from the outside world, this water containing the vivifying oxygen
required for the purification and renewal of the blood. Having given
up its oxygen to the blood contained in the fine blood-vessels of the
breathing-chamber, and its sediment to serve for food, the great bulk
of water contained in the breathing-sac has now to be got rid of, to
make room for a fresh supply. This process is effected in the most
admirable manner through the currents created by the little filaments
or cilia, which cause a constant flow of water to pass through the
network walls of the breathing-chamber into a second sac or bag which
lies parallel with it. This latter sac receives the name of the
_atrium_, and communicates with the outer world by the second neck or
orifice of the body. Hence the water which enters by the mouth-opening,
after passing through the breathing-chamber, is ejected by the
second aperture of the body, and affords the material wherewith the
sea-squirt vents its indignation on prying humanity in the shape of the
_jets d’eau_ which have procured for it its popular designation. The
sea-squirt regarded in relation to its sedentary habits, would seem to
require no great exercise of nervous powers. Accordingly we find its
nervous system to be represented by a single mass of nervous matter,
placed near the mouth, and from which nerves pass to the other parts
of the body. The acts of a sea-squirt may thus be regarded as purely
of the character we are accustomed to name ‘automatic.’ It is provided
with instincts enabling it to carry on the acts of its life and to
exhibit a certain degree of irritability, without at the same time
knowing the ‘reason why’ of its own actions.
The sea-squirts present no exceptions to the universal rule of Harvey,
_omne animal ex ovo_—this philosopher believing in the universal
development of the animal-form from an ovum or egg. But unlike most
higher animals, the young sea-squirt does not come from the egg in the
likeness of the parent. It first appears as a tadpole-like body, this
creature—the larva as it is named—being produced in some thirty hours
after the development of the egg begins. The head of the tadpole is
provided with pigment spots or rudimentary eyes, and with three little
suckers, by means of which it ultimately attaches itself to fixed
bodies, prior to assuming the form of the adult and perfect Ascidian.
The tail of the tadpole-larva next becomes retracted within its body,
and therein disappears, whilst after fixing itself, the well-known
features of the sea-squirt become duly developed. A Russian zoologist
has remarked that in the tail of the sea-squirt a long rod-like body
is to be seen. Now in the lowest fishes, the spine exists in a similar
and rod-like condition; and hence, by a certain school of naturalists,
it is urged that the vertebrates may have originated in the past
from some form resembling the sea-squirt larva, in whose tail we are
therefore invited to behold the first stage of the vertebrate backbone
or spine. It is noteworthy to observe, however, that the opinions of
these naturalists are by no means accepted by the scientific world at
large; and one eminent German observer declared that the rod-like body
in the sea-squirt larva’s tail was not situated in the back, but in
the opposite region of the body, and that therefore it could not be
regarded as corresponding to the ‘back’-bone of higher animals.
Certain near relations of the sea-squirt become of exceeding interest
from their departure from the more usual and staid type of Ascidian
structure. Amongst these errant members of the sea-squirt tribe the
most remarkable perhaps are the _Salpæ_—clear, gelatinous animals,
met with swimming in long connected chains on the surface of the sea
in tropical regions. The celebrated novelist Chamisso, author of
the charming story, _Peter Schlemil or the Shadowless Man_, who to
his literary tastes united a striking aptitude for natural history
research, discovered that the young of these chain-salpæ invariably
appears as a _single_ form; whilst each single salpa has the power of
producing a connected chain. Thus the salpa sea-squirts exist in two
distinct forms—chain-salpas and single salpas, and to use Chamisso’s
own words: ‘A salpa mother is not like its daughter or its own mother,
but resembles its grand-daughter and its grand-mother.’
Another curious group of the sea-squirts is that known by the name of
the _Pyrosomæ_, a name literally meaning ‘fiery-bodies.’ These latter
forms exist as connected masses of sea-squirts aggregated together,
so as to form a hollow cylinder or tube, closed at one end; this
animal-colony swimming on the surface of the sea, by the admission
and forcible ejection of water from the interior of the tube. Such a
means of locomotion reminds us of a veritable hydraulic engine, and
is decidedly a useful modification of the common sea-squirt’s habit.
The pyrosomas exhibit a strange phosphorescent light, seen also in
such animals as the jelly-fishes. These luminous sea-squirts when seen
in shoals, have well been described as ‘miniature pillars of fire,
gleaming out of the dark sea, with an ever-waning, ever-brightening,
soft, bluish light, as far as the eye could reach on every side.’
Side by side with this description from the pen of a distinguished
naturalist, may be placed the poetic realisation of a similar scene by
Sir Walter Scott, who in the _Lord of the Isles_ has happily noted the
luminosity of the sea when,
Awaked before the rushing prow
The mimic fires of ocean glow,
Those lightnings of the wave;
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides,
And flashing round the vessel’s sides,
With elfish lustre lave;
While far behind, their livid light
To the dark billows of the night
A gloomy splendour gave.
THE POINT OF HONOUR.
A STORY OF THE PAST.
Shortly after Waterloo had been fought, one of our English regiments
(which had taken a distinguished part in that great victory) stationed
in a Mediterranean garrison, gained an unenviable notoriety there
by a sudden mania for duelling that broke out amongst its officers,
and which threatened to become so chronic in its character as
seriously to interfere with the discipline of the corps. Quarrels
were literally ‘made to order’ at mess-time for the most trifling
affairs, and scarcely a day passed without a hostile meeting taking
place, which the colonel—a weak-minded man—expressed himself powerless
to prevent. Indeed he had already been sent to ‘Coventry’ by his
subordinates, which, as our readers doubtless know, is a kind of
social excommunication that, when acted upon in an English regiment,
generally ends in the retirement from the corps of the individual on
whom it falls. It was so in this instance, for the colonel saw that
the vendetta-like conduct of his officers towards him was gradually
divesting him of all authority in the eyes of his men; and as he had
none but his social inferiors to whom he could turn for counsel and
advice, he was compelled to relinquish his command and return to
England. On arrival in this country he lost no time in proceeding to
the Horse Guards, where he sought and gained an interview with the
Duke of Wellington, to whom he gave a graphic account of the state of
affairs which existed in the regiment he had just left.
The Iron Duke listened attentively to the narration, and knitted his
brow in anger as the colonel related the story of the duelling; and
when the latter had finished speaking, he exclaimed in an unmistakably
stern and uncompromising tone: ‘It is _your_ fault, sir! You should
have brought some of the ringleaders to a court-martial, and cashiered
them on the spot. You have sadly neglected your duty, and that is a
thing which I never pardon.’
The colonel left the Horse Guards in a very crest-fallen state, and he
was hardly surprised when he saw in the next _Gazette_ the announcement
that ‘His Majesty had no further need of his services.’
In the meantime the Duke had obtained a special audience of the Prince
Regent, to whom he explained the condition of affairs in connection
with the regiment in question. The result of the interview was that
Colonel A——, a well-known martinet, then on half-pay, was sent for,
and the circumstances explained to him; the Prince offering him the
command of the regiment on condition that he would undertake to cure
the duelling propensities of its officers. Colonel A—— was delighted
at the prospect of active service, and he willingly accepted the task
assigned to him, it being understood that he was to be granted a royal
indemnity for anything serious which might happen to anybody else in
his endeavours to put a stop to the duelling. He was a man of high
reputation, and had previously held other difficult commands, being
known throughout the army as a good soldier but a stern disciplinarian.
Such was the old soldier’s feelings at the special honour conferred on
him that on leaving St James’s Palace he actually forgot to return the
salute of the sentinels posted at the gates, to the great astonishment
of the latter, who knew his punctilious habits.
On his arrival at the garrison he lost no time in making himself
acquainted with his brother-officers. He had already laid out his plan
of action in his own mind, and was fully determined to allow nothing to
swerve him a hair’s-breadth from the path of duty. At the mess-table
he behaved with studied politeness and amiability of manner; and his
subordinates indicated that they were greatly pleased with their new
commander. He chatted pleasantly with all, from the senior major down
to the youngest ensign, and when the cloth was removed, regaled them
with the latest gossip and doings of London society. Before they
separated for the night, however, he took the opportunity of informing
them in a very quiet manner, that he had heard of the frequent duels
which had lately taken place in the corps, and that it seemed a matter
of regret to him that they could not manage to live in peace and amity.
‘However,’ he said, ‘if it be your wish, gentlemen, to fight out your
quarrels in this way, I shall interpose no obstacle to your doing so.
But this can only be by your pledging your word of honour _now_, to the
effect that in future no duel shall take place without my permission
having been first obtained. As I am your colonel, it is necessary that
my authority should be acknowledged in all that relates to the honour
of the regiment.’
The officers looked at each other and then at the colonel, and a
somewhat embarrassing silence ensued; but it was broken by Colonel A——,
who said: ‘Don’t be afraid that I shall refuse your request; on the
contrary, I shall only be too pleased to grant my permission if, on
examining the facts of the case, I find sufficient reason to think that
the applicant’s _amour propre_ has been wounded, and that a hostile
meeting is indispensable.’
At these reassuring words the young fire-eaters were satisfied, and at
once gave the promise demanded; and Colonel A—— then retired to his
chamber, where, overcome with the fatigue of a rough voyage, he soon
found himself snugly ensconced in the arms of Morpheus.
On the following morning he was rather rudely awakened from a
refreshing slumber by a loud rapping at his chamber-door; and on
challenging his early visitors, he was informed that it was Captain
Lord Vellum and Ensign Warbottle who wished to speak to him on a matter
of the gravest importance.
‘You might have chosen a more convenient hour for your visit,
gentlemen,’ said the colonel, who was naturally loath to rise from his
bed at five o’clock on the first morning after his voyage.
‘It is an “affair of honour,” colonel,’ was the significant reply, ‘and
cannot be delayed. We beg you will admit us instantly.’
The colonel rose and opened the door to the early comers. They were two
handsome young men, who had on the previous evening already attracted
Colonel A——’s attention by the extreme friendliness which they
exhibited for each other. They respectfully saluted their commanding
officer as they entered the room, and the latter broke an awkward
silence by demanding of them the object of their visit.
Ensign Warbottle again raised his hand in salute as he replied: ‘We
have come to ask your permission to fight, colonel.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Colonel A——. ‘I thought you were great friends.’
‘Yes, colonel, we have been most intimate friends from our youth
upward,’ said Lord Vellum, ‘and we respect each other very sincerely;
but we have had a dispute, and our wounded honour must be satisfied.’
‘Then I presume that something very serious must have occurred,
gentlemen, to make the only remedy for it a recourse to the pistol?’
‘It is indeed a very serious matter, colonel,’ replied Ensign
Warbottle; ‘and it is this. After you had left the table last night,
we chatted over what you told us about the doings in London lately;
and in the enthusiasm of the moment, I remarked that I should like to
be there, riding at the head of a troop of Life Guards, and escorting
the Prince Regent, with my silver helmet glittering in the sun and my
drawn sword in my hand. Whereupon Lord Vellum said with a sneer that I
was a feather-bed soldier, and that a leathern helmet would be quite
good enough for such as I. I took no notice of this remark; but I was
annoyed and excited; and when he further asserted that the officers
of the Life Guards wore brass helmets, human nature could stand it no
longer, and I gave him the lie. He retaliated by striking me on the
face; an insult, Colonel A——, which justifies me, I think, in demanding
a hostile meeting.’ The last words were said in a manner which admitted
of only one meaning, and the two young officers exchanged glances of
mutual hatred and defiance.
‘It is indeed grave, gentlemen,’ sententiously remarked the colonel:
‘the helmets worn by the officers of His Majesty’s Life Guards are
neither silver nor brass, but white metal lacquered with silver-gilt;
but this information will not, I presume, alter the position of
affairs. Do you still wish to fight the question out?’
‘Certainly, sir!’ exclaimed the two officers.
‘Very well,’ replied the colonel gravely, ‘far be it from me to
interpose any obstacle to your meeting, gentlemen; but this duel must
be a serious one, as befits so important a question as the Life Guards’
helmets, and not an affair resulting in a mere scratch, as I am given
to understand is generally the case in these mess quarrels. Remember
that you are British officers and not Spanish bravoes, and that the
honour of a British officer can only be vindicated by the death of
his opponent. Go, gentlemen, and fight your duel; and I will meet the
survivor on his return.’
The two young men saluted the colonel and retired. A few minutes
afterwards, they and their seconds were seen hurrying off to the place
of meeting—a spot which is known in the garrison to this day as ‘Duel
Avenue.’
* * * * *
Three hours later, Colonel A—— went down into the parade-ground to
inspect the regiment, and he was surprised to see both Lord Vellum and
Ensign Warbottle amongst the officers who approached him to give their
morning salute. The latter had his arm in a sling; and to the stern
inquiry of Colonel A—— as to whether the duel had yet taken place, he
replied, with a forced smile lighting up his face: ‘Yes, colonel; his
lordship has given me a nasty scratch in the arm.’
‘A scratch in the arm!’ exclaimed the colonel contemptuously. ‘And
do you call _that_ fighting, gentlemen—do you call _that_ fighting?
And for so important a question as the helmets of His Majesty’s Life
Guards! Bah! it is nothing! This matter must be fought over again,
under pain of instant dismissal from the service if my order be
disobeyed!’
‘But’—— began Lord Vellum, attempting to express his satisfaction at
the reparation his wounded honour had received.
‘But me no _buts_, gentlemen!’ exclaimed the colonel angrily. ‘I
have the Prince’s instructions on this point, and it is for _you_ to
vindicate your own honour in a proper manner, or retire disgraced from
His Majesty’s service.’
This alternative was one not to be thought of; and it need scarcely be
said that the young fire-eaters chose rather to fight again than be
cashiered. The duel was fought again, and this time Lord Vellum was
shot through the body—a wound which laid him on a sick-bed for two
months.
During this long period many quarrels had taken place at the
mess-table, some of which had been settled by the colonel acting as
‘arbitrator;’ and others stood over for his permission to fight—a
permission which he refused to grant until the result of Lord
Vellum’s illness should become known. In the meantime Colonel A——
had communicated with the Duke of Wellington, from whom he received
explicit instructions to carry the matter out to the bitter end, as
the only means of putting a stop to a matter which was fast becoming a
world-wide scandal.
Lord Vellum was carefully attended to during his illness by his ‘friend
and enemy’ Ensign Warbottle, to whose efforts he not only owed his
life, but was enabled at the end of the two months to take a short walk
every morning. His recovery then proceeded rapidly, and he soon became
enabled to walk without any support whatever.
The two friends were walking together one morning, when they suddenly
found themselves face to face with Colonel A——.
‘Ah, gentlemen, good-morning!’ exclaimed the latter. ‘I am delighted
to see his lordship out again, especially as it will now enable you to
finish your _affaire d’honneur_ in a more satisfactory manner.’
The young officers, scarcely believing their own ears, were for a time
struck dumb with astonishment, and they gazed at each other and at the
colonel with looks of bewilderment and despair.
‘You see, gentlemen,’ said the colonel gravely, ‘that this question
of the Life Guards’ helmets is of such importance that I deemed it
advisable, since his lordship’s illness, to write to the Duke of
Wellington on the subject; and I have here His Grace’s orders that the
duel should be renewed again and again until the life of one of the
combatants has been forfeited.’ As he spoke, Colonel A—— drew from the
breast-pocket of his coatee a large letter, bearing on its envelope the
words ‘On His Majesty’s Service’ in large black letters, and in one
corner the notice in red ink, ‘Very Urgent.’
‘But,’ said the young ensign, ‘his lordship has not recovered yet;
besides’——
‘When one can walk,’ interrupted the colonel, ‘one can also fire off
a pistol; and it is not conducive to the interests and dignity of the
service that so important a question as the equipment of His Majesty’s
body-guard should any longer be left undecided.’
The two young officers, who had cemented their friendship anew during
the period of illness, here took each other’s hands and gazed long
and silently into each other’s face. Colonel A—— turned away to hide
his emotion; for being really possessed of a kindly disposition, he
began to regret the stern and unbending part he had been called upon
to perform. Brushing the signs of his weakness away from his eyes, he
turned once more towards the young officers and said: ‘Gentlemen, I
have orders from England to supersede you in the regiment to which we
all have the honour to belong; and I am only to waive the execution of
these orders on condition that the duel is renewed, as already stated.
Your honour is absolutely in your own hands, and you must choose your
own course. I leave you to decide, gentlemen, what that course shall
be, and bid you for the present adieu.’ So saying, the colonel left the
two friends to decide upon their own fate. They ultimately decided to
consult with their brother-officers on the subject, and to be guided
by the general opinion. This opinion turned out to be in favour of
another fight; and they once more proceeded to the place of meeting,
each mentally resolving not to injure the other, but each exchanging
portraits and letters for their friends. The fatal weapons were
discharged, and Ensign Warbottle fell to the earth with a shot buried
in his heart.
The grief of Lord Vellum knew no bounds, for he had been led to believe
that the balls had been withdrawn from the pistols. He threw himself on
the inanimate body of his friend, and could with great difficulty be
removed therefrom. At length he was conducted to the house of a married
officer; and from there he indited a letter to Colonel A——, tendering
his resignation, and reproaching the latter with the death of his
friend.
The same afternoon, Colonel A—— assembled the other officers, and
addressing himself especially to those whose applications to fight were
in suspension, declared himself ready to grant one more permission
on the same conditions as the other, namely that ‘for honour’s sake’
the combatants should fight to the death. In the pause which ensued,
one officer after another saluted the colonel respectfully, and then
retired as silently as they came, leaving him alone in the mess-room
and master of the situation.
It was a rude lesson which these officers had received, but it fully
accomplished its purpose, and from that day to this duelling has been
almost unknown in the British army.
‘SUPERS’ ON THE STAGE.
Supernumeraries on the stage, ordinarily called ‘supers,’ receive a
small pay, but are not reckoned within the rôle of actors. They make up
a crowd, when a crowd is wanted in the piece, and so on. Though viewed
as a kind of nobodies, they cannot be done without, and managers need
to take care not to give them offence.
These humble players have been aptly described as serfs of the stage,
for whom there is no manumission. Let them work as hard as they
will, play their parts as well as they may, their merits meet scant
recognition either before or behind the curtain. For the wage of some
threepence an hour, they have to submit to being bullied and badgered,
and put to all manner of personal discomfort. Still, with a sense of
inferiority, the super considers himself an actor. He treads but the
lowest rung; but his foot _is_ on the theatrical ladder. The climbers
above may superciliously ignore the connection; but he feels that
he too is an actor, and sometimes asserts his fellowship; like the
poverty-stricken fellow who publicly hailed David Garrick as his ‘dear
colleague,’ on the score that it was his crowing that made the ghost of
buried Denmark start like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons; and
the less obtrusive super who, when told of Macready’s death, exclaimed:
‘Ah! another of us gone!’
It is recorded that a French super playing an assistant-footman in a
popular _opéra-bouffe_ for the first time, fell down in a fit, brought
on by the excitement consequent upon his having to ‘create the rôle.’
Too much zeal is always inconvenient. At a performance not very long
since of _Richard III._, the armies contending at Bosworth were so
carried away by professional ardour that the mimic fray came very
near the real thing; and one gallant archer introduced himself to the
manager’s notice with an arrow through his nose, so astonishing that
gentleman that he salved the wound with half a sovereign. The next
evening the casualties rose to such alarming proportions, that a like
treatment would have well-nigh exhausted the treasury.
Such realistic combats would have delighted Forrest the American
tragedian, famous for his ‘powerful’ acting. Rehearsing the part of
a brave Roman warrior at the Albany Theatre, Forrest stormed at the
representatives of the minions of a tyrant for not attacking him with
sufficient spirit. At last the captain of the supers inquired if he
wanted to make ‘a bully-fight of it,’ and received an affirmative
answer. Evening came, and in due course the fighting scene was reached.
Forrest ‘took the stage,’ and the half-dozen myrmidons advanced against
him in skirmishing order. ‘Seize him!’ cried the tyrant. Striking a
pugilistic attitude, the first minion hit out from the shoulder, and
gave the Roman hero a fair ‘facer;’ the second minion following up with
a well-judged kick from behind; while the others rushed in for a bout
at close-quarters. The eyes of the astounded actor flashed fire; there
was a short scrimmage of seven, and then one super went head first into
the big drum and stopped there, four retired behind the scenes to have
their wounds dressed, and the last of the valiant crew finding himself
somehow up in the flies, rushed out upon the roof of the theatre
bawling ‘Fire!’ with all the energy left him; while the breathless
tragedian was bowing his acknowledgments of the enthusiastic plaudits
of the excited audience.
Considering how often the super changes his nationality, one would
expect him to be too thorough a cosmopolitan to cherish any insular or
continental prejudices. They nevertheless have their sympathies and
antipathies. ‘Shure, sir,’ said an Irishman who had for some nights
died a glorious death fighting for Fatherland, ‘it’s mighty onpleasant
to have to be a German; I’d rather play a Frenchman.’ He had to be
contented by receiving the manager’s assurance that if he continued to
work up his agony well, he might be permitted to change his uniform at
the end of the month. Greater success awaited a stalwart navvy, who
after crossing the Danube several times at Alexandra Park, declared he
must ‘chuck it up’ if he could not be a Turk. His desire was granted;
and the next afternoon he was pitching Russians into the water with a
will.