SINCE the British mind was all alive and trembling with that zoological fervour which the appearance of the hippopotamus in Regent's Park excited for many months, no animal has touched it to such fine issues and such exuberant enthusiasm as the lovely sea-anemone, now the ornament of countless drawing-rooms, studies, and back parlours, and the delight of unnumbered amateurs. In glass-tanks, and elegant vases of various device, in finger-glasses, and common tumblers, the lovely creature may be seen expanding its coronal of tentacles, on mimic rocks, amid mimic forests of algae, in mimic oceans of pump-water and certain mixtures of chlorides and carbonates, regulated by a "specific gravity test." Fairy fingers minister to its wants, removing dirt and slime from its body, feeding it with bits of limpet or raw beef; fingers, not of fairies, pull it about with the remorseless curiosity of science, and experiment on it, according to the suggestion of the moment. At once pet, ornament, and "subject for dissection," the sea anemone has a well-established popularity in the British family circle; having the advantage over the hippopotamus of being somewhat less expensive, and less troublesome, to keep. Were seacows as plentiful as anemones, one could not make pets of them with the same comfort. There would be objections to Potty in the drawingroom. There would be embarrassments in the commissariat. There would be insurgents among the domestics; for the best tempered Betty might find it impossible "to stand" the presence of such a pet, and resolutely refuse to bring up his water, and clean out his crib; whereas, although the red-armed Betty thinks you a little cracked when you introduce "them worm things" into your house, she keeps her opinions within the circle of the kitchen, and consents to receive her wages with

sioned this sudden enthusiasm for anemones; lovely, indeed, but by no means the most lovely, and certainly not the most interesting wonders of the deep. Mr Gosse by his pleasant books, and Mr Mitchell by his tanks in the Regent's Park Zoological Gardens, have mainly contributed to the diffusion of the enthusiasm ; and now that enterprise has made a commercial branch of it, we may consider the taste established, for at least some years. One good result of this diffusion will be an extension of our knowledge, not only of this, but of many other of the simpler animals. For many years the writings of zoologists have given a place to observations on the anemones; but the observations have been incomplete, and all hand-books and treatises which repeat these observations are, very naturally, crowded with errors. To give the reader an idea of the state of current opinion on this one topic, it is enough to mention that on the second page devoted by Professor Rymer Jones* to a description of the habits of the anemone, there are six distinct errors: yet this is no fault of his; he states what all preceding writers state, and his excellent summary of what is known bears the date of 1855. If the habits have been so imperfectly observed, you may guess what a chaos the anatomy and physiology of this animal present. Such being the state of the case, we may hope that the wide diffusion of a taste for vivaria will in a little while furnish Science with ample material; and meanwhile, as many of Maga's loving readers are possessors of vivaria, actual or potential, and will certainly not content themselves with blank wonderment, but will do their utmost to rightly understand the anemones, even if they make no wider incursions on the domains of the zoologist, I may hope they will be interested if I group together the results of investigations, pursued at Ilfracombe and Tenby during last

summer, and, with less energy, because with less prodigality of specimens, during the autumn and winter at home. In the present state of knowledge, the independent observations of every one who has had any experience cannot but be welcome.

It must be assumed at starting that the reader knows what a Sea Anemone is, in aspect at least. No description will avail, in default of direct observation; even pictures so admirable as those in Mr Tugwell's charming little book,* only give an approximate idea; while to those who have seen neither picture nor animal it will be of little use to declare that the "Actinia is a fleshy cylinder, attached by one extremity to a rock, while the free end is surmounted by numerous tentacula arranged in several rows, which, when expanded, give the animal the appearance of a flower." Assuming then that you know the general aspect of the Actinia, you may follow my description of the animal's bearing and habits. How do I know that it is an animal, and not a flower, which it so much resembles? Well, to be perfectly candid, I do not know it. Nobody does. No one yet has been able to distinguish, in the face of severe critical precision, between the animal and plantorganisation, so as to be able authoritatively to say, "This is exclusively animal." To distinguish a cow from a cucumber requires, indeed, no profound inauguration into biological mysteries; we can "venture fearlessly to assert" (with that utterly uncalledfor temerity exhibited by bad writers in cases when no peril whatever is hanging over the assertion) that the cow and cucumber are not alliedno common parentage links them together, even through remote relationship; but to say what is an animal, presupposes a knowledge of what is essentially and exclusively animal; and this knowledge unhappily has never yet been reached. Much hot, and not wise, discussion has occupied the hours of philosophers in trying to map out the distinct con

fines of the animal and vegetable kingdoms, when all the while Nature knows of no such demarcating lines.

The Animal does not exist; nor does the Vegetable: both are abstractions, general terms, such as Virtue, Goodness, Colour, used to designate certain groups of particulars, but having only a mental existence. Who has been fortunate enough to see the Animal? We have seen cows, cats, jackasses, and camelopards; but the "rare monster" Animal is visible in no menagerie. If you are tempted to call this metaphysical trifling, I beg you to read the discussions published on the vegetable or animal nature of Diatomaceæ, Volvocinæ, &c., or to attend to what is said in any text-book on the distinctions between animals and vegetables, and you will then see there is something more than metaphysics in my paradox. In the simpler organisms there is no mark which can absolutely distinguish the animal from the vegetable; and if in the higher organisms a greater amount of characteristic differences may be traced, so that we may, for purposes of convenience, consider a certain group of indications as entitling the object to be classed under the Animal division, we must never forget that such classifications are purely arbitrary, and as the philosophers say-subjective.

Now what are the characteristic marks of the Sea Anemone, which entitle it to be removed from the hands of the botanist, and placed in those of the zoologist? Rymer Jones assures us, that its animal nature "is soon rendered evident," and he thinks this evidence is the manifestation of sensibility. "A cloud veiling the sun will cause their tentacles to fold as though apprehensive of danger from the passing shadows." Unhappily, the fact alleged is a pure fiction; and, were it true, would not distinguish the Actiniæ from those plants which close their petals when the sun goes down. A fiction, however, it is, as any one may verify. If Actinia have been seen to fold up their tentacles when a cloud has

passed before the sun, this has been a coincidence, not a causal relation; so far from light being the necessary condition of their expansion, they are in perfect expansion in the darkness; and if the venturous naturalist will imitate Mr Tugwell, and, with the solemn chimes of midnight as accompaniment, take his lantern on the rocks, he will find all the Anemones in full blossom. Then again, although the Anemone entraps its prey, or anything else that may come in contact with its tentacles, this is no proof of animality, for the sensitive plant, known as the Flytrap of Venus Dionaea muscipula), has a precisely analogous power; any insect, touching the sensitive hairs on the surface of its leaf, instantly causes the leaf to shut up and enclose the insect, as in a trap; nor is this all: a mucilaginous secretion acts like a gastric juice on the captive, digests it, and renders it assimilable by the plant, which thus feeds on the victim, as the Actinia feeds on the annelid or crustacean it may entrap. Where, then, is the difference? Neither seeks its food place the food within a line's breadth of the tentacles, or sensitive hairs, and so long as actual contact is avoided, the grasping of the food will not take place. But you object, perhaps, that this mode of feeding is normal with the Actinia, exceptional with the Flytrap. The plant, you say, is nourished by the earth and air, the animal depends on what it can secure. I must contradict you; indeed I must, although with the profoundest respect. For granting what, in fact, I sturdily dispute that the Flytrap is in no way dependent upon such insect food as may fall into its clutch, we shall still observe the Actinia in similar independence. Keep the water free from all visible food, and the Actinia continue to flourish and propagate just as if they daily clutched an unhappy worm. The fact is well known, and is currently, but erroneously, adduced as illustration of the animal's power of fasting. But there is no fasting in the matter. In this water free from visible aliment there is abundance of invisible aliment,infusoria, spores, organic particles, &c. which the animal assimilates,

much in the same way as plants assimilate the organic material diffused through the soil and atmosphere. Filter the water carefully, and remove from it all growing vegetation, and you will find the animal fasting, but speedily dying, however freely oxygen may be supplied. It is on this account that when we make artificial sea-water, it is necessary to allow algae to grow in it for some two or three weeks before putting in the animals; by which time the water has become charged with organic material.

Mere sensibility and capture of food, therefore, are not the distinguishing marks we seek, since the plant is found to possess them as perfectly as the animal. Is spontaneous locomotion a sufficient mark? No; and for these two reasons : Some animals have no such power; some plants, and all spores, have it. There are animals which no botanist has ever claimed the Ascidians, for example, which can scarcely be said to exhibit any motion at all (the rhythmic contraction and expansion of their orifices not deserving the name), while their whole lives are spent rooted to the rock or shell, as firmly as the plant is rooted in the earth. Nay, even with regard to the anemones, it is said by Dr Landsborough, Dr Carpenter, and others, that they will not move towards the water, should the vessel be gradually emptied, or the water evaporate, not even if their tentacles can reach its surface. This is incorrect; but I mention it as one of the difficulties which would meet the student in the way of distinguishing the anemone from plants. It is one of the many inaccurate statements, grounded on imperfect observation, which are repeated in hand-books. The original observer probably noticed an anemone some time out of the water, making no effort to return; had the observation been continued, the doubt would have been solved. Some anemones, especially the common smooth species (Mesembryanthemum) are accustomed daily to be left out of water by the receding tide, so that in captivity they may be supposed rather to enjoy an occasional air-bath. I have repeatedly

mine crawl out of the water

and settle on the edge of the glass or pan, high and dry; but they descended again after a few hours. The locomotion of the anemones is, however, various in various species. I do not think the "Trogs" ever move; nor do the "Gems seem migratory; but the "Antheas" and the "Smooths" are somewhat restless. "The Actiniæ," says Rymer Jones, "possess the power of changing their position; they often elongate their bodies, and, remaining fixed by the base, stretch from side to side, as if seeking food at a distance; they can even change their place by gliding upon the disc that supports them, or detaching themselves entirely, and swelling themselves with water, they become nearly of the same specific gravity as the element they inhabit, and the least agitation is sufficient to drive them elsewhere. Reaumur even asserts, that they can turn themselves so as to use their tentacles as feet, crawling upon the bottom of the sea; but this mode of progression has not been observed by subsequent naturalists." Yes, Dr Johnston once saw it; I also witnessed an Anthea moving thus; but I suspect it is only the Anthea which has the power, and this it probably owes to its more solid tentacles.

Again the question recurs, How then do we know the anemone to be an animal? in other words, what characteristic marks guide zoologists in classing it in that division? I really know of none but purely anatomical marks. These however, suffice, and if you please we will continue to speak of the anemone as an animal, and, what is more, a very carnivorous animal, eating most things that come within reach, from limpets to worms, from fish to roast beef. It has even a reputation for voracity,

not to say gourmandise; in the matter of shell-fish it would put even Dando to the blush. Dr Johnston in his valuable History of British Zoophytes relates this anecdote (which you are not bound to believe) : "I had once brought to me a specimen of Actinia crassicornis that might originally have been two inches in diameter, and that had somehow contrived to swallow a valve of Pecten maximus of the size of an ordinary saucer. The shell fixed within the stomach was so placed as to divide it completely into two halves, so that the body stretched tensely over had become thin and flattened like a pancake. All communication between the inferior portion of the stomach and the mouth was of course prevented; yet instead of emaciating and dying of an atrophy, the animal had availed itself of what had undoubtedly been a very untoward accident, to increase its enjoyments and its chance of double fare. A new mouth furnished with two rows of numerous tentacles was opened upon what had been the base, and led to the under stomachthe individual had become a sort of Siamese Twin, but with greater intimacy and extent in its unions." Such is the blind voracity of this animal, that anything and everything is carried straightway into its stomach to be there tried, and rejected only on proved indigestibility. One day, while sorting and distributing to their respective jars the animals captured during the morning's hunt, I was called into the balcony by the agitated entreaties of lovely Sixteen, exclaiming, "Oh, do come, Mr Contributor! do come, and rescue this green anemone from a great nasty beetle." I went to the rescue, and found a large beetle struggling in the clutches of a green

Anthea not much larger than himself. The beetle is the victim," I quietly told Sixteen, who, not having profound sympathies with beetles, was pacified as she saw the struggling insect slowly passing into the stomach of the Anthea, his struggles growing fainter and fainter, and finally ceasing altogether, till at last we saw him with head and thorax engulfed in the ravenous maw, his abdomen sticking up in the air.

A question of great interest and some intricacy here presents itself: Was the beetle paralysed by some peculiar poison secreted from the tentacles of the anemone ?-a question which opens into this wider one Have the polypes the mysterious power, almost universally attributed to them, of paralysing with a touch the victims they may grasp, so that, should the victim escape from the grasp, it is only to die presently from the fatal touch? The powers of fascination possessed by some animals, of poisoning possessed by others, of electrical discharges possessed by others, naturally lead men to interpret certain observations made on the polypes, as proofs that they, too, possess some such power; and this suggestion gains a more ready credence from the tendency in most minds to welcome every unexplained phenomenon as indicating an occult cause. This witch-like power of fascination, this power of paralysing with a touch, appeals to our imagination, and gains easy access to belief. But the spirit of scientific scepticism forces me to declare that, as far as my observations and experiments extend, there is nothing like evidence in favour of this power, much evidence against it. Some anemones certainly appear to sting-as some jelly-fish sting-although the majority have no such effect upon our hands, which every one knows who has handled them. I never perceived this stinging sensation myself; and Dr Landsborough says: "From my own experience I can say nothing as to this stinging power; for though I have handled not only the commoner Actiniæ, but also the larger and less common Anthea, I never felt any

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thing approaching to stinging; but I never touched a tentaculum without perceiving the tip of it had some prehensile property by which it took a slight hold of the skin of the finger, causing a kind of rasping feeling when withdrawn. It may be, however, that the fangs had not fair play with my fingers, if somehow or other they are sting-proof." He then makes the following quotation from Mrs Pratt's Chapters on the Common Things of the Sea-side, which I reproduce as positive and direct testimony: "It appears that different persons are variously affected even by touching the same Actiniæ. The author had placed in a vessel of sea-water a fine specimen of the fig marygold seaanemone, which she was accustomed to touch many times during the day. The tentacula closed immediately round the intruding finger, producing only a slight tingling. Her surprise was great at finding that the same anemone, on being touched by another person, communicated a more powerful sensation, which her friend assured her was felt up the whole of the arm. More than twenty persons touched this anemone; and the writer was amused by observing how variously they were affected, some being only slightly tingled, while others started back as if stung by a nettle." I think, in the face of testimony so precise as this, we may waive all negative evidence, and accept the fact of stinging as proven. But now comes the question: Is this stinging produced by poison vesicles and spicula, as the great majority of writers maintain; or is it no more poisonous than the pricking of a thorn? Those who maintain the former opinion, explain by it the alleged cases of paralysis exhibited by the animals which have escaped in the struggle; and the incident just related of the beetle killed, but not swallowed (he was too large for that), seems entirely to favour such a conclusion. Nevertheless, from subsequent investigations I am led to oppose the opinion in toto. Sir John Dalyell-one of the best authorities-thinks that the anemone conquers its prey by mere strength,