before and encouraged his fellow sailors by recounting his earlier rescues. Some rum, which had been brought for the lifeboat crew, was kindly offered and shared among the desperate men of the barque. So finally, drenched, exhausted, but triumphantly successful, they brought the weary and grateful Germans to Deal beach, where, despite the storm, crowds greeted them with astonishment and gratitude.”
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.
Among nearly all classes who live near and love the sea, the same heroic spirit prevails. Only in 1879 did Lord Dunmore, along with John M‘Rae, Ewen M‘Leod, and Norman Macdonald, set out to sea in a fierce Atlantic storm, in the noble Scottish peer’s undecked cutter, the Fearless, when no other boat would dare to go out, and saved the lives of several men, women, and children from the yacht Astarte, which was wrecked on a small island-rock between Harris and the North Uist coast (west coast of Scotland). The noble hero of this brave group is a Murray of the ducal family of Atholl, sharing the fierce motto, "Go, fortune, and complete the bonds." The spirit of daring adventure that drove his ancestors to acts of reckless raid and relentless feud has, in a more peaceful age, transformed into the performance of acts of valor 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 [pg 244]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.
Sadly, sometimes there’s another story to share. In February 1880, some strong fishermen refused to complete the crew of the Blackpool lifeboat—some of their own were off fishing in North Wales, and others at Fleetwood—and stayed lounging on the beach while the coxswain brought on two joiners and a stonemason, leaving them two short of the full crew. Still, four people were rescued from the wreck of the Bessie Jones, under circumstances that were very honorable for the rescuers. On their return, having to run over the bank with a tremendous sea running, they had a very close call of capsizing; one man was washed out of the boat but was rescued, and most of the loose gear was swept overboard and completely lost.
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.
Popular Ramsgate, along with its trendy extension St. Lawrence-on-Sea, is so well known that a lengthy description isn't needed here, since its real and practical link to the sea, thanks to the dedicated work of its lifeboat crew, has already been explained. Ramsgate boasts a great harbor and piers, where the “husband's boat” is often, especially on Saturdays, eagerly watched 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 [pg 245]of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society have their hands full in winter, and generally at other seasons in stormy weather.
Margate had, during Queen Elizabeth's reign, fifteen boats and other vessels, ranging from one to eighteen tons, with four of the latter. It had 108 occupied houses. Today, it has a floating population of 50,000 to 70,000 people, with about 15,000 permanent residents. There are several pilots and numerous luggers used for fishing and searching for casualties; it also owns a number of coasting vessels. Additionally, many coasters and French fishing boats dock here during the winter months and fishing season for shelter, repairs, and supplies. Margate features a Seaman’s Room and Observatory, while Ramsgate has a Seaman’s Infirmary. The local agents of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society have their hands full in winter, and typically at other times during stormy weather. [pg 245]
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 writer60 who went into voluntary imprisonment for one week on the Gulf Stream Light Vessel, one of three floating lights which mark the Goodwin Sands.
Who has visited Ramsgate or Margate and not, at some point in their life, felt an intense curiosity to peek inside and uncover the secrets of those distant beacons, the “Floating Lightships.” Those who have seen them either resting peacefully on the sunlit ocean or shaking in Neptune's furious moods—still brave and solitary, proudly fulfilling their duty—must have often wished for a closer look. That curiosity can finally be satisfied; the curtain has been lifted, allowing us to explore the mysteries of the flame-colored sphinxes, thanks to a writer60 who voluntarily spent a week in confinement on the Gulf Stream Light Vessel, one of three floating lights that 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.”
“That weird, kind of silly ship,” writes Mr. Ballantyne, “was among the top players in shipping. Its significant role gave it a sense of prestige. It stood out in its royal color, day after day and year after year, marking the safe route between England and the distant shoals. During the day, it was easily recognizable by a large ball at its masthead, and at night by a bright lantern, equipped with Argand lamps and concave reflectors, which cast beams like lightning far and wide over the open waters. In foggy weather, when neither the ball nor the light could be seen, a deep-sounding gong provided its deep-toned warning to the approaching sailor, letting him know his location amid 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.
Here, the writer gives well-deserved praise to the services, “impartial and universal,” of this solitary craft, and then describes what you would see if you leaned against the back and looked down the deck towards the front.
“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.
It was a captivating kingdom in its details. Setting aside everything behind him, which he couldn’t see, we can note that right in front of him were the binnacle and compass, along with the cabin skylight. On his right and left, the space on the quarter deck was quite limited, and the walkway was largely blocked by the ship’s boats, which, like their parent, were painted red. These boats weren’t hanging at the davits but, similar to young kangaroo lobsters, found shelter inside their mother when not out at sea on their own. Close to them were two signal carronades. Beyond the skylight, the shiny brass funnel of the cabin chimney rose up, along with the winch used to raise the lantern. Next was another skylight and the companion hatch located about the center of the deck. Just beyond this was the most important part of the vessel—the lantern house. This was a circular wooden structure about six feet in diameter, featuring 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 [pg 246]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.
“Inside was the lantern—the remarkable piece of machinery that kept the light-ship, its crew, and all its equipment running. In the center of this space stood the thick, strong mast of the vessel. The lantern, which was slightly smaller than its enclosure, surrounded the mast and moved with it.” As soon as the sun set, the command “Uplights” was given, as regular as the sunset itself. The lantern was attached to a rod and pinion, which, along with the clockwork below, made the light rotate and “flash” once every thirty seconds. The glass of the lantern often gets broken, not by the wind and waves, but by seabirds that crash into it. In a single night, nine panes of [pg 246]a lighthouse were shattered due to this. One time, a thousand wild ducks were caught by the crew of a light-ship. It's important to protect the most exposed lights with trellis work.
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 cabin of the Floating Light was incredibly neat and tidy. Everything was put away in its proper place, not just because of order and discipline, but also due to the tiny size of the cabin. The author of the work we’re quoting describes a scene on board during a stormy night when a shipwreck and an unexpected rescue happened:—A little before midnight, while I was tossing and turning in my ‘bunk,’ struggling with sleep and seasickness, and thinking about the craziness of those who choose ‘the sea’ as a career, I was suddenly jolted awake—and my sickness quickly faded—by the watch on deck shouting down the hatch to the mate, ‘South Sand Head light is firing, sir, and sending up rockets.’ The mate jumped out of his ‘bunk’ and was on the cabin floor before he even finished speaking. I quickly followed, getting dressed in my coat, pants, and shoes as if my life depended on my speed. It was especially urgent to get ready because the night was freezing. Once we got to the deck, we found the two men on duty busy at work—one was loading the lee gun, and the other was attaching a rocket to its stick. A few quick questions from the mate revealed everything we needed 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.
The flash from the gun of the ‘South Sand Head’ lightship, about six miles away, was clearly visible for the third time, and a third rocket was launched into the sky, signaling that a ship had grounded on the treacherous Goodwin Sands. The sound of the gun was drowned out by the gale, which carried the noise away, but the bright streak of the rocket was easily seen. At the same time, the glow of a burning tar-barrel was noticed. It was the signal from the distressed ship, right at the southern edge of the sands.
“By this time the gun was charged, and the rocket in position.
At this point, the gun was loaded, and the rocket was set to launch.
“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.
One of the crew jumped down the companionway and quickly returned with a red-hot poker that the mate had put in the cabin fire at the first hint of trouble. He promptly used it on the gun and rocket. A bright flash and a loud boom followed, and then the rocket shot off in an impressive arc 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.
“This was their response to the South Sand Head light, which, after firing three guns and launching three rockets to get the attention of the Gull, then stopped firing. It was also their first alert to the lookout on the pier at Ramsgate Harbour. Among the three light-ships that monitored the sands, the Gull was the closest to Ramsgate; therefore, whichever of the other two sent up signals, the Gull had to respond and keep repeating them until the Ramsgate lookout noticed and replied.
“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 steam tug Aid, always accompanying the Ramsgate lifeboat for assistance and towing, quickly appeared, moving towards the rescue and showcasing the vital importance of steam in these scenarios. After receiving the wreck's location from the mate of the lightship, they kept going.
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 [pg 247]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.
The life of the crew on every lightship is pretty much the same on Sunday. At dawn, the lantern is lowered, cleaned, and prepared for the night’s work ahead. At 8 a.m., everyone needs to be alert, the hammocks put away, and breakfast served. At 10:30, the crew gathers for prayers, and the captain or mate leads the service. After sunset, the crew meets again for prayers. Aside from the services, the routine during the week is the same as on Sunday. The captain and mate take turns—one month on board and one month on shore; the crew works for two months on board and then gets one month on shore. And while their life may seem monotonous to outsiders, it's questionable whether there isn’t some positive moral growth happening on a floating light that helps improve the character of both officers and crew.
CHAPTER 23.
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.
Harwich; its lovely harbor—Thorpeness and its champion—The breathtaking site of Lowestoft—Yarmouth; its past—Docks, bridges—The anchorage—Herring and mackerel fishing—Curing red herrings and bloaters—A struggle for survival—The advance of the sea—A hazardous coastline—Flamborough Head—The risks of a Yorkshire fisherman's life—“The sea took him!”—Filey and its peaceful charm—Natural barrier against waves—A heartbreaking tale of the ocean—Scarborough; historical accounts—The terrifying and the joyful—The Couplandhelpless—Lifeboat is out—Its crew thrown overboard—Boat crashed against the sea wall—Two killed—Unsuccessful rescue attempts—A woman's account of a storm in Scarborough—Whitby—Robin Hood’s Bay—A town on the edge.
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.
Proceeding now to the east coast of our island, we come to a series of places interesting to seafarers, some of which are famous as resorts. Leaving the mouth of the Thames, we quickly reach Harwich, which is becoming quite significant due to its connections to Continental routes. It sits on elevated land at the mouth of the Stour, close to where it meets the Orwell, right across from the well-known Landguard Fort. The shoreline is striking, and the views of the North Sea, filled with ever-changing fleets of local and foreign ships, are impressive and vast. It features a breakwater, a dockyard, and an impressive harbor, where it is said more than 100 Royal Navy vessels and about 300 to 400 colliers have anchored at once. There are steamers that regularly travel to Ipswich, about twelve miles up the Orwell—a river known for the beautiful scenery along its banks. Ipswich, famous as the birthplace of Cardinal Wolsey, is the largest market town and port in Suffolk and has sizable docks and shipyards, along with plenty of interesting medieval buildings.
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 [pg 248]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.
Thorpeness, a dull little place near Aldborough on our way up the coast, wouldn’t attract tourists, but it was the long-time home of one of Suffolk’s heroes. Joseph Chard started out as a carpenter but soon settled in Thorpeness, where he lived in a small cottage he built himself and owned an old boat, which originally cost him fifty shillings. He worked as a bumboatman, supplying provisions and odds and ends to passing ships, often bringing messages back to shore. Gradually, he saved some money and combined his old and new trades to build a nice boat that cost him twenty-five pounds. In another three or four years, he was wealthy enough to buy a fast-sailing yawl that a group of smugglers had to give up around that time, with which Chard won the prize at the next Aldborough Regatta against a number of skilled watermen. Not satisfied with these achievements, he bought and studied a coastal navigation book and chart, soon becoming a fully qualified [pg 248]pilot in one of the most treacherous areas, the Sands of the Swin—a study almost as challenging as advanced algebra. Over time, he helped save 109 lives, including eighty who were rescued in his own boat, aptly 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.
Further north, standing at the most eastern point in England, is the important seaport of Lowestoft. The town sits on a high cliff that offers great views of the sea, and the side of the cliff slopes down gradually into beautiful gardens or terraces filled with trees and shrubs. Below, there’s a long stretch of buildings dedicated to fish processing. Lowestoft has two harbors, with piers. The herring (especially) and mackerel fisheries employ around 1,500 to 2,000 men and boys, and the sea-related industries range from making twine and ropes to shipbuilding. There’s 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, [pg 249]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.
Yarmouth now deserves our attention. It gets its name from its location at the mouth of the river Yare, and it is, as everyone knows, both a busy fishing town and a seaside resort. Its history goes back a long way; there are records of it that date before Roman times. In the eleventh century, during the time of the Conquest, it was known as Moche Gærnemouth, or Great Yarmouth. In 1004, Sweyn, the king of Denmark, came to it with a powerful fleet, plundered, and burned the town. It quickly rebuilt itself. In 1132, craftsmen, tools, [pg 249]and looms were brought over from the Continent, and spinning began at Worstead, a small town that gave the yarn its current name. The old town of Yarmouth used to be protected by walls, of which the ruins still exist.
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 [pg 250]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.
Among the features of Yarmouth are the spacious quays that stretch for about a mile and a quarter, with the main streets running parallel to them. Several sturdy bridges cross the Yare and Bure rivers, including one over the Bure, which was built on the site where nearly eighty people were suddenly thrown into the water when the old bridge collapsed about thirty-eight years ago. There are several small docks and shipyards. Yarmouth Roads provide safe anchorage and are frequently used by vessels in distress, whose captains don’t risk sailing outside in harsh weather. Forty thousand ships, not counting fishing boats, pass this part of the coast each year. The Roads are formed by several hazardous sands, which can lead to many frightening shipwrecks during foggy weather or when strong gales hit the coast. More than 500 vessels have been stranded, wrecked, or completely lost off this coast in just three years; as a result, there’s also a significant loss of life, and a large number of shipwrecked sailors are brought to Yarmouth every year. The Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society has an important branch there. There’s a nice Sailors’ Home that has housed between 600 to 700 unfortunate seamen in a single year. It was established to provide shelter for mariners of all nations when they are wrecked, caught by severe weather, or discharged, offering them meals and medical care, if needed, at the lowest possible cost. It includes a museum, library, and reading room, along with a collection of charts and nautical instruments. The two lifeboats of Yarmouth have saved several thousand lives. There’s also a small church and mission for fishermen and sailors near the beach, as well as 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.
The mackerel fisheries in Yarmouth alone employ a thousand people, but the herring fishery is the main source of income for the town, producing over one hundred thousand barrels a year, or one-fifth of the total yield in the country. Many people, both men and women, work onshore drying and curing the fish. The Yarmouth boats, with two masts (three during mackerel season), are crewed by twelve or thirteen crew members. They have the letters Y. H. and a number painted on the front. These boats are now around sixty-five tons in builders’ measurement, many of them with sleek designs, and they sail quickly. A single boat can often catch one hundred and twenty or thirty thousand fish in a single 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.
In salting herring, the fish are simply gutted and layered in barrels with salt. After a few days, the barrel has some liquid that floats to the top, which is poured off; then more herring and layers of salt are added. The branding includes the month and day they were caught and cured, the name and address of the curer, and whether the gills and digestive tract are present or not. "Red" herring are created by first salting them for three or four days, then hanging them on spits that hold about twenty fish each. These spits are dipped several times in cold water, washed thoroughly, and then hung in the open air to dry. Next, they are suspended in the smoking house, where there are wood fires on the floor. Those intended for the English market are smoked for about ten days, while those for export can stay for as long as three weeks before being packed. As mentioned elsewhere, they're used by the Black communities in the West Indies as a remedy for the negative effects of a diet heavy in vegetables and fruits. Bloaters are prepared more quickly. They are soaked in a strong brine for just a few hours, then skewered and washed well in cold water, and are only lightly smoked for about eight hours before 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.
And now for an incident that happened a few years ago, which truly was a “fight for survival,” even though the person in distress eventually reached Yarmouth. It’s a sad truth that danger is often closest when we have the least reason to fear it, and the close call of a sailor named Charles Hayman, who nearly faced a tragic death with his ship just off the coast of his homeland, is yet another example of this harsh reality. He was part of the schooner Osprey, based in London, and had just completed a successful trip from Lagos on the West Coast of Africa, carrying a load of palm oil. The Osprey had anchored off the North Foreland when a massive wave rose up, tearing her from her anchors and sending her helplessly 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 [pg 251]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.
Those on board immediately signaled for help, which was spotted by the brave little vessel, Don't Be Afraid, a name that was truly fitting. Her strong crew quickly came to the aid of the disabled schooner. The captain of the smack offered to take the crew of the Osprey on board, and the mate of the Osprey, believing all hope was lost, happily accepted the generous offer. The hurricane was still raging fiercely, and it was extremely challenging to lower a boat from the Osprey, but with courage and determination, they finally managed to do so. The valuables and ship’s papers were quickly loaded into the boat. The mate and Charles Hayman were the first to get into the small vessel, which was tied to the schooner by a rope, and the rest of the crew was about to follow when a larger wave than they had faced so far snapped the line and sent the boat drifting away.
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 waves crashed over the boat, threatening to sink it at any moment. Hayman and the mate completely failed to bail the water out, despite their constant efforts to do so. Hayman, anticipating the inevitable, stripped down to nothing and waited for the moment when the boat would tip over. He didn't have to wait long in the freezing cold; the boat turned over, and both men were thrown underwater. However, they quickly surfaced, managed to reach the boat, which was floating upside down, and clung to it with the desperate energy of drowning men. Huge waves constantly crashed over them, giving them barely a minute to catch their breath, and the mate, a frail man, let out a low, agonizing cry before sinking for the last time. Hayman fought on with the determination of a tiger. The rescue boat came to him through the storm. He was saved just as death seemed imminent, given clothes and stimulants by his brave rescuers, and eventually brought to 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.
The sea has made, and continues to make, many advances on the Norfolk coasts. For instance, at the significant fishing spot of Sherringham, several yards of cliff have been eroded and washed away in just a few years. In 1810, a large inn that was built too close to the sea ended up in ruins on the beach. The coast heading towards Cromer, which is now a trendy resort, is protected by a breakwater and seawall, but it's still very hazardous, and between Cromer and Yarmouth, there are five navigational lights.
But we now approach a still more dangerous part of the coast—the eastern shores of Yorkshire. Flamborough Head first demands our attention.
But we now come to an even more hazardous section of the coast—the eastern shores of Yorkshire. Flamborough Head comes first to 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 [pg 252]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.
The Head marks the end of the chalky Yorkshire Wolds, surrounded by chalk islands that clearly show how the sea has separated them from their former ties to the land. The cliffs around Flamborough Head are full of holes and tunnels created by the waves, featuring numerous arches and caves. The “Matron of Flamborough” is a striking pyramidal "needle," rising boldly from the water. Below the lighthouse, there are some impressive broken cliffs, along with two large chalk pillars known as the “King and Queen” that catch the eye. One of the biggest and most rugged caves is called “Robin Lyth’s Hole,” which can be easily explored from the eastern side. Therefore, the Head is particularly interesting for artists, and for other reasons, it is equally appealing to naturalists. Groups of seabirds startle visitors, who are often seen as intruders, as they burst out from the cliff crevices filled with their eggs, covering both land and sea in their soaring flight. The somewhat nerve-wracking task of climbing down the cliff face using ropes to collect eggs is how many of the Flamborough men make a living in the summer. A more familiar risk is faced by the brave fishermen of this coast, who set out from the northern or southern shores in their small boats to visit, perhaps, the Dogger Bank, and might not return. ‘The sea got him,’ is too often the [pg 252]response when you ask about some honest fisherman who might have been your boatman around the point or your guide through the winding caves.61 Many a fisherman’s widow or mother thinks sadly there of the husband or son who will no longer return.
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.
Filey, a quiet seaside town, is protected by the headland mentioned above. Its charming terraces, squares, shrubs, trees, and flowers, along with its sandy beaches where a band plays daily during the season, create a strong contrast to the often turbulent ocean outside. The name of the place comes from the ancient term, “The File,” which refers to a rocky outcrop that juts out into the sea and acts as a natural breakwater. Beyond it, during rough seas, large rocks can be seen rolling and tumbling, tossed by the waves. This area is known as Filey "Jail" (bridge), and the promontory is said to resemble the pier at Tangiers. You can reach its tip at low tide, where stunning views of Scarborough cliffs, its castle, and Flamborough Head are visible. At high tide, the Brig gets flooded, and the waves often create a white spray against the rocks that shoots high into the air. The effect from the esplanade looks, for lack of a better comparison, 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.
One Sunday afternoon, when no church bells could be heard at sea or along the usually calm shores of Filey, a tragic event took place. It was seven in the evening; the wind had suddenly shifted from south to north, and a terrifying hailstorm fell, sounding like an angry sea crashing over a sandy desert. The storm raged on throughout the night. At daybreak, the sea surged to great heights, and the storm continued with relentless intensity. The wind blew like a hurricane, and the sleet came down as thick as a London fog, obscuring the sea from the anxious residents of Filey and Filey from the eager eyes and listening ears of the sailor battling the tempest. By nine o’clock, the sky cleared, and the people of Filey saw a sturdy brig, along with three or four other vessels, struggling through the rough seas with closely reefed topsails, not far off, barely three miles away.
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 [pg 253]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.
She looked like she had collided with another ship or had been severely damaged by a storm. After traveling about two miles south of the buoy, she was seen tipping over onto her side, struggling to right herself, and, as if realizing the hopelessness of the effort and giving up in despair, she sank with terrifying suddenness, taking everyone on board with her—her name unknown, her story unwritten. The only memorial in [pg 253]memory of the brave souls who had found her their both their grave and tomb was the pain etched forever in the hearts of their loved ones 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.
Of Scarborough, there are very old records. Its name is Saxon—coming from Scar, meaning a rock, and Burg, meaning a fortified place. A Northern historian notes an invasion by the Danes in the ninth and tenth centuries like this:—Toward the end of Adalbricht's reign as King of Northumberland, an army of Danes led by Knut and Harold, the sons of Gorin, invaded England and took over a large portion of the region. Adalbricht then confronted the enemy and fought a battle at Clifland or Cleveland in the north, successfully defeating the Danes with heavy casualties. However, shortly after, the Danes regrouped at Scardaborga, where they fought and won; then, they moved on to York, where they took control of the residents and enjoyed a period of peace. The ancient castle dates back to the reign of King Stephen.
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.
The harbor of Scarborough is the only safe spot along a treacherous coastline stretching from the Humber to Tynemouth Haven. It has lifeboats, equipment to help ships, a Seamen's Hospital, Trinity House, and a Mariners' Asylum. The area itself has become a very popular vacation spot. But sometimes here, as in many other beach resorts, tragedy mixes with joy. This was especially true in November 1861, when events happened that cast a shadow over both the locals 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.
A schooner, the Coupland, tried to enter the harbor during a fierce storm but couldn't make it in. It quickly drifted among the churning waves that crashed like huge wild waterfalls until it hit directly opposite the Spa promenade. Meanwhile, the lifeboat was manned and sent out to help the vessel, which was in serious danger. The sea slammed against the seawall with such force that the heavy stones on the parapet were dislodged. The crashing waves created conditions only the lifeboat could withstand. Once it reached this point, people on the Spa watched and spoke to the crew. The lifeboat's crew looked terrified in their dreadful situation. Suddenly, a violent lurch of the boat sent a veteran boatman, the lead crew member who was very experienced, overboard. He was quickly washed to the Spa wall and saved with a life buoy. Another crew member was thrown out a few minutes later and rescued in the same way after a desperate struggle. The oars were knocked from the lifeboatmen's hands, rendering them helpless. The boat slammed hard against the wall, and only its incredible strength and quality kept it from being smashed to pieces. Ropes were thrown from the boat to the promenade, and it was pulled through the surf to a landing spot at the southern end of the wall. Here, a tragic event occurred. Once the boat touched ground, the men jumped out before the water had receded, and realizing the danger they were in, a rush down the incline was made to help them. In the momentary chaos that followed, another wave hit, knocking nearly everyone off their feet, and they scrambled to save themselves. Many managed to get up, but another wave swept away those who were still down. They were thrown in and out multiple times. Among those were Lord Charles Beauclerk, two of the lifeboat crew, and five or six others. A massive wave was seen lifting the lifeboat violently against the wall; when the boat sank again, it was discovered that Brewster, one of the crew members, had been literally crushed to death between it and the stone seawall. Lord Charles Beauclerk faced the same terrible fate, but he wasn’t killed immediately; he was washed to the foot of the cliff when two gentlemen rushed to help him. A rope had been thrown to him earlier, but he couldn't grab it. The two gentlemen managed to tie a rope around him and pulled him up the slope as his life faded. He was taken to the nearby Music Hall (such a cruel twist of fate!), where a doctor declared him dead. Two or three others were seen trapped under the boat when the waves lifted it almost into the air. One of them was the son of a Scarborough banker. All these men lost their lives.
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.
Attention was now focused on the shipwrecked crew, who had witnessed all these horrors, and they were eventually all pulled to safety by the rocket apparatus. In the same storm, fourteen fishermen from Scarborough lost their lives. Twenty were lost at Yarmouth, and there were wrecks scattered all along 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 [pg 255]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.
And now for a true story with a happier ending, very vividly told by a lady visitor to Scarborough.63 This happened in the winter of 1872. “I can’t write well,” she wrote; My hands are still shaking from the excitement of this morning. We had such a massive [pg 255]storm, and a ship went down right in front of our windows again. The sea was a huge, raging mass of foam, and the wind was blowing hard from the northeast straight onto this coast. Our sailor-landlord came in after checking the sea and reported, ‘There’s a fine brig to the north, but the sea is terrible; I’m afraid there’s no chance for her. The wind is pushing her straight towards the shore, and I'm worried she’ll hit the rocks soon. She looks like she’s from Spain, I think. God help them!’ He then took his binoculars and went back out, big tears in his eyes, such a tough guy 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.
Our hearts were racing in that moment, and we strained our eyes as we watched closely. Here she came; we all wished for some unseen force to push her away from what appeared to be friendly houses, people, and land, which were actually so dangerous! The snow, hail, and rain sometimes thickened the air, and when it cleared, there was the vessel being driven straight into the wind. Would she make it around the Castle rocks? That was a mix of terror and excitement; if she crashed there, there would be no hope for the crew. The suspense lasted nearly an hour; yes, she’s past! Just as the fierce storm briefly calmed, a fishing boat that seemed unlikely to make it had made it through, got around the lighthouse pier, and was entering the harbor. It looked like a child’s toy compared to the brig on those massive waves and had been lost from sight many times. The pier was packed with people, and on the sands, thousands had gathered, 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 [pg 256]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.”
The lifeboat is off—there's still hope for the brig. It’s a beautiful new boat, just launched, and it has already saved more lives (the sailors tell us) than the old one did during its entire time here. The crew trusts her, and ‘you know, miss, if her crew doesn’t have confidence in her, it’s all pointless; they might as well go out in a small boat, they’d prefer that anyway,’ an old sailor told me. I felt like everyone I cared about was on that vessel, battling the wind and waves, unsure of its fate. The lifeboat is now heading to the pier, and the rocket apparatus is set up where they believe she’ll come ashore. The sailors say she doesn’t have enough sail up. Her captain seems to realize this and raises two topsails. She shifts; now’s her chance; if her captain knows the harbor well, he might still get her in. Clearly, he doesn’t; he’s gone a little too far south and can’t get back! One terrifying gust, one massive wave, and her chance is lost, sending her straight toward the worst rocks, where if she crashes, the men will die—no lifeboat or rocket apparatus can reach her. The lifeboat is racing toward her now, and the sea is rough; she veers slightly again—the moments feel like hours. How those men pull! They are close to her when one huge wave hits them, and the lifeboat is swamped. I felt like I could feel the waves crashing over me. I let out a terrible scream and barely dared to look again; yet I couldn’t look away. She was okay, and eagerly I counted her men; we could see them clearly from our windows. They were all fine, and now she's alongside the brig, although she got swept away once or twice again. Then comes the moment of getting the men off. This was almost the worst part, watching them drop one by one into the lifeboat. One man is almost in; the lifeboat is swept away, and there he hangs. The sea crashes against him, injuring his leg, but they manage to get him back onto the brig, and then into the lifeboat when it’s close again, and now everyone is in except for the captain. He hesitates; it almost seems like he’d rather go down with his ship, but he hands some papers, or book-like papers, into [pg 256]the lifeboat, and then he follows, and the men pull back. The crew of the brig are weak and exhausted; they’ve had three terrible days, but the lifeboat finally brings them all safely to the pier. I felt like I hadn’t slept in days; the excitement had been overwhelming. If it hadn’t been a new and good ship, she would have been wrecked long ago, the sailors say; but she’s lying almost on her side, with her deck to the wind, taking on every wave now that the tide is going out.
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.
Whitby is the final spot to discuss in relation to the hazardous east coast. It's an old town, existing long before the eleventh century, and by that time, it had become a well-known fishing hub. Today, it has around 500 vessels, both large and small, not counting fishing boats. Many local seamen work on ships involved in coastal, Baltic, and Indian trade, often away from home except for a few weeks in winter. The fact that there are 800 members contributing to the Mariners’ National Mutual Pension and Widows’ Fund—a benefit society run by the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society—shows that these men are generally careful with their resources.
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.”
Standing on the cliff above Whitby, near the ruins of the old abbey, there is a breathtaking view of the sea. Below, the town is laid out in its mix of streets, squares, and quays; its terraces stacked on top of each other; its piers extending into the sea; its lighthouses, docks, and shipyards bustling with workers; and a large harbor, divided by a bridge over the Esk, where the outer part can accommodate 300 ships, and there's also a big basin above. "All of this and more can be seen from this high viewpoint, which, on a nice day and at high tide, is truly impressive. The harbor, filled with blue water, sparkles like a polished mirror under the sun. The majestic ship, with its white sails billowing in the breeze, can be seen moving from one point to another along its winding shores. The lively path of the small yacht, with its slender masts and tiny sails, gliding over the water like a swallow in flight, adds to the scene. The call of the seabird as it swoops in graceful arcs or dives to catch its prey in the shimmering waters is noticeable, while the loud ‘hurrah’ from the strong shipwright cheering for the grand vessel as it slides down the slick ‘ways,’ creating a path through the water that will be its future home, echoes off 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.
South of Whitby lies the beautiful Bay of Robin Hood, also known as Robert Earl of Huntingdon, who lived during the reign of Richard I. It’s said that Robin, when choosing a spot for a seaside home, decided to build where the next arrow from his bow landed, and this became that place, which has carried his name ever since. The small town there is one of the most irregular and quirky-looking places in the world, shaped by the sea’s erosion of the cliffs. Built on the edges of these cliffs at every level where there’s a foothold, and perched on steep cliffs that overlook the sea, or tucked away in locations accessible only by risky paths, or teetering on the edge of cliffs that shake as the waves crash with muffled sounds into the caves below, isolated houses, terraces, and streets stand, many of which have previously fallen into the sea. The town itself is in a hollow that’s not visible until you’re right up to it, completely surrounded by peaks and cliffs.
CHAPTER 24.
The Art of Swimming—Achievements in Swimming—Lifesavers.
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.
Lord Byron and the Hellespont—Swimming as a Necessary Skill—The Number of Drownings—A Tragic Event—Captain Webb’s Tips for Beginners—Brave and Cautious Boys—Best Places to Learn—The Importance of Starting Off Correctly—The Key to a Good Stroke—Practical and Aesthetic Swimming—Diving—Advice—Risks of Serious Injury—Innovations to Aid Swimming and Floating—The Boyton Suit—Matthew Webb—Courageous Effort to Save a Friend—The Great Channel Swim—Twenty-Two Hours in the Water—Stung by a Jellyfish—Red Light on the Sea—Cape Grisnez in Sight—Swimmer’s Fatigue—Fear of Giving Up—Joyful Arrival on the Sands of Calais—Webb’s Feelings—A Clever Sailor Rescued by Wine Bottles—Lifeguards—Thomas Fowell Buxton—Ellerthorpe—Lambert—The “Hero of the Clyde”—His Courageous Acts—Funny Tales—The Greatest Accomplishment—Overlooked and Forgotten—Finally Acknowledged.
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 [pg 258]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
So sang Lord Byron after his unforgettable swim across the Hellespont with Lieutenant Ekenhead of H.M.S. Salsette. The distance from Abydos to Sestos is about a mile, but the actual distance swum was four; the current is so strong there that no boat can cross straight. “It might,” says Byron, It's somewhat evident that one of the parties finished the entire distance in one hour and five minutes, while the other took one hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold due to the melting mountain snow. About three weeks earlier, in April, we had tried to swim, but after riding all the way from the Troad that morning and finding the water icy, we decided to delay our attempt until the frigate anchored below the castles. That's when we swam across the straits, entering quite a bit above the European side and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier mentions that a young Jew swam the same distance for his girlfriend, and Oliver notes it was done by a Neapolitan; however, our consul, Tarragona, didn’t remember either story and tried to dissuade us from attempting it. Several crew members from the Salsette’s crew were known to have swum a longer distance, and what surprised me the most was that, despite the doubts about the truth of Leander’s story, no traveler had ever tried to discover if it was actually possible. Byron’s mention of the fever he caught was just added for effect.65
In presenting this chapter66 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.
In presenting this chapter66 on swimming and water skills, the author sincerely hopes that it encourages a broader understanding and practice of the sport. If it were just a healthy, masculine activity, it would deserve all support; but there's another, more important aspect to consider. Every year, thousands of valuable lives are lost that could easily be saved, not by others, but through their own knowledge. Every parent should ensure their children learn to swim at the earliest opportunity, and, except for very delicate kids, they will likely embrace the activity. Young men should view it as one of their most enjoyable and beneficial pastimes. Cricket, rowing, and cycling are now considered essential skills for almost every respectable young person; they should all add swimming to their repertoire. The first three are beneficial and invigorating activities; swimming is not only this but much more. Today, at least one person in every large family often travels or goes on voyages; many have relatives settled in colonies or foreign countries, requiring them to cross the vast ocean. Despite modern steamships and conveniences, maritime disasters still occur. The author strongly supports the creation of government-operated swimming schools.
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.
Every year, the news reports many drowning cases, but the unreported ones are much more common. Recently, the National Lifeboat Institution published an informative chart showing the number of people lost in a single year in inland waters, rivers, lakes, and ponds. It was nearly two thousand people, a significant number of whom were young individuals, all of whom should have been able to swim. The complete annual record of those lost at sea and along the coasts would be shocking.
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 [pg 259]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.
There’s no doubt that it's much easier to learn swimming when you’re young than when you’re older, and the younger a boy is, the easier it is for him to pick it up. Of all places, a bath is the best for this purpose. It’s always easier to stay in warm water for a long time than in cold water. That’s why most of our fastest swimmers come from inland towns. Boys by the sea probably have only a few weeks, or at most a few months, each year when they can actually go into the water. Rough days and cold weather often keep them from swimming, although there are definitely some who will swim in the sea year-round, not just in summer, but also in winter.
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.
In starting to teach someone how to swim, the first step is getting into the water, and here the first step is always the hardest. When the learner is very young, the biggest challenge is often getting them to enter the water at all. Still, most healthy boys are usually brave enough about this.
“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.”
Once you’ve encouraged a student to move around in the water, the next key step is to show them how buoyant the water really is. Nearly all swimming books suggest the same method: place an object at the bottom of the pool (like a large rock or a piece of white chalk) and have the student try to pick it up with their hand. They will quickly realize that the challenge isn’t staying afloat, but going underwater. The water's buoyancy is so strong that if they are about chest-deep, they may not even be able to lift the rock at all. This experience will illustrate how little effort it actually takes to keep a person 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.
Another good plan is to let someone enter the water with the beginner and float on their back, resting on the learner’s hand. Then instruct the learner to take their hand away for a second or two at a time and, so to speak, balance the body on their hand. They will find that the weight of the body is barely a few ounces. In fact, the human body is so nearly equal in weight to an equal volume of water that moving the arms and legs in swimming is not so much about keeping the body afloat as it is about keeping it in the right position. Many drowning individuals have come to the surface repeatedly, but unfortunately, their mouth or nose, through which they could breathe, often hasn't been the part that surfaced. Another way to help a student gain confidence is to get in the water yourself and show them, through visual demonstration, how little movement of the limbs is actually needed to keep the body afloat and the mouth above water. All good swimmers are aware of how minimal movements of the hands or feet are 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.
In starting to learn, all boys should first learn to swim well on their stomachs. Ever since the side stroke was introduced, it often happens that kids who have barely learned to swim properly try to copy the top professionals, and in doing so, they end up making themselves look foolish.
“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 [pg 260]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.
"The key to a good stroke," says Webb, “is to kick your legs wide. And let me clarify that it's a common misconception to think a swimmer's speed depends on the water pushing against their feet. I've often heard people say—‘Oh! that man would be a great swimmer; he has such big feet.’ But when you kick your legs, the flat part of your foot doesn’t actually touch the water, except in the technique called ‘treading water.’ The force that propels you while swimming comes from quickly bringing your legs from a wide position together, similar to how scissors work. In fact, the mechanical principle involved here is that of a wedge. For instance, if you were to quickly pinch a wedge of ice between your thumb and finger, it would clearly fly off [pg 260]in the direction opposite where the sharp edge is pointing. Now, when a wedge of water is pushed back, the resistance it creates propels your body forward in the opposite direction.” Once you understand this, it becomes clear how important it is to draw your legs up effectively.
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.
Again, when focusing on the stroke (and by “focusing on the shot” we mean pausing briefly in the water while the body moves forward), it’s important to ensure that the toes point in the opposite direction of where the swimmer is heading. The arm movement shouldn't be very difficult. Both hands should stay flat, with the palms touching the water; as the swimmer kicks their legs, each hand should move slowly to the sides, one to the right and the other to the left, making sure the palms remain horizontal. If the hands are positioned sideways, it's clear that the water will create very little resistance. By keeping the hands in the specified position, the water's resistance will be significantly greater if one starts to sink. If a beginner is unsure about this, they should enter the water, bend down, and with their hand flat, pull it down quickly through the water; they will notice that the resistance of the water makes it difficult to do this quickly. On the other hand, if they push their hands down sideways, they will find they can do it almost as fast as they could in the air. When reaching forward with the hands, the swimmer should always try to extend as far as possible. Imagine there’s a small object just out of reach in the water, and strive to grasp it; the more they reach forward, the faster they 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.
Every boy should be very careful about the type of kick he learns when swimming. Remember that once you adopt a bad style, it will be ten times harder to change it to the correct one than it would be to start learning to swim from scratch. For this reason, anyone learning to swim should carefully watch a top-notch swimmer and pay attention to how they move their legs, then try to imitate them 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.
Diving from a height requires experience, just like any other activity, as Artemus Ward noted during the census. Just as he ran into trouble with the first two single women he encountered, trying to check their ages because he didn't trust their answers, many boys who have watched someone dive make it look easy end up getting hurt by landing flat on the water, which can leave them feeling like they've just had a strong mustard plaster on their chest. Now, when diving from a height of about six feet, you need to throw your heels up, keep your legs straight and close together, and bring your hands forward in front of your head, similar to the position someone takes when they're first trying to swim on their front. The hands act as a barrier, and they should be turned up as soon as you hit the water, which keeps you from going too deep and allows you to glide along the surface as soon as you enter the water. A skilled diver can jump from a height of forty to fifty feet and still not go more than 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 [pg 261]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.
One time, when he was just fourteen years old, a boy jumped from the top deck of Her Majesty’s ship President, which was docked at the West India Docks. The drop to the water was [pg 261]forty-five feet, and those who saw it say he didn’t go more than two feet below the surface. No one, not even a boy, should attempt to dive from such a height. If they were to slip or fall flat, it’s likely they would die instantly. But if you ever need to jump from a high place, remember not to move your body the same way you would if you were jumping from only a few feet. Otherwise, you could spin around in the air and land on your back, which, if the drop is very far, could be fatal; and even if it’s a moderate distance, you’d definitely look like you’ve been through a serious beating. In diving, as in everything else, practice is what leads to perfection. Webb dived off the yard-arm of a ship nearly thirty feet above the water, but if anyone from such a height lands flat at all, they will hurt themselves quite badly.
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.
Many stories have been told in this work about native divers, but they only focus on their ability to hold their breath underwater, not on diving from heights. And when it comes to swimming, no Black person matches a top English swimmer. Three feet of water is enough to dive in, but no sane person would ever leap from a height unless the water was at least five or six feet deep. If by chance someone misjudged their dive and came down a bit too straight, they could seriously injure themselves, possibly even damaging their brain, as well as breaking both arms on the bottom of the pool or river. Great caution should also be exercised when diving into any open water. Webb mentions a case where a man suffered a terrible head injury from diving onto a broken green glass bottle that had been discarded.
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. [pg 262]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:—
Countless are the inventions designed to help people learn to swim or to assist those who can't swim to float. At the forefront of the latter is the Boyton suit, an American invention. It's a complete rubber suit that can be inflated at any desired point, allowing the wearer to lie down or stay vertical or at an angle in the water, keeping their body as warm—and if exerting themselves, even warmer—as it would be under normal conditions. Captain Paul Boyton crossed the Channel in it without any issues, floating, paddling, and even sailing (a sail is part of the gear), while also snacking from the knapsack or container that is part of the suit, smoking, and sipping cherry brandy amid the churning waves. [pg 262]This suit would undoubtedly allow a shipwrecked person to survive for days, even weeks, in the water. Its cost isn't too high, but it's a bit much for widespread use. It was while wearing this suit, during a crossing of the Straits of Messina on March 10th, 1877, that Captain Boyton experienced the adventure illustrated in our image. We translate from an Italian journal the following account of it:—
“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.”
Ignoring the advice of those who warned him about the dangers of the rough sea, which was also filled with dogfish, Boyton entered the water at eight in the morning, followed by a boat that lost sight of him more than once. He rowed with his gear, his arms strong as steel, when suddenly he felt a hard bump from behind. It was a dogfish! There was a brief struggle; Boyton pulled himself up, grabbed the dagger he always carried, and fought off the attacker. Feeling more confident, he picked up the oar again, had some cognac for the third or fourth time, and around midday, with his eyes strained from the rough sea, he finally reached the port of Messina, greeted warmly by the crowd on the shore as well as those in boats and steamers, who had been anxiously awaiting his arrival.
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.
Apparently, one of the simplest devices for people who can’t swim is the Nautilus Safety Bathing Dress, invented by Captain Peacock. It’s just a short shirt made from the finest Irish flax, designed to fit snugly around the neck and waist with elastic bands. It has an inflating tube and a mouthpiece. The idea behind it is straightforward: Irish flax, when it’s wet, is almost air and water-proof; after dipping the shirt in water, air is blown inside through the tube until it’s sufficiently inflated. If there’s any slight leakage, the wearer can blow more air into it at any time. These shirts are, of course, relatively 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.
A seaman’s belt, created by Captain Ward, R.N., and approved by the National Life-Boat Institution, is highly praised by many experts. A teacher mentions that for many years, he has taken thirty to forty boys, of all ages, into deep water during the swimming season, and that not only is it completely safe and avoids some of the issues raised about many swimming belts, but that using it allows young people to swim faster.
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.
Captain Warren has invented a highly praised life buoy. It consists of a chemically treated bladder with a patented valve that makes it easy to inflate. His second invention includes 500 life buoys, each three feet long, made from cork or specially treated wood, strung onto a series of iron rods attached to the ship's turret or mast. These are all held together by a band that would be cut in the event the vessel is sinking, allowing all the buoys to be released instantly. This apparatus would cost £250, but it could be made on a smaller scale if needed.
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, [pg 263]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.
A really clever “Lifebuoy Seat” has been created by Mr. Richard Rose, an experienced traveler and colonist. It's made up of two semi-conical buckets made of block tin, with the smaller end of one screwing into the other, creating a buoy that looks like an hourglass. When placed upright, it serves as a great deck camp seat, with the top part made of cork, which increases its buoyancy. In case of a fire on board, the two parts can be quickly unscrewed, and each buoy acts like two buckets, [pg 263]so a ship with only two or three dozen would have plenty in such emergencies. In practical tests in a swimming pool, several swimmers couldn’t sink one that was placed there for the experiment, and it took a weight of nearly a hundred pounds to do so. Since the buoy is waterproof, it could also be used to carry water, biscuits, or other food, important ship's papers, and so on, without significantly reducing its buoyancy, while several connected together could form a raft. Two ropes are attached to each seat. Considering the confusion and panic that often happen during collisions, fires at sea, and shipwrecks in general, this invention would be incredibly valuable, as it could be used in the heat 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.
The Royal Humane Society shares these important guidelines for bathers (which also somewhat apply to swimmers), created by experts:—1. Avoid swimming within two hours after eating. 2. Don't swim when you're really tired. 3. Don't swim when your body is cooling down after sweating. But—4. Swim when your body is warm, as long as you don’t delay getting into the water. 5. Don't cool off by sitting naked on the shore or in boats after swimming. 6. Don’t stay in the water too long—exit immediately if you feel even slightly cold. 7. Avoid swimming in the open air if you start feeling chilly and your hands and feet go numb after a short time in the water. 8. Strong individuals can swim early in the morning on an empty stomach. 9. Young people and those who are weak should swim three hours after eating—the ideal time for them is two to three hours after breakfast. 10. Anyone prone to dizziness or fainting, or those who experience heart palpitations or discomfort in the chest, should consult their doctor before swimming.
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.
And now we need to talk about the best swimmer of our time—someone who has never been surpassed. Captain Matthew Webb swam across the Channel when he was just twenty-six years old. The son of a country doctor, he developed a love for the sea early on and received his first training on the Conway training ship in 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 event in Webb’s life that first brought his name prominently to the public’s attention in connection with swimming happened on the Cunard steamship Russia, which was on its way home from America. One day, a huge sea made the ship roll so much that it was nearly impossible for anyone to stay on their feet without a life-line (i.e., a rope stretched across the deck from one point to another), and suddenly a shout went up, “Man overboard!” A poor young guy named Michael Hynes had been ordered up into the main rigging to “clear the sheet,” lost his grip, and fell backwards into the water. Webb saw him fall and was in the sea within two or three seconds, but, sadly, could only see his cap floating on the waves. On this occasion, he was in the water for thirty-seven minutes before being picked up by the Russia lifeboat, with the waves being "high mountains," and the ship moving at fifteen knots. Webb was completely unable to save the poor fellow, who was never seen to resurface, but for his brave attempt, he rightfully received the top medal, the—"Stanhope Gold Medal"—from 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 [pg 264]“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 first time Captain Webb considered swimming the Channel was after a [pg 264]“nice attempt”—but failure—by Johnson, who attempted to swim from Dover to Calais. Webb started with an impressive swim from Dover to the Varne Buoy, about halfway across the channel. During this swim, he stayed in the water for four and a half hours. His first public swim was from Blackwall Pier to Gravesend, a distance of twenty miles—which was easy for him. After a lot of practice, he made a trial swim from Dover to Ramsgate, spending nearly nine hours in the water. He then publicly announced his plan to try to swim to Calais, and received a lot of encouragement as well as well-intentioned advice for the attempt. Several unusual precautions were suggested to him—one that made sense was to cover his body with some kind of grease. For the Ramsgate swim, he used cod-liver oil, and for his first Channel attempt, he used 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.
The second attempt of Captain Webb to swim across the Channel happened on August 24th, 1875, and was successful after an incredible display of bravery and physical stamina. At 12:56 p.m. that day, he jumped from the steps at the top of the Admiralty Pier in Dover, and at 10:41 a.m. the next day, he reached the sands of Calais, having stayed in the water for an impressive twenty-one and three-quarter hours without touching a boat.
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.
During the early part of the journey, Captain Webb was particularly lucky with the weather. The sea was as calm as a pond, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The lugger that traveled with him across the Channel had to be rowed a considerable distance. The swimmer was accompanied by two small rowing boats that stayed close to him—one had his cousin, Mr. Ward, who occasionally provided him with refreshments, and one of the referees, who had been appointed at Webb’s request to ensure fair play; the other boat was used to convey 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.
Everything went well until nine p.m., when Captain Webb complained of being stung by a jellyfish and asked for some brandy. He had already been given some cod liver oil and hot coffee. The weather remained perfect, and the fearless swimmer continued at a good pace, taking strong, clear strokes that propelled him through the water. Due to the phosphorescent state of the sea, he was sometimes surrounded by a glow of light. At 10:30, a steam tug arrived, having come from Dover for this purpose, but, strangely, they left the man who had been battling the waves for over nine hours without even a parting cheer. However, at 11:45, a Dover boat heading to Calais cheered him on with loud applause, and one of the smaller boats displayed a red light that cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating the water around him, so that Captain Webb was clearly visible to everyone 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 [pg 265]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.
At two o’clock the next morning, the Cape Grisnez light looked close, and Captain Webb was still bravely pushing forward, even though the tide was pulling him farther from the shore. He was beginning to show signs of fatigue, and young Baker, a well-known diver, was sitting with a life-line around him next to the referee, just in case something went wrong. Many believed that the long exposure to the cold could make Webb suddenly numb and unable to respond, potentially causing him to sink without warning. But Webb was one in ten thousand; the collapse from the extreme cold that usually affects even the best swimmers after a long time in the water seemed to not apply to him. By nine o'clock, he was within a mile of shore, a little west of Calais, and at that point, young Baker, who was only sixteen, jumped in to keep the exhausted swimmer company, although he didn’t try to help him physically, only offering encouragement.
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?
Unfortunately, two hours earlier, a strong wind had picked up, and the sea, which had been calm like a sheet of glass, was now choppy with towering waves. Webb looked completely worn out. The tide was pulling strongly away from the shore, and the swimmer was struggling against overwhelming odds when he was least able to. Still, at 9:45, he had reduced the distance by half; he was only half a mile from the beach. Would he ever make it there?
Just as the now utterly exhausted swimmer was beginning bitterly to think that [pg 266]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.
Just as the completely exhausted swimmer was starting to think that failure was possible even at this point, a steamboat departed from Calais, positioning itself as a kind of breakwater since the waves were so high they nearly swamped the boats following him. With one last effort, he reached the shore, so weak that he couldn't stand. A couple of men quickly went to help him, allowing him to walk slowly onto the beach. By the time the Calais boat left, he was comfortably asleep with a doctor keeping watch 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
"I can only say," says Captain Webb, "The moment I stepped onto the sands of Calais and felt the French soil under my feet is something I’ll never forget, even if I live for a hundred years. I was completely exhausted at that moment, and during the last couple of hours, I started to think I might not make it after all. The next day, after a good night’s sleep, I didn’t feel much worse for what I had gone through. I had a strange sensation in my limbs, kind of like the feeling you get after the first week of cricket season; it took about a week before I could wear a shirt collar because of a raw spot at the back of my neck from keeping my head tilted back for so long. It’s important to note that I was in the water for nearly twenty-two hours."67
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.
When Webb returned to London, he was met with an enthusiastic reception. In the City, he was welcomed with the same loud cheers that Tom Sayers, less deservedly, received after his fight with Heenan. The cheers and handshakes for Webb began at the "Baltic" grew warmer at "Lloyds," and peaked at the Stock Exchange, where "bulls" and "bears" were overshadowed by the lion of the day, and he had to retreat to avoid having his right hand 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 [pg 267]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
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:—During these terrifying moments, a man was seen jumping from the wreck into the sea. Onlookers thought he had decided to end his life to escape the slow death from hunger. After all, who could blame him? Hope seemed lost, and it was only a matter of an hour or so. But the crowd was pleasantly surprised as the man kept his head above the churning waves, and even though he disappeared several times, with the help of good binoculars, his head could be seen popping up again, a noticeable dark figure in the foamy water. Anticipation soared. Would he make it to the shore? a hundred voices asked at once, and everyone was eager to help a man who was so bravely trying to save himself. The minutes that followed were incredibly tense; every movement of the swimmer was closely watched, and it was a struggle to keep several generous individuals from rushing into the sea to assist him, no matter the danger. Slowly, but surely, the poor guy made his way toward the shore—still keeping his head up. He was just inside the outer edge of the breakers—poor guy! His chances were slim now. Look, he’s caught by a huge wave—he’s riding it, being swiftly pushed toward the beach; the monstrous wave curls and crashes; he tumbles head over heels; he’s gone. No; he rights himself and is pulled back out to sea by a retreating wave. He comes back again—tumbling head over heels once more; but this time, luck smiled on his misfortune, as he was thrown close enough for a coast guard, who, risking his life, rushed into the sea and saved him. The reason for his buoyancy soon became clear. Under each arm, he had strapped (as seamen only know how) an empty wine bottle, securely corked, and he had stuffed several others under an elastic Guernsey shirt, and buttoned his trousers over it all, and with these fragile floats, he successfully navigated through a heavy line of breakers.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
“That guy has saved seventeen lives all on his own,” we heard a marine officer say one day at Lowestoft, pointing to a good-looking young man sitting on the beach smoking his pipe. "He should be doing quite well," said a bystander. "He's doing well," came the reply. "He takes pride in knowing that men, women, and children thank God for his courage 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
Before the establishment of a floating light off Happisburg, shipwrecks were very common on the Cromer coast. One of the greatest philanthropists of his time, Thomas Fowell Buxton, a prominent anti-slavery leader, spent a lot of time at Cromer Hall and was often found on the shore during storms, encouraging and guiding others while frequently lending a hand himself. During the storm on October 31, 1823, which is still vividly remembered by the locals, Mr. Buxton displayed incredible bravery. Around noon, a collier, the Duchess of Cumberland, crashed onto the rocks near the Cromer lighthouse. The lifeboat crew was too terrified to go out due to the dangerous sea and surf. A wave surged up the beach and lifted the wreck. Buxton jumped into the water, hoping others would follow, but no one did. Captain Manby fired his gun several times, but the line fell short of the doomed brig, where nine sailors were seen tied to the rigging. Eventually, a massive wave completely destroyed the ship, and the water turned black with spilled coal. The helpless onlookers watched in horror. “Poor dear hearts! They’re all gone now.” an old fisherman cried out, but just then, a body—was it alive or dead?—was spotted on the crest of a wave. Without waiting for a rope, Mr. Buxton plunged into the surf, grabbed the exhausted sailor, threw himself on top of him, and fought against the strong pull of the surf until others reached them. He and the living sailor were pulled to shore, both barely clinging to life. Buxton later said he felt the waves toss him around as easily as he could toss 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.
The story of a man with a simpler life, John Ellerthorpe, foreman of the Humber Dock gates in Hull, who rightfully earned the title of “Hero of the Humber”, is quite compelling. Over the course of forty years, he saved 39 people, many of whom were tough situations, as they ended up in the Humber due to 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.
His services were honorably recognized. He was showered with medals and other acknowledgments from the Royal Humane Society and the Board of Trade; he received a donation from the Royal Bounty, a purse of a hundred guineas from his fellow townspeople, and other valuable testimonials. Now, let’s turn to another hero, who saved one more life than Ellerthorpe, and until very late in his career received no recognition at all. A hero from the Clyde now comes into the picture.
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.”
It is to Mr. Charles Reade, the renowned novelist, poet, and playwright, that we owe a “A truthful and accurate story about the heroic actions and unfortunate events of James Lambert, a real person.”71 Mr. Reade had read in the Glasgow Times on October 2nd, 1856, how, when a young boy was drowning in the Clyde, an elderly blind man would have jumped in to save him if not for his granddaughter, who, with her affection and irrational fears, had clung to his knees and completely thwarted his good intentions. The boy drowned. The poor blind hero went home crying like a child, saying, "It was a boy thrown away; completely thrown 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.
Mr. Reade, after a long and exhausting search, found Lambert in a shabby apartment in Calton, a suburb of Glasgow, and easily got a wealth of stories from him, only a portion of which can be shared 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.
The “first instance” Lambert had dealt with was a twenty-stone intoxicated baker, who hugged him tightly and almost drowned him. Lambert was around fourteen at the time. Another case involved a poor old washerwoman who lost her balance in the water, and when saved, she wanted to go and pawn her tub to reward him. Instead, her rescuer “dropped a penny” into her hand and promised to keep helping her every Saturday with his small wages.
When Mr. Reade had provided the poor old man with a little refreshment, he told the following episode in his life.
When Mr. Reade gave the poor old man some refreshments, he shared this story from his life.
“Aweel, sirr, ye’ve heerd o’ the callant they wadna let me save—Hech, sirr, yon was a wean wastit72—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 spate73 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.”
"Well, sir, you’ve heard about the kid they wouldn’t let me save—Wow, sir, that was a child wasted__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__—now, I’ll let you decide if I couldn’t have saved that one, and maybe two more. There’s a stream they call ‘the Plumb’ that flows down from the horsebrae into the Clyde near Stockwell Brigg. The kids always played in the stream because it was usually shallow, and you’d see them the color of violets, not half as sweet, from the dye that washed into the water. Anyway, one day there was a group of them there, and a heavy rain__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ came down and caught them, leading me to see one of the kids in the Clyde. I had warned the troublemakers many times before. Thankfully, I wasn't far away, so I jumped in and grabbed him by the ear. ‘Come on, you little devil,’ I said. I hadn’t made three strokes when another kid grabbed me around the neck."
“Where on earth did he spring from?”
“Where in the world did he come 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 win74 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 don’t know. I was focused on the first one when the second one suddenly appeared, just as we were leaving Glasgow. I told them to stay with me, and I brought both of them ashore. Then, out of nowhere, there’s a commotion on the riverbank, and number three pops up much further behind me in the Clyde and sinks before I can reach him. I dive for him and have a tough time finding him at the bottom. I manage to bring him ashore in a bit of a daze; but I wasn’t worried about his life; he hadn’t been underwater long; my lord caused a lot more trouble, you know. By the way, he came around pretty quickly, and do you know what the first thing he said to me was? He said: ‘Don’t tell my father. For heaven’s sake, man, don’t tell my father!’ "
“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.”
"I never," says Mr. Reade, "I saw a guy who was more entertained by something trivial than James Lambert was by this. Watching him made it easier for me to relax over time, because his whole face was scrunched up with laughter, and everything about it seemed to be smiling."
“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.”
“But,” he said, "Can you believe it? Some nosy person told his dad, even though it was just the two of us. He was just a regular guy. He came by, thanked me really warmly, and handed me a drink. I valued that more than I’ve valued a lot of money in similar situations."
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!”
After a few more saves, which earned him a medal or two, Lambert admitted, "At this point, sir, I was constantly lurking around day and night looking for victims!" Mr. Reade suggested that he had the pride of an artist and wanted them to fall in so he could rescue them and show off his skills. Lambert replied that back then, swimming wasn’t as common as it is today; if drowning were to happen, he wanted to be there to save them. "Ew," he said, "The sweetness of it! The sweetness of it!"
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 [pg 270]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.
He then shared a funny story about rescuing a boy and rushing to the house to get him proper care. “Next,” he said, "I'm about to head out when I suddenly realize I'm not wearing any clothes, and there are two hundred people at the door. Can you believe it? With all the excitement, I had no idea I was naked until I saw the crowd and thought about it." At the [pg 270]bottom of the stairs, he found a bundle of linen, and he quickly helped himself, returning to the room wearing his wife’s apron and a sheet. “The sight of me frightened the girls, and they screamed; __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ because I looked like a corpse that had just emerged from the grave.” When he went to get his clothes, they were gone, but eventually he found out that a young lady had carefully hidden them for him behind a hedge, worried someone 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.
"I'm coming now," says Mr. Reade, "to the greatest achievement of this generous and daring life, and I’m not sure I can truly capture it in words. I pause before it like someone who feels overwhelmed in front of a mountain to climb, because I believe this accomplishment has never been achieved in water by any human, nor will it ever happen again as long as the earth exists."
“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.
James Lambert worked at Somerville’s Mill. Like most of the workers, he had to cross the water to get home. A small ferry boat was available for that purpose, docked at a little quay near the mill. A guy named Andrew was in charge of it on the shore; he used a lever to push it off and to bring it back. He often let more people onto it than Lambert thought was safe, and Lambert had complained and even said, ‘You’ll have an accident someday that you’ll regret for the rest of your life.’ Andrew responded by telling 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.
“Well, one evening James Lambert wanted to catch the first boat. This had something to do with him buying a new hat; maybe he wanted to skip the crowd of workers—I'm not quite sure. Anyway, he kept an eye on the big wheel, and the moment it started to shake before stopping, he grabbed his hat and hurried down the stairs. But since he worked on an upper floor, a dozen people got on the boat before he could. He told Andrew to push off, but Andrew wouldn’t until the boat was full; and soon it was packed. James Lambert then said it was unfair of him to let so many people on board. This upset the man, and when the boat was so crowded that the side was barely above the water, he forcefully shoved it off into the current, saying words that, if he hadn’t asked God for forgiveness in this life, might weigh heavily on him in the next.... ‘You beggars!’ he shouted.”
“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.
The sudden launch caused the overloaded boat to tip over. The women were frightened, and before the boat had traveled twenty yards, it flipped over in the dark, cold water that was ten feet deep. It was nighttime.
“Before the boat coupit76 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. * * *
"Before the boat capsized __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ all of them who could came to me because they all knew me. I’m in the water; those who had no connection to me were linked to those who did, and they pulled me down like lead."
“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 [pg 271]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 thir78 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 these79 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.”
"Sir, when you’re on the brink of death, your mind works overtime. I didn't fight against it because that was as pointless as arguing with a church. I just straightened out like a body and let them take me down to the bottom of the Clyde, where I stood up and waited; I knew the poor souls would drown before me, and I saw a small chance to save them. You should understand, sir, that when people are drowning, they don't calm down until the water fills their lungs and pushes the air out. At first, they bob up and down at certain intervals. Well, sir, I waited for that, on the ground. I was the only one grounded, as you’ll notice. A slight upward movement started. I took advantage of it and pushed off hard with my feet against the bottom, timing my move, and up we all came. My arms were held tight; but I could kick with my feet, and before we reached the surface, I lashed out like a madman, aiming for the quay. Well, sir, despite everything I did, we didn’t rise more than a yard, or maybe a yard and a half, and they dragged me down like lead. I positioned myself as we sank, and I grounded. The others were around me like a swarm. I waited, and when they moved upward, I pushed off from the ground; this time, I angled more towards the quay. That helped us, and in a dozen strong strokes, we gained maybe two yards. Then down like lead again. The same pattern repeated, up and down. Now, sir, there was something working against us; but at the same time, something was in our favor to balance it out. It was against us because they had swallowed their share of water by then and weren’t as buoyant; but it favored us that the water was shallower now, maybe not more than two feet above our heads. This could drown us as well as twenty; but with only two feet of water above us, I could push off from the ground with sheer force; because the ground gives you incredible power for a foot or two. So now, I was hardly down before I was up again, still pushing for the quay, and the water kept getting shallower. The next thing I noticed was that I was getting very tired, which was bad; but to balance that out, some people on the quay got ropes and boat hooks, and pulled off one or two that were closest; and each time I came up, they pulled someone off, lightening my load; and eventually, I even pushed a couple into shallow water myself with my feet. When I was in seven feet of water myself, and with fewer people holding me down, I gained control, pushed one, and pulled another in, until we landed the whole sixteen or seventeen. But my work wasn’t finished, because I knew there were more in the river. I saw the last of my own group safe, and then went out into the Clyde, wherever I heard screams, and soon I found two girls yelling, grabbed them by their long hair, and towed them to the quay in no time. Just as I was getting those two ashore, I heard a call from the very middle of the river, so I jumped in. It was a strong girl—they called her Elizabeth Whitelaw. ‘Come on, you long fool,’ I said, and started to pull her. Suddenly, I was grabbed by a man under the water. It was her sweetheart. She was holding him down. The girl was fine, but she was drowning the guy; I had to separate these two lovers—for their own good—and pulled them both to shore, one in each hand. Well, sir, I saved just one more, and then I dove in and searched, but I couldn’t see anyone else: three poor girls had drowned, but I didn't know that then. Now, I’ll tell you a funny story. I felt faint and headed for the shore. But I got weaker and dazed, and the lights of Glasgow started to flicker before my eyes: and I thought, ‘I won’t see you again; I’m done this time.’ It took everything I had just to drift to the back part of the quay. I didn’t have the strength to pull myself out. I just grabbed the quay and sobbed. Everyone was busy with those I had rescued; none of them noticed me, and I would have drowned that night: but guess who saved me, after I had saved so many?—an old frail man: haw! haw! haw! He had a hooked stick and gave me the handle, and towed me along the quay into shallow water, and I got out, with his help, and fainted right there. I’m told I was left there for a bit; but they finally found me, and then I had fifty nurses for every one."
The story of the cause of this hero’s blindness is very sad. He had dived in [pg 272]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.
The story behind this hero’s blindness is truly tragic. He jumped into the river to save someone else while sweating profusely. It was winter, and the water was freezing cold. Shortly after, a bright light overwhelmed him, and then everything went dark. This happened repeatedly, until finally, darkness took over completely, and the light was gone forever.
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.
When Mr. Reade first met him, the only public recognition he received was the privilege, alongside Bailie Harvey, to cross a certain suspension bridge for free until his death, while everyone else had to pay a halfpenny! His only pension was three shillings and sixpence a week from the Barony Parish in Glasgow. Mr. Reade’s efforts earned him an annuity, which he sadly didn’t get to enjoy for long.
CHAPTER 25.
The Haven at Last—A Home by 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.
The "Mighty Thames"—Poor Jack Home Again—Caring Sailors—The Belvedere Home and its Residents—A Ship on Shore—Competing Survivors—Greenwich Pensioners—The Current System Compared with the Old—Freedom Outside the Hospital—The Observatory—The Astronomer Royal—Modern Beliefs in Astrology—Location of Greenwich Park—The Telescopes and Observations—The Clock that Sets the Time for all of England—Sad Memories—The Loss of the Princess Alice—The Past Dreadnought—The Largest Floating Hospital in the World—The Trinity House: Its Structure, Purpose, and Functions—Lighthouses and Light-Vessels—Its Masters.
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 poet's enthusiasm can be forgiven because, even though there are many rivers that surpass the Thames when considered on their own, in relation to the sea—and indeed the entire world—it stands out as unique and unmatched. For sailors, the Thames and the Mersey hold a significance and importance that no other country's rivers can claim.
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 [pg 273]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 [pg 274]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
The reader has, in spirit, traveled with poor Jack to the furthest corners of the earth; he has witnessed much of Jack's life of danger and bravery; he has observed that the struggles he faces are often unrecognized, and that, after a lengthy career filled with service and courage, he may end up on the shore “a sheer hulk,” worthless to himself, possibly facing death and decay in poverty and distress. The accusation of exceptional negligence can’t be thrown at sailors today as it might have been in the past. Even Jack's negligence was more understandable than it would be in anyone else. The truth is—as organizations like the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society have shown—that sailors have had a strong desire to help themselves. The fortieth annual report of the Society (1879) states that [pg 273] 48,000 mariners contribute to the benefit fund organized under its guidance. The history of this great association, which now has an income of nearly £29,000, is quite interesting. “A worthy, charitable doctor, Mr. John Rye, of Bath, had a servant who used to be a sailor and regularly read the newspapers to his master. One morning, they were both struck by a report about some terrible shipwrecks of fishing boats resulting in loss of life on the north coast of Devon. The servant asked his master if there was any fund available to assist the families of those men. The master replied that he thought there might be, but he would check with Admiral Sir Jahleen Brenton, then Governor of Greenwich Hospital; from him, he found out that there was none. They then drafted a proposal and presented it to the late Admiral of the Fleet, Sir George Cockburn, who eagerly took up the cause, and after spreading the appeal widely, called a public meeting in February 1839, where Sir George was appointed President and several noblemen and gentlemen formed a committee, of which the respected Chairman, Captain the Hon. Francis Maude, R.N., is now the only survivor. The following month, Her Majesty the Queen graciously agreed to be the Patron of the Society; and so successful was this new organization that at its second anniversary, which the late Sir Robert Peel agreed to preside over, the amount of £1,100 was raised. The Committee then sought the help of gentlemen to serve as honorary agents, of whom there are now over 1,000; their duties include providing board, lodging, clothing, and sending all shipwrecked individuals back to their homes. The Committee meets every Friday in London to support the widows and orphans of those lost, not only at the time of their passing but through small annual payments. In 1879, 9,601 persons were helped.”
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.
To be honest, and in all fairness, we shouldn’t forget how much has been done for sailors along the banks of the River Thames, both by the government and private generosity. An excellent facility, the "Royal Alfred Aged Merchant Seamen’s Institution", is located in Belvedere, Kent, and was established under the support of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. This institution was set up with the capacity to accommodate 400 people from all levels of the merchant marine, although it hasn’t yet housed that many at once. The Society also provides 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!
The most unique and defining features of the building are a number of small cabins that are comfortably furnished and so similar to the real thing that it only takes a slight stretch of the imagination for Jack on land to indulge in the comforting illusion that he is at sea again. The large rooms are divided into wards, one for masters and mates, which has ten cabins, each measuring six feet by seven feet, with perfect ventilation achieved by leaving the tops of the partitions open. This smart setup gives each man his own little cabin, providing all the joys of privacy if that’s what he prefers. What a contrast this is to the awkward, uninviting, and empty 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.
It reflects positively on the profession that most of the inmates have served for over forty or fifty years, which, based on what we know about service in the maritime navy, can definitely be considered active. When asked by a visitor, some of these veterans showed that they have successfully faced the dangers of the sea.
“How often have you been wrecked?” inquired the interviewer of our “ancient mariner.”
"How many times have you been shipwrecked?" asked the interviewer of our “seasoned sailor.”
“Why, let me see, sir”—then, counting half audibly—“one, two, three, four, five times, I think, sir.”
"Let me think, sir."—then, counting just loud enough to hear—"One, two, three, four, five times, I believe, 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.
The second, when asked, replied simply, "One time in 1825, sir—on the way to Hamburg; another time in 1828, off the coast of Norway; and again off the coast of Java in '42." This man had also accomplished some remarkable feats on land, which completely compensated for him being short by "2" wrecks compared to the others.
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 [pg 275]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!
Greenwich Hospital next requires our attention, as it was once the main home and refuge for naval seamen, though it now functions solely as a hospital. It was established in 1694 in honor of Queen Mary, who had long envisioned creating such an institution. It also serves as a memorial for the great victory at La Hogue. Sir Christopher Wren generously provided the designs and plans for the building—a significant gift from a professional architect and quite valuable too. The purpose of the foundation was "to motivate the sailors of this [pg 275]kingdom to keep up the industry and expertise of their jobs, through which they had been recognized globally for a long time;" “to encourage them to maintain their long-standing reputation for the bravery and determination shown in battles for the defense and honor of their homeland;” "to encourage more of His Majesty’s subjects to go to sea;" and so on. In reality, the situation for the Greenwich pensioner was not particularly enviable for a long time. Upon admission, he was required to give up any pension he might have earned during his service. Injured men received only ten pence a day, and a shilling a week, meant for tobacco and other modest comforts. The Commissioners once remarked that "The wives are completely overlooked, and their situations are pathetic." From the Hospital, they received only the leftovers from the dining hall and rations meant for men on leave. Many wives were often left to rely on charity from the parish. No wonder the poor old veterans were so grateful for a sixpence or even a “screwdriver” of tobacco in exchange for their tough stories!
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.
The system has completely changed. Now, all are out-pensioners, and when they're in good health, they can pursue other jobs. On September 26, 1865, the exodus from Greenwich began. On that day, nearly 200 out of the 900 pensioners from Greenwich Hospital who accepted the Admiralty's pension offer, following a law passed in the previous session of Parliament, left for various parts of the country they chose as their new home. Since then, everyone has left; and the institution, which only a few years ago had over 2,000 residents, now only has a few hundred sick and disabled individuals. Greenwich Hospital is now a different place, and the way we reward those who have dedicated their lives to serving their country is now more aligned with compassion, morality, and common sense. Instead of hundreds of elderly but still active veterans wandering aimlessly around the grounds of Greenwich, and if we're being honest, sometimes drinking a bit too much in the many pubs nearby, there are only a small number of indoor pensioners, who are appropriately cared for in a place that calls itself a hospital. They are truly disabled seamen—poor, worn-out old men who need care and perhaps have no one but the nation to look after them. The blind, the forgetful, and the crippled find comfortable accommodation and attentive nursing in the national hospital. However, since there are always new applications for admission, it’s likely there will always be a few hundred in the establishment. On the first and third Thursday of each month, a board meets at Somerset House to review the applications for admission, and those approved are sent in a bus to the hospital. For the many men who, although too old to handle sails or work guns, aren’t too old to earn a living and yearn for freedom and a home life, there’s the previously mentioned allowance from the hospital's funds, allowing them to live wherever and however they choose.
“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 [pg 276]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.
"We're not sure what the average pension amount is," said a writer in the Cornhill Magazine, "But while some men might receive more than £36 10s., many will get much less and will struggle to maintain the standard of living that the Hospital provided for them. They seem to choose to leave, partly because they know that the local government is changing and that it will become a [pg 276]hospital in a more literal sense, which means they will have less freedom to come and go. However, this is just part of a larger desire for freedom among them, and anyone who has looked into their situation can understand why. The authorities at Greenwich Hospital have managed to turn a palace into a place as dreary as a prison. The men have had no entertainment aside from a poorly stocked library. They haven’t been allowed to have flower pots in their windows or host friends and visitors privately; not long ago, they were even banned from walking on the terraces. Some punishments, like being forced to wear a yellow collar or do menial cleaning work, have been harsh and poorly thought out. All these factors, combined with the strict atmosphere of the place, have created a sense of ennui and boredom in the lives of the Greenwich pensioners, which must have been obvious to any attentive visitor. The dullness inside has mostly been countered by temptations outside."
“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 [pg 277]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.
Since Queen Mary imagined Greenwich as a peaceful place for sailors to reflect on their lives, it has become a popular spot for locals seeking fun—a destination for shrimp and a center for beer. Those eccentric characters—the ‘geese’ and ‘blue-bottles’ of local slang—relaxing under the trees in the park and strolling the streets in outfits from another time, have been seen by city visitors as part of the entertainment. They’ve earned drinks and spare change for their stories, reinforcing the idea that sailors live only for alcohol and tobacco, which their fans accept as a point of pride for the British navy. It has been noted that, overall, these old sailors have led more respectable lives than we might have anticipated given the [pg 277]conditions. However, a chapter could be written about Greenwich morality and its effects on local taxes, a task no one would want to undertake alongside the naval histories of Brenton or James, but it might help readers understand the decline of an institution that has sparked imagination and made our countrymen proud.
“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 [pg 278]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.”
The breakup is ultimately something people will accept rather than celebrate. It was a noble and meaningful idea to gather under the roof of a grand building—both a home and a naval monument, located on the banks of a river that is one of our main sources of maritime strength—bringing together survivors from each generation of warriors, whether they fought against enemies or the elements. Here, the traditions of one era slowly blended with the experiences of the next; stories of Shovel were passed down to those who fought under [pg 278] Hawke; the conqueror who fought with Rodney lived to welcome the heroes of Trafalgar—not as bedridden or senile individuals, though they might have been a bit worn out—but still able to enjoy life and to bring the narratives of the past to life. All aspects of naval service were represented. One of the ‘saucy Arethusa’s’ enjoyed his pipe with an old Agamemnon, and men who first experienced battle on the Canadian lakes listened closely to the memories of those who witnessed L’Orient explode in a thunderous roar at the Nile. Greenwich Hospital will always be a significant and beneficial institution—a tremendous support, whether for the sick being cared for inside or for the retired veterans outside 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:—
Before leaving Greenwich, we definitely need to check out the Observatory, a place that has such close ties to the sea. The following account is by M. Esquiros,82 who specifically studied all our institutions related to 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.
“I came in,” he says, to a bright apartment with walls adorned with charts, engravings, photographs of the moon, and Donati’s famous comet from 1858. Mr. [now Sir George] Airy, the Astronomer Royal, is a man who has turned gray from studying the stars; his strong features reflect the constant energy of the brilliant mind that has upheld the reputation of Greenwich Observatory for over twenty-five years. On his desk, there was a stack of papers filled with calculations and a tangled mess of letters regarding countless business matters. A large iron cabinet holds all the important documents that will surely one day help illustrate the scientific history of the nineteenth century. For instance, it contains letters and authentic documents that are likely to alter certain established views on the discovery of the planet Neptune. In this cabinet, you can also find records of past mistakes and fanciful ideas, which is surprising to see resurfacing again in this enlightened era.
“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.”
It’s hard to believe that so many people in England still confuse astronomy with astrology; however, Mr. Airy has a fascinating collection—letters he’s received from all sorts of people asking about his fees for drawing a horoscope. Sometimes it’s a young man wanting to know ‘who his wife will be;’ at other times, it’s a woman about to start a big chapter in her life looking to check the stars. Occasionally, postage stamps are included with these letters, and the person consulting the oracle promises to provide the exact day and hour of their birth if needed. The truth is that many people can hardly understand how astronomers can gaze at the night sky day and night without trying to uncover the secrets of human fate. A few years ago, a well-dressed young lady showed up at the Observatory; she was worried about a relative, a sailor in the Pacific Ocean, from whom she hadn’t heard anything for several years. After a brief chat with one of the assistants, she left in tears because the stars couldn’t tell her if her loved one was 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 [pg 279]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.
On the site where Greenwich Park is now located, there used to be an ancient tower, built around 1440 by Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, who was the uncle of King Henry VI. During Elizabeth's reign, it was known as Mirefleur. In 1642, it was renamed Greenwich Castle. Sir James Moore and Sir Christopher Wren showed Charles II the location of this fortress as the ideal spot for building an observatory. As a result, the old feudal tower was demolished, and in its place, a structure was constructed for the study 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 building was barely completed when Flamsteed was appointed to it as Astronomer Royal, earning a salary of £100 a year. He led the new institution for over fifty years and invested more than £2,000 of his own money. His work will always be seen in England as the foundation of modern astronomy. He can be considered the founder of the Greenwich observatory. His successors included Halley, Bradley, Nathaniel Bliss, and Dr. Nevil Maskelyne, who wrote four volumes. Delampre said that, “if a major upheaval were to erase every scientific record except for this collection, it would provide enough material to reconstruct the science of modern astronomy.” Maskelyne was succeeded by John Pond, who died in 1835; his position is now held 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.
The Astronomer Royal is appointed by the First Lord of the Treasury and performs his duties under the authority of the great seal of state; his salary is set at £800 per year. One of his main responsibilities is to uphold the character of the Greenwich observatory as intended by the founder. Therefore, the Astronomer Royal is required by the specific terms of his commission, ‘to dedicate himself with the utmost care to correcting the tables of celestial movements and determining the positions of fixed stars, in order to provide the long-sought means of finding the longitude at sea, thus perfecting the art of navigation.’ He must also reside at the observatory and devote all his time to his duties, never being absent for long periods without prior approval from 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.
"Since he is consulted by various government sectors, he can assist the public service with his advice and information, confident that he won't be affected by changes in official power or the consequences of political conflicts. His home has a garden that’s separate from the park area, filled with fruit trees. He oversees eight assistants and typically has six clerks working with him."
“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.
It's fascinating to see these computers in their two offices: one on the ground floor beside the Astronomer Royal's study, and the other hidden away in one of the quietest spots in the observatory, all quietly working on tedious columns of numbers from morning till night.
“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, [pg 280]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.
Before explaining what Greenwich Observatory __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, it’s better to first clarify what it is __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__. It leaves the task of discovering sunspots and lunar mountains to others. The assistants' observations don’t focus on the shapes of the planets or the unusual movements of double stars that orbit each other in the vastness of space, nor do they delve into the mysteries of nebulae. What remarkable determination and true English strength of will these observers have shown by willingly ignoring some of the most incredible wonders of the sky! During John Pond's time, a twenty-foot telescope was set up at the observatory at great expense, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__ but because it attracted many visitors, he had the instrument taken down. Around 1847, Mr. Lerebours offered Greenwich Observatory the largest refracting telescope ever built. The temptation was certainly significant; it would have been flattering for the institution to own such a unique wonder. Mr. Airy only had to say the word, and the Lords of the Admiralty would have certainly made the purchase. However, the Astronomer, on the contrary, kept the offer at arm's length with firm resolve. What was he afraid of? The deceptive allure of such a siren, which, by drawing attention to the beauty of the heavens, might have distracted the assistants from their daily duties and jeopardized the Observatory's success.
“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.
We observe the sun at least once a week at noon in the transit circle room, and many staff members take part; however, it's at night that you can truly grasp how the transit of celestial bodies across the meridian is accurately confirmed.
“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.
The first observations with the new transit circle began in 1851, and they haven't stopped since. The assistant tasked with observing the heavens using this instrument works a twenty-four-hour shift, from 3 a.m. to 3 a.m. the next day. Unless there are exceptional circumstances, the same duties aren’t assigned to an assistant for two days in a row. After working several hours post-sunset, he goes home for dinner, and when he returns to the transit circle room, it's completely dark. The shutters, which block part of the ceiling during the day, are now open, allowing the entire sky to seem accessible from 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.
After checking his list and adjusting his telescope, he starts his focused observation. His concentration is like that of an athlete or even better, a hunting dog. Instead of waiting for a partridge or a woodcock, he eagerly anticipates the appearance of a star. There it is at last! It comes into view quickly and suddenly, like a meteor. As soon as it enters the telescope's field of view, it seems to zoom toward objects that look like a series of evenly spaced iron bars. In reality, these are just threads the thickness of a spider’s web, arranged in a system within the telescope and remarkably magnified by 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 [pg 281]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; [pg 282]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.’
The assistants are all professional astronomers, and they've honed their eyesight through constant practice. So, why don’t their observations always align? There’s a physiological mystery behind this, which is intriguing to investigate. Each observer, even though they use the same instrument and follow the same method, perceives a celestial event—like the transit of a star—either slightly earlier or later than another person. This difference is believed to stem from each person's unique eyesight or the speed at which their eyes send signals to their brain. It's important to clarify that these aren’t huge time differences; at most, we're talking about just a fraction of a second. However, since astronomical transit observations are so exact, even tiny errors can compromise their value. Because of this, it’s essential to create an average or standard, and each observer learns exactly how their visual perception differs from the ideal. This raises a question that might seem perplexing to outsiders but is frequently asked by astronomers themselves—‘What is the value of your personal equation?’ This question is answered with a number indicating the specific amount of deviation from the standard. The fascinating part is that one person's personal equation can vary depending on the celestial body being observed. Some people can easily perceive the phenomena of a fixed star but are much slower at noticing those of the moon, and vice versa. To prevent issues that can arise from differences in personal equations, they employ a very smart method. An eyepiece with two tubes allows two assistants to observe the same star crossing the same lines in the instrument simultaneously; [pg 282]they both listen to the clock ticking seconds and calculate their observation results separately, which are then compared. To enhance accuracy, they sometimes switch places. This way, they eliminate even the slightest chance of error. The instrument's aberrations also need to be taken into account. Despite being of high quality and securely installed in stone walls deeply anchored in the ground, it can occasionally be influenced by minor vibrations, which can only be attributed to the terra firma it’s built on. Mr. Airy has observed this same phenomenon in Cambridge, leading him to conclude ‘that the surface of the earth, commonly regarded as the base of all solidity, is itself in movement.’
“ ‘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.
“ ‘I’m going to show you the clock that sets the time for all of England,’ said the Astronomer Royal as he led me into a small room in one of the oldest parts of the building. Enclosed in a simple mahogany case, this Mother clock looks quite like those old wooden clocks you might find in traditional English manor houses. However, it's clear that the mechanism in this clock is modern and unique. Its main features are its precise timekeeping and its ability to synchronize with other clocks. That's why it's called the Mother clock, because it powers eight of its daughters in the Observatory. Its dial is divided into three circles: one for hours, another for minutes, and a third for seconds. Only one hand moves around each dial to show the standard 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.
The Observatory sends signals every hour to the telegraph office in Lothbury, in the City of London, which then uses a network of electric wires to communicate the accurate time along the rail lines to the farthest corners of Great Britain. This extensive network functions like a giant harp, spanning almost the entire surface of the British Isles, resonating in sync with one main source.
“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.’ ”
“When it comes to keeping accurate time, these telegraph wires have a dual function. The current from Greenwich sends the signal from the Observatory's clock, and what’s known as a return current then relays the errors from the other clock that the Mother just adjusted. ‘I would never try to set a clock without getting regular feedback from it,’ the Astronomer Royal said; and just as we were passing a galvanic device, ‘Stop!’ he exclaimed, ‘the great clock at Westminster is currently sending me a report; it’s running well, and is only one-twentieth of a second slow. Twice a day, it keeps me informed about its condition.’ ”
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, [pg 283]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.
Below Greenwich one of the saddest disasters of the century happened in 1879, which has its lessons for everyone who travels by sea. We're talking about the loss of the Princess Alice. A pleasure steamer, one of the largest and best known from the London Steam-packet Company, carrying around 700 joyful passengers, many of whom were children, left London Bridge on the morning of Tuesday, September 3rd, 1878, heading for Gravesend and Sheerness. Everything, even the unpredictable weather, [pg 283]came together to make the day one of genuine and innocent fun. How true it is that danger is often closest when we think it’s far away. It was eight o’clock in the evening when the Princess Alice came into view near Woolwich Arsenal, filled with cheerful passengers. The songs that play when work ends, the carefree laughter, and friendly teasing were circulating; eager eyes watched the faint lights of home flickering through the purple September twilight, and no secret worry about danger disrupted the joy of the day, when a large steam collier, the *Bywell Castle*, emerged from the shadows.
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.
Those who were the least afraid and had the most experience were the first to notice the danger—the kind of danger that no human skill or cleverness could prevent. The *Princess Alice*, moving quickly, had built up speed, and combined with the opposing tide and the tight space, it overwhelmed the best efforts of the commanders of both ships, leading to the collision. There was no time to think—no time to act; there was a horrible cracking and tearing, during which it seemed that the Bywell Castle would completely crush the doomed pleasure boat, and in that terrifying and awe-inspiring moment, the frightened eyes witnessed their fate, and the joyful heart fell silent in horror. Just five minutes after the ships collided, all that was left of the Princess Alice was resting 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.
Except for the few who climbed onto the *Bywell Castle*, and the even fewer who managed to swim to shore, everyone else was thrown into the dark and foul river, or swept away in the cabins and saloon of the submerged wreck. This was tragically confirmed when the wreck was brought to the surface! The unfortunate passengers were discovered huddled together at the foot of the stairways, unable to move a hand or foot, gasping for air, suffocated where they stood.
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 [pg 285]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.
Collisions between iron ships have been so painfully frequent in recent years that it’s impossible to predict what the future consequences of this widespread loss of life may be. However, it’s doubtful that any previous accident ever matched in its horrifying results the sinking of the Princess Alice. Aside from the fatal incident involving the Grosser Kurfürst, the crashing of the Northfleet off Dungeness by the Spanish steamer Murillo comes next in horror to the splitting in two of the Princess Alice. This terrible event, along with the callous behavior of the captain of the Spanish steamer, will make the night of January 22, 1873, memorable in the dark history of the sea; 293 people went down with that ill-fated passenger ship. A tragic case was that of the Lady Elgin, which was hit by a schooner on Lake Michigan on September 8, 1860. The Lady Elgin was an excursion steamer with 400 people on board; she sank within fifteen minutes of the collision, resulting in the loss of 287 lives. Then, again, in 1854, during this fateful month of September, on the 27th, the Arctic, a ship from the Collins line, collided with the screw steamer Vesta in a fog. This time, the tragic disaster occurred off the coast of Newfoundland; out of a total of 368 people, 323 were lost, including the Duc de Grammont and the Duc de Guynes. In the same year, we must also record the loss of the Glasgow, which had 480 people on board, as well as the Lady Nugent, a British transport carrying reinforcements for the army in Rangoon; the total loss in this instance was 400. Neither of these ships was ever heard from again after leaving port, facing a fate as terrible and mysterious as that [pg 285]which struck the Boston and the Pacific, the former having departed Liverpool on January 23, 1856, with 186 people on board; while the City of Boston had 191 people on board when she set sail from Halifax, N.S., on January 26, 1870. Who among us does not remember that grim day when news reached England about the capsizing of the Captain off Cape Finisterre on September 7, 1870, with Captain Burgoyne and a crew of 500 total, marking the greatest disaster yet to strike 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.
The army, however, faced a nearly as shocking tragedy with the sinking of the Birkenhead off the Cape of Good Hope, where a group made up of the 12th Lancers, 23rd, and 92nd Foot contributed to the 438 lives lost that day, February 26, 1852. The greatest horrors were not just caused by the rough elements and sometimes merciless sea, but also by an unstoppable enemy—fire. The most heartbreaking recorded incident of these maritime fires was the one that consumed the S.S. Austria on its journey from Hamburg to New York, U.S., on September 23, 1858. This fire resulted in the deaths of 461 out of 528 passengers and crew, either burned alive or drowned; the exact number who suffered the more horrific fate of burning may never be known, and it's best not to dwell on such a painful topic. Looking back even further, we find the record of the burning of the Ocean Monarch in Abergele Bay on August 24, 1848, which resulted in 178 fatalities. Then there's the S.S. London, which sank in the Bay of Biscay on January 11, 1866, taking 239 out of a total of 258 to a watery grave. The wrecks of the Atlantic and the Royal Charter stand out in the tragic list: the latter, an Australian clipper ship, was wrecked on the coast of Anglesea on October 26, 1859, and while around forty people managed to reach shore, 459 men, women, and children were added to the ocean’s grave. The Atlantic, part of the White Star Line, hit a hidden rock off Nova Scotia on April 1, 1873, resulting in 481 of the 931 passengers perishing. The Annie Jane from Liverpool increased the death toll by 393 when it was driven ashore at Barra Island, one of the Hebrides, on September 29, 1853; while the Pomona, another immigrant ship, ran aground on the Wexford coast due to a miscalculation on April 28, 1859, resulting in 386 deaths. This sorrowful list only highlights the more notable tragedies that occurred over 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 [pg 286]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.”
Although the main visible sign of the Seamen’s Hospital Society is no longer on the Thames, many of our readers remember the old Dreadnought well. It was the largest floating hospital in the world, and no other ship had such a diverse crew among its 200 patients. Dysentery, scurvy, various liver diseases, and typhoid were just some of the medical conditions treated on board. It’s likely that Budd gained much of his experience with enteric fever from this ship, which annually received sixty to seventy cases of the disease. The surgical practice was equally valuable, and we believe the first resection (specifically of the shoulder) in London was done by Busk on the Dreadnought. Many men, now teaching in our schools, acquired useful knowledge here and learned how to do small tasks well, which is important in surgery. Despite the usual dangers of navigating the water, including strong currents, crowded waterways, ice, etc., no one involved directly or indirectly with the ship [pg 286]was ever drowned during the fifty years it and its predecessors were moored off Greenwich. The late Dr. Rooke, one of the best and kindest officers of the Dreadnought's crew, bravely earned the Humane Society’s medal for saving a boy who fell off a nearby barge; three patients jumped overboard during delirium at different times, but all were rescued and fully recovered. There were social gatherings from time to time in the cozy corner of the admiral’s cabin, which was used as a mess room by the medical staff. The Dreadnought endured many hits from the outside and was seriously collided with on several occasions. But the old ship held strong, and the bargemen missed it, often using it as a cushion to bounce off to the opposite shore. It’s clear that the managing committee of the Seamen’s Hospital Society made a wise choice in relocating their patients to a shore-based facility, so we can’t say it’s entirely regretful, although it’s true, "All things considered, we won't see anyone like her 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.
Of all the hospitals, none is as fascinating as a sailor’s, and the one at Greenwich, which is the old Dreadnought floating hospital, is especially compelling. It's here that Jack on shore is seen at his best, and his best is pretty impressive overall, particularly when all his good traits come out while he settles down to enjoy the calm of autumn in his life, which usually starts in the hospital. Not only are there sailors from every corner of the world and every belief, but one ward also houses a few old naval pensioners. In this ward, the first thing that catches your eye, prominently displayed above the fireplace, is Dibdin’s simple line about the “Sweet little cherub sitting up high.” Every resident of this ward has an intriguing story of personal experiences from the Battle and the Breeze. One old guy is both blind and deaf, yet he remains happy and content under the compassionate care of an elderly cherub, who has navigated through three-quarters of a century of life's unpredictable journey. Why the blind sailor is called "the nightingale" hasn't been clearly explained, but it remains true and might refer to his impressive singing ability. His shipmate has seen enough battles to fill a book, while another, an octogenarian marine, proudly talks about his role in the Chesapeake incident, which was defeated and captured 13 minutes after the first shot was fired by the battle-worn 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.
"You know," he often says, as he straightens up, "By my military look, you can see I'm not just a regular sailor, even though I’ve been on as many raiding missions as anyone else. I’ve had grapeshot and canister whizzing past me like hail, probably just as often as I remember feeling real hail. But what I remember most is when the king—God bless him!—sent out thirty barrels of porter, so that I and the rest of us could toast to his majesty's health; that was during the war with America, and those were some great times." a bit of personal opinion that no one would dare to argue about here. Next, we come to another pensioner, who sits by the fire cradling his frail knees, and who is in the last year of his ninth decade. He tells you about his role in 1805, when two French frigates were captured, and a spark of excitement returns as he talks about it; because it was a fight that lasted three days and nights before we finally claimed victory.
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, [pg 287]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
Take the wards in bulk, and we see the delicate pale skin and long black hair of the Greek, who every British commander estimates to have about seventy-five percent less hauling power and endurance than the English sailor, while the South Sea Islander, the Scandinavian, the dark-skinned Turk, Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, Spaniards, [pg 287]Americans, and Chinese are all here side by side with the tough lads from our own islands. In one corridor, there’s even a Fantee, marked by his tribal tattoos on his dark forehead, but without feet, having lost them to frostbite in the Black Sea. Another painful case is a poor guy who got shipwrecked off Cape Horn; after drifting for fourteen days in an open boat, he reached shore only to discover he had to trade his legs for his life. The surgeon was an untrained sailor, and the tool was a rough ship’s knife he used to successfully perform the risky operation, but the agony he endured can only be imagined. He seems cheerful now as he gets around on his stumps, full of dry humor and as happy as any able-bodied man could be. The light tasks assigned to these disabled sailors are varied and match their different interests, and they mainly involve decorating the hospital wards. Among the many decorations are a beautiful white wreath with “Albert the Great” on it, and Nelson’s famous last signal. One German sailor has completely decorated one ward with an astonishing level of taste and elegance. This boy is a true original, considering he went all the way to Jerusalem to learn English! "In Hamburg, his hometown, he overheard other boys and occasionally travelers talking about a good school there that taught English. Seizing the opportunity, he worked his way from Hamburg to Alexandria, sailed to Jaffa, and convinced the German Consul to send him to the Holy City." Clearly, he didn’t think there was anything unusual about this unique way of learning 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.
The Thames Church Mission is a society created to serve the spiritual needs of the large, changing population along the Thames, which includes seamen, barge workers, steamboat crews, fishermen, etc. Services are conducted on troop, emigrant, and passenger ships, screw colliers, and all types of vessels; also in the mission and reading room that has been set up for seamen, etc., by the riverbank at Bugsby, near East Greenwich. Bibles, Testaments, and Prayer-books are sold at discounted prices, and tracts are handed out. A chaplain (licensed by the Bishop of London to visit and conduct services on all ships and vessels on the Thames), four missionaries, and five seamen colporteurs make up the missionary team. The Mission handles the sale of Scriptures to both English and foreign seamen and gives Testaments to emigrants on behalf of the British and Foreign Bible Society; it puts packets of tracts on emigrant ships and distributes the cards and flyers of the Sailor’s Home among seamen arriving in the Thames. The area of operation stretches from London Bridge to the anchorages below Gravesend. The chaplain also leads Sabbath services on the training ships Arethusa, Chichester, and Cornwall, and conducts weekly classes with the boys; the missionaries additionally serve as honorary agents for enrolling members of the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society. There are many other great institutions for the benefit of seamen, from London city to Gravesend town, but they cannot be detailed within the space we have.
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. [pg 288]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.
Every reader recognizes the Trinity House, but they might not realize how important it is for sailors, travelers, and trade. The Trinity House, located on Tower Hill, was built in the late 18th century by Samuel Wyatt. It follows the Ionic architectural style and features several busts of naval heroes, whose achievements, like them, belong to history. [pg 288]Among its numerous fascinating paintings is a very large Gainsborough that depicts the Trinity Board from that time. This painting, by the way, is over twenty feet long, and if size indicates quality, it must be a truly significant artwork. The Trinity House Board oversees the beacon and pilot services in the United Kingdom. The Corporation existed for more than a hundred years before its original charter was granted in 1514. It was then simply known as the "Shipmen and Mariners of England"—a voluntary and influential association that protected maritime interests and provided significant assistance to elderly and needy members of the seafaring community.
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 [pg 289]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:—
Henry VIII was the first king to grant it a Royal Charter in 1514, acknowledging its proven worth. In this charter, it is referred to as the "Guild or Fraternity of the most glorious and indivisible Trinity of St. Clement." The Charter of James I and all later charters are issued 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 Kent.” The motto of the Corporation is Unity in the Trinity. The Elder Brethren of Trinity House aren't always free from taking on tough and unpleasant jobs at sea, as demonstrated during the harsh time of the mutiny at the Nore in 1799, when they destroyed or relocated every beacon and buoy that could lead the mutinous [pg 289]fleet out to sea. Its ultimate acknowledgment came through an Act of Parliament in 1836. The honorary members of this Court are distinguished individuals, including some members of the Royal Family. H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh became its Master in 1866. The duties of the Corporation are outlined 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.”
"To handle and complete all matters related to the science and practice of maritime affairs; to ensure all lighthouses, floating lights, and fog signal stations along the coast of England are in great working order, and to set up, maintain, renew, and adjust all buoys, beacons, and sea signals; to manage the supply of materials, hire keepers, and regularly check the stations; to review and license pilots for a large portion of our coastlines, and to generally look into all issues related to pilotage; to act as nautical advisors to the judge of the High Court of Admiralty; to survey and inspect the channels of the Thames and the shoals of the North Sea, along with other coastal areas where changes in sand from shifting, scouring, growth, or erosion could affect navigation and need to be monitored and reported; to provide shipping in the Thames with ballast. The Elder Brethren also have 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.
The light vessels of the Corporation number almost fifty, and there are over eighty lighthouses. We shouldn't forget the buoys along our coasts. It's hard to estimate how many are in place, and additionally, in case of emergencies, we need to keep in reserve at least half of those in position. There are also around sixty beacons of various types. The staff at Trinity House includes district superintendents, buoy keepers, storekeepers, local agents, lighthouse keepers, crews of floating lights, watchmen, fog signal attendants, crews of steam and sailing vessels, bringing the total to nearly a thousand men.
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.
In 1837, the Duke of Wellington was the Master of Trinity House; in 1852, Prince Albert held that position, and Viscount Palmerston took over in 1862. Then came the Duke of Edinburgh in 1866, as already mentioned, while the Prince of Wales topped the list of a long line of Brethren, not to mention the many dukes and earls who have proudly accepted the same honor. The Trinity House Corporation has successfully faced several thorough Parliamentary investigations, only to emerge with flying colors, which has boosted the general trust placed in it.
CHAPTER 26.
What Poets Have Celebrated about 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.
The Poet of the Sea remains Unfulfilled—Biblical References—Classical Authors—Missing a True Connection with the Topic—Virgil’s “Æneid”—His Stage Storms—The Immortal Bard—His Close Familiarity with the Sea and the Sailor—The Golden Age of Maritime Exploration—The Storm—Miranda’s Kindness—Mischiefs of the “Airy Spirit”The Merchant of Venice—Piracy in Shakespeare's Time—A Birth at Sea—CymbelineThe Queen's Description of Our Island—Byron's “Ocean”—Falconer's “Shipwreck”—His Expertise—The “True Ring”The Dibdins“Tom Bowling”Understood. Please provide the short piece of text you would like me to modernize.“The Boatmen of the Downs”—Three Touching Poems—Mrs. Hemans, Longfellow, and Kingsley—Browning’s “Hervé Riel”—The True Breton Pilot—A Fresh Start—Hood’s "Demon Ship"—Current Hits—Conclusion.
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.
The sea, the sailor, and the ship have been popular topics for poets, but countries, lands, and the people who live in them have been their main focus. However, no great writer has truly identified with the ocean as its unique poet. There are likely reasons for this. Poets typically have a sensitive nature and are more often found observing Nature along a calm shore rather than out on the rough sea. They might tend to be reclusive, known only to a few; and if they are social and enjoy being around people in busy places, they still tend to avoid the roughness that often comes with sailors. The modern ease of travel may eventually help create a true poet of the sea. For now, that role remains unfilled.
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:—
In the old days, though, the poet prophets, David, the sweet singer of Israel, and a couple of writers in the New Testament, offered insights into the ocean that showed they were familiar with the topic. There’s nothing quite like the Psalmist’s vision of a sailor’s life and its dangers in the lines that begin:—
“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
"Those who go out to sea in ships, trading in the open ocean;
“These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.”
"They see the Lord's works and his wonders in the depths."
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—
The prophet Jeremiah paints a vivid yet sad picture of the ocean's turmoil when he says: "There is sadness on the sea, it can’t be still;" and the serious poets have followed his lead. Milton describes one—
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.”
Michelet defines its “multiple voices,” its murmur and its threat, its thunder and its roar, its wail, its sigh, its “amazing duets with the rocks.”
The classical writers of antiquity had little sympathy with the sea. We have seen [pg 291]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—
The classical writers of ancient times didn't have much appreciation for the sea. We have seen [pg 291]Horace’s view of the courage of the person who first ventured out in a fragile boat on the unforgiving ocean; and, as Dryden points out, there was good reason for a widespread fear of the sea, especially among those who lived on land—
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.
Virgil’s "Aeneid" is basically a sea poem, but a sharp critic believes that In literature, the sea suffers due to Virgil's handling of it. The poem, as everyone knows, begins with a dramatic sea scene. In the very first glimpse we get of the hero and his crew, they’re slicing through the churning water with their ships, and the first event is a shipwreck. The description has a powerful intensity; it creates a sense of extraordinary chaos, which is exactly what Virgil intended, but it’s expressed through a combination of all types of violence. Winds, waves, lightning, thunder, reefs, shallows, and whirlpools all come together. The only disaster element missing is a crash between the ships, which would definitely happen in such a crowded fleet during a real storm. Such a tempest now rages in a theater across the river, and nowhere else in the world; it takes Neptune himself to calm it in the ‘Æneid.’86 And yet Virgil lived for a long time by the beautiful Bay of Naples; and the famous ode by Horace, wishing for fair weather, shows that he had at least made one journey.
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.
If a poet truly feels for his subject, even the simplest words he uses can tell a story. What words does Virgil use? They are pretty ordinary. Words like boundless, mighty, swelling, windy, faithless, deep, dark, blue, azure, vast, foaming, salty, and so on are fine, but they don’t hold up against many of Shakespeare’s and later poets'. Consider three of Shakespeare’s: the “fluffy” waves, the “countless” sea, and the “wasteful” ocean. These words are themselves excellent 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.
The works of our immortal bard are filled with references to the sea and show a deep understanding of it. Perhaps Shakespeare’s knowledge here is less surprising than in some other areas, because even though we have no evidence that he ever left the shores of old England and we’re quite sure he never traveled far, it was a golden time in the history of maritime exploration. The reign of the Virgin Queen, during most of which he thrived, included the defeat of the Armada and many other victories in the Spanish colonies. It was the era of naval heroes like Howard of Effingham, Drake, Hawkins, Raleigh, and Frobisher. This period saw the first English voyage around the world, the discovery of Virginia—not to mention Virginia’s tobacco and potatoes—the establishment of a profitable whale fishery, the shameful slave trade, the beginning of the long-standing East India Company monopoly, and many other advancements in commercial success.
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 [pg 292]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—
Appropriately, then, the Shakespeare play that focuses on the sea more than any other is usually listed at the start of the series in the [pg 292]published editions. The Storm opens with a storm “on a ship at sea.” The intensity of the gale rises, and the ship is almost wrecked. “We split! We split! We split!” calls out the honest old Neapolitan councillor, Gonzalo, adding—
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”:—
But neither he nor his master, the king, dies in the shipwreck, because the kind and gentle Miranda pleads with her father. Prospero reassures her, even though Ariel had been playing a lot of tricks on the unsuspecting sailors, scaring them out of their minds with lightning, thunder, and "burning roar,". All but the sailors had “jumped into the choppy water and left the boat”:—
Sings the “airy spirit,” adding, however—
Sings the “airy spirit,” but adds, however—
And so with the kindly spirit and the rightful Duke we may leave the tempest-tossed mariners.
And so, with the kind-hearted spirit and the rightful Duke, we can leave the storm-tossed sailors.
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:—
In the *Merchant of Venice*, we see great examples of the challenges and worries faced by a merchant shipowner of the time. Antonio feels down. “Your thoughts,” says Salarino, "is drifting on the ocean." Antonio’s friends go on:—
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
So Shylock, even though he's willing to lend three thousand ducats to Bassanio based on Antonio’s guarantee, is worried that the ships headed to Tripolis, the Indies, Mexico, and England might run into trouble. Because "Ships are just floating platforms, sailors are just individuals; there are land-dwellers and water-dwellers, land-robbers and water-robbers—I mean pirates; and then there's the threat of water, wind, and rocks." Shortly after, it was reported on the Rialto that Antonio had “A ship carrying valuable cargo crashed in the narrow seas; I believe it was the Goodwins.” says his friend, "That's what they call the place—a really dangerous and deadly area where the wreckage of many great ships is hidden." and then it was followed by the news that none of his ships had made it.
All, however, ends happily, and the argosies, richly laden, arrive in safety.
All ends well, and the ships, loaded with treasures, arrive safely.
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
Piracy on the open seas during Shakespeare’s time can be categorized into two types: one that was almost legal for the purpose of retaliating against foreign enemies, and the other for personal gain through stealing. The extent of its prevalence can be understood from the passages listed 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—
In Measure for Measure, we see the lifestyle of a thief mocked in the line: “like the two-faced pirate who sailed the seas with the Ten Commandments but deleted one from the list”—that one being, of course, "Don't steal." Their reckless way of living is vividly described by Richard Plantagenet in the Second Part of King Henry VI., where he says—
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
while Suffolk dies by pirates later on. In the same historical play King Henry again describes his situation, troubled by the rebel Jack Cade and the bothersome Duke of York, as
Queen Margaret in Richard III. addresses three noble lords as
Queen Margaret in Richard III. talks to three noble lords as
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.
In Pericles, Shakespeare presents the familiar scene of a birth at sea during a terrible storm. The mother seems to die right after giving birth and is later placed in a chest and thrown into the sea, only to come back to life when washed ashore.
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—
And for our final Shakespearian quote, in Cymbeline we get a great description of our little island and how strong it is. “Don't forget,” says the Queen—
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?—
Next to Shakespeare in deep understanding and ability to portray, Byron deserves a spot. What could be more impressive than his famous tribute to the Ocean?—
WITHOUT A GRAVE, UNKNEELED, 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:—
The poet par excellence of the sea, partly due to the literary quality of his work, but more because of his technical expertise, was William Falconer, the author of "The Shipwreck" who is simply referred to as “a sailor” on the title pages of all the older editions. His poem, which consists of three cantos, was based on real events from a shipwreck in which he and only a couple of the crew survived. Again, in 1769, he boarded the Aurora frigate for a journey to the East Indies, but once the ship left the Cape of Good Hope, no information was ever received about it, and it is believed to have sunk with everyone on board, including the poet. Falconer, though a follower of the Muse, wrote a political satire called “The Demagogue” while his Marine Dictionary, in its revised form, is recognized as an authoritative source today. The poem that solidified his reputation is notable for its complete accuracy in detail. For instance, consider the following passage, which could not have been penned by a landsman-poet:—
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.
And so on. The truth is that most readers of Falconer’s poem need his "Marine Dictionary" nearby, or some experienced "salt" to help explain the many nautical terms that keep coming up.
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 Dibdins91 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”—
It’s not surprising that so many of our poets have written about the sea, with only a few completely ignoring this grand theme, especially when we think about England’s key role and interests in it. Many have created works that evoke the salty ocean as we read, while only a few have written in a way that feels forced and lack genuine emotion for their subject. Much of what the Dibdins wrote for concerts, theaters, and to some extent for sailors themselves is trivial, focusing too much on things like alcohol and romance, sometimes crossing into the crude and inappropriate. However, among their works are songs that resonate, ballads that will endure as long as our language exists or Britain “rules the waves.” Notable examples include 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, most importantly, the powerful portrayal of a true sailor, “Tom Bowling”—
Eliza Cook92 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.”
Eliza Cook92 has followed the same theme in her "Brave English Sailor," and has also given a fitting tribute to those tough sons of the sea, “The 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—
Perhaps no modern verses are more popular among all true poetry lovers than the “Casabianca” by Mrs. Hemans, Longfellow’s "Wreck of the Hesperus," and Kingsley’s “Three Fishers” and it’s no surprise, as they resonate with everyone, while vividly depicting the dangers of a life at sea. In the tale of the “burning deck”, we have the account of a true sailor boy who refused to abandon his "solitary grave marker." And—
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:—
In the second poem, the captain has brought his young daughter to "keep him company." A hurricane begins to brew, and it's the scared child who alone hears the "fog-bell on a rock-bound coast." She runs to her father:—
The ship drifts into the breakers and on the cruel rocks.
The ship floats into the waves and onto the harsh rocks.
A FISHERMAN STOOD IN SHOCK.”
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.”
In Kingsley’s poem, “Three fishermen set sail to the West,” thinking of their beloved home; "Three wives sat crying in the lighthouse tower."
No more splendid tribute has ever been paid to a neglected hero than that which appeared in the pages of a popular monthly93 some years since, over the honoured signature of Robert Browning.
No greater tribute has ever been given to a forgotten hero than what was published in a popular monthly93 a few years ago, under the esteemed name 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.
The year 1692 was especially disastrous for France, and a fleet of twenty-two vessels was being hotly pursued by the English. The squadron came rushing in, "like a group of scared porpoises" with sharks after them, to St. Malo on the Rance. The pilots on board laughed at the idea of their large ships entering the rocky passage; and Damfreville, the fleet's admiral, was seriously considering blowing up or burning all his ships when a poor coasting-pilot stepped forward in front of all the assembled officers.
“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.
"Are you insane, you Malouins? Are you afraid, foolish, or just lying?" he said, as he quickly and passionately promised the admiral that he knew every rock and shallow area and could safely guide the fleet in.
So all are saved, and the crews see longingly the green heights above Grève, all bursting out, with one accord—
So everyone is saved, and the crews gaze longingly at the green heights above Grève, all breaking out, in unison—
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—
Turn now to a “new exit” in sea poetry, partially started by the Dibdins, continued by Tom Hood the elder, and recently featuring William Schwenck Gilbert as its main voice. It's often as rich in nature as the serious works of other poets, yet it leans towards the humorous and satirical side. Hood’s “Demon Ship” is a good example—
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—
After struggling with the water and feeling half-conscious, he finally finds himself safely on a strange ship; a terrifying face lingers in his mind—black, grimly black, completely black, except for the grinning teeth. The soot-covered crew resembled their captain. "Where am I? What awful ship is this?" he cried in terrified agony. The response was a laugh that echoed from one end to the other, coming from the shadowy figures that moved around. They laughed and grinned, choking back their amusement—
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 shift from the powerful and dramatic description of the waves and surf to the absurd resolution is both irresistibly and artistically funny. Hood’s purely entertaining works are more widely recognized than this one. For instance, take “Faithless Sally Brown” the girl who quickly forgets her first love, Ben, is created in a style reminiscent of Dibdin, but the humor is much more subtle.
The popularity of a class of sea-songs which can now be heard from the streets to [pg 304]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.
The popularity of a genre of sea songs that can now be heard from the streets to [pg 304]the living room, and from the forecastle to the wardroom, reflects well on our time. Some of these songs, which combine noble sentiments conveyed through simple and heartfelt lyrics with effective and artistic music, help to keep humanity, love, and honor alive in the younger generation. “The poor old slave is now free.” as soon as he steps onto the British ship; "The sailor's wife should be the sailor's star." and usually is; while the tale of the poor little wounded midshipmite is just as moving as the story of the boy who wouldn’t 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.”
Our journeys are over; now we can relax by the cozy fireside and read about the heroic actions and shocking dangers of a sailor's life as they bring us the necessities and comforts we need every day. While we enjoy our comfort at home, let’s not forget this brave group of "drafted soldiers, fighting our battles for us;" and when storms rage and lightning strikes, let’s offer our sincere prayers “for those at sea.”
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 [“ ”].
The names of ships in the British Navy are italicized. The names of merchant ships and foreign vessels are put in quotation marks [“ ”].
| Acephala, iv. 128 | |||||||||||
| Actinozoa, iv. 115 | |||||||||||
| Agalma rubra, iv. 118, 120 | |||||||||||
| Agassiz, Prof.: on the sea-serpent, iv. 187, 189 | |||||||||||
| Airy, Prof. Sir G. B.: the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 278–282 | |||||||||||
| "USA," Pacific steam-ship, iv. 38 | |||||||||||
| American Arctic expeditions. (View Grinnell, H.) | |||||||||||
| American railways, iv. 15–20 | |||||||||||
| Ammonites, iv. 143 | |||||||||||
| Amroth, submerged forest at, iv. 199 | |||||||||||
Amusements: on board ships, iv. 33, 34;
|
|||||||||||
| Anderson, captain of the “Great Eastern:” laying the submarine telegraph cable, iv. 108, 110 | |||||||||||
| Anemones: sea-anemones, iv. 123, 125 | |||||||||||
| Aquaria, their early and recent history, iv. 114 | |||||||||||
| Arcachon, Bay of, its oyster-beds, iv. 137 | |||||||||||
| Argonauta, paper nautilus, iv. 150 | |||||||||||
| “Arizona,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3 | |||||||||||
| "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;
|
|||||||||||
| 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 | |||||||||||
| Bathing: Nautilus Safety Bathing Dress, iv. 262 | |||||||||||
| Bathing: warm or tepid baths a medium for learning to swim (See Swimming.) | |||||||||||
Beachey Head, iv.
231;
|
|||||||||||
| Belemnites, iv. 143 | |||||||||||
| Belvedere, Kent: home for disabled and worn-out merchant seamen, iv. 273 | |||||||||||
| Biblical allusions to the Sea, iv. 290 | |||||||||||
| Bladder-wrack, iv. 201 | |||||||||||
| Boat, ancient, found at New Stoke, iv. 230 | |||||||||||
| Bonita, a tropical fish, iv. 176 | |||||||||||
| Botallack Mine, Cornwall, iv. 207, 209 | |||||||||||
| Botany, Marine. (See Challenger, Cruise of the.) | |||||||||||
| Boyton, Captain Paul: his floating dress, iv. 261 | |||||||||||
Brassey, Mrs.: Yokohama, iv. 40;
|
|||||||||||
| Brighton, iv. 229, 232 | |||||||||||
| Brighton Aquarium, iv. 114 | |||||||||||
| “Britain”: Dickens’s first trip to America, iv. 5 | |||||||||||
| “Buenos Aires,” steel steam-ship, iv. 3 | |||||||||||
| Buxton, Sir Thomas Fowell: his heroism in saving life, iv. 267 | |||||||||||
| "Bywell Castle": collision with the "Princess Alice," iv. 284 |
| “Calais-Dover,” iv. 6 | |||||||||
| Carlisle, A. D., B.A.: “Around the World in 1870,” iv. 29, 31 | |||||||||
| Carrageen: or Irish moss, iv. 202 | |||||||||
| Caverns of the sea-shore, iv. 195, 200 | |||||||||
| Cephalopoda, iv. 139, 142 | |||||||||
| Cerberus, monitor, at Sydney, iv. 54 | |||||||||
| Chard, Joseph: his exertions in saving life from shipwrecks, iv. 248 | |||||||||
Chicago, iv. 15;
|
|||||||||
| “Chimborazo” in a gale, iv. 13 | |||||||||
China: Hong Kong, iv.
43;
|
|||||||||
China in a cyclone in the
Pacific, iv. 39;
|
|||||||||
| “China,” steam ship, iv. 31 | |||||||||
| Chinese obstructions to foreign travel, iv. 5 | |||||||||
| Chinese waiters on board ship, iv. 38 | |||||||||
| Chinese Merchants’ Steam-ship Company, iv. 31 | |||||||||
| "Berlin City," Atlantic steamer, iv. 3 | |||||||||
| "Brussels City," Atlantic steamer, iv. 3 | |||||||||
| “City of Richmond,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3 | |||||||||
| Cleodora, a univalve shell, iv. 145 | |||||||||
| Clocks: The "Mom Clock" at the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 282 | |||||||||
| Coast-guardsmen and their cottages, iv. 232, 234 | |||||||||
| Cockles, iv. 204, 205 | |||||||||
| 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 | |||||||||
Collins, Wilkie: the pilchard fishery, iv. 173;
|
|||||||||
| Collodon, Dr., on the diving-bell, iv. 83 | |||||||||
| Colorado: newspapers at George Town and Central City, iv. 27 | |||||||||
| Concerts on board ship, iv. 35 | |||||||||
| Conus, a univalve shell, iv. 141 | |||||||||
| Cook, Eliza, her verses on the Sea, iv. 299 | |||||||||
| Coral-islands and coral-fishing, iv. 72, 73 | |||||||||
| Coralline, iv. 201 | |||||||||
| “Coupland” wrecked at Scarborough, iv. 254 | |||||||||
| Cowries, iv. 140, 141 | |||||||||
| Crabs, iv. 129, 151, 154 | |||||||||
| Crayfish, iv. 158 | |||||||||
| Cricket-match on board ship, iv. 33 | |||||||||
| Crustaceans, iv. 150 | |||||||||
| Crystal Palace Aquarium, iv. 114 | |||||||||
| Daedalus: Captain McQuhæ’s account of the sea-serpent, iv. 186 | |||
| Dancing on board ship, iv. 34 | |||
| Danites at Utah and Salt Lake City, iv. 25 | |||
| 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 | |||
Darwin: on coral reefs, iv. 74, 76;
|
|||
| Davy, Sir Humphry: fecundity of the salmon, iv. 164 | |||
| Davy Jones’s Locker and its Treasures: pearls, corals, sponges, diving, iv. 66–90 | |||
| “Grateful Dead fans” on American railways, iv. 26 | |||
Deal, iv. 242;
|
|||
| Devil-fish, iv. 146 | |||
| Devil’s Frying-pan, Cornwall, iv. 225 | |||
| Devonshire coast scenery, iv. 199 | |||
| Dibdin, Charles, and his two sons; their sea-songs, iv. 298 | |||
| Dickens, Charles: his first trip to America, iv. 3–12 | |||
| 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.
|
|||
| Dog-fish, iv. 162, 164, 262 | |||
| Dover, iv. 239, 240 | |||
| Drowning. (See Swimming.) | |||
| Dunmore, Lord: life saved by him from shipwreck, iv. 243 | |||
| D’Urville, Dumont: Trepang fishery at Raffles’ Bay, iv. 127 | |||
| Eastbourne, iv. 235 | |
| Echinoderms, iv. 126 | |
| Ekenhead, Lieutenant: his swim with Byron across the Hellespont, iv. 257 | |
| Eurydice training-ship: lost off the Isle of Wight, iv. 227, 228 |
Falconer, James; his poem "The Shipwreck," iv.
297;
|
||||
Falmouth: its history, iv. 222;
|
||||
| Fat: its influence on longevity, iv. 168 | ||||
| Field, Cyrus W.: his promotion of submarine telegraphy, iv. 98–100 | ||||
| Fiji Islands, iv. 47 | ||||
| Filey, iv. 252 | ||||
| Fins of fish as organs of locomotion, iv. 159 | ||||
| Fish-life: voices of fish; Do fish sleep? iv. 178 | ||||
| Fish, Anatomy of, iv. 159 | ||||
| Fish-bladder, iv. 159 | ||||
| Fisheries of Cornwall, iv. 215, 216 | ||||
| Flamborough Head, iv. 251 | ||||
| Floating light-ships, iv. 244 | ||||
| Fog-horns, or Siren signals, iv. 280 | ||||
| Foraminifera, iv. 111 | ||||
| Forest, Submerged, iv. 199 | ||||
| “Forfarshire” Wreck of the, iv. 64 | ||||
| Fusaro, Lake: its oysters, iv. 136 |
| “Gaul,” Atlantic steamer, iv. 3 | |||||||||||||||||
| Gann, John: his diving apparatus, iv. 87 | |||||||||||||||||
| Gasparin, Madame de; her reminiscences of a thunderstorm, iv. 193 | |||||||||||||||||
| Gasteropoda, iv. 139 | |||||||||||||||||
| Gilbert, W. S.: his operettas, iv. 303 | |||||||||||||||||
| Girvan, Private, a diver: his submarine combat with Corporal Jones, iv. 88 | |||||||||||||||||
| Globe-fish, iv. 162, 164 | |||||||||||||||||
| Golden State and City. (Check it out California, San Francisco.) | |||||||||||||||||
Gosse, P. H.: growth of echinoderms, iv. 126;
|
|||||||||||||||||
| Great American Desert, iv. 22 | |||||||||||||||||
| “Great Elector,” Loss of the, iv. 238 | |||||||||||||||||
| Guillemard’s "Across Land and Sea": Honolulu, Fiji, iv. 47 | |||||||||||||||||
| Gulf Stream, iv. 91 | |||||||||||||||||
| Gulf Stream light-vessel on the Goodwin Sands, iv. 245 | |||||||||||||||||
| Guns: gunnery of war-ships. (Check it out Artillery) | |||||||||||||||||
| Haddock: “Finnan haddies”; fishing in Scotland, iv. 175 | |||||||||
| Halibut, or Holibut, iv. 175 | |||||||||
| Halley’s diving-bell, iv. 81 | |||||||||
| Hammerhead, iv. 162 | |||||||||
| Harpa, a univalve shell, iv. 145 | |||||||||
| Harris, Corporal: his diving exploits, iv. 87 | |||||||||
| Harwich, iv. 247, 248 | |||||||||
Hastings, iv. 236;
|
|||||||||
| Hawaian Islands. (See Sandwich Islands.) | |||||||||
| Henry Grace of God. (See Great Harry.) | |||||||||
| Hermit crab, iv. 154, 156 | |||||||||
| Hero of the Humber, John Ellerthorpe, iv. 267 | |||||||||
Herrings and the Herring Fishery, iv. 168–171;
|
|||||||||
| 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 | |||||||||
| Home for Disabled and Worn-out Merchant Seamen, Belvedere, Kent, iv. 273 | |||||||||
| Honolulu, View and account of, iv. 33, 45, 46 | |||||||||
| Hood, Thomas: his poem, “The Demon Ship,” iv. 303 | |||||||||
| Horace: on the Sea, iv. 290, 291 | |||||||||
Hubner, Baron: the passage from San Francisco to Japan,
iv. 35–37;
|
|||||||||
| Huer, or watcher, in pilchard fishing, iv. 173 | |||||||||
| Hurricanes, iv. 95 | |||||||||
| Hydrozoa, iv. 115 | |||||||||
| Ice and snow on American railways, iv. 21, 28 | |
| Ice. (See Antarctic ice.) | |
| "Empress:" chest of gold recovered by divers, iv. 86 | |
| Ince, Henry: the sea serpent, iv. 185 | |
| Indiana, iv. 14 | |
| Infusoria: their propagation, iv. 113 | |
| Ipswich, iv. 247 | |
| Irish moss or Carrageen, iv. 202 | |
| Isle of Wight, iv. 227 | |
| Jelly-fish, iv. 116, 147 | |
| Jones, Lance-corporal: his diving exploits, iv. 88 | |
| King crabs, iv. 152 | |||
| Kingman, Captain: phosphorescence of the sea, iv. 97 | |||
| Kitchiner, Dr., on oysters, iv. 133 | |||
| Kondylostoma patens, a microscopic infusorian, iv. 113 | |||
Kraken: sea-serpent, iv.
149.
|
| Lacquer-work in Japan, iv. 40 | |||
| 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 | |||
| Light vessel on the Goodwin Sands, iv. 244 | |||
| Limpets, iv. 40 | |||
| Living wonders of the ocean, iv. 160 | |||
Lizard Rock and Lizard Light, iv. 208, 223;
|
|||
| Lobsters, iv. 151, 154, 157 | |||
| Lobster fishing, iv. 156 | |||
| “Locker Room” the word; "Davy Jones's Locker and Its Treasures;" pearls, corals, sponges, diving, iv. 66–90 | |||
| Loggan Stone, iv. 208 | |||
| Longfellow’s "Wreck of the Hesperus" iv. 299, 300 | |||
Looe, Cornwall, iv.
212;
|
|||
| Lord, Major, on lobsters, iv. 151, 155 | |||
| Lost at Sea: ships never heard of, iv. 283 | |||
| Mackerel and Mackerel Fishing, iv. 176 | |||
| McQuhæ, Capt., his account of the sea-serpent, iv. 186 | |||
| Madrepores, iv. 122, 124 | |||
| Mahoney, Gunner, his swim across the Hellespont, iv. 258 | |||
| Maories of New Zealand, iv. 51, 52 | |||
| Marine artillery. (See Artillery) | |||
| Mauna Kea, a Japanese volcano, iv. 47, 49 | |||
| Mauna Loa, a Japanese volcano, iv. 47 | |||
| Medusæ, iv. 116, 195 | |||
| Microscope: "the sixth sense of humans," iv. 112 | |||
| Milne-Edwards, Dr.: his diving apparatus, iv. 113 | |||
| Mines of Cornwall, iv. 215 | |||
| Missouri river, iv. 16 | |||
| Molluscs: phosphorescence of the sea produced by, iv. 97 | |||
| Moon, the. (Check it out Mock Moons.) | |||
| Moore, Lieutenant: his swim across the Hellespont, iv. 258 | |||
| Mormondom; town of Echo, Utah, Salt Lake City, iv. 23 | |||
| Mount’s Bay and Mount St. Michael, Cornwall, iv. 223 | |||
| Murex, a univalve shell, iv. 144 | |||
Murphy, J. M.: American railways, iv. 18;
|
|||
| Murray, Mrs. William, shipwrecked; "Ten Awful Days," iv. 56 | |||
| Mussels, iv. 129, 132 | |||
| Nautilus, iv. 143, 149 | |||||
| Nevada, Silver mines at, iv. 26 | |||||
| Newhaven, iv. 231 | |||||
|
Newspapers in America, iv. 27;
|
|||||
| New York to Chicago by rail, iv. 14 | |||||
New Zealand: Auckland, North, Middle, and Stewart’s Islands,
iv. 48;
|
|||||
Niagara, iv. 14;
|
|||||
| Norfolk: sketches of the sea coast, iv. 247–251 | |||||
| Oar-weed, iv. 200 | |||
Ocean, the, its Living Wonders, iv. 111–158.
|
|||
| Octopus, iv. 148 | |||
| Old and young ice. (View Ice.) | |||
| Opium-eating and smoking, iv. 38 | |||
| "Orient" steam-ship, iv. 3 | |||
| Owen, Professor R., F.R.S., on the Sea-serpent, iv. 187, 188 | |||
Pacific Ferry, The: San Francisco to Japan and China,
iv. 31–40;
|
|||||
Pacific Railway, Life on the, iv. 19;
|
|||||
| Padstow, Wreck at, iv. 221 | |||||
| Payerne’s “Submarine Hydrostats,” iv. 86 | |||||
Pearl oysters: pearls, real and
artificial, iv. 67,
68, 69;
|
|||||
| Pensioners, Greenwich, iv. 286 | |||||
| Penzance, iv. 219 | |||||
|
Petersen, Christian, with Captain Nares in the Warning;
|
|||||
| Phipps, William, a fortunate diver, iv. 80 | |||||
| Pholades, rock-borers, iv. 203 | |||||
| Phosphorescence of the sea, iv. 96, 97 | |||||
| Physalia, iv. 119, 120, 121 | |||||
| Pilchards: the pilchard fishery, iv. 173, 216 | |||||
| Pipe-fish, iv. 162, 164 | |||||
| Pittsburg, iv. 14 | |||||
| Plymouth, iv. 224 | |||||
| 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 | |||||
| Polar bears. (Check it out Bears.) | |||||
| Pontoppidan, Bishop: the sea-serpent, iv. 184 | |||||
| Portuguese man-of-war, iv. 119 | |||||
| Prairie on fire, iv. 22 | |||||
| Prairie schooners, iv. 18, 22 | |||||
| Prawns, iv. 157 | |||||
| Praya diphyes, a Medusa, iv. 117 | |||||
| "Princess Alice" lost in the Thames, iv. 282 | |||||
| Protozoa, iv. 111 | |||||
| Pteropoda, iv. 139, 142 | |||||
| Pullman railway car, iv. 16 | |||||
| Purpura lapillus: a univalve shell, iv. 145 |
| Quarles, Francis; lines on the sea, iv. 290 | |
|
Ramsgate: iv. 241;
|
|||
| Razor-fish, iv. 128, 129 | |||
| Reticulosa, iv. 111 | |||
| Rhizopoda, iv. 111 | |||
| Rhodosperms, iv. 200 | |||
| Robber crab, iv. 152 | |||
| Robin Hood’s Bay, iv. 256 | |||
| Rock-borers, iv. 203 | |||
| Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Railway, iv. 21 | |||
| Rose, Richard: his life-buoy seat, iv. 262 | |||
| “Around the World in Eighty Days,” iv. 1 | |||
| Royal Humane Society, iv. 263 | |||
| Royal Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 278–282 | |||
Salmon, the, its natural history, iv. 163–168;
|
|||||||||
Salt Lake, Great; Salt Lake City, iv. 23;
|
|||||||||
| Samphire, iv. 231, 233 | |||||||||
| Sandgate: loss of the "Grosser Kurfürst," iv. 238 | |||||||||
Sandwich Islands: Honolulu; the king,
iv. 45;
|
|||||||||
| Sardines: mode of fishing for, iv. 174 | |||||||||
| Saving life at sea. (See Hovellers, Life, and Lifeboats.) | |||||||||
| Saw-fish, iv. 162 | |||||||||
| Scallops, iv. 138, 140 | |||||||||
Scarborough: iv.
253;
|
|||||||||
| Scotland, pearl fisheries of, iv. 71 | |||||||||
Sea, the: its living wonders, iv. 111;
|
|||||||||
| Sea-anemones, iv. 123, 196–198 | |||||||||
Sea coasts: "Sketches of Our Coasts," Cornwall, iv. 207–225;
|
|||||||||
| Sea-cucumber, iv. 126, 128 | |||||||||
Sea-shore: "By the Seaside,"
iv. 190–207;
|
|||||||||
| Sea-lion, iv. 188 | |||||||||
| Seamen. (See Sailors.) | |||||||||
| Sea-serpent: various accounts of it, drawings, conjectures, and probabilities, iv. 184–190 | |||||||||
| Sea-sickness and remedies, iv. 6, 7 | |||||||||
| Sea-urchins, sea-slugs, iv. 125 | |||||||||
| Sea-weeds, iv. 200 | |||||||||
Shakespeare’s allusions to the sea, iv. 291–295;
|
|||||||||
| Shakespeare’s Cliff, iv. 240 | |||||||||
Sharks and Shark Fishing, iv. 160;
|
|||||||||
| Shells, Univalve, iv. 139 | |||||||||
| Ship-building, History of. (See Naval Architecture.) | |||||||||
| Shipwrecks; Falconer’s poem, iv. 297 | |||||||||
| Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society, iv. 226, 249, 258, 272 | |||||||||
| Shrimps, iv. 158 | |||||||||
Sierra Nevada, iv.
20, 27, 28;
|
|||||||||
| Silver Mines in Nevada, iv. 26 | |||||||||
| Siren signals, iv. 289 | |||||||||
| Smuggling, iv. 210, 234 | |||||||||
Snow and ice: on American railways, iv. 21, 28;
|
|||||||||
| Soldier crab, iv. 154 | |||||||||
| Solen or razor-fish, iv. 128, 129 | |||||||||
| “Blower, The,” or the Blower. Mauritius, iv. 95 | |||||||||
| Southampton, iv. 225 | |||||||||
| Spalding’s diving-bell, its failure, and his death, iv. 81 | |||||||||
| Spinous cockle, iv. 204 | |||||||||
| Spondylus, iv. 138, 140 | |||||||||
| Sprat, iv. 173 | |||||||||
| Spray of the ocean, iv. 92 | |||||||||
| Squat lobsters, iv. 158 | |||||||||
| Stirling, J. D. Morriss, on the sea-serpent, iv. 187, 189 | |||||||||
Storms: the great gale of 1703;
|
|||||||||
| Strombus, a univalve shell, iv. 144 | |||||||||
| Sturgeon and its roe; caviare, iv. 162 | |||||||||
| Submarine telegraph cables, iv. 98 | |||||||||
| Submerged forest, iv. 199 | |||||||||
| Sun, The. (See Mock Suns.) | |||||||||
| "Sunbeam:" voyage of circumnavigation, iv. 40; 61, 62 | |||||||||
| Sun-fish, iv. 162, 164 | |||||||||
| Sword-fish, and mode of fishing for it, iv. 177, 178 | |||||||||
| Telegraphy: submarine cables, iv. 98 | |||||||||
| Telescope, equatorial, at the Observatory, Greenwich, iv. 218 | |||||||||
| Teredo, iv. 128 | |||||||||
|
Theatricals: on the “United Kingdom,” iv.
34;
|
|||||||||
Thorpeness, Suffolk, iv.
247;
|
|||||||||
| Tides of the Ocean, iv. 92 | |||||||||
| Time, difference between London and San Francisco, iv. 30 | |||||||||
| Top-knot, a minute flat-fish, iv. 206 | |||||||||
| Torpedo (fish), iv. 160 | |||||||||
| Trepang fisheries (Holothuria), iv. 127, 128 | |||||||||
Trinity House and the Trinity Corporation, iv. 287–289;
|
|||||||||
| Triton, a univalve shell, iv. 144 | |||||||||
| Trochus, a univalve shell, iv. 141 | |||||||||
| Tunny: tunny-fishing, iv. 177 | |||||||||
| Turbo, a univalve shell, iv. 141 | |||||||||
| Univalves, iv. 139 | |
| Urchins: sea-urchins, iv. 126, 128 | |
| Utah, iv. 23 |
| Verne, Jules: “Around the World in Eighty Days,” iv. 2, 5 | |
| Victoria (Hong Kong), described by Baron Hübner, iv. 43 | |
| Viking ship discovered at Gokstad, iv. 230 | |
| Virgil’s “Aeneid,” references to the sea, iv. 291 | |
| Vogt, on the Agalma rubra, iv. 118 | |
| Voices of fish, iv. 178 | |
| Voluta, a univalve shell, iv. 141 |
| Waves off the Cape of Good Hope, iv. 89 | |||||||||||
Webb, Capt. Matthew, his "Swimming Skills" iv.
258;
|
|||||||||||
| Weever-fish, iv. 205, 206 | |||||||||||
Weppner, Margharita: Falls of Niagara, iv. 15;
|
|||||||||||
Whales and whale-fishing, iv. 179–184;
|
|||||||||||
| Whirlpools: iv. 92, 93, 95 | |||||||||||
| Whitby, iv. 256 | |||||||||||
| “White Star” Liner crossing the Atlantic, iv. 1 | |||||||||||
| Whitstable oyster beds, iv. 137 | |||||||||||
Wolf Rock, Land’s End, iv. 210;
|
|||||||||||
| Woman at Sea, iv. 56–65 | |||||||||||
| Women, Life saved by, iv. 221 | |||||||||||
| Wood, Rev. J. G.: sea-weeds, iv. 200, 202 | |||||||||||
Yarmouth, iv. 248;
|
|||||
| Yorkshire: sketches of the sea-coast, iv. 251 | |||||
| Young, Brigham: Mormonism, iv. 2–4 | |||||
| Zoology, Marine. (View Challenger, Cruise of the.) | |
References
- 1.
- Mrs. Brassey: "A Journey on the Sunbeam." Her trip occupied eleven months.
- 2.
- From a rare work in the author’s possession, entitled, “Songs of the Ship; or the Cheerful and Everlasting Songbook of the British Seaman.”
- 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, "To their credit, they took a trip on one of their first emigrant steamers, specifically to improve the discomforts and issues that had been all too common on emigrant ships."
- 6.
- Margharita Weppner.
- 7.
- "Westward by Train."
- 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 “Non-Jews.”
- 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 Trip Around 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 Travel Log Around the World in 1873-74."
- 16.
- E. K. Laird: “The Travels of a Globe Trotter in Australia, Japan, China, Java, India, and Kashmir.”
- 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 Travels of a Globe Trotter.”
- 22.
- In “Australia & 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, on the seventeenth day of the second month, on that same day all the springs of the deep were unleashed, and the heavens opened up.”—Chap.
vii., verse 11.
In the six hundred and first year, on the first day of the first month, the waters dried up from the earth. Noah took off the roof of the ark, looked around, and saw that the ground was dry.
"On the twenty-seventh day of the second month, the earth was dry."—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 "On the Origin of Species."
- 29.
- The bulk of this chapter is derived from the following works:—“Conquest of the Sea,” Siebe; “English Seafarers and Divers,” M. Esquiros; an Article in “The Shipwrecked Sailor,” Vol. XXII.; &c.
- 30.
- “Mystery and Imagination Stories.”
- 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: "Trip to the Caribbean."
- 33.
- "A Year by the Beach."
- 34.
- “Lamer.”
- 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 from the Sea"; Figuier’s “Ocean World”; and from an interesting little brochure entitled “The Oyster: Where, How, and When to Find It” &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 oyster lover," says he, "will consider the feelings of his little favorite and skillfully detach the fish from the shell so gently that the oyster hardly realizes it's been removed from its home until it feels the teeth of the fish-eating gourmet tickling it to death."
- 38.
- “Sea Harvest.”
- 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 "Ocean and its Living Wonders," Murphy’s “Travels in North-Western America,” &c.
- 44.
- The reader interested in further details will do well to peruse J. Mortimer Murphy’s “Trips 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 “Adventures Beyond Railways.”
- 47.
- This watcher also receives a percentage on the "grab" 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 “Fellow Sailors 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 Beach Vacation;" "A Year by the Shore;" the Rev. J. G. Wood’s "Common Shoreline Objects;" and Madame de Gasparin’s charming idyl, "By the Seashore."
- 52.
- “By the Seashore.”
- 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 “Explorations 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 "Trips to the Seascapes," 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 yearly 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.
- "Trips to the Beaches," in The Shipwrecked Mariner.
- 62.
- Sarah Doudney.
- 63.
- In a letter to The Shipwrecked Mariner, January, 1873.
- 64.
-
Leander.
"Who was used to nightly"(What maid will not the tale remember?)"To cross your wide stream, the 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 "Swimming Skills," 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 72 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 “go”—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 Seafarers and Divers.”
- 83.
- Condensed from an article by W. Senior in the Shipwrecked Sailor.
- 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 “It's created using a disc with twelve radial slits that spins in front of a fixed disc that is identical. The moving disc rotates at 2,800 revolutions per minute, which results in twelve coincidences between the two discs in each revolution. The openings allow high-pressure steam or air to escape, producing a total of twelve times 2,800 (or 33,600) puffs of steam or compressed air every minute. This generates an extremely powerful sound, which is partially compressed by a twenty-foot-long cast-iron trumpet, sending the blast out as a sort of sound beam in the desired direction.” 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 good." 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:—“Nelson's Death” (S. J. Arnold), “Bay of Biscay” (Andrew Cherry), "Rule, Britannia" (J. Thompson), “The Saucy Arethusa” (Prince Hoare), “Storm” ("Stop, rude Boreas": G. A. Stevens), "The Sailor's Comfort" ("One night, a hurricane hit.": W. Pitt), "Hey Mariners of England" (Thomas Campbell), “Hey Gentlemen of England” (Martin Parker). The well-known song “Bill and Sue,” 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 "It's a Wild Night at Sea" and “The Rover’s Death.”
- 93.
- The Cornhill Magazine, March, 1871.
Transcription Note
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and are near the text they illustrate, thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations.
The illustrations have been relocated so they don’t interrupt paragraphs and are close to the text they depict, so the page number of the illustration might not align with the page number in the List of Illustrations.
Pages which contain only an illustration have been left out in the pagination on the margin.
Pages that only have an illustration have been excluded from the page numbers in the margins.
An illustration which was missing from the List of Illustrations has been added to it.
An illustration that was missing from the List of Illustrations has been added.
The following changes have been made to the text:
The following changes have been made to the text:
| page iii, dash added after “Soaped Rails” | |
| page iv, dash added after “The Initial Concept of the Atlantic Cable” and after “The Use of the Great Eastern” | |
| page vi, dash added after "Brave and Shy Guys" and after “The ‘True Ring’” | |
| page 11, quote mark added after “throwing a tantrum.” | |
| page 38, double the removed before "captain" | |
| page 66, quote mark added before "I saw" | |
| page 74, quote mark removed after “scope.” | |
| page 90, “suffocated” changed to "sulfurized" | |
| 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 "blessed" | |
| 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 beginning” | |
| page 304, quote mark added after “ocean.” | |
| page 308, “voyage” changed to "journey" | |
| page 310, “Fiskernes” changed to “Fiskernæs” |
Additionally, the punctuation in the General Index has been regularized in several places.
Additionally, the punctuation in the General Index has been standardized in several places.
Differences between the table of contents and the chapter summaries have not been corrected. Neither have variations in hyphenation been normalized.
Differences between the table of contents and the chapter summaries haven't been corrected. Variations in hyphenation also haven't been normalized.
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