In the famous "bird-city" at the north point of Sylt, the Silvery or Herring-gull plays a prominent part. Its great size, equal to that of the raven, but with much longer wings—its agreeable form, its pure white plumage, of metallic brilliancy on the back, gradually melting into light ash-blue; the velvet-black ends of the wings, with snowy feather tips, the lovely yellow eye, and the deep yellow beak, with its coral-red spot, all this together forms a beautiful picture. "There we stood," says Naumann, "surrounded by thousands, that partly hovered close over our heads, uttering their shrill screams, partly stood before us in pairs; some on their nests, the males keeping guard, some sleeping on one leg, and others leisurely stretching themselves. In one word, one hardly knew what most to admire, the uncommon cleanliness and beauty of their plumage, the great variety and elegance of their attitudes, their tameness, or the immense numbers collected in so small a space."
In the same "bird-city," but apart from the former, breed also the Common Gull (Larus canus) which is much smaller and of a more slender shape, and also the Sandwich and Caspian Terns. It is astonishing to see how each kind of sea-bird seeks its particular spot for breeding; only the auks and guillemots herd promiscuously. What may induce the birds to meet in such large bodies and then always to choose some particular cliff? The gulls yield the fortunate possessor of their district an annual income of at least two hundred rix-dollars. More than thirty thousand of the eggs, which are larger than those of the turkey, are collected every year, packed up with moss in baskets, and sent to the market. Two or three persons are busy from morning till evening, during the whole season, collecting the eggs, and receive for their trouble those of the smaller birds, which may also amount to about twenty thousand. But although the terns appear in considerable numbers on Sylt, they have chosen the small flat island, Norder Oog, to the west of Pelworm, for their chief residence. The breeding colony of the Sandwich tern amounts here to at least a million of individuals, so that when the birds are at rest, the island, at the distance of a mile, resembles a white stripe in the sea; but when their innumerable multitudes hover above it, they seem an immense white rotatory cloud. The eggs lie in some places so close together, that it is almost impossible to walk between them without treading upon them; the breeding birds often touch one another, and would not find room, if, like all sea-swallows that breed socially on the coast, they did not sit in the same posture, with their head facing the water. It is incomprehensible how each bird can find its eggs; it would even seem impossible, did we not know the miracles of animal instinct. Their noise is incessant, for even during the night they keep up a continual and lively prattle. He who approaches them during the day is soon surrounded by these screamers, whose whirling thousand-tongued multitudes stun his senses; and these birds, at other times so shy, flutter so close over his head, as often to touch him with their wings.
On Nowaja Semlja's ice-bound coast, on the peaks of isolated cliffs, and suffering no other bird in his vicinity, dwells the fierce imperious Burgomaster (Larus glaucus). None of its class dares dispute the authority of the lordly bird, when with unhesitating superiority it descends on its prey, though in the possession of another. Although not numerous, yet it is the general attendant on the whale-fisher whenever spoils are to be obtained. Then it hovers over the scene of action, and having marked out its morsel, descends upon it and carries it off on the wing. On its descent, the most dainty pieces must be relinquished, though in the grasp of fulmar, snow-bird, or kittiwake.
The larger parasitical or raptorial gulls (Lestris parasiticus, catarrhactes), are incapable of diving or plunging, their feathers being too large in proportion to their bulk. They are therefore obliged to live by the exertions of the lesser species, making them disgorge what they have eaten, and dexterously catching the rejected fish before it reaches the water. Thus we see the old feudal relations of baron and serf established as a natural institution among the gull-tribe.
Although the sea-swallows and sea-mews are endowed with great power of wing, yet the petrels and albatrosses alone deserve the name of oceanic birds, as they are almost always found on the high seas, at every distance from land, and only during breeding-time seek the solitary coasts and islands. Petrels are scattered over the whole extent of the ocean, but the petrels which inhabit the northern seas are different from those of the antarctic ocean, and between both are other species, that never forsake the intertropical waters.
The Fulmar (Procellaria glacialis) is at home in the high north. As soon as the whale-fisher has passed the Shetland Islands, on his way to the Arctic Seas, this bird is sure to accompany his track, eagerly watching for anything thrown overboard. Walking awkwardly on land, the fulmar flies to windward in the most terrific storms. Many thousands frequently accumulate round a dead whale, rushing in from all quarters. The sea immediately about the ship's stern, when the men are engaged in skinning their gigantic prey, is sometimes so completely covered with them that a stone can scarcely be thrown overboard without striking one of them. When anything is thus cast among the crowd, those nearest take alarm, and so on, till a thousand are put in motion; but as in rising they strike the water with their feet, a loud and most irregular splashing is produced. It is amusing to observe with what jealousy they view, and with what boldness they attack, any of their species engaged in devouring the finest morsels, and to hear the curious chuckling noise they make in their anxiety for despatch, lest they should be disturbed. The voracious birds are frequently so glutted as to be unable to fly, in which case they rest upon the water until the advancement of digestion restores their wonted powers. They then return to the banquet with the same gusto as before, and although numbers of the species may have been killed with boat-hooks, and float among them, the others, nothing daunted, and unconscious of danger to themselves, continue their gormandising labours. When carrion is scarce, the fulmars follow the living whale, as if they had a presentiment of his future fate, and sometimes, by their peculiar motions while hovering on the surface of the water, point out to the fisherman the position of the animal. As their beak cannot make an impression on the dead whale until some more powerful creature tears away the skin, it may be imagined how delighted they are when man takes upon himself the trouble of peeling a whale for them.
The Glacial Petrel (Procellaria gelida) does not seem to approach the pole so near as the fulmar. He appears but seldom in Iceland, but breeds frequently in Newfoundland. The same is the case with the Shearwater (P. puffinus), which breeds in great numbers on the Feroë islands, and in Orcadia. The tropical petrels are the least known. They do not appear to gather troopwise, and but seldom follow ships. Towards 45° S. lat. the first Pintados (P. capensis) make their appearance, and are more rarely seen after having passed 60° S. lat. The Giant Petrel (P. gigantea), extends its flight as far as the ice-banks of the south, where the Antarctic and the Snowy (P. antarctica et nivea) Petrels first appear, birds which never leave those dreary seas, and are often seen in vast flocks floating upon the drift ice. Thus nature has set bounds to petrels, as to all other creatures that swim or fly in and over the ocean, and has divided the wide deserts of the sea among their different species. Who can tell us the mysterious laws which assign to each of them its limits? Who can show us the invisible barriers they are not allowed to pass?
The Stormy Petrel (P. pelagica) seems to belong to every sea. It is about the size of a swallow, and in its general appearance and flight is not unlike that bird. Although the smallest web-footed bird known, it braves the utmost fury of the tempest, often skimming with incredible velocity the trough of the waves, and sometimes gliding rapidly over their snowy crests. Like all of its kind, it lives almost constantly at sea, and seeks during the breeding season some lonely rock, where it deposits in some fissure or crevice its solitary egg.
The mode of life of the petrels corresponds but little with their external beauty; they are in fact the crows of the ocean, and live upon the dead animal substances floating on its surface. Wherever the carcase of a whale, borne along by the current, covers the sea with a long stripe of putrid oil, they are seen feasting in the polluted waters. All petrels have the remarkable faculty of spouting oil of a very offensive smell, from their nostrils when alarmed, and this apparently as a means of defence.
The Albatross (Diomedea exulans) is the monarch of the high seas; the picture of a hero, who, under every storm of adverse fortune, preserves the immoveable constancy of an undaunted heart. Proud and majestic, he swims along in his own native element, and without ever touching the water with his pinions, rises with the rising billow, and falls with the falling wave. It is truly wonderful how he bids defiance to the fury of the unshackled elements, and how quietly he faces the gale. "He seems quite at home," say the sailors; and indeed this expression is perfectly characteristic of his graceful ease as he hovers over the agitated ocean.
The albatross exceeds the swan in size, attains a weight of from 12lbs. to 28lbs., and extends his wings from ten to thirteen feet. His plumage is white and black, harmonising with the wave-crest and the storm-cloud. For weeks and months together he is seen to follow the course of a ship; but, according to Mr. Harvey (Sea Side Book), "the time he can remain on the wing seems to have been much exaggerated, for although, like the gull and the petrel, he is no diving-bird, he swims with the greatest ease; and notwithstanding the enormous length of his pinions, knows well how to rise again into the air. He is indeed unable to take wing from a narrow deck, but when he wishes to rise from the sea, he runs along flapping the waters until he has acquired the necessary impetus, or meets with a wave of a sufficient height, from whose lofty crest he starts as from a rocky pinnacle, and resumes his extensive flight over an immense expanse of ocean." A short-winged species frequents the waters of Kamtschatka and Japan; but the wandering albatross (D. exulans) belongs more particularly to the southern hemisphere, being rarely seen to the north of 30° S. lat., and appearing more frequently as the higher latitudes are approached. The regions of storms—the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn—are his favourite resorts, and all travellers know that the southern point of Africa is not far distant as soon as the albatrosses show themselves in larger numbers. These birds are the vultures of the ocean; their crooked sharp-edged beak is better adapted to lacerate a lifeless prey, than to seize upon the rapid fish as it darts swiftly along below the surface of the waters. From a vast distance they smell the floating carcase of a whale, and soon alight in considerable numbers upon the giant carrion. They also feed upon the large cephalopods that inhabit mid-ocean, and remains of these molluscs are generally found in their stomach. The Auckland and Campbell islands seem to be two of their favourite breeding-stations. When Sir James Ross visited these secluded groups, the birds were so assiduously breeding as to allow themselves to be taken with the hand. The nest is built of sand mixed with dried leaves and grasses, generally eighteen inches high, with a diameter of twenty-seven inches at the surface, and of six feet at the base. While breeding, the snow-white head and neck of the bird project above the grasses, and betray it from afar. On endeavouring to drive it from its eggs it defends itself valiantly, snapping with its beak. Its greatest enemy is a fierce raptorial gull (Lestris antarcticus), which is always on the look-out, and, as soon as the albatross leaves the nest, shoots down upon it to steal the eggs.
Swift flies the albatross, but fancy travels with still more rapid wings through the realms of space, and leads us suddenly from the lone islands of the Pacific to the north of another hemisphere. Saint Kilda rises before us—a glorious sight when the last rays of the setting sun, as he slowly sinks upon the ocean, light up with dazzling splendour the towering cliffs of the island, which one might almost fancy to be some huge volcano newly emerged from the deep, or the impregnable bulwark of some enchanted land. St. Kilda, one of the most striking examples of the grandest rock-scenery, plunges on all sides perpendicularly into the sea, so that although six miles in circumference, it affords but one single landing-place, accessible only in fair weather. Four of the promontories are perforated, and as many large caverns are formed, through which the sea rolls its heaving billows. From the eastern extremity, which rises nearly perpendicularly to the height of 1380 feet, and is supposed to be the loftiest precipice in Britain, the view is of indescribable sublimity. Far below, the long heavy swell of the ocean is seen climbing up the dark rock, whose base is clothed with sheets of snow-white foam. In many places the naked rock disappears under the myriads of sea-birds sitting upon their nests; the air is literally clouded with them, and the water seems profusely dotted with the larger fowl, the smaller ones being nearly invisible on account of the distance. Every narrow ledge is thickly covered with kittiwakes, auks, and guillemots; all the grassy spots are tenanted by the fulmar, and honey-combed by myriads of puffins; while close to the water's edge on the wet rocks, which are hollowed out into deep recesses, sit clusters of cormorants, erect and motionless, like so many unclean spirits, guarding the entrance of some gloomy cave.
On rolling down a large stone from the summit, a strange scene of confusion ensues. Here, falling like a thunderbolt on some unfortunate fulmar sitting upon its nest, it crushes the poor creature in an instant; then rolling down the crags, and cutting deep furrows in the grassy slopes, it scatters in dismay the dense groups of auks and guillemots. Its progress all along is marked by the clouds of birds, which affrighted shoot out from the precipice to avoid the fate to which nevertheless many fall a prey, until at length it reaches the bottom along with its many victims. The scared tenants of the rock now return to their resting-places, and all is again comparatively quiet.
Several species of gulls are of common occurrence on St. Kilda: Larus marinus, fuscus, canus, and tridactylus. The last, or kittiwake, is the most abundant; a social bird, choosing the most inaccessible spots. On disturbing a colony of kittiwakes, most of the birds leave their nests and fly about the intruder, uttering incessantly their clamorous but not unmusical cry. The noise from a large flock is almost deafening; the flapping of their wings and their loud screams, joined to the deep guttural notes of the passing gannets, and the shrill tones of the larger gulls, form a combination of sounds without a parallel in nature. Probably on account of its vigilance, the kittiwake is not pursued by the fowler.
The fulmar breeds in almost incredible numbers on St. Kilda (the only place in Britain where he is found), and is to the natives by far the most important production of their barren land. On the crest of the highest precipices, and only on such as are furnished with small grassy shelves, on every spot above a few inches in extent, the fulmars have taken possession of the rock. On being seized, they instantly disgorge a quantity of clear amber-coloured oil, which imparts to the whole bird, its nest and young, and even the very rock which it frequents, a peculiar and very disagreeable odour.
Fulmar oil is one of the most valuable productions of St. Kilda. The best is obtained from the old bird by surprising it at night upon the rock, and tightly closing the bill until the fowler has seized the bird between his knees with its head downwards. By opening the bill, the fulmar is allowed to eject about a table-spoonful, or rather more, of oil into the dried gullet or stomach of a solan-goose. The islanders use fulmar oil for their lamps, and consider it as an infallible remedy against chronic rheumatism.
It is chiefly in pursuit of the fulmar that the St. Kildian often endangers his life. Two of the fowlers generally proceed in company, each furnished with several coils of rope, about half an inch in diameter. One of them fastens one of the ropes under his arm-pits, and holding the extremity of another rope in one hand, is lowered down the cliff. His comrade stands a little away from the edge, holding the supporting rope firmly with both hands and letting it out very slowly, while he allows the other, or guide-rope, to slip out as is required from under one foot, which loosely secures it. On reaching a ledge occupied by birds, the fowler commences his operations, easily securing the eggs and young birds, and knocking down the old ones with a short stick, or catching them by a noose attached to a long slender rod. He then secures his sport by bundling the birds together, and tying them to a rope let down from above, depositing at the same time in a small basket the eggs he has gathered. The dexterity of these rocksmen is truly astonishing. The smallest spot is considered by them as a sufficiently secure standing-place, and they will creep on hands and knees, though cumbered with a load of birds, along a narrow ledge, seemingly without concern for their personal safety. When exhibiting before strangers, a precipice about six hundred feet high, overhanging the sea, at a short distance from the village, is generally chosen for a display of their agility. About midway they strike against the rock, and rebound twelve feet or more with all the agility of a tight-rope dancer.
The Gannet, or Solan-goose, which abounds in the north of Scotland and on the numberless islands and rocky fiords which line the Norwegian coast, likewise congregates in vast numbers about St. Kilda, from whence a portion of them take their departure every morning to fish for herrings, their favourite food, in the bays and channels of the other Hebrides, the nearest of which is about fifty miles distant. This bird is very select in the choice of its breeding-places, which it occupies to the total exclusion of every other species. None are to be found in Hirta, but the island of Borreray is almost entirely occupied with them, as are also the adjacent rocks, Stack Ly and Stack Narmin. These cliffs are remarkable for their pointed summits and towering height, and appear, even from the distance of many miles, as if they were covered with snow, the deceptive appearance being caused by the myriads of gannets with which the rock is thickly covered, as well as the dense clouds of these white-plumed birds passing and repassing in the neighbourhood of their nests. Petrels, shearwaters, puffins, guillemots, and auks, are also very abundant about the weather-beaten cliffs of St. Kilda.
If we consider that similar bird-republics are to be found on almost every rocky coast or surf-beaten cliff of the northern seas, we must needs be astonished at the inexhaustible prodigality of Nature, which covers desolate rocks with such a profusion of life. The vast number of sea-birds is the more surprising, as many species, such as the guillemot, the auk, the fulmar, and the puffin, lay but one single egg on the naked rock, and often in so precarious a situation, that it is almost inconceivable how breeding can take place. When the birds are surprised and suddenly fly off, many of the eggs tumble down into the surf. Sea-eagles, falcons, and raptorial gulls destroy a great number, and pounce upon the young; thousands fall a prey to the rigours of an Arctic winter; the spring-tides sweeping over low shores, often carry away whole generations at once, and many a maritime population lives entirely upon the sea-fowl that breed upon the sterile soil. And yet, in spite of so many enemies and persecutions, their numbers remain undiminished, nor has their importance ever ceased in the domestic economy of the rude islanders of the north.
But however valuable the eggs and the oil, the feathers and the flesh of the hyperborean bird-republics may be to man, they are far from equalling in importance the guano producing sea-fowl of the tropical seas. This inestimable manure, which has become so indispensable to the British agriculturist, is found scattered over numerous localities in the intertropical regions. It abounds on many of the rocky islets of the Red Sea, where the life-teeming waters afford sustenance to innumerable sea-gulls, cormorants, and pelicans; but its most widely celebrated stores cover the small Chincha Islands, not far from Pisco, about a hundred miles to the south of Callao, where they form enormous layers 50 or 60 feet deep.
The upper strata are of a greyish-brown colour, which lower down becomes darker; and in the inferior strata the colour is a rusty red, as if tinged by oxide of iron. The guano becomes progressively more and more compact from the surface downwards, a circumstance naturally accounted for by the gradual deposit of the strata and the increasing superincumbent weight. As is universally known, guano is formed of the excrements of different kinds of marine birds; but the species which Tschudi, the celebrated Peruvian traveller, more particularly enumerates are—Larus modestus (Tschudi), Rhynchops nigra (Linn.), Plotus anhinga (Linn.), Pelecanus thayus (Mol.), Phalacrocorax Gaimardii and albigula (Tsch.), and chiefly the Sula variegata (Tsch.).
The immense flocks of these birds, as they fly along the coast, appear like aërial islands; and when their vast numbers, their extraordinary voracity, and the facility with which they procure their food are considered, we cannot be surprised at the magnitude of the beds of guano which have resulted from the uninterrupted accumulations of countless ages. During the first year of the deposit the strata are white, and the guano is then called Guano blanco. In the opinion of the Peruvian cultivators, this is the most efficacious kind. As soon as the dealers in guano begin to work one of the beds, the island on which it is formed is abandoned by the birds. It has also been remarked that, since the increase of trade and navigation, they have withdrawn from the islands in the neighbourhood of the ports. Under the empire of the Incas, the guano was regarded as an important branch of state economy. It was forbidden, on pain of death, to kill the young birds. Each island had its own inspector, and was assigned to a certain province. The whole distance between Arica and Chaucay, a length of two hundred nautical miles, was exclusively manured with guano. These wise provisions have been entirely forgotten by the Spaniards, but the Peruvians now begin to discover the error of their former masters, and look forward with anxiety to the period when the guano will no longer suffice for the wants of husbandry. At the present day they use it chiefly in the cultivation of maize and potatoes. A few weeks after the seeds begin to shoot, a little hole is made round each root and filled up with guano, which is afterwards covered with a layer of earth. After the lapse of twelve or fifteen hours, the whole field is laid under water, and left in that state for about half a day. Of the guano blanco a less quantity suffices, and the field must be more speedily and abundantly watered, otherwise the roots would be destroyed. The effect of this manure is incredibly rapid. In a few days the growth of the plant is doubled; if the manure is repeated a second time, but in smaller quantity, a rich harvest is certain;—at least the produce will be three times greater than that which would have been obtained from the unmanured soil. The uniformity of climate, along a coast where rain is never known to fall, contributes essentially to the superior quality of the Chincha guano, as atmospherical precipitations naturally dissolve and wash away many of the most fertilising salts.
The consumption of guano in Western Europe, and particularly in England, increases with surprising rapidity. On the island of Iquique a layer thirty feet deep, and covering a space of 220,000 square feet, has been entirely removed within twenty-seven years. In the year 1854, 250,000 tons were dug in the Chincha Islands, and the actual annual exportation amounts to double the quantity. The digestive functions of the Sula and her companions thus bring in larger sums to the Peruvian Government than all the silver mines of Cerro de Pasco, and the transport of the guano employs larger fleets than ever Spain possessed at the brightest period of her power.
"The Chincha Islands," says Castelnau (Expédition dans les Parties Centrales de l'Amérique du Sud; Paris, 1851), "are completely desert and devoid of vegetation; their granite soil is clearly distinguished by its colour from the thick stratum of guano with which it is covered, and the surface of which looks at a distance like snow. The steep banks render landing difficult, but facilitate at the same time the shipping of the produce, as the vessels lie at anchor close to the pits. Digging takes place at three places, close to one another, and the traveller has only to compare the enormous deposits with the smallness of the excavations, which at some distance are hardly perceptible, to convince himself of the inexhaustible supply. Some huts have been constructed on the island, where, in the midst of ammoniacal effluvia, some Peruvian customhouse officers and soldiers superintend the working of the guano-mines."
THE REPTILES OF THE OCEAN.
There was a time when the reptiles were the monarchs of the sea, when the ocean swarmed with gigantic saurians, tyrants of the fishes, combining the swiftness of the dolphin with the rapacity of the crocodile. Had those monsters of the deep been endowed with human intelligence, they would most likely also, with human arrogance, have boasted of an eternal sway. For where in the whole ocean was the enemy that could cope with them? Did not all beings flee wherever they appeared? and did not the inexhaustible sea promise them an everlasting supply of food?
But in spite of their colossal power, the saurians, like all created beings, have been forced to succumb to time.
Centuries and centuries passed on, the sea and air gradually changed, the temperature of the elements no longer remained the same, and thus by degrees a new ocean and a new atmosphere were formed, uncongenial to the nature of those huge reptiles. Thus they have been effaced from the roll of living things, and some petrified remains alone bear testimony to their former existence.
The most powerful saurians of the present day—the crocodile the gavial and the alligator—have left to the dolphins, the sharks, and other monstrous or swiftly-swimming cetaceans and fishes the dominion of the seas, and now merely infest the rivers and swamps of the tropical zone. The lizards also have long since retired from the scene where they once abounded, and the ocean at present harbours no other reptiles in its bosom than turtles and sea-snakes.
Most of the animals belonging to this class are either dangerous or of a disgusting appearance. Few creatures are objects of such universal abhorrence as the crocodile—the very type of brutal cold-blooded ferocity; as the venomous snake—the emblem of perfidy and ingratitude; or as the loathsome, but innocent toad, to which, on account of its ugliness, noxious properties have been ascribed which the poor animal does not possess. The frogs, lizards, and turtles alone seem to have escaped this general detestation, either from their more active habits, or their well-known harmlessness, or their various utility to man.
The anatomy of the turtle offers many points of interest; its vertebræ, ribs, and breast-bone growing together so as to form a bony envelope round the whole animal. This harness is covered by the skin, which in its turn is bedecked with large scales, while all the muscles and other soft parts are enclosed in the inner cavity. Only the head, feet, and tail protrude through openings between the upper and under carapace, and these can, by the land tortoises at least, be withdrawn entirely under the former. This is the only protection which Nature has afforded these animals against their enemies, for they have neither swiftness of flight, nor any offensive weapon at their command. But as soon as anything suspicious approaches, they conceal themselves under their massive cover, and oppose to every attack by tooth or nail the passive resistance of an impenetrable shield. Most of their enemies find it, besides, no easy task to turn them on their back, as many species attain a very considerable weight, so that their mere bulk constitutes a good defence. It might be supposed that this protection could only avail for a short time, as the want of air must soon force the animal to stretch its head out of its hiding-place, and this indeed would be the case, if kind Nature had not taken her measures against this emergency, by giving the creature a cold blood, so that it can remain a very long time without breathing; long enough, at least, to tire the patience of the most obstinate foe.
But how comes it, the reader may ask, that respiration, which pours a warm current through our veins, fails in raising the temperature of the turtle's blood?
Without entering into a lengthened description of the human heart, I shall merely observe that it consists of two halves (each half being again subdivided into two separate chambers), and that the right half, which receives venous blood and pours it into the lungs, is completely separated by a partition from the left half, which receives arterial or aërated blood from the lungs, and propels it into every part of the body. Thus the two different kinds of blood are completely separated, so that an unmixed venous blood flows into the lungs, where it is converted by the oxygen of the air into arterial blood. But this connection, like most chemical processes, takes place under an evolution of heat, which is so considerable that our internal temperature constantly maintains itself at the height of 98° F.
But the turtle's heart is differently formed, consisting, as the annexed theoretic representation shows, of but one ventricle and two auricles, so that a mixed, or only half aërated blood circulates throughout the body, which naturally produces a torpidity of the whole vital process. Besides, the lungs of the reptiles are incapable of aërating so great a quantity of blood as ours, as their cells are much larger, thus offering less surface to the action of the air; and finally, the ribs of the turtles being immovable, they are incapable of extending the lungs, so that the animal is absolutely obliged to swallow the necessary supply of air, and to pump it, as it were, into the lungs, by contracting the muscles of the throat. Thus we see that every precaution has been taken to reduce respiration to a low standard, and prevent the evolution of heat. With this indolence of its cold-blooded circulation, the whole nature of the animal is in harmony; the bluntness of its senses, its want of intelligence, its slow movements, and its long endurance of hunger, thirst, and want of air. It leads but a drowsy dream-like existence, and yet, we may be sure, it is far from unhappy, for all its functions and organs agree perfectly one with the other, and when concord reigns, enjoyment of some kind must exist.
The turtles are distinguished from the land tortoises particularly by their large and long fin-shaped feet, and also by a longer tail, which serves them as a rudder. They have no teeth, but the horny upper jaw closes over the lower like the lid of a box, thus serving them as excellent shears, either for crushing shells or dividing the tough fibres of the sea-grass.
They are at home in all the warmer seas, but sometimes they are carried by oceanic streams far away from their accustomed haunts. Thus, in the year 1752, a Green turtle, six feet long, and weighing 900 pounds, stranded near Dieppe; and in 1778 another, seven feet long, on the coast of Languedoc. One taken on the coast of Cornwall in July, 1756, measured from the tip of the nose to the end of the shell, six feet nine inches, and the weight was supposed to be nearly 800 pounds. These few examples show us that the turtles rank among the larger inhabitants of the ocean, although they are far from attaining the fabulous proportions assigned to them by Pliny (who makes the Indians use their shells as boats or roofs), or the enormous size of some colossal extinct species, such as the fossil tortoise from the Siwala hills, preserved in the East Indian Museum, which measures twelve feet in length. They live almost constantly at sea, partly on shell-fish, like the fierce Loggerhead turtle (Testudo Caretta), partly on sea-grass, like the Green turtle (T. Midas), and only go on shore during the warmest months of the year, for the purpose of laying their eggs.
"We followed the monotonous sea-coast," says Prince Maximilian of Neuwied, in his interesting "Travels through the Brazils;" "our two soldiers, a Negro and an Indian, frequently stopping to dig turtle-eggs out of the sand, which, boiled in sea-water, used to form our evening repast. Once, while they were busy gathering drift-wood for cooking, we found at a small distance from our fire an enormous turtle busy laying her eggs. We could not possibly have met with anything more agreeable; the creature seemed to have crawled there for the express purpose of providing for our supper. Our presence did not discompose her in the least; she allowed herself to be touched, and even raised from the ground, for which purpose four men were required. During our loud deliberations on her future fate, she gave no other sign of uneasiness than a blowing sound, and continued to work slowly with her hind fins, throwing up the earth at regular intervals.
"One of the soldiers stretched himself out at full length on the ground near the purveyor of our kitchen, inserted his arm into the earth-hole, and threw out the eggs as they were laid by the turtle. In this manner above a hundred were collected in about ten minutes. A council was now held as to the means of adding the beast to our collection, but as it would have required an additional mule for the transport, we gave it its life. These colossal turtles—Midas, Coriacea, and Caretta—especially choose these desert coasts for the laying of their eggs. They emerge from the sea in the dusk of evening, and then crawl back again into the water one or two hours after the setting of the sun. Thus also the friendly turtle, which had so abundantly provided for our wants, disappeared after a short time; we found the large hole filled up, and a broad trace in the sand showed that the animal had again retreated to its favourite element. The Midas is said to lay from ten to twelve dozen, and the Coriacea from eighteen to twenty dozen eggs at once."
The wild sand coast of Bantam (Java) is annually frequented by a large number of turtles. They are often obliged to creep over nearly a quarter of a mile of the beach, before finding at the foot of the sand-dunes a dry and loose soil fit for their purpose; and on this journey, which for them is a very long one, they have many dangers to encounter. Hundreds of their skeletons lie scattered about the strand, many of them five feet long, and three feet broad; some bleached and cleaned by time, others still half filled with putrid intestines, and others, again, quite fresh and bleeding. High in the air a number of birds of prey wheel about, scared by the traveller's approach. Here is the place where the turtles are attacked by the wild dogs. In packs of from twenty to fifty, the growling rabble assails the poor sea-animal at every accessible point, gnaws and tugs at the feet and at the head, and succeeds by united efforts in turning the huge creature upon its back. Then the abdominal scales are torn off, and the ravenous dogs hold a bloody meal on the flesh, intestines, and eggs of their defenceless prey. Sometimes, however, the turtle escapes their rage, and dragging its lacerating tormentors along with it, succeeds in regaining the friendly sea. Nor do the dogs always enjoy an undisturbed repast. Often during the night, the "lord of the wilderness," the royal tiger, bursts out of the forest, pauses for a moment, casts a glance over the strand, approaches slowly, and then with one bound, accompanied by a terrific roar, springs among the dogs, scattering the howling band like chaff before the wind. And now it is the tiger's turn to feast, but even he, though rarely, is sometimes disturbed by man. Thus, on this lonely, melancholy coast, wild dogs and tigers wage an unequal war with the inhabitants of the ocean.
The cold-blooded turtle is obliged to confide the hatching of her eggs to the sun, which generally accomplishes the task in three weeks. On creeping out of the egg, the young, even those of the largest species, are not larger than half-a-crown and of a white colour. Unprotected by a parent's tenderness, the poor little creatures seem only to be born for immediate death. Their first instinctive movements are towards the element for which they are destined; slowly they drag themselves towards the water, but the sea meets them with a rough embrace, and the unmerciful waves generally throw them back again upon the shore. Here they are attacked by great sea-birds, storks and herons, against which, in spite of their smallness, they make feeble efforts of defence, or by still more powerful beasts of prey; and thus the greater part of the unfortunate brood is destroyed at its very first entrance into life; while those which reach the sea, are generally devoured by sharks and other sharp-toothed fishes. It is therefore not in vain that the turtle lays four or five hundred eggs in the course of a single summer, for were she less fruitful, the race would long since have been extinguished.
I need hardly mention, that the flesh of the green turtle is everywhere esteemed as a first-rate delicacy. The king of the Manga Reva Islands in the South Sea keeps them in a pen for the wants of his table; and the London alderman is said to know no greater enjoyment than swallowing a basin of turtle soup. Hence it is no wonder that the mariner, tired of salt-beef and dried peas, persecutes them on all the coasts of the tropical seas, wherever solitude, a flat beach, and a favourable season promise to reward his trouble.
Bernardin de St. Pierre gives us the following picturesque description of turtle-catching on Ascension Island;—"Fire-wood, a kettle, and the great boat-sail were landed, and the sailors lay down to sleep, as the turtles do not emerge from the sea before night-fall. The moon rose above the horizon and illumined the solitude, but her light, which adds new charms to a friendly prospect, rendered this desolate scene more dreary still. We were at the foot of a black hillock, on whose summit mariners had planted a great cross. Before us lay the plain, covered with innumerable blocks of black lava, whose crests, whitened by the drippings of the sea-birds, glistened in the moonbeam. These pallid heads on dark bodies, some of which were upright, and others reclined, appeared to us like phantoms hovering over tombs. The greatest stillness reigned over this desolate earth, interrupted only from time to time by the breaking of a wave, or the shriek of a sea-bird. We went to the great bay to await the arrival of the turtles, and there we lay flat upon the sand in the deepest silence, as the least noise frightens the turtles, and causes them to withdraw. At last we saw three of them rising out of the water, and slowly creeping on shore, like black masses. We immediately ran up to the first, but our impatience caused it to drop immediately again into the sea, where it escaped our pursuit. The second, which had already advanced too far, was unable to retreat; we turned it on its back. In this way we caught about fifty turtles, some of which weighed five hundred pounds. Next morning, at ten, the boat came to fetch the produce of our nocturnal sport. This work occupied us the whole day, and in the evening the superfluous turtles were restored to the sea. If suffered to remain a long time on their back, their eyes become blood-red, and start out of their sockets. We found several on the strand that had been allowed to perish in this position, a cruel negligence, of which thoughtless sailors are but too often guilty."
In the sea, also, the turtles are pursued by man. In the clear West Indian waters, where they are frequently seen at great depths, feeding on the sea-grass meadows, divers plunge after them and raise them to the surface. Sometimes they are harpooned, or even caught sleeping on the waters.
The ancient Romans, who spent such extravagant sums upon dishes repugnant to our taste, seem to have had but little relish for turtle flesh, which otherwise the conquerors of the world might easily have obtained from the Red Sea; for though we read that Vitellius feasted upon the brains of pheasants, and the tongues of nightingales, it is nowhere mentioned, that he ever, like the Lord Mayor of London, set seven hundred tureens of turtle soup before his guests.
On the other hand, they made a very extensive use of tortoise-shell, the produce of the Hawk's-bill turtle (Testudo imbricata) a native both of the American and Asiatic seas, and sometimes, but more rarely, met with in the Mediterranean. The flesh of the animal is not held in any estimation as a food, but the plates of the shell being thicker, stronger, and cleaner than those of any other species, render it of great importance as an article of trade.