[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 700. SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
SUNNY DAYS ON THE THAMES.
When city folk, weary of heat and dust, are beginning to think
of distant flights--to Switzerland and its eternal snows; to the
romantic legendary Rhine; perhaps even farther afield, across the
great Atlantic to wondrous Niagara; or farther yet, to that new old
world on the shores of the Pacific--I too tire of the closeness
and turmoil of the town, and turn my steps towards the pleasant
country. I am not going very far, scarcely more than a few miles,
but I doubt if any of the travellers on their long journeys will
see a lovelier spot.
It is late on an afternoon in early June as I drive along the shady
green lanes from the quiet country station, and stop before the
gate of a dear old red brick house, which I know and love well.
The door stands hospitably open, and in the porch I see kind and
friendly faces framed in a wealth of glorious roses and many-tinted
creepers, which cling lovingly to the time-stained walls. Good old
'Belle' the black retriever comes to meet me, wagging her tail
affectionately; and looking up in my face, seems to ask me what I
have done with the curly black puppy I ruthlessly stole from her
the last time I was here.
How pleasant the sunny garden looks! How sweet the flowers smell!
How delightful does everything appear after the bricks and mortar
I have left behind me; and yet here are bricks and mortar too, but
ah! not town bricks and town mortar. Time touches the old house
with tender hands, and mellows it year by year into richer tints.
A queer old house it is, with odd bits added on to it here and
there, in defiance of all the laws of architecture, and startling
you with unexpected corners and angles; with quaint tall chimneys
springing from the moss-grown roof, out of which the smoke curls
lazily in blue-gray clouds, and round which twine the Virginia
creeper and purple clematis, trying curiously to peep in at the
top of them; with ivy-framed windows flashing in the sun, and
overhanging eaves, beneath which the sparrows chirp merrily. The
rooms are low, but _so_ comfortable; whether great Christmas logs
crackle on the hearth, throwing sparkles of light here and there,
and leaving the distant corners all dim and shadowy; or whether,
as now, the windows stand open to the summer air, and the rooms
are invaded by the sweet country scents and the perfume of the
mignonette borders outside.
But better than all else of beauty here do I love old Father
Thames, and I run rapidly through the house on to the lawn on the
other side. There the river wanders at the foot of it, lying across
the verdant fields like a silver ribbon on green velvet.
'Let us go to our drawing-room,' says one of the girls who has
followed me. 'We shall just have time to do that before dinner.'
So we jump into the boat and scull into a neighbouring back-water,
where we have christened by the name of 'our drawing-room' a
little creek which runs into the bank, and is fringed with pollard
willows, making a pleasant shade overhead. We chat cosily there
for half an hour, the water licking the sides of the boat with a
refreshing sound. A dear little brown water-rat comes and sits near
us, and looks curiously at us out of his bright eyes; a kingfisher
flashes by us like a sapphire; then the midges come and dance gaily
round us, singing a song of which the 'refrain' is ever, 'It will
be fine to-morrow!'
* * * * *
To-morrow has come, and the midges have foretold aright! The sun
pours a brilliant flood of light into my room, calling me to come
to the royal feast he has spread for me (poor weary citizen), of
flowers and sweet perfumes and soft balmy breezes. I open the
window with welcoming hands as he streams in, and stand there
a moment listening to the birds chanting their joyous matins,
to the rooks clamouring cheerfully in the tall elms, and to the
busy sparrows who twitter noisily just above my casement. Roses
have climbed the wall, and are peeping in at me, some still shyly
folding their petals around them in virgin modesty, others already
baring their glowing hearts to the kisses of the amorous air. The
beds of scarlet geranium make brilliant spots of flame on the
diamond-studded grass; and the river is no longer a silver ribbon,
for it has caught the sun's reflection, and flows like molten gold
between the meadows. It is still early when I betake myself with a
book to my favourite seat on the lawn. But I cannot read. The great
book of Nature lies open before me, and dwarfs all other literature
into insignificance.
After breakfast (even on such a morning as this we must breakfast),
as is our wont, we load the boat with books, work, sketching
materials, and lastly with ourselves. Two of us take the oars,
and to their lazy cadence we glide down the sunlit river in the
direction of one of our favourite haunts. The boys, as we still
call them, stalwart young Britons though they are, have already
disappeared with their fishing-tackle in their canoes; but we shall
very likely meet by-and-by, as they know all our pet nooks and
corners.
We take our way past the green banks, on which the wild-flowers
make delicate jewelled mosaics; by tall beds of graceful wandlike
reeds, beneath the shadows made by hanging woods bending to kiss
their own reflections in the stream, until we come to a cool and
shady retreat, hiding itself away modestly from the sun's bold and
ardent eyes. Here we fasten the boat to a willow-stump and prepare
to spend our morning happily in this sanctuary of Nature's own
making. Some of us begin to sketch a gnarled old tree crowned with
a diadem of feathery foliage; others take out their work; and one
among us lays hands on a book, as an excuse for silent enjoyment.
Though what silence is there here? The merry insects hum and whirl
around us, saying: 'Summer has come, summer has come;' the weary
winds, faint with their long winter's strife, sigh softly in the
tall tree-tops; a moor-hen calls shrilly from her nest among the
rushes; a lark pours from the stainless heavens a rain of melody;
and the silence overflows with music. The bright motes dance in the
still air, trying to get into our shadowy abode.
Sol is in his kindliest humour to-day; not harsh and fierce, as
he will be later in the year, smiting with cruel hands the tender
flowers, until they droop their sad heads beneath his hot anger;
but wooing them with warm and genial smiles from their gentle
mother's breast, beneath which they have been sleeping safely
through the chill winter. All things beneath his beams rejoice. The
river; the fields in their delicate green robes, which, as they
grow bolder under his gaze, they will change for sweeping kirtles
of ruddy gold; the silver clouds cradled in the sky's fair arms;
even the modest river-buds which scarcely lift their shy eyes above
the water. Around us float the pure cups of the water-lilies. The
banks by which we sit are fringed with pale forget-me-not; and
delicate ferns push their tender fronds through their beds of
last year's fallen leaves--life springing from death. The pale
pink water-grasses rear their heads above the ripples, and the
sun stares them out of countenance, until by-and-by they blush a
celestial rosy red; kingfishers gleam by, their blue wings flashing
streaks of turquoise.
How sharp and clear the shadows lie in the embrace of the soft
stream! Which is the real world, I wonder? The one shining so
joyously around and beyond us, or that other lying cool and still
beneath our keel? How I should like to plunge down and see! But
perhaps if I did, the water-pixies might throw their spells around
me, and I might never return to the world above, which after all
is fair enough for me.
As I make this reflection, we see the bow of a canoe peeping into
our watery bower; and I am brought back to earth by hearing a
merry young voice inquiring if we have any lunch to spare. So we
unpack our baskets, and landing, spread our sweet country fare on
the sward--crisp home-made bread, pats of golden butter, fragrant
honey, and fresh creamy milk. Then the talk, which has languished
before, becomes brisk; and many a gay jest is bandied round the
fallen moss-clad tree which forms our rustic table.
'Read us something,' says one of the merry group--'something suited
to the scene.' So a book is taken up by willing hands, and a voice
we all love reads us fair thoughts which have arisen in poet-minds
while gazing on Nature's lovely works. High and noble thoughts they
are, and to me they are dear familiar friends; but to-day, my eyes
wander to the poetry in God's creations round me, and I whisper to
myself:
Ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
So the bright afternoon wears away, pleasant talk alternating with
snatches of luxurious silence, and the evening draws on apace.
The shadows begin to lengthen, and lie like swartly-clad giants
along the grass. The birds hush their song, and here and there the
curious fishes spring from their cool bed to take a last look at
the dying day. Reluctantly we turn our faces homewards.
Right before us the sun is sinking with passionate glowing cheeks
into the murky arms of Night. The gates of heaven open to let
Phœbus pass through, and from out them streams a sea of wondrous
light, in which pearl and opal clouds float in a lake of delicate
green and amber. The trees look inky black against the sky's pure
spiritual face. An owl hoots mournfully from yonder, stately
poplar; the silent bat flits by on noiseless wing; here and there
a glow-worm is lighting its tiny lamp; and the frogs croak us a
cheery 'Good-night!' as our boat glides softly by the rushes. But
not yet do we return it. We say: 'We will come out again when the
moon is up.'
And so we do. In defiance of any rheumatic or neuralgic future
which our elders prophesy for us, evening after evening we come out
to watch the fair Night lighting her beacon-fires overhead.
The mist-wreathed elms stand by the water like rows of ghostly
sentinel monks with gray cowls drawn over their heads; the willows
look like silver trees transplanted from some far Peruvian garden;
and the water drops from the wet blades of the oars in little
showers of diamond dew. Above our heads the nightingale is pouring
his liquid melody over the land. We listen, still and hushed.
Surely our hearts grow purified, and the cares and sorrows of the
world drop from us unheeded as we listen.
Philomela's song makes the silence round us seem deeper and more
calm. The flowers have folded their delicate robes more closely
around them, and have lain down to dream beneath the stars; even
the river seems asleep, and the dark shadows clasped so tightly
to his breast. Slowly the pale moon climbs the purple vault of
heaven, casts from her her gauzy veil, and looks down on us with
her pure and vestal eyes. The stars awaken one by one, and come
forth to do her homage. The gold-hearted cups of the water-lilies
drink long draughts of silver dew. The willows, like Narcissus of
old, gaze wistfully at their own fair faces in the stream; and the
aspens quiver with eerie thoughts unknown to us. Surely, riding on
the moonbeam which rests on yonder ripple, I see a water-pixie;
and resting beneath the shadow of the dock-leaves, I spy a
wood-elf! But some one speaks, and they are gone. We drift silently
homewards; silently, for our enjoyment has become too deep for
words. Silently we land, and still silently I seek my chamber, and
opening my window, gaze into the moonlit garden beyond.
The flowers have folded their leaves beneath the soft kisses of the
night, and lie sleeping placidly in the dim and tender light; the
air is laden with their fragrant breath, which is always sweetest
when they lie dreaming beneath the summer stars. The flame-coloured
geraniums, the white and wandlike lilies, and the many-tinted
roses, are all alike, misty and indistinct; and the sinuous and
mossy paths, touched here and there by the soft light, lose
themselves in darkness beneath the dusky hedges. Beyond them lies
my beloved river, on which the starry river-buds float tremulously.
The earth is all at rest, and above it the moon hangs like a silver
lamp in the star-lit sky; and overhead one nightingale, the last,
for the rest have sunk into silence, trills forth his Elysian
chant, and mingles with the dreams of the sleeping flowers.
What a fair world! Is it possible that sorrow exists, that these,
God's ineffable works, can ever be defaced by sin?
Such are the days and nights I spend when I make holiday in the
old house by the river. Alas! that ever the day should dawn when
turning my back on its poetry, I return once more to the prose of
our work-a-day world.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XXV.--IN THE LANE.
I had had a motive, which I fancied she did not perceive, in asking
Lilian to accompany me on my errand to the Home that morning. It
was Arthur Trafford's wedding-day. Mrs Tipper and I had done our
best to keep the knowledge of it from her until it was over, and
flattered ourselves that we had succeeded.
As we drew nearer home the sound of bells ringing merrily in
the distance reached my ears; and in the hope of diverting her
attention I talked on, apropos of anything or nothing. I fancied
she was heeding, until she said gently: 'It is fortunate they have
so fine a day, Mary.'
'I suppose it is,' I replied ungraciously. Then I presently added
more pleasantly: 'But it is even more fortunate that you can say
so.'
'Dear Mary, what did you expect me to say?'
I took the sweet face between my hands, and looked into the clear
eyes, which did not flinch under my gaze, as she added in a low
voice: 'I am not in love with another woman's husband, Mary.'
No; I came to the happy conclusion that she was not. There was no
cause for further anxiety upon that score. Had I only been right in
my fancy about Robert Wentworth, how pleasantly might things now
have arranged themselves!
Again I felt obliged to postpone telling Lilian about my coming
happiness. It had seemed difficult to talk of my engagement
the night before, how much more so now--on Arthur Trafford's
wedding-day. I must still wait for a more fitting season, I told
myself.
Mrs Tipper had done her best to make the little parlour appear as
cheerful and home-like as possible; and I saw that she watched
Lilian with loving anxiety. She had prepared quite a feast for
our favourite meal that day. If hot cakes and everything else the
dear little woman could think of in the way of dainties had been
remedies for disappointed love, Lilian might have owed her recovery
to them, so plentifully were they provided. She had the comfort of
seeing her niece partake of the good things with an appetite which
quite set her mind at rest.
If it really cost Lilian something so to gratify her aunt, I
believe it was very little. She shewed too that her thoughts
had not been absent during our morning's work, by joining very
earnestly in my narration of what had taken place, and giving a
very decided opinion about Mrs Gower. Before we bade each other
good-night, Lilian had succeeded in satisfying Mrs Tipper, as she
had satisfied me, that she was 'not in love with another woman's
husband.'
As days passed on my news remained still untold. Something seemed
always to be intervening to cause me to put off the telling it
until the morrow. Looking back, I see how very slight were some of
the causes which I allowed to prevent me from opening my heart to
my companions; although at the time they appeared sufficient.
Meantime we were occupied from morning till night, Lilian and I
working together as with one mind. But we presently began to miss
our master, as Lilian laughingly termed him, and I grew more than
anxious as the days he had accustomed us to expect him passed
without our seeing him. Not once had we heard from or seen him
since that never-to-be-forgotten night. Did he really blame me?
Could he not forgive me? I tormented myself with all sorts of
doubts and fears, in my heart of hearts dreading something even
worse than his blame or anger. Robert Wentworth was not the man
either to judge harshly or to be unforgiving.
It was nearly a fortnight since we had seen him, when one evening
Becky mysteriously beckoned me out of the room. Lilian was playing
one of our favourite sonatas, and I made my escape unobserved.
'Another letter, Becky?' I asked, putting out my hand for it with a
smile.
'No, Miss; it's a woman this time,' returned Becky. 'She says that
she wants to see you alone, and she won't come in. I was to tell
you she's waiting down at the end of the lane, and to be sure to
say you are to go by yourself.'
'What kind of woman is she, Becky?' I asked, my thoughts at once
reverting to Nancy Dean.
'A more disagreeable one I never see,' very decidedly returned
Becky. 'And as to behaviour, she seemed just ready to snap my nose
off when I asked what name I should tell you. "No name at all," she
said.'
'I will go, Becky.'
'Poor Nancy!' was my mental ejaculation; 'she has got into trouble
again. It was perhaps too much to expect her to remain with people
who believe her to be so much worse than she really is, just when
she needs to be encouraged and strengthened.' I was stepping from
the porch, when Becky earnestly pleaded for permission to accompany
me.
'Do, please, let me come too, Miss Haddon, dear!' she whispered. 'I
could stand a little way off, so as not to hear; and if she touches
you'----
'She will not hurt me, Becky. Do not fear it. I know who she is.'
Becky stood aside, silenced if not convinced. I went out into the
summer-scented air, and just pausing by the way to gather a rose
for Nancy, passed on down the lane.
Not the slightest doubt as to whom I should see for a moment
crossed my mind. My surprise was all the greater when I came in
sight of a woman standing erect by the stile with her arms folded
across her chest; who, a moment's glance told me, was not at all
like Nancy--a tall thin woman, dressed in a long old-fashioned
cloak, and what used to be termed a coal-scuttle bonnet.
Quite taken by surprise, I paused a moment to reconnoitre before
advancing. She turned her face towards me, and although I did not
immediately recognise who she was, I knew that I had seen her
before.
'Do you wish to speak to me? I am Miss Haddon.'
'Yes; I know you are.'
Then it flashed upon me who she was.
'You are Mr Wentworth's housekeeper?'
'Yes.'
My heart sank with a foreboding of some evil, and for a moment I
could not utter a word. Then screwing up my courage, I asked in as
matter-of-course a tone as I could assume: 'He is quite well, I
hope?'
'Nobody cares whether he's ill or well, I expect.'
'You are very much mistaken!' I replied, in some agitation. 'Every
one who knows him would care a great deal! You ought to know that
they would.'
I suppose my face and tone satisfied her that I was so far saying
what I thought, though she only shifted her ground of offence in
consequence.
'If he was ill he wouldn't be wanting people's pity.'
'But I hope---- Is he ill?'
'Why should he be ill?' she rejoined angrily. Then endeavouring
to command herself, she went on: 'But I haven't come here to talk
about that. Ill or well, he doesn't know I've come here, and would
be very angry if he did. You must please to recollect that. I
should have been here before, but it took me two days, putting this
and that together, to find out where you live. You are living with
the ladies at the cottage down there?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that can't be much of a place; but I suppose situations are
not so plentiful, and anything is better than'----
'What is it you have come to say to me?' I asked shortly.
'You are very masterful, and know how to get your way when you want
it. You two are a match for each other; and I knew you would find
that out. I knew no good would come of it when I let you get the
better of me that day; and I'd sooner do anything than come to you
now. You may be sure of that.'
'I know that for some foolish reason you took a prejudice against
me; but being disliked _before_ one is known, ought not to distress
one, though I should prefer not being disliked.'
'If you're not hurt you needn't complain,' she replied, as though
determined not to yield an inch.
'What have you come to say to me?' I repeated. 'I suppose you did
not come all this way to remind me that you are prejudiced against
me?'
'No.' She looked over the hedge and around in all directions before
continuing; then said in a low voice: 'You thought my master's
looked but a poor place for a gentleman born to live in, that day.
I saw how sharp you was to notice, and how poor and shabby you
thought it all was.'
'You are too ready to ascribe thoughts to me,' I replied.
'But you did now; didn't you? You can't say that you didn't think
things looked a bit poor?'
'Mr Wentworth can afford to be more careless about appearances than
can most people,' I said, not in the least comprehending her drift.
'It was all well enough for a bachelor's home.'
'Ay, well enough for a bachelor's home perhaps; but not for a
married couple, eh?'
'Really!'
'Try to keep your temper for another five minutes, if _you_ please,
Miss. I know there's no love lost between us two; but I've come
here because I've got something to say; and proud and masterful as
you are, I know you are the sort to be trusted, and I'm going to
trust you. I carried Master Robert in my arms when he was a baby,
and I know him and love him more than any fine madam ever can. He
was left very poor, and he worked very hard, and a better master
or kinder gentleman---- But that's not what I've come to say;
nobody will ever know his goodness as I do'--jealously. 'He was
poor, and I was poor, and I've had some ado to keep things together
for him. But about three years ago my brother died, and things
changed for me. He was a small farmer down in Gloucestershire, and
everybody called him a miser; but it is not for me to complain of
his scraping and saving, for he left all he had to me, and a nice
little nest-egg it turned out to be. It's been down in my will
for Master Robert from the first day I had it; and it has been
'cumulating ever since; not a penny of it have I ever touched. The
pleasure has been to think that there it was all ready for him,
though I was too proud to see how much he liked working his way up
in the world, to tell him about it before he wanted it.'
'I am sincerely glad to know he has so faithful a friend,' I said,
holding out my hand to her.
'Wait a bit, Miss; let me say my say. To-morrow morning that money
will be made over to Master Robert, and he will be told that he'll
never see no more of me if he won't take it; and the lawyer he
says it brings in pretty nigh ninety pounds a year, now!' Pausing a
moment to give me time to recover that.
What could I say? Growing hot and confused and pained as her
meaning began to dawn upon me, I murmured: 'It is a good
sum--and'----
'And that's not all,' she said eagerly. 'You must remember Master
Robert is getting on now and being talked about. I've brought this
paper down with me that you may see his name in it for yourself;'
taking a newspaper from her pocket, hastily unfolding it and
pointing out with trembling finger a short but eulogistic notice of
a pamphlet by R. Wentworth. 'There's no gainsaying that, you know.'
Slipping it into her pocket again, she earnestly went on, laying
her hand upon my arm, and seeing only him in her increased anxiety:
'I don't say that prudence isn't a good thing; I'm not for foolish
marriages when there's nothing to depend on; but there's the ninety
pounds a year, and what he earns, besides a house to live in, and
my services for nothing; and master says my bark's worse than my
bite; bless you, _his_ wife's no call to be afraid of me!'
'Hush, pray hush!' I murmured, seeing all her meaning now. 'Do you
think any one who loved Robert Wentworth would care about all that!'
'Then it is that he isn't loved? God help him!' The cold, hard, set
look came into her face again--though she would seem cold and hard
now to me never again--and she folded her cloak about her.
'Will you tell me how Mr Wentworth is?' I could not help asking.
'Oh, he's well enough; nobody need think he's going to die of a
broken heart. And you must please to remember that he knows nothing
about my coming here, ma'am. And perhaps it isn't _too_ much to ask
you not to mention what a foolish old woman has been talking about?'
'I should be as much grieved as you could possibly be for him to
know anything about it, Hester,' I replied in all sincerity.
'Then I wish you good-night, Miss.'
'Will not you shake hands with me?'
'I'm never much for shaking hands, Miss, thank you'--stiffly, both
hands folded in her cloak.
'Not for your master's sake? Mr Wentworth is my friend, and I think
he would be sorry'----
'He can't be sorry about what he doesn't know.'
'Well, you cannot prevent my respecting you, and that I shall do as
long as I live.'
She went on down the lane, and I turned away, burying my face in my
hands. Could I ever forgive myself!
Something--for a moment I thought it was a falling leaf--lightly
touched my arm, and looking round I saw a large bony hand put
from behind. I clasped it without a word; without a word it was
withdrawn, and I presently found myself alone. I turned and
walked slowly and thoughtfully homewards. How completely though
unconsciously she had shewn me her motive for seeking an interview
with me! She had divined that her master had had a disappointment,
and must have drawn the conclusion that he had been refused solely
from prudential motives. Consequently she had come for the purpose
of giving me a better knowledge of his prospects than he himself
could have done, and was ready for his sake to try to overcome her
prejudice against me. Nevertheless, my interview with old Hester
tended to make me more rather than less anxious respecting her
master.
SEA-EGGS.
The visitor to the sea-side must frequently in his rambles along
the beach have picked up specimens of the curious animals which
are popularly known as 'Sea-eggs' and 'Sea-urchins.' The former
name is applied to these creatures when they are found cast upon
the shore and present the appearance of rounded or ball-shaped
objects, each inclosed within a hard but brittle limy shell. Whilst
the term 'urchin' is given to the same objects when they are seen
in their more natural and perfect state, and when the outside of
the shell literally bristles with spines. The name 'urchin,' in
fact originally applied to the hedgehog, has been extended to
denominate the sea-eggs, from their presenting the spiny appearance
so familiarly seen in the common tenant of our woods and hedgerows.
Thus the sea-egg is the sea-urchin with its spines detached and
rubbed off by the unkindly force of the waves; and the animal
thus popularly designated is the _Echinus_ of the zoologist, and
belongs to the large class of animals of which the Star-fishes are
well-known representatives.
The entire history of the sea-egg is of so curious a nature that
the most casual reader may well feel interested in the account of
the animal's present and past life; whilst the feeling of mere
curiosity to know something of one of the most 'common objects of
the shore,' should prompt every sea-side visitor to make the closer
acquaintance of the Echinus.
Suppose that we begin our examination by looking at the hard case
or 'shell' in which the soft parts of the animal are inclosed.
We find on referring to the development of the animal, that this
'shell' actually represents the hardened skin of the animal, and
that viewed in this light, it closely corresponds to the shell of
the lobster or crab. The shell is flattened at each pole, and we
can readily perceive that it is composed of rows of little limy
plates, which are disposed in a regular manner from pole to pole,
or after the fashion of the meridian lines on a globe. Counting
the series of plates, we find the shell to be composed of twenty
rows; but we may also perceive a difference between certain of the
plates of which the rows are composed. Thus we find two adjoining
rows of plates, which are perforated with holes. The next two rows
are not so perforated; whilst the third two rows possess holes like
the first rows. We may, in fact, proceed round the shell, and come
back to the point at which our examination began, with the result
of finding that we may group the whole of the twenty rows of plates
of this curious limy box into two sets--those with holes and those
without; and we may further discover that there are five double
rows of perforated plates, and that these alternate with other five
double rows which do not possess holes.
Each little plate of the sea-egg's shell may be most accurately
described as being hexagonal or six-sided in form; but this shape
may be more or less modified in certain regions of the shell. The
five double rows of the shell which are perforated with holes, it
may be remarked, are those through the apertures in which the small
'tube-feet' of the animal are protruded. And it may also be noted
that in some of the sea-eggs these perforated rows do not extend
from pole to pole of the shell, as in the common species, but are
limited so as to form a rosette-like figure, on the upper surface
or at the upper pole of the shell. This modification is well seen
in a group of sea-eggs, not uncommon round our coasts, and which
are popularly named 'Heart-urchins' from their peculiar shape.
The outside of the shell presents us with some curious features;
the zoologist's study leading him thus to carefully note points
which an ordinary observer would hardly deem worthy his attention.
When we examine the outer surface of the shell, we find it to be
thickly studded over with little rounded knobs or 'tubercles,'
which are, if anything, most numerous on those parts or rows of
plates which are not perforated. And if we carefully study one of
the spines we shall find that it is hollowed out or is concave at
its base. Clearly then, the spines are meant to articulate by means
of these hollowed or cup-shaped bases with the rounded knobs on the
outside of the shell, and in each case a true ball-and-socket joint
is thus formed. The spines are thus intended to be moved, and they
are not only firmly attached by a ligament or band of fibres to
the surfaces of their tubercles, but appear to be moved by special
muscles, which form a thin investing layer on the outer surface
of the shell. The spines undoubtedly serve as organs of defence,
but in some species they are employed as boring-organs to scoop
out holes in the sand or shallow beds in rocks, in which their
possessors lie snugly ensconced.
The outer surface of the shell also bears certain very peculiar
appendages, known as 'Pedicellariæ.' These little organisms also
occur on the outer surface of Star-fishes and other members
of the sea-egg's class; but regarding their exact nature and
functions, zoologists are still in doubt. The form of one of these
pedicellarians may be best imagined by figuring to one's self a
small or minute stalk attached to the shell, and bearing at its
free extremity two or three little jaws, which move actively upon
one another, with a quick snapping motion. These little jaws can
be seen to seize particles of food, and there is no doubt whatever
that they possess a life and vitality independently of the sea-egg
or other organism upon which they reside; since their movements
are seen to continue after the death of the animal which affords
them lodgment. Some naturalists have regarded them as 'peculiarly
modified spines;' but the reasons or grounds for this belief are
anything but clear, since it is difficult to imagine any reasonable
explanation of the means whereby a spine could acquire an active
living and independent nature. By good authorities, who have
not ventured to theorise so boldly, the pedicellariæ have been
regarded as _parasites_ of some kind or other; and they may also
possibly represent stages in the as yet unknown development of
some organisms. Whilst, assuming them to be fully-grown beings,
their function, as they exist on the shell of our sea-egg, has been
supposed to be that of seizing particles of food, and of removing
waste or effete matters.
The internal structure of the sea-egg shews its near relationship
with the Star-fishes and Sea-cucumbers. The mouth is the large
orifice opening at the lower pole of the shell; so that as our
sea-egg crawls slowly and mouth downwards over the bed of the sea,
or over the floor of its native pools, it can procure food without
any very great trouble as regards its conveyance to the mouth. The
internal furnishings of the body include a stomach and complete
digestive system, along with a very peculiar set of jaws or teeth,
lying just within the mouth, the points or tips of the jaws being
usually protruded from the mouth-opening. This arrangement of teeth
is named the 'Lantern of Aristotle,' and comprises five conical
pieces, so arranged together and so provided with muscles, as to
be perfectly adapted for bruising the sea-weeds and other forms
of nutriment on which the sea-eggs subsist. Their near neighbours
the Star-fishes do not possess any teeth; although curiously
enough, the unarmed sea-stars prefer a richer dietary than that
which contents their sea-egg neighbours, since they devour large
quantities of oysters and other molluscs. Our sea-egg possesses a
heart for circulating its blood, in the form of a simple tube; and
although no distinct breathing-organs are developed, naturalists
believe that the blood may be purified by being circulated through
a delicate membrane which is named the 'mesentery,' and which
serves to suspend and support the digestive organs to the wall of
the shell. The fact that this membrane is richly provided with
the delicate vibratile filaments known as 'cilia,' and that it is
bathed in the sea-water--necessarily containing oxygen--and which
is admitted within the shell, would seem to favour the idea that it
constitutes the breathing-organ of these animals.
The sea-egg is not destitute of means for obtaining some degree of
knowledge regarding its surroundings; and it obtains its _quantum_
of information through the same channel by which man is brought
into relation with the world in which he lives--namely the nervous
system. The sea-urchin possesses no structure corresponding to a
brain--indeed in all animals of its nature, the nervous system
exists in a comparatively low and unspecialised condition. We do
not find, in other words, that development and concentration of
the parts of the nervous system seen in the highest groups of
animals, and which enables these latter to form definite ideas
regarding their surroundings and respecting the world at large.
A cord of nervous matter surrounds the gullet of the sea-egg,
and from this central portion five great nerves are given off;
one nerve-trunk passing along the inner surface of each of the
perforated double rows of plates of the shell, to terminate at the
upper pole of the body. The only organs of sense developed in the
sea-eggs appear to consist of five little 'eyes' of rudimentary
nature, each consisting of a little spot of colouring matter and
a lens. These eyes are situated on five special plates of the
shell, developed at the upper pole or extremity of that structure.
We thus remark that the parts of the nervous system, along with
other portions of the sea-egg's structure, are developed in a
kind of five-membered symmetry--if we may so express it. And it
is a singular fact that not only throughout the sea-egg's class
do we find the number five to represent the typical arrangement
of parts and organs--as is well exemplified in the five rays of
the common star-fish--but we also discover that this number is one
exceedingly common in the symmetry of flowers. This fact apparently
struck an old writer--Sir Thomas Browne--as being a curious and
noteworthy feature of the Star-fishes and their allies, since we
find him inquiring 'Why, among Sea-stars, Nature chiefly delighteth
in five points?'--although to this suggestive query, the learned
and eccentric author of the _Religio Medici_ gives no exact or
satisfactory reply.
The movements of our sea-egg are effected by means of an apparatus,
which forms one of the most noteworthy parts of its structure. If
a star-fish be dropped into a rock-pool, it may be seen to glide
slowly but easily over the bottom of the miniature sea in which we
have placed it. When we examine the lower surface of this animal's
body, we at once perceive the means whereby its movements are
performed; for existing in hundreds, in the deep groove which runs
along the under surface of each ray, we see the little tube-feet or
_ambulacra_, each consisting of a little muscular tube, terminated
in a sucker-like tip. By means of an apparatus of essentially
similar kind, the sea-egg is enabled to crawl slowly over the floor
of the sea. The tube-feet existing to the number of many hundreds
in the sea-egg, are protruded, as has already been remarked,
through the holes existing in each of the five double rows of
perforated plates of the shell. The mechanism of their protrusion
depends on the presence of a special system of vessels, known as
the 'ambulacral' vessels, which carry water to the little feet, for
the purpose of their inflation and distension.
Thus on the upper surface of the shell we find a single large plate
perforated with holes like the lid of a pepper-box. This plate
opens into a long tube called the 'sand-canal'--a name which is
decidedly a misnomer, since the function of the plate resembling
the pepper-box lid is to allow water to enter this tube, but at
the same time to exclude particles of sand and like matters.
The sand-canal terminates in a circular vessel, which, like the
nerve-cord, surrounds the gullet; and from this central ring a
great vessel, like a main water-pipe, runs up each of the five
rows of perforated plates in company with the nerve-cord. At the
base of each little tube-foot is a little muscular sac or bag, and
into these sacs the water admitted by the sand-canal ultimately
passes. When therefore the sea-egg wishes to distend its feet for
the purpose of protruding them through the shell-pores, and of thus
walking by applying their sucker-like tips to fixed objects, the
water in the little sacs is forced into the feet, which are thus
distended. Whilst conversely, when the feet are to be withdrawn,
the water is forced back, by the contraction of the feet into the
sacs, or may be allowed to escape from the perforated tips of the
feet, so as to admit of a fresh supply being brought in from the
interior.
The development of the sea-egg may be briefly glanced at by way
of conclusion, along with a few points in its economic history.
The animal, solid as it appears in its adult state, is developed
from a small egg, which gives origin to a little body, usually
named the 'larva,' but which, from its resemblance in form to a
painter's easel, has received the name of _Pluteus_. This little
body does not in the least resemble the sea-egg; possesses a
mouth and digestive system of its own, and swims freely through
the sea. Sooner or later, however, a second body begins to be
formed within and at the expense of this Pluteus-larva; whilst as
development proceeds and ends, the sea-egg appears as the result
of this secondary development, and the now useless remainder of
the first-formed being is cast off and simply perishes. Thus the
development of the sea-egg is by no means the least curious part of
the animal's history, and presents a singular resemblance to the
production of the Star-fishes and their neighbours.
The mere mention of the economic or rather gastronomic relations
of the sea-eggs may appropriately form a concluding remark to
our gossiping remarks concerning these animals. With our British
prejudices in favour of eating only what our forefathers were
accustomed to consider wholesome, it is not likely that the
sea-eggs will appeal with success to be included as culinary
dainties. Yet on the continent these animals are much esteemed as
articles of dietary and even of luxury. The Corsicans and Algerians
eat one species, whilst the Neapolitans relish another kind; and
in classic times, when variety rather than quantity or quality was
the chief feature of high-class entertainments, the _Echini_ were
esteemed morsels at the tables of the Greeks and Romans. Here then
is an opportunity for another Soyer to tempt the modern cultivated
appetite with a new and wholesome dish. Considering that crabs and
lobsters are so highly esteemed, the sea-eggs but wait a suitable
introduction to become, it may be, the favourite tit-bits of future
generations.
A wise philosopher--the great Newton himself--remarked concerning
the limitation of our knowledge, that we were but as children,
picking up at most a few stray grains of sand on the sea-shore,
whilst around us lies the great region of the unknown. Our present
study may not inaptly be related to Newton's comparison, since
it serves to shew that even the brief and imperfect history of
a stray shell picked up on the sea-beach may teem with features
so curious and with problems so deep, that the furthest science
may be unequal to the explanation of the one or the elucidation
of the other. Whilst the subject no less powerfully pleads for
the wider extension of the knowledge of this world and its living
tenants--knowledge which in every aspect reveals things which are
not only wondrously grand, but also 'fair to see.'
THE TWELFTH RIG.
IN SIX CHAPTERS.