This account reminds us of the tale of the traveller who reported that he had seen a cabbage, under whose leaves a whole regiment of soldiers were sheltered from a shower of rain. Another, who was no traveller (but the wiser man), said he had passed by a place where there were four hundred braziers making a cauldron—two hundred within, and two hundred without beating the nails in. The traveller, asking for what use that huge cauldron was, he told him, 'Sir, it was to boil your cabbage!' A wittily severe, but deserved rebuke.
There are many other statements regarding fishes which, although curious, are, nevertheless, to a certain extent true.
The Chinese, for instance, who breed large quantities of the well-known gold-fish, call them, it is said, with a whistle to receive their food. Sir Joseph Banks used to collect his fish by sounding a small gong; and Carew, the historian of Cornwall, brought his grey Mullet together to be fed by making a noise with two sticks.
In spite of these accounts, there are many writers who affirm that fishes do not possess the sense of hearing at all; and certainly a belief that these creatures are gifted with such a faculty is not necessary, in my opinion, in order to explain the above-mentioned phenomenon.
At the fountains, in the gardens of Versailles, the writer has seen numbers of fishes flocking together and anxiously waiting for the subscriptions of the visitors. Now, had a bell been rung, these animals, doubtless, would have appeared at the edge of the fountain as usual; but had the bell not been sounded, and any human figure been visible, they would have taken up the self-same position.
I have, at various times, kept packs of fishes (Blennies, &c.), and tamed them, so that each member would feed out of my hand. For some time I used to attract them to the side of the vessel in which, they resided by striking a wine glass with a small stick; but I also noted that if I made myself visible, and remained silent, while handing down a few fish mouthfuls, that the whole pack followed as readily as if I had sounded the mimic gong. Nay, whether I offered any bribe or not, and silently approached their crystal abode, the whole family would immediately flock in great haste towards me.
The tameness of these little creatures was somewhat remarkable. On numberless occasions I have taken them up in the palm of my hand, without the slightest opposition on their part, and then stroked and smoothed them on the back, as I would do a bird. At such times they made a kind of musical chirp, expressive of pleasurable emotion, and seemed in no hurry to escape into their native element even when I laid my hand in the water.
Such delightful confidence was always rewarded with some dainty.
Dr. Warwick relates an instance of instinct and intelligence in the Pike, which is so remarkable that I am sure my readers will be pleased to be made acquainted with it. I am the more induced to transfer it to these pages, from the remarks with which the doctor closes his narrative. From reasons stated above, the reader will be prepared to learn that I do not consider the statements therein advanced—that fishes are really sensible to sound—by any means conclusive.