Chambers' Edinburgh Journal by Various
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Various >> Chambers\' Edinburgh Journal
In another section, locomotion is effected by a modification of
ciliary apparatus. We have a familiar example in the _Beroe_ of our
own seas, a most attractive little being, and a prime favourite with
naturalists, who have described its habits and celebrated its beauty
with enthusiasm. We shall not soon forget the delight with which we
first made acquaintance with this graceful little rover. While
rambling along the shore in quest of marine animals, our attention was
arrested by a drop of the clearest jelly, as it seemed to be, lying on
a mass of rock, from which the tide had but just receded. On
transferring it to a phial of sea-water, its true nature was at once
revealed to us. A globular body floated gracefully in the vessel,
scarcely less transparent than the fluid which filled it. Presently it
began to move up and down within its prison-house, and the paddles by
means of which the beroe dances along its ocean-path were distinctly
visible. These paddles are nothing more or less than cilia of a
peculiar kind, ranged in eight bands upon the surface of the body.
They are set in motion at the will of the animal, and their incessant
strokes propel it swiftly through the water. By stopping some of its
paddles, and keeping others in play, the beroe can change its course
at pleasure, and so wander 'at its own sweet will,' through the
trackless waste. Beauty waits upon the course of this little crystal
globe. The grace and sprightliness of its movements must strike the
commonest observer. As the sunlight falls upon its cilia, they are
'tinted with the most lovely iridescent colours;' and at night they
flash forth phosphoric light, as though the little creature were
giving a saucy challenge to the stars.
The beroe is a most active being, its habits conforming to the
organisation with which it is endowed. Such an array of paddles
prophesies of a mercurial temperament and an energetic character. It
can, however, anchor itself and lie by when occasion offers. It is
provided with two long cables, prettily set with spiral filaments or
tendrils, by means of which it can make fast to any point. When not in
use, it can retract them, and stow them away in two _sacs_ or pouches
within the body, where they may be seen coiled up, through the
transparent walls. The mouth is a simple opening at one pole of the
globular body. No arms are needed. The beroe is spared the labour and
uncertainty of the chase. As it dances gaily along, streams of water,
bearing nutritive particles, pass through the orifice into its
stomach.
In this creature, as in many of the lower animals, there is a
remarkable power of retaining vitality after the most serious
injuries; nay, in portions actually severed from the body, it will
continue for some time. Mr Patterson, in his excellent _Introduction
to Zoology_, mentions that on one occasion he divided a fragment of
the body of a beroe, lately taken from the shore and shattered by a
storm, 'into portions so minute that one piece of skin had but two
cilia attached to it, yet the vibration of these organs continued for
nearly a couple of days afterwards!' But we must leave the beroe,
charmer though it be.
Another member of this section--the _Ciliograde acalephae_, as they are
called--is the Girdle of Venus, which resembles a ribbon in form, and
is sometimes five or six feet in length, covered with cilia, and
brilliantly phosphorescent. This must be one of the most beautiful of
the _fireworks_ of the ocean.
The jelly-fishes of another section are furnished with one or more
air-bags, which assist them in swimming, and hence bear the name of
_hydrostatic acalephae_. In the Portuguese man-of-war (_Physalia_), the
bag is large, and floats conspicuously on the surface of the water.
From the top of it rises a purple crest, which acts as a sail, and by
its aid the little voyager scuds gaily before the wind. But should
danger threaten--should some hungry, piratical monster in quest of a
dinner heave in sight, or the blast grow furious--the float is at once
compressed, through two minute orifices at the extremities a portion
of the air escapes, and down goes the little craft to the tranquil
depths, leaving the storm or the pirate behind. In one species
(_Cuvieria_), the floats are numerous and prettily ranged round the
margin of the body. Resting on these, the creature casts about its
long fishing-lines, and arrests the passing prey.
One more section remains to be noticed. The jelly-fishes which belong
to it have a rudimentary skeleton--a plate which supports the soft,
circular body. From the lower part of the body hang numerous tentacles
(_cirri_), amidst which the mouth is placed. Probably these
multitudinous arms assist in locomotion; and, hence the name of the
family, _Cirrigrades_. Amongst the creatures of this division we meet
with some very interesting locomotive apparatus. There are some of
them by no means obliged to trust to their oars alone--they have also
sails. The _Velella_, large fleets of which visit our seas at times,
has a plate (the mast) rising from its bluish disk or deck, covered
with a delicate membrane (the sail) of snowy whiteness, by means of
which it traverses the ocean. This sail, it has been noticed, 'is set
at the same angle as the lateen-sail' of the Malays. We cannot doubt
that it is admirably suited to its purpose, and the Malays may be
proud of having nature as a voucher for their contrivance.
We find in another species a still more perfect rigging. In it
(_Rataria_) the crest is supplied with muscular bands, by means of
which the sail can be lowered or raised at pleasure. These adaptations
of structure are full of interest. Nothing can be more admirable than
the sailing-gear of these little creatures. They have to traverse the
surface of the ocean amidst all diversities of weather. Paddles alone
would not suffice for them. They must be enabled to take advantage of
the winds. Sails, therefore, are added, and the mightiest agents in
nature are commissioned to speed the little voyagers on their way.
We have already mentioned that some of the jelly-fishes possess the
power of stinging. Only a few of the larger species, however, seem to
be thus endowed; and the name sea-nettle is by no means applicable to
the class as a whole. The poisonous fluid which produces the
irritating effect on the skin, and no doubt paralyses the creatures
upon which the jelly-fish feeds, is secreted by the arms. By means of
its poison-bearing tentacles, the soft, gelatinous medusa is more than
a match for the armed crustacean and the scale-clad fish. We take from
Professor Forbes the following graphic description of one of the
stinging species:--'The _Cyanaea capillata_ of our seas is a most
formidable creature, and the terror of tender-skinned bathers. With
its broad, tawny, festooned, and scalloped disk, often a full foot or
more across, it flaps its way through the yielding waters, and drags
after it a long train of ribbon-like arms, and seemingly interminable
tails, marking its course when its body is far away from us. Once
tangled in its trailing "hair," the unfortunate who has recklessly
ventured across the graceful monster's path too soon writhes in
prickly torture. Every struggle but binds the poisonous threads more
firmly round his body, and then there is no escape; for when the
winder of the fatal net finds his course impeded by the terrified
human wrestling in its coils, he, seeking no contest with the mightier
biped, casts loose his envenomed arms, and swims away. The amputated
weapons severed from their parent body vent vengeance on the cause of
their destruction, and sting as fiercely as if their original
proprietor itself gave the word of attack.'
We now approach the most extraordinary portion of the history of
these creatures. Recent investigations have brought to light the most
interesting facts respecting their reproduction and development. It is
now known that the young jelly-fish passes through a series of
transformations before reaching its perfect state.
At certain seasons, eggs are produced within the body of the parent in
appropriate ovaries, where they are retained for a time. They are then
transferred to a kind of marsupial pouch, analogous to that of the
kangaroo, where their development proceeds. After passing through
certain changes here, the egg issues from the maternal pouch as an
oval body, clothed with cilia--an animalcule in external aspect, and
as unlike its parent as can well be imagined. For awhile the little
creature dances freely through the water, and leads a gay, roving
life; but at last it prepares to 'settle;' selects a fitting locality;
applies one extremity of its body to the surface of stone or weed, and
becomes attached. And now another change passes over it. The cilia, no
longer needed, disappear. A mouth is developed at the upper extremity
of the body, furnished with a number of arms. Gradually this number
increases, and the jelly-fish now appears in the disguise of a polype,
which feeds voraciously on the members of the class from which it has
itself so lately emerged. At this point there is a halt. The medusa
remains in its polype state for some months. At the expiration of this
term, a strange alteration in its appearance begins to take place.
Rings are formed round its body, from ten to fifteen in number. These
gradually deepen, until at length it is literally cut up into a number
of segments, which rest one upon the other--their upper margins
becoming elevated, and divided into eight lobes. It is, in fact, a
pile of cup-shaped pieces, very loosely connected together. A little
later, these pieces free themselves successively, and the sedate
polype disappears in a company of sprightly young medusae. These
beings, indeed, still differ in some respects from the adult animal;
but the differences gradually vanish, and we have the perfect
jelly-fish as the final result of this extraordinary series of
transformations.
Similar observations have been made respecting other tribes amongst
the lower animals, and some interesting generalisations have been
founded upon them, into which, however, it is not our present purpose
to enter.
The _Acalephae_ are the principal agents concerned in the production of
the beautiful phenomena of phosphorescence. The minute species--mere
gelatinous specks--swarm at times by countless myriads in the waters
of the ocean, and make its surface glow with 'vitalised fire.' The
waves, as they curl and break, sparkle and flash forth light, and the
track of the moving ship is marked by a lustrous line. 'In the torrid
zones between the tropics,' says Humboldt, 'the ocean simultaneously
develops light over a space of many thousand square miles. Here the
magical effect of light is owing to the forces of organic nature.
Foaming with light, the eddying waves flash in phosphorent sparks over
the wide expanse of waters, where every scintillation is the vital
manifestation of an invisible animal world.' Beneath the surface
larger forms are seen, brilliantly illuminated, and lighting up the
mystic depths of the sea. Fiery balls and flaming ribbons shoot past;
and submarine moons shine with a soft and steady light amidst the
crowds of meteors. 'While sailing a little south of the Plata on one
very dark night,' says Mr Darwin, 'the sea presented a wonderful and
most beautiful spectacle. There was a fresh breeze; and every part of
the surface, which during the day is seen as foam, now glowed with a
pale light. The vessel drove before her bows two billows of liquid
phosphorus, and in her wake she was followed by a milky train. As far
as the eye reached, the crest of every wave was bright; and the sky
above the, horizon, from the reflected glare of these livid flames,
was not so utterly obscure as over the vault of the heavens.' Even in
our own seas very beautiful displays of phosphorescence may be
witnessed. On fine summer nights, a soft, tender light plays round the
boat as it moves onward, and the oars drop liquid fire. For how much
of beauty are we indebted to these living specks of jelly?
Of the extreme minuteness of some of the species, an idea may be
formed from the fact, that 110,000 might be contained in a cubic foot
of water. We can say nothing with certainty as to the cause of the
phosphorescence of the medusae, and shall not trouble our readers with
mere speculations.
The jelly-fishes furnish us with a striking illustration of the
profusion of life in the ocean. Provision has indeed been made for
securing in all the realms of our globe the largest possible amount of
sentient being, and consequently of happiness. And to each tribe a
definite part is assigned--a special mission is intrusted. None can be
spared from the economy of nature. The shoals of microscopic medusae
store up in their own tissues the minute portions of nutritious matter
diffused through the waters, and supply food for the support of higher
organisms. All the tribes of animated beings are dependent one upon
another. That the greatest may enjoy its existence and fulfil its
work, the least must hold its place and discharge its function. They
co-operate unconsciously to secure the unity and harmony of a system
which is designed to promote alike the interests of each and all of
them.
STEEPLE-JACK'S SECRET.
You want me to tell you how it comes to pass that I am able to glide
up a steeple like a spider, get astride upon the cross, and pull off
my cap to the crowd below, like a gentleman on horseback saluting his
acquaintances.[2] You want me to explain on what principle, as you
call it, I do this. Well: principle, I suppose, means the rule or law
by which a man does what he ought to do; and if so, it is a very good
word to use. I will oblige you by explaining my principle, for I am as
affable as any man that creeps to his dying day upon the surface of
the earth; and I will tell you how it chanced that I found it out: at
least I will try, for I am no scholar; and if you wish to understand
me, you must have your ears open, and catch a meaning when you can.
And this will do you good, whether you make anything out or not. I
know fellows that go to the lectures, and come back as empty as they
went. But what of that? They think they understand, and thought breeds
thought; and when a man's mind is fairly astir, it is odds but
something good turns up.
You must know, then, I began the world as a sailor; and I marvel to
this day how I ever became anything else. Sailors are the stupidest
set in creation. They are mere animals, except in the gift of speech;
good, honest, docile animals, perhaps, but dull and narrow. They go
round the small circle of their duties like a blind horse in a mill.
Their faculties are rocked by the waves and lulled by the winds; and
when they come ashore, they can see and understand nothing for the
swimming of their heads. Drink makes them feel as if at sea again; and
when the tankard is out, they return on board, and exchange one state
of stupefaction for another. Well, I _was_ a sailor, and the dullest
of the tribe. No wonder, for I was at it when a young boy. I was never
startled by the sights or sounds of the sea. The moaning of the wind,
the rush of the waves, the silence of the calm, were parts of my own
existence; and in the wildest storm, my mind never took a wider tack
than just to think what the poor devils on shore would do now.
I was a handy lad, however. I could go aloft with any man on board,
and never troubled the shrouds in coming down when a rope was within
springing distance. But this was instinct or habit: thought was not
concerned in it--I had not found the principle. One day, it blew what
sailors call great guns; our bulwarks were stove in pieces, and the
sea swept the deck, crashing and roaring like a whole herd of tigers.
There was something to do at the mast-head; and when the order came
through the speaking-trumpet, seeing the men hesitate, I jumped upon
the shrouds without thinking twice. But at that moment the ship gave a
lurch, and, holding on like grim death, I was buried deep in the
waves. Although still clutching the ropes, I had at first an idea that
they had parted, and that we were on our way to the bottom together.
This could not have lasted above a minute or so; but it seemed to me
like a year. I heard every voice that had ever sounded in my ear since
childhood; I saw every apparition that had ever glided before my
fancy: the Sea-Serpent twisted his folds round my neck, and the keel
of the Flying Dutchman grated along my back. When the vessel rose at
last, and I rose with her, the waters gurgling in my throat and
hissing in my ears, I did not attempt to spring up the shrouds. I
looked round in horror for the objects of my excited thoughts; and as
I saw another enormous wave advancing till it overhung me, instead of
getting out of its reach, which I could easily have done, I kept
staring at it as it broke into what seemed innumerable goblin faces
and yelling voices over my head. I was down again. My leading thought
now was that I would strike out and swim for my life. But when I had
just made up my mind to this--which the sailors would have called
being washed away--I rose once more to the surface--and struck _up_
like a good one! I was at the cross-trees in a breath, and once in
safety there, I looked back both with shame and indignation.
When my job was finished, I went higher up in a sort of dogged humour.
I went higher, and higher, and higher than I ever ventured before,
till I felt the mast bending and quivering in the gale like the point
of a fishing-rod; and then I looked down upon the sea. And what, think
you, I found there? Why, the goblin faces were small white specks of
foam that I could hardly see; and their yelling voices were a smooth,
round, swelling tone, that rolled like music through the rigging. The
mountain-waves were like a flock of sheep in a meadow, running and
gamboling, and lying down and rising up; and in the expanse beyond the
neighbourhood of the ship, they were all lying down together, or
wandering like shadows over a smooth surface. I felt grand then, I
assure you. I looked down, and around, and above, till thoughts that
were not the instincts of an animal, came dancing up in my mind, like
bubbles upon the face of the sea. And as I returned slowly to the
deck, these thoughts grew and multiplied, and began to arrange
themselves into a form which I am not scholar enough to describe. But
through this new medium, I saw things as they are, not as habit and
prejudice make them. I did not fear the waves, and I did not despise
them. I humoured the sea as I got down towards the bulwarks, which
were still buried every now and then; and so I reached my quarters in
safety.
And what has all this to do with it? I will tell you. With the means
of doing a thing, nothing is difficult, if you only understand
thoroughly the nature of the thing. The obstacles that commonly deter
you are not in the thing, but in you; and until you understand this,
you will keep gaping and shrinking, and saying, 'It is impossible.'
Some folk, when looking out of a three or four storey window, feel as
if they were going to fall. This is their own fault, not the fault of
the window, for that is just like a parlour window, where they have no
sensation of the sort. A man sits peaceably enough on the top of a
tall, three-legged stool, and could hitch himself round and round, and
then get up and stand upon it erect for half a day, without any risk
of falling. Now, a steeple is much more securely fixed than a stool;
its top is as broad as a table; and there is nothing to prevent
anybody from standing upon it as long as he pleases, if he only will
not think he is going to fall. You go up half-a-dozen steps of a
ladder without fear, and then persuade yourself you can go no farther;
but there is nothing more dangerous in the next half-dozen, so far as
they are themselves concerned; nor in the next hundred, nor the next
thousand, for that matter. My secret consists in my _knowing_ all
this, although I feel that I have only described when, not how the
knowledge came. Perhaps you, who are book-learned, may be able to make
it out, and shew how it is that, when anything occurs to awaken the
mind, and enable one to work from knowledge, not habit, he is ten
times the man he was. Without this, I should have climbed a mast all
my life; but with it, I took to leaping up steeples by means of a
kite, in a way that makes many ignorant persons report that I manage
it by holding on by the tail.
But a man who goes up a steeple must take care how he behaves, for the
eyes of the world are upon him. He is not lost in a crowd, where he is
seen only by his next neighbours. That man must pull off his cap and
be affable; but he must not do even that to extravagance. When the
Queen was passing up the Clyde, an American seaman got on the
topgallant, and stood on his head. What was that for, I should be glad
to know? Suppose her Majesty was coming along Princes Street, just to
take the air like a lady, and look into the shop-windows, and I was to
go right up to her, and stand on my head--what would she say? I
surmise, that she would turn round to her Lord Gold Stick, and order
him to give me a knock on the shins. I know she would, for she is a
regular trump, and knows how people in every station should behave. I
am ashamed of that American: he is a Yankee Noodle!
It may be said, that the Queen has the same advantage as myself--that
she is up the steeple; but so is every ordinary bricklayer or emperor.
The thing is to be able to look and understand when you _are_ up. I
once saw a curious sight as I sat with the swallows flying far under
my feet. The people did not wander about the street here and there as
usual, but hundreds after hundreds of small objects came on in regular
array. Then I could see long lines of Lilliputian soldiers marching in
the procession, with their tiny bayonets glancing in the sun; and
every now and then came up a soft swell of music, feeble but sweet.
'What is all this about?' thought I. 'Are they going to set one of
these little creatures over them for a bailie or a king?' And one did
march in the middle with a small space round him; 'but perhaps,'
thought I again, 'he is only a trumpeter.' Howbeit, the procession at
last halted, and gathered, and closed, and stood still for a time; and
there was another small swell of the instruments, with a feeble shout
from the throng, and then they all stirred, and broke, and dispersed,
and disappeared. This was just like the view from the mast-head: it
made me feel grand. But when I came down, I had not replaced one
prejudice with another. I did not despise the creatures I came among;
for they were then of the same size as myself. I pulled off my cap to
them, and was affable; only it did give me a queer thought--not a
merry one--when I heard that the official they had made that day, on
going home to his house, out of the grandeur and the din, was heard to
commune with himself, saying: 'And me but a mortal man after all!'
Poetry? No, sirs, I have learned no poetry. I had poetry enough of my
own without learning it, and so has everybody else. I once knew a
fellow who wrote very good poetry; but few of us understood it. That
man lost his labour. It is nature that _makes_ poetry; the poet has
merely found out the art of stirring it in the hearts of men, where it
lies ready-made, like the perfume of a flower. A poet who is not
understood only makes a noise; and he is the greatest poet who makes
the greatest number of human hearts to leap and tingle. But the fellow
I mean piqued himself on not being understood. Like the Yankee Noodle,
he cut capers that had no intelligible meaning in them, just to make
people stare. As for my own share of poetry, I will tell you when I
feel it stirring most. You must know that in the view from a steeple
the form of objects is changed only in one direction--that is
downwards. The small houses, the narrow streets, the little creatures
creeping along them, and the feeble sounds they send up, make me feel
grand. But when I turn my eyes to the heavens, I see no shadow of
change. The clouds look awful, as if despising my poor attempt at
approach; and they glide, and break, and fade, and build themselves up
again--all in deep silence--in a way that makes me feel mean. Now this
mean feeling is real poetry. The meaner I feel, the grander are they;
and when I look long at them, and think long, and then begin to
descend to the earth, to mingle with the little creatures who are my
fellows, I tremble--but not with fear.
A philosopher, do you say? Fie! don't call names: I am a bricklayer. I
know that such distance as human beings can climb to is but a small
matter. I see things as they are. I do not fancy that it is more
difficult to stand on a steeple than on a stool, or that it is more
difficult to hold on by a rope at one height than at another. I
observe that men and their affairs, when viewed from a steeple, are
very insignificant; but the same insight into things teaches me, when
I am among them myself, to pull off my cap and be affable. I know that
the things of earth change according to distance, but that the things
of heaven are unchangeable. And all I have got further to say is, that
I am quite sensible that although when up in the air I am a sign and a
marvel to the people below, when down among themselves I am but plain.