BY THE SEA‐SHORE (_continued_).
A Submerged Forest—Grandeur of Devonshire Cliffs—Castellated
Walls—A Natural Palace—Collection of Sea‐weeds—The Title a
Miserable Misnomer—The Bladder Wrack—Practical Uses—The Harvest‐
time for Collectors—The Huge Laminaria—Good for Knife‐
handles—Marine Rope—The Red‐Seeded Group—Munchausen’s Gin Tree
Beaten—The Coralline a Vegetable—Beautiful Varieties—Irish
Moss—The Green Seeds—Hints on Preserving Sea‐weeds—The Boring
Pholas—How they Drill—Sometimes through each other—The Spinous
Cockle—The “Red‐noses”—Hundreds of Peasantry Saved from
Starvation—“Rubbish,” and the difficulty of obtaining it—Results
of a Basketful—The Contents of a Shrimper’s Net—Miniature Fish of
the Shore.
Mr. Gosse tells us in his “Tenby,” of a veritable submerged forest near
Amroth. Pieces of soft and decayed wood constantly come to the surface,
and are called by the peasantry “sea turf.” It is very commonly perforated
by the shells of _Pholas candida_, being ensconed therein as closely as
they can lie without mutual invasion. Other pieces are quite solid,
resisting the knife like the good old oak timbers of a ship. Occasionally,
during storms, whole trunks and roots and branches are torn away, come
floating to the surface of the sea, and are cast on the shore. Some of
them have been found “at the recess of the autumnal spring tides, which
have marks of the axe still fresh upon them, proving that the encroachment
of the sea has been effected since the country was inhabited by civilised
man.” Several kinds of trees, including elm, willow, alder, poplar, and
oak, have been found among the large fragments cast up. An account of the
encroachments of the sea on various parts of our coasts would fill a large
volume.
Mr. Gosse well describes some of the Devonshire coast scenery. “Now,” says
he, “we are under Lidstep Head, a promontory in steepness and height
rivalling its ‘proud’ opponents. I never before saw cliffs like these. The
stratification is absolutely perpendicular, and as straight as a line,
taking the appearance at every turn of enormous towers, castles, and
abbeys, in which the fissures bear the closest resemblance to loopholes
and doors. Great areas open enclosed as if with vast walls. The sea
surface was particularly smooth, and we ventured to pull into one of
these, exactly as if into a ruined castle or vast abbey; chamber opening
beyond chamber, bounded and divided by what I must call _walls_ of rock,
enormous in height, and as straight as the architect’s plumb would have
made them, with the smooth sea for the floor. If the tide had been high,
instead of being low‐water of a spring tide, we might have rowed all about
this great enclosed court; but as it was, the huge square upright rocks
were appearing above water, like massive altars and tables. The sea was
perfectly clear, and we could look down to the foundations of the
precipices where the purple‐ringed Medusæ were playing. Altogether, it was
a place of strange grandeur; we felt as if we were in a palace of the sea
genii, as if we were where we ought not to be, and when a gull shrieked
over our heads, and uttered his short, hollow, mocking laugh, we started
and looked at one another as though something uncanny had challenged us,
though the sun was shining broadly over the tops of those Cyclopean walls.
“We left this natural palace with regret; but the tide was near its lowest
ebb, and I wished to be on the rocks for whatever might be obtainable in
natural history. The lads, therefore, gave way, and we swiftly shot past
this coast of extraordinary sublimity. Presently we came to the Droch,
where a more majestic cavern than any we had yet seen appears. Up on a
beach of yellow sand its immense span is reared with a secondary entrance;
the arch of uniting stone is thrown across with a beautiful lightness, and
appears as if hewn with the mason’s chisel. Dark domes are seen within,
far up in the lofty vaulted roof, and pools of still, clear glassy water
mirror the rude walls. This is certainly a glorious cave.”
Easiest of all maritime objects to collect are the so‐called “sea‐weeds,”
which the Rev. J. G. Wood rightly terms a “miserable appellation,” to be
employed under protest. They are in reality beautiful sea‐plants of oft‐
times delicate form and colour; and even the larger and commoner varieties
have much of interest about them, some having actual uses. One of the
first to strike the eye on almost any beach is the common bladder‐wrack
(_Fucus vesiculosus_), that dark olive‐brown sea‐weed familiar to all
visitors to our coasts. It is distinguished by its air‐vessels, which
explode when trodden on or otherwise roughly compressed, and which are the
delight of all youngsters at the sea‐side. This slimy and slippery weed
makes rock‐walking perilous in a moderate degree, a fact which does not
generally stop young British maidens and their companions from slipping
about over its tangled masses. A larger species (_Fucus serratus_)
sometimes grows to a length of six feet. It is used as manure, and even as
food for cattle; while it is excellent to pack lobsters, crabs, &c., if
they have to be sent inland. These and kindred _algæ_, the generic term
for sea‐weed, are known as _Melanosperms_, or black‐seeded, so called from
the dark olive tint of the seeds or spores from which they spring, and
with which they abound.
[Illustration: BLADDER WRACK.
(_Fucus vesiculosus_.)]
The best time for the collector who would reap a harvest is at spring‐
tides, when, Mr. Wood tells us, an hour or two’s careful investigation of
the beach will sometimes produce as good results as several days’ hard
work with the dredge. “It is better to go down to the shore about half an
hour or so before the lowest tide, so as to follow the receding waters and
to save time.” The naturalist or amateur collector then finds at these low
tides a new set of vegetation, contrasting with the more delicate forms
left higher on the beach, as forest‐trees with ferns and herbage. Huge
plants, some of them measuring eleven feet in length, of the oar‐weed
(_Laminaria digitata_), are lying about in profusion. It is known by its
scientific name on account of the flat thin‐fingered fronds it bears. Its
stem is used for handles to knives and other implements, so tough and
strong is it. One good stem will furnish a dozen handles, and when dry it
is as hard as horn.
[Illustration: LAMINARIA.]
Among the same group is to be found a most singular rope‐like marine
plant, hardly thicker than an ordinary pin at the base, where it adheres
to the rock, but swelling to the size of a large swan’s‐quill in the
centre. When grasped by the hand it feels as though oiled, being naturally
slimy, and covered by innumerable fine hairs. It is found from the length
of one to twenty, thirty, and even forty feet. It may be mentioned that
sea‐weeds have no true roots, but adhere by discs or suckers. They derive
their nourishment from the sea‐water, not from the rock or soil.
Another sub‐class of _algæ_ are named the _Rhodosperms_, or red‐seeded,
and they are among the most beautiful known to collectors. They are
delicate, and some turn brown when exposed to too much light. Above low
water‐mark may be found growing largish masses of a dense, reddish,
thread‐like foliage, sometimes adhering to the rock, and sometimes to the
stems of the great _Laminaria_. This is one of a large genus,
_Polysiphonia_ (“many‐tubed”) the specific name being _Urceolata_, or
pitchered—it is actually covered with little jars, or receptacles of
coloured liquid.
“That popular author and extensive traveller, Baron Munchausen,” says Mr.
Wood, “tells us that he met with a tree that bore a fruit filled with the
best of gin. Had he travelled along our own sea‐coasts, or, indeed, along
any sea‐coasts, and inspected the vegetation of the waves there, he would
have found a plant that might have furnished him with the groundwork of a
story respecting a jointed tree composed of wine‐bottles, each joint being
a separate bottle filled with claret. It is true that the plant is not
very large, as it seldom exceeds nine or ten inches in height, but if
examined through a microscope it might be enlarged to any convenient
size.” The scientific name of this marine plant signifies the “jointed
juice‐branch.” It may be found adhering to rocks, or large seaweed, and
really resembles a jointed series of miniature red wine bottles.
The common coralline (_Corallina officinalis_) is also one of the red sea‐
weeds, although long thought to be a true coral. It is a curious plant; it
deposits in its own substance so large an amount of carbonate of lime that
when the vegetable part of its nature dies the chalky part remains. When
alive it is of a dark purple colour, which fades when removed from the
water, and the white stony skeleton alone remains. It is, however, a true
vegetable, as may be seen by dissolving away the chalky portions in acid;
there is then left a vegetable framework precisely like that of other algæ
belonging to the same sub‐class. It is a small plant, rarely exceeding a
height of five or so inches, but it grows in luxuriant patches wherever it
can find a suitable spot.
A beautiful marine plant is the _Delesseria sanguinea_, with its beautiful
scarlet leaves, the branches being five or six inches in length. It has a
very “ancient and fish‐like smell,” once noticed not to be forgotten. Then
again every one will remember in the little seaweed bouquets and
landscapes on card sold at the fashionable seaside watering‐places, a gay,
bright, pinky‐red kind, which is sure to be remarked for its charming
beauty. This is the _Plocamium coccineum_, which is found to be even more
beautiful under the microscope, for it is there seen that even the tiniest
branchlets, themselves hardly thicker than a hair, have each their rows of
finer branches.
Some seaweeds are eaten, as for example the so‐called “Carrageen,” or
Irish moss, which is used in both jelly and size, and is one of the
_Rhodosperm_ algæ. To preserve it for esculent purposes it is washed in
fresh water and allowed to dry; it becomes then horny and stiff. If boiled
it subsides into a thick jelly, which is considered nutritious, and is
used by both invalids and epicures. Calico‐printers use it for size. It is
used, boiled in milk, to fatten calves.
A pretty little seaweed, _Griffithsia selacea_, has the property of
staining paper a fine pinkish‐scarlet hue when its membrane bursts.
Contact with fresh water will usually cause the membrane to yield, and
then the colouring‐matter is exuded with a slight crackling noise.
The _Chlorosperms_, or green‐seeded algæ, have the power of pouring out
large quantities of oxygen under certain conditions, and are therefore
very valuable in the aquarium. Among them are the sea‐lettuce, before
mentioned, the common sea grass, and a large number of smaller and more
delicate forms.
“If,” says Mr. Wood, “the naturalist wishes to dry and preserve the algæ
which he finds, he may generally do so without much difficulty, although
some plants give much more trouble than others. It is necessary that they
should be well washed in fresh water, in order to get rid of the salt,
which, being deliquescent,(53) would attract the moisture on a damp day,
or in a damp situation, and soon ruin the entire collection. When they are
thoroughly washed the finest specimens should be separated from the rest
and placed in a wide, shallow vessel, filled with clear fresh water.
Portions of white card, cut to the requisite size, should then be slipped
under the specimen, which can be readily arranged as they float over the
immersed card. The fingers alone ought to answer every purpose, but a
camel’s‐hair brush and a needle will often be useful. When the specimen is
properly arranged the card is lifted from the water, carrying upon it the
piece of seaweed. There is little difficulty in getting the plants to
adhere to the paper, as most of the algæ are furnished with a gelatinous
substance which acts like glue and fixes them firmly down.” If not, the
use of hot water will generally accomplish the desired end. Animal glue or
gum‐water cannot he recommended.
Every visitor to the sea‐shore has observed rocks drilled with innumerable
holes, almost as though by art. A few good blows with a stout hammer on
the chisel‐head serve to split off a great slice of the coarse red
sandstone. The holes run through its substance, but they are all empty, or
filled only with the black fœtid mud which the sea has deposited in their
cavities. These are too superficial; they are all deserted; the stone lies
too high above low‐water mark; we must seek a lower level. Try here, where
the lowest spring‐tide only just leaves the rocks bare. See! now we have
uncovered the operators. Here lie snugly ensconced within the tubular
perforations, great mollusca, with ample ivory‐like shells, which yet
cannot half contain the whiter flesh of their ampler bodies, and the long
stout yellow siphons that project from one extremity, reaching far up the
hole towards the surface of the rock.
We lift one from its cavity, all helpless and unresisting, yet manifesting
its indignation at the untimely disturbance by successive spasmodic
contractions of those rough yellow siphons, each accompanied with a
forcible _jet d’eau_, a polite squirt of sea‐water into our faces; while
at each contraction in length, the base swells out till the compressed
valves of the sharp shell threaten to pierce through its substance.
Strange as it seems, these animals have bored these holes in the stone,
and they are capable of boring in far harder rock than this, even in
compact limestone. The actual mode in which this operation is performed
long puzzled philosophers. Some maintained that the animal secreted an
acid which had the power of dissolving not only various kinds of stone,
but also wood, amber, wax, and other substances in which the excavations
are occasionally made. But it is hard to imagine a solvent of substances
so various, and to know how the animal’s own shells were preserved from
its action, while, confessedly, no such acid had ever been detected by the
most careful tests. Others maintain that the rough points which stud the
shell enable it to serve as a rasp, which the animal, by rotating on its
axis, uses to wear away the stone or other material; but it was difficult
to understand how it was that the shell itself was not worn away in the
abrasion.
Actual observation in the aquarium has, however, proved that the second
hypothesis is the true one. M. Cailliaud in France, and Mr. Robertson in
England, have demonstrated that the Pholas uses its shell as a rasp,
wearing away the stone with the asperities with which the anterior parts
of the valves are furnished. Between these gentlemen a somewhat hot
contention was maintained for the honour of priority in this valuable
discovery. M. Cailliaud himself used the valves of the dead shell, and
imitating the natural conditions as well as he could, actually bored an
imitative hole, by making them rotate. Mr. Robertson at Brighton exhibited
to the public living Pholades in the act of boring in masses of chalk. He
describes it as “a living combination of three instruments, viz., a
hydraulic apparatus, a rasp, and a syringe.” But the first and last of
these powers can be considered only as an accessory to the removing of the
detritus out of the way when once the hole was bored, the rasp being the
real power. If you examine these living shells you will see that the fore
part, where the foot protrudes, is set with stony points arranged in
transverse and longitudinal rows; the former being the result of elevated
ridges radiating from the hinge, the latter that of the edges of
successive growths of the shell. These points have the most accurate
resemblance to those set on a steel rasp in a blacksmith’s shop. It is
interesting to know that the shell is preserved from being itself
permanently worn away by the fact that it is composed of arragonite, a
substance much harder than those in which the Pholas burrows. Yet we see
by comparing specimens one with another, that such a destructive action
does in time take place, for some have the rasping points much more worn
than others, many of the older ones being nearly smooth.
[Illustration: PHOLADES IN A BLOCK OF GNEISS.]
The animal turns in its burrow from side to side when at work, adhering to
the interior by the foot, and therefore only partially rotating to and
fro. The substance is abraded in the form of fine powder, which is
periodically ejected from the mouth of the hole by the contraction of the
branchial siphon, a good deal of the more unpalpable portions being
deposited by the current as it proceeds, and lodging as a soft mud between
the valves and the stone. Mr. Hudson, who watched some Pholades at work in
a tide‐pool in the chalk, observed the periodic ejection of the cloud of
chalk powder, and noticed the heaps of the same material deposited about
the mouth of each burrow. The discharges were made with no regularity as
to time. Mrs. Merrifield records a curious fact:—“A lady watching the
operations of some Pholades which were at work in a basin of sea‐water,
perceived that two of them were boring at such an angle that their tunnels
would meet. Curious to ascertain what they would do in this case, she
continued her observations, and found that _the larger and stronger Pholas
bored straight through the weaker one_, as if it had been merely a piece
of chalk rock.”
[Illustration: SPINOUS COCKLE.
(_Cardium edule._)]
“What,” says Mr. Gosse, “is that object that lies on yonder stretch of
sand, over which the shallow water ripples, washing the sand around it and
presently leaving it dry? It looks like a stone; but there is a fine
scarlet knob on it, which all of a sudden has disappeared. Let us watch
the movement of the receding wave, and run out to it. It is a fine example
of the great spinous cockle (_Cardium rusticum_) for which all these sandy
beaches that form the bottom of the great sea‐bed of Torbay are
celebrated. Indeed, the species is scarcely known elsewhere, so that it is
often designated in books as the Paignton cockle. A right savoury _bonne
bouche_ it is, when artistically dressed. Old Dr. Turton—a great authority
in his day for Devonshire natural history, especially on matters relating
to shells and shell‐fish—says that the cottagers about Paignton well know
the ‘red‐noses,’ as they call the great cockles, and search for them at
low spring tides, when they may be seen lying in the sand with the fringed
siphons appearing just above the surface. They gather them in baskets and
panniers, and after cleansing them a few hours in cold spring‐water, fry
the animals in a batter made of crumbs of bread. The creatures have not
changed their habits nor their habitats, for they are still to be seen in
the old spots just as they were a century ago; nor have they lost their
reputation; they are, indeed, promoted to the gratification of more
refined palates now, for the cottagers, knowing on which side their bread
is buttered, collect the sapid cockles for the fashionables of Torquay,
and content themselves with the humbler and smaller species (_Cardium
edule_), which rather affects the muddy flats of estuaries than sand
beaches, though not uncommon here. This latter, though much inferior in
sapidity to the great spinous sort, forms a far more important item in the
category of human food, from its very general distribution, its extreme
abundance, and the ease with which it is collected. Wherever the receding
tide leaves an area of exposed mud, the common cockle is sure to be found,
and hundreds of men, women, and children may be seen plodding and groping
over the sinking surface, with naked feet and bent backs, picking up the
shell‐fish by thousands, to be boiled and eaten for home consumption, or
to be cried through the lanes and alleys of the neighbouring towns by
stentorian boys who vociferate all day long, ‘Here’s your fine cockles,
here! Here they are! Here they are! Twopence a quart!’” It is on the
north‐western coast of Scotland, however, that the greatest abundance of
these mollusca occurs, and there they form not a luxury but even a
necessary of life to the poor semi‐barbarous population. The inhabitants
of these rocky regions enjoy an unenviable notoriety for being habitually
dependent on this mean diet. “Where the river meets the sea at Tongue,”
says Macculloch, in his “Highland and Island Homes of Scotland,” “there is
a considerable ebb, and the long sandbanks are productive of cockles in an
abundance which is almost unexampled. At that time (a year of scarcity)
they presented every day at low water a singular spectacle, being crowded
with men, women, and children, who were busily digging for these shell
fish as long as the tide permitted. It was not unusual to see thirty or
forty horses from the surrounding country, which had been brought down for
the purpose of carrying away loads of them to distances of many miles.
This was a well‐known season of scarcity, and, without this resource, I
believe it is not too much to say that many individuals must have died for
want.”
One of the easiest forms of collecting is from the _débris_, as it were,
of fishermen’s nets and baskets; but it is exceedingly difficult to induce
trawlers to bring home any of their “rubbish.” Money, that in general
“makes the mare to go” in any direction you wish, seems to have lost its
stimulating power when the duty to be performed, the _quid pro quo_, is
the putting a shovelful of “rubbish” into a bucket of water instead of
jerking it overboard. No, they haven’t got time. You try to work on their
friendship; you sit and chat with them, and think you have succeeded in
worming yourself into their good graces sufficiently to induce them to
undertake the not very onerous task of bringing in a tub of “rubbish.”
The thing is not, however, utterly hopeless. Occasionally Mr. Gosse had a
tub of “rubbish” brought to him; but much more generally worthless than
otherwise. The boys are sometimes more open to advances than the men,
especially if the master carries his own son with him, in which case the
lad has a little more opportunity to turn a penny for himself than when he
is friendless. “If ever,” says Gosse, “you should be disposed to try your
hand on a bucket of trawler’s ‘rubbish,’ I strongly recommend you, in the
preliminary point of ‘catching your hare,’ to begin with the cabin‐boy.
“The last basketful I overhauled made an immense heap when turned out upon
a board, but was sadly disappointing upon examination. It consisted almost
entirely of one or two kinds of hydroid zoophytes, and these of the
commonest description. It does not follow hence, however, that an
intelligent and sharp‐eyed person would not have succeeded in obtaining a
far greater variety; a score of species were doubtless brushed overboard
when this trash was bundled into the basket; but being small, or requiring
to be picked out singly, they were neglected, whereas the long and tangled
threads of the _Plumularia falcata_ could be caught up in a moment like an
armful of pea‐haulm in a field, its value being estimated, as usual with
the uninitiated, by quantity rather than by quality, by bulk rather than
variety.”
[Illustration: THE WEEVER FISH. (_Trachinus communis._)]
Mr. Gosse found on several occasions when examining the contents of
shrimpers’ nets, a pretty little flat‐fish, a constant inhabitant of sandy
beaches and pools, and often found in company with shrimps, some of which
it hardly exceeded in size, although sometimes reaching a maximum growth
of four or five inches. Small as it is, it is allied to the magnificent
turbot. The naturalist above mentioned took it home, and observed its
habits at leisure. “In a white saucer,” says he, “it was a charming little
object, though rather difficult to examine, because, the instant the eye
with the lens was brought near, it flounced in alarm, and often leaped out
upon the table. When its fit of terror was over, however, it became still,
and would allow me to push it hither and thither, merely waving the edges
of its dorsal and ventral fins rapidly as it yielded to the impulse.” This
is the Top‐knot, so called from an elongation of the dorsal fin. The
little Sand Launce, with its pearly lustrous sides, is a commonly‐found
fish on the shore. It has a remarkable projection of the lower jaws, a
kind of spade, as it were, by the aid of which it manages to scoop out a
bed in the wet sand, and so lie hidden. The Lesser Weever, called by
English fishermen Sting‐bull, Sting‐fish, and Sea‐cat, because of its
power of inflicting severe inflammatory wounds, a little fish of four or
five inches long, is another denizen of the sands. So also the young of
the Skate. The Wrasse, the Globy, the Blenny, and many other small fish,
are met with in the pools and caverns of our shores.
Of crabs, prawns, and crustaceans, of shell‐fish and rock fish, and the
mollusca generally, these pages have already given a sufficient account.
They are even more at home in the sea than on the shore.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL’S FRYING PAN, COAST OF CORNWALL.]