Part 15

We must take into account the circumstance that the wave which reached Hawaii in May, 1876, was probably reflected from the Californian coast, when we endeavour to determine the rate at which the sea disturbance was propagated across the Atlantic. The direct wave would have come sooner, and may have escaped notice because arriving in the night-time, as it would necessarily have done if a wave which travelled to California, and thence, after reflection, to the Sandwich group arrived there at a quarter before five in the morning following the Peruvian earthquake. We shall be better able to form an opinion on this point after considering what happened in August, 1868.

The earth-throe on that occasion was felt in Peru about five minutes past five on the evening of August 13. Twelve hours later, or shortly before midnight, August 13, Sandwich Island time (corresponding to 5 p.m., August 14, Peruvian time), the sea round the group of the Sandwich Isles rose in a surprising manner, “insomuch that many thought the islands were sinking, and would shortly subside altogether beneath the waves. Some of the smaller islands were for a time completely submerged. Before long, however, the sea fell again, and as it did so the observers found it impossible to resist the impression that the islands were rising bodily out of the water. For no less than three days this strange oscillation of the sea continued to be experienced, the most remarkable ebbs and floods being noticed at Honolulu, on the island of Woahoo.”

The distance between Honolulu and Arica is about 6300 statute miles; so that, if the wave travelled directly from the shores of Peru to the Sandwich Isles, it must have advanced at an average rate of about 525 miles an hour (about 450 knots an hour). This is nearly half the rate at which the earth’s surface near the equator is carried round by the earth’s rotation, or is about the rate at which parts in latitude 62 or 63 degrees north are carried round by rotation; so that the motion of the great wave in 1868 was fairly comparable with one of the movements which we are accustomed to regard as cosmical. I shall presently have something more to say on this point.

Now in May, 1876, as we have seen, the wave reached Hawaii at about a quarter to five in the morning, corresponding to about ten, Peruvian time. Since, then, the earthquake was felt in Peru at half-past eight on the previous evening, it follows that the wave, if it travelled directly from Peru, must have taken about 13½ hours—or an hour and a half longer, in travelling from Peru to the Sandwich Isles, than it took in August, 1868. This is unlikely, because ocean-waves travel nearly at the same rate in the same parts of the ocean, whatever their dimensions, so only that they are large. We have, then, in the difference of time occupied by the wave in May, 1876, and in August, 1868, in reaching Hawaii, some confirmation of the result to which we were led by the arrival of the wave simultaneously at all the islands of the Sandwich group—the inference, namely, that the observed wave had reached these islands after reflection from the Californian shore-line. As the hour when the direct wave probably reached Hawaii was about a quarter past three in the morning, when not only was it night-time but also a time when few would be awake to notice the rise and fall of the sea, it seems not at all improbable that the direct wave escaped notice, and that the wave actually observed was the reflected wave from California. The direction, also, in which the oscillation was first observed corresponds well with this explanation.

It is clear that the wave which traversed the Pacific in May, 1876, was somewhat inferior in size to that of August, 1868, which therefore still deserves to be called (as I then called it) the greatest sea-wave ever known. The earthquake, indeed, which preceded the oceanic disturbance of 1868 was far more destructive than that of May, 1876, and the waves which came in upon the Peruvian and Bolivian shores were larger. Nevertheless, the wave of May, 1876, was not so far inferior to that of August, 1868, but that its course could be traced athwart the entire extent of the Pacific Ocean.

When we consider the characteristic features of the Peruvian and Chilian earthquakes, and especially when we note how wide is the extent of the region over which their action is felt in one way or another, it can scarcely be doubted that the earth’s Vulcanian energies are at present more actively at work throughout that region than in any other. There is nothing so remarkable, one may even say so stupendous, in the history of subterranean disturbance as the alternation of mighty earth-throes by which, at one time, the whole of the Chilian Andes seem disturbed and anon the whole of the Peruvian Andes. In Chili scarcely a year ever passes without earthquakes, and the same may be said of Peru; but so far as great earthquakes are concerned the activity of the Peruvian region seems to synchronize with the comparative quiescence of the Chilian region, and vice versâ. Thus, in 1797, the terrible earthquake occurred which is known as the earthquake of Riobamba, which affected the entire Peruvian earthquake region. Thirty years later a series of tremendous throes shook the whole of Chili, permanently elevating its long line of coast to the height of several feet. During the last twelve years the Peruvian region has in turn been disturbed by great earthquakes. It should be added that between Chili and Peru there is a region about five hundred miles in length in which scarcely any volcanic action has been observed. And singularly enough, “this very portion of the Andes, to which one would imagine that the Peruvians and Chilians would fly as to a region of safety, is the part most thinly inhabited; insomuch that, as Von Buch observes, it is in some places entirely deserted.”

One can readily understand that this enormous double region of earthquakes, whose oscillations on either side of the central region of comparative rest may be compared to the swaying of a mighty see-saw on either side of its point of support, should be capable of giving birth to throes propelling sea-waves across the Pacific Ocean. The throe actually experienced at any given place is relatively but an insignificant phenomenon: it is the disturbance of the entire region over which the throe is felt which must be considered in attempting to estimate the energy of the disturbing cause. The region shaken by the earthquake of 1868, for instance, was equal to at least a fourth of Europe, and probably to fully one-half. From Quito southwards as far as Iquique—or along a full third part of the length of the South American Andes—the shock produced destructive effects. It was also distinctly felt far to the north of Quito, far to the south of Iquique, and inland to enormous distances. The disturbing forces which thus shook 1,000,000 square miles of the earth’s surface must have been of almost inconceivable energy. If directed entirely to the upheaval of a land region no larger than England, those forces would have sufficed to have destroyed utterly every city, town, and village within such a region; if directed entirely to the upheaval of an oceanic region, they would have been capable of raising a wave which would have been felt on every shore-line of the whole earth. Divided even between the ocean on the one side and a land region larger than Russia in Europe on the other, those Vulcanian forces shook the whole of the land region, and sent athwart the largest of our earth’s oceans a wave which ran in upon shores 10,000 miles from the centre of disturbance with a crest thirty feet high. Forces such as these may fairly be regarded as cosmical; they show unmistakably that the earth has by no means settled down into that condition of repose in which some geologists still believe. We may ask with the late Sir Charles Lyell whether, after contemplating the tremendous energy thus displayed by the earth, any geologist will continue to assert that the changes of relative level of land and sea, so common in former ages of the world, have now ceased? and agree with him that if, in the face of such evidence, a geologist persists in maintaining this favourite dogma, it would be vain to hope, by accumulating proofs of similar convulsions during a series of ages, to shake the tenacity of his conviction—

“Si fractus illabatur orbis, Impavidum ferient ruinæ.”

But there is one aspect in which such mighty sea-waves as, in 1868 and again in May, 1876, have swept over the surface of our terrestrial oceans, remains yet to be considered.

The oceans and continents of our earth must be clearly discernible from her nearer neighbours among the planets—from Venus and Mercury on the inner side of her path around the sun, and from Mars (though under less favourable conditions) from the outer side. When we consider, indeed, that the lands and seas of Mars can be clearly discerned with telescopic aid from our earth at a distance of forty millions of miles, we perceive that our earth, seen from Venus at little more than half this distance, must present a very interesting appearance. Enlarged, owing to greater proximity, nearly fourfold, having a diameter nearly twice as great as that of Mars, so that at the same distance her disc would seem more than three times as large, more brightly illuminated by the sun in the proportion of about five to two, she would shine with a lustre exceeding that of Mars, when in full brightness in the midnight sky, about thirty times; and all her features would of course be seen with correspondingly increased distinctness. Moreover, the oceans of our earth are so much larger in relative extent than those of Mars, covering nearly three-fourths instead of barely one-half of the surface of the world they belong to, that they would appeal as far more marked and characteristic features than the seas and lakes of Mars. When the Pacific Ocean, indeed, occupies centrally the disc of the earth which at the moment is turned towards any planet, nearly the whole of that disc must appear to be covered by the ocean. Under such circumstances the passage of a wide-spreading series of waves over the Pacific, at the rate of about 500 miles an hour, is a phenomenon which could scarcely fail to be discernible from Venus or Mercury, if either planet chanced to be favourably placed for the observation of the earth—always supposing there were observers in Mercury or Venus, and that these observers were provided with powerful telescopes.

It must be remembered that the waves which spread over the Pacific on August 13–14, 1868, and again on May 9–10, 1876, were not only of enormous range in length (measured along crest or trough), but also of enormous breadth (measured from crest to crest, or from trough to trough). Were it otherwise, indeed, the progress of a wave forty or fifty feet high (at starting, and thirty-five feet high after travelling 6000 miles), at the rate of 500 miles per hour, must have proved destructive to ships in the open ocean as well as along the shore-line. Suppose, for instance, the breadth of the wave from crest to crest one mile, then, in passing under a ship at the rate of 500 miles per hour, the wave would raise the ship from trough to crest—that is, through a height of forty feet—in one-thousandth part of an hour (for the distance from trough to crest is but half the breadth of the wave), or in less than four seconds, lowering it again in the same short interval of time, lifting and lowering it at the same rate several successive times. The velocity with which the ship would travel upwards and downwards would be greatest when she was midway in her ascent and descent, and would then be equal to about the velocity with which a body strikes the ground after falling from a height of four yards. It is hardly necessary to say that small vessels subjected to such tossing as this would inevitably be swamped. On even the largest ships the effect of such motion would be most unpleasantly obvious. Now, as a matter of fact, the passage of the great sea-wave in 1868 was not noticed at all on board ships in open sea. Even within sight of the shore of Peru, where the oscillation of the sea was most marked, the motion was such that its effects were referred to the shore. We are told that observers on the deck of a United States’ war steamer distinctly saw the “peaks of the mountains in the chain of the Cordilleras wave to and fro like reeds in a storm;” the fact really being that the deck on which they stood was swayed to and fro. This, too, was in a part of the sea where the great wave had not attained its open sea form, but was a rolling wave, because of the shallowness of the water. In the open sea, we read that the passage of the great sea-wave was no more noticed than is the passage of the tidal-wave itself. “Among the hundreds of ships which were sailing upon the Pacific when its length and breadth were traversed by the great sea-wave, there was not one in which any unusual motion was perceived.” The inference is clear, that the slope of the advancing and following faces of the great wave was very much less than in the case above imagined; in other words, that the breadth of the wave greatly exceeded one mile—amounting, in fact, to many miles.

Where the interval between the passage of successive wave-crests was noted, we can tell the actual breadth of the wave. Thus, at the Samoan Isles, in 1868, the crests succeeded each other at intervals of sixteen minutes, corresponding to eight minutes between crest and trough. But we have seen, that if the waves were one mile in breadth, the corresponding interval would be only four seconds, or only one 120th part of eight minutes: it follows, then, that the breadth of the great wave, where it reached the Samoan Isles in 1868, was about 120 miles.

Now a wave extending right athwart the Pacific Ocean, and having a cross breadth of more than 120 miles, would be discernible as a marked feature of the disc of our earth, seen under the conditions described above, either from Mercury or Venus. It is true that the slope of the wave’s advancing and following surfaces would be but slight, yet the difference of the illumination under the sun’s rays would be recognizable. Then, also, it is to be remembered that there was not merely a single wave, but a succession of many waves. These travelled also with enormous velocity; and though at the distance of even the nearest planet, the apparent motion of the great wave, swift though it was in reality, would be so far reduced that it would have to be estimated rather than actually seen, yet there would be no difficulty in thus perceiving it with the mind’s eye. The rate of motion indeed would almost be exactly the same as that of the equatorial part of the surface of Mars, in consequence of the planet’s rotation; and this (as is well known to telescopists), though not discernible directly, produces, even in a few minutes, changes which a good eye can clearly recognize. We can scarcely doubt then that if our earth were so situated at any time when one of the great waves generated by Peruvian earthquakes in traversing the Pacific, that the hemisphere containing this ocean were turned fully illuminated towards Venus (favourably placed for observing her), the disturbance of the Pacific could be observed and measured by telescopists on that planet.

Unfortunately there is little chance that terrestrial observers will ever be able to watch the progress of great waves athwart the oceans of Mars, and still less that any disturbance of the frame of Venus should become discernible to us by its effects. We can scarce even be assured that there are lands and seas on Venus, so far as direct observation is concerned, so unfavourably is she always placed for observation; and though we see Mars under much more favourable conditions, his seas are too small and would seem to be too shallow (compared with our own) for great waves to traverse them such as could be discerned from the earth.

Yet it is well to remember the possibility that changes may at times take place in the nearer planets—the terrestrial planets, as they are commonly called, Mars, Venus, and Mercury—such as telescopic observation under favourable conditions might detect. Telescopists have, indeed, described apparent changes, lasting only for a short time, in the appearance of one of these planets, Mars, which may fairly be attributed to disturbances affecting its surface in no greater degree than the great Peruvian earthquakes have affected for a time the surface of our earth. For instance, the American astronomer Mitchel says that on the night of July 12, 1845, bright polar snows of Mars exhibited an appearance never noticed at any preceding or succeeding observation. In the very centre of the white surface appeared a dark spot, which retained its position during several hours: on the following evening not a trace of the spot could be seen. Again the same observer says that on the evening of August 30, 1845, he observed for the first time a small bright spot, nearly or quite round, projecting out of the lower side of the polar spot. “In the early part of the evening,” he says, “the small bright spot seemed to be partly buried in the large one. After the lapse of an hour or more my attention was again directed to the planet, when I was astonished to find a manifest change in the position of the small bright spot. It had apparently separated from the large spot, and the edges alone of the two were now in contact, whereas when first seen they overlapped by an amount quite equal to one-third of the diameter of the small one. This, however, was merely an optical phenomenon, for on the next evening the spots went through the same apparent changes as the planet went through the corresponding part of its rotation. But it showed the spots to be real ice masses. The strange part of the story is that in the course of a few days the smaller spot, which must have been a mass of snow and ice as large as Novaia Zemlia, gradually disappeared. Probably some great shock had separated an enormous field of ice from the polar snows, and it had eventually been broken up and its fragments carried away from the Arctic regions by currents in the Martian oceans. It appears to me that the study of our own earth, and of the changes and occasional convulsions which affect its surface, gives to the observation of such phenomena as I have just described a new interest. Or rather, perhaps, it is not too much to say that the telescopic observations of the planets derive their only real interest from such considerations.

I may note in conclusion, that while on the one hand we cannot doubt that the earth is slowly parting with its internal heat, and thus losing century by century a portion of its Vulcanian energy, such phenomena as the Peruvian earthquakes show that the loss of energy is taking place so slowly that the diminution during many ages is almost imperceptible. As I have elsewhere remarked, “When we see that while mountain ranges were being upheaved or valleys depressed to their present position, race after race and type after type lived out on the earth the long lives which belong to races and to types, we recognize the great work which the earth’s subterranean forces are still engaged upon. Even now continents are being slowly depressed or upheaved, even now mountain ranges are being raised to a different level, table-lands are being formed, great valleys are being gradually scooped out; old shore-lines shift their place, old soundings vary; the sea advances in one place and retires in another; on every side nature’s plastic hand is still at work, modelling and remodelling the earth, and making it constantly a fit abode for those who dwell upon it.”

STRANGE SEA CREATURES.

“We ought to make up our minds to dismiss as idle prejudices, or, at least, suspend as premature, any preconceived notion of what might, or what ought to, be the order of nature, and content ourselves with observing, as a plain matter of fact, what is.”—Sir J. HERSCHEL, “Prelim. Disc.” page 79.

The fancies of men have peopled three of the four so-called elements, earth, air, water, and fire, with strange forms of life, and have even found in the salamander an inhabitant for the fourth. On land the centaur and the unicorn, in the air the dragon and the roc, in the water tritons and mermaids, may be named as instances among many of the fabulous creatures which have been not only imagined but believed in by men of old times. Although it may be doubted whether men have ever invented any absolutely imaginary forms of life, yet the possibility of combining known forms into imaginary, and even impossible, forms, must be admitted as an important element in any inquiry into the origin of ideas respecting such creatures as I have named. One need only look through an illuminated manuscript of the Middle Ages to recognize the readiness with which imaginary creatures can be formed by combining, or by exaggerating, the characteristics of known animals. Probably the combined knowledge and genius of all the greatest zoologists of our time would not suffice for the invention of an entirely new form of animal which yet should be zoologically possible; but to combine the qualities of several existent animals in a single one, or to conceive an animal with some peculiarity abnormally developed, is within the capacity of persons very little acquainted with zoology, nay, is perhaps far easier to such persons than it would be to an Owen, a Huxley, or a Darwin. In nearly every case, however, the purely imaginary being is to be recognized by the utter impossibility of its actual existence. If it be a winged man, arms and wings are both provided, but the pectoral muscles are left unchanged. A winged horse, in like manner, is provided with wings, without any means of working them. A centaur, as in the noble sculptures of Phidias, has the upper part of the trunk of a man superadded, not to the hind quarters of a horse or other quadruped, but to the entire trunk of such an animal, so that the abdomen of the human figure lies between the upper half of the human trunk and the corresponding part of the horse’s trunk, an arrangement anatomically preposterous. Without saying that every fabulous animal which was anatomically and zoologically possible, had a real antitype, exaggerated though the fabulous form may have been, we must yet admit that errors so gross marked the conception of all the really imaginary animals of antiquity, that any fabulous animal found to accord fairly well with zoological possibilities may be regarded, with extreme probability, as simply the exaggerated presentation of some really existent animal. The inventors of centaurs, winged and man-faced bulls, many-headed dogs, harpies, and so forth, were utterly unable to invent a possible new animal, save by the merest chance, the probability of which was so small that it may fairly be disregarded.

This view of the so-called fabulous animals of antiquity has been confirmed by the results of modern zoological research. The merman, zoologically possible (not in all details, of course, but generally), has found its antitype in the dugong and the manatee; the roc in the condor, or perhaps in those extinct species whose bones attest their monstrous proportions; the unicorn in the rhinoceros; even the dragon in the pterodactyl of the green-sand; while the centaur, the minotaur, the winged horse, and so forth, have become recognized as purely imaginary creatures, which had their origin simply in the fanciful combination of known forms, no existent creatures having even suggested these monstrosities.

It is not to be wondered at that the sea should have been more prolific in monstrosities and in forms whose real nature has been misunderstood. Land animals cannot long escape close observation. Even the most powerful and ferocious beasts must succumb in the long run to man, and in former ages, when the struggle was still undecided between some race of animals and savage man, individual specimens of the race must often have been killed, and the true appearance of the animal determined. Powerful winged animals might for a longer time remain comparatively mysterious creatures even to those whom they attacked, or whose flocks they ravaged. A mighty bird, or a pterodactylian creature (a late survivor of a race then fast dying out), might swoop down on his prey and disappear with it too swiftly to be made the subject of close scrutiny, still less of exact scientific observation. Yet the general characteristics even of such creatures would before long be known. From time to time the strange winged monster would be seen hovering over the places where his prey was to be found. Occasionally it would be possible to pierce one of the race with an arrow or a javelin; and thus, even in those remote periods when the savage progenitors of the present races of man had to carry on a difficult contest with animals now extinct or greatly reduced in power, it would become possible to determine accurately the nature of the winged enemy. But with sea creatures, monstrous, or otherwise, the case would be very different. To this day we remain ignorant of much that is hidden beneath the waves of the “hollow-sounding and mysterious main.” Of far the greater number of sea creatures, it may truly be said that we never see any specimens except by accident, and never obtain the body of any except by very rare accident. Those creatures of the deep sea which we are best acquainted with, are either those which are at once very numerous and very useful as food or in some other way, or else those which are very rapacious and thus expose themselves, by their attacks on men, to counter-attack and capture or destruction. In remote times, when men were less able to traverse the wide seas, when, on the one hand, attacks from great sea creatures were more apt to be successful, while, on the other, counter-attack was much more dangerous, still less would be known about the monsters of the deep. Seen only for a few moments as he seized his prey, and then sinking back into the depths, a sea monster would probably remain a mystery even to those who had witnessed his attack, while their imperfect account of what they had seen would be modified at each repetition of the story, until there would remain little by which the creature could be identified, even if at some subsequent period its true nature were recognized. We can readily understand, then, that among the fabulous creatures of antiquity, even of those which represented actually existent races incorrectly described, the most remarkable, and those zoologically the least intelligible, would be the monsters of the deep sea. We can also understand that even the accounts which originally corresponded best with the truth would have undergone modifications much more noteworthy than those affecting descriptions of land animals or winged creatures—simply because there would be small chance of any errors thus introduced being corrected by the study of freshly discovered specimens.

We may, perhaps, explain in this way the strange account given by Berosus of the creature which came up from the Red Sea, having the body of a fish but the front and head of a man. We may well believe that this animal was no other than a dugong, or halicore (a word signifying sea-maiden), a creature inhabiting the Indian Ocean to this day, and which might readily find its way into the Red Sea. But the account of the creature has been strangely altered from the original narrative, if at least the original narrative was correct. For, according to Berosus, the animal had two human feet which projected from each side of the tail; and, still stranger, it had a human voice and human language. “This strange monster sojourned among the rude people during the day, taking no food, but retiring to the sea again at night, and continued for some time teaching them the arts of civilized life.” A picture of this stranger is said to have been preserved at Babylon for many centuries. With a probable substratum of truth, the story in its latest form is as fabulous as Autolycus’s “ballad of a fish that appeared upon the coast, on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathoms above water, and sang a ballad against the hard hearts of maids.”

It is singular, by the way, how commonly the power of speech, or at least of producing sounds resembling speech or musical notes, was attributed to the creature which imagination converted into a man-fish or woman-fish. Dugongs and manatees make a kind of lowing noise, which could scarcely be mistaken under ordinary conditions for the sound of the human voice. Yet, not only is this peculiarity ascribed to the mermaid and siren (the merman and triton having even the supposed power of blowing on conch-shells), but in more recent accounts of encounters with creatures presumably of the seal tribe and allied races, the same feature is to be noticed. The following account, quoted by Mr. Gosse from a narrative by Captain Weddell, the well-known geographer, is interesting for this reason amongst others. It also illustrates well the mixture of erroneous details (the offspring, doubtless, of an excited imagination) with the correct description of a sea creature actually seen:—“A boat’s crew were employed on Hall’s Island, when one of the crew, left to take care of some produce, saw an animal whose voice was musical. The sailor had lain down, and at ten o’clock he heard a noise resembling human cries, and as daylight in these latitudes never disappears at this season” (the Antarctic summer), “he rose and looked around, but, on seeing no person, returned to bed. Presently he heard the noise again; he rose a second time, but still saw nothing. Conceiving, however, the possibility of a boat being upset, and that some of the crew might be clinging to detached rocks, he walked along the beach a few steps and heard the noise more distinctly but in a musical strain. Upon searching around, he saw an object lying on a rock a dozen yards from the shore, at which he was somewhat frightened. The face and shoulders appeared of human form and of a reddish colour; over the shoulders hung long green hair; the tail resembled that of the seal, but the extremities of the arms he could not see distinctly. The creature continued to make a musical noise while he gazed about two minutes, and on perceiving him it disappeared in an instant. Immediately, when the man saw his officer, he told this wild tale, and to add weight to his testimony (being a Romanist) he made a cross on the sand, which he kissed, as making oath to the truth of his statement. When I saw him he told the story in so clear and positive a manner, making oath to its truth, that I concluded he must really have seen the animal he described, or that it must have been the effects of a disturbed imagination.”

In this story all is consistent with the belief that the sailor saw an animal belonging to the seal family (of a species unknown to him), except the green hair. But the hour was not very favourable to the discerning of colour, though daylight had not quite passed away, and as Gosse points out, since golden-yellow fur and black fur are found among Antarctic seals, the colours may be intermingled in some individuals, producing an olive-green tint, which, by contrast with the reddish skin, might be mistaken for a full green. Considering that the man had been roused from sleep and was somewhat frightened, he would not be likely to make very exact observations. It will be noticed that it was only at first that he mistook the sounds made by the creature for human cries; afterwards he heard only the same noise, but in a musical strain. Now with regard to the musical sounds said to have been uttered by this creature, and commonly attributed to creatures belonging to families closely allied to the seals, I do not know that any attempt has yet been made to show that these families possess the power of emitting sounds which can properly be described as musical. It is quite possible that the Romanist sailor’s ears were not very nice, and that any sound softer than a bellow seemed musical to him. Still, the idea suggests itself that possibly seals, like some other animals, possess a note not commonly used, but only as a signal to their mates, and never uttered when men or other animals are known to be near. It appears to me that this is rendered probable by the circumstance that seals are fond of music. Darwin refers to this in his treatise on Sexual Selection (published with his “Descent of Man”), and quotes a statement to the effect that the fondness of seals for music “was well known to the ancients, and is often taken advantage of by hunters to the present day.” The significance of this will be understood from Darwin’s remark immediately following, that “with all these animals, the males of which during the season of courtship incessantly produce musical notes or mere rhythmical sounds, we must believe that the females are able to appreciate them.”

The remark about the creature’s arms seems strongly to favour the belief that the sailor intended his narrative to be strictly truthful. Had he wished to excite the interest of his comrades by a marvellous story, he certainly would have described the creature as having well-developed human hands.

Less trustworthy by far seem some of the stories which have been told of animals resembling the mermaid of antiquity. It must always be remembered, however, that in all probability we know very few among the species of seals and allied races, and that some of these species may present, in certain respects and perhaps at a certain age, much closer resemblance to the human form than the sea-lion, seal, manatee, or dugong.

We cannot, for instance, attach much weight to the following story related by Hudson, the famous navigator:—“One of our company, looking overboard, saw a mermaid and calling up some of the company to see her, one more came up, and by that time she was come close to the ship’s side, looking earnestly on the men. A little after a sea came and overturned her. From the navel upward her back and breasts were like a woman’s, as they say that saw her; her body as big as one of us; her skin very white; and long hair hanging down behind, of colour black. In her going down they saw her tail, which was like the tail of a porpoise and speckled like a mackerel.” If Hudson himself had seen and thus described the creature it would have been possible to regard the story with some degree of credence; but his account of what Thomas Hilles and Robert Rayner, men about whose character for veracity we know nothing, said they saw, is of little weight. The skin very white, and long hair hanging down behind, are especially suspicious features of the narrative; and were probably introduced to dispose of the idea, which others of the crew may have advanced, that the creature was only some kind of seal after all. The female seal (Phoca Greenlandica is the pretty name of the animal) is not, however, like the male, tawny grey, but dusky white, or yellowish straw-colour, with a tawny tint on the back. The young alone could be called “very white.” They are so white in fact as scarcely to be distinguishable when lying on ice and snow, a circumstance which, as Darwin considers, serves as a protection for these little fellows.

The following story, quoted by Gosse from Dr. Robert Hamilton’s able “History of the Whales and Seals,” compares favourably in some respects with the last narrative:—“It was reported that a fishing-boat off the island of Yell, one of the Shetland group, had captured a mermaid by its getting entangled in the lines! The statement is, that the animal is about three feet long, the upper part of the body resembling the human, with protuberant mammæ like a woman; the face, the forehead, and neck, were short, and resembling those of a monkey; the arms, which were small, were kept folded across the breast; the fingers were distinct, not webbed; a few stiff long bristles were on the top of the head, extending down to the shoulders, and these it could erect and depress at pleasure, something like a crest. The inferior part of the body was like a fish. The skin was smooth and of a grey colour. It offered no resistance, nor attempted to bite, but uttered a low, plaintive sound. The crew, six in number, took it within their boat; but superstition getting the better of curiosity, they carefully disentangled it from the lines and a hook which had accidentally fastened in the body, and returned it to its native element. It instantly dived, descending in a perpendicular direction.” “They had the animal for three hours within the boat; the body was without scales or hair; of a silvery grey colour above, and white below, like the human skin; no gills were observed, nor fins on the back or belly. The tail was like that of the dog-fish; the mammæ were about as large as those of a woman; the mouth and lips were very distinct, and resembled the human.”