Glimpses of Ocean Life 35

Glimpses of Ocean Life 35

An Eastern traveller tells us that, 'in a certain river whose waters

flow from Mount Caucasus into the Euxine, there arrives every year a

great quantity of fish.' This information not being particularly novel

in regard to most rivers, will fail to excite surprise in the mind of

the reader. A different result, however, will follow when he hears

that, according to Abon-el-Cassim, 'The people cut off all the flesh on

one side of those inhabitants of the deep, and let them go. Well, the

year following,' as this veracious writer avers, 'the same creatures

return and offer the other side, which they had preserved untouched; it

is then discovered that new flesh has replaced the old!'

 

This account reminds us of the tale of the traveller who reported that

he had seen a cabbage, under whose leaves a whole regiment of soldiers

were sheltered from a shower of rain. Another, who was no traveller

(but the wiser man), said he had passed by a place where there were

four hundred braziers making a cauldron--two hundred within, and two

hundred without beating the nails in. The traveller, asking for what

use that huge cauldron was, he told him, 'Sir, it was to boil your

cabbage!' A wittily severe, but deserved rebuke.

 

There are many other statements regarding fishes which, although

curious, are, nevertheless, to a certain extent true.

 

The Chinese, for instance, who breed large quantities of the well-known

gold-fish, call them, it is said, with a whistle to receive their food.

Sir Joseph Banks used to collect his fish by sounding a small gong; and

Carew, the historian of Cornwall, brought his grey Mullet together to

be fed by making a noise with two sticks.

 

In spite of these accounts, there are many writers who affirm that

_fishes do not possess the sense of hearing at all_; and certainly

a belief that these creatures are gifted with such a faculty is not

necessary, in my opinion, in order to explain the above-mentioned

phenomenon.

 

At the fountains, in the gardens of Versailles, the writer has seen

numbers of fishes flocking together and anxiously waiting for the

subscriptions of the visitors. Now, had a bell been rung, these

animals, doubtless, would have appeared at the edge of the fountain as

usual; but had the bell _not_ been sounded, and any human figure been

visible, they would have taken up the self-same position.

 

I have, at various times, kept packs of fishes (Blennies, &c.), and

tamed them, so that each member would feed out of my hand. For some

time I used to attract them to the side of the vessel in which, they

resided by striking a wine glass with a small stick; but I also noted

that if I made myself visible, and remained silent, while handing down

a few fish mouthfuls, that the whole pack followed as readily as if I

had sounded the mimic gong. Nay, whether I offered any bribe or not,

and silently approached their crystal abode, the whole family would

immediately flock in great haste towards me.

 

The tameness of these little creatures was somewhat remarkable. On

numberless occasions I have taken them up in the palm of my hand,

without the slightest opposition on their part, and then stroked and

smoothed them on the back, as I would do a bird. At such times they

made a kind of musical chirp, expressive of pleasurable emotion, and

seemed in no hurry to escape into their native element even when I laid

my hand in the water.

 

Such delightful confidence was always rewarded with some dainty.

 

Dr. Warwick relates an instance of instinct and intelligence in the

Pike, which is so remarkable that I am sure my readers will be pleased

to be made acquainted with it. I am the more induced to transfer it

to these pages, from the remarks with which the doctor closes his

narrative. From reasons stated above, the reader will be prepared to

learn that I do not consider the statements therein advanced--that

fishes are really sensible to sound--by any means conclusive.

 

When residing at Dunham, the seat of the Earl of Stamford and

Warrington, he (Dr. Warwick), was walking one evening in the park,

and came to a pond where fish intended for the table were temporarily

kept. He took particular notice of a fine pike of about six pounds

weight, which, when it observed him, darted hastily away. In so doing

it struck its head against a tenterhook in a post (of which there were

several in the pond, placed to prevent poaching), and, as it afterwards

appeared, fractured its skull, and turned the optic nerve on one side.

The agony evinced by the animal appeared most horrible. It rushed to

the bottom, and boring its head into the mud, whirled itself round with

such velocity that it was almost lost to sight for a short interval.

It then plunged about the pond, and at length threw itself completely

out of the water on to the bank. He (the doctor) went and examined it,

and found that a very small portion of the brain was protruding from

the fracture in the skull. He then carefully replaced this, and with a

small silver toothpick raised the indented portion of the skull. The

fish remained still for a short time, and he then put it again in the

pond. It appeared at first a good deal relieved, but in a few minutes

it again darted and plunged about until it threw itself out of the

water a second time. A second time Dr. Warwick did what he could to

relieve it, and again put it in the water. It continued for several

times to throw itself out of the pond, and with the assistance of the

keeper, the doctor at length made a kind of pillow for the fish, which

was then left in the pond to its fate. Upon making his appearance at

the pond on the following morning, the pike came towards him to the

edge of the water, and actually laid its head upon his foot. The doctor

thought this most extraordinary, but he examined the fish's skull and

found it going on all right. He then walked backwards and forwards,

along the edge of the pond for some time, and the fish continued to

swim up and down, turning whenever he turned; but being blind on the

wounded side of its skull, it always appeared agitated when it had that

side toward the bank, as it could not then see its benefactor. On the

next day he took some young friends down to see the fish, which came

to him as usual, and at length he actually taught the pike to come

to him at his whistle, and feed out of his hands. With other persons

it continued as shy as fish usually are. He (Dr. Warwick) thought

this a most remarkable instance of gratitude in a fish for a benefit

received, and as it always came at his whistle, _it proved also what he

had previously, with other naturalists, disbelieved, that fishes are

sensible to sound_. (?)

 

On hunting among the rock-pools by the sea-shore, several peculiar

little fishes are frequently to be found, and although some of them

cannot be considered suitable for the aquarium, still, for the reader's

information, it may be as well that I devote a brief space to a

description of the peculiarities of each.

 

By far the most interesting of all the finny occupants of the

rock-pool, is, to my taste, the Smooth Blenny, or, as it is variously

termed, Shanny, or Tansy. It is also more abundant than many other

species, and may therefore be readily captured during summer. The

Blenny varies from two to five inches in length. The back is ornamented

with exquisite markings, but the most characteristic features are the

peculiar bluntness of the head, and the brilliant crimson dot both on

and immediately beneath the eyes.

 

Although easily tamed, the Blenny, in his native haunts, appears to

be the most timid of animals, darting with the rapidity of lightning

to the shelter of some stone or overhanging weeds at the remotest

indication of approaching footsteps, or the faintest shadow of a human

form being cast on the water.

 

When desirous to procure a specimen, it is best to choose as small a

pool as you can for your hunt. Drop in your net at one end, and as the

Shanny precipitately retreats to the other, give him chase. Having

arrived at the extremity of his domain, he will endeavour to hide among

the weeds, but if you hold your net across the pool with one hand, and

with the other lift up a stone or beat the bushes, the little fellow

will become greatly excited, and darting out, of course, unwillingly,

falls into the snare prepared for him.

 

Having gained your prize, do not handle it, but placing your finger

under the net, tilt it over the mouth of the bottle, and allow the

Blenny to fall as gently as possible into the water. You need be under

no uneasiness after introducing him to the aquarium about the nature of

his diet. He is far from being epicurean in his tastes. I supply mine

according to my whim at the moment, with whatever is at hand, a bit of

fowl, roast beef, or the like.

 

The only caution I adopt when giving animal food to the Blenny is to

remove all traces of fat. I mince their food into minute particles, and

having sufficiently moistened it, I place a morsel upon a hair pencil.

This attention to their comforts the Blennies soon learn to appreciate,

and will, after a while, display at meal times the sagacity of larger

animals.

 

Perhaps the simplest plan to adopt is to cut open a mussel and throw

it into the tank. A considerable deal of amusement, moreover, is often

to be obtained by watching the fishes engaged at such a meal. How

they toss the valves of the Mytilus about, and snap at each other's

tails! How vexed they become if by accident the shelly dish is turned

topsy-turvy, and resists all their manœuvres to reverse it so as

to get at the meat! The valves of a large mussel will sometimes be

literally cleaned out by some half dozen Blennies in the course of an

hour.

 

I have noticed a singular fact in connection with the Blenny--namely,

_that they do not all increase in size as they grow older_. Out of five

that I kept domesticated for more than two years, one specimen remained

at the end of that period of the same size as when I first made its

acquaintance in a rock-pool by the sea-shore, while its companions had

greatly increased their proportions. But let me in justice add, that

if my little finny pet failed to increase in corpulency, it gained

largely in intelligence. Who is there that has not seen children, short

in stature, and comparatively old in years, who deserve the epithet

applied to them by the vulgar, of 'little--but _knowing_.' This remark

would apply with great truth to my 'little Dombey' fish.

 

Before becoming expert in carrying out the plan (which will be fully

detailed hereafter) for clarifying the water of an aquarium which has

become opaque from superabundant vegetative growth, I had to submit to

many annoying failures. Thus it was in a certain instance.

 

I had cleaned out my tank, refilled it with partially purified water,

and again inserted the various animals constituting my 'stock.'

Emboldened by the success which had attended my operations, I thought a

still further dose of diluted acid might be added, in order thoroughly

to remove the greenish hue of the water. A few minutes showed me

the folly of not letting well alone, for soon flakes of discharged

vegetation were precipitated to the base of the vessel, covering it

with a coating of fur.

 

The poor Blennies speedily showed signs of distress, and changed

colour, as they generally do, upon the most trifling cause. Instead of

dark brown or black, their bodies appeared of a yellowish tint, spotted

with white. Such a change was lovely to the eye, but, alas! it was--

 

'The loveliness in death,

Which parts not quite with parting breath.'

 

The little creatures jumped and dived about in all directions, all

their motions being extremely violent. I quickly perceived the error

which had been committed, and, moreover, discovered to my chagrin that

such error could not possibly be rectified for some time, on account of

my not having by me any reserve of pure salt water. Taking several of

the fishes in my hand, I stroked their backs with a camel-hair pencil,

and was pleased to find that as their alarm subsided their natural

hue returned. My being obliged to place my pets in their unhappy and

pestilential home again was, as the reader may suppose, a source of

regret to me; but I had some hopes that they might by chance survive,

and become used to the 'vapour of their dungeon,' at all events until

such time as I could hasten to the sea-side and procure a new supply

of water. My expectations of such a result were built upon the fact,

that although four of the fishes had changed colour, the small Blenny

still retained its natural hue. How did this happen? it will be asked.

I answer, by little Dombey (doing as his brethren had always hitherto

done in similar circumstances) leaping on to a ledge of rock that

projected out of the water, and there breathing the fresh air in safety.