the swimming legs of the water-boatman are exact analogues of the oars of a human rower. The internal muscles at the juncture of the leg with the body supply the place of the rower’s arms, the leg itself takes the office of the oar, and the body of the insect is the weight to be moved, and the water supplies the fulcrum. Even the broad blade at the end of the oar is anticipated by the fringe of bristles at the end of the leg, and its sharpened edge by the shape of the insect’s limb.
Besides these resemblances, there is another which is worthy of notice. All rowers know that one of their first lessons is to “feather” their oars, i.e. to turn the blade edgewise as soon as it leaves the water. Nothing looks more awkward than for a boatman to row without feathering. (We all must remember the eulogy on the “Jolly Young Waterman,” who “feathered his oars with skill and dexterity.”) In the first place, he must lift his oar very high out of the water, and, in the second, he will be impeded by any wind that happens to come against the blades.
The Water-boatman, however, does not lift its legs out of the water after every stroke, as a human boatman does, and therefore it has no need to feather in the same way. But there is even greater need for a feathering of some kind in the insect’s leg, on account of the greater resistance offered by water than by air, and this feathering is effected by the arrangement of the blade-bristles, which spread themselves against the water as the stroke is made, and collapse afterwards, so as to give as little resistance as possible when the stroke is completed.
In Art we have invented many similar contrivances, but I believe that there is not one in which we have not been anticipated by Nature. Putting aside the insect which has just been described, we have the whole tribe of water-beetles, in which the same principle is carried out in an almost identical manner. In the accompanying illustration, the oar, the rower, and the boat are placed above one another, and next to them are seen one of the oar-legs of the water-boatman and the insect as it appears when swimming on its back.
Then, there is the foot of the duck, goose, swan, and various other aquatic birds, in which the foot presents a broad blade as it strikes against the water, and a narrow edge as it recovers from the stroke. Some years ago, a steam yacht was built and propelled by feet made on the model of those of the swan. She was a very pretty vessel, but art could not equal nature, and at present the swan-foot propeller, however perfect in theory, has not succeeded in action. Perhaps, if some nautical engineer were to take it in hand, he would procure the desired result.
Almost exactly similar is the mode of propulsion employed by the lobster, the prawns and shrimps, their tails expanding widely into a fan-like shape as they strike against the water, and then collapsing when the stroke is withdrawn, so as to allow them to pass through the water with the least possible resistance.
The same principle is to be seen in the lively little Acaleph, for which there is unfortunately no popular name, and which we must therefore call by its scientific title of Cydippe, or Beroë, these names being almost indifferently used. When full grown, it is about as large as an acorn, and very much of the same shape. It is as transparent as if made of glass, and, when in the water, is only visible to practised eyes.
En passant, I may remark that the familiar term of “water,” when applied to diamonds, is owing to their appearance when placed in distilled water. Those which can be at once seen are called stones of the second water. Those which cannot be seen, because their refractive powers are equal to those of the water, are called “diamonds of the first water,” and are very much more valuable than the others.
As the Cydippe is, in fact, little more than sea-water, entangled in the slightest imaginable and most transparent tissue of animal fibre, it is evident that the water and the Cydippe must be of almost equal refracting power, and that therefore the acaleph must be as invisible as diamonds of the “first water.” Indeed, I have often had specimens in a glass jar which were absolutely invisible to persons to whom I wished to show them.
But an experienced eye detects the creature at once. Along its body, at equal distances, are eight narrow bands, over which the colours of the rainbow are, though very faint, perpetually rippling. This appearance is caused by the machinery which impels the body, and which seems never to cease. Each of these bands is composed of a vast number of tiny flaps, which move up and down in regular succession, so as to cause the light to play on their surfaces. And, as they move as if set on hinges, they of course offer no resistance to the water after their stroke is made.
Now let us compare these works of nature with those of art. We have already seen the parallels of the oar, and we now come to those of the paddle-wheel. When paddle-steamers were first invented, the blades were fixed and projected from the wheel, as if they had been continuations of its spokes. It was found, however, that a great waste of power, together with much inconvenience, was caused by this arrangement. Not only was a considerable weight of water raised by each blade after it passed the middle of its stroke, but the steam power was given nearly as much to lifting and shaking the vessel as to propulsion.
A new kind of paddle-wheel was then invented, in which the blades were ingeniously jointed to the wheel, so that they presented their flat surfaces to the water while propelling, and their edges when the stroke was over. This, which is known by the name of the “Self-feathering Paddle-wheel,” was thought to be a very clever invention, and so it was; but not even the inventors were likely to have known that if they had only looked into the book of Nature, they might have found plenty of self-feathering paddle-wheels, beside the few which my limited space enables me to give.
If the reader will look at the illustration, he will see that on one side is represented the self-feathering paddle-wheel of Art, with its ingenious arrangement of rods and hinges. On the other side there comes, first, the common Prawn, shown with its tail expanded in the middle of its stroke.
Just below it is a Cydippe of its ordinary size, showing the paddle-bands, one of which is drawn at the side much magnified, so as to show the arrangement of the little paddles. As to the tentacles which trail from the body, we shall treat of them when we come to our next division of the subject of the work.
Lastly, there is a representation of the self-feathering feet of the Duck, the left foot expanded in striking the water, and the right closed so as to offer no resistance when drawn forward for another stroke. The swan’s foot shows this action even more beautifully than does that of the duck.
We now come to another mode of propulsion, namely, that which is not due to direct pressure of a more or less flat body against the water, but to the indirect principle of the screw, wedge, or inclined plane.
Space being valuable, I will only take two instances, namely, the well-known mode of propelling a boat by a single oar working in a groove or rowlock in the middle of the stern, and the ordinary screw of modern steamers.
Most of my readers must have seen a sailor in the act of “sculling” a boat. A tolerably deep notch is sunk in the centre of the stern, and the oar is laid in it, as shown in the central illustration, on the right-hand side. The sailor then takes the handle of the oar, and works it regularly backwards and forwards, without taking the blade out of the water. The boat at once begins to move forward, and, when the oar is urged by a strong and experienced man, can be propelled with wonderful speed. The well-known “Tanka” boat-girls of China never think of using two oars, a single oar in the stern being all-sufficient for the rapid and intricate evolutions required in their business.
