Fane had spent some time in diligent pursuit of Onslow; at first with no
great promise of success, but latterly with some certainty of being upon
his track. Just, however, as his hopes of securing him were strongest,
he had received a letter which had been following him for some time from
town to town, summoning him to attend the sick-bed of his uncle, who had
been attacked with sudden and dangerous illness.
Of course he set off at once, as in duty bound; but he was surprised and
ashamed, knowing the obligations he lay under to his relative, to notice
how little anxiety and pain the news occasioned him. Fane was very
honest in analysing his own emotions, and on the present occasion laid
more blame to the account of his own nature, which he accused of
unsympathising callousness, than it by any means deserved. He would have
done as much to serve a friend, and was capable of as warm attachment,
as most people, but his feelings required a congenial nature to call
them forth. He was not one of those who wear their hearts on their
sleeve for any daw to peck at, and had none of that incontinence of
affability which insures a man so many acquaintances and so few friends.
Had he been Lear’s eldest son, he would, to a certainty, have been
disinherited, along with Cordelia, in favour of those gay deceivers,
Goneril and Regan.
Now, Mr Levitt his uncle, though naturally amiable, was an
undemonstrative character, full of good impulses which terribly
embarrassed him. He would read a poem or romance with the keenest
enjoyment, yet with affected contempt, turning up his nose and screwing
down the corners of his mouth, while his eyes were watering and his
heart beating. He would offer two fingers to a parting friend, nod
good-by to him slightly, and turn away, feeling as if a shadow had come
upon his world. He had been used to write to his nephews in the spirit
of a Roman or Spartan uncle, giving them stern advice, and sending them
the most liberal remittances, in the most ungracious manner—throwing
checks at their heads, as it were—while all the time he was yearning for
their presence. In fact, he was so ashamed of his best points, and so
anxious to conceal them, that the rigid mask wherewith he hid his
virtues had become habitual, and he was a very sheep in wolf’s clothing.
Those, however, who had known him long, rated him at his true value.
Fane found the household in great grief. Miss Betsey, an ancient
housekeeper, distinguished principally by strong fidelity to the family
interests, a passion for gin-and-water, and a most extraordinary cap,
wrung her hands with great decorum; and Mr Payne the banker, Orelia’s
father, at the first news of his old friend’s illness, had left a great
money transaction unfinished to rush to his bedside, where Fane found
him on his arrival. Indeed, it was from him he had received intelligence
of his uncle’s illness.
Mr Payne’s temperament had suffered foul wrong when they made him a
banker. He had naturally an intense dislike to matters of calculation,
his bent being towards _belles lettres_, foreign travel, and the like
pleasant paths. Somehow or other he had got rich, and flourished in
spite of his want of talent for money-making. His worldly pursuits,
perhaps, made his tastes keener, for he fell upon all manner of light
reading with wonderful zest after a busy day at the bank. As for his
taste for travelling, it was whispered among his acquaintances that its
development was not so much owing to an erratic and inquiring spirit, as
to the fact that in the second Mrs Payne he had caught a Tartar, and
availed himself of any plausible excuse to escape from her domestic
tyranny. Orelia, coming home from school one vacation, and finding her
stepmother in full exercise of authority, not only, as a matter of
course, rebelled herself, but tried to stir up her father to join in the
mutiny. Finding him averse to open war, she proclaimed her intention
forthwith of quitting the paternal mansion, and living in the house
which had become hers by the death of her godmother, as before related;
and Mr Payne, coming down on Saturdays after the bank was closed, would
spend one-half of his weekly visit in lamenting the ill-temper of his
spouse, and the other in his favourite studies.
Fane found his uncle slowly recovering from the effects of the attack
which had prostrated him, and by no means secure from a relapse. Mr
Levitt caught the sound of his step on the stair, and recognised it; and
Mr Payne, seated by the bedside, saw the invalid glance eagerly at the
door. Nevertheless, he received his nephew almost coldly, though the
latter testified warm interest in his state.
“You’ve been some time finding me out, Durham,” said his uncle, after
shortly answering his inquiries. “I’m afraid you’ve been summoned to
this uninteresting scene from some more agreeable pursuit.”
“It was an important one, at any rate, sir,” returned Fane; “yet even
that did not prevent me hastening hither the moment Mr Payne’s letter
reached me. I only got it this morning.”
“An important one, hey, Durham!” said Mr Levitt, with the cynical air
under which he was accustomed to veil his interest in his nephew’s
proceedings. “We may judge of its importance, Payne, by his hurrying
away from it to look after the ailments of a stupid old fellow like me.
Some nonsense, I’ll be bound.”
Mr Payne, a bald benevolent man of fifty, in spectacles, came round the
bed to shake Fane’s hand.
“Without the pleasure of knowing the Captain, I’ll answer for his
holding you in due consideration,” said Mr Payne. “And your uncle knows
that, too; he’s only joking,” he said to Fane.
“Well, but the important business, Durham?” said the invalid, as Fane
seated himself beside his pillow.
Fane, remembering that his cousin’s was a prohibited name, and fearing
the effect it might produce, attempted to laugh off the inquiry.
“Love!” said Mr Levitt, with another cynical glance at Mr Payne, who had
resumed his station at the other side of the bed. “A charmer for fifty
pounds; why, I grow quite curious—don’t you, Payne? It’s exactly what
you suggested as the cause of his delay. Come, let’s hear about
her—begin with the eyes—that’s the rule, isn’t it?”
“Wrong, sir, quite wrong,” said Fane, with another disclaiming laugh.
“Poor, bashful fellow!” persisted his uncle. “But we won’t spare his
blushes, Payne. And how far did you pursue the nymph, Durham?—and why
did she fly you? Is she at length propitious? I hope so!—you know my
wishes.”
“There’s no lady in the case, sir, I assure you,” said Fane earnestly.
“Ah! it’s always the way with your sensitive lovers,” pursued his
questioner, addressing Mr Payne. “They’re as shy of the subject which
occupies their thoughts as if they didn’t like it. Come, if you’re
afraid to speak out before my friend Payne (though I’m sure you needn’t
be—he’s discretion itself), he’ll go away, I daresay. What is she like?
and when is it to be?”
“When is what to be, sir?” asked Fane, trying to humour the old
gentleman, but getting impatient, nevertheless.
“Why, the wedding, of course. Seriously, Durham, I’m all impatience.
Your last letter seemed to point at something of the kind; and it was
written long enough ago to have settled half-a-dozen love affairs since.
I’m more earnest than ever on the subject, now that my admonitions seem
likely to be cut short; and this matrimony question may affect the
dispositions of my will, Durham.”
“Consider it settled, then, I beg, sir,” said Fane seriously. “I shall
never marry.”
“I shall be sorry to find you serious, Durham. A bachelor’s life is but
a dreary one. Just look at the difference between me and my friend
Payne—he is rosy and happy, and, if he were lying here, he would have
quite a family meeting assembled round him—while I should be alone, but
for a nephew who has no great reason to care about me, and a friend
whose good-nature brings him to see what may, perhaps, be the last of an
old acquaintance. My opinions on the subject I’ve so often spoken to you
of, haven’t changed, you see, in the least—and perhaps I shall act upon
them.”
“As you please, sir,” said Fane. “I speak my deliberate thought when I
say I don’t intend to marry.”
Here Miss Betsey tapt at the door, to say that Mr Durham’s supper was
ready.
“Go down with him, Payne,” said Mr Levitt. “I’ll go on with this story
here—a silly thing; but sick people mustn’t be too critical.”
“An excellent novel!” exclaimed Mr Payne—“full of feeling.”
“Ay, ay, well enough for that kind of trumpery,” said the invalid, who
was secretly burning to know how the hero and heroine were to be brought
together through such a sea of difficulties; and his friend and his
nephew, after making a few arrangements for his comfort, went down
stairs together.
Fane dismissed the servant who waited at table. He wished to open what
he intended to be, and what proved, a very interesting conversation.
“You’re a very old friend of my uncle’s, Mr Payne,” he said. “I’ve so
often heard him speak of you, that I seem almost familiar with you,
though this is our first meeting.”
“A school friendship,” said Mr Payne; “and it has continued unbroken
ever since.”
“I will tell you,” said Fane, “what the pursuit was I was really engaged
in, and you will perceive I could not mention it to my uncle. The fact
is, I believe I was on the point of discovering my cousin Langley.”
Mr Payne dropt his knife and fork, and leant back in his chair. “You
don’t say so!” cried he. “Poor Langley—poor, poor Langley!”
Fane told the grounds he had for suspecting Langley and the ex-dragoon
Onslow to be one and the same person.
“Following some faint traces,” said Fane, “I reached a town where,
exposed for sale in a shop window, I saw some drawings which I
recognised for his. You know his gift that way.”
“Ay, a first-rate draughtsman, poor fellow,” said Mr Payne.
“He had sold these for a trifle far below their value, and, as I found,
had left the town only the day before. I therefore felt secure of him
when your letter diverted me from the pursuit.”
“Poor Langley!” repeated the sympathetic Mr Payne. “Such a clever
fellow! Draw, sir! he had the making of half-a-dozen academicians in
him—and ride!—but you’ve seen him ride, of course. And such an
actor!—nothing like him off the London boards, and not many on them
equal to him, in my opinion. And to end that way, I don’t know if I
should like to see him again.”
“You can perhaps enlighten me on a point I’ve long been curious about,”
said Fane. “I mean the real cause of my uncle’s displeasure towards
him—the extravagance attributed to Langley doesn’t sufficiently account
for it.”
“No,” said Mr Payne, “your uncle would have forgiven that readily
enough. He pretended, as his way is, to be angrier at it than he was.
But the real cause of estrangement was more serious.
“Your uncle finding, by his frequent applications for money, that
accounts which had reached him of Langley’s gambling were but too true,
at length replied to a request for a hundred pounds by enclosing a check
to that amount, at the same time saying it was the last he must expect,
and expressing his displeasure very harshly. The check was brought to
our bank the next day, and it was not till after it had been cashed that
it was suspected that the original amount, both in words and figures,
had been altered. Four hundred pounds it now stood, and that sum had
been paid on it. The 1 had easily been made into a 4, and the words
altered to correspond—neatly enough, but not so like your uncle’s as to
pass with a close scrutiny. While we were examining it, your uncle came
in, his anxiety on Langley’s account having brought him to town. He took
the check, looked at it, and then drew me aside. ‘’Tis forged,’ said he;
‘mine was for a hundred: but not a word of this, Payne—let it pass as
regular—tell the clerks ’tis all right.’ This was a terrible blow to
him. From that day to this we have heard nothing of Langley, nor does
your uncle ever mention his name; and no one but an intimate friend like
me would guess how much he felt the dishonour.”
“But Langley must have known ’twould be discovered immediately,” said
Fane, who listened with deep attention.
“Ay—but meantime his end was answered. The money was paid, and he
doubtless calculated that your uncle would rather lose the sum than
suffer the disgrace of exposure—and he was right.”
“I can’t believe him guilty,” said Fane.
“He must have been severely tempted, poor boy,” said Mr Payne—“always so
open and upright; but there can, I’m afraid, be no doubt of his guilt.
Consider, he has never showed his face since.”
Fane thought for a minute or two. “No,” he said—“no, not guilty, I hope
and believe. No guilty man could have borne himself as he has done
since. But there is now more reason than ever for resuming my search for
him. Yes, yes—I must see and question him myself.”
“Where do you believe him to be?” asked Mr Payne.
“I traced him to Frewenham, in ——shire,” answered Fane.
“Frewenham! God bless me! Why, my daughter’s place, Larches, is close to
that. I’m going down there in a day or two to see Orelia.”
“Orelia!” exclaimed Fane; “then Miss Payne is your daughter.”
“Oh, you have met, then, perhaps?” said Mr Payne, with interest; “where
and when?”
“At the Heronry,” said Fane. “My troop is at Doddington, the town
nearest to where Miss Payne was staying.”
“Oh, ho! this is fortunate,” said Mr Payne. “As soon as your uncle gets
better, we will go down together to Frewenham. My friend Levitt,” he
resumed presently, “is, I see, much disappointed to find his surmises as
to your matrimonial prospects incorrect. He had set his heart on their
fulfilment; and some expressions of admiration for some lady, in a late
letter of yours, prepared him to expect something of the kind.”
Fane coloured deeply. He remembered, indeed, that, writing to his uncle
one evening, after a delightful afternoon passed with Lady Lee, he had
suffered his admiration to overflow in expressions which, though they
seemed to him slight compared with the merits of the subject, were yet,
perhaps, sufficiently warm to warrant his uncle’s inferences. It was
some comfort to remember that he had not mentioned her name in this
premature effusion.
“My uncle seems to have quite a monomania on the subject of my becoming
a Benedict,” he said presently, by way of breaking an awkward silence.
“His doctrine would have seemed more consistent had he inculcated it by
example as well as by precept. One doesn’t often see a more determined
bachelor.”
“A love affair was the turning-point of your uncle’s life,” said Mr
Payne. “He knows and feels that a different, and how much happier man he
might have been, but for an early disappointment, and that makes him so
desirous to see you comfortably established.”
“Now, do you know,” said Fane, “I can’t, by any effort of imagination,
fancy my uncle in love. His proposals, if he ever reached that point,
must have been conveyed in an epigram.”
“Your uncle is a good deal changed, in every respect, within the last
few years, especially since that sad business of poor Langley,” said Mr
Payne; “but I scarcely recognise in him now my old (or rather, I should
say, my young) friend Levitt. However, you may take my word for it,
Captain Durham, that your uncle knew what it was, some five-and-twenty
years ago, to be desperately in love. He seemed, too, to be progressing
favourably with the object of his affections, till a gay young captain
in the Guards turned her head with his attentions—Captain, afterwards
Colonel Lee.”
“What! Bagot!” said Fane.
“Ah, you know him, then,” said Mr Payne; “then you also know it was no
great alleviation to your uncle’s disappointment to find a man like
Colonel Lee preferred to him. Lee, it seems, had no serious intentions,
and jilted her—and your uncle disdained to renew his suit.”
This account seemed to Fane to throw a good deal of light upon parts of
his uncle’s character which he had hitherto been unable to fathom.
“Yes,” resumed Mr Payne, “yes; your uncle is a great advocate for
marriage, and certainly ’tis all very well in its way, though, perhaps,”
he added dubiously, in an under tone, to himself—“perhaps it may be done
once too often.”
Here Mr Payne left Durham while he went up-stairs to visit his sick
friend, and presently returned to say he had found him asleep, and
thought he had better not be disturbed again. Shortly afterwards,
finding Durham more disposed to ruminate over what he had heard than to
converse, he bid him good night, and went to bed.
Fane’s meditations were interrupted by Miss Betsey, who came in, not
altogether free from an odour of gin-and-water, to express her
gratification at seeing him well. Miss Betsey was a thin old lady, with
an unsteady eye, and a nose streaked with little veins, like a
schoolboy’s marble. She wore on her head the most wonderful structure,
in the shape of a cap, ever seen. It was a kind of tower of muslin,
consisting of several stories ornamented with ribbons, and was fastened
under her chin with a broad band like a helmet. Her aged arms protruded
through her sleeves, which were tight as far as the elbow, and sloped
out wider till they terminated half-way to her wrist, where a pair of
black mittens commenced.
“Your dear uncle’s been bad, indeed,” said Miss Betsey, taking a pinch
of snuff. “I a’most thought we should have lost him, Mr Durham; but he’s
better now, poor dear. But there’s no knowing what might happen yet,”
said Miss Betsey, shaking her head; “and I’ve had a thought concerning
you, and him, and another, Mr Durham.” Here Miss Betsey closed her
snuff-box—which was round, black, and shining, and held about a quarter
of a pound of princes’ mixture—and, putting it in her ample pocket, laid
the hand not occupied with snuff on Fane’s shoulder with amiable
frankness, which gin-and-water generates in old ladies. “Mr Durham, your
dear uncle’s never forgot your cousin, Master Langley—and ’twould be a
grievious thing if he was to leave us” (a mild form of hinting at Mr
Levitt’s decease) “without forgiving him. Couldn’t you put in a word, Mr
Durham, for your dear cousin?”
“The very thing I intend, Miss Betsey,” returned Fane, “as soon as it
can be done effectually.”
“Ah, Mr Durham,” the old lady went on, waxing more confidential, “your
dear uncle’s fond of you, and well he may be, but you’re not to him what
Master Langley was;—no,” repeated the old lady, shaking her forefinger,
and looking sideways at him, “not what Master Langley was; and your dear
uncle’s never been like the same man since that poor dear boy left us.”
“You seem to be quite as fond of him as my uncle ever could have been,
Miss Betsey,” Fane remarked.
“Fond!” said Miss Betsey, “who wasn’t? He had that coaxing way with him
that he could”—she completed the sentence by flourishing her forefinger
in the air, as if turning an imaginary person round it. “Everybody was
fond of him;—the maids (the pretty ones in particular) was a’most too
fond of him—so much so, that it rather interfered with their work.”
Fane’s smile at this proof of his cousin’s irresistibility called forth
a playful tap on the shoulder from the old virgin, who presently
afterwards dived down into her pocket for her snuff-box, and, screwing
off the lid, which creaked like the axle of a stage waggon, stimulated
her reminiscences with a pinch.
“Well-a-day! your uncle’s never been the same man since. You don’t know,
perhaps” (whispering in a tone that fanned Fane’s cheek with a zephyr
combined of gin-and-water and princes’ mixture), “that he keeps Master
Langley’s room locked up the same as the poor boy last left it, do you?
There now, I said so,” giving him a gentle slap on the back, and
retreating a pace, as he answered in the negative; “for all you lived
here weeks together, on and off, you never knew that. Come with me,”
added the old lady; “I’ve got the key, and we’ll go in there together.”
Fane willingly followed her, taking deep interest in all fragments of
his cousin’s history. Arriving at the door of a room looking out on the
lawn, Miss Betsey stopped, and, after some protracted fumbling at the
keyhole, opened it. “Once or twice, when he thought nobody was watching
him, I’ve seen your uncle coming out of this door with tears in his
blessed eyes,” said she, as she entered, preceding him with the candle.
The rooms were, as Miss Betsey had said, just as their former occupant
had left them. The pieces of a fishing-rod, with their bag lying beside
them, were scattered on the table, together with hackles, coloured
worsteds, peacocks’ herls, and other materials for fly-making. An open
book was on the window-seat, and an unfinished sketch in oils stood on
an easel.
“There,” said Miss Betsey, holding the candle up to a painting over the
mantelpiece, “there you see the dear fellow taking a leap that none of
the others would face. Your uncle was so proud of that deed that he got
it painted, as you see—and a pretty penny it cost him. There were other
likenesses of him here, but your uncle put ’em all away before you came
from Indy.”
Fane approached to look at the picture, which set at rest any
uncertainty that might remain as to his cousin’s identity with the
rough-riding corporal. There was the same handsome face, only younger,
and without the mustache. The same gay air and easy seat that
distinguished the dragoon Onslow on horseback appeared in the sportsman
there represented, who rode a gallant bay at a formidable brook, with a
rail on the farther side. The work was highly artistic, being the
production of a famous animal-painter.
At this stage of the proceedings Miss Betsey’s feelings seemed to
overpower her. She wept copiously, and even hiccupped with emotion; and,
setting the candle on the table, abruptly retired.
Fane lingered round the room, looking at the backs of the books, and
turning over portfolios of drawings, which would, of themselves, have
identified the hand that produced them with Onslow’s, as exhibited in
the sketch-book of Orelia. Among these was a coloured drawing of his
uncle—a good likeness—and another of the artist himself. Fane, looking
at the bold frank lineaments, internally pronounced it impossible that
their possessor could have been guilty of the mean and criminal action
imputed to him. He pictured to himself, and contrasted his cousin’s
condition before he lost his uncle’s favour, with his life as a soldier,
and decided it to be contrary to experience that any one could, under
such a startling change of circumstances, have behaved so well, had he
been conscious of guilt.
After some time spent in these and similar meditations, suggested by the
objects around him, he went out and locked the door. Passing the
housekeeper’s room, he went in to leave the key. Miss Betsey appeared to
have been soothing her emotions with more gin-and-water, for she sat
still in her elbow-chair, with her wonderful structure of cap fallen
over one eye, in a manner that rather impaired her dignity, while she
winked the remaining one at him with a somewhat imbecile smile.
“Come, Miss Betsey,” said Fane, “let me see you to bed.”
Miss Betsey rose, and, taking his offered arm, they proceeded slowly
along the passage together. “By Jove,” thought Fane, “if those
youngsters, Bruce and Oates, could see me now, what a story they’d make
of it!”
“You must make haste and get a wife, Mr Durham,” said Miss Betsey, whose
thoughts seemed to be taking a tender hue—“though, to be sure, you’re
not such a one for the ladies as Mr Langley was”—and here the old lady
commenced the relation of an anecdote, in which a certain housemaid,
whom she stigmatised as a hussy, bore a prominent part, but which we
will not rescue from the obscurity in which her somewhat indistinct
utterance veiled it.
Fane opened the old lady’s bedroom door, and, putting the candle on the
table, left her, not without a misgiving that she might possibly set
fire to her cap, and consequently to the ceiling. This fear impressed
him so much that he went back and removed it from her head, and with it
a row of magnificent brown curls, which formed its basis, and,
depositing the edifice, not without wonder, on the drawers, he wished
her good night, and retreated; but, hearing her door open when he had
got half-way along the passage, he looked back, and saw Miss Betsey’s
head, deprived of the meretricious advantages of hair, gauze, and
ribbon, protruded shiningly into the passage, as she smiled, with the
utmost blandness, a supplementary good night.
CORAL RINGS.[5]
Montgomery’s well-known lines in praise of the coral polyps have given
these animals a tolerable share of poetical celebrity. Mr Darwin’s
ingenious researches have invested them with a degree of importance
which elevates them to the rank of a great geological power. These
minute creatures are now entitled to a larger share of consideration
than the greatest and most skilful of quadrupeds can claim. All the
elephants and lions which have been quartered in this world since its
creation—all the whales and sharks which have prowled about in its
waters—have done much less to affect its physical features, and have
left far slighter evidences of their existence, than the zoophytes by
whose labours the coral formations have been reared. For the most
colossal specimens of industry we are indebted to one of the least
promising of animated things. Comparing their humble organisation with
that of other tribes, we feel pretty much the same sort of surprise as a
man might express were he told that the pyramids and temples of
antiquity had not been constructed by Egyptians or Romans, but by a race
like the Earthmen of Africa, or by a set of pigmies like the Aztecs now
exhibiting in London.
Though the works now before us have been long in the hands of the
public, the substance of their contents is far from being generally
known. Yet the beauty of the results at which their authors have
arrived, and the interest with which they have invested the coral reefs,
may well recommend these volumes to universal perusal. While Dana, more
than all his predecessors, has illustrated the natural history of the
little gelatinous creatures by which the coral is secreted, Darwin has
described the growth and consolidation of their labours into lofty and
extended reefs, and connected these with the broadest and most striking
phenomena of physical geology. The toiling of the minute zoophytes in
the production of vast masses of coral rock which wall round whole
islands, and stretch their mural barriers across deep and stormy seas,
he has shown to be successful only through the conjoined operation of
those wonderful physical forces which are now lifting and now lowering
large areas of the earth’s surface.
Mr Darwin’s views not only exhibit a charming sample of scientific
induction, but carry with them such an air of probability, that the most
cautious investigators may subscribe to them without any particular
demur. Being the result of very extensive inquiries, and confirmed by
collating the peculiarities of many reefs, they are grounded upon a
sufficient quantity of data to entitle them to reasonable confidence. We
propose, in the present article, to indicate some of the principle steps
in the theory which this gentleman has propounded; and that the reader
may examine them consecutively, we shall imagine an intelligent voyager
visiting the Pacific for the first occasion in his life. As he sails
across that noble sheet of water, observing with a philosophic eye every
object which presents itself to his view, he suddenly perceives in the
midst of the sea a long low range of rock against which the surf is
breaking with a tremendous roar. He is told that this is a coral reef;
and having read a little respecting these curious productions, he
resolves to investigate them carefully, in order to fathom, as far as
possible, the mystery of their origin. As he approaches, the spectacle
grows more interesting at every step. Trees seem to start up from the
bosom of the ocean, and to flourish on a beach which is strewed with
glistening sand, and washed by the spray of enormous billows. When
sufficiently near to survey the phenomenon as a whole, he perceives that
he has before him an extensive ring of stone, set in an expanse of
waters, and exhibiting the singular form of an annular island. Launching
a boat, and following the curve of the shore for some distance, he finds
at length an opening through which he penetrates into the interior of
the ring. Once entered, he floats smoothly on a transparent lake of
bright green water, which seems to have been walled in from the rest of
the ocean, as if it were a preserve for some sort of nautical game, or a
retreat for the more delicate class of marine divinities. Its bed is
partially covered with pure white sand, but partly also with a gay
growth of coral—the stems of this zoophyte branching out like a plant,
and exhibiting the most brilliant diversities of colour, so that the
floor of the lake glows like a sunken grove. All the hues of the
spectrum may be seen gleaming below, whilst fishes scarcely less
splendid in their tints glide to and fro in search of food amidst this
shrubbery of stone. A fringe of trees, consisting principally of
graceful palms, decorates the inner portion of the ring, and when
surveyed from the centre of the lagoon, this edging of verdure springing
up in the midst of the Pacific presents one of the most picturesque
sights the voyager can conceive. Indeed, as he contemplates the tranquil
lake within, and listens to the dash of the surf without—as he runs over
the features of this beautiful oasis in the wilderness of waters, we may
pardon him if he almost expects to be accosted by ocean nymphs or
startled mermaids, and indignantly expelled from their private retreat.
The whole structure is so striking, that the most careless observer must
feel some little curiosity to ascertain its origin. Our voyager regards
it with much the same sort of interest as an intelligent wanderer would
display, were he to stumble upon a ring of blocks like those at Abury or
Stonehenge in some distant desert. In order to pursue his inquiries
systematically, he proceeds to note down the principal characteristics
of the scene. The first peculiarity which arrests his consideration, is
the circular form which the rock assumes. Though far from constituting a
smooth and perfect ring, its outline is sufficiently definite to rivet
the attention at once. Then he observes that the outer portion of the
annulus scarcely rises above the level of the sea, whilst the inner
portion—the bank on which the belt of trees is mounted—is not more than
ten or twelve feet in height at the utmost. From this he infers that the
agency concerned in the formation of the structure was probably
restricted in its upward range. Next he notices that the ring
itself—that is, the wall of rock enveloping the lake, though by no means
uniform in breadth—is not more, perhaps, than three or four hundred
yards across in any part of its extent: this seems to say, that the
agency was also restrained by circumstances in its lateral expansion.
Again, as he runs his eye along the whole sweep of the reef, he remarks
that it is not quite continuous, the ring being broken here and there by
openings, through one of which he himself passed into the lagoon. If he
then endeavours to estimate the size of the whole formation with its
included lake, he may find it in this particular case to be eight or ten
miles in circumference. Should he stoop down to examine the material of
which the reef is composed, he will discover it to be dead coral rock
mixed with sand where it is not washed by the sea; but on breaking off a
fragment where it is covered with water, he may observe multitudes of
little worms, or curiously shaped polyps, which, incompetent as they
seem, are in reality the architects of the pile. But perhaps the most
significant circumstance to be noticed is the difference in depth
between the internal lagoon and the external ocean. If he takes
soundings within the reef, he ascertains that the water is comparatively
shallow, the slope of the rock beneath the lake being tolerably gentle,
and the depth rarely more than thirty or forty fathoms. Let him cross
the ring, however, pushing his way through the belt of trees; and on
trying the experiment in the contrary direction, seawards, he finds that
the ground shelves downwards gradually under the water, until it reaches
a depth of five-and-twenty fathoms, after which it plunges precipitously
into the abyss. So abrupt, indeed, does the descent become when this
point has been attained, that at the distance of a hundred yards from
the reef he cannot reach the bottom of the sea with a line of two
hundred fathoms. If, then, our explorer were capable of existing under
water for a while, and could be lowered to the bed of the ocean, he
would see before him an enormous cone or mound of rock shooting upwards
through the liquid to a prodigious height, its summit being hollowed
into a kind of cup or shallow basin, the rim of this lofty vase just
peering above the level of the waves, and its interior being partially
inlaid with a gorgeous and flower-like growth of coral.
Now, without glancing at minor details, it must be admitted that our
voyager has stumbled upon a fine physical problem. As the Round Towers
of Ireland have constituted one of the most perplexing questions on
shore, so these coral towers of the tropics seem to present an equally
perplexing mystery for the sea. In the course of his researches,
however, he detects a circumstance which appears to be perfectly
paradoxical. Climbing the cliff from the bottom of the ocean, he
perceives that the creatures which produce the coral cannot exist at any
greater depths below the surface than from twenty to five-and-twenty
fathoms. Within that limit, upwards, the rock is covered with life;
below, it is tenantless and dead. Yet, descending as the structure of
coral does to immeasurably greater depths, the question naturally
arises—how could the animal ever toil where it cannot even live? How has
that part of the edifice, which lies buried in a region where no sunbeam
ever pierces, been built by architects whose range of activity is
comparatively so restricted?
Brooding over an inquiry, which only adds fuel to his curiosity, he
proceeds on his cruise. He has already noted the prominent features of
one particular reef, which exhibits a coral construction in its simplest
shape—namely, as a ring enclosing a lagoon. He now falls in with
specimen after specimen of a similar class, and carefully observes the
differences in character they present. In point of shape, he finds that
some are oval, others greatly elongated, and many very jagged and
irregular in their form. Here is one like a bow, and there another like
a horse shoe, whilst none can be said to be geometrically round. In
regard to size, he meets with reefs which are a single mile only in
diameter, and then with others, which amount to as many as fifty, sixty,
or even more. If he compares the various rings, he observes that some
are perforated by few openings, and in rare cases there are none—the
fissures having apparently been filled up with sand or detritus, so as
to form a continuous girdle round the lake. But, in other instances, the
reef is so freely intersected by these openings, that the ring itself
may be said to consist of a series of small islands arranged upon an
extensive curve. In general, however, he perceives that the channels
connecting the ocean with the lagoon are confined more especially to
that side of the structure which is least exposed to the action of the
wind; and as he is sailing within the region of the trade-winds, the
portion of the reef which fronts the breeze and the billow perpetually,
appears to be more lofty and substantial than the other. Glancing, too,
at the bank which carries the fringe of trees, he observes that it never
seems to rise higher than a certain level in any case whatever; and as
he finds that it consists chiefly of sand and sediment, he concludes
that it has been heaped up by the waves themselves. The vegetation,
indeed, which frequently gives such a gay and graceful aspect to coral
rocks, does not always gladden the eye; but where it is wanting, he
infers that the circumstances which favour the dissemination of seeds or
the growth of plants, have failed to operate as yet, but may, perhaps,
in process of time produce their accustomed effects. Comparing also the
depth of the lagoons with that of the surrounding ocean, he ascertains
that the striking discrepancy which attracted his attention in the first
reef he examined, obtains to a considerable degree in every subsequent
instance: however shallow the sea may be within the ring, its depth
rapidly increases, and frequently becomes quite unfathomable at no great
distance without. Finding, then, that though certain differences exist
in the formations he has already inspected, yet certain general features
of resemblance invariably prevail, he concludes that all of these
structures are due to the operation of a kindred agency. But here there
arises another perplexing question. If he must admit—and the admission
is inevitable—that the coral polyps have been the builders of these
piles, how can he suppose that a number of small animals, each labouring
separately, as it were, could erect an immense wall of rock, leagues in
circumference, which, though far from regular in its composition, shall
yet exhibit any marked approach to a circle, an oval, a horse shoe, or
any other symmetrical form? Still more, how could they build, not one,
but innumerable reefs, differing in various particulars, but all
indicating some common principle of construction? How is he to explain
the appearance of co-operation, where, from the nature of the creatures,
he cannot imagine any intentional co-operation to exist? A troop of
moles working beneath a field will never cast up a succession of
hillocks in such a way that they will all combine to form a spacious
circle, or any other regular and definite figure. If, therefore, he is
compelled to believe that a number of insignificant creatures like the
coral polyps are capable of executing such prodigious undertakings,
wanting, as they do, the intelligence which enables higher beings to
carry out a coherent scheme, he must look for an explanation, not in the
_instincts_ of the animals, but in the _conditions_ under which they
pursue their toils.
Hitherto, however, our voyager has only encountered reefs of one
class—namely, “atolls,” or lagoon islands. He looks anxiously,
therefore, in the hope of falling in with a specimen of a different
description. He knows that if a process is too slow in its action to
admit of direct observation, yet its character may probably be
ascertained by comparing several cases where the same agency is
employed—that is, by criticising the phenomenon in distinct stages of
development. He proceeds on his voyage, and at length is fortunate
enough to meet with a coral formation which varies in type from those
already inspected. There is the same sort of ring springing hastily from
the sea; but instead of an internal lagoon, the central space is
occupied by a beautiful and populous island, leaving only a belt of
water between the reef and the shore. Where all the elements of such a
scene are sufficiently defined, a more charming spectacle can hardly be
conceived. The land appears like a pleasant picture framed in coral.
Round a group of mountains, forming the nucleus of the isle, there runs
a verdant zone of soil—next comes a girdle of tranquil water—then a ring
of coral—and last, a band of snowy breakers, where the swell of the
ocean is shattered into surf. The island of Tahiti, whose mountains rise
to the height of seven thousand feet, and whose greatest breadth is
about thirty-six miles, is almost encompassed by a reef of this
description. When this spot is approached so as to make the separate
objects visible, the appearance becomes quite striking. “Even upon the
steep surface of the cliff, vegetation abounds; the belt of low land is
covered with the tropical trees peculiar to Polynesia, while the high
peaks and wall-faced mountains in the rear are covered with vines and
creeping plants. This verdure is seen to rise from a quiet girdle of
water, which is again surrounded by a line of breakers dashing in
snow-white foam on the encircling reefs of coral.”[6] Perhaps, however,
the descent of the waves upon the ring—curling and chafing like coursers
suddenly curbed—constitutes the most magnificent feature of the scene.
“The long rolling billows of the Pacific, arrested by this natural
barrier, often rise ten, twelve, or fourteen feet above its surface, and
then, bending over it, their foaming tops form a graceful liquid arch,
glittering in the rays of a tropical sun, as if studded with brilliants;
but before the eyes of the spectator can follow the splendid aqueous
gallery which they appear to have reared, with loud and hollow roar they
fall in magnificent desolation, and spread the gigantic fabric in froth
and spray upon the horizontal and gently broken surface of the
coral.”[7]
With a reef like this before him our explorer may now collect some
additional data which will help him a few steps onward in his inquiry.
The distinction between a formation of this class and those of the
former description, consists principally in the substitution of an
internal island for a lagoon. Were that island pared away or dug out, a
simple lake surrounded by a ring of coral rock would be left. The one
structure would pass into the other by the erasure of the central land.
But here again he has stumbled over a difficulty apparently as great as
any he has previously encountered; for it would be preposterous to
suppose that large areas or lofty hills could be readily expunged from
the surface of the earth. There is a stage, however—call it rather a
pause—in the reasoning process, when the great master of inductive logic
recommends that, after having arranged all our available facts, and
extracted from them all the inferences they can legitimately supply, we
should allow the mind to take a little leap forward, just by way of
venture, and see what conclusions it will suggest. In short, we are to
send for the imagination, yoke it to the materials we have accumulated,
and observe in what direction it will conduct us. Our explorer does
this. He sets that faculty to work—with due discretion, however—and in a
short time it hints to him that islands may possibly _sink down slowly_
in the ocean by the action of the subterranean forces. And if so, would
not that explain everything?
He proceeds, therefore, to inquire how this supposition will work; for
there are many conditions which it must satisfy, and many puzzles which
it must solve, before its probability can be affirmed. In the first
place, the coral polyps, as we have seen, can only operate within a
limited depth of water, which has been roughly fixed at twenty or
five-and-twenty fathoms. Mr Dana, indeed, considers that sixteen fathoms
will perhaps measure the whole extent of the region assigned to the
principal artificers. Consequently, when the creatures laid the
foundation of any particular reef, they must have done so in shoal
water, or in the neighbourhood of land. Next, where a small isle issues
from a profound sea, it will in general be tolerably regular in shape;
because, with relation to the bed of that sea, it must in reality be a
kind of mountain: therefore, as the coral builders find the requisite
range of water in the zone which encircles the shore, the reef they form
will be tolerably regular too. Hence the circular or curvilinear outline
which these structures generally assume. Then, if, after the basement of
such a ring has been laid, the land should begin to descend slowly, the
polyps must proceed to raise the edifice storey after storey, for thus
alone can they keep themselves within the region of vitality; and here
we have an explanation of the singular fact, that the reef, where it
constitutes a true atoll, or coral-lagoon, usually ascends to the level
of the sea. A singular fact we call it; because, if we consider how
variable are the heights of any series of mountains on land, the
equality of stature which distinguishes these marine elevations is
certainly a remarkable result. If it were possible for some great giant
to run the palm of his hand along the tops of the Andes or Himalayas, it
would describe a very irregular sweep, rising or falling with every peak
it visited; but were he to draw it over the summits of a succession of
atolls, though these might stretch through a space thousands of miles in
length, he would scarcely perceive any difference whatever in point of
altitude. It will be seen, therefore, that the uniformity characterising
these Alps of the ocean is a circumstance which our explorer’s
hypothesis readily solves. But in raising their embankment higher, it is
clear that the animals must build up vertically, and hence the abrupt or
precipitous face which it presents externally towards the deep water.
Landwards, again—that is, within the reef—the pigmy architects will
labour more feebly, because it is found that the kind of polyps which
exist in smooth still water are more delicate in their productions than
their gallant little brethren who flourish amongst the breakers. This
serves to explain, again, why there is an interval of fluid left between
the rising reef and the sinking shore; but as the land subsides, the
space which it occupies within the magic ring will obviously diminish,
whilst the space covered by water will proportionately increase. The
girdle of coral will not maintain its original dimensions, because the
polyps will probably incline inwards, instead of building directly
upwards; but the contraction of the ring will proceed slowly, because
the wall is invariably steep seawards, even if it should not be
altogether precipitous. Finally, when the island is fairly drowned, when
we have got its whole body well under water, we shall have an enormous
mass of coral raised by successive additions of coral skeletons, and
resting upon a basis which may be hundreds of feet below the level of
the sea. A zone of rock, constituting the rim of the structure, will
just show itself above the waves, whilst within this zone sleeps a
shallow lake, where the polyps, for various reasons, have not followed
the growth of the ring with equal rapidity, or where the sediment
deposited has not accumulated in sufficient quantities to fill up the
interior. And when the lake is obliterated, as ultimately it may be,
either by the labours of the feebler animals, or by the deposition of
detritus from the reef, we shall have the platform of a new country
where tropical forests may some day flourish, where towns and villages
may hereafter arise, and where man may exhibit the strange and mingled
play of virtue and vice, which has marked his footsteps from the first.
“The calcareous sand lies undisturbed, and offers, to the seeds of trees
and plants cast upon it by the waves, a soil upon which they rapidly
grow, to overshadow its dazzling white surface. Entire trunks of trees,
which are carried by the rivers from other countries and islands, find
here, at length, a resting-place, after many wanderings: with these come
some small animals, such as insects and lizards, as the first
inhabitants. Even before the trees form a wood, the sea-birds nestle
here; stray land-birds take refuge in the bushes; and at a much later
period, when the work has been long since completed, man appears, and
builds his hut on the fruitful soil.”[8]
Thus, it will be seen that the supposition of a slow descent of the land
appears to meet the prominent requirements of the case; and however
startling the assumption might seem when first suggested, yet the
pressure of certain conditions, which this theory alone can sustain,
renders its adoption almost, if not altogether, inevitable. But, says
the explorer, if this hypothesis be correct, it should follow that, as
the sinking isle may vary in altitude in different parts—as it may have
several peaks or elevated districts—all these higher portions must be
left projecting out of the water for some time after the lower lands
have been entirely submerged. Accordingly, we may expect to discover
coral reefs, containing within their circuit several small islands, the
relics of some larger district which has died a watery death. And this
is just what frequently occurs. The two isles of Raiatea and Tahaa, for
example, are included in one reef. The group known as Gambier’s Islands
consists of four large and a few smaller islets encircled by a single
ring. The reef of Hogoleu, which is one hundred and thirty-five miles in
circuit, contains ten or eleven islands in its spacious lagoon.
So, again, says our explorer, as islands are frequently arranged in
clusters, it should follow that, if the areas whereon any of these
groups were stationed, have subsided, whole _archipelagoes_ of coral
reefs ought to exist. And some of these archipelagoes may be expected to
exhibit a series of perfect lagoons, where the land has been fairly
submerged; whilst others, where the process is less advanced, or the
ground more elevated, ought to present a series of reef-encircled
islands merely. Here also the theory is fully corroborated by facts. Low
Archipelago is composed of about eighty atolls; and of the thirty-two
groups examined by Captain Beechy, twenty-nine then possessed the
internal lakes which we have seen are characteristic of this class; the
remaining three having passed, as he believed, from the same condition
originally to the dignity of closed or consolidated reefs. The Society
Archipelago, again, consists of tolerably elevated islands, encircled by
coral ledges, and lying in a direction almost parallel to the last.
Indeed, it will be readily imagined that the shape and character of the
coral formations must be considerably influenced by the nature of the
site upon which they are reared. They will assume different aspects
according to the physical configuration of the land to be entombed. They
must be interrupted where the water is too deep, or the shore too
precipitous to permit the artificers to acquire a proper footing. They
will exhibit breaches where the descent of cold streams from the
mountain heights, or the presence of mud carried down by rivers,
rendered it impracticable for the creatures to pursue their avocations.
They may also adopt peculiar forms where the lowering of the ground may
not have taken place gradually, or where, from some eccentric action of
the subterranean force, one portion may have sunk under different
circumstances from the rest. A reef may, therefore, be submerged in
part, or, as in some instances, throughout its whole extent. Thus, in
the Peros Banhos Atoll, forming a member of the Chagos group in the
Indian Ocean, a portion of the ring dips under water for a distance of
about nine miles. This sunken segment consists of a wall of dead coral
rock, lying at an average depth of five fathoms below the surface, but
corresponding in breadth and curve with the exposed reef, of which it is
obviously the complement. Or a ring may be wholly submarine. The same
group affords, amongst others, an admirable example of this in the
Speaker’s Bank, which is described as a well-defined annulus of dead
coral, let down into the sea to a depth of six or eight fathoms, with a
lagoon twenty-two fathoms deep and twenty-four miles across. It is
apparently a drowned atoll. Hence from these, or from other causes, such
as the action of the sea, the killing of the zoophytes by exposure or
otherwise, we may have several modifications of the model reef.
As yet we have only mentioned two principal types of structure—first,
the _atolls_ or coral-lagoons; and, second, the _encircling reefs_. But
we may here refer, in a sentence or two, to a third and an important
class—namely, the _barrier reefs_. These are extensive lines of coral
masonry, which pursue their course at a considerable distance from the
shore, but with a degree of conformity to its outline, sufficient to
prove that some relationship subsists between them. They do not,
however, surround an island like the encircling reefs. The West Coast of
New Caledonia is armed with a reef of this character, 400 miles in
length; but in some parts it is sixteen miles distant from the shore,
and seldom approaches it nearer than eight miles in any other quarter.
This great ledge of coral rock is, moreover, prolonged for 150 miles at
the northern extremity of the island; and then, returning in the form of
a loop, and terminating on the opposite shore, seems to intimate that,
in ancient days, New Caledonia was of much greater extent in this
direction than it is at present. There is a still more magnificent
specimen of the barrier reef on the north-east of Australia. This noble
coral ridge is a thousand miles in length. Its distance from the coast
is generally between twenty and thirty miles, but occasionally as much
as seventy. The depth of the sea within the barrier is from ten to
twenty-five fathoms, but at the southern extremity it increases to
forty, or even sixty. On the other side, without the barrier, the ocean
is almost unfathomable. The breadth of this embankment varies from a few
hundred yards to a mile, and it is only at distant intervals that it is
intersected by channels through which vessels may enter. It is a
causeway for giants, and yet the architects were mere polyps!
It is time, however, that our voyager should proceed to verify the
supposition his fancy suggested. As yet he has adduced no proof that
subsidence is, or has been, the order of the day where its results are
supposed to appear. He knows that mountains and islands must not be sunk
by a mere assumption, however plausibly that assumption may seem to
solve the mystery of the reefs. Now, it is an admitted fact that, in
certain parts of the globe, extensive regions have been hoisted up, some
suddenly, some slowly; whilst others have gone down in the world just as
suddenly or as slowly. The coast of Chili and the adjoining district, as
is well known, were once elevated several feet, throughout an area of
perhaps 100,000 square miles, in the course of a single night. Sweden
has long been rising in its northern portion, and sinking in its
southern, as if it were playing at see-saw on a magnificent scale. But
we want evidence from the coral localities themselves. Of course, from
the nature of the case, the testimony must necessarily be somewhat
limited; because the question relates to a tardy movement, operating
through ages, and occurring in regions which may be wholly uninhabited,
or else peopled by tattooed and unphilosophical savages. But there seems
to be tolerable proof for the purpose in hand. For instance, in an
island called Pouynipate, in the Caroline Archipelago, one voyager
describes the ruins of a town which is now accessible only by boats, the
waves reaching to the steps of the houses. Of course, it is not likely
that the founders of that place would build their habitations in the
water; and, therefore, it must be inferred that this spot is in course
of depression. Such, according to theory, should be its condition,
because it consists of land encircled by a reef—that is, of land which
must all vanish before the formation can be converted into a true
coral-lagoon. At Keeling Island, again, Mr Darwin observed a storehouse,
the basement of which was originally above highwater, but which was then
daily washed by the tide. Many other instances of the same sort might be
advanced; but there is still more striking evidence on this point,
perhaps, in the existence of certain reefs which may now be introduced
as links in the theory, or rather as tests by which its validity may be
tried. These have been styled “shore” or “fringing” reefs. They differ
from the other classes in the shallowness of the foundation on which
they rest, and in the closeness of their approach to the land—either
lining the shore itself, or, if separated, leaving a channel of no great
depth between the coral bank and the coast. Wherever these exist, it is
clear that the soil is stationary, or that it must be in course of
elevation. It cannot be undergoing depression, because the coral beds
would increase in thickness, and graduate into another class of
structure. And in many instances where these fringes abound, there is
the clearest proof, derived from organic remains, and other geological
evidences, that the land has been actually upraised. A resident at Oahu,
one of the Sandwich Islands (which are all fringed), stated that, from
changes effected within a period of sixteen years only, he was satisfied
that the work of elevation was proceeding at a very perceptible rate.
Indeed, in numerous cases of this kind, coral deposits are found at a
height where it is as certain that the polyps could never have toiled,
as it is certain that fishes could never have lived. But elevation in
one quarter implies depression in another. And, accordingly, it has been
shown that the Pacific and Indian Oceans might almost be divided into a
series of great bands, where the bed of the sea has alternately risen
and sunk—just as if in one band the crust of the earth had been heaped
up into a great solid wave, and in the next had subsided into a huge
submarine trough or valley. For it happens that the reefs abounding over
one of these areas belong almost universally to the class of formation
which, according to theory, indicates that the ground is subsiding,
whilst those which distinguish the next area are quite of the opposite
description, and intimate that the crust is rising. Thus, for example,
if we select the broadest illustration available, it will be seen, on
referring to a map of the Pacific, that there is an extensive chain of
islands, beginning to the west of the Caroline Archipelago, and running
through Low Archipelago—a distance of several thousand miles—the whole
family of which belong to the type denoting depression; whilst there is
another long chain of islands, corresponding or parallel, in some
measure, with the first, and extending, say from Sumatra to the
south-east of the Friendly Isles, most of which indicate, by their
reefs, that they belong to the type denoting elevation.
The general coincidence, therefore, of fringing reefs with raised or
stationary districts, and of atolls or lagoons with regions which appear
to be subsiding, affords considerable support to the theory our voyager
is maturing. But there is another remarkable criterion, which in due
time he contrives to discover. In the districts where fringing reefs
occur, or where the coral has been plainly uplifted, active volcanoes
are frequently established. But where reefs of the contrary character
prevail, these agents are rarely, if ever, to be found. Of course, where
a volcano presents itself in any particular locality, and especially if
it happens to be a volcano in a state of activity, this shows that the
subterranean forces are disposed to upheave the soil above them;
whereas, if volcanoes are wanting in another quarter, or if, being
there, their activity has ceased, the conclusion is, that in this region
no upward tendency at present exists. Now, this test, too, is in
striking accordance with geographical fact. The two great chains of
reefs already mentioned may again be adduced. In the series of atolls or
subsiding islands extending from Caroline Archipelago to Low
Archipelago, not a single working volcano is to be detected within
several hundred miles of any moderate cluster; whereas, in the band or
series of isles which are characterised by fringes, numbers of these
powerful agents are busily engaged; and in some of them, as, for
instance, in Java, the subterranean forces are known to be intensely
energetic. In fact, it may be stated as a pretty authentic conclusion,
that whilst volcanoes frequently appear in those areas where the crust
of the earth is now, or has recently been, in upward motion, “they are
invariably absent in those where the surface has lately subsided, or is
still subsiding.”[9]
At the same time, it may be interesting to remark, that whilst busy
volcanoes are thus shown to be irreconcilable with the presence of true
atolls, yet at one period the theory most in fashion assumed that all
coral-lagoons were mere submarine craters, whose rims had been coated
with calcareous matter by the coral polyps. However plausible this
hypothesis might seem when applied to a few particular cases, its
insufficiency was soon discovered when a considerable number of reefs
had been compared, and when the order of transition from one type to
another was clearly understood. The vast size of some of these
atolls—the elongated shape which many assume—the mode in which they are
frequently clustered—the precipitousness of their flanks, rendered it
difficult, if not impossible, to treat them as drowned Etnas or Heclas.
Then the equal altitudes they must have attained as submarine mounts, is
totally inexplicable, if the fact of the limited operations of the
polyps be admitted; for it would be preposterous to imagine that
thousands of volcanic cones could all rise to the surface of the sea, or
within a range of five-and-twenty fathoms, and yet never overtop the
waves to a greater height than a dozen feet. But, above all, the
existence of coral rings, with land in the interior—where, if the theory
were correct, a large cavity should have taken the place of primitive
rocks, exhibiting no signs of volcanic action—has proved utterly fatal
to the theory. It is manifest that Tahiti, for example, with its lofty
mountains, could never have been the centre-piece of a huge crater; and
it is certain that a volcanic vent would not assume the shape of a mere
moat, like the girdle of water which encompasses an ancient castle.
Combining, then, the various data already adduced, and observing that
there is a general harmony in the results, our voyager may reasonably
conclude that his theory has now been mounted upon a tolerably fair
basis of facts. He has explained the seeming paradoxes which thrust
themselves upon his view at the earlier stages of the inquiry. He has
brought all the different varieties of coral formations under the grasp
of one law, and shown how, by the continued operation of a subsiding
force and the continued addition of coral skeletons, the “fringing” reef
would pass into an “encircling” reef, and this again would graduate into
a perfect “atoll.” It is true that in doing this he has been compelled
to draw a pretty picture of the fluctuations to which the earth’s crust
is exposed. Large areas are supposed to sink in one quarter, and to rise
in another. Here and there a spot which has once been lowered may again
be uplifted; and this fitful movement may, in the course of ages, be
repeated, as if to show what “ups-and-downs” a poor island may be called
upon to endure. He knows, indeed, that his theory trenches upon the
marvellous. Were it not for the light which geology has latterly thrown
upon the pranks played by the Earth in its youthful days, he is aware
that his hypothesis would be condemned as a thing far too romantic for
belief.
But perhaps the most surprising circumstance, after all, is, that such
stupendous structures should really be fashioned by such puny
artificers. When he turns his attention to the builders themselves, he
finds that they are little better than lumps of jelly.[10] The workmen,
who far surpass, in the vastness of their erections, all the proud
masonry of man, belong to the lowest classes of animated things. They
are half-plant, half-animal. Until the commencement of the last century,
indeed, their pretensions to a higher dignity than that of marine
vegetables was denied; and when a certain M. Peyssonel interested
himself on their behalf, and endeavoured to raise them to a higher
position in the scale of organisation, his proposal was treated with
much the same sort of derision as if he had demanded the admission of
monkeys into the ranks of humanity. These zoophytes consist, in the
main, of a mere visceral cavity, containing no distinct system of
vessels, exhibiting no decided appearance of nerves, possessing no other
senses than an imperfect touch and taste, and certainly manifesting no
distinction of sex. They are simply digestive sacs, for which a troop of
tentacles are continually foraging: they eat, drink, secrete coral,
throw off young polyps, and die, without in general wandering an inch
from the place where they were produced.
Of all living things we should least expect that creatures so imbecile
as these would be able to run up great embankments capable of repelling
billows which sometimes roll along in an unbroken ridge of a mile or two
in length, or of resisting a surf whose roar may be heard at the
distance of eight or nine miles. That a feeble zoophyte should have the
power of breasting the waves of the Pacific, did we not know it to be a
fact, would appear a more preposterous notion than that of the memorable
lady who attempted to keep the Atlantic out of her dwelling with a mop.
No other animals seem to possess a faculty at all approaching to this:
none exhibit a constructive propensity which leads to such massive
results. The bee, for example, produces more geometrical works, but we
cannot conceive of a honeycomb as large as a county, or a mountain of
cells as tall as Skiddaw or Snowdon. It would be absurd to dream of
fabricating a reef of sponge, though, if its animal character be
admitted, this creature will almost hold as high a rank in life as the
coral polyp; nor would it be pardonable to imagine that such a miserable
material could ever become the basis of a new island. The beaver, it is
true, executes very extensive dams; he is an excellent carpenter—perhaps
the most skilful four-footed artisan with which we are acquainted; but
put him in the midst of a boisterous sea, to erect a great circular
rampart fifty or a hundred miles in diameter, with the billows tumbling
about his ears continually, and he might just as well have contracted to
build the Plymouth Breakwater, or the Eddystone Lighthouse. In fact, if
we consider what difficulty men have in achieving their simplest
specimens of marine architecture, it may be said that, were a whole
nation of human beings set to work in the Pacific, they could not
accomplish one of the colossal enterprises which these morsels of pulp
silently effect.
What renders the undertaking more surprising is, that these soft-bodied
things have to _make rock_ for themselves; they have to provide the very
stone which constitutes the edifice they build; they have not only to
find straw to produce their bricks, as it were, but to procure the clay
itself. The hard coral composing their edifices is the internal skeleton
of the animals, and appears to be a secretion from their own tissues.
Chemical analysis has shown that it consists principally of carbonate of
lime—upwards of 95 parts out of every 100—including also small
quantities of silica, alumina, magnesia, iron, fluorine, and phosphoric
acid. It is remarkable, however, that this secreted matter is harder
than calcareous spar or common marble—much harder, indeed, says Mr Dana,
than its peculiar chemical composition will explain. “Using an iron
mortar,” observes Mr B. Silliman, junior, “in the earlier trials, the
iron pestle was roughened and cut under the resistance of the angular
masses of coral, to a degree quite remarkable, considering the nature of
the substance operated on. So much iron was communicated to the powder
from this source, that recourse was had to a mortar of porcelain; and
even this was not proof against wear, the porcelain pestle being pitted
by the repeated blows. The more porous species, of course, were crushed
with less difficulty.” Whence, then, do the animals procure the
materials which they fashion into such dense and enormous piles? Here
are millions of tons of calcareous matter heaped up by their agency, and
yet there is no visible storehouse from which they can obtain any solid
supplies. For as the land subsides, the builders of the reef are cut off
from the shore: there is little but coral beneath them—there is nothing
but water around them. It must therefore be from the billows of the
ocean that the creatures possess the power of picking out the small
quantity of carbonate of lime which the fluid contains. Their food may,
of course, contribute to the supply; but from what source again did the
minute animals they devour procure their stock of salts and earths?
It is singular, too, to observe how limited is the sphere of activity
assigned to these creatures. In order to complete a reef, it is not
sufficient that one tribe or species alone should be employed; the
Madrepores, Astræas, and Gemmipores are the principal masons engaged;
but each structure exhibits considerable diversity of workmen. There are
some polyps, as we have seen, which love the contention of the surf, and
thrive only when exposed to the play of the waves; there are others
which covet a more tranquil life, and prosper only in the peaceful
lagoon. Neither could change places with safety, any more than the
reindeer could barter climates with the camel. A reef might almost be
divided into a number of zones, in each of which a particular sort of
coral polyp finds its appropriate habitat. The sea-front of the ring
appears to be partitioned into belts, like the vegetable regions on the
slope of a mountain. “The corals on the margin of Keeling Island,” says
Mr Darwin, “occurred in zones: thus the _Porites_ and _Millepora
complanata_ grow to a large size only where they are washed by a heavy
sea, and are killed by a short exposure to the air; whereas three
species of _Nullipora_ also live amidst the breakers, but are able to
survive uncovered for a part of each tide. At greater depths a strong
_Madrepora_ and _Millepora alcicornis_ are the commonest kinds, the
former appearing to be confined to this part. Beneath the zone of
massive corals, minute encrusting corallines and other organic bodies
live.” Thus, even in the limited range allotted to these zoophytes, we
have a minute illustration of the law which has been so admirably
developed by Professor Edward Forbes—that the bed of the sea exhibits a
series of regions, each peopled, according to its depth, by its peculiar
inhabitants.
But if the creatures which are employed in the erection of the reefs are
restricted to so narrow a field of exertion, a very peculiar provision
has fitted them for the work they have to perform. This consists in what
is called their _acrogenous_ mode of increase. If, for example, the
zoophytes assume the form of a plant, it is not the whole mass which is
alive, but only a very small portion at the summit and at the
extremities of the branches. All the remainder of the stem and boughs
has been converted into dead coral. To grow, with them, is therefore to
mount. The skeleton of the young animal is hoisted upon that of its
defunct predecessor. Some zoophytes, like the Goniopores, spring up in
columns to the height of two or three feet; and to each of these coral
pillars a capital of live polyps, two or three inches in extent, is
affixed. Or if the creatures assume a more clustered or globular form,
as is the case with many of the Astrææ, Porites, and others, the depth
of life in the mass is extremely small. A dome of Astræas, twelve feet
in diameter, is supposed to consist of a thin film of living polyps,
extending not more than half or three quarters of an inch below the
surface—a solid nucleus of coral being, in fact, merely coated with
vitality. It is to this property of upward and outward growth that we
must ascribe the prodigious power these animals possess. Their labours
are _cumulative_; and hence, though in themselves the most insignificant
of creatures, they are enabled to heap up tier after tier of skeletons,
until the mountain which has sunk in the waters is rivalled by the
monument they erect upon its site.
If we wish, however, to form some conception of the marvels which these
zoophytes accomplish, we have only to remember that the coral formations
in the Pacific occupy an area of four or five thousand miles in length,
and then to imagine what a picture that ocean would exhibit were it
suddenly drained. We should walk amongst huge mounds which had been
cased and capped with the stone these animals had secreted. Prodigious
cones would rise from the ground, all towering to the same altitude, and
reflecting the light of the sun from their white summits with dazzling
intensity. Here and there we should come to a huge platform, once a
large island, whose peaks, as they sank, were clothed in coral, and then
prolonged upwards until they rose before us like the columns of some
huge temple which had been commenced by the Anakims of an antediluvian
world. If, as Champollion has said, the edifices of ancient Egypt seem
to have been designed by men fifty feet high, here, whilst wandering
amongst these strange monuments, we might almost fancy that beings
hundreds of yards in stature had been planting the pillars of some
colossal city, which they never lived to complete. But the builders, as
we have seen, were mere worms; the quarry from which they dug their
masonry was the limpid wave; and the vast structures which have been
calmly upreared in the midst of a tempestuous sea, are the workmanship
of creatures which possess neither bodily strength nor high animal
instinct. That duties so important should have been assigned to beings
so lowly, is one of the finest moral facts science has unfolded. It is
the function of the coral polyp, under the present geological
dispensation, to counteract the distant volcano, and to repair in some
degree the ravages of the subterranean fires. Its task is to fasten upon
a sinking island, and keep its top on a level with the sea. The
haughtiest of physical forces—that which sometimes shakes great
continents—which lifts or lowers whole regions in a night—is often kept
in check by the industry of these diminutive things. When the earth’s
crust is collapsing, and it becomes necessary to fill up the vacancy,
the commission is not given to any gigantic workmen, but a number of
mere polyps are bid to labour upon the subsiding soil, as if to show
that the Creator could employ the humblest of His creatures in executing
the largest of physical undertakings.
THE AGED DISCIPLE COMFORTING.