acquaintances, for it is seldom or ever quite alone, the Actinoloba, although apparently delicate in looks, is of so vigorous and healthy a constitution that it can stand the vicissitudes of life with greater fortitude than many others of the Sagartian race; and I can but persuade myself that, seated on its stone ottoman, in its aqueous drawing-room, surrounded by those it loves, or comfortably stretched in a horizontal position with ample room and a pure atmosphere, that, in spite of captivity, the Actinoloba Dianthus of the aquarium are a tolerably happy, satisfied race of beings.
SAGARTIA SPHYRODITA, THE SANDALLED ANEMONE.
Surely, if that charming creation, Ariel, sang, “In a cowslip-bell I lie,” the mermaids, Lorelei, or nixies—I don’t know which are the tiniest—must have found as dainty a couch in the tiny bells of the Sagartia Sphyrodita, a pretty little fairy sea anemone, with a white calyxed-shaped column, streaked transparently, and just tipped in the yellow disced with a warm brown tint, yellow or white disc and mouth, and opaque white tentacles, with a shading into purple where they join the disc, and the ensemble so closely resembles Burns’ “bonny gem,” the field-daisy, that, nestled in some sea grass, or ulva, or gracefully pendent from the satiny fronds of Iridēā Edulis, or penni-nerved Delessaria, and it is difficult to believe that it is not a meadow flower, but a sentient being, with a temper as easily put out and as easily appeased as a child’s, “and, like the young lions, seeking its meat from God.”
Our first acquaintance with Sphyrodita began on a lovely summer day when the spring-tide had sent the tired waters to sigh and sleep so quietly, that I had grown oblivious, and was so engrossed in culling the treasures of a rock pool, “that slowly from slumber woke the unwilling main, curling and murmuring until the infant waves leaped on his lap,” and I ran a chance of being lured to destruction in some coral grove, when, lo! as I plunged in, and drew a long sighing gasp, with a momentary wish that I had been born a diver duck or sea-gull, that could ride the bosom of the ocean instead of having to furrow through it like a plough, a frond of “Fucus Serratus,” freighted with some half-dozen of these sprites of the waves, came drifting towards me, and at once perceiving that chance had given me a prize, I gave all but a shout of Eureka! as I grasped them, and with the enthusiasm of an Archimedes went bounding through the waters to terra firma again. And in spite of frequently finding colonies of these Sphyrodita snugly domiciled in the niches of perpendicular mud-covered rocks, like so many jewels set in a frame, I cannot but think that, soft as is their construction, and delicate as is their nature under rough treatment, they clearly belong to a hardy nomadic race, “who love to roam o’er the dark sea foam,” for often on turning over the fronds of Rhodomenia palmata, or Fucus, I come upon the pretty brown tipped cups of clinging Sphyrodita.
In their drawing-room home they roll themselves up and sleep as dormice do in cold weather, but with warmth and sunlight they expand their petal-like tentacles, and as flies in summer air, now float on the surface of the water, now gem the fronds of the sea-blooms, hang like blossoms from a spray, or deck the brown rock with life and beauty.
SAGARTIA NIVEA, THE WHITE ANEMONE.
In snug little homesteads in the water-worn holes of shelving limestone, decked from without with shrubby Dasya, gorgeous scarlet “Delessaria sanguinea,” or winged Alata, and “with a flooring of sand like the mountain drift,” or down in the clear deep pools, where Bryopsis and Ceramia, Polysiphonia, Rhodomenia, and green silken Ulva form stately gardens for their pleasure, live a beautiful race of anemones of the high-born Sagartian tribe. To the eyes of the treasure-seeker there affords no fairer sight than Sagartia nivea at home in its native bower, in brownish olive or orange-coloured column, the upper part dotted with suckers, with slender tentacles and rippled disc of opaque white, as it waits with graceful bearing and outspread tentacula “for the meat that will come in due season,” and presents a perfect picture of placid happiness.
But like some individuals, who can judge the mind by the face, the gifted Nivea at our first glance instinctively learns that our appearance bodes no good to him and his. And after some brave attempts to keep up a semblance of its wonted calmness and equanimity—the quivering tentacles alone betraying the terror from within—it slowly but gradually withdraws within its own walls: nor will it surrender its small garrison by gentle persuasion and coaxing. For, like some gallant little band who hold their own against fearful odds, and while each renewed attempt, each blow threatens death, still finds some new resource wherewith to prolong the struggle, so with Nivea, who, cognisant of one of the oldest stratagems of war, from the first attack pours forth such a plentiful supply of acontia, that a natural enemy may be easily persuaded that the ammunition is inexhaustible and beat a retreat. And when nooses and spears—barbed ecthorea—are alike unavailable, the suckers and prehensile base form so powerful a resistance, that ere the poor shaken citadel, completely enveloped in flags of distress, surrenders, it presents such an abject picture of misery and grief, that we feel like a ruthless savage impelled by the irresistible hand of destiny and research to molest these happy people.
And while Nivea is of a leathery construction and sufficiently strong in constitution to live long in a civilised hemisphere, yet it wanders restlessly to and fro, and ever wears the sullen bearing of a prisoner who eats and lives mechanically, rather than the free emigrant who, with his heart in his native land, still grows happy in the present, and if the simile is far-fetched, it is still apt. Nivea reminds one of a poor chained eagle, or a caged skylark who sadly trills—
”We are pressed by heavy laws,
And often glad no more,
We wear a face of joy,
Because we have been glad of yore.”
SAGARTIA ROSEA.
