A Year at the Shore

by Philip Henry Gosse

Perhaps the most effective aid to the investigation of natural history which the present age has produced is the invention of the aquarium, and particularly its application to marine forms of life. Depending on that grand principle of organic chemistry, of world-wide prevalence, that the emanations from animals and vegetables are respectively essential to the continued life each of the other, it was discovered that the relative proportions of number and bulk in which organic beings of the two kinds could healthfully live together was easily determined; and since the fact that the creatures were inhabitants of water, whether fresh or salt, presented no exception to the universality of the law, they had but to be placed together in a suitable ratio, enclosed in a vessel containing water, and an aquarium was established. Improvements in the form of the vessel, in the mode of exposing the contents to observation, in the impact of the rays of light, in the arrangement of the interior, and other points of value, have indeed been progressively made; whereby the practical availability of the invention for the purposes of experimental natural history has been augmented; but some of us have found little difficulty, even from the very first announcement of the discovery, in maintaining the collections of sea-water, with their living plants and animals, unchanged from year’s end to year’s end. I may be perhaps excused for observing, that I have at present in use a large tank, full of marine creatures, in which the water has been unchanged for four years, and on which I look with peculiar interest, because it was the first tank ever made for private use. This very aquarium has afforded, and still affords the opportunity for the observation of many interesting details of the structure and habits of the lower forms of animal life, details which constitute the basis not only of my works on marine natural history already published, but of the present series of papers also. We collect the creatures, indeed, abroad, and there gather up some broad facts of interest concerning their modes of life; but it is at home, in the quiet of the study, with conveniences and aids to examination, experiment, and record at command, that they must be studied. The aquarium becomes in fact an apparatus, whereby we bring a portion of the sea, with its rocks, and weeds, and creatures, to the side of our study-table, and maintain it there.

USE OF THE AQUARIUM.

Thus an opportunity of close and valuable familiarity with sea-productions is open to multitudes who have never seen the broad expanse of ocean, nor searched its prolific shores; and facilities for extending the bounds of zoological science are everywhere enjoyed, which till lately were restricted to a very few naturalists, whose residences were situated on certain favourable spots upon the coast. Yet both modes of investigation are necessary. He who has never seen marine animals except in the confinement of an aquarium, cannot but be conscious of many chasms in his knowledge, which are filled up by him who is in the habit of collecting his own specimens in their proper haunts; and who, by finding them in ferâ naturâ, can, when he studies them at leisure in his tanks, make such allowances as are necessary for the variations in habit which may be dependent on the difference between their present artificial, and their original natural, conditions of existence.

While we rejoice then in tanks and vases of crystal water, filled with the lovely forms and brilliant hues of sea-weeds and sea-anemones, I invite my readers to accompany me on a few hours’ visit to the charming creatures at their own homes. The season is propitious; the sun has just passed the vernal equinox, and the genial warmth of spring is diffusing new life into the cold blood of the animals that dwell beneath the waters; the equinoctial storms that lately raged have blown themselves out, and are succeeded by a quietude whose effect is delightfully seen in yonder mirror-like ocean: it is the time of spring-tide; and the near approach of the hour of lowest water will afford us unusual facilities for finding species only to be invaded under such conditions.

Let us then scramble down to the beautiful Anstey’s Cove, along the steep path tangled with briers and ferns; where the swelling buds of the hawthorn and honeysuckle are already bursting, while the blackbird mellowly whistles in the fast-greening thicket, and the lark joyously greets the mounting sun above us. Yonder on the shingle lies a boat, newly painted in white and green, for the attraction of young ladies of maritime aspirations; she is hauled up high and dry; but the sinewy arms of honest Harry Bate, who hearing footsteps has come out of his little grotto under the rock to reconnoitre, will soon drag her down to the rippling waves, and, “for the small sum of a shilling an hour,” will pull us over the smooth and pond-like sea, whithersoever we may choose to direct him.

“Jump aboard, please, Sir! Jump in, ladies! jump in, little master!” And now, as we take our seats on the clean canvas cushions astern, the boat’s bottom scrapes along with a harsh grating noise over the white shingle-pebbles, and we are afloat.

SEA-CAVERN.

First to the caverns just outside yonder lofty point. The lowness of the tide will enable us to take the boat into them, and the calmness of the sea will preclude much danger of her striking the rocks; especially as watchful Bate will be on the alert, boat-hook in hand, to keep her clear. Now we lie in the gloom of the lofty arch, gently heaving and sinking and swaying on the slight swell, which, however smooth the surface, is always perceptible when you are in a boat among rocks, and which invests such an approach with a danger that a landsman does not at all appreciate. Yet the water, despite the swell, is glassy, and invites the gaze down into its crystalline depths, where the little fishes are playing and hovering over the dark weeds. The sides of the cavern rise around us in curved planes, washed smooth and slippery by the dashing of the waves of ages, and gradually merge into the massive angles and projections and groins of the broken roof, whence a tuft or two of what looks like samphire depends. But notice the colonies of the Smooth Anemone or Beadlet[32] clustered about the sides; many of them are adhering to the stone walls, several feet above the water. These have been left uncovered for hours, and are none the worse for it. They are closed, the many tentacles being concealed by the involution of the upper part of the body, so that they look like balls, or hemispheres, or semi-ovals of flesh; or like ripe fruits, so plump and succulent and glossy and high-coloured, that we are tempted to stretch forth the willing hand, to pluck and eat. Some are greengages, some Orleans plums, some magnum-bonums,—so various are their rich hues; but look beneath the water, and you see them not less numerous, but of quite another guise. These are all widely expanded; the tentacles are thrown out in an arch over the circumference, leaving a broad flat disk; just like a many-petalled flower of gorgeous hues: indeed, we may fancy that here we see the blossoms, and there the ripened fruit. Do not omit, however, to notice the beads of pearly blue that stud the margin all round, at the base of the over-arching tentacles. These have been supposed by some to be eyes; the suggestion, however, rests on no anatomical ground, and is, I am afraid, worthless; though I cannot tell you what purpose they do serve.