the manner shown, which in the course of ages has produced the perfect sorting that we see.
The black boats which dot the bank at intervals throughout its whole visible extent attracted the attention on our arrival; huge and unwieldy as they look at close approach, they are picturesque enough, even in the deserted condition in which they have stood all the morning with their bows looking toward the West Bay. Everything on board is neat and snug, with no sign of present use or movement about them. A stranger’s innocent ignorance might be pardoned for supposing that they were beached and done with for some time to come; that work was over, and no fish in the offing. A crowd of men and lads, however, of the true fisherman type, come running along the beach, and form groups around each boat in our neighbourhood. Something is evidently in the wind. It may be worth our while to get near a crew, and rest upon the clean pebbles while we watch them. How listlessly the men loll about in various attitudes of repose. A few oldsters—lookers-on like ourselves—sit apart in knots calmly chatting, while the lads, true to their instincts, are skylarking about the beach. Each of these groups in their way forms a strong contrast with the keen-eyed look-out, who stands alone high up upon the shingle, with quick eyes fixed seaward. For a quarter, or perhaps half an hour, the whole keep thus, when, at a signal from the watcher unmarked by us, every figure starts into action; the young ones run for a few moments rapidly towards the boat, but the older hands almost immediately resume their lounging postures. We turn to a neighbour to ask the reason for this sudden change, who points to the adjacent boat, which we see has been beforehand with our friends, and is already on the water. “First come, first serve,” is the rule upon the beach; and hence the returning inaction. No long time passes, however, before all are alive again; another signal from above, and the two stout lads, already in the boat, seize the bow-oars. Some six men fall in line on either side with hands upon the gunwale. A shout! a bend of the muscular backs, and she glides grating rapidly over the pebbles, the men running at her sides till her bows touch the water; on the instant the bow-oars are dipped and her head kept seaward, while, with her momentum still upon her, the launchers have flashed knee-deep through the waves, and with one quick spring together are over the side, clasping each an oar. The steersman shouts, “Give way!” the blades dip, and, settling down steadily to their work, the crew soon leave the shore behind them.
The afternoon closes while we sit waiting the return of the boat; at length she nears us, borne on the summit of an advancing wave; the rowers back her towards the beach, a rope is flung ashore, and now pull together men, and jump eager boys from her sides, waist deep in the water to help her onward; lay the oars crosswise upon the pebbles; once more together with a will, and your craft is high and dry.
And now for the fish. Bobbing up and down with every ripple, a semicircle of cork-floats tells us the position of the net; the busy crew haul upon the lines, and every minute the dancing curve lessens in diameter. Women have come upon the scene, and creels are countless. Flash! A single white belly glistens in the moonlight; the corks come closer and closer; fish after fish shows his glittering sides above the water, and in a minute more the red pebbles gleam with their living load; thousands upon thousands of jumping and writhing mackarel are lying on the bank, while men and women rush, creel in hand, upon them. Picking and sorting, though profitable, is poor work in a picturesque point of view, and we leave our fishermen busy at their closing labours; not, however, without a tribute to the courage, endurance, and skill these men have often shown in other work than their immediate calling. When the dark times of sea life come, when the moonlit water of this placid evening has become the deadly foe with which to struggle for the dear life, then has many a shipwrecked sailor had cause to thank God for the bold and hardy life and training which have helped to make the beach fishermen ever ready to brave danger, or, if need be, to face death when the need arises.
We have said nothing of, nor will our space allow us to do more than briefly glance at, the water on the inner side of the bank. This, after passing Ferrybridge, changes from an open bay to a creek, having the beach and mainland for its respective shores. At Abbotsbury the creek widens into a seeming lake of large size. Here there is a swannery and duck decoy, while the water is the resort of wild fowl innumerable. Over the wide flat shores of the mainland the rudely built swans’-nests lie thickly scattered: these are deserted now, but a stray egg here and there tells of addledom and blighted parents’ hopes, while hard by the brood of brown cygnets, essaying a first swim, speaks of successful sittings. At the right season too, if fond of wild fowl, we might find pleasure in watching the water black with coots, terns, and duck, or follow behind the sheltering curtains of the decoy the knowing tactics of the little dog who is so valuable an ally to the seductive tame birds. To all these things together, with the bank of whose chief points of interest we have endeavoured to give some general idea, we bid farewell, trusting that our tramp over the pebbles has not tired our reader’s mental legs. In these days of Alpine clubs and muscular science, it may seem presumptuous to speak of physical fatigue in connection with any explorations short of a hitherto unattempted glacier; still, to those having scanter summer holidays at command than the happy fellows who can spend their six weeks among the Upper Alps, we can strongly recommend for geological and zoological interest, for picturesque beauty of a very singular and unusual order, as well as for a right down hard day’s march, a run upon the Chesil Bank.
Daniel Pidgeon.
NIOBE.
(FROM THE GREEK.)
Within this tomb no corpse was ever laid,
To hold this corpse no tomb was ever made,
But tomb and corpse in one are here display’d.
E. A. Bowring.
