A FAIRY POOL--WONDERS OF THE DEEP--PORTRAIT OF A POET--THE CAVE OF
FAUCONNAIRE--A LETTER FROM HOME AND MY ANSWER TO IT.
As the weather towards the end of winter was very uncertain, I did but
little boat-fishing, except on very fine days, when the sea was fairly
calm, and I had a longing for a certain kind of fish. At such times I
would embark for an hour or two, and rarely came home empty-handed.
Crabs and lobsters I soon got tired of, and I think most people who
could eat their fill of them for the mere catching would do the same;
but a nice sole or slice of turbot takes a long time to satiate one's
appetite.
Although little could be done in the garden or field during the winter
days I was never idle; that is, I never indulged in lying in bed or
letting the time slip dreamily by, so as to induce the belief that I was
enjoying myself. No, that would not suit me at all, for my disposition
was to be ever on the go--seeing, hearing, or trying to learn something.
Thus I knew almost every rock and cranny round the island, as I was
always poking and ogling into odd crannies and pools to see what I could
discover. Among my favourite places was the Fauconnaire, which being
surrounded at every tide, was always having fresh life and vegetation
brought to it by the ever-moving sea.
There were many pools and wonderful little caves round this curious,
conical island, of which I knew, and into whose recesses I loved to pry;
and although I visited them frequently they seemed ever new to me.
There was, facing due east, a large mass of rock near the foot of the
Fauconnaire, upon which I often sat on a calm day, looking down into the
mysteries of the sea. The water was so wonderfully clear, that at a
depth of twenty feet I could see every pebble and bunch of weed as
plainly as if only a sheet of glass hid them from view. This was to me
very remarkable, as on the sandy east coast of England, an object two or
three feet beneath the surface is hidden from the eye by the
discolouration of the water, caused by the sand and soft clay cliffs.
Here I could look down at one of the most lovely gardens the eye of man
ever rested upon.
It was a wonderfully diversified collection of marine plants of all
sizes, shapes, and colours; in fact, a perfect marine paradise. The
colours embraced every hue of green, from the pale tint of a cut
cucumber to the darkest shade of bronze, merging upon blackness. The
yellow plants embraced every tint of yellow and orange imaginable, while
the pinks ran the whole gamut of shades of that colour.
The forms and sizes of this enchanting garden of flowers without
blossom were as varied as the colours. On the rocky slopes adhered tiny
anemonæ; lower down were other bushy weeds growing in all forms and
positions, while further away in the deeper water rose up great feathery
fronds and waving arms, like the tentacles of some giant octopus feeling
for its prey. This bed of snake-like brown arms was a weird spot, which
only wanted a mermaid or two to make it complete; but I, as a _mere
man_, could only complete the picture by magnifying in my mind's eye the
innumerable fishes which swam in and out among the luxuriance of marine
vegetation, so as to fancy them mermaidens, and thus people this
wonderful water palace.
The fish sometimes came along in shoals, principally the spotted
rock-fish, which seemed to be painted by nature to resemble the colours
of the surrounding rocks, stones, and sea-weed. Sometimes they would
appear singly, swimming hurriedly, just giving the leaves a pat with
their tails, as if closing the door behind them. These seemed to be
messengers, for presently others of a larger size would come along more
leisurely, as if to clear the way, and in a short time would appear
quite a shoal of these beautiful fish of all sizes, forming a
procession, as if they had some kind of carnival or festival afoot, and
were making the most of the day.
What a spot for a poet to muse in! How he could roll his azure eyes and
comb out his locks with his lily-white taper fingers, and gaze into
space for a word to rhyme! How he would wrinkle his lofty brow, compress
his cupidon upper lip, and unloose his _negligé_ necktie, to give room
for his bosom to swell with pride at the enchanting poem which would, at
the picture before him, be sure to flow from the tip of his pretty
little golden stylographic pen! At least this is how I fancy a poet must
act, but never having seen one of those wonderful beings at work, I
have, like the said poet, to get my picture from the source of some of
his best work--the imagination.
But a truce to badinage. True poetry is not a thing to laugh at and
disdain, for it is the salt of life, which makes existence endurable,
and gives a savour to our worldly toil.
Pierce, a modern poet, hits off the shores of Jethou capitally, thus:
"Lucent wave!
Flash in sparkling bells
On the coloured stones and tiny shells;
With low music lave
Sheltering rock,
Flood the glassy pool,
Sway the foliage 'neath its crystal cool,
Wake with gentle shock
The anemonæ,
That like some lovely flower
Petals opening 'neath the sunlight's power,
Its beauty spreads to thee."
At low tide--or rather, at half tide--may be seen a huge square-headed
fissure or cave quite through a portion of La Fauconnaire. Its sides are
walls of granite, and the roof is also of that stone, from ten to twelve
feet high on the average, but much more in parts. Although daylight is
admitted at each end of this tunnel it is somewhat gloomy in the
centre, which perhaps adds to its charms, as objects are seen less
clearly, thus giving more scope to the imagination, of which daylight is
frequently a great destroyer. Semi-gloom causes one to speculate upon
things which, seen in the broad glare of day, have nothing of mystery or
wonder about them; they are but too evident to the eye. A grammar-school
education does not permit of great descriptive flights, or this cavern
would be for me an exquisite theme upon which to write a chapter on
fairyland.
The walls of this vaulted chamber sparkled from the constant dripping of
water, which appeared to ooze from the sides and roof as the tide went
down; but what appeared most noticeable was the pink hue of these walls,
which upon closer inspection appeared to be lined with a kind of coral,
or some such substance, while here and there from roof and walls
depended most lovely fern-like sea-weed, whose long fronds waved
gracefully in the grateful breeze which came in from the south end in
puffs, just enough to stir the glorious pool of water covering the whole
floor of the cave. The chamber is not very wide, probably not more than
from four to five feet, so that the pool on the floor forms a miniature
lake of surpassing beauty, some forty or fifty feet long, and from one
to two feet deep; but the contents and the arrangement of that pool who
shall describe? In this small space may be found animal and vegetable
life of all kinds, anemonæ, lovely weeds, zoophytes, curious fish,
sponges, shells, coral, and a hundred other things, all in such
perfection and orderly wildness that no artificial aquarium can ever
hope to present, for they are made by hands, and can never vie with
Nature in the formation of the wild and picturesque aspect of these
rocky pools.
As the sea filled this cave at every tide there was always something new
for me to admire whenever I made a visit, and my only regret was that I
could not take it home with me if I should be spared to see Norfolk
again.
Now to proceed a little further with my narrative.
Christmas was a time which I knew not how to fill up. I wanted to be
jolly and to make some festive difference in the usual routine of my
daily life and fare, but with no companion I found it a very difficult
task, even to make myself believe it really was Christmas time.
I made a plum pudding which had scarcely the consistence to hang
together when I rolled it out of the cloth; but that mattered little, as
a broken pudding required less muscular activity for the jaws. The main
point was the flavour; it was not at all bad. Tinned beef, potatoes,
tomatoes, a cauliflower, a rabbit pie, walnuts, and apples formed my
Christmas dinner, which was washed down by a bottle of Bass I had
reserved as a special Christmas treat. I drank the health of my absent
friends, and even gave three cheers for the King of Jethou--myself.
To make the season appear as Christmassy as possible I cudgelled my
brain for a whole week, and composed what I am pleased to call
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.[3]
In olden time a child was born
In Bethlehem the holy;
Mary was the mother's name,
Who lay in manger lowly
_Refrain_--Sing, happy Virgin, mother mild;
Sing, Joseph, father blessèd;
Sing, angels, shepherds, men so wise,
For this thy Lord confessèd.
And as she in the manger lay,
Beside the stallèd cattle,
A throng of shepherds entered in
To hear the childish prattle.
The shepherds low obeisance made,
Before the manger kneeling,
As thro' the casement's open space
The star's bright ray came stealing.
The wingèd angel choir stood by,
Their carol sweet a-singing;
While men of wisdom from the East,
Drew near, their offerings bringing.
Then from the clouds was heard a voice,
This message earthward sending,
"Peace rest upon the earth so fair,
Good-will 'twixt men ne'er ending."
Although the lines seemed to go very well, I had great difficulty in
hitting upon a suitable tune; but when once I did fit the verses to a
composition of my own, I howled it from morning till night all over the
island. The very animals and birds must have been satiated with it.
Possibly they would gladly have exchanged Christmas for Easter, or some
other church festival, just for the sake of variety and change of tune.
One misty morning at the end of February, I was standing near the old
cannon, chopping firewood wherewith to heat my oven, for it was my
weekly baking day, when I saw a boat containing two men coming through
the Creviçhon channel towards the house. One was pulling, and the other,
who sat in the stern sheets, waved a white flag or handkerchief upon a
stick, to attract my attention. I noticed them as soon as they did me,
and waved in return, making signs for them not to land.
With my chopping hook still in my hand I ran down the rocky path towards
them, and arrived at the water's edge just as they were about to run the
boat ashore. I did not know what their intention in landing might be, so
shook the chopper at them to warn them off. My stature, and the sight of
my bare right arm, had their due effect, for they sheered off, a few
boats' lengths, much to my relief. I soon found, however, that they were
two of the men of Herm on a very peaceful mission, as they simply came
to deliver a letter to me which a boat had brought over from St. Peter
Port. I dare not speak, or could have asked them their mission, and they
seemed quite dumbfounded at my bellicose attitude towards them.
The man in the stern now held up the letter, upon which I pantomimically
intimated my wish that he should come close in and throw the letter to
me. I then, lest they should be afraid to approach, threw my chopper as
far behind me as I could, sending it clattering among the boulders
nearly up to the cliff. Then the man in the stern folded the letter in
two, and tied a piece of spun yarn round it, to which he attached a
piece of stone, and tossed it to me. It fell fluttering near me, and I
was almost afraid to pick it up, for fear it might contain some bad news
of my family; but stooping, I secured it, placing it in my shirt bosom.
Then by signs I expressed my thanks to the kind Hermese who had brought
the missive.
When they had pulled out of sight towards Herm I sat down on a rock, and
very mistrustfully drew forth the crumpled envelope. Was my father dead?
What of Priscilla? Was mother ailing? These and a hundred other
questions flashed across my mind as I slowly broke open the envelope. It
was a letter from my dear old dad. Short, but quite assuring it ran:
"MY DEAR BOY,
"All is well. On the 2nd of March you will have occupied Jethou
just twelve months. Some of my Yarmouth friends say I am cruel to
allow you to stay alone so long, and think you must be so broken
down by your exile, that nothing would keep you in Jethou six
months longer. Young Johnson has even gone so far as to say he
would wager you one hundred pounds you dare not stay another six
months, and I therefore write to make known his offer, which I have
in black and white, duly signed by him.
"Write me the word, YES or NO, _only_.
"Your affectionate Father,
"WILLIAM K. NILFORD."
What a curious letter from my father after all these months! Not a word
as to himself, mother, or Priscilla. Not a line of news except the first
three words, "All is well." That was assuring, at any rate, and made me
feel happy. Young Johnson was the squire's son, a dashing, go-ahead
fellow, but not greatly liked in the village, by reason of his
haughtiness.
Although I had been looking forward to my return home I would not go to
be laughed at by our Yarmouth friends; no, I would stay at all risks,
and with the one hundred pounds I could make my future bride, Priscilla,
a grand present. Yes, my mind was made up at once, and if the men had
been within hail they might have come back and received my answer to
send over to the St. Peter Port post office, from which the packet would
take it to England, so that in about three or four days my father would
receive it.
My answer was quickly written, for my reply was very laconic:
"_February 28th, 18--._
"MY DEAR FATHER,
"All is well. I accept Johnson's wager of one hundred pounds, that
I do not occupy Jethou for another six months.
"Your affectionate Son,
"HARRY NILFORD."
About noon I espied two men fishing off the nearest point of Herm, and
going to the north-east corner of my island, to the promontory guarding
Lobster Bay, I signalled them with a handkerchief upon an ash sapling.
They soon saw the signal and pulled towards me. As they neared me I was
pleased to find they were the same two men who brought my father's
letter to me in the morning. They came close into the bay, so that I had
only to lean down and drop the letter into the boat, pointing towards
St. Peter Port to signify I wanted it to go there by the first boat
going.
"Oui, très bien."
Then I dropped half a crown (three francs) into their boat, and away
they pulled, quite pleased. I went about my work, but in about twenty
minutes, looking towards Guernsey, I saw the two men pulling away to St.
Peter Port with my letter. This was more than I expected, as it would
give them a rough pull of six miles. I only meant them to take the
letter to Herm; but away it went, and a day was saved.
Away to my digging. I returned and forgot all about the men and the
letter, but to my astonishment about four hours after, they hailed me,
shouting and gesticulating, "C'est juste," they cried, and then away
they went home, and I saw them no more.
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FOOTNOTE:
3: Perhaps one of my musical readers will have the great
kindness to set this little Carol to music, and let me see what it goes
like to a tune that is musical and carol-like.
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