TO THE NAUTILUS.
The skilful observations of a lady, Madame Power, have lately
made known to us several particulars of the nature and habits of
the Argonauta or Paper Nautilus, and have confirmed much of
what was related by Aristotle and Pliny, which modern naturalists
had doubted. It now appears certain that the fish (a species of the
sepia or cuttle fish) is the natural occupant, and not, like the
parasite crabs, the usurper of the shell which it inhabits. It is
furnished with eight arms, between one pair of which there is a
thin membrane that is generally stretched over the shell and nearly
envelopes it. But in fine still weather, when the animal rises to
the surface of the water, and is not conscious of being observed, it
erects the two arms with the membrane which then takes the place
of a sail, and appears of a silvery hue, with dark spots. The six
other arms are at the same time turned down over the edge of
the shell, and used as three pairs of oars to steer and balance the
creature. If it catches sight of an intrusive observer, the Argonauta
turns its sail over the shell, folds in its oar arms, and sinks to the
bottom. If pursued, it emits ink, like the other sepias, and thus
escapes from its enemy in a cloud of darkness.
I recollect to have seen, in manuscript, a most beautiful copy of
verses, founded on this habit of the Nautilus. Had they been in
print, mine should never have appeared. The same may be said
of the lines “to certain gold fishes.” A real poet, among many
strains of “higher mood,” of which he deems the world unworthy,
has an exquisite little piece on those beautiful creatures, in which
he has exhibited a more than pictorial power of language. It is
saying far too little to say, that he makes you see the gold fish—that
they flash, in all their effulgence of hue, and complicity of
motion, “on that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude”— he
makes you feel as if you were a gold fish yourself.
It is said, that the gold fish (Cyprinus Auratus of Linnæus) was
originally confined to a little lake of China.
Where Ausonian summers glowing,
Warm the deep to life and joyance,
And gentle zephyrs, nimbly blowing,
Wanton with the waves that flowing
By many a land of ancient glory,
And many an isle renown'd in story,
Leap along with gladsome buoyance,
There Marinere,
Do'st thou appear,
In faery pinnace gailey flashing,
Through the white foam proudly dashing,
The joyous play-mate of the buxom breeze,
The fearless fondling of the mighty seas.
Thou the light sail boldly spreadest,
O'er the furrow'd waters gliding,
Thou nor wreck, nor foeman dreadest,
Thou nor helm nor compass needest,
While the sun is bright above thee,
While the bounding surges love thee,
In their deepening bosoms hiding,
Thou canst not fear,
Small Marinere,
For though the tides with restless motion,
Bear thee to the desert ocean,
Far as the ocean stretches to the sky,
'Tis all thine own, 'tis all thy empery.
Lame is art, and her endeavour
Follows nature's course but slowly,
Guessing, toiling, seeking ever,
Still improving, perfect never;
Little Nautilus, thou shewest
Deeper wisdom than thou knowest,
Lore, which man should study lowly:
Bold faith and cheer,
Small Marinere,
Are thine within thy pearly dwelling,—
Thine, a law of life compelling,
Obedience, perfect, simple, glad and free,
To the great will that animates the sea.
