A MODERN VIVARIUM.
Letter from Miss Aquaria Stickleback to Miss Fluminia Minnow:—
My dearest Fluminia,—Here we are, delightfully settled in our sweet little hermitage—such a bijou of a residence—quite a “multum in parvo,” papa calls it. Believe me, except for the loss of your society, darling, I do not at all regret having left our spacious mansion under the banks of Trent.
I know that ill-natured people will say that we were compelled by straitened circumstances to contract our establishment. My Fluminia will not listen to such malicious whispers. It will be enough for her to receive my assurance that we all of us prefer such a snug, cosy, compact little place as this.
We find here everything we could desire: excellent water—so like that which we have been accustomed to, that we could almost believe it came from the same source; provisions abundant, and close at hand; considerable variety of scenery, considering the small extent of our domain; delightful shelter from the heat of the sun, and plenty of open surface for enjoying his rays, when the weather is cold.
But that which pleases us most in our present situation, indeed the thing which above all decided us in choosing this locale, is the unexampled opportunities it gives us of studying the habits of a race of creatures of the highest interest to the lovers of natural history. I mean the family that Dr. Gudgeon describes in his lectures under the rather repulsive name of “Bipes vorax,” declaring that he only knows them by their two propensities,—that of walking on two feet, and that of devouring fish! Horrible, my dear, if true; but the dear good creature has been deceived in the last particular, I am sure; for I have watched their habits now for many weeks, indeed I am in almost daily contact with them; but I can safely say (and so you may tell the Doctor), that they evince not the slightest indications of a desire to eat fish.
Our cottage commands a close and clear view of the interior of the abode of a group or family of these strange creatures. Papa arranged it all on purpose. At first, I confess, I did not like being so near them, especially as they seemed to be actuated by a sort of stupid curiosity about us, and would put their great heavy-looking heads close to our windows and look at us by the hour, as if they had never seen a fish before! But I soon found that, in spite of their enormous size and strength, they are perfectly harmless; and no fear now prevents me from being heartily interested and amused by their peculiarities.
I will endeavour to describe some of them. First of all, they really are, as Dr. G. always told us—bipeds. Conceive a young willow-tree, such as those which you have about your place in such numbers, split up half-way from the ground, and the two lower portions fitted with joints, and endowed with the power of moving (stumping, I should say) heavily and laboriously over the ground, and you have some idea of the figure and movements of a biped. There is, of course, none of the ease and grace, the smoothness and rapidity, of our movements. This arrangement of the lower parts of the body (putting me in mind of those frightful neighbours of yours, the rats, to whom, by the way, papa thinks they are allied) would seem at first sight to be confined to the males; but I feel quite sure it is not so. In the female this arrangement is indeed concealed by a singular exuberance of the epidermis, or outer skin—which hangs over it in a profusion of folds—about which I shall speak more at length presently but that it does exist, I have no doubt.
As far then as I can gather from studying the habits of the male, these lower limbs, or legs, as papa calls them, seem to be of use only for motion; at other times they serve no purpose that I can discover, and the poor creature seems to find them sadly in the way, tucking them up, and then stretching them out, and doubling them up under him, while his body remains upright, as he reposes in the most grotesque way you can imagine.
And now for a most extraordinary fact, and one which you will find it difficult to believe; but I have ascertained it beyond a doubt. These creatures exist, live, and, in their strange way, enjoy life—without water.
To us, my dearest Fluminia, who cannot conceive the possibility of existing for a minute out of our dear native element, this is indeed marvellous. Papa says, that he believes they live in a fluid of their own, invisible to our eye, possibly that very fluid which used to disturb our peaceful waters by its sudden and violent passage through them in large bubbles. This may be so; and if so, their internal structure must of course be different from ours. The fact cannot be ascertained perfectly until the progress of science has enabled our anatomists to make a thorough investigation, with a view to throw light on this point. I can testify that they have no gills. In the younger males, indeed, I see what I may call an attempt of nature to throw out something of the sort; but, strangely enough, while these generally lie as ours do, in the case of some whose epidermis is black they invariably turn upward towards the eyes, serving no purpose but to embarrass the movements of the head. Sometimes, even in youth, and almost in every case in old age, they disappear altogether.
The habits of these bipeds in respect of food also greatly perplex me. I certainly have seen them occasionally eat and drink, but in such very small quantities, that I cannot believe that their huge bodies can be maintained on so little nourishment.
I must observe that the large den, of which we command a view, is only a part, and, I should conceive, a small part, of their dwelling. They can leave it by large holes left in the wall and closed by an ingenious contrivance, that forcibly reminds me of our old traditions about the beaver. I should pronounce them to be beavers, did I not know the beaver was not a biped, and, also, that
