OCTOPODS I HAVE KNOWN.
The first Octopus whose habits and mode of life I had opportunities
of observing in captivity, was one exhibited in the Aquarium
at Boulogne in September 1867. It was the prominent subject of
conversation at the _tables d’hôte_ of all the hotels there, and
almost the first words addressed to a new-comer were, “Have you
seen the devil-fish?” It was but a miserable little imp, only half
matured in _diablerie_, and so persistently concealed itself by
burrowing in a considerable depth of shingle, that all that could
generally be seen of it was a portion of one of its arms waving
gently in the water. But perhaps this was quite as well as if more
had been visible, for it left a great deal to the imagination, and
was also profitable to the proprietor, because people repeated their
visits daily in hope of obtaining a better view of it. The privilege
of privately inspecting it was several times accorded to me, and I
then first witnessed many of the movements, ways, and habits of this
animal, with which I have since become familiar.
The first octopus received at the Brighton Aquarium was caught in a
lobster-pot at Eastbourne in October 1872, and great was the joy that
reigned in “London-by-the-sea.” For in the state of public feeling
then existing, an aquarium without an octopus was like a plum-pudding
without plums. Share-holders might construct a handsome building,
and stock its magnificently gigantic tanks with a variety of most
interesting fishes, but fashion and public opinion demanded of them
a “devil-fish,” and if they were unable to exhibit one, all other
attractions were disregarded. The new octopus became “the rage.”
Visitors jostled each other, and waited their turn to obtain a peep
at him—often a tantalizing exercise of patience, for the picturesque
rock-work in the tanks provided so many hiding places, that, until
these were partially filled with cement, the popular favourite only
occasionally condescended to show himself. Poor fellow! his career
was short, and his end sudden and shocking. During the interregnum
between the death of my friend John Keast Lord, and the appointment
of a successor to him in the curatorship, it became necessary to
clean out a tank in which were some “Nurse-hounds,” or “Larger
spotted dog-fishes,” _Scyllium stellare_. No hostility between them
and the octopus being anticipated by their attendant, they were
temporarily placed with it, and, for a while, they seemed to dwell
together as peaceably as the “happy family” of animals that used to
be exhibited in a travelling cage at the foot of Waterloo Bridge;
the octopus usually remaining within the “Cottage-by-the-sea” which
he had built for himself in the form of a grotto of living oysters,
and the dog-fish apparently taking no notice of him. But one fatal
day—the 7th of January, 1873—the “devil-fish” was missing, and it was
seen that one of the “companions of his solitude” was inordinately
distended. A thrill of horror ran through the corridors. There was
suspicion of crime and dire disaster. The corpulent nurse-hound was
taken into custody, lynched and disembowelled, and his guilt made
manifest. For there, within his capacious stomach, unmutilated and
entire, lay the poor octopus who had delighted thousands during the
Christmas holidays. It had been swallowed whole, and very recently,
but life was extinct.[10]
It is interesting to look back to the beginning of things, to trace
the progress of our knowledge of them, and to note the development
of our ideas concerning them, and the change of sentiment with which
they are regarded. I saw lately a dead octopus, which had acquired
“a very ancient and fish-like smell,” kicked about by boys in the
carriage-way of a Brighton street without attracting attention; but,
so strongly was public interest excited by “the dog-fish and octopus
case,” that the press teemed with paragraphs on the “tragic fate of
an octopus,” and even in the London daily papers appeared brilliantly
written and kindly sympathetic leaders on the subject. The concluding
paragraph of one was as follows:—“Thus was an end put to a most
distinguished and useful life. Octopuses doubtless die every day,
but seldom has there been an octopus who will be so much missed as
the octopus at Brighton.” This was prophetic. For nearly two months
the loss was not repaired. Golden tench from Aldermaston, trout from
Byron’s Newstead, red mullet and other rarities, could not suffice to
fill the void. At length, on the 1st of March, a fine specimen was
received from Mevagissey, Cornwall. Then Brighton was herself again,
and the officials of the Aquarium jubilant. As the spring advanced,
facilities for procuring these animals increased. Specimens were
sent from the French coast, and others—a dozen at a time—from the
Channel Islands, until it appeared not impossible that the octopus
would become so abundant, that the very dog-fishes would be satiated
with them, like the apprentices with salmon,[11] and parodying the
school-boys’ grace
“Mutton hot, mutton cold,
Mutton new, mutton old,
Mutton tender, mutton tough,
Of mutton we have had enough—”
would refuse to eat one oftener than once a week.
Since then, the Brighton Aquarium has only once been without an
octopus; and although the popular chief of curiosities in a marine
vivarium has doubtless passed the zenith of his greatness, he still
holds an honoured place amongst the “past masters” of the tanks.
After the publication in the “Times,” “Land and Water” and other
papers, of my notes of observations of the habits of the octopus
in confinement, I was favoured with several private letters on
the subject; some of them from strangers giving me interesting
information concerning it, derived from their own experience, and
others requesting me to decide between adverse opinions based
respectively on the florid conceptions of the novelist, and the
scarcely less romantic, though truthful, description of the
naturalist.
Articles and paragraphs on the same topic, also, not infrequently
appeared about that time, in daily and weekly papers; of one of which
the following is a portion:—“It is much to be hoped that as time and
observation serve, Mr. Lee will give to the public a paper devoted to
a close scientific examination of Victor Hugo’s description of the
devil-fish, so as to settle to the minutest points wherein it is true
to nature, and wherein the novelist has deviated from the severity
of fact.” I confess the thought never before occurred to me to
dissect the author’s description of the frightful animal he depicts,
because I have always regarded it as an accumulation of intentionally
fanciful and ingenious exaggerations, which, with great melodramatic
power, he succeeded in combining into an embodiment of mysterious
horror. But I accepted the suggestion, and have incorporated in a
comparative analysis of M. Hugo’s stirring romance, a description of
the organization of the octopus or _pieuvre_, and of those of its
habits to which he alludes. Other circumstances of its life-history,
which did not come within the scope of his work, are treated of in
separate chapters. Before critically reviewing his narration of the
incidents referred to, it may be desirable to give a brief summary of
the plot of the story of which they form a part, and which made the
octopus famous.