“St. Catherine’s Down,” continued Mr. Merton, “is about nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, and is the highest part of the island.”
“Yes, but it is lower now than it used to be,” said the driver. “They say it is not above eight hundred feet high now in most parts, and that it is gradually sinking.”
“I wonder they did not put the light-house on the top of the Down, as it is so high,” said Agnes.
“There was anciently a chapel,” replied Mr. Merton, “which was built in the year 1323, by the lord of the neighbouring manor; and a certain yearly sum was assigned to it to maintain a monk there, whose duty it was to sing mass, and keep a constant light burning to guide mariners. But at the Reformation the poor monk’s revenues were swept away, and his chapel has become a ruin. There was, however, a light-house erected near it about fifty or sixty years ago, but I believe it soon fell into disuse.”
“The sailors could not see the light on account of the fogs,” said the driver.
“What! are there fogs on the summit of that down?” cried Mrs. Merton.
“So thick that you could not see your hand before you. It is not very long since the landlord of that very house you stopped at walked over the cliff one foggy night, when he thought he was going home to his own house. So they had no light-house at all here till the loss of the ‘Clarendon’ made such a talk; and then they built the light-house of St. Catherine’s, that you see down yonder.”
They had now just passed a pretty romantic-looking Gothic cottage called the Sand-rock Hotel; on the fine lawn before which were several persons sitting, enjoying the cold morning breeze. It was, in fact, a delightful scene: the air was fresh and pleasant, though the sun shone brightly; and the sea, instead of the boisterous force which it had shown the preceding night, curled gently round the cliffs, with a snow-white crest mantling on its edge, and seemed as if it were smiling at the mischief it had done. They had now a good view of the light-house which the driver had mentioned. It was an octagon building about one hundred and twenty feet high, standing upon a cliff about fifty feet above the level of the sea. Advancing rapidly, they soon reached the pretty little church of St. Lawrence; which is said to be the smallest parochial church in Great Britain; as it is only twenty feet long, twelve feet wide, and six feet high, in the lowest part; though, from the roof being of a steep slope, it is much higher in the middle of the church. Mrs. Merton and Agnes got out of the carriage, and walked round this curious little building, which appeared to have been constructed for Lilliputians, rather than for human beings of the ordinary size. They walked round the church-yard, and found one of the tomb-stones erected to the memory of a gentleman, upwards of ninety years of age, who had lost his life by falling from the downs just above the church, while travelling through the island. After satisfying their curiosity by inspecting the church, Mrs. Merton and Agnes returned to the carriage; and they drove on to St. Lawrence’s Well, where the water of a delightfully clear and pure spring is received in a stone-basin, protected by a kind of alcove, which forms an elegant little stone building surrounded by trees. Fortunately the party had a travelling case with them containing a glass; and they were all, except the driver, very glad to refresh themselves with some of this delicious water, which tasted as cool as if it had flowed through ice. They now approached Steephill, a modern castle, which has been erected on a spot formerly called the Queen of the Undercliffe; and the grounds of which certainly appeared as pretty as wood and smooth turf could make them. On the road-side, sitting by a little stream of water which gushed out of the broken rocks, sat a large Kittiwake Gull. “Look, mamma,” cried Agnes, pointing to the bird, “there is the very gull we saw at Black Gang Chine.”