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M. Hugo forcibly refers to the remarkable property of rapidly changing its colour possessed by this animal. He writes:--

"Its under surface is yellowish; its upper, earthy. Its dusty hue can neither be imitated nor explained: it might be called a 'a beast made of ashes, which inhabits the water.' Irritated, it becomes violet. It is a spider in form, a chameleon in coloration."

It was also frequently referred to by other writers. Athenaeus quotes Theognis of Megara as saying in his Elegies:--

"Remark the tricks of that most wary polypus, Who always seems of the same colour and hue As is the rock on which he lies;"

and Ion the tragedian, who wrote in his "Phoenix":--

"I hate the colour-changing polypus Clinging with bloodless feelers to the rocks."

It was also the subject of a maxim equivalent to our "When you're at Rome, do as Rome does." A proverb cited by Clearchus runs thus:--

"My son, my excellent Amphilocus, Copy the shrewd device o' the polypus And make yourself as like as possible To those whose land you chance to visit."

M. Hugo poetically alludes to the phosphorescent glow said to be emitted by the octopus in the dark:--

I have never been fortunate enough to witness the exhibition of this phosphorescence by the living octopus, although in dead specimens, as is the case with other marine animals, it becomes apparent as soon as decomposition has commenced; but D'Orbigny mentions it, and Mr. Darwin says, "I observed that one which I kept in the cabin was slightly phosphorescent in the dark." No doubt concerning this can, therefore, exist; for a more competent observer, or more accurate recorder of facts than Mr. Darwin, never put pen to paper.

In his description of the manner in which the devil-fish absorbs its victim, the author of "The Toilers of the Sea" releases his ardent imagination from the few restraining ties by which it was bound to reality. He writes:--

"You enter into the beast, the hydra incorporates itself with the man: the man is amalgamated with the hydra. You become one. The tiger can only devour you; the devil-fish inhales you. He draws you to him, into him; and, bound and helpless, you feel yourself slowly emptied into this frightful sac, which is a monster. To be eaten alive is more than terrible; but to be drunk alive is inexpressible."

M. Hugo fortunately gives us the means of estimating the size of the body of the octopus which attacked Gilliatt. He tells us that its arms were "nearly a metre long." None of quite so great dimensions have, I believe, been found in the English Channel, but it is not impossible that such exist. Granting this, the body of such an octopus would not be very much larger than a soda-water bottle or a Florence-flask, such as olive-oil is sold in: and so the "horrible bag, which is a monster," and into which you are to be inhaled and drawn alive, is but a small affair after all. The plain truth is, that the octopus and other cephalopods obtain and eat their food very much like the rapacious birds. They are the falcons of the sea. Some of them, like Onychoteuthis, strike their prey with talons and suckers also; others, like the octopus, lay hold of it with suckers alone; but they all tear the flesh with their beaks, and swallow and digest their food in as unromantic a fashion as does hawk or vulture.

But it is when the author indulges in what he is pleased to call "philosophical meditation" on such animals that he arrives at the highest point of hyperbolical mystery. He tells us:--

"They are the chosen forms of evil. What are we to do in presence of these blasphemies of creation against itself?... The possible is a formidable matrix. Mystery concretes itself in monsters. Portions of shades come forth from this block, the perpetual; tear themselves, divide themselves, roll, float, condense, borrow from the ambient blackness, undergo unknown polarizations, assume life, compose for themselves who can tell what forms with obscurity, what souls with miasma; and issue from them larvae, athwart the course of vitality. They are as the darkness converted into beasts. Of what use, for what purpose, are such creatures?--relapse of the eternal question! These animals are phantoms as much as monsters. They are the amphibiae of death, the visible extremities of black circles. They mark the transition of our reality to another."

To analyse this is beyond my powers. One can only wonder what it all means. The language is sententious, and would, no doubt, be impressive if it were not incomprehensible. It reminds one of Mr. Maccabe's "Welsh sermon," which, delivered with solemn earnestness, rolls forth in grandly sonorous tones, but has not a word of Welsh or sense in it; or of the "nonsense-problem" which Mark Twain says was propounded to him by Artemus Ward, and which seemed so full of thought and so clearly put that he blamed his "wooden head" because he got into a hopeless tangle over it, until he found he had been entrapped into pondering over "a string of plausibly worded sentences that did not mean anything under the sun."

Let us now take evidence concerning the dimensions to which the octopus is known to attain, and the degree in which it may be regarded as dangerous to man.

An octopus from our own coasts having arms two feet in length may be considered a rather large specimen; and Dr. J. E. Gray, who was always most kindly ready to place at the disposal of any sincere inquirer the vast store of knowledge laid up in his wonderful memory, told me that "there is not one in the British museum which exceeds this size, or which would not go into a quart pot, body, arms and all." The largest British specimen I have hitherto seen had arms 2 ft. 6 in. long.

If, however, the octopus seldom or never arrives at a length of arm of three feet on the northern coasts of France, we have sufficient evidence that it exceeds it on her southern borders, and along the Spanish and Italian shores of the Mediterranean.

M. Verany, of Nice, an able naturalist, mentions having seen an octopus which weighed 33 lbs. and measured three metres from tip to tip of its outstretched arms. This would make the length of each arm about four-and-a-half feet. A fisherman who noticed it affixed to the mole of the port of Nice had the hardihood to grasp it with his hands, and made himself master of it, though not without much difficulty.

Mr. Sylvanus Hanley, the well-known conchologist, and joint author with Professor Edward Forbes of their standard work on the British Mollusca, who passes every winter in Italy, has personally informed me that there are living in the harbour of Leghorn several octopods having arms at least four feet long, and as thick at their base as a man's wrist. They lie with their bodies squeezed into, and hidden in, crevices in the stone-work of the mole and sea-wall, two or three of their arms extended and waving about in the water in readiness to seize passing prey, and the others holding fast to the blocks of stone. Mr. Hanley says that his son, who is a practised shore-hunter, and no coward, having frequent occasion, whilst in search of shells, to climb along a ledge of the rough masonry near the surface of the water, just beneath which was the lurking-place of one of these great creatures, was for some time afraid to pass the spot, in consequence of the animal's formidable appearance; for, as he approached, it would thrust one or two of its disc-studded arms out of water, and stretch them towards him in a threatening manner, in its endeavours to reach him. The Italian divers and bathers are said to fear these creatures.

My deceased friend John Keast Lord gives in his book, "The Naturalist in British Columbia," some particulars of the dimensions attained by the octopus in North-Western America. He writes:--"The octopus, as seen on our own coasts , although even here called a 'man-sucker' by the fishermen, is a mere Tom Thumb--a tiny dwarf--as compared with the Brobdingnagian proportions he attains in the sunny bays and long inland canals of Vancouver's Island, as well as on the mainland. These places afford lurking-dens, strongholds, and natural sea-nurseries, where the octopus grows to an enormous size, fattens, and wages war with insatiable ferocity on all and everything it can catch. The size, of course, varies. I have seen and measured the arm five feet long, and as large at the base, where it joins the central disc, as my wrist." He adds that the Indians, when spearing them for food, take care to keep them at a distance till they have stabbed them to death; knowing that if an octopus were once to get some of its huge arms over the side of the canoe, it could as easily haul it over as a child could upset a basket. But we know that a canoe is very crank, and easily upset.

I have often been asked whether an octopus of the ordinary size can really be dangerous to bathers. Decidedly "Yes," in certain situations. The octopus would not seize a man for the purpose of devouring him; nor do I believe that the act would be prompted by a deliberate intention to drown him, that his dead body might become an attractive bait for crabs, which are the animal's favourite food; but rather by an instinctive desire to lay hold on anything moving within reach. The holding power of its numerous suckers is enormous. It is almost impossible forcibly to detach it from its adhesion to a rock or the flat bottom of a tank; and if a large one happened to fix one or more of its strong, tough arms on the leg of a swimmer whilst the others held firmly to a rock, I doubt if the man could disengage himself under water by mere strength, before being exhausted. Fortunately, it can be made to relax its hold by grasping it tightly round the "throat" , and it may be well that this should be known.

Admiral Baillie Hamilton has kindly furnished me with some information on the subject. He tells me that in his time, many years ago, it was an understood thing that there existed amongst the rocks of Gibraltar Bay an octopus of large size; and that during the last half-century one soldier at least of the garrison has been drowned whilst bathing there by being grasped under water by one of these "devil-fishes."

Major Newsome, R.E., has also been so kind as to send me the following description of an incident which happened to himself.

"In the years 1856-7," he writes, "I was stationed at East London, a landing place about 900 miles from the Cape, up the east coast of Africa;--I speak from memory, having no map at hand. It is a rock-bound coast with the exception of the river's mouth, which consists of a small space of sand. The landing is most dangerous, and, conducted in surf boats, hatched over, is only then practicable in very calm weather. The ordinary practice amongst the officers, both for comfort and saving of labour, is to bathe on the sea shore. Such was my custom each morning. There was one quadrangular cavity in the rocks which, at low water and in calm weather, formed a very desirable bath; but in rough weather, or at any time of tide except near about low water, it was unapproachable. At the best of times it was generally in a boil, and I have known a strong swimmer washed clean out of it on to the adjoining rocks, cut most grievously about the body by barnacles. Nevertheless, we mostly took a dip there when practicable, on account of the freshness of the water. At other times the plunge took place in smooth pools left in the rocks by the receding tide, which, though not quite so fresh, yet formed a very acceptable bath. One morning I took a header into one of these pools, which was, perhaps, 20 feet long, 7 to 8 feet wide, and deep in the centre--8 or 9 feet. As I swam from one end to the other, I was horrified at feeling something around my ancle, and made for the side as speedily as I could. I thought at first it was only seaweed; but as I landed, and trod with my foot on the rock, my disgust was heightened at feeling a fleshy and slippery substance under me. I was, I confess, alarmed, and so, apparently, was the beast on whom I trod, and whom, I suspect, I thereby discomfited, as he quickly detached himself and made again for the water. Some fellow-bathers, whom I hailed, came to my assistance, and with a boat-hook, on to which the brute clung, he was, eventually, safely landed. When extended he would have filled a hoop of five feet diameter. The grasp of an ordinary sized octopus holding to a rock would, I suppose, in lat. 30?, be not less than 30 lb. to 40 lb. The floating power of a man is between 5 lb. and 6 lb., and it takes a very strong swimmer to convey an ordinary fowling-piece, which weighs only 7 lb., across a river, dry. Had I not kept mid-channel, I believe it would have been a life-and-death struggle between myself and the beast on my ancle. In the open water I was the best man; but near the bottom or sides, which I could not have reached with my arms, but which he could have reached with his, he would, certainly, have drowned me."

Major Newsome has not over-estimated the holding power of an octopus. One in the Brighton Aquarium was seen dragging towards it a huge stone, from 40 lb. to 50 lb. in weight. It is not uncommon for one to haul up to a ledge of rock, four or five feet from the bottom, two or three heavy oysters simultaneously; and it unfortunately happened in the early days of the Institution, and before precautions were taken to avert such accidents, that an octopus drew up, by night, the waste-valve of his tank, and let all the water run out of it; thus, by his strength, like Samson at Gaza, bringing death upon himself and all his companions.

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 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 AEgean, 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 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 dep?ts on the shore; and adds that the head of it, when it was at last killed, was found to weigh 700lb. AElian 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 , 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.

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.

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 , 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.'"

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:--

Marvellous as the above narrative may appear to the reader , 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.

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."

NEW LIMBS FOR OLD ONES.

This reparative power is possessed by some other animals, of which the starfishes and crustacea are the most familiar instances. The lobster and the crab, if they find themselves in depressing circumstances, are addicted to malingering. They do not go so far as to commit suicide; but, stopping short of that, perpetrate a kind of demi-semi-self-immolation. In a sudden passion of fear or anger, they will sometimes fling off one or both of their large claws, and that which they thus do impulsively and in haste, they repent and repair at leisure--like the intemperate man we sometimes read of in the police news, who goes home and smashes the crockery, and, when he is able to reflect on his folly, is glad to make good the damage as quickly and as quietly as he can.

The starfishes, too, as the common "five-finger" , and the brittle-star ,--which by-the-by, is not half as brittle as has been supposed--can throw off their limbs in a pet, and grow them again. But in both of these the act is voluntary, and the dismemberment complete. If the claw of a lobster or crab be severed, or wounded in any part of its length, the animal will bleed, and waste, and die of the consequent exhaustion. I have noticed that, especially in the spiny lobster or sea cray-fish , the blood flows freely many hours after death, and that when I have had occasion to remove the abdominal and caudal leaf-like appendages of a dead cray-fish for dissection and microscopical examination, the blood and serum have poured from the part where the cut has been made, and thickened on the stone slab in a firm, gelatinous sheet, of the colour and consistency of guava jelly.

The only joint from which new growth can start in the crustacea is that connected with the body. The whole limb must be got rid of. The octopus, on the contrary, is incapable of voluntary dismemberment, but has the faculty of reproducing, as an outgrowth from the old stump, any portion of an arm which may have been lost by misadventure. I say "arm or leg," for one hardly knows which these eight appendages should be called. If they are legs, the octopus can hold on with them as tightly as the "old man of the sea" gripped Sinbad the Sailor, and use them as dexterously as the "armless girl," who cuts out with hers the pretty paper designs which she sells to visitors. If they are arms, he can walk on them, head downwards, under water, more cleverly than the most agile monkey or street arab. So we may call them either or both.

Returning to our mutilated octopus;--we transfer him from the tank in which he had been temporarily placed to the wet pavement, that we may better observe his movements when crawling. He scrambles and shuffles away, and makes the best use he can of the jury-rigging he has fitted on to his old stumps. As he does so, his keen eyes, mounted on little hillocks, peer furtively around him; and while he sidles off from his too admiring persecutors, he casts a doubtful, half-frightened, half-defiant glance behind him, like a schoolboy, timid in the dark, who fancies a ghost is following him. His cousin the cuttle-fish has an eye, round like that of an owl, which stares you out of countenance, and puzzles you by its immobility; the pupil of the eye of an octopus is like that of a tiger turned half round. The perpendicularly-elongated pupil of the cat gleams with hot ferocity: the calm, cunning gaze of the octopus from out the narrow horizontal slit of its compressed eyelids freezes by its cold cruelty.

There lingers still amongst the fishermen of the Mediterranean a very ancient belief that the octopus when pushed by hunger will gnaw and devour portions of its arms. Aristotle knew of it, and positively contradicted it; but a fallacy once planted is hard to eradicate. You may cut it down, and apparently destroy it, root and branch, but its seeds are scattered abroad, and spring up elsewhere and in unexpected places. Accordingly we find Oppian, more than five centuries later, disseminating the same old notion, and comparing this habit of the animal with that of the bear obtaining nutriment from his paws by sucking them during his hibernation.

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