As every fresh branch of investigation in natural history has a tendency to gather around it a rapidly accumulating literature, some explanation may probably be looked for from an author who offers a new contribution to the public. And when, as in the present instance, the writer's intentions are of an humble kind, it is the more desirable that he should state his views at the outset. Nor can the force of this claim be supposed to be lessened, from the gratifying fact, that the present writer has already received a warm welcome from the public.

But, before entering upon any personal explanations, it may not be out of place, in an introductory chapter such as the present, to bring under review some of the objections which have been, and still continue to be urged against this, in common with other departments of study, which are attempted to be made popular. No branch of natural history has been subjected to more disparaging opposition, partly, it must be owned, from the misplaced enthusiasm of over zealous students, than that of marine zoology.

There are two classes of readers, different in almost all other respects, whose sympathies are united in dislike of such works as this. The one, represented by men distinguished for their powers of original research, are apt to undervalue the labours of such as are not, strictly speaking, scientific writers. There is another class who, from the prejudice of ignorance, look upon marine zoology as too trivial, from the homeliness and minuteness of its details. The wonders of astronomy, and the speculations suggested by geological studies, nay, the laws of organization as exhibited in the higher forms of animal life, are clear enough to this class of readers; but it is not easy to convince them that design can be extracted from a mussel, or that a jelly-fish exhibits a marvellous power of construction.

Now, in my belief, the opposition of the better educated of these two classes of readers is the more dangerous, as it is unquestionably the more ungenerous. If Professor Ansted, when treating of the surprising neglect of geology, could thus express himself—'How many people do we meet, otherwise well educated, who look with indifference, or even contempt on this branch of knowledge,'—how much oftener may the student of the humble theme of marine zoology bewail the systematic depreciation of persons even laying claim to general scientific acquirements. This may be illustrated by an observation, made in a northern university, by a celebrated professor of Greek to a no less celebrated professor of natural history. The latter, intently pursuing his researches into the anatomy of a Nudibranche lying before him, was startled by the sudden entrance of his brother professor, who contemptuously advised him to give up skinning slugs, and take to more manly pursuits.

There is one light in which the study of marine zoology may be regarded, without necessarily offending the susceptibilities of the learned, or exciting the sneers of the ignorant. The subject may be pursued as an amusement—a pastime, if you will; and it is in no higher character than that of a holiday caterer, that the author asks the reader's company to the sea-side. No lessons but the simplest are attempted to be conveyed in this little volume, and these in as quiet and homely a style as possible.

Even in the light of an amusement, the author has something to say in behalf of his favourite study. He believes it to be as interesting, and fully as instructive as many infinitely more popular. For example: The sportsman may love to hear the whirr of the startled pheasant, as it springs from the meadow, and seeks safety in an adjoining thicket. I am as much pleased with the rustling of a simple crab, that runs for shelter, at my approach, into a rocky crevice, or beneath a boulder, shaggy with corallines and sea-weed. He, too, while walking down some rural lane, may love to see a blackbird hastily woo the privacy of a hawthorn bush, or a frightened hare limp across his path, and strive to hide among the poppies in the corn-field; I am equally gratified with the sight of a simple razor-fish sinking into the sand, or with the flash of a silver-bodied fish darting across a rock-pool.

Nay, even the trembling lark that mounts upwards as my shadow falls upon its nest among the clover, is not a more pleasant object to my eye, than the crustaceous hermit, who rushes within his borrowed dwelling at the sound of footsteps. In fact, the latter considerably more excites my kindly sympathies, from its mysterious curse of helplessness. It cannot run from danger, but can only hide itself within its shelly burden, and trust to chance for protection.

Neither the botanist nor the florist do I envy. The latter may love to gather the 'early flowrets of the year,' or pluck an opening rose-bud, but, although very beautiful, his treasures are ephemeral compared with mine.

'Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.'

But I can gather many simple ocean flowers, or weeds that—

'Look like flowers beneath the flattering brine,'

whose prettily tinted fronds will 'grow, bloom, and luxuriate' for months upon my table. They do not want careful planting, or close attention, or even—

'Like their earthly sisters, pine for drought,'

but are strong and hardy, like the pretty wild flowers that adorn our fields and hedge-rows. In the pages of an album, I can, if so disposed, feast my eyes for years upon their graceful forms, whilst their colours will remain as bright as when first transplanted from their native haunts by the sea-shore.

The entomologist delights to stroll in the forest and the field, to hear the pleasant chirp of the cricket in the bladed grass, to watch the honey people bustling down in the blue bells, or even to net the butterfly as it settles on the sweet pea-blossom, while I am content to ramble along the beach, and watch the ebb and flow of the restless sea—

or search for nature's treasures among the weed-clad rocks left bare by the receding tide.

A disciple of the above mentioned branch of natural history will dilate with rapture upon the wondrous transformations which many of his favourite insects undergo. But none that he can show surpasses in grandeur and beauty the changes which are witnessed in many members of the marine animal kingdom. He points to the leaf, to the bloom upon the peach, brings his microscope and bids me peer in, and behold the mysteries of creation which his instrument unfolds. 'Look,' he says, pointing to the verdant leaf, 'at the myriads of beings that inhabit this simple object. Every atom,' he exultingly exclaims, 'is a standing miracle, and adorned with such qualities, as could not be impressed upon it by a power less than infinite!' Agreed. But has not the zoologist equal reason to be proud of his science and its hidden marvels? Can he not exhibit equal miracles of divine power?

Take, as an example, one of the monsters of the deep, the whale; and we shall find, according to several learned writers, that this animal carries on its back and in its tissues a mass of creatures so minute, that their number equals that of the entire population of the globe. A single frond of marine algÆ, in size

may contain a combination of living zoophytic beings so infinitely small, that in comparison the 'fairies' midwife' and her 'team of little atomies' appear monsters as gigantic, even as the whale or behemoth, opposed to the gnat that flutters in the brightest sunbeam.

Again: in a simple drop of sea-water, no larger than the head of a pin, the microscope will discover a million of animals. Nay, more; there are some delicate sea-shells(foraminifera) so minute that the point of a fine needle at one touch crushes hundreds of them.

Lastly, How fondly some writers dwell upon the many touching instances of affection apparent in the feathered tribe, and narrate how carefully and how skilfully the little wren, for example, builds its nest, and tenderly rears its young. I have often watched the common fowl, and admired her maternal anxiety to make her outspread wings embrace the whole of her unfledged brood, and keep them warm. The cat, too, exhibits this characteristic love of offspring in a marked degree. She will run after a rude hand that grasps one of her blind kittens, and, if possible, will lift the little creature, and run away home with it in her mouth. Now, whether we look at the singular skill of the bird building its nest, the hen sitting near and protecting its brood, or the cat grasping her young in its jaws, and carrying them home in safety, we shall find that all these charming traits are wonderfully combined in one of the humblest members of the finny tribe, viz., the common stickleback,—the little creature that boys catch by thousands with a worm and a pin,—that lives equally content in the clear blue sea or the muddy fresh water pool.

The author now finds that he has been much too prolix in these preliminary observations to leave himself space for a lengthened explanation of his reasons for again intruding upon the public. These are neither original nor profound. But he cannot help expressing an earnest hope that he may get credit from old friends, and perhaps from some new, for wishing to show that the book of nature is as open as it is varied and inexhaustible; and that, however jealously guarded are many of the great secrets of organization, a knowledge of some of the most familiar objects tends to inspire us alike with wonder and with awe.

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