CHAPTER XVIII.

BY THE SEA‐SHORE (_continued_).

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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