“I wonder,” said Lewis, as the basket of shells and sea-weed was placed
on the table, “what can be the use of the hard names people always
give to their shells. I think it would be much better to call them by
some name which should describe the shell, and which every body could
understand.”
“And in saying this, Lewis,” said Mrs. Ashton, “you have furnished an
argument in favour of systems and classifications.”
“How so, mamma? When you spoke to us the other day of the little
purple-ocean snail-shell, I formed a much better idea of it than if you
had called it by some Latin name, which I could not understand.”
“And yet, my dear, if you had wished to find this shell, and place it
among your collection, the name by which I called it would have been
of little assistance to you; for there are other small purple shells,
which you might very likely have mistaken for the one in question:
and, perhaps, the first person you asked about it, would have told you
it was something quite different. Had you been in a foreign land, the
English name would have been useless; and, indeed, even in various
parts of our own country, things are called by very different names.
The object is to find an appellation for it, and other shells, which
shall be common to all naturalists; and thus assist you, by reference
to their works, to discover every thing that is known respecting them.
The shell we have been speaking of, is the _helix janthina_; and when
once you are acquainted with this, its Linnæan name, you may readily
find, in books on conchology, such a description of it as would prevent
your mistaking any other for it. I believe you already know the three
great divisions into which shells are arranged, of _univalves_,
_bivalves_, and _multivalves_.”
“Yes, mamma,” said Lewis, taking up a common whelk, (_buccinum_,)
“this belongs to the first division; it has only one piece.”
“And this muscle,” said Edward, “is a _bivalve_. I do not see a
_multivalve_ in this collection.”
Mrs. Ashton soon found one.
“Now, mamma,” said Lewis, “before you tell us the name, will you show
me how to set about finding it for myself?”
“Willingly,” said Mrs. Ashton; “it is always pleasant to help those who
try to help themselves: but in this instance perhaps Edward will lend
his assistance; and I shall then have the additional satisfaction of
knowing that he does not forget what he has once learned.”
“Mamma taught me,” said Edward, “that there are but three classes in
the _multivalve_ division of shells; and this you see must belong to
one of them, for it has many pieces. Now, Lewis, I will read to you
what my text-book says about them; and you shall see which description
answers best to the shell we have been looking at. First, the
_chiton_, canoe or boat-shell, consisting of several segments, placed
transversely, and lying upon each other at their anterior edge.”
Lewis put on a considering face, and again examined the shell.
“Let me see,” said he, “segment—that means part of a circle, placed
transversely—cross-ways, and lying one over the other. I see nothing of
the kind: besides, this is not at all in the shape of a boat or canoe,
so it cannot be a _chiton_.”
“Will you go on to the next class, if you please?”
“I have not finished the account,” said Edward; “but, since you are so
well satisfied, we will try the _lepas_, or barnacle.”
Edward reads:—“Shell affixed at the base; and consisting of many
unequal erect valves.”
“That will do, so far,” said Lewis, as Edward waited to see the result
of his further examination. “I dare say this is a _lepas_. But, oh!
mamma,” he cried, changing his tone, “there are three or four orders in
this class. How shall we fix on the right one?”
“By attention to the description,” said his mother; “and at the end of
the book here are plates, which, perhaps, will help you.”
Lewis turned to the plates; and with the assistance of them, and the
description given, he came at last to the conclusion, that the shell in
question must be the _lepas anatifera_.
“And now,” said Mrs. Ashton, “you have been very persevering, and
I will endeavour to tell you something interesting respecting the
_lepas_. These extraordinary shell-fish are never found detached from
other substances: they adhere firmly to rocks and stones, and even to
larger fish, such as the whale. The numbers which sometimes attach
themselves to the sides of vessels, add so greatly to their weight
as to impede their progress; so that, you see, the inhabitant of the
_lepas_ is frequently a traveller, and is exposed to the violence
of the boisterous waves. Now, observe how admirably the Creator has
provided for this little creature’s safety: here, at the entrance of
its shell, is fixed a door, consisting of triangular valves, which the
lepas opens or shuts as may best suit his convenience; by means of this
little feathery tube the animal procures its food. I will read to you
an anecdote, whilst we are upon the present subject, which I copied the
other day from Mr. Roberts’s Conchologist’s Companion:—
“‘The mention of the _lepas_ is connected with an extraordinary fact
that occurred some years since at Sidmouth. A small coasting-vessel,
with a few hands on board, sprung a leak, and went down within sight
of several persons on the Esplanade. It was a melancholy circumstance,
and as such, excited much commiseration; but time passed on and the
occurrence was forgotten, till one morning the vessel gradually arose
from out of the water, and was driven by the tide upon the shore. The
beach was soon covered with spectators; and on inspection, the sides,
the deck, the remains of the mast, in short, every part was seen
bristling with barnacles. The meal-tub especially was so covered with
them as to present a beautiful and novel appearance. The reason of the
vessel’s reappearing was now obvious; the long tubes of the barnacles,
being full of air, had rendered the sunken vessel specifically lighter
than the water; and she arose from off her watery bed after the lapse
of nearly twenty years.’ The author adds: ‘The person from whom I heard
this curious incident, was one of the spectators: he had preserved some
remarkably fine specimens. It is a fact that may possibly suggest some
mode of rendering vessels so buoyant as not to sink in even the most
tremendous storms.’”
Edward and Lewis were much delighted with the account their mother gave
them of the barnacle, and of the surprising reappearance of the sunken
vessel.
“Mamma,” said Lewis, “I believe I shall always know the _lepas_, the
_lepas anatifera_ I mean, when I see it again. Do you think you could
get for us any specimens of the other orders belonging to this class?”
Mrs. Ashton promised to do so if possible.
“Lewis,” she said, “I think you will not call conchology so very dry
a subject another time, if I may judge from the interest you have
taken in it: but perhaps you have learned enough of classification for
to-day.”
The children begged to be allowed to look at the shells a little
longer; and again and again admired their bright colours and elegant
forms.
“The most beautiful shells,” said Mrs. Ashton, “are brought from the
Red Sea and the East Indies. Those which are found in the West Indies
are less brilliant; and the shells of colder regions possess still
less lustre and variety of colours: so that this difference may very
reasonably be attributed, in some measure, to solar heat: perhaps, too,
those seas in which the most brilliant shells are found, may furnish a
greater supply of nourishment to the animals which inhabit them, and
thus cause their shelly coverings to increase in size and beauty.”
“Do you really mean, mamma,” said Edward, “that shells grow?”
“Yes, my dear: naturalists tell us, that an infant shell-fish is
covered with a testaceous coating, which is gradually increased by
the supply of a viscous substance, exuding from the animal, until
it is furnished with a dwelling completely adapted to its wants
and situation. It is very interesting to notice the great variety
of habitations provided for the different species, and to see how
admirably each one is in accordance with the instincts of the occupant.
Some are sheltered by thick coverings, which protect them from the
beating of the boisterous waves; others, which inhabit the still waters
of ponds or ditches, have light and fragile dwellings. The shells of
some animals are in form like little vessels, the valves of which
they open to the breeze, and thus float on the surface of the waves;
others, inclosed in cases, which remind us of the diving-bell, lie
hid in ocean’s caves; or occasionally descend to the very bottom of
the sea. The limpet, in his conical dwelling, lives like a solitary
hermit on the sea-coast: the _pinna_ has a shell so large as to admit
other guests: the _chiton_ rolls himself up in the plaited folds of his
armour, at the first approach of danger; while other fish, apparently
more defenceless, have shells of such a form as to enable them to make
a speedy retreat from their enemies.”[1]
Lewis wanted much to know what the armour of the _chiton_ was; but just
as he was going to make the inquiry, the sound of a horn attracted the
attention of the little party.
“Can it be six o’clock already?” cried he.
“It is, indeed,” said Edward, “and there is dear papa on the coach; and
cousin Helen is showing her face at the window.”
But a few moments passed, and the happy children were at their father’s
side.
“Well, cousin Helen,” exclaimed Lewis, when the first greetings were
over, “how you are grown! you are almost as tall as Edward, I do
believe. I hope you are not too much of a woman to play with boys now;
though you have been to boarding-school since we saw you. Is not
Brighton a delightful place? Were you not very glad to come?”
“Poor Helen!” said Mr. Ashton, “you will not give her time to answer
one question, before you put another.” Helen’s merry face showed that
she was not very sorry about _any thing_ just now.
“I am afraid,” she said, “papa and mamma would tell you, that I am too
fond of romping still.”
“So much the better,” Lewis said: he was very glad Helen did not love
playing with dolls, except it was the sport of giving them a sail in
the brook, which ran at the end of his uncle’s garden.
Helen had no brothers and sisters of her own; but she had spent many
happy hours with her cousins, when they were visiting at her papa’s
house.
“We have no garden for you here,” said Edward; “but we have a great
many things to show you; and I think you will not soon grow tired of
the beach, and the Esplanade, and the chain-pier.”
“Nor of looking at the sea either,” added Lewis; “for I think, Helen,
you have done scarcely any thing else since you have been here.”
“I have never seen it before, you know,” said Helen, again turning her
eyes towards the blue expanse of waters, as though she thought she had
assigned a very sufficient reason for the silence, which she was not
usually remarkable for.
“Lewis, my dear,” said Mrs. Ashton, “set a chair for your cousin; we
will take our tea now. I am sure the travellers will be glad of it: and
if Helen is not too much fatigued for walking this evening, we will go
with her to the beach, that she may have a nearer view of that which
seems to interest her so much.”
“Thank you, thank you! I am not much tired, I assure you; I shall be
quite rested when we have finished tea.”
Tea was soon dispatched; and the children were ready to accompany Mr.
and Mrs. Ashton.
The evening was particularly fine; and Helen admired all that she saw,
quite as much as her cousins had wished or expected.
There were gay parties in plenty, riding or walking along the cliff,
and the waves sparkled as brightly as ever in the sun-beams; but Edward
and Lewis had walked this way so often before, that this evening they
wished to change their route.
Their mother and Helen good-naturedly gave up their desire to remain
longer on the beach; and Mr. Ashton inquired which way his boys wished
them go.
“Oh, papa!” said Edward, “Lewis and I want very much to see Nicholas
Tattersal’s tomb; mamma said we should find it near the entrance to the
old church: she told us the history of Tattersal’s bravely assisting
the unfortunate King Charles II. to escape from his rebellious
subjects, and that has made us wish to see the spot where he was
buried.”
On their way to the church-yard, Helen begged Lewis to tell her all
he knew about Charles’s escape, and the generous behaviour of his
conductor; so that by the time they reached the spot, she was as much
interested as her cousins in the object of their search.
It was found to be a slab of black marble, on which was carved the
following inscription, and under it some uncouth rhymes, which Edward
with difficulty deciphered:—
“P M S
“Captain Nicholas Tattersal, throvgh whose prvdence, valovr, and
loyalty, Charles II., King of England, after he had escaped the swords
of his merciless rebels, and his forces received a fatal overthrow at
Worcester, September 3rd, 1651, was faithfully preserved and conveyed
to France, departed this life 26th of July, 1674.
“Within this marble monument doth lye
Approved faith, honovr, and loyalty:
In this cold clay he hath now ta’en up his station,
Who once preserved the chvrch, the crowne, and nation:
When Charles the Greate was nothing bvt a breath,
This valiant hero stept t’ween him and death;
Usvrpers’ threats, nor tyrant rebels’ frowne,
Covld not affright his dvty to the crowne;
Which gloriovs act of his for chvrch and state
Eight princes in one day did gratulate—
Professing all to him in debt to bee,
As all the world are to his memory.
Since earth could not reward the worth him given,
He now receives it from the King of Heaven.”
When Edward looked up from the monument, and was going to ask, whether
the eight princes here spoken of were Charles’s foreign allies, he saw
that his auditors had left him.
His mother was sitting on some ruined steps, which led to the remains
of an ancient cross, enjoying the wide-extended view which the
church-yard commanded; and Lewis and Helen were together, conning an
epitaph on a tomb-stone at a little distance.
Just at this moment Helen beckoned, and called to Edward to come and
hear a very wonderful history.
The whole party were soon gathered round the stone, by which Helen was
standing: on it was engraven a short account of a remarkable person,
named Phœbe Hessel. It relates that she was born at Stepney, in the
year 1713, and served for many years as a private soldier in the fifth
regiment of foot, in different parts of Europe. In 1745, she fought
under the command of the Duke of Cumberland, at Fontenoy, where she
received a bayonet wound in her arm. Her long life, which commenced in
Queen Ann’s reign, extended to that of George the Fourth; from whose
bounty she received comfort and support in her latter years. She died
at Brighton, where she had long resided, December 12, 1821, at the
advanced age of one hundred and eight years.
“Dear uncle,” said Helen, “what an extraordinary character! I do not
think I could have loved a woman who had been thus employed in the
destruction of her fellow-creatures. The epitaph does not tell us that
she had any particular object in view in entering the army; such as
seeking shelter and disguise for a time; or, that she did it from a
sense of duty, like Joan of Arc.”
“Whatever were the motives to such a line of conduct, my love,”
replied her uncle, “it is indeed to be lamented, that one, who
doubtless possessed strength of mind in no common degree, should be
so misguided as thus to misapply her time and talents, which might
have been rendered eminently useful, if dedicated to His service, who
is emphatically styled ‘The Prince of Peace.’ But let us hope, that
in the latter years of her lengthened existence she was permitted to
see the error of her ways, and to enlist under His banner; becoming a
Christian, not merely in name, but in practice also.”
The children listened attentively to Mr. Ashton’s remarks; and he took
the opportunity of pointing out to them how instructive a lesson the
prospect of so many silent abodes of the dead may afford.
“See, my children,” he said, “what becomes of all the wisdom, riches,
and beauty of man, when his crumbling ashes unite with their parent
dust, and all distinctions of rank and excellence are lost in that one
common lot—the grave. Oh! then, may we never live as though this world
were our home, instead of what it is designed to be, a preparation for
a better, a more enduring inheritance!”
“Look, dear mamma,” said Edward, “there is the new-made grave of a
little child.”
“Yes, my love,” said Mrs. Ashton, “I believe I need not tell you what
that should teach us.”
Edward pressed his mother’s hand, in token of assent.
“Aunt,” said Helen, “I learned some pretty lines of poetry, the other
day, which were inscribed on an infant’s tomb.”
“Will you repeat them, my love?” asked Mrs. Ashton.
Helen did so.
“A little spirit slumbers here,
Who to one heart was very dear;
Oh! he was more than life or light;
Its thoughts by day, its dawn by night.
The chill winds came, the young flower faded
And died; the grave its sweetness shaded.
Fair boy, thou should’st have wept for me;
Nor I have had to mourn o’er thee:
Yet not long may this sorrow be.
Those roses I have planted round,
To deck the dear, sad, sacred ground,
When spring-gales next their leaves shall wave,
May blush upon thy mother’s grave.”
“Thank you, dear Helen, it is a very pretty epitaph; but, perhaps,
to the mournful writer of it, Edmiston’s touching lines might with
propriety have been addressed.
‘And thou, pale mourner o’er an infant’s bier,
Brighten thy cheek, and dry the trickling tear:
This came, though veiled in darkness, from above,
A dispensation of eternal love.
He, who perceived the dangerous controul
The heart-twined spell was gaining o’er thy soul,
Snatched from thy arms the treacherous decoy,
To give thee brighter hope and purer joy:
Oh! see how soon the flowers of life decay,
How soon terrestrial pleasures fade away!
This star of comfort for a moment given,
Just rose on earth, then set, to rise in heaven.
Yet mourn not, as of hope bereft, its doom,
Nor water with thy tears its early tomb:
Redeemed by God from sin, released from pain,
Its life were punishment, its death is gain.’”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Roberts’s Conchologist’s Companion.