Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/270

. 31, 1861.] in their appearance, and few people probably ever notice them, or could be easily induced to believe that there is anything in them worthy of notice. But place a small portion under the microscope, and you will not long be in doubt as to where the interest of the oscillatoriæ lies. You will see an evident and undeniable plant actively moving. In the case of the moving zoospores, which we just now described, it is only by seeing them within the cells of the parent plant, or by patiently watching their growth, that you can convince yourself of their vegetable nature; but that the oscillatoriæ are plants, notwithstanding their strange motions, your eyes will at once convince you. And strange indeed their movements are. Here you will see a thread moving from side to side like the pendulum of a clock, one end vibrating, while the other remains fixed; here a second twists itself about like a worm or a caterpillar, while a third combines this with an onward progressive motion. “If a piece of the stratum of an oscillatoria,” says Dr. Harvey, “be placed in a vessel of water, and allowed to remain there for some hours, its edge will first become fringed with filaments, radiating from a central point, with their tips outwards. These filaments, by their constant oscillatory motion, are continually loosened from their hold on the stratum cast into the water, and at the same time propelled forwards; and as the oscillation continues after the filament has left its nest, the little swimmer moves along, till it not only reaches the edge of the vessel, but often, as if in the attempt to escape confinement, continues its voyage up the sides till it is stopped by dryness. Thus, in a very short time, a small piece of oscillatoria will spread itself over a large vessel of water.” The cause of these singular movements is a mystery to which at present we have no clue. No cilia can be detected, nor any other organs of motion; and when we have said that the movements of these plants are rendered more active by heat and light, and checked by any strong chemical agent, we have exhausted the whole stock of our present knowledge.

Strange as are some of these facts when told, they seem far more strange when seen. The history of the seaweeds is one which words can but very imperfectly relate. Probably no one fully realises the idea of moving plants, until he has seen for himself the swarming of the zoospores within their parent cells, or the oscillatoriæ performing their singular rhythmical movements. Here, too, as in all other branches of natural history, he who wishes truly to know, must not rest contented with the descriptions of others, but must take the earliest opportunity of verifying or correcting them by his own observation.

C. C.

years agone—so saith the chronicler

Whose old Italian gentleness of touch

Findeth no echo on the northern harp

To counterpart its music—long ago,

When Saladin was Soldan of the East,

The Kings let cry a general crusade,

And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy

The idle lances of the North and West

Rode all that year, as all the year runs down

Into a lake from all its hanging hills

The clash and glitter of a hundred streams.

Whereof the rumour reached to Saladin,

And that swart King—as royal of his heart

As any crowned champion of the Cross—

That he might fully, of his knowledge, know

The purpose of the lords of Christendom,

And when their war and what their armament,

Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy.

Wherefore, with wise and trustful servants twain,

All habited in garbs that merchants use,

With trader’s band and gipsire on the breast

That best loved mail and dagger, Saladin

Set out upon his journey perilous.

In that far day fair land was Lombardy!

A sea of country plenty, islanded

With cities rich, nor richer one than thee,

Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn,

With ear that little recked the matin-bell

But a keen eye to measure wall and foss,

The Soldan rode, and all day long he rode

For Pavia—passing basilic, and shrine,

And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not

Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse.

All day he rode; yet at the wane of day

No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire,

Nor Tessin’s sparkle underneath the stars

Promised him Pavia; but he was ’ware

Of a gay company upon the way,

Ladies and Lords, with horse, and hawk, and hound,

Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered with the stir

Of merry race for home. “Go!” said the King

To him that rode upon his better hand,

And pray these gentlemen of courtesy

How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates,

What hour they close them.” Then the Saracen

Set spur, and being joined, to him that showed

First of the hunt, he said his message—they

Checking the jangling bits, and chiding down

The unfinished laugh to listen—and by this

Came up the King, his bonnet in his hand,

Theirs doffed to him: “Sir Trader,” Torel said

(Messer Torello ’twas, of Istria),

They shut the Pavian gate at even-song

And even-song is sung.” Then turning half,

Muttered, “Pardie, the man is worshipful,

A stranger too!” “Fair Lord!” quoth Saladin,

Please you to stead a weary traveller,

Saying where we may lodge, the town so far

And night so near.” “Of my heart, willingly,”

Made answer Torel, “I did think but now

To send my knave an errand—he shall ride

And bring you unto lodgement—oh! no thanks,

Our Lady speed you!” Then with whispered hest

He named their guide and sped them. Being gone,

Torello told his purpose, and the band,

With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains,

Sped for his hunting-palace, where they set

A goodly banquet underneath the planes,

And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon

Welcomed the wondering strangers, thereto led

Unwitting by a world of winding paths:

Messer Torello, at the inner gate,

Waiting to take them in—a goodly host,

Stamped current with God’s image for a man

Chief among men—truthful, and just, and free.

Then he, “Well met again, fair sirs! Our knave

Hath found you shelter better than the worst.

Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed.

Grace our poor supper here.” Then Saladin,

Whose sword had yielded ere his courtesy,

Answered, “Great thanks, Sir Knight! and this much blame,