The subject of nomenclature is not altogether so dry and arid as it seems to many who do not fully understand the significance of scientific names. Not only do they often express with terse precision the character of the animal or plant they signify, but there is also no little sentiment concealed under these jaw-breaking appellations. As seafaring men call their vessels after friends or sweethearts, or commemorate in this way some impressive event, or some object of their reverence, so have naturalists, under their fabrication of appropriate names, veiled many a graceful allusion, either to the great leaders of our science, or to some more intimate personal affection. The _Linnæa borealis_ was well named after his famous master, by a disciple of the great Norwegian naturalist; _Goethea semperflorens_, the ever-blooming, is another tribute of the same kind, while the pretty, graceful little Lizzia, named by Forbes, is one instance among many of a more affectionate reference to nearer friends. The allusions of this kind are not always of so amiable a character, however,--witness the "Buffonia," a low, noxious weed, growing in marshy places, and named by Linnæus after Buffon, whom he bitterly hated. Indeed, there is a world of meaning hidden under our zoölogical and botanical nomenclature, known only to those who are intimately acquainted with the annals of scientific life in its social as well as its professional aspect.
The Ctenophoræ differ from other Jelly-fishes in their mode of locomotion. All the Discophorous Medusæ, as well as Hydroids, move by a rhythmical rise and fall of the disk, contracting and expanding with alternations so regular, that it reminds one of the action of the lungs, and seems at first sight to be a kind of respiration in which water takes the place of air. The Greeks recognized this peculiar character in their name, for they called them Sea-lungs. Indeed, locomotion, respiration, and circulation are so intimately connected in all these lower animals, that whatever promotes one of these functions affects the other also, and though the immediate result of the contraction and expansion of the disk seems to be to impel them through the water, yet it is also connected with the introduction of water into the body, which there becomes assimilated with the food in the process of digestion, and is circulated throughout all its parts by means of ramifying tubes. In the Ctenophoræ there is no such regular expansion and contraction of the disk; they are at once distinguished from the Discophoræ by the presence of external locomotive appendages of a very peculiar character. They move by the rapid flapping of countless little oars or paddles, arranged in vertical rows along the surface of the disk, acting independently of each other; one row, or even one paddle, moving singly, or all of them together, at the will of the animal; thus enabling it to accelerate or slacken its movements, to dart through the water rapidly, or to diminish its speed by partly furling its little sails, or, spreading them slightly, to poise itself with a faint, quivering movement that reminds one of the pause of the humming-bird in the air,--something that is neither positive motion, nor actual rest.[3]