THE OCTOPUS OUT OF WATER.
Until by the establishment of aquaria opportunities were furnished
of observing the habits of the octopus in captivity, very little was
known as to the truth or otherwise of the statement that it would
sometimes voluntarily leave the water, and ramble on land in search
of food. Professor Edward Forbes[15] says that, in the sudden falls,
lasting not very long, of the sea-level, which occur from various
causes in the bays of the countries in and around the Ægean, this
creature may be met with walking on the exposed shore; but he thinks
it doubtful whether it ever wanders of its own choice above the usual
water-mark.
Aristotle affirms that it comes out of the sea and walks in stony
places; and Pliny tells of an enormous polypus (octopus) which
at Carteia, in Grenada—an old and important Roman colony, near
Gibraltar—used to come out of the sea at night, and carry off or
devour salted tunnies from the curing depôts on the shore; and adds
that the head of it, when it was at last killed, was found to weigh
700lb. Ælian records a similar incident, and describes his monster as
crushing in its arms the barrels of salt-fish to get at the contents.
These old writers seem to have aimed rather at making their histories
sensational than at carefully investigating the credibility or the
contrary of the highly-coloured reports brought to them. They were,
of course, gross exaggerations; but there is a substratum of truth in
them; and in the proceedings of an octopus in the Brighton Aquarium
we may recognise the living model of the bold, broad sketches from
nature from which the old artists fancifully drew their showy but
untruthful pictures.
In May, 1873, it was found that some young lump-fish (_Cyclopterus
lumpus_), were mysteriously disappearing from one of the tanks.
Almost daily there was a fresh and inexplicable vacancy in the
gradually diminishing family circle, and morning after morning a
handbill might have been issued:—“Missing! Lost, stolen, or strayed,
a young ‘lump-sucker,’ rather below the middle size, and enormously
stout; had on a bright blue coat, with several rows of buttons
on it, and a waistcoat of lighter colour. Whoever will give such
information as shall lead to the discovery of the same, or produce
satisfactory evidence of his death, will relieve the troubled minds
of the curators!” “What on earth can have become of them?” “Where can
they be?” were the questions each attendant asked in vain of another.
If they had died they would have been found in the tank, for there
were no crabs there that could have eaten them; they could not have
burrowed in the shingle, for it was not deep enough; and, with their
obesity of form, they could no more have leaped out of the tank than
Mr. Wardell’s fat boy in “Pickwick” could have jumped a five-barred
gate. Here was a puzzle! One by one they were lost to sight, as
regularly and unaccountably as pair after pair of Lieutenant Charles
Seaforth’s breeches disappeared from his bedroom at Tappington, as
related in the “Ingoldsby Legends.”
One morning, however, Mr. Lawler, one of the staff, on going to count
our young friends, found an interloper amongst them. “Who put this
octopus in No. 27 tank?” he inquired of the keepers. “Octopus, sir?
no one! Well, if he ain’t bin and got over out of the next tank!” And
this was just the fact.
The marauding rascal had occasionally issued from the water in his
tank, and clambered up the rocks, and over the wall into the next
one; there he had helped himself to a young lump-fish, and, having
devoured it, returned demurely to his own quarters by the same route,
with well-filled stomach and contented mind. This was not very
difficult for him to accomplish, for the partition between the two
tanks is only about a foot above the surface of the water. Having
accidentally, or otherwise, discovered that there was a preserve
of live stock suitable to his palate next door, he paid frequent
nocturnal poaching visits to it, and, after clearing up every remnant
of his meal, regularly slunk home before day-light; until, like most
criminals, becoming careless by frequently escaping detection, he, on
the last occasion, indulged at supper-time in an inordinate gorge,
and slept under his neighbour’s porch, instead of going home to bed.
His return homeward at daybreak was caused by no intelligent fear
of his keeper, but by a perfectly natural instinct inherited from
his ancestors, namely, that of retiring during the day to his own
favourite den or lurking-place, as an ogre is supposed to ensconce
himself in his castle or cavern after having satiated his rapacious
maw in a successful foray. For it must be remembered that the
octopus is nocturnal in its habits, and ordinarily hides itself as
much as possible during the day, shrinking from the light, which is
apparently disagreeable to it: its wanderings in search of food,
therefore, generally take place at night.[16]
Although I had once seen the octopus in question crawl out of the
water on to the rocks above the surface in the daytime, and had often
witnessed his activity during the dark hours, and the surprising
rapidity of his progress by crawling or walking, he had not been seen
to do all of which he was accused. Every opportunity was, therefore,
given to him of continuing his incursions into his neighbours’
compartment, and it was hoped that he would be caught in the act. So
acute, however, are these creatures in their perceptions, so quick of
sight, and so sensitive to the light of even a distant lantern, that
our suspected pirate would not start on a buccaneering expedition
whilst anyone was cruising in the building. He seemed to know that he
was watched; and for about a week remained quietly at home. During
that time no more young lump-suckers were missing. Then he again
broke bounds, and, moreover, prevailed on one of his class-mates to
follow his bad example of going out on the loose.
One night these two individuals left their tank, and started in
opposite directions on a voyage of discovery. One went east, the
other went west; and, as if by preconcerted plan, neither was content
merely to cross the frontier and visit his nearest neighbours, but
both passed through, or over, one intervening tank, and settled
down amongst the tribes beyond. One of them found himself in a
Brobdingnag of crabs—a colony of giants too strong to be successfully
invaded even by an armada of octopods. If he had arrived at Lilliput
instead—a tank inhabited by pigmy crustaceans—he would soon have
depopulated it, by clutching in his hateful embrace more victims _per
diem_ than ever an unwelcome, foul-mouthed dragon of old demanded as
his daily dole of youths and maidens, to satisfy his inconvenient
preference for their flesh as his daintiest dish. The other traveller
found his way into Lobsterdom, and putting on a bold front, proceeded
to attack the chief. The lobster, though evidently alarmed, “showed
fight,” and the intruder was obliged to retreat, and seek refuge in
a cranny of the rock-work. Although the lobster which bore the brunt
of the attack was a very large one, I was at the time surprised that
it so decisively vanquished the invader as to save from destruction
the other smaller specimens of its kind, which were its companions.
For it is an old notion, still generally believed by fishermen, that
if an octopus approaches a “pot,” or “stalker,” in which are lobsters
that have been entrapped, they will cast off their claws, and become
literally sick from fright.
In his pleasant book, “Sub-tropical Rambles,” Mr. Nicholas Pike,
United States Consul at Mauritius, mentions that advantage is there
taken by the native fishermen of the antipathy and instinctive fear
with which the crustacea regard their enemy, the octopus (called
by the Creoles, the “ourite,” by the European residents, the
“cat-fish,”), to lure the former from their holes. A long arm of the
octopus is suspended at the entrance, and no sooner does the lobster
or cray-fish catch sight of the dreaded weapon covered with suckers,
than away he rushes in terror, and is soon caught by a noose of split
bamboo firmly fixed over his tail.
In localities where the octopus abounds, the crustacea probably learn
to regard it as an enemy to be dreaded, but this is certainly not
the case with those which I have had opportunities of observing. The
common shore crabs on which this animal is habitually fed in the
Aquarium have no knowledge of their danger in its presence. When
tossed into the tank they frequently run towards the monster who is
waiting to devour them, and even scramble on to and over his back. It
may be that, as in countries previously unvisited by man the birds
and beasts, unacquainted with his destructive powers and carnivorous
habits, show no fear of him at first sight, so the crabs and lobsters
at Brighton so rarely see an octopus in their native haunts that they
have not learned to recognise their deadly foe.
Another amusing illustration of the pedestrian powers of the
octopus occurred some time afterwards at the Brighton Aquarium. In
anticipation of the arrival of some literary and scientific friends,
I had transferred an octopus from its tank to a large vase of water
in my private room, that they might be able to examine it minutely. I
left it for a quarter of an hour, and, on my return with them, found
it toppling and sprawling along on the carpet. It had got out of the
vase, tumbled off the table on to the floor, and reached the further
side of the room. Of course, it was immediately replaced in the
water, and seemed none the worse for its singular promenade.
An incident described by Mr. Thomas Beale, surgeon of a South Sea
whaling ship, in his “History of the Sperm Whale,” has been quoted
over and over again, not merely as proving that the octopus can quit
the water, but as an illustration of its ferocity. It should rather
be cited as an instance of unintentional exaggeration by a generally
fair observer. Mr. Beale says:—“While upon the Bonin Islands,
searching for shells, which had just been left by the receding tide,
I was much astonished at seeing at my feet a most extraordinary
animal crawling towards the surf, which had only just left it. I had
never seen one like it under such circumstances before; it therefore
appeared the more remarkable. It was creeping on its eight legs,
which, from their soft and flexible nature, bent considerably under
the weight of its body, so that it was lifted by the efforts of its
tentacula only a small distance from the rocks. It appeared much
alarmed at seeing me, and made every effort to escape, while I was
not much in the humour to endeavour to capture so ugly a customer,
whose appearance excited a feeling of disgust, not unmixed with fear.
I, however, endeavoured to prevent its career, by pressing on one of
its legs with my foot, but although I made use of considerable force
for that purpose, its strength was so great that it several times
quickly liberated its member, in spite of all the efforts I could
employ in this way on wet, slippery rocks. I now laid hold of one
of the tentacles with my hand, and held it firmly, so that the limb
appeared as if it would be torn asunder by our united strength. I
soon gave it a powerful jerk, wishing to disengage it from the rocks
to which it clung, so forcibly by its suckers, which it effectually
resisted; but the moment after, the apparently enraged animal lifted
its head with its large eyes projecting from the middle of its body,
and letting go its hold on the rocks, sprang upon my arm, which I
had previously bared to the shoulder, and clung with its suckers to
it with great power, endeavouring to get its beak, which I could now
see between the roots of its arms, in a position to bite. A sensation
of horror pervaded my whole frame when I found this monstrous animal
had affixed itself so firmly upon my arm. Its cold, slimy grasp was
extremely sickening, and I immediately called aloud to the captain
who was also searching for shells at some distance, to come and
release me from my disgusting assailant. He quickly arrived, and
taking me down to the boat, during which I was employed in keeping
the beak away from my hand, quickly released me by destroying my
tormentor with the boat-knife, when I disengaged it by portions at a
time. This animal must have measured across its expanded arms about
four feet, while its body was not larger than a large clenched hand.
It was that kind of sepia called by whalers ‘rock-squid.’”
It was neither a “sepia” nor a “squid,” but an octopus of very
moderate size. The enraged animal _lifting its head and springing_ on
Mr. Beale’s arm is very sensational, but very inaccurate; and it is
simply impossible that he could have seen the beak _whilst the animal
was endeavouring to get it into position to bite him_. The tragic
killing of his “tormentor” with the boat-knife, and disengagement
of its arms, bit by bit, was quite unnecessary. If he had grasped
it firmly round the neck it would have instantly let go its hold.
Aristotle was well aware of this, and it may be well for bathers to
remember it.
I have frequently allowed an octopus to fix itself upon, and crawl
over, my bare arm. It can always be detached in this manner. None
have ever attempted to bite me. But although it is “nothing when
you are used to it,” it is not pleasant to have a stranger, of
whose proclivities you know nothing, fasten himself upon you with
such demonstration of attachment. To have the long, cold, damp arms
of an octopus writhing and twining about one’s wrist and hand,
and fastening its hundreds of sucking cups all over them, gives a
singularly uncomfortable sensation—the kind of feeling most persons
would experience on grasping a handful of lively snakes—so Mr. Beale
may be excused for allowing his terror to excite his imagination and
overcome his judgment.
The fishermen of the Mediterranean have a summary method of killing
the octopus or cuttle. They turn back the arms over the head, and
seizing the latter with their teeth compress it in the region of the
brain. Death is instantaneous.
M. Moquin Tandon, in his “World of the Sea,” alluding to the peril
to swimmers of contact with the octopus, gives a singular recipe for
rendering the creature harmless. He says: “Dr. Franklin found that
a few drops of vinegar on its back at once persuaded it to release
its hold.” So, too, would a red-hot poker, no doubt; and it would
be almost as easy to apply the one as the other under water: for,
supposing that swimmers were in the habit of carrying cruet bottles
slung round their necks, considerable ingenuity would be required
to enable one to pour a few drops of vinegar on the back of an
octopus which was holding him by the ancle at some distance below the
surface. To put vinegar on an octopus, as to put salt on a bird’s
tail, you must first catch it. I have somewhere read of a Dutch
pedlar who sold a man a liquid for the extermination of fleas. “And
how do you use it?” inquired his customer. “Ketch te flea, and drop
von little drop into his mout,” answered the pedlar. “Why!” exclaimed
the purchaser, “I could kill it in half the time, by crushing it.”
“Vell,” said the Dutchman, thoughtfully, “dat is a goot vay, too.”
In August, 1873, I received from Dr. R. Brisco Owen, of Haulfre,
Beaumaris, a fellow of the Linnean Society since 1824, the following
communication respecting octopods quitting the water, and their
capability of rapid progress on land:—
“I forward you a description of a curious species of octopod which I
once met with in Torres Straits; but at the Brighton Aquarium, last
month, I was examining the octopus there, and they struck me as being
quite a different species to mine, their eyes especially different;
the eyes of mine were full and open, as beautiful as the eye of the
owl, which they resembled. It was in the month of September, 1843,
that I landed in Blackwood’s Bay, on my passage through Torres
Straits from Sydney to Madras. The ship on board of which I was a
passenger was the _Stratheden_, Captain Howlett. On casting anchor in
the bay, having cleared this most dangerous strait, which separates
the northernmost point of Australia from New Guinea, a small party,
including the captain, took boat and were rowed ashore, a distance
of a good mile. Our passage in the boat was over a splendid field
of coral, the water not being above a yard deep, and as clear as
crystal. Landing on the shore of Blackwood’s Bay, our party separated
for the purpose of exploration; the captain pointing out to us the
necessity of our being punctual as to time, not wandering too far,
and observing the position of our boat for our return. The shore
was an extensive flat, hard and clean to walk on, with much seaweed
growing on it. Having proceeded a considerable distance, and lost
sight of my companions, great was my surprise to see an object start
up suddenly, close to my feet, moving very rapidly, and evidently
wishing to avoid me, and to get to the sea. After chasing it a
short time, I was satisfied that the creature was an octopus, which
I was desirous of capturing alive, and without injury. Its eyes,
which were round, large, and wide open, descriptive of the greatest
terror, struck me forcibly. Its speedy flight and wonderful powers of
locomotion, I cannot account for: it appeared to me surprising that
a creature with such a flexible structure as its tentacles, could
outrun me. Our chase lasted so long that both pursuer and pursued
were frequently obliged to halt from sheer exhaustion. At length,
finding that I could not capture the animal, I flung my stick at it
with force, and knocked it over, killing it with one blow, and, to
my sorrow, ruining it as a specimen. On picking up the octopus, it
was quite collapsed. The tentacles were about two feet long only. I
am not surprised to have found this creature left by the receding
tide; as it had plenty of seaweed, with little pools of water, to
protect and shelter it, and abundance of the sea-slug (_Holothuria
edulis_), which no doubt it feeds on—fine specimens of which I met
with, that would have suited the dainty palate of an alderman! I
trust that credit may be given me for the veracity of this account.
I have no object in deception. I have here stated what occurred to
me; and being able to refer to my journal, my memory is freshened,
though the circumstances made such an impression that I have often
thought the matter over, and sought in books for confirmation of what
I witnessed, but without success.”
A similar instance was related in a letter to one of the morning
papers (I think, the _Daily Telegraph_), about eight months
previously; and the statement then appeared to me to be an attempt to
hoax the public; for it seems impossible that an octopus can travel
over the ground at the pace described. But it is not to be supposed
that a gentleman of Dr. Owen’s age and profession would volunteer
information intentionally erroneous. Among the details given by him
is one which is difficult to understand. The genus _Octopus_ is
especially characterised by the smallness of the eye. This is larger
in _Philoxenis_ and _Argonauta_; but in all of the family the iris
is oblong, and not round. In the calamaries it is larger, and always
circular; but the octopods alone of the cephalopoda, are able, by the
disposition of their arms, to walk, or progress, on dry land, or to
return to the water if cast upon the shore.
Marvellous as the above narrative may appear to the reader (and
I confess I so regard it), it has been collaterally confirmed by
an officer of high rank in the Royal Engineers, whose veracity is
unquestionable, and who, without previous knowledge of Dr. Brisco
Owen’s communication, related to me, first verbally, and afterwards,
at my request, in writing, a similar adventure which happened to
himself.
“When at Bermuda,” he said, “in 1868, whilst sitting on a rock near
the water, I saw a curious instance of the power of locomotion of
these beasts. A small octopus emerged from the water, apparently
in great terror: in two seconds he was followed by a larger one,
evidently in chase. The little fellow might have been ten inches
over all, the larger one about eighteen, or perhaps twenty, inches.
Their mode of progression was most singular: in position something
like the ‘arabs’ of the London streets, but not turning. Five arms
seemed to be used in walking, or, rather, progressive motion; the
remaining three being reserved for seizing. I should think the rate
at which both animals went was as fast as a man could possibly walk,
_i.e._, between five and six miles an hour. A larger octopus would
undoubtedly cause a man following it to run, unless it chose to turn
and face him.”
Both of these accounts of the locomotive powers of the octopus are
perfectly clear and definite; and, therefore, although we may say,
with Horatio,—“This is wondrous strange!” we must either entirely
disbelieve two credible witnesses, or apply to the case the aphorism
of Hamlet:—“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt
of in our philosophy.”