“Hæc loca, vi quondam et vasta convulsa ruina, Tantum ævi longinqua valet mutare vetustas! Dissiluisse ferunt, quum protenus utraque tellus Una foret; venit medio vi pontus et undis Hesperium Siculo latus abscidit, arvaque et urbes Litore deductas angusto interluit æsta.”
Æneid, iii., 414-19.
But whatever may be thought of this opinion thus rendered immortal by the genius of the poet, we shall not stop to discuss its merits. For in the present stage of our argument, it is our object to deal, not with vague and uncertain traditions, nor even with philosophical speculations, but rather with the facts which are actually going on in nature, and which any one of our readers may examine for himself. With this object in view, we shall take a few examples from the Eastern and Southern coasts of Great Britain, which have been carefully explored by scientific men for the purpose of observing and recording the amount of destruction accomplished by the waves within recent times.
Fig. 1.—Granitic rocks to the south of Hillswick Ness, Shetland. From Lyell’s Principles of Geology.
The Shetland Islands, exposed to the whole fury of the Atlantic, present many phenomena not unlike those of Kilkee and Loop Head, but upon a far grander scale. Whole islands have been swept away by the resistless power of the waters, and of others nothing remains but massive pillars of hard rock, which have been well described as rising up “like the ruins of Palmyra in the desert of the ocean.” Passing to the mainland, it is recorded that in the year 1795 a village in Kincardineshire was carried away in a single night, and the sea advanced a hundred and fifty yards inland, where it has ever since maintained its ground. In England, almost the whole coast of Yorkshire is undergoing constant dilapidation. On the south side of Flamborough Head the cliffs are receding at an average rate of two yards and a quarter in the year, for a distance of thirty-six miles along the coast. This would amount to a mile since the Norman Conquest, and to more than two miles since the occupation of York by the Romans. It is not surprising, therefore, to learn that many spots marked in the old maps of the country as the sites of towns or villages, are now sandbanks in the sea. Even places of historic name have not been spared. The town of Ravenspur, from which, in 1332, Edward Baliol sailed for the invasion of Scotland, and at which Henry the Fourth landed in 1399, to claim the throne of England, has long since been swallowed up by the devouring element.
On the coast of Norfolk it was calculated, at the beginning of the present century, that the mean loss of the land was something less than one yard in the year. The inn at Sherringham was built on this calculation in 1805, and it was expected to stand for seventy years. But unfortunately the actual advance of the sea exceeded the calculation. Sir Charles Lyell, who visited this spot in 1829, relates that during the five preceding years seventeen yards of the cliff had been swept away, and nothing but a small garden was then left between the building and the sea. The same distinguished writer tells us that in the harbor of this town there was at that time water sufficient to float a frigate where forty-eight years before had stood a cliff fifty feet in height with houses built upon it. And remarking upon these facts, he says, that “if once in half a century an equal amount of change were produced suddenly by the momentary shock of an earthquake, history would be filled with records of such wonderful revolutions of the earth’s surface; but if the conversion of high land into deep sea be gradual, it excites only local attention.”
In the neighborhood of Dunwich, once the most considerable seaport on the coast of Suffolk, the cliffs have been wasting away from an early period of history. “Two tracts of land which had been taxed in the time of King Edward the Confessor, are mentioned in the Conqueror’s survey, made but a few years afterward, as having been devoured by the sea.” And the memory of other losses in the town itself—including a monastery, several churches, the town-hall, the jail, and many hundred houses—together with the dates of their occurrence, is faithfully preserved in authentic records. In 1740 the sea reached the churchyard of Saint Nicholas and Saint Francis, so that the graves, the coffins, and the skeletons, were exposed to view on the face of the cliffs. Since that time the coffins, and the tombstones, and the churchyard itself, have disappeared beneath the waves. Nothing now remains of this once flourishing and populous city but the name alone, which is still attached to a little village of about twenty houses. The spot on which the Church of Reculver stands, near the mouth of the Thames, was a mile inland in the reign of Henry the Eighth; in the year 1834 it was overhanging the sea; and it would long ago have been demolished, but for an artificial causeway of stones constructed with a view to break the force of the waves. It is estimated that the land on the northeast coast of Kent is receding at the rate of about two feet in the year. The promontory of Beachy Head in Sussex is also rapidly falling away. In the year 1813 an enormous mass of chalk, three hundred feet in length and eighty in breadth, came down with a tremendous crash; and slips of the same kind have often occurred, both before and since.
To these examples from Great Britain we may add one or two from the German Ocean. Seven islands have completely disappeared within a very narrow area since the time of Pliny; for he counted twenty-three between Texel and the mouth of the Eider, whereas now there are but sixteen. The island of Heligoland, at the mouth of the Elbe, has been for ages subject to great dilapidation. Within the last five hundred years three-fourths of it have been carried away; and since 1770 the fragment that remains has been divided into two parts by a channel which is at present navigable for large ships. A still more remarkable instance of destruction effected by the waves of the sea occurred in the island of Northstrand, on the coast of Schleswig. Previous to the thirteenth century it was attached to the mainland, forming a part of the continent of Europe, and was a highly cultivated and populous district about ten miles long, and from six to eight broad. In the year 1240 it was cut off from the coast of Schleswig by an inroad of the sea, and it gradually wasted away up to the seventeenth century, when its entire circumference was sixteen geographical miles. Even then the industrious inhabitants,—about nine thousand in number,—endeavored to save what remained of their territory by the erection of lofty dykes; but on the eleventh of October, 1634, the whole island was overwhelmed by another invasion of the sea, in which 6000 people perished, and 50,000 head of cattle. Three small islets are all that now remain of this once fertile district.[25]
The breakers of the ocean receive no small aid in their work of destruction from the action of tides and currents which co-operate with the winds to keep the waters of the sea in constant motion. And though the winds may sleep for a time, the tides and currents are always actively at work, and never for a moment cease to wear away the land. But they are even more powerful auxiliaries as agents of transport. If it were not for them, the ruins which fall from the rocks to-day would to-morrow form a barrier against the waves, and the work of destruction would cease. But Nature has ordained it otherwise. When the tide advances, it rolls the broken fragments toward the land, and when it recedes, it carries them back to the deep; and so by unceasing friction these fragments are worn away to pebbles, and then, being more easily transported, they are carried off to sea and deposited in the bed of the ocean: or else, perhaps, they are cast up on the sloping shore, to form what is so familiar to us all under the name of a shingle-beach.