ON AQUARIUMS

Otago Witness, Issue 3714, 19 May 1925, Page 67

ON AQUARIUMS

RECOLLECTIONS OF BRIGHTON.

By

F. B. Forester.

(For the Witness.) At the present time, when so much interest is being taken in the formation of aquaria in so many of the chief cities throughout the world, some recollections of the celebrated aquarium at Brighton, the forerunner and model of them all, may not be out of place. In those days the Brighton Aquarium was in its prime, and under the able management of a capable board of directors there had been secured for exhibition, under the most favourable conditions, probably the finest collection of fresh and sea water fish, not to mention other in habitants of river and ocean, that has ever been seen. The place has, alas! degenerated since that time to a sort of third-rate music hall, the aquarium proper taking a back seat altogether, but in its palmy days neither trouble nor expense had been spared to the exhibition perfect of its kind. Those who know London-by-the-Sea will remember the site of the aquarium—at the eastern end of King's road, below the Marine Parade, and not far from the old Chain Pier. This position, so conveniently close to the shore, considerably facilitated the constant renewal of the immense quantities of sea-water required for the tanks. Let us suppose the intervening years rolled away in order once again to visit the aquarium, as known to us, at its oest. Six broad flights of shallow steps lead down from the clock tower at the road level to the buildings itself, the roof of which chords space for a fine open-air promenade. Above the handsome parade runs the appropriate inscription: “ And God said, ‘ Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life.’ ” On entering' we find ourselves in a large rectangular hall, well lighted, and serving as a lounge and reading room. Tables of papers and magazines stand about, and in one railed-off recess a couple of chess players sit, intent upon .their game. This hall is merely an earnest of what is to come, for all around are placed tablecases containing various species of amphibians too small for exhibition in the larger tanks. Here may be seen frogs and toads, salamanders—those unfortunate creatures concerning which so many strange superstitions are rife,—and curious looking efts or newts. Here, too, are several ex : amples of the strange axolotls from Mexico, concerning which naturalists the world over have been so much divided m opinion as to their rightful place in the animal kingdom. But through the door just closing behind a visitor shows a gleam of tremulous green light, and we lose no time in passing through, to find-our-selves in the dimly-lighted corridor beyond. It is a strange sight that greets us there. In one of the marvellous “ Tales of the Arabian Nights ” which delighted our youth there is one occasion upon which the hero or the villain—or both together —find themselves under the necessity of traversing a subterranean passage, in doing which thev are compelled to secure their flowing Tobes carefully around them lest contact with the walls should bring about their death. Something akin to this eerie experience is ours on entering this oorridor, paved by walls of water, and bounded literally by walls of water, for involuntarily the thought crosses the mind that should any accident precipitate the thousands of gallons of water contained in the tanks into the corridor every human being therein would be drowned like a rat m a trap. Away into the shadowy distance it stretches, this dimly-lighted corridor, a vista of shimmering green, in the midst of which strange finny creatures dart and glide, the water quivering and dancing in the light directed on the tanks, from which a faint tremulous reflection is thrown on the stones beneath the feet. Each tank is fronted with plate glass, the back and sides are of rockwork, affording dark nooks and crevices where the occupants may hide at will, and the floor is of shining sand or gravel. Clear as crystal is the water, and well it may be so, since the supply is renewed every 24 hours, and abundance of space is provided for the finny inhabitants. One tank in particular, the largest of all, cannot be far short of 100 ft in length, and behind the thick glass of its front rays, stingarees, and several of the smaller sharks are swimming freely up and down. A little further, on the opposite side of the corridor, the queer sensation may be experienced of standing with a hand upon the glass, on the other side of which four or five huge black conger eels, each 6ft or 7ft long, are pushing their snouts and staring with great goggle eyes at the human beings parted from them by only an inch of glass. The next tank ’s % beautiful sight, containing a crowd of gold and silver earn, varying in size from a minnow to a nerring. The larger ones are comparatively pale in hue, but the colour of the smaller fish is a deep red ?;old, glowing in its intensity. AnotheT anl;—th»re are between 20 and 30 'of them—contains a dozen or so of the weirdlooking king crabs, with their long srikelike tails, while in ono containing rresli water three huge pike ore lying on the gravel, as they love to lie, at the bottom of a still deep pool. But what a scene of beauty Is here! The rocky walls and floor of the tank are literally covered with thronging clusters of sea anemones of all shapes, colours, and sizes. The utter gorgeousness of these lovely creatures, ranging up through shades of colour that only an Eastern artist could dream of, from palest coral to deepest red, from clear ivory to flaming orange, particularly when seen at night, with the glow of the lights reflected in

the water, is a sheer vision of loveliness that defies description. Other tanks there are, where myriads of fish less familiar by name show silvery gleams as they dart or glide through the crystal water, or huge crustaceans, crabs, lobsters, ana crayfish sprawl over the gravel floor of their home. But here is a tank demanding a closer inspection, for, perhaps the most weirdly interesting of all the exhibits, it contains the octopuses (One feels inclined, with bacilli and hippopotami in mind, to write “ octopi,” but the dictionary decrees octopuses, so octopuses, or octopodes, let it be.) At first sight the tank appears to L* empty, for neither in the clear water itself nor yet on the gravel floor is there any sign of life. But a glance down the huge sheet of gkiss forming the front of the tank shows us, huddled close to the foot, under the very eyes of the spectators, two or three specimens of tho ordinary octopuses, these monsters of which so much has been written and said, the polypus of the ancients, the poulpe of the Irench, the devil-fish of sailors and divers alike. As the creature lies or, rather crouches, its eight arms or tentacles coiled underneath its body, the head, from which these arms spring, is slightly raised, and the eyes, golden like those of a tiger, stare out at the spectator with the cold pas sionless gaze of the lidless eyes of a snake. They do not glare; life, energy is implied by that word, and the gaze of these strange, unwinking eyes is lifeless. The creature never moves. We may make the round of the tanks, return, and return yet again, and still not a sign of He shows itself except the watching eyes. Motionless as a tuatara the animal lies, its wrinkled arms, covered with suckers of varying size, coiled beneath and around it, concealing in part not only the sac-tike body, but tnat terrible weapon, seeming so paradoxical in a mollusc, the parrotlike beak. Once, and once only, is it otherwise. A ripple in the water near the surface draws the attention of the spectator upwards to see another of the octopuses, hitherto concealed in the dark rockwork at the Tear, in the act of swimming across the tank. It swims backward, the body first, the long arms, mouth, and formidable beak concealed in their centre, trailing behind through the water, and propels itself by jerks, the main factor in its propulsion oeing the funnel-like opening at the side of the head —a proof this, if proof be wanting, of the excellent opportunities of studying the habits of little-known and deep-sea creatures afforded by an aquarium. But a loud barking roar has suddenly echoed through the building announcing that the hour for feeding the sea-lions is at hand. Only a passing glance at the seals in their rocky pond, and, guided by the incessant clamorous roars, we reach the annexe, and are just in time to see the great lion plunge from the rocky platform after a fish thrown by his keeper, his roar cut suddenly short as he div'.s under water, while his gentle, soft-eved mate, barely half his size, begs, like a dog, for her share. The roar of the lion as his head emerges from the swirling water follows us as we reluctantly turn away, and is the last sound heard as we leave the building.