It may be said of polar countries, that they form a transition state between land and sea, for water is always present, although in a solid state; the surface is always at a very low temperature; snow does not melt as it falls, and the sea is thus sometimes covered with a continuous sheet of frozen snow; sometimes with enormous floating blocks of ice which are driven by the currents. Meeting with these floating masses of ice is one of the dangers of polar navigation. Captain Scoresby has given a very detailed description of the different kinds of ice met with in the Arctic Seas. The ice-fields of this writer form extensive masses of solid water, of which the eye cannot trace the limits, some of them being thirty-five leagues in length and ten broad, with a thickness of seven to eight fathoms; but generally these ice-fields rise only four to six feet above the water, and reach from three to four fathoms beneath the surface. Scoresby has seen these ice-fields forming in the open sea. When the first crystals appear, the surface of the ocean is cold enough to prevent snow from melting as it falls. On the approach of congelation the surface solidifies, and seems as if covered with oil; small circles are formed, which press against each other, and are finally soldered together until they form a vast field of ice, the thickness of which increases from the lower surface.

The water produced from melted ice is perfectly fresh—the result of a well-known physical cause. When a saline solution like sea water is congealed by cold, pure water alone passes into the solid state, the saline solution becomes more concentrated, increases in density, and, sinking to the bottom, remains liquid. Blocks of ice, therefore, in the Polar Seas, are always available for domestic use. There are, however, salt blocks of ice, which are distinguished from fresh-water ice by their opaqueness and their dazzling white colour: this saltness is due to the sea water retained in its interstices. Scoresby amused himself sometimes by shaping lenses of ice, with which he is said to have set fire to gunpowder, much to the astonishment of his crew.

The ice-fields, which are formed in higher latitudes, are driven towards the south by winds and currents, but sooner or later the action of the waves breaks them up into fragments. The edges of the broken icebergs are thus often rising and continually changing: these asperities and protuberances are called hummocks by English navigators; they give to the polar ice an odd, irregular appearance. Hummocks form themselves of the stray, broken icebergs which come in contact with each other at their edges, and thus form vast rafts, the pieces of which may exceed a hundred yards in length.

When these icebergs are separated by open spaces, through which vessels can be navigated, the pack ice is said to be open. But it often happens that mountains of ice occur partly submerged, where one edge is retained under the principal mass, while the other is above the water. Scoresby once passed over a calf, as English mariners call these icy mountains, but he trembled while he did so, dreading lest it should throw his vessel, himself, and crew into the air before he could pass it. The aspect of the ice-fields varies in a thousand ways. Here it is an incoherent chaos resembling some volcanic rocks, with crevices in all directions, bristling with unshapely blocks piled up at random; there it is a strongly-marked plain, an immense mosaic formed of vast blocks of ice of every age and thickness, the divisions of which are marked by long ridges of the most irregular forms; sometimes resembling walls composed of great rectangular blocks, sometimes resembling chains of hills, with great rounded summits.

In the spring, when a thaw sets in, and the fields begin to break up, the pieces of light ice which unite the great blocks into unique masses are the first to melt; the several blocks then separate, and the motion of the water soon disperses them, and the imprisoned ships find a free passage. But a day of calm is still sufficient to unite the dispersed masses, which oscillate and grind against each other with a strange noise, which sailors compare to the yelping of young dogs.

When a ship is shut up in one of these floating ice-fields, inexplicable changes sometimes occur in the vast incoherent aggregations. Vessels, which think themselves immovable, are found in a few hours to have completely reversed their positions. Two ships shut in at a short distance from each other were driven many leagues without being able to perceive any change in the surrounding ice. At other times ships are drawn with the floating ice-fields, like the white bears, who make long voyages at sea upon these monster vehicles. In 1777 the Dutch vessel, the Wilhelmina, was driven with some other whaling ships from eighty degrees north back to sixty-two degrees, in sight of the Iceland coast. During this terrible journey the ships were broken up one after the other. More than two hundred persons perished, and the remainder reached land with difficulty.

Lieutenant De Haven, navigating in search of Sir John Franklin, was caught in the ice in the middle of the channel in Wellington Strait. During the nine months which he remained in captivity, he drifted nearly thirteen hundred miles towards the south; and the ship Resolute, abandoned by Captain Kellet in an ice-field of immense extent, was drifted towards the south with this vast mass to a much greater distance.

Some curious speculations are hazarded by Dr. Maury, arising out of his investigations of winds and currents, facts being revealed which indicate the existence of a climate, mild by comparison, within the Antarctic Circle. These indications are a low barometer, a high degree of aerial rarefaction, and strong winds from the north. "The winds," he says, "were the first to whisper of this strange state of things, and to intimate to us that the Antarctic climates are in winter very unlike the Arctic for rigour and severity." The result of an immense mass of observation on the polar and equatorial winds reveals a marked difference in atmospherical movements north, as compared with the same movements south of the Equator; the equatorial winds of the northern hemisphere being only in excess between the tenth and thirteenth parallel, while those of the southern hemisphere are dominant over a zone of forty-five degrees, or from thirty-five degrees south to ten degrees north.

"The fact that the influence of the polar indraught upon the winds should extend from the Antarctic to the parallel of forty degrees south, while that from the Arctic is so feeble as scarcely to be felt in fifty degrees north, is indicative enough as to the difference in degree of aerial rarefaction over the two regions. The significance of the fact is enhanced by the consideration that the 'brave west winds,' which are bound to the place of greatest rarefaction, rush more violently and constantly along to their destination than do the counter-trades of the northern hemisphere. Why should these polar-bound winds differ so much in strength and prevalence, unless there be a much more abundant supply of caloric, and, consequently, a higher degree of rarefaction, at one pole than at the other?"

That this is the case is confirmed by all known barometrical observations, which are very much lower in the Antarctic than in the Arctic, and Dr. Maury thinks this is doubtless due to the excess in Antarctic regions of aqueous vapour and this latent heat.

"There is rarefaction in the Arctic regions. The winds show it, the barometer attests it, and the fact is consistent with the Russian theory of a Polynia in polar waters. Within the Antarctic Circle, on the contrary, the winds bring air which has come over the water for the distance of hundreds of leagues all around; consequently, a large portion of atmospheric air is driven away from the austral regions by the force of vapour."

CHAPTER III.

Emotions of another kind and equally serious are produced by the contemplation and study of the habits of the innumerable organized beings which inhabit the great deep. In fact, that immense expanse of water, which we call the sea, is no vast liquid desert; life dwells in its bosom as it does on dry land. Here this mystery reigns supreme in the midst of its expansions, luxuries, and agitations. It pleases the Creator. It is the most beautiful, the most brilliant, the noblest, and the most incomprehensible of His manifestations. Without life, the world would be as nothing. The beings endowed with it transmit it faithfully to other beings, their children, and their successors, which will be, like them, the depositaries of the same mysterious gift; the marvellous heritage thus traverses years and hundreds of years without losing its powers; the globe is redolent with the life which has been so bounteously distributed over it. In the words of Lamartine, "We know what produces life, but we know not what it is;" and this ignorance is perhaps the powerful attraction which provokes our curiosity and excites us to study.

Every living being is animated by two principles, between which a silent but incessant combat is being carried on—life, which assimilates, and death, which disintegrates. At first, life is all powerful—it lords it over matter; but its reign is limited. Beyond a certain point its vigour is gradually impaired; with old age it decays; and is finally extinguished with time, when the chemical and physical laws seize upon it, and its organization is destroyed. But the elements, though inert at first, are soon reanimated and occupied with a new life. Every plant, every animal is bound up with the past, and is part of the future, for every generation which starts into life is only the corollary upon that which expires, and the prelude of another which is about to be born. Life is the school of death; death is the foster-mother of life.

Life, however, does not always exhibit itself at the moment of its formation. It is visible later, and only after other phenomena. In order to develope itself, a suitable soil or other medium must be prepared, and other determinate physical and chemical conditions provided. The presence and diffusion of living beings are no chance products; they follow rigorously an order of law. Speaking of the higher forms of animal life, the Duke of Argyll says, in his able and satisfactory work, "The Reign of Law,"—"In all these there is an observed order in the most rigid scientific sense, that is, phenomena in uniform connexion and mutual relations which can be made, and are made, the basis of systematic classification. These classifications are imperfect, not because they are founded on ideal connexions where none exist, but only because they fail in representing adequately the subtle and pervading order which binds together all living things."

The knowledge of fossils has thrown great light upon the regular and progressive development of organization. The evolution of living beings seems to have commenced with the more rudimentary forms; the more ancient rocks, until very recently, had revealed no traces of life, and what has been revealed tends to confirm this view. In the Cambrian rocks of Bray Head, county Wicklow, the Oldhamia is a zoophyte of the simplest organization, and the Rhizapods found near the bottom of the Azoic rocks of Canada are the lowest form of living types; and it is only in beds of comparatively recent formation that complex organization exists. Vegetables first show themselves, and even among these the simplest forms have priority. Animals afterwards appear, which, as we have seen, belong to the least perfect classes. The combinations of life, at first simple, have become more and more complex, until the creation of man, who may be considered the masterpiece of organization.

If we expose a certain quantity of pure water to the light and air in the spring, we should soon see it producing shades of a yellowish or greenish colour. These spots, examined through the microscope, reveal thousands of vegetable agglomerates. Presently thousands of animalcules appear, which swim about among the floating masses, nourishing themselves with its substance. Other animalcules then appear, which, in their turn, pursue and devour the first.

In short, life transforms inanimate into organized matter. Vegetables appear first, then come herbivorous animals, and then come the carnivorous. Life maintains life. The death of one gives food and development to others, for all are bound up together—all assist at the metamorphoses continually occurring in the organic as in the mineral world, the result being general and profound harmony—harmony always worthy of admiration. The Creator alone is unchangeable, omnipotent, and permanent; all else is transition.

The inhabitants of the water are much more numerous than those of the solid earth. "Upon a surface less varied than we find on continents," says Humboldt, "the sea contains in its bosom an exuberance of life of which no other portion of the globe could give us any idea. It expands in the north as in the south; in the east as in the west. The seas, above all, abound with it; in the bosom of the deep, creatures corresponding and harmonizing with each other sport and play. Among these especially the naturalist finds instruction, and the philosopher subjects for meditation. The changes they undergo only impress upon our minds more and more a sentiment of thankfulness to the Author of the universe."

Yes, the ocean in its profoundest depths—its plains and its mountains, its valleys, its precipices, even in its ruins—is animated and embellished by innumerable organized beings. These are at first plants, solitary or social, erect or drooping, spreading into prairies, grouped in patches, or forming vast forests in the oceanic valleys. These submarine forests protect and nourish millions of animals which creep, which run, which swim, which sink into the sands, attach themselves to rocks, lodge themselves in crevices, which construct dwellings for themselves, which seek for or fly from each other, which pursue or fight, caress each other lovingly, or devour each other without pity. Charles Darwin truly remarks somewhere that our terrestrial forests do not maintain nearly so many living beings as those which swarm in the bosom of the sea. The ocean, which for man is the region of asphyxia and death, is for millions of animals the region of life and health: there is enjoyment for myriads in its waves; there is happiness on its banks; there is the blue above all.

The sea influences its numerous inhabitants, animal or vegetable, by its temperature, by its density, by its saltness, by its bitterness, by the never-ceasing agitation of its waves, and by the rapidity of its currents.

We have seen in preceding chapters that the sea only freezes under intense cold, and then only at the surface, and that at the depth of five hundred fathoms the same permanent temperature exists in all latitudes. On the other hand, it is agreed that the agitations produced by the most violent storms are never felt beyond the depth of twelve or thirteen fathoms. From this it follows that animals and vegetables, by descending more or less, according to the cold or disturbing movements, can always reach a medium which agrees with their constitutions.

The hosts of the sea are distinguished by a peculiar softness. Certain pelagic plants present only a very weak, feeble consistence; a great number are transformed by ebullition into a sort of jelly. The flesh of marine animals is more or less flaccid; many seem to consist of a diaphanous mucilage. The skeleton of the more perfect species is more or less flexible and cartilaginous; and it rarely attains, as to weight and consistency, the strength of bone exhibited by terrestrial vertebrate animals. Nevertheless, both the shells and coral produced in the bosom of the ocean are remarkable for their stony solidity. Among marine bodies, in short, we find at once the softest and hardest of organized substances.

The separation of organized beings, nourished by the ocean, is subjected to certain fixed laws. We never find on the coast, except by evident accident, the same species that we meet with far from the shore; nor on the surface, creatures whose habits lead them to hide in the depths of ocean. What immense varieties of size, shape, form, and colour, from the nearly invisible vegetation which serves to nourish the small zoophytes and mollusks, to the long, slender algæ of fifty—and even five hundred—yards in length! How vast the disparity between the microscopic infusoria and the gigantic whale!

"We find in the sea," says Lacepede, "unity and diversity, which constitute its beauty; grandeur and simplicity, which give it sublimity; puissance and immensity, which command our wonder."

In the following pages we shall figure and describe many inhabitants of the sea; but how many remain still to figure and describe! During more than two thousand years research has been multiplied, and succeeded by research without interruption. "But how vast the field," as Lamarck observes, "which Science has still to cultivate, in order to carry the knowledge already acquired to the degree of perfection of which it is susceptible!"

"When the tide retires from the shore, the sea leaves upon the coast some few of the numberless beings which it bears in its bosom. In the first moments of its retreat, the naturalist may collect a crowd of substances, vegetable and animal, with their various characteristic colours and properties. The inhabitants of the coast find there their food, their commerce, and their occupations. At low water the nearest villages and hamlets send their contingents, old and young, men, women, and children, to the harvest. Some apply themselves to gathering the riband seaweed (Zostera), the membranous Ulva, the sombre brown Fucus vesiculosus, formerly a source of great wealth to the dwellers by the sea, being then much used in making kelp; others gather the small shells left on the sands; boys mount upon the rocks in search of whelks (Buccinum), mussels (Mytilus), detach limpets (Patella), and other edible marine animals, from the rocks to which they have attached themselves. On some coasts, shells, as Mactra, Cytheria, and Bucardium, are sought for their beauty. By turning the stones, or by sounding the crevices of the rocks with a hook at the end of a lath, polypes and calmars are sometimes surprised—sometimes even sea and conger eels, which have sought refuge there; while the pools, left here and there by the retiring tide, are dragged by nets of very small mesh, in which the smaller crustaceous mollusks and small fish are secured."

In the Mediterranean and other inland seas, where the tide is almost inappreciable, there exist a great number of animals and vegetables belonging to the deep sea, which the waves or currents very rarely leave upon the sea shore. There are others so fugitive, or which attach themselves so firmly to the rocks, that we can watch them only in their habitats. It is necessary to study them floating on the surface of the waves, or in their mysterious retirements. Hence the necessity that naturalists should study the living productions of the salt water even in the bosom of the ocean, and not on the sea shore.

The means generally employed for this purpose is a drag-net, sounding-line, and other engines suitable for scraping the bottom, and breaking the harder rocks. In a voyage which Milne Edwards made to the coast of Sicily, he formed the idea of employing an apparatus invented by Colonel Paulin, which consisted of a metallic casque provided with a visor of glass, and consequently transparent, which fixed itself round the neck by means of a copper collar made water-tight by stuffing—a diving-bell, in short, in miniature. It communicated with an air-pump by means of a flexible tube. Four men were employed in serving the pump, two exercising it while the other two rested themselves. Other men held the extremity of a cord, which was passed over a pulley attached at a higher elevation, and enabled them to hoist up the diver with the necessary rapidity in emergencies. A vigilant observer held in his hand a small signal cord. The immersion of the diver was facilitated by heavy leaden shoes, which assisted him at the same time to maintain his vertical position at the bottom. M. Edwards made the descent with this apparatus in three fathoms water with perfect success. He was thus enabled to study, in their most hidden and most inaccessible retreats, the radiate animals, mollusks, crustaceans, and annelids, especially their larvæ and eggs, and by his descriptions to contribute most essentially to make known the functions, manners, and mode of development of certain inhabitants of the sea, whose sojourn and habits would seem to sequestrate them for ever from our observation.

Another and easier mode of studying the living creatures sheltered by the sea was first suggested by M. Charles des Moulins of Bordeaux, in 1830. The aquarium, which is charged with fresh or salt water, according to the beings it is intended to contain, serves the same purpose for the inhabitants of the deep which the aviary does for the birds of the air—cages of glass being used in place of iron wire or wicker-work, and water in place of atmospheric air.

When a globe is filled with fresh water, and with mollusks, crustaceans, or fishes, it is observed, after a few days, that the water loses its transparency and purity, and becomes slightly corrupt. It necessarily follows that the water must be changed from time to time. Changing the water, however, causes much suffering, and even death to the animals. Besides, the new water does not always present the same composition, the same aeration, or the same temperature with that which is replaced. To obviate this defect, and taking a leaf out of Nature's book, M. Moulins proposed to put into the vase a certain number of aquatic plants floating or submerged—duckweed, for example—which would act upon the water in a direction inverse to that of the animals inhabiting it. It is known that vegetables assimilate carbon, while decomposing the carbonic acid produced by the respiration of animals, thus disengaging the oxygen indispensable to animal life. In this simple manner was the necessary change of water obviated. The same happy idea has been successfully applied to salt water, and aquariums for salt-water plants and animals have been proposed on a great scale. That of the Zoological Gardens of Paris, in the Bois de Boulogne, inaugurated in 1861, is perhaps the largest in the world. It is a solid stone building of fifty yards in length by about twelve broad, presenting a range of forty reservoirs of Angers slate, running north and south. The reservoirs are nearly cubical, presenting in front the strong glass of Saint Gobain, which permits of the interior being seen. They are lighted from above; but the light is weak, greenish, uniform, and consequently mysterious and gloomy, giving a pretty exact imitation of the submarine light some fathoms down. Each reservoir contains about two hundred gallons of water. It is furnished with rocks disposed a little in the form of an amphitheatre, and in a picturesque manner. Upon the rocks various species of marine vegetables are planted. The bottom is of shingle, gravel, and sand, in order to give certain animals a sufficiently natural retreat.

Ten of these reservoirs are intended for marine animals. The water employed is never changed, but it is kept in continual agitation by circulation, produced by a current of water led from the great pipe which feeds the Bois de Boulogne. This water, being subjected to a strong pressure, compresses a certain portion of air, which, being permitted to act on a portion of the sea water contained in a closed cylinder placed below the level of the aquarium, makes it ascend, and enter with great force into a reservoir, into which it is thrown from a small jet. The sea water thus pressed absorbs a portion of the air, which is drawn with it into the reservoir. A tube placed in a corner of the reservoir receives the overflow, and conducts it into a closed carbon filter, whence it passes into a gravelly underground reservoir, returning again to the closed cylinder. The water is once more subjected to the pressure of air, and again ascends to the aquarium. The cylinder being underground, a temperature equal to about sixteen degrees Cent., which is nearly the uniform temperature of the ocean, is easily maintained. During winter, the aquarium is heated artificially.

CHAPTER IV.

Moreover, when we come to watch the confines of the animal and vegetable kingdom, we realise how difficult it is to seize the precise line of demarcation which separates the great kingdoms of Nature. We have seen in the "Vegetable World" germs of the simplest organization, as in the Cryptogamia, spores, as in the Algæ, and fruitful corpuscles, as in the Mosses, which seem to be invested with some of the characteristics of animal life, for they appear to be gifted with organs of locomotion, namely, vibratile cilia, by means of which they execute movements which are to all appearance quite voluntary. Side by side with these are vegetable germs and fecundating corpuscles, known as antherozoides among the Algæ, Mosses, and Ferns, which, when floating in water, go and come like the inferior animals, seeking to penetrate into cavities, withdrawing themselves, returning again, and again introducing themselves, and exhibiting all the signs of an apparent effort. Let us compare the Infusoria, or even the Polypi and Gorgons, with these shifting vegetable organisms, and say if it is easy to determine, without considerable study, which is the plant and which the animal. The precise line of demarcation which it is so desirable to establish between the two kingdoms of Nature is indeed difficult to trace.

The word zoophyte, to which this comparison introduces us, seems very happily applied: it is derived from the Greek word ζῶον, animal, and φυτὸν, plant; and is, as it seems to us, quite worthy of being retained in Science, because it consecrates and materialises, so to speak, a sort of fusion between the two kingdoms of Nature at their confines. Let us guard ourselves, however, from carrying this idea too far, and, upon the faith of a happy word, altering altogether the true relations of created beings. In adopting the name zoophyte, to indicate a great division of the animal kingdom, the reader must not imagine that there is any ambiguity about the creatures designated, or that they belong at once to both kingdoms, or that they might be ranged indifferently in the one or the other. Zoophytes are animals, and nothing but animals; the justification for using a designation which signifies animal-plant is, that many of them have an exterior resemblance to plants; that they divide themselves by offshoots, as some plants do, and are sometimes crowned with organs tinted with lively colours, like some flowers.

This analogy between plants and zoophytes is nowhere more apparent than in the coral. Rooted in the soil and upon rocks, the form of its branches many times subdivided, above all, the coloured appendages which at certain periods so closely resemble the corolla of a flower, have all the form and appearance of plants. Until the eighteenth century most naturalists classed the coral as Linnæus did, without the least hesitation, with analogous creations in the vegetable world. Réaumur long contended for the contrary opinion; but it is only in our day that the animal nature of the coral is satisfactorily established. The sea anemone may be cited as another striking example of the resemblance borne by certain inferior organisms to vegetables. We hold, then, that we are justified in using the word zoophyte to designate the beings which now occupy our attention.

We shall not surprise our readers by telling them that the structure of the zoophyte, especially in its inferior orders, is excessively simple. They are the first steps in the scale of animal life, and in them a purely rudimentary organization was to be expected. In these beings—true types of animal life—the several parts of the body, in place of being disposed in pairs on each side of its longitudinal plane, as occurs in animals of a higher organization, are found to radiate habitually round an axis or central point, and this whether in its adult or juvenile state. Zoophytes have not generally an articulate skeleton, either exterior or interior, and their nervous system, where it exists, is very slightly developed. The organs of the senses, other than those of touch, are altogether absent in the greater part of beings which belong to this, the lowest class of the last division of the animal kingdom.

Several questions arise here: Has the zoophyte sentiment, feeling, perception? Has it consciousness, sense, sensibility? The question is insoluble; it is an abyss of obscurity. The coral, or rather the aggregation of living beings which bear the name, are attached to the rock which has seen their birth, and which will witness their death: the infusoria, of microscopic dimensions, which revolve perpetually in a circle infinitesimally small; the Amœbæ, the marvellous Proteus, which in the space of a minute changes its form a hundred times under theœ surprised eyes of the observer, are, in truth, mere atoms charged with life. Yet all these beings have an existence to appearance purely vegetative. In their obscure and blind impulse, have they consciousness or instinct? Do they know what takes place at the three-thousandth part of an inch from their microscopic bodies? To the Creator alone does the knowledge of this mystery belong.

It would be foreign to the object of this work to enter into minute division of the innumerable creatures which swarm on the ocean and on its confines. We shall perhaps best consult the convenience of our readers by adopting the following simple arrangement of these animals into

I. Protozoa, including the Spongiadæ, Infusoria, and Foraminifera.

II. Polypifera, including the Hydræ, Sertularia, and Pennatulariæ.

III. Echinodermata, or Sea-urchins and Star-fishes.

Our space will prevent our doing more than presenting to the reader in succession the most characteristic types of each of these groups.

I. THE PROTOZOA.

The Protozoares represent animal life reduced to its most simple expression. They are organized atoms, mere animated and moving points, living sparks. As they are the simplest forms of animal life as regards their structure, so also they are the smallest. Their microscopic dimensions hide them from our view. The discovery of the microscope was a necessary step to our becoming acquainted with these beings, whose existence was ignored by the ancient world, and only revealed in the seventeenth century by the discovery of the microscope. When armed with this marvellous instrument, applied to examine the various liquid mediums—as when Leuwenhoek, for example, applied the magnifying glass to the inspection of stagnant water, with its infusions of macerated vegetable and animal substances—when he scrutinized a drop of water borrowed from the ocean, from rivers, or from lakes, he discovered there a new world—a world which will be unveiled in these pages.

Some modern writers believe that the Protozoa is a mere cellular organism, that being the principle and end of organization, such as we find it in the cellular vegetable. According to this hypothesis, the Protozoares would be the cellulars of the animal kingdom, as the Algæ and Mushrooms are of the vegetable world. This idea is so far wrong, that it has been founded upon the empire of pure theory. "In reality," says Paul Gervais and Van Beneden, "the animals to which we extend it very rarely resemble elementary cellulars." The tissue of which the bodies of the Protozoa are composed is habitually destitute of cellular structure. They are formed of a sort of animated jelly, amorphous and diaphanous, and have received from Dujardin the name of Sarcoda, or soft-fleshed animals.

Infinitely varied in their form, the Protozoares are furnished with vibratile cilia, which are organs of locomotion belonging to the lower animals inhabiting the liquid element. Their bodies are sometimes naked, sometimes covered with a siliceous, chalky, or membranous cuirass. They are divided into two great classes, the Rhizopoda and Infusoria.

Spongia.

The Sponge is a natural production, which has been known from times of the highest antiquity. Aristotle, Pliny, and all other writers who occupied themselves with natural history in ancient times, are agreed in according to it a sensitive life. They recognize the curious fact that the sponge evades the hand which tries to seize it, and clings to the rocks on which it is rooted, as if it would resist the efforts made to detach it. Pliny, Dioscorides, and their commentators, even formed the idea that sponges were capable of feeling, that they adhered to their native rock by special force, and that they shrunk from the hand which tried to seize them. They even distinguished males from females. Erasmus, however, criticising Pliny, concludes that he may pass over all he has written upon the sponge. The sponge, in short, was to the ancients something between a plant and an animal.

Rondelet, the friend of the celebrated Rabelais, whom the merry curate of Meudon designated under the name of Rondibilis, who was himself a physician and naturalist of Montpellier, denied at first the existence of sensibility in sponges. He originated the idea that these productions belonged to the vegetable world—an idea which Tournefort, Gaspard Bauhin, Rey, and even Linnæus, in the first editions of his "Systema Naturæ," supported by the great authority of their names. Afterwards, influenced by the convincing labours of Trembley and some other observers, Linnæus withdrew the sponges from the vegetable world. He satisfied himself, in short, that certain polypiers much resembled sponges in the nature of their parenchyma, and that, on the other hand, the assimilation of sponges with plants was not such as could be maintained. Neuremberg, Peyssonnel, and Trembley maintain the animal nature of sponges, and their views are adopted by Linnæus, Guettard, Donati, Lamouroux, and Ehrenberg on the Continent, and by Ellis, Fleming, and Grant in England. They live at the bottom of the seas in five to twenty-five fathoms of water, among the clefts and crevices of the rocks, always adhering and attaching themselves, not only to inorganic bodies, but even growing on vegetables and animals, spreading, erect, or pendent, according to the body which supports them and their natural habit.

The power of fixing themselves to other objects, which certain animals possess, is very singular. Nevertheless, it is certain that whole tribes exist consisting of innumerable strictly adherent species, which live and die attached to some rock or other object; and among these are all polypiers, such as the sponges and corallines. It follows that they are wholly dependent on external agencies for their means of existence. "The poor little creatures," says Alfred Frédol, "receive their nourishment from the wave which washes past them; they inhale and respire the bitter water all their lives; they are insensible to that which is only the hundredth part of an inch from their mouth."

In the months of April and May, these animalcules engender germs, round, yellow, or white, whence proceed certain ovoid granular embryos furnished towards their largest extremity with small vibratile cilia. They are thrown off by the currents, which serve as a stomach, and form swarms of larvæ round the polypier. They swim about with a gliding wavy motion, and when they have been some time in the water they usually come to the surface; but they are also often carried off by the current. During two or three days they seem to seek a convenient place to fix themselves. Once fixed, the larvæ loses the cilia, spreads itself out, and takes the form of a flattened gelatinous disk.

Its interior organization consists of contractile cellules and numerous spiculæ—"a tribe," says Gosse, "of the most debateable forms of life, long denied a right to stand in the animal ranks at all, and even still admitted there doubtingly and grudgingly by some excellent naturalists. Yet such they certainly are, established beyond reasonable controversy as true and proper examples of animal life."

It may, then, be safely asserted that all naturalists are now satisfied of the animal nature of sponges, although they represent the lowest and most obscure grade of animal existence, and that so close to the confines of the vegetable world, that it is difficult in some species to determine whether they are on the one side or the other. "Several of them, however," says Mr. Gosse, "if viewed with a lens under water while in a living state, display vigorous currents constantly pouring forth from certain orifices; and we necessarily infer that the water thus ejected must be constantly taken in through some other channel. On tearing the mass open, we see that the whole substance is perforated in all directions by irregular canals, leading into each other, of which some are slender, and communicate with the surface by minute but numerous pores, and others are wide, and open by ample orifices; through the former the water is admitted, through the latter it is ejected." It is not to be denied, however, that these beings constitute, in spite of investigations of modern naturalists, a group still somewhat problematical, and still very imperfectly known as regards their internal organization.

Sponges are masses of a light elastic tissue, which is, at the same time, resistant, full of air-cells, and with much varied exterior arrangements. Nearly three hundred species are known, the different appearances of which have been characterised by names more or less singular. There is, for instance, the Feather Sponge, the Fan Sponge, the Bell, the Lyre, the Trumpet, the Distaff, the Peacock Tail, and Neptune's Glove.

There are river sponges and sea sponges.

The first are irregular and arenaceous masses, which pile themselves upon plants and solid bodies immerged in fresh water. Such are the spongilles, upon which anatomic and embryonic observations have very frequently been made in relation to the group more immediately under consideration.

The second is found in almost every sea; especially are they found in the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and the Mexican Gulf. Affecting warm and quiet waters, they attach themselves to bold and rugged rocks at depths ranging from five to twenty-five fathoms. They are erect, pendent, or spreading, according to their form or position. Fig. 10, drawn from Nature, represents a very remarkable form of sponge, which was fished up in sixty fathoms.

The sponge is very common in the Mediterranean and round the Grecian Archipelago, and is known vulgarly under the name of the Marine Mushroom, the Sailor's Nest, and the fine soft sponge of Syria. It is a mass more or less rounded, covered with a mucous bed, glutinous above, formed of a light elastic but resisting tissue full of gaps, and riddled with air-cells. This tissue is formed of delicate flexible fibres, uniting in all directions by anastomosis, but presenting numerous pores, which are formed by what is termed osculation, having irregular conduits which connect them. In this tissue certain very small solid bodies are discovered, named spiculæ. The spiculæ are siliceous or calcareous in their nature, varying according to the species, and sometimes varying even in the same species. Some of these resemble needles, others are pin-like, and others again resemble very small stars.

The physiological function of those tubes and orifices which present themselves on all parts of the sponge has been interpreted in various ways. Ellis, writing in 1765, supposes that they were the orifices of the cells occupied by the polypi. In 1816, Lamarck still advocated this opinion; and even now we find the observer, whose notes M. Frédol has edited with so much judgment, asserting that "the inhabitants of the sponge are a species of fleeting, transparent, gelatinous tube, susceptible of extension and contraction; young polypes, as we may call them, without consistence, without cilia; incipient polypes, in short, of very simple but sufficient organization. The animalcule of the sponge is a stomach, without arms, very simple, very elementary—in short, an animal all stomach!"

This mode of considering the sponge is not conformable to the views of the leaders of modern science, however. Mr. Milne Edwards, for instance, in place of seeing in the sponge a collection of united beings, forming as it were a colony, considers each to be an isolated being, an unique individual. The innumerable canals by which the sponge is traversed, according to that author, are at once the digestive organs and breathing pores of the zoophyte. The vibratile cilia are necessary to the renewed aeration of the water required as a respiratory fluid in the interior canals of the sponge. The currents in these channels have one constant direction. The water penetrates the sponge by numerous orifices of minute dimensions and irregular disposition; it traverses channels in the body of the zoophyte, which reunite somewhat like the root of a plant, in order to constitute the trunk and increase its substance; finally, the water makes its escape by special openings. According to this view, the channels of the sponge have a kind of cumulative physiology, performing the two functions of digestion and respiration. The rapid currents of aerated water which traverse them lead into them the substances necessary to the nourishment of these strange creatures, rejecting all excremental matter. At the same time, the walls of these canals present a large absorbing surface which separates the oxygen with which the water is charged, and disengages the carbonic acid which results from respiration.

Sponges contain true eggs, from which embryo polyps are produced; these have not cilia at first. In the interior of these eggs the contractile cellules have their birth; then the spiculæ; and when they are finally covered with the vibratile cilia, aided by them these larvæ of ovoid form swim, or rather glide, through the water. The species of infusoria born of the sponge resemble the larvæ of various polypes at the moment they issue from the egg. "They soon attach themselves to some foreign body," says Mr. Milne Edwards, "and become henceforth immovable; no longer giving signs either of sensibility or of contractibility, while in their enlargement they are completely transformed. The gelatinous substance of their bodies is channeled and riddled with holes—the fibrous framework is completed—the sponge is formed."

We may add, however, that other zoologists, and among them MM. Paul Gervais and Van Beneden, take a different view of the development of the sponges, and Dr. Johnston omits them altogether from his great work on "British Zoophytes." "If they are not the production of polypi," he says, "the zoologist who retains them in his province must contend that they are individually animals, an opinion to which I cannot assent, seeing that they have no animal structure or individual organs, and exhibit not one function usually supposed to be characteristic of the animal kingdom." Gervais and Van Beneden consider, as Milne Edwards does, that the embryos are at first movable, then fixed, many of them uniting together, and melting, as it were, into one common colony, which become a sponge, such as we see it. An isolated embryo might also, by throwing out germs, produce a similar colony, which would thus become a product of agamous generation. Thus it appears that Science is far from being settled in its views as to the organization and development of these obscure and complex formations; nor is it more advanced in its knowledge of the duration of life and the quickness of growth in sponges. It is agreed, however, on one point—namely, that the sponge-fisher may return to the same fishing-ground after three years from the last fishing. At the present time sponge-fishing takes place principally in the Grecian Archipelago and the Syrian littoral. The Greeks and Syrians sell the product of their fishing to the Western nations, and the trade has been immensely extended in recent times, when the sponge has become an almost necessary adjunct of the toilet as well as the stable, and in other cleansing operations.

Fishing usually commences towards the beginning of June on the coast of Syria, and finishes at the end of October. But the months of July and August are peculiarly favourable to the sponge harvest, if we may use the term. Latakia furnishes about ten boats to the fishery, Batroun twenty, Tripoli twenty-five to thirty, Kalki fifty, Simi about a hundred and seventy to a hundred and eighty, and Kalminos more than two hundred. The operations of one of these boats fishing for sponges on the Syrian coast is represented in Plate II.

The boat's crew consists of four or five men, who scatter themselves along the coast for two or three miles in search of sponges under the cliffs and ledges of rock. Sponges of inferior quality are gathered in shallow waters. The finer kinds are found only at a depth of from twelve to twenty fathoms. The first are fished for with three-toothed harpoons, by the aid of which they are torn from their native rock; but not without deteriorating them more or less. The finer kinds of sponges, on the other hand, are collected by divers aided by a knife; they are carefully detached. Thus the price of a sponge brought up by diving is much more considerable than that of a harpooned sponge. Among divers, those of Kalminos and of Psara are particularly renowned. They will descend to the depth of twenty-five fathoms, remain down a shorter time than the Syrian divers, and yet bring up a more abundant harvest. The fishing of the Archipelago furnishes few fine sponges to commerce, but a great quantity of very common ones. The Syrian fisheries furnish many of the finer kinds, which find a ready market in France; they are of medium size. On the other hand, those which are furnished from the Barbary coast are of great dimensions, of a very fine tissue, and much sought for in England. On the Bahama banks, and in the Gulf of Mexico, the sponges grow in water of small depth. The fishermen, Spanish, American, and English, sink a long mast or perch into the water moored near the boat, down which they drop upon the sponges; by this means they are easily gathered.