<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class='figcenter id001'>
<ANTIMG src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /></div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c000' /></div>
<div id='frontis' class='figcenter id002'>
<ANTIMG src='images/frontis.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Martial Hawk Eagle.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div>
<h1 class='c003'>LIFE AT THE ZOO</h1></div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c004'>
<div><i>NOTES AND TRADITIONS</i></div>
<div><i>OF THE REGENT’S PARK GARDENS</i></div>
<div class='c005'><span class='small'>BY</span></div>
<div><span class='xlarge'>C. J. CORNISH</span></div>
<div class='c005'><i>With Illustrations</i></div>
<div><i>from Photographs by</i> <span class='sc'>Gambier Bolton</span>, F.Z.S.</div>
<div><i>and from Japanese Drawings</i></div>
<div class='c005'><span class='large'>LONDON</span></div>
<div><span class='large'>SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED</span></div>
<div><span class='sc'>Essex Street, Strand</span></div>
<div>1895</div>
</div></div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c006'>PREFACE</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>It</span> may be said that some of the subjects of these
notes are not obviously part of life at the Zoo, and
this remark would be well founded. They have in
the writer’s mind a connection with the Zoo, which
perhaps is not obvious, and might not appeal to the
majority of readers, and would certainly take more
time to set out than its value warrants. So that if
any reader or critic cares to press the point, he is
prepared to say at once, <i>mea culpa</i>.</p>
<p class='c008'>The chapters on Animal Æsthetics, dealing with
the sensibility of the inmates of the Zoo to music,
will be found under the title of “Orpheus at the
Zoo,” by which they originally appeared in the
<i>Spectator</i>, to the editors of which paper the author
owes his thanks for suggesting many subjects of
interest at the Zoo which would not have occurred
to him, and for their kind permission to publish these,
as well as other chapters in an extended form. He
hopes that both these, and the unpublished chapters
which are now added, present a fair picture of the
many-sided present, as well as some glimpses of the
past, of the famous menagerie in Regent’s Park.</p>
<p class='c008'>For the insertion of animal drawings by Japanese
artists, in addition to Mr. Gambier Bolton’s photographs,
the writer must plead the conviction, which
he has long maintained, that their truth to Nature is
of its kind unrivalled.</p>
<div class='c009'><span class='sc'>C. J. Cornish.</span></div>
<p class='c010'><i>Orford House, Chiswick Mall,</i></p>
<p class='c011'><i>September 28, 1894.</i></p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_v'>v</span>
<h2 class='c006'>CONTENTS</h2></div>
<div class='fs80'>
<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='87%' />
<col width='12%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c012'> </td>
<td class='c013'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE ZOO IN A FROST</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_1'>1</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE GHOSTS OF THE TROPICAL FOREST</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_13'>13</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE BUTTERFLY FARM AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_20'>20</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>PATTERNS ON LIVING ANIMALS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_29'>29</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE GIRAFFE’S OBITUARY</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_38'>38</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE ELECTRIC EEL</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_48'>48</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>DEEP-SEA LAMPS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_55'>55</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE LION HOUSE AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_62'>62</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>DIVING BIRDS AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_77'>77</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>TAME DIVERS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_86'>86</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE QUEST FOR THE WILD HORSE</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_91'>91</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO—THE ANIMAL SENSE OF BEAUTY</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_99'>99</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO—SCENTS AND SOUNDS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_109'>109</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO—THE FIRST VISIT</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_115'>115</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO—THE SECOND VISIT</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_123'>123</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO—THE CHOICE OF INSTRUMENTS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_131'>131</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>TALKING BIRDS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_139'>139</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ELEPHANT LIFE IN ENGLAND</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_146'>146</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>WANTED—A NEW MEAT</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_162'>162</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_vi'>vi</span>AN EXPERIMENT IN ANIMAL PRESERVATION</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_170'>170</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>“JAMRACH’S”</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_177'>177</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>EXPRESSION IN THE ANIMAL EYE</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_192'>192</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>LONDON BEARS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_200'>200</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>YOUNG ANIMALS AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_210'>210</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ANIMAL COLOURING</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_222'>222</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>WILD-CATS AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_229'>229</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_240'>240</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>RARE AND BEAUTIFUL MONKEYS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_248'>248</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE LARGER MONKEYS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_255'>255</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>LIZARDS AND CROCODILES AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_263'>263</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>FROM THE ANIMALS’ POINT OF VIEW</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_270'>270</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>POSSIBLE PETS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_278'>278</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE PARIS ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS IN THE TWO SIEGES</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_287'>287</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>OTHER BEASTS OF BURDEN</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_293'>293</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE SOLDIER’S CAMEL</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_302'>302</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE CANADIAN BEAVER</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_311'>311</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE TEMPER OF ANIMALS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_318'>318</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>CRIMINAL ANIMALS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_325'>325</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>A YEAR AT THE ZOO</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#Page_334'>334</SPAN></td>
</tr>
</table></div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_vii'>vii</span>
<h2 class='c006'>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div>
<div class='fs80'>
<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='87%' />
<col width='12%' />
</colgroup>
<tr>
<td class='c012'> </td>
<td class='c013'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>MARTIAL HAWK EAGLE</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#frontis'><i>Frontispiece</i></SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>POLAR BEAR</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i006'>6</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE LAST GIRAFFE</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i038'>38</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>PUMAS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i062'>62</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>LION AND LIONESS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i072'>72</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>TIGER AFTER SMELLING LAVENDER-WATER</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i110'>110</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>AXIS DEER LISTENING</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i118'>118</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>TIGER LISTENING TO SOFT MUSIC</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i136'>136</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>JAPANESE PUG AND CAT</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i180'>180</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>THE QUEEN’S LION CUB</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i210'>210</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>OTTER PURSUING FISH</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i220'>220</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ARABIAN BABOON</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i240'>240</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>MACAQUE MONKEYS</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i248'>248</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>MONKEYS PELTING COOLIES WITH FIR-CONES</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i258'>258</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>ALLIGATOR</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i264'>264</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c012'>BACTRIAN CAMEL</td>
<td class='c013'><SPAN href='#i302'>302</SPAN></td>
</tr>
</table></div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span><span class='xxlarge'>LIFE AT THE ZOO</span></div>
</div></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 class='c006'>THE ZOO IN A FROST</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Sudden</span> and severe cold, however trying to human
constitutions, seems almost harmless to animal health,
provided the weather be dry, frosty, and undimmed
by fog. On the last Friday of November 1893, the
thermometer fell so rapidly that in a few hours it
registered sixteen degrees below freezing-point. On
the following morning, though the sun was shining
brightly, every pool and pond was sheeted with ice,
and the gravel walks were as hard as granite. Yet at
the Zoological Gardens, birds and beasts from tropical
or semi-tropical regions, such as Burmah, Assam,
Malacca, and Brazil, were abroad and enjoying the
keen air; and others, which are usually invisible and
curled up in their sleeping apartments till late in the
day, were already abroad, sniffing at the frost and
icicles, and as indifferent to the cold as Mr. Samuel
Weller’s polar bear “ven he was a-practising his
skating.” A visit to the Gardens in such weather
<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>suggests a modification of too rigid ideas of the
limitation of certain types of animals to warm or
torrid climates, and illustrates the gradual and reluctant
character of the retreat of species before the advance
of the glacial cold in remote ages. No creatures are,
as a rule, more sensitive to cold than the whole
monkey tribe. Yet there is at least one species of
monkey which habitually endures the rigours of a
northern winter. One of the cleverest antique Japanese
drawings at South Kensington represents a troop of
monkeys caught in an avalanche of snow. The
grotesque discomfiture of these pink-faced monkeys
rolling down the hillside, helplessly clutching at each
other’s bodies and limbs, grinning and grimacing as
their heads emerge from the powdery snow, is something
more than the fancy of a Japanese painter. The
incident is probably drawn from an actual scene, and
one of the creatures, the Tcheli monkey from the
mountains of Pekin, was in an open cage in the
gardens, and in far better health and spirits than in
the height of summer. Its fur had grown thick and
close, and the naked face had assumed the dark
madder-pink with which it was adorned in the drawing.
When presented with sticks crusted with frozen
ice, it sucked the chilly dainty with great relish,
and only showed signs of sensitiveness to cold by
putting its fingers in its mouth, and then sitting on
its hands to warm them. The behaviour of this
northern monkey is only strange by contrast with
the general habits of its kind. But the indifference to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>cold of the capybara, a gigantic water guinea-pig
from the warm rivers of Brazil, is not easy to explain.
Two of these quaint creatures had left their snug
sleeping apartments, and were stepping gaily among
pools of half-frozen water and broken ice. One had
gained an extra coat by burrowing in its straw and
then emerging with a pile upon its back; and, when
this fell off, retired and shuffled on another pile; but
the other seemed quite content to sit without protection
in the sunniest corner of its enclosure. The
whole colony of porcupines (six in number), which,
like most semi-nocturnal animals, are very loath to
appear in public during the day unless enticed by
food of a more than usually tempting character, were
abroad and in the highest spirits, erecting and rattling
their quills, and sitting up to inspect their visitors
like gigantic rabbits. It is difficult to conceive that
a coat of quills can impart much warmth to its
wearer; but towards Christmas the quaint black-and-white
garment of the porcupine has almost the appearance
of a mantle of stiff feathers; and the crest on
the head and shoulders, sloping backwards along the
spine, combines, with the black face and Roman nose,
to suggest a comical resemblance between the fully-fledged
porcupine and one of Buffalo Bill’s Sioux
warriors in full costume of eagles’ plumes.</p>
<p class='c008'>During the first cold of winter the plumage of the
birds and the coats of the fur-bearing animals in the
Zoo are hardly inferior to those of their wild kindred.
Both the eagle and the American bison are in condition
<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>to excite the cupidity of an Indian brave. The
bull bison, which in summer has a strangely ragged
and “moth-eaten” appearance, with big patches of
bare skin showing on its flanks, is now covered with a
“buffalo-robe” of magnificent proportions and the
richest colour and texture. From shoulders to tail,
the body is wrapped in a mass of brown felted fur.
The mane hangs down below the knees, and a shock
of black and silky hair covers the head and face,
almost concealing the horns and the sullen, bloodshot
eye. This bull is said to be the largest of its race in
this country, and is probably as fine a specimen of
the male bison as ever led its band across the frozen
plains of the North-West. It was brought to England
by Lord Lorne after the completion of his stay in
Canada as Viceroy of the Dominion, and spent its
earlier days at the Home Park at Windsor, whence it
was transferred on exchange to the Zoo.</p>
<p class='c008'>The golden and sea-eagles never present so fine an
appearance as in these bright winter days. Those
who see them with their wings and tails ragged and
broken in the summer and early autumn, would
hardly recognize them in their compact and close-set
winter plumage, as they scream aloud in the frosty
air, and fly to and fro in their large aviary on pinions
undisfigured by a single broken feather. The Gayal,
an immense bison from the jungles of Assam, with a
coat as smooth and sleek as the bison’s is shaggy and
unkempt, drinks the iced water in its pen, and stamps
the frozen ground—while the steam rises from its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>broad nostrils into the cold English air—with all the
vigour of a shorthorn bull in a Surrey straw-yard;
and the wild swine, whether from India or Europe,
are equally indifferent to the weather. It would seem
that all those species, such as the wild boar, or the
buffalo and bison, which are widely distributed on
many continents, adapt themselves rapidly to changed
conditions of climate; and those wild boars which
have been bred for several generations in this country
and in Scotland, are rapidly developing a thicker and
rougher coat of hair than their Indian cousins. It
is probable that the tiger from Turkestan, if allowed
the use of the outer cages, from which the Indian
tigers and other large carnivora are withdrawn during
the winter, would develop the thick and beautiful coat
with which the northern tiger is represented in Chinese
paintings. The bears, though so well wrapped up,
take the frost as a hint to hibernate, and were for the
most part fast asleep. Those which occupy cages
facing the morning sun uncurl as the day grows
brighter, and exhibit coats in the utmost perfection
of winter growth. The black, brown, and cinnamon
bears have at this time a bloom upon their fur which
the utmost skill of the furrier fails to reproduce if the
animal is killed at any other period of the year. In
Southern and Central Russia many proprietors own
large estates devoted to breeding horses and cattle.
A menagerie of bears is often added to this. These
are killed at the right season, and their skins sold in
the best condition. Cloaks made from the skins of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>the six-months-old cubs have been sold for from
£600 to £1000. Of the Polar bears, one, the older
and larger, seems disposed to follow the example of
the brown and black species, and to doze through the
cold weather. The she-bear, much smaller and
younger than its mate, takes its bath as usual, and
plays with the floating ice like a baby with the soap.
There it exhibits the most astonishing antics, turning
back-somersaults, and standing on its head, or flinging
out plates of ice with its nose and paws. No creature
suggests such perfect indifference to cold as this
Arctic bear, with icicles hanging to its fur, as it
plunges again and again into its freezing bath.</p>
<p class='c008'>The beavers are, of course, invisible, having long
ago provided against the frost by plastering the wooden
sides of the new house with mud and turf, and dragged
a supply of dead branches as far as they could be
forced to enter the narrow door. Though they are
fed every day, and have nothing to fear from the
weather, the instinct of winter storage is as strong as
in the wild state. One is tempted to speculate whether
this prudence is accompanied by any rational knowledge
of the probable inadequacy of their stock to
meet their natural wants. If their sense of quantity
bears any proportion to their industry and skill in
engineering, they must be full of anxiety and misgivings,
for the few branches given to them are only
make-believe, and they are wholly dependent on their
captors for food. For some reason the rare European
beavers, from the banks of the Rhone, have not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>thriven at the Zoo. Four out of six had died at the
date at which this visit was made, and only one is now
left in the Gardens.</p>
<div id='i006' class='figcenter id003'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i006.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Polar Bear.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The demeanour of the inmates of the artificially-warmed
houses ought not to differ greatly in frost,
as the ordinary temperature is nominally preserved.
In the Elephant and Antelope Houses such a day as
that which we describe has little effect beyond giving
an added briskness of demeanour to such creatures
as are not, like the elephant and rhinoceros, too bulky
and majestic to be exhilarated by mere accidents of
temperature.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Antelope House is redolent with a delicious
perfume of the finest hay, and its graceful inmates
nibble at their fragrant breakfast with the same
dainty selectness which marks their habits at meals
on less appetizing days. Many of the larger kinds,
lying in their neat stalls, look like some glorified
form of Oriental cattle. The eland, couched placidly
on a bed of golden straw, with its satin-like biscuit-coloured
skin gathered into soft little wrinkles at the
folded joints, and its dark full eye turned to gaze
mildly at the visitors, seems a type of what the
domesticated antelope should be, shielded from the
weather, eating artificially prepared food, lying on the
straw of civilization, and dependent for its food on the
stockman’s punctuality. The only creature which
showed some effects of the exhilaration in the frosty
air was the beautiful little Nagore antelope, the only
living specimen, we believe, of this rare animal now
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>in Europe. In form it is almost like a large gazelle,
with lyre-shaped horns, a golden fawn-coloured skin,
of perfectly uniform tone, set off by large and brilliant
black eyes. This antelope was unusually active and
friendly, standing on its slender hind feet, and reaching
its head up to be caressed and fed.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the open paddocks and runs of the smaller deer
and wild-fowl, there was great good-temper and content.
The Japanese deer were all curled up sleeping
in the cold air round their food-box, which was filled
with chopped straw, bran, and oats, and swarming
with impudent Zoo sparrows. These little robbers,
as also the Zoo starlings, are in such good case from
the abundance of food left at their disposal by the
fastidious strangers in the cages and paddocks, that,
like the owls during the plagues of mice on the
Pampas, they defy the weather and the seasons, and
marry and bring up irregular families irrespective
of the almanac. Dozens of them, as well as many of
the starlings, had selected this particular cold morning
of all others to take a bath. The gradually sloping
drinking-pools in most of the runs, especially the
tortoises’ baths, which have a wide shallow entrance,
exactly suit their wants. Many were washing and
splashing in the pools in the swine runs, while others
were drying themselves in rows on the sunny wall
above the styes, with an immense amount of fuss and
vulgarly loud conversation.</p>
<p class='c008'>The gulls were particularly noisy, and playing at a
new game with bits of ice, which they picked up from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>the broken edges of their ponds, and let fall on the
sound ice. They then scrambled and fought for the
pieces as they slid on the slippery surface. One big
gull swallowed a large triangular piece, which stuck
for some time in its throat, and evidently gave it much
discomfort until the sharp edges melted. The ravens
in the crow-cages were also much pleased with the
broken ice, and were busy hiding all the pieces in holes
round the edges of their aviary. One of the birds was
evidently not satisfied with the concealment offered
by the cranny into which it had poked a large fragment,
so after considering for some time, it drew it
out again, rubbed it in sand till it was well covered
with grit, and then pushed it back, protected by a
coating of colour “adapted to environment.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The heating of the Monkey House had been carefully
looked to during the night, and beyond showing
a disposition to huddle together and sleep, the common
monkeys betrayed little obvious sensibility to the
bright dry cold outside. But the delicate little marmosets
and small tropical South American species
were, with the exception of the Capuchins, removed to
the warmer inner room behind the glass palace. One
creature only seemed penetrated by the frost, a sleeping
lemur. It was clinging to the bars of its cage,
its hands grasping the rods, its two front arms stretched
out, and its head, heavy with sleep, drooping between
them. Yet, though steeped in slumber, it was shaken
from moment to moment by spasms of shivering, its
body conscious and responsive to the cold, though its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>drowsy brain was insensible to the warnings of physical
<i>malaise</i>.</p>
<p class='c008'>Winter in the Insect House is the time of incubation
and sleep. All the beautiful forms of tropical moths
and insects, which burst into life in the butterfly form
in May, are sleeping in their pitcher-shaped cocoons,
or buried in moss and mould. Only the great Goliath
beetle, with a body like a well-blacked boot on which
cream has been spilt, and immense stag-like horns,
was alternately eating melon and sipping highly-sweetened
tea, two indigestible forms of food on which
it had made an almost uninterrupted meal for seven
weeks.</p>
<p class='c008'>From another point of view the demeanour of the
semi-tropical birds in this sudden wave of cold was
even more interesting than the power of adaptation to
climate shown by so many quadrupeds. The whole
pheasant tribe, perhaps the most beautiful, as a class,
of any family of birds, are in the acme of plumage and
condition. The Himalayas and China are the main
homes of these gorgeous creatures, and we are not
surprised to see in Regent’s Park the metallic lustre of
the Monauls, or the scarlet, orange, and gold of the
rarer Chinese varieties, in equal perfection with that
attained in the glens of Nepaul, or the mountains of
Pekin. But the Argus pheasant is a native of Sumatra
and Borneo, the companion of the trogons and the
ourang-outang; yet the cock-bird was displaying its
beauties in the open air, among leaves and grass tipped
with hoar-frost, and showed plumage so close and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>perfect, that it was impossible to doubt that the colder
climate had, if possible, added a lustre to its unrivalled
wealth of ornament. It is to be regretted that the
eggs laid in the previous summer were not fertile, else
the development of perhaps the most perfect instance
of animal pattern might have received further explanation
from the processes of growth in the plumage of
the young. One tender nestling from the tropics was
being reared at the Zoo, though not exposed to the
rigour of December frost. In October 1893 a young
king vulture arrived from South America—a round,
fluffy ball of white down, with a smooth black head
like a negro baby, and as helpless as a young pigeon.
It grew rapidly, and at the time when this paper was
written, was the most interesting and intelligent specimen
of a young carnivorous bird that the writer has
yet seen. As a rule nothing could well be more
morose and forbidding than the eaglet or the young
of any hawk or falcon. They are helpless, savage,
and unresponsive to any form of kindness. But the
young vulture is almost as tame and intelligent as a
puppy. It follows its keeper in the warm house, which
it shares with the tortoises, sitting down when he stops,
and rising and running with a half-bird, half-quadruped
gait which is irresistibly comic. When frightened or
shy in the presence of strangers, it lays its head on
the ground and “shams dead,” like a young plover,
though almost as large as a turkey. But it soon
loses all fear, and takes food or pulls at the garments
of its visitors with amusing confidence. But the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>young vulture is an accidental visitor. The frosts of
winter are mainly interesting at the Zoo as the time
when the inmates exhibit the full beauty and vitality
of vigorous maturity.</p>
<p class='c014'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—Since the above notes were written, the young king vulture
has grown to full maturity, and is an even more interesting bird
than its early promise indicated. At the end of July 1894 it was
full-grown and in perfect plumage, every feather being distinct and
unbroken. It is black from the crown to the legs, without a single
white feather, and has none of the unpleasant appearance of the
less noble vultures. So devoted is it to its keeper, that when some
of the gigantic Seychelles tortoises were introduced into the large
house in which it lives, it rushed at them to drive them away the
moment he entered the house to feed it, and stood between him
and the horny monsters, its wings wide stretched and its beak
open and hissing. It still lies down to be caressed, and is in
every way a very handsome and interesting bird.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE GHOSTS OF THE TROPICAL FOREST.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Perhaps</span> the rarest, certainly the least known to
man of all the creatures which, by a strange chance,
find their way to the Gardens of the Zoological
Society in Regent’s Park, are the denizens of the
Tropical Forest. We say forest, because, though
divided by the dissociable ocean, there is only one
great forest which belts the globe. The notion of the
physical symmetry of the world, which fascinated the
old geographers, and led Herodotus to surmise that
the course of the great river of Africa must of necessity
conform in the main to that of the Danube in the
opposite continent, was wrong in theory and application.
But shifting the guiding forces from the
control of original and plastic design to the influence
of the dominant Sun, the theory still holds good; and
while the tropical heats remain constant and undisturbed,
so must the tropical forest flourish and endure,
with its inseparable concomitants of vegetable growth
overpowering and replacing the marvellous rapidity of
vegetable decay.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>To the naturalist, the most marked feature of the
great tropical forest south of the Equator, is the
inequality in the balance of Nature between vegetable
and animal life. From the forests of Brazil to the
forests of the Congo, through the wooded heights of
northern Madagascar, to the tangled jungles of the
Asiatic Archipelago and the impenetrable woods of
New Guinea, the boundless profusion of vegetable
growth is unmatched by any similar abundance in
animal forms. A few brilliant birds of strange shape
and matchless plumage, such as the toucans of Guinea
and the Amazon, or the birds of paradise in the
Moluccas or the Papuan Archipelago, haunt the
loftiest trees, and from time to time fall victims to the
blow-pipe or arrow of the natives, who scarcely dare
to penetrate that foodless region, even for such rich
spoils, until incantation and sacrifice have propitiated
the offended spirits of the woods; but except the sloth
and the giant ant-eater, there is hardly to be found in
the tropical regions of the New World a quadruped
which can excite the curiosity of the naturalist, or
form food even for the wildest of mankind. In the
corresponding tracts of Africa and the Asiatic Archipelago,
the rare four-footed animals that live in the
solitary forests are, for the most part, creatures of the
night. Unlike the lively squirrels and marten-cats of
temperate regions, they do not leave their hiding-places
till the tropical darkness has fallen on the forest,
when they seek their food, not on the surface of the
ground, but, imitating the birds, ascend to the upper
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>surface of the ocean of trees, and at the first approach
of dawn seek refuge from the hateful day in the dark
recesses of some aged and hollow trunk. There is
nothing like the loris or the lemur in the fauna of
temperate Europe. We may rather compare them to
a race of arboreal moles, the condition of whose life is
darkness and invisibility. But, unlike the moles, the
smaller members of these rarely seen tribes are among
the most beautiful and interesting creatures of the
tropics, though the extreme difficulty of capturing
creatures whose whole life is spent on the loftiest
forest trees, is further increased by the reluctance of
the natives to enter the deserted and pathless forests.
The beautiful lemurs, most of which are found in
Madagascar, are further believed by the Malagasi to
embody the spirits of their ancestors; and the weird
and plaintive cries with which they fill the groves at
night, uttered by creatures whose bodies, as they cling
to the branches, are invisible, and whose delicate
movements are noiseless, may well have left a doubt
on the minds of the first discoverers of the island as
to whether these were not in truth the cries and
wailings of true <i>lemures</i>, the unquiet ghosts of the
departed.</p>
<p class='c008'>Several of the larger lemurs are to be found at the
Zoo, and though these suffer so much if unduly
exposed to the light that before long they lose their
sight, they may occasionally be seen in their cages.
Others, the rarest and most delicate members of the
race, are so entirely creatures of darkness that their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>exposure to daylight seems to benumb all their
faculties. They appear drugged and stupefied, and,
though capable of movement, seem indisposed either
to attempt escape when handled, or to move in any
other direction than that of shelter from the odious
day. Even food is refused before nightfall, and,
unlike the epicure’s ortolans, which awake and feed in
a darkened room whenever the rays of a lamp suggest
the sunrise, the lemur only consumes its meal of fruit
and insects when nightfall has aroused its drowsy
wits. These midnight habits clearly unfit it for
public exhibition at the Zoo, and the last and rarest
of the tribe which have arrived in London occupy a
private room adjacent to the monkey palace, in
common with other lemurs and loris, and a few of the
most delicate marmosets and tropical monkeys which
have escaped the rigours of an English winter. One
large cage, which, in spite of the label “Coquerel’s
Lemur” placed upon it, seemed at the time of our
last visit to contain nothing but a pile of hay, is the
dwelling-place of these latest guests. After displacing
layer after layer of the hay, the two sleeping beauties
were discovered lying in a ball, each with its long furry
tail wrapped round the other, in the deepest and most
unconscious repose. When at last the two were separated,
and the least reluctant was taken in the hand,
the extreme beauty of the little “ghost” was at once
apparent. In colour it is a rich cinnamon, fading to
lavender beneath. The texture of the fur is like
nothing but that of the finest and best-finished seal-skin
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>jacket, only far deeper and closer, so that the
hand sinks into it as into a bed of moss. The head is
large and most intelligent, the face being set with a
pair of very large, round, hazel eyes, in which the
lines of the orbit seem not to radiate from the centre,
but to be arranged in circles, like the layers of growth
in the section of a tree. The long tail is at the base
almost as wide as the body, tapering to a point, and
covered with deep fur. But the greatest beauty of
form which this lemur owns is the shape of its hands
and feet. These exquisite little members are so far
an exact reproduction of the human hand, that not
only the hands, but also the feet, own a fully-developed
thumb. But each finger, as well as the thumb,
expands into a tiny disc, as in certain tree-frogs, so
that the little hands may cling to the tree with the
tightness of an air-pump. It is plain, as the half-sleeping
lemur climbs over the arms and shoulders of
its visitor, that it takes him for a tree. The arms are
stretched wide apart, the thumbs and fingers are
spread, and grasp each fold of the coat with the
anxious care of one who thinks that a slip will cause a
fall of a hundred feet, and the soft body and tail half
envelop the limb down which they are descending,
fitting to the surface like some warm enveloping boa.
As soon as it reaches the hay-pile in its cage the
lemur instantly burrows, its long tail vanishing like a
snake, and in a minute it is once more asleep, and
unconscious of the world.</p>
<p class='c008'>A near relation of the lemurs is a beautiful little
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>creature, whose uncouth native name has not been
replaced, called the “moholi.” It only differs from
the lemurs in the shape of the ears, which in the
moholi are either pricked up, like those of a bat, or
folded down on its head at will. It has the same
wonderful brown eyes, so large and round that they
seem to occupy the greater part of the head; the
moholi is, in fact, “all eyes.” As it stretches its
slender arms out wide against the keeper’s chest, and
turns its head to look at the visitors, it has the most
winning expression of any quadruped we have ever
seen. The coat, of a pinkish-grey above, turns into
light saffron below, and the texture is less deep than
the lemur’s fur. In touch it resembles floss-silk,
thickly piled. The “Slow Loris,” from Malacca, is a
tailless lemur. In exchange it has received a fretful
temper, which seems a permanent trait in this species.
When wakened it growls, bites, and fights, until once
more allowed to sleep in peace. This loris hardly
falls short of the beauty of the lemurs. The fur is
cream-coloured, with a cinnamon stripe running from
the head down the back. Of the three species which
we have described, the first seems to combine some of
the characteristics of the monkey and the mole, the
second of the squirrel and the bat, the last those of
the monkey and the weasel tribe. The “Slender
Loris” is a still greater puzzle. It has all the characteristic
“points” of the lemurs, without the tail.
In size it resembles a squirrel; but its movements are
so strange and deliberate, and so unlike those of any
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>other quadruped, that it seems impossible to guess
either at its habits or its purpose in creation. Each
hand or foot is slowly raised from the branch on
which it rests, brought forward, and set down again;
the fingers then close on the wood until its grasp is
secure, when the other limbs begin to move, like those
of a mechanical toy. As we looked, its “affinities”
with other types presently suggested themselves. It
is a <i>furry-coated chameleon</i>. The round, protruding
eyes, the slow mechanical movements, and the insect-feeding
habits, are identical, except that the loris hunts
by night and the chameleon by day. The loris even
possesses an auxiliary tongue, which aids it in catching
moths, just as the development of the same member
marks the insect-catching lizard. From dawn till dusk
all the lemurs are the very bond-slaves of sleep,
hypnotized in the literal sense, drugged and steeped
in slumber. Had the old poets known them, had the
Phœnician sailors brought them back when they
visited the land of Ophir, they would have been the
consecrated companions of Somnus. Ovid’s famous
picture of the Cave of Sleep, and the noiseless hall
where</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“A couch of down, raised high on ebony,</div>
<div class='line in3'>Self-coloured, sombre, draped with sable pall,</div>
<div class='line in1'>Stands in the midst, whereon that god doth lie,</div>
<div class='line in3'>While all his limbs relaxed in slumber fall,”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c016'>wants but one touch to complete the drowsy theme—a
sleeping lemur curled up on Somnus’ dusky
pillow.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE BUTTERFLY FARM AT THE ZOO</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>A collection</span> of tropical butterflies and moths
reared in the Zoological Gardens was exhibited in
the rooms of the Royal Society at their annual
<i>soirée</i> in 1893. The fact that such perfect and
beautiful examples of the frail and fantastic forms
which by night fill the place taken by the humming-birds
by day, in the steaming tropical forest, have
lived in the precincts of a London park, is sufficient
justification, if any be required, for their presence
among such practical and progressive surroundings.
Readers of <i>Kenelm Chillingly</i>, one of the latest and
most extravagant of Bulwer Lytton’s romances, may
remember that one of the airy fancies of his youthful
and impossible heroine, is to keep pet butterflies in
cages, and to shed floods of tears over their untimely
death. They manage things better in the butterfly
farm at the Zoo, where the brilliant insects, after
their brief day is over, pass by a kind of metempsychosis
from the catalogue of living to that of dead
specimens, and figure anew in the list of “additions
to the collections of the Society.”</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>It would be difficult to picture a more elegant or
more interesting sight than the hatching of the
butterfly-broods in the Insect House during the
first days of summer heat. The glass cases, filled
with damp moss and earth, and adorned with portions
of tree-trunks or plants suited to the habits of the
moths, are peopled by these exquisite and delicate
creatures, as one after another separates itself from
the chrysalis-case in which it has been sleeping all
the winter, and, fluttering upwards with weak and
uncertain movements, exposes its beauties to the
light. The wings of the largest kind, such as the
great orange-brown “Atlas” moth, are as wide as
those of a missel-thrush; and the great size of this
and other species increases the strange likeness to
bird-forms which is so marked, even in the smaller
English hawk-moths. The giant moths of the
tropics, unlike the rest of the insect world, have
faces and features not devoid of expression. Some
resemble birds; others cats. Some are covered with
long, soft plumage, like the feathers of the marabout,
or the plumes of swans. Others are wrapped in a
silky mantle like an Angora kitten, or clothed in
ermine and sables. The depth and softness of these
downy mantles make the impulse to stroke them
suggest itself at once; yet when the head-keeper
lifts them from the branch on which they rest, as
a falconer lifts his hawk, the feeling that they are
neither moths nor animals, but long-winged birds, is
equally irresistible. Form and texture suggest endless
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>analogies with the higher animals; but the scheme
of colour is peculiar to the tribe of which these are
the most beautiful examples. In the Cecropian silk-moths,
for example, some five or six of which, at
the time this paper was written, were preening their
feathery wings on the lichen-covered bark of an
ancient oak-trunk. The body seems thickly wrapped
in feathers, and, like the wings, is of an exquisite
mottled grey, the colour of the natural wool of the
Cashmere goat. But the legs, antennæ, and parts of
the wings are boldly painted a rich red madder-brown.
The Indian moon-moth is perhaps the most delicate
in colouring of all. The wings are of the palest
green, and as wide as those of a swallow, the tint of
the aqua-marine. The uniform faint colour is only
broken by a few crescent spots of a darker tint. But
the whole of the front edge of the wing is “bound”
in velvet, of the colour of dark-red wine. The body
is wrapped in thick and downy feathers of the
purest white, from which the soft legs and feet
emerge, stained to match the claret edging of the
wing. Across the head, and lying back against the
dark shoulders, are the fern-shaped antennæ of pale-green.
Thus, this lovely creature possesses but
three hues,—pale-green, claret-colour, and white; but
these are so graded and distributed, and so modified
by the contrasted beauty of the texture of the semi-transparent
wing, the thick and downy body, and the
delicate flesh-like legs, that the creature seems rather
the realization of some painter’s dream than one among
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>hundreds of silk-producing insects. We once heard
the generic difference between angels and fairies stated
with all the certainty which was due to the youth of
the speaker:—“Angels have birds’ wings, and fairies
have butterflies’ wings, of course!” was the indignant
answer to the difficulty raised. Imps, too, have
bats’ wings. But the wings of the moth have not
yet been appropriated to the human embodiment of
the unseen denizens of the air. There is a softness
and reserve of colouring, and an uncertainty of outline
in the moth’s wing, which mark it at once as
something distinct from the sharply cut, and brilliantly
coloured forms of their butterfly relations.</p>
<p class='c008'>Perhaps the most brightly coloured moths which
are raised in the house are the <i>Eacles regalis</i>, which
are covered with a net-work of orange, rivalling in
colour the inner flesh of a melon, on a ground of
greenish-grey; and the <i>Eacles imperialis</i>, in which
an exquisite shade of “old rose” invades and is lost
in a rich cream-coloured ground.</p>
<p class='c008'>Not the least beautiful among the giant moths is
the splendid creature from the cocoons of which the
wild silks of India are wound. This is a far larger
and finer moth than that which produces the Chinese
tussur-silk. Its wings are “old gold” in colour, with
two large transparent eyes on each, fringed with rose-colour.
These, according to Hindoo superstition,
are the finger-marks of the god Vishnu, and the
Tussur moth is, therefore, sacred to that deity. But
it is among the wild demon-worshipping Santhals
<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>that the Indian silk-moth has its native home. In
the boundless upland forests, the trees on which it
feeds are covered with thousands of the cocoons,
which are gathered by these wild tribes, and sold to
the silk-winders of the plains. Numbers of these
fine cocoons line the cases at the Zoo, each with
living pupa inside. The cocoons are beautiful objects
in themselves, nearly the size of a walnut in the rind,
and hanging by stalks firmly twisted to the supporting
twigs, like rows of melons. Their colour varies
through all shades of silvery or purplish-grey, streaked
all over, like the eggs of the yellow-hammer, with
fine irregular dark-purple lines. The silk threads of
which they are woven are flat, like tape, not round,
like the ordinary floss-silk of Europe; and it is to
this flat and irregular form of the thread that the
beauty of woven tussur-silk is mainly due. It may
be doubted whether the cultivation of the Tussur
moth will spread to the West, like that of the
common “silkworm.” But the time is not far
distant when this, and probably others of the fifty-nine
species of silk-producing larvæ which were
exhibited in the Colonial and Indian Exhibition, will
become an additional source of wealth in the wide
forest-regions of our Indian Empire.</p>
<p class='c008'>The area of the jungle forest in the Santhal country,
in which grow the trees whose leaves form the best
food of these silkworms, is vast beyond any probable
use which the most enterprising silk-grower conceives.
“As far as the eye could reach from any rising
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>ground,” writes Mr. Thomas Wardle, in his <i>History
of the Growth of the Tussur Silk Industry</i>, “and for
hundreds of square miles, there lay a forest in which
it seemed that any quantity of the tussur of the
future might be cultivated, and I think it is worthy
of the attention of the Government of India to
encourage in every way a greatly increased production,
and not to be behind China in this respect, remembering
that when I showed how tussur-silk could be
used, the demand which sprang up was chiefly met
by the greater quickness of the Chinese.”</p>
<p class='c008'>Not only the moths, but even the caterpillars, or
larvæ of the various silk-moths, are as beautiful as
any fabric which is woven from the glossy fibres of
their cocoons. Let no one despise “worms and creeping
things” after once seeing these exquisitely formed
and coloured creatures. The larvæ of most may be
seen in late July in the Insect House, feeding on
green leaves in the cases. The finest are those of
the Cecropian silk-moth; they are of a blue-green,
with a soft bloom like that on some succulent plant.
The whole body is clothed with alternate lines of
turquoise and amber studs, specked with black,
polished and shining like jewels. Those that have
spun their cocoons are wrapped in jackets of light-brown
silk, into which strips of green leaves of the
plum-tree are twisted for protection. The Ailanthus
silk-moth has a pale-grey larva, with little ornaments
in rows, shaped like the flowers of the stone-crop,
and dotted with black. The moth itself is strangely
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>beautiful, fawn-coloured, with bold wavy lines of
black, grey, and pink. The Promethean silk-moth
has a larva of pale Cambridge blue, with yellow and
crimson studs. Not even the sea anemones in their
native waters are more beautiful than these fugitive
forms assumed by the undeveloped silk-moths of the
East.</p>
<p class='c008'>In their scheme of colour, the butterflies are to the
moths what the fabrics of Europe are to the webs of
Cashmere or the carpets of Daghestan. A score of the
lovely swallow-tailed butterfly may often be seen fluttering
in their cage. The bottom of their glass mansion
is covered with short pieces of osier-stick, each
one of which is pierced up the centre with a tunnel,
at the end of which lies the pupa of that strange
instance of protective mimicry, the hornet clear-wing.
Another case is full of the scarce pale variety of the
swallow-tail, and a third of the American swallow-tail,
the female of which is black, spangled with what
seems a shining dust of sapphires. But perhaps the
most beautiful of all the butterfly broods is the swarm
of <i>Papilio Cresphontes</i>. At the time of hatching, the
case is full of these lovely butterflies, black above,
with beaded spots of pale yellow; yellow below, with
beaded lines of black. When last seen by the writer,
some were flying from side to side of the cage; some
had alighted, or were in the act of alighting, and
others on the moss at the bottom were sipping the
juices of ripe grapes.</p>
<p class='c008'>Among the butterfly cages is a glass case which,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>since its inmates first found their way to the Zoo, has
never failed to excite the utmost interest and curiosity.
On the floor of the box, partly sheltered by a few
green plants, are ten or a dozen gold buttons, with a
red-gold centre, on a lighter gold setting, edged by a
round, semi-transparent rim. If watched attentively,
the buttons presently move about on invisible legs,
and perhaps one suddenly splits, puts out a pair of
wings, and flies. These astonishing beetles, which are
at present unnamed, are from Ceylon. Above, they
exactly resemble an embossed gold sleeve-button, with
a rim of yellow talc. Laid on their backs, the under-side
of a golden beetle appears, surrounded with the
same semi-transparent rim. Trap-door spiders also
flourish in the Insect House, and have made several
caves, with most ingenious doors, in a large piece of
rotten wood with rugged lichen-covered bark. The
doors are quite irregular in shape, made to fit the
surface of the hole in which the spider lives, and are
of all sizes, from that of a walnut-shell to a pea. The
door exactly fits the orifice, however irregular its
shape, and is so cleverly covered with pieces of wood
and lichen woven into the fabric, that it exactly
resembles the surrounding bark; and even a prying
tit might omit to probe it with its bill.</p>
<p class='c008'>The one hideous and repulsive creature in this good
company is the great tarantula spider. It is like a
long-legged, hairy crab, quite seven inches from claw
to claw, with enormous brown poison fangs like a
beak. Two of these spiders, discovered in a tent at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>Assouan, occupied by officers of the Heavy Camel
Corps, put the whole of the inmates to flight in their
pyjamas, and the only wonder is that they ever ventured
to return before daylight. There is something
strangely repulsive in this low type of life, which
nevertheless makes a prey of such beautiful and
highly-developed animals as humming-birds, and even
the small and fragile quadrupeds of the tropical
forest.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>
<h2 class='c006'>PATTERNS ON LIVING ANIMALS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Early</span> in the spring of 1893, the Marquis of
Hamilton brought with him from Trinidad a number
of little fish, less in size than a half-grown minnow,
which were presented to the Zoological Society, and
were to be seen at Easter swimming in a glass bowl,
among a thin growth of water weeds, in the warm
chamber in which the tropical moths and butterflies
are hatched.</p>
<p class='c008'>Being small and elegant, they have a long and ugly
scientific name, the <i>Girardinus Guppyi</i>. In the
absence of a label, the writer mistook them for the
gudgeon, which form the food of the more rapacious
fishes, and was about to suggest that they would be
interesting material for an experiment with the electric
eels, when a ray of sunlight flashing through the
bowl revealed the astonishing fact that these tiny
fishes possessed beauties of ornament not exceeded
in kind by any of the most exquisite birds of the
tropics.</p>
<p class='c008'>Each of the little creatures, though so frail and so
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>delicately formed that its body offered a scarcely
greater obstacle to the passage of the sunlight than
the water in which it swam, was decorated on either
side by one, or sometimes two, of those exquisite
ornaments seen in the greatest perfection in the train
of the peacock, which are perhaps best described as
the “peacock-eye.” It was no mere spot, lying in a
ring of a different colour, such as decorates the sides
of a trout or salmon, but a perfectly-developed peacock-gem,
lying in its gorgeous rings of blue, green,
and gold, equally rich and dark in tint, and even more
striking from its contrast with the colourless and semi-transparent
body of the creature it adorned. The
analogy with the pattern on the peacock’s tail was
even more complete than that which a first glance
disclosed; for on many of the fish a third or rudimentary
eye appeared, fainter and elongated, like a
smudge of wet colour, and corresponding exactly with
the gradation or evolutionary process of ornament,
which Charles Darwin noted in the side-feathers of the
peacock-train. This wonderful decoration, which was
assumed, like the brilliant red and emerald of the
English sticklebacks, for the period of courtship only,
disappears later in the year; and the creatures abide
in plain clothes till next spring. But the character of
the ornament they wear suggests a further and separate
interest, beyond that which their beauty naturally
claims. <i>Pattern</i>, by which we mean the repetition of
certain and regular forms, so as to produce an ornament
which pleases the eye without making any
<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>demands on the mind, is by no means a common
form of natural decoration in the higher animals.
Contrasts of brilliant colours, as in the plumage of the
birds of paradise, and of the parrots and lorys, are the
usual and beautiful adornments of birds. Any visitor
to the cases of a good natural history collection, will
find a hundred instances of this form of decoration for
one of true pattern. Even the wings of butterflies,
though spangled with colours in dots, lines, and spots,
are usually devoid of pattern, though the juxtaposition
of a number of the same species would instantly produce
the effect of pattern. But that effect, so far as
it is given in a single individual, is, as a rule, only due
to the fact that the creature is itself symmetrical, and
that the lines and markings on one side of the body
are repeated upon the other. The stripes upon a
tiger’s skin, for instance, though in the nature of ornament,
are not a pattern, though a number of tigers’
skins laid side by side might produce to the eye the
effect of pattern. The patterns themselves are also
few in number; and these limited and favourite forms
of enrichment are applied indiscriminately, and with a
certain indifference to congruity of species, yet with
unfailing success in the result, to the most widely-different
forms in the animal creation. Take, for
example, the most complex, and perhaps the most
beautiful of all, natural ornaments, which appears in
the “eyes” in the peacock’s tail. The same pattern,
with slight variations, is found, not only on the feathers
of the beautiful grouse-like Polyplectron of Malacca,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>though modified, as Darwin noted, by the white edging,
which makes it even more conspicuous than the bronze
circle round the peacock-eye, but also in the peacock-pheasant,
and the Ocelated Turkey of Honduras. In
this splendid bird, the “eyes” are placed in a row at
the end of the tail-feathers, and upon some of the
upper tail-coverts, and are rimmed with gold. The
same pattern, by a leap from an order of birds not
distantly connected, appears in undiminished beauty
in the little fish from Trinidad; and with an almost
incredible difference of subject and sameness in effect,
in the peacock-butterfly and eyed hawk-moth of
England, in the emperor-moth, and a number of allied
insects; and lastly, with a startling resemblance, in the
centre of the beautiful peacock iris, which is now cultivated
in English gardens. It would, perhaps, not be
difficult to add to the instances of repetition of this
particular pattern which we have given, by a careful
survey of the specimens exhibited in the Natural
History Museum at South Kensington. But the fact
of the repetition of the “peacock-eye” as ornament in
the case of birds, fishes, moths, butterflies, and lastly
of a common and beautiful flower, will sufficiently
illustrate the fact to which we draw attention. The
pattern, if less elaborate and exact in reproduction
when found among the moths and butterflies, is an
“impressionist” rendering of the same scheme, and if
it were the reproduction of some human hand, would
leave no doubt as to the identity of the motive and
idea in each. The remaining natural patterns, even
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>though of less complex form, may almost be counted
on the fingers of the hand, and are applied with the
same careless profusion to the adornment of creatures,
like and unlike, without distinction, though the range
is in most cases far more limited than in that of the
peacock-eye. The most perfect form of the cup-and-ball
pattern, which is seen in the feathers of the Argus
pheasant, seems only to reappear on the wings of the
Brahma moth, and of the eyed tortoise, though in
one or two other small tortoises the effect of the ball
ornament is produced by an actual embossing of the
shell. Yet even in this case, not only is the form of
the pattern reproduced, but also the beautiful brown
colouring, which, by its soberness and exquisite gradation,
produces the effect of low relief in monochrome.
The wave-line, the spot, the scale-pattern, the bar-pattern,
and, in rare instances, a chequer or diaper in
black and white, almost exhaust the list of other
natural patterns, and these, like the peacock-eye, recur
in non-allied species in exactly the same arrangement,
not only of form, but of colour. A most effective
spot-pattern is that in which a rich chestnut ground
is covered with minute white or cream-coloured spots.
The result is most rich and beautiful, and it seems to
be reserved for use in highly-decorated creatures of
any class or family. It is seen at its best on the breast
of the lovely harlequin-duck, in which the whole
surface shines like enamel. But exactly the same
pattern in the same colours appears on the neck of
such a widely-different species as the chestnut-eared
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>finch of Australia; and with the order of colour reversed,
under the wings of the bar-breasted finch, both
of which may be seen in the Parrot House at the
Zoological Gardens. In the smaller wing-feathers of
the Argus pheasant, this spot-pattern is reproduced on
almost the same minute scale as on the harlequin-duck
and the little finches. Then by a sudden
change it is found on the back of the larvæ of the
<i>Gallium</i> hawk-moth, a chestnut-coloured insect, with
a row of minute white spots down the middle of its
back, and two rows of rather larger white spots, one
on each side. The larvæ of the spurge hawk-moth,
of the white-satin moth, and of the sycamore dagger-moth,
also show it. Among butterflies, the <i>Salatura
Melanippus</i> has a border of white spots on chestnut
ground round the edges of its wings; and the same
arrangement may be seen on a shell—some kind of
<i>Gastropoda</i>, if we remember rightly—which is “commonly
observed” on cottage mantelpieces. The “scale-pattern”
is generally due in the case of birds to the
natural shape of the feathers, and not to surface-pattern.
A good example is the neck of the Amherst
pheasant, in which the feathers are scale-shaped, and
being edged with black, produce a beautiful pattern,
and the neck of the golden pheasant, in which the
corresponding feathers have square ends, and the
black edging merely falls into parallel lines. The
perfect rectangular diaper pattern is extremely rare in
birds, but not uncommon in the larvæ of moths and
butterflies. It is seen in perfection on the backs of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>the great northern diver and its relations; and in a
faint reproduction on the wings of the wood-leopard
moth. A very elegant and decorative ornament is the
“wave-line” pattern. This, like the chestnut ground
and white spot, is constantly reproduced in the same
colours, black on grey, or grey on black. It appears
on the side of the wild duck, on Swinhoe’s pheasant, in
which bird it is the main form of ornament, on the
neck of the grass-parakeet, on the sand-grouse, on
several common species of iris, and on the wings
of the Brahma moths, surrounding the ball ornament
to which we have referred. The inference to be drawn
from these coincidences must be left to practical zoologists.
But the fact that natural patterns, as applied
to animals and plants, while at times showing the
utmost elaboration of design, are so limited in number,
and applied with so little modification in colour or
form to birds, fishes, insects, and plants alike, seems
an inviting subject for inquiry.</p>
<p class='c008'>Meantime it would be a charming amusement to
any one who desires a new and not too exacting
intellectual interest in a visit to the Zoological Gardens,
to go from the aviaries to the wild-fowl ponds, and
from the pheasants in their runs to the finches in
their cages in the Parrot House, and make a complete
list of the possessors of each form of these distinct
and arbitrary animal patterns. By so doing, he would
incidentally secure an acquaintance with the most
beautiful of all the birds, for the possessors of these
ornaments are generally among the most elaborately
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>marked of any of their species. The list given above
is far from exhaustive, and as the first, and often the
most pleasing, part of these minor inquiries into nature
consists in the collection and classifying of likenesses,
it offers an attraction as great as any obvious inducements
to observation in the Society’s collection. Some
day we shall perhaps see in the cases at South
Kensington a collection of examples of the repetition
of ornament, as well as of the evolution of ornament
in nature. The origin of the first is now explained.
But on what hypothesis can we account for the
second?</p>
<p class='c008'>The observation of these patterns should extend
throughout the year if it is to be complete. The
typical pheasants are only in perfect plumage in
winter, and these delicate ornaments are much affected
by the physical condition of the wearer. In the fish,
as we have seen, they almost entirely disappear after
the bodily vigour of the spring season has departed.
In late summer and early autumn the pheasants and
peacocks are moulting; the tropical moths, on the
other hand, which have such beautiful analogies with
the bird plumage, are hatching out in May. The
pretty little tropical finches take far less time to moult
than some of the larger birds, or are less affected in
plumage, and the minute but accurate reproductions
of the patterns on the wood-duck, wild duck, and
jungle-fowl which appear on their diminutive bodies
may be seen at almost any season in the Parrot House.
The flower gardening at the Zoo is now maintained at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>so high a pitch of elaboration and beauty, that it
would not be difficult to provide instances of animal
pattern in beds of peacock iris, and of other plants
which reproduce the less elaborate but equally distinct
forms of pattern of which examples have been given
above.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE GIRAFFE’S OBITUARY.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> winter of the year 1892, like the days of
pestilence before the walls of Troy, was fatal both
to man and beast. Even the carefully tended inmates
of the Zoological Society’s Gardens did not escape;
and as the new year opened with the death within a
week of “Sally,” most human and most intelligent of
apes, and of her neighbour “Tim,” the silver gibbon,
who was almost as great a favourite of the London
public as the educated chimpanzee, so the spring saw
the death of the two beautiful giraffes, the sole survivors
left in the collection. The experience which
the Society has had in maintaining its stock of these
interesting creatures has not, however, been altogether
discouraging. Since the first four specimens were
brought to England in 1836, no less than seventeen
fawns have been born in the Gardens, and many of
these lived to grow up. But the stock gradually
diminished, until in 1866 two were burnt to death in
their stable, and a third died of old age, leaving only
the pair now lost.</p>
<div id='i038' class='figcenter id004'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i038.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>The Last Giraffe.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier<br/>Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The time of their death, unfortunately, coincided
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>with the complete interruption of the ancient trade in
wild animals up the Valley of the Nile by the Mahdi’s
occupation of the Soudan, a trade as old as the days
of Solomon, never organized, often interrupted for
centuries, yet always ready to spring up again, and
always dependent for its rarest products on the free
navigation of the river of Egypt. Giraffes—which,
not excepting the hippopotamus, have most excited
the imagination of European capitals after the long
intervals in which they have remained unseen by the
nations of the West—seem always to have found their
way hither from the land of the Pharaohs. The first
seen in Europe since the “tertiary epoch” was
obtained from Alexandria by Julius Cæsar, and
exhibited at the Circensian Games to crowds who
expected, from its name, “camelopard,” to find in it a
combination of the size of a camel and the ferocity
of a panther. Pliny, who described it, echoed the
public disappointment. “It was as quiet,” he wrote,
“as a sheep.” The trade probably reached its maximum
after it became the fashion to exhibit combats
of wild beasts at Rome; yet even then giraffes seem
to have been scarce in the popular shows, though
Pompey could exhibit five hundred lions at a time,
and the Emperor Titus, at the dedication of his new
theatre, caused the slaughter of five thousand wild
beasts. Either the number of wild animals in the
provinces must have been beyond anything since
known, or the Roman Governors must have used
their despotic powers freely to oblige their friends.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>No doubt they did this. Cælius, Cicero’s gossiping
correspondent, says, when writing to him in Cilicia—“In
nearly every letter I have written to you about
panthers. It is a great shame. Pray send to Pamphylia,
where most are said to be taken. You have
only to give an order, and the thing is done. You
know I hate trouble, while you like it, and yet you
will not do this, which is no trouble. I have sent
men to look after them and bring them here.”</p>
<p class='c008'>Despots are the best collectors; and from the fall
of the Roman Empire till the arrival of those placed
in the Zoological Gardens in 1836, the rare appearances
of the giraffe in Europe were in each case due
to the munificence of Eastern Sultans and Pashas.
The Prince of Damascus gave one to the Emperor
Frederick II. in 1215; and the Soldan of Egypt
presented another to Lorenzo the Magnificent, which
became the pet of Florence, and used to be allowed to
walk in the streets, and take the presents of fruit and
cakes extended to it from the balconies. From this
time the giraffe was not seen in Europe until, in 1827,
the Pasha of Egypt sent four to Constantinople,
Venice, England, and France respectively. The
giraffe sent to England was in bad health, and soon
died; but the Parisians went wild with excitement
over the Pasha’s present. It had spent the winter at
Marseilles, and throve there on the milk of the cows
which the Pasha had sent over for its use from Egypt.
The Prefect of Marseilles had the arms of France
embroidered on its body-cloth, and it entered Paris
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>escorted by a Darfour negro, Hassan, an Arab, a
Marseilles groom, a mulatto interpreter, the Prefect of
Marseilles himself, and a professor from the Jardin
des Plantes, while troops kept back the crowd.
Thousands came every day to see it, and men and
women wore gloves, gowns, and waistcoats of the
colour of its spots. But the successful expedition by
which, in 1836, M. Thibaut procured a stock of
giraffes for the Zoological Society, owed nothing to
the patronage of the Pasha of Egypt, beyond permission
to enter the Soudan. The caravan left the
Nile near Dongola, and thence passed on to the desert
of Kordofan. There M. Thibaut engaged the services
of the Arab sword-hunters, whose skill and courage
were of such service to Sir Samuel Baker in his
expedition thirty years later to the sources of the Nile
tributaries; and in two days they sighted the giraffes.
A female with a fawn was first pursued by the Arabs,
who killed the animal with their swords, and next day
tracked and caught the fawn in the thorny mimosa
scrub. For four days the young giraffe was secured
by a cord, the end of which was held by one of the
Arabs; at the end of that time it was perfectly tame,
and trotted after the caravan with the female camels
which had been brought to supply it with milk. The
Arabs were excellent nurses, and taught the young
creature to drink milk by putting their fingers into its
mouth and so inducing it to suck. Four others
which M. Thibaut caught died in the cold weather
in the desert. But he replaced three of these, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>brought four, including that first taken, down the
Nile to Alexandria, and then by ship to Malta.
“Providence alone,” he wrote, “enabled me to surmount
these difficulties.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The Report of the Council of the Society as to the
progress of this great undertaking is worth quoting
in full.</p>
<p class='c008'>“The Council are now (April 1836) looking forward
with interest to the completion of an attempt in which
the Society is engaged for the importation of several
giraffes, which they hope to see added to the Society’s
collection in a very few weeks. In the earlier days
of the Society’s existence, the acquisition of this
singular and rare animal was among the most important
objects to which the attention of the Council was
directed, and they made many inquiries as to the
probable means of effecting it, and then named a price
which would be paid for one or two of them, on their
being delivered, in good health, at the Society’s
Gardens.</p>
<p class='c008'>“In 1833 the inquiries were again resumed, through
Mr. Bourchier of Malta, to whose valuable aid on
numerous occasions the Society is almost incessantly
indebted. Through his intervention, and the kindness
of Colonel Campbell, her Majesty’s Consul-General
for Egypt, an arrangement was made during the close
of that year with M. Thibaut, who was then at Cairo,
and he agreed to proceed to Nubia for the purpose
of procuring giraffes on the Society’s behalf. The
terms of his agreement imposed upon him the whole
<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>risk of the undertaking, previously to the delivery of
the animals in Malta, and it was not until his landing
them in that island that he was entitled to receive the
stipulated price, which was at a fixed rate for each
individual, diminishing in proportion to the number
he should bring with him.”</p>
<p class='c008'>After a brief reference to the capture of the animals,
the report states that he reached Malta in safety with
his valuable charges, three males and a female, on
November 21, 1834. “Having thus fulfilled his
engagement, M. Thibaut became entitled to receive
the stipulated sum of £700, which has accordingly
been paid him. But the Council has considered it so
desirable to avail themselves of his experience with
respect to these valuable animals, that they have
arranged with him for the continuation of his services
until their arrival in England. For the conveyance
of the giraffes to this country, the Council have availed
themselves of the <i>Manchester</i>, a steam vessel of great
size and power, which proceeded to Lisbon at the
beginning of the present month, having been specially
engaged for the service of Prince Ferdinand of Portugal.
From Lisbon the <i>Manchester</i> is to proceed to Malta,
whence she will return to London. Her arrival may
be expected before the end of May. For the conveyance
of the animals to England £1000 will be
paid, and the necessary fittings for the accommodation
of the giraffes will be prepared at the cost of the
Society in her Majesty’s dockyard at Malta, orders
to that effect having been sent thither by the Lords
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>of the Admiralty.” Thus the giraffes came to this
country under circumstances almost as imposing as
those which marked the reception of that sent by
the Pasha of Egypt to Paris. They travelled in
one of the first steam vessels of the mercantile
marine, one which had just conveyed a prince, and
their comfort was provided for by the Admiralty and
the Royal Dockyards.</p>
<p class='c008'>All four were safely lodged in the Zoological
Gardens on May 24, 1836, an event which the
Council of the Society justly claimed as highly
creditable to its resources. One died in the following
winter, but the rest continued in excellent health,
and became the greatest public favourites in the
menagerie.</p>
<p class='c008'>At the time of their arrival the largest was then
about 11 ft. high, the height of an adult male being
12 ft. at the shoulder and 18 ft. at the head. For
many years, as we have said, the giraffes throve and
multiplied. They readily took to European food, and
ate hay and fresh grass from the tall racks with which
their stables were fitted. <i>Onions</i> and sugar were their
favourite delicacies, and in search of sugar they would
follow their keeper, and slip their long prehensile
tongues into his hands or pockets. But they always
retained a liking for eating flowers, a reminiscence,
perhaps, of the days when their parents feasted on
mimosa blossoms in the desert. Some years ago, one
was seen to stretch its neck over the railings, and to
delicately nip off an artificial rose in a young lady’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>hat. They were most affectionate creatures, and, as
M. Thibaut noticed when in charge of them in Upper
Egypt, would shed tears if they missed their companions
or their usual attendants. But the development
of the lachrymal ducts, which enables the giraffe
to express its emotions in this very human fashion, is
less obvious than the wonderful size and beauty of
the eyes themselves, which are far larger than those
of any other quadruped. On May 27, 1840, four
years after their arrival, the female giraffe bore and
afterwards reared a fine fawn, and it was not until
they had been eleven years in the menagerie that the
death occurred of one of the pair of males which had
survived the first year in England. In 1849 two more
males and one female giraffe were waiting the Society’s
pleasure at Cairo, and the stock continued to increase
by births in the menagerie. In 1867 the straw in the
giraffes’ house caught fire at night, and a female and
her fawn were suffocated. A sum of £545 was
claimed as compensation for their loss, and duly paid
to the Society by the “Sun” Fire Insurance Office,
probably the first claim of the kind paid in Europe.
For curiosity, now that we have no living giraffe left
in England, we would suggest a comparison of the
beautifully-stuffed giraffe heads in Mr. Rowland
Ward’s collection in Piccadilly, with the innumerable
specimens of other large game, such as wapiti, buffaloes,
hippopotami, or rhinoceros, which fill the rooms. In
all these, the size and character of the eye has been
carefully reproduced, though no art could preserve
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>the lustre and softness of the eye of the giraffe in life.
While the Mahdi’s power remains unbroken at Khartoum,
there is little probability that the Soudan traders
will be able to supply any to occupy the empty house
in Regent’s Park. Yet the southern range of these
beautiful creatures, though it has greatly receded, still
extends to the North Kalahari Desert, and to part of
Khama’s country, where the “camel-thorn,” as the
Boers call the giraffe-acacia, abounds. There the
great chief carefully preserves the giraffes, and allows
only his own people, or his own white friends, to kill
them. The other point at which the giraffe country
is still accessible to European hunters or naturalists
is Somaliland, and the “unknown horn” of Africa.
This district is so far accessible, that parties of English
sportsmen yearly penetrate it from Berbera, making
Aden their starting-point from British territory. But
from the point of view of those who would delay as
long as possible the extermination of the large game
of Africa, the Dervish empire is not altogether matter
for regret. No doubt the Arabs will still kill giraffes
to make their shields from the hides, as they have
done for centuries; but for the present the Soudan
giraffes will be protected from raids like that in which
those in the Kalahari Desert were destroyed in
hundreds, because the price of “sjambok whips” had
doubled. The Mahdi is, in fact, the involuntary
protector of the wild animals of Central Africa, to
which Sir Samuel Baker bore unconscious testimony
when he lamented that, “owing to British interference
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>in Egypt, where the ‘courbatch’ (hippopotamus whip)
has been abolished, the hippopotamus will remain
undisturbed on the great White Nile, monarch of the
river upon which fifteen British steamers were flying
when the Soudan was abandoned by the despotic
order of Great Britain, and handed back to savagedom
and wild beasts.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE ELECTRIC EEL.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>If</span> the rational basis of legend and fable is worth
exploring at all, we may well ask why the possession
of electric power, the most strange, and until recently
the most inexplicable, attribute of any of the inhabitants
of the water, does not play a greater part in the
marvellous narratives of ancient voyages? The
<i>remora</i>, or sucking-fish, magnified a thousand times
in imaginations excited by a world of strange and new
experience, was the besetting foe of mariners in
Northern waters. Clinging to the keel, it kept their
barques for weeks in the <i>mare pigrum</i>, the sluggish
sea of drifting ice. Whales, rising like sandbanks
above the waves, tempted the weary crews to make
fast to their treacherous bulk, and then plunged to the
bottom, carrying with them both ships and sailors.
Gigantic squids thrust their slimy arms down the
hatchways, and plucked sleeping seamen from their
berths and strangled them before their comrades’
eyes. But the “torpedo”—the paralyzer—though as
well known then to the fishers of the Mediterranean
as it is now known, under the name of the “crampfish,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>or electric ray, to the trawlers of Cornwall or the
Channel, seems to have appealed less to the fancies of
the sailors of old, than the new though less mysterious
powers of the monsters, great and small, which
rushed beneath their keels in hyperborean seas.
Possibly the powers of the “torpedo” were too well
known to excite curiosity, though it is difficult to
believe that a creature which sometimes reaches a
bulk of 100 lbs. weight, and can emit an electrical
discharge strong enough to kill a duck, or to cause in
the human arm a “creeping sensation felt in the
whole limb up to the shoulder, accompanied by a
violent trembling, and sharp pain in the elbow,”
followed by loss of sensation for an hour, was not as
suggestive to sailors’ fancies as the tentacles of the
cuttle-fish, or the sucking-discs of the <i>remora</i>. But
if the fabulous terrors of the last were enough to deter
the boldest mariners who sailed beyond Thule, it is
matter for congratulation that early explorers were
unacquainted with the powers and proportions of a
monster of still more formidable mould, the electric
eel of Southern America. Its mere aspect is lurid,
sombre, and repulsive. Its belly glows like red-hot
iron, as if fresh from the lake of living fire. Its back
is dark and shiny, as if tinged by inky Cocytus.
Around its lips and jaws are glowing spots like
bubbles of hot metal. The colours meet in a line
along the side; and the creature, when drawn from
the water, looks as though formed of two welded
portions of iron, the one hot, the other cold, just
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>plunged into the blacksmith’s cistern. Small eyes,
blue and bleared, are set in the top of a blunt
ferocious head, from which the strong and muscular
body tapers gradually to a point at the tail. Such,
at least, is the appearance of the two electric eels at
the Zoo, of whose power the writer, with curiosity
stimulated by Baron Humboldt’s unique description
of these creatures in the inland pools of tropical
America, recently made trial. Neither the size of the
fish, nor their physical condition in the small tank
in which they exist at present, could reasonably be
expected to produce such results as the great traveller
witnessed in the stagnant pools of the llanos of
Caraccas, when the Indians drove a herd of horses
into the water to face the electric discharges of the
fish. “These yellowish livid eels,” he writes, “resembling
large aquatic snakes, swim near the surface of
the water, and crowd under the bellies of the horses
and mules. The struggle between animals of so
different an organization affords a very interesting
sight. The Indians, armed with harpoons and long
slender reeds, closely surround the pool, and by their
wild shouts and long reeds prevent the horses from
coming to the bank. The eels seek to defend themselves
by repeated discharges of their electric batteries,
and for a long time it seems as if theirs would be the
victory. Several horses sink under the violence of
the invisible blows which they receive in the most
vital parts, and, benumbed by the force and frequency
of the shocks, disappear beneath the surface. Others,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>with mane erect and haggard eyes, raise themselves
and endeavour to escape, but are driven back by the
Indians. Within five minutes a couple of horses are
killed. The eel, which is five feet long, presses its
body against the belly of the horse, and attacks at
once the heart, the viscera, and the group of abdominal
nerves. It is natural,” the author adds, “that the
effect which a horse experiences should be more powerful
than that produced by the same fish on man, when
it touches him only at one of the extremities. The
horses are probably not killed, but stunned, and are
drowned amid the confusion of the struggle between
the other horses and eels.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The truth of Humboldt’s account of the taking
of the electric eels is sometimes doubted. But apart
from the credit due to the deliberate utterances of one
of the greatest minds of modern days, the accuracy of
whose views, even when he put them forward as mere
probable surmise, is being constantly verified by later
experience, the powers of the creatures, even of the
small specimen brought to this country, are so astonishing
as to make Humboldt’s account not err on the
side of the marvellous.</p>
<p class='c008'>It would be difficult, unless the opportunity existed
of taking a plunge into a tank large enough to swim
in, and well stocked with electric eels, to realize by
personal experience the precise effect of the shocks
upon the horses; but a record of the writer’s sensations
when in personal contact with these uncanny
creatures may perhaps give some notion of the strength
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>of their electric power. The largest of the pair in
Regent’s Park, about 4½ ft. in length, thick and deep,
and probably weighing from 16 lbs. to 18 lbs., was
moving sluggishly on the bottom of the tank, and was
slowly raised to the surface by a landing-net. As its
side became visible, its resemblance to a “cooling
cast” was even closer than when seen from above.
When grasped in the middle of the back, there was
just time to realize that it had none of the “lubricity”
of the common eel, when the first shock passed up
the arm with a “flicker” identical with that which a
zig-zag flash of lightning leaves upon the eye, and, as
it seemed, with equal speed. A second and third felt
like a blow on the “funny-bone,” and the hand and
arm were involuntarily thrown back with a jerk which
flung the water backwards on the pavement and over
the keeper who was kindly assisting in the enterprise.
This slight mishap recalled a far less agreeable result
of a shock inflicted on a previous inquirer, whose
recoiling hand had struck the assistant a severe blow
in the face. Unwilling to be baffled by a fish less in
size than the salmon which form the common stock
of a fishmonger’s window, the writer once more
endeavoured to hold the eel at any cost of personal
suffering. But the electric powers were too subtle
and pervading to be denied. The first muscular
quiver of the fish was resisted; but at the second, the
sense of vibration set up became intolerable, and the
enforced release was as rapid and uncontrollable as the
first. The smaller eel was neither so vigorous nor so
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>resentful as its fellow. But though the first and
second shocks did not compel the grasp to relax, a
third was equally intolerable with that given by the
larger fish. The electrical power seems to increase
rapidly in the heavier eels. One of 5 ft. in length,
which appeared to be nearly dead when it arrived at
the Gardens, and was therefore handled without
ceremony, inflicted a shock which, as the keeper
stated, “nearly sent him on his back;” and the same
fish, when being carried by hand in a tub up to the
rooms of the Royal Society, sent a shock through the
water which nearly caused the downfall of fish and
bucket alike. This power of projecting its electric
discharge, either through the water or by means of
any conductor, to the object which it desires to
paralyze, may be well observed at the Zoo. The
usual way in which the shocks are received is by
grasping a copper-rod, which is placed in contact with
the fish’s back. But it is when in pursuit of the
small fish which form its food that the “range” of
the eel’s battery is best seen. On the last occasion on
which the writer was present at the eel’s feeding-hour,
eight or ten lively gudgeon were taken from a pail,
and placed in the eel’s tank. The small fish at once
dived to the bottom, as is their habit, and sought
refuge in the corners, or at the angle made by the
meeting of the base and sides of the stone cistern.
Every one of the fish was killed by electric shock
before being eaten; but in the case of those in the
corners, it was impossible for the fish to bring the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>electric organ, which lies on each side of the lower
part of the tail, into direct contact. The eel, therefore,
swam past them, like a torpedo-boat which
intends to discharge its broadside torpedoes, and as
the battery came opposite, the fish gave a slight
quiver, which instantaneously produced a violent
shock in the gudgeon, and turned it belly upwards.
After three had been killed and eaten, the shocks
became weaker, and the other gudgeon seemed only
partly paralyzed by the first shock, and sometimes
recovered and swam away in a crippled condition until
benumbed by a second shock. One fish which was
“shocked” and left for dead while the eel went in
pursuit of more, recovered after a few minutes, and
was subsequently pursued, received a direct shock
from the eel’s side, and was killed. The inference
suggested by the writer’s own experience of the
violence of the shocks inflicted, though with different
degrees of intensity, is that the eel controls the power
of the electrical discharge at will, just as it controls
any other function which has its initiative in muscular
action; and that the gudgeons received enough, and
no more, than was sufficient to paralyze them, and
make them easy victims for the slow-moving eel.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>
<h2 class='c006'>DEEP-SEA LAMPS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> possibility of exhibiting the powers of electrical
fishes in the tanks at the Zoo, suggests the question
whether, in the progress of marine aquariums, we shall
ever see the luminous creatures of the deep seas
exhibited alive before air-breathing mortals in this
upper world. Virgil’s Sybil set the depth of Tartarus
at twice the skyward gaze to the summit of Olympus.
But the profundity of the ocean abyss is such that in
the deep Atlantic Olympus might be imposed upon
itself, and Ossa piled above, without rising to break
the surface. The imagination almost refuses to grasp
the physical conditions in an abyss so profound as the
ocean bed off the coast of Porto Rico, wrapped, by a
weight of waters five miles deep, in perpetual darkness
and everlasting cold, and under a pressure of which
figures can convey no practical conception. Even at
the average depth of 2,500 fathoms sunlight can never
penetrate. The temperature is only a few degrees
above freezing-point, the water is without movement,
there is no plant-life, and the pressure is two and a
half tons on the square inch, or about twenty-five
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>times greater than that which drives a railway train.
Yet it is now certain that where the fancy painted a
survival of the sterile and lifeless plains of an unformed
world, or at most the rude survivals of primitive
fossils, the bed of the deep sea teems with animal
life, and the clinging darkness of its waters is peopled
by myriads of fragile and fantastic forms, and lighted
into a blaze by the effulgence from their bodies.
Hard as it is to conceive the bare existence of life
under the conditions of the ocean abyss, the mind
pauses in astonishment at the completeness of the
triumph by which creatures apparently doomed to live
in eternal night are supplied not with mere slimy
secretions of luminosity, but with rows of bright and
ever-burning lamps, in organs fitted with lenses and
reflectors, which shoot their beams sidelong through
the circumfluent ocean, or project shafts of light
before their eyes to illuminate their path.</p>
<p class='c008'>The results of recent deep-sea exploration have
been summarized by Mr. Sydney J. Hickson, Fellow
of Downing College, Cambridge, in a short work on
<i>The Fauna of the Deep Sea</i>, published in the “Modern
Science Series.”<SPAN name='r1' /><SPAN href='#f1' class='c017'><sup>[1]</sup></SPAN> Though the bulk and specialized
character of the reports of separate expeditions organized
by the English, French, German, Italian, and
Norwegian governments, makes such a task one of
no ordinary difficulty, Mr. Hickson has succeeded
in his wish to “give in a small compass the more
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>important facts of this great mass of literature in such
a form as may interest those who do not possess a
specialist’s knowledge.” The main conclusions are
clearly presented with examples and excellent illustrations,
in number sufficient to convince without
bewildering. On one point we could desire a little
more information. There is no suggestion of the
means by which creatures differing so little in bodily
frame and tissue from the shallow-water species, from
which they are apparently derived by migration into
the deeps, support the enormous pressure in their
present home. Some explanation seems to be required,
though an incident in the recent erection of the Forth
Bridge seems to suggest that the modification of
tissue to endure high pressure may be acquired more
rapidly than is supposed. The men employed in the
steel shells or caissons sunk to form the foundations
of the piers, worked in a pressure of air rather greater
than the pressure of the water outside, which would
otherwise have penetrated between the rims of the
caissons and the ground. On those days on which
they were not employed, and came to the surface,
they felt such pain in the joints from the expansion
of the air, which had been absorbed at high pressure,
that they begged to be allowed to go down into the
caissons and spend their off hours in the pressure to
which they had grown accustomed. This instance of
partial migration into conditions of high pressure,
seems worthy of a place among the facts of deep-sea
exploration. Yet it must remain among the strangest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>features of life in the ocean abyss, that its inhabitants
show so little visible change of structure to meet what
seems the first and most overwhelming change of
physical conditions. The angler-fish and eels, crabs
and prawns, star-fish and zoophytes of the shallow
waters are represented in the abyss by forms almost
similar in structure, though that some difference must
exist is shown by the fact that when brought up by
the dredge from the depths of the ocean they are
killed and distorted by the diminution and disappearance
of the vast pressure in which they habitually
live. “The fish which live at these enormous depths,”
writes Mr. Hickson, “are liable to a curious form of
accident. If, in chasing their prey, or for any other
reason, they rise to a considerable distance above the
floor of the ocean, the gases of their swimming-bladder
become greatly expanded, and their specific gravity
reduced. If the muscles are not strong enough to
drive the body downwards, the fish, becoming more
and more distended as it goes, is gradually killed on
its long and involuntary journey to the surface of the
sea. The deep-sea fish, then, are exposed to a danger
that no other animals in this world are subject to—namely,
that of tumbling upwards.”</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f1'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r1'>1</SPAN>. </span><i>The Fauna of the Deep Sea</i>, by Sydney J. Hickson, M.A.,
D.Sc. London: Kegan Paul and Co.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>But however obscure the structure which enables
the deep-sea creatures to withstand the pressure of the
waters, the means by which they combat the plague
of darkness is evident and astounding. It is well
known that the number of phosphorescent animals,
even in shallow tropical seas, is such that they can
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>illuminate not only the waters, but the air, to a
considerable distance. Sir Wyville Thompson states,
that near the Cape Verde Islands he saw the sea in
such a blaze of phosphorescence that, though there
was no moon, “it was easy to read the smallest print,
sitting at the after-port in the cabin; while the bows
shed, on either side, rapidly widening wedges of
radiance, so vivid as to throw the sails and riggings
into distinct lights and shadows.” But, great as is
the number of luminous creatures in the shallow
waters, the percentage among those dredged from the
deeps is greater, though their brilliant glow, when
lying upon the decks of the exploring ships, is no
guide to the possible intensity of their light in the
pressure under which they live. Many of the deep-sea
species possess light-projecting organs in numbers
and perfection unrivalled by the shallow-water forms.
Some of the fish have double rows of tiny lamps
running the whole length of their bodies, like the rows
of port-holes in an ocean steamer’s sides. These are
supplemented by other sets of less clearly divided
light-organs, arranged in clusters and groups of fifty
or a hundred. Other deep-sea fishes have bull’s-eye
lanterns set beneath their eyes, projecting their light
“full-a-head.” Sections cut through these extraordinary
organs show that above the phosphorus-burning
vessel lies first a layer of “reflectors,” and
lastly, a lens for concentrating the beams. Perhaps
the strangest development of this power of illumination
is in an angler-fish, found at a depth of 14,700
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>feet. Like the other “anglers,” it has a huge mouth
armed with long uneven teeth, and a pendent “fishing-rod”
tentacle which attracts other fish like a bait.
In the shallow-water “anglers” this tentacle resembles
something edible by fish. In the deep-water species
it is fitted with an organ which is supposed to be a
phosphorus lamp, and to play the part of a “Will-o’-the-Wisp”
in attracting little fishes to the angler’s
jaws.</p>
<p class='c008'>The phosphorescent power is by no means confined
to the fishes proper of the deep sea. Starfish and
most of the various forms of zoophytes possess it,
though in less perfect organs. One poured out
“clouds of a pale-blue, highly luminous substance,
which not only illuminated the observer’s hands and
surrounding objects in the vessel in which it was
confined, but finally communicated a luminosity to
the water itself;” another threw out light of a brilliant
green, coruscating from the centre, now along one
arm, now along another. In view of the phosphorescence
even of the surface of the sea when full of
luminous creatures, it is not rash to conclude that the
eternal night of the abyss is in places lighted with
sufficient brilliance by its phosphorescent zoophytes
and fishes. Where these are few or absent, there
must be darkness either partial or complete. Hence
we are presented with the perfectly reconcilable contradiction
of deep-sea creatures with eyes of high
development, and others with no eyes at all; one
species possessing eyes with four thousand facets,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>while crabs and prawns are found totally blind, like
the fish of subterranean caverns. Those which carry
lamps themselves, or live among luminous creatures,
not only retain their eyes, but are supplied with
organs of abnormal power in order to use to the
utmost the phosphorous beams. The presence of
bright colouring in the deep-sea forms is also explained
in the same way, so far as colour is related to the
presence of light. There is little difference in the
hues of deep-sea and shallow-water species, except
that shades of red are more frequent in the former,
possibly because red is the complementary colour of
the phosphorescent beams.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is in the leading facts which make such minor
developments possible that the wonder and significance
of these discoveries lie,—in the defiance of such
physical obstacles as are set to life by enormous
pressure, and in the artificial lighting of the abysmal
darkness by the invading creatures. Sir Richard
Owen once suggested an extension of the limits of
terrestrial life, by pointing out that the light of the
planet Jupiter was suited to the form of the vertebrate
eye. When the mind which has once grasped the
physical conditions of the ocean abyss, is confronted
with the triumph of living creatures over such
surroundings, it no longer lies with it to reject as
impossible the surmise that life, which so transcends
the limits set by ordinary experience to its scope on
earth, may also extend to the planets.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE LION HOUSE AT THE ZOO.</h2></div>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
<div>[“<i>Hic habitat leones.</i>”—Old Map of Central Africa.]</div>
</div></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Just</span> fifty years ago, when the best means of
keeping wild animals in health and vigour when confined
was still matter for experiment, an interesting
set of statistics of the length of life of the large
<i>felidæ</i> in the Gardens was submitted to the Society
by Mr. Rees. It appeared from the records of the
menagerie that lions, leopards, tigers, and pumas
only lived, on an average, for two years in the
Gardens, which gave a rate of mortality of about one
per month. The value of lions and tigers was then
about £150 each, and of leopards and pumas £15.</p>
<p class='c008'>The system which led to this great mortality was
one of confinement in small stuffy cages, in a room
artificially heated throughout the year, and much was
hoped from a complete change of treatment which
had just begun.</p>
<div id='i062' class='figcenter id005'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i062.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Pumas.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The new principle was one of “free exposure to
the outer air, with no artificial heat whatever,” and
the range of dens now known as the “Terrace,” on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>either side of which the bears are kept, was built for
the accommodation of the lions and tigers. The cages
do not strike us as particularly roomy or comfortable
now, but at that time they were looked upon as unusually
spacious, and the unfortunate carnivora, which
had been boxed up in stuffy rooms and narrow cages,
soon felt the benefit of the change. The African
leopards, which were emaciated and sickly before
their removal, became plump and sleek in a fortnight,
and the appetite of all materially increased. The most
convincing proof of this gratifying change was that
a tigress, feeling hungry in the night, killed a tiger,
and a puma did the same, and partly devoured its
mate. The Society took the hint, and increased their
rations, and for some time the new method of lion-culture
answered well.</p>
<p class='c008'>The rough-and-ready expedient of exposing the
great cats to all the changes of an English climate had
a greater measure of success than might have been
expected. One is apt to forget that though the tropics
are the main home of the tiger and the leopard, both
wander far into the northern mountains, and that the
former, if brought originally from Turkestan or
China, can stand an English winter as well as the
Chinese monkeys. During the year after the removal
of the animals to their new house there was not a
single death, and the system promised so well that
artificial heat was for a time discontinued, both in the
Monkey House and the Giraffe House, except that
given by open fires. That the health of all the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>animals improved is shown by the list of creatures
which lived in the Gardens, including brown and black
bears, leopards, and ocelots.</p>
<p class='c008'>The present Lion House, with its fine outdoor
summer palaces, and its indoor winter cages, in a
house warmed with hot water, is a combination of
the two previous systems, and so far as health goes
it seems to leave nothing to be desired. The Zoo
of the future will probably contain lion houses of vast
size, in which the creatures are allowed to live together
in large numbers. This is the system adopted by
the largest owner of wild animals in the world, Mr.
Carl Hagenbeck, of Hamburg and New York. In
his gardens at Hamburg, six lions, two Bengal tigers,
and one from Siberia, live harmoniously in society
with a polar bear, a Thibetan bear, and a number of
leopards. The chance of a battle royal at meal time
seems too great to be risked; but Mr. Hagenbeck
says, that provided the animals are associated when quite
young, and that each addition to the family is a young
one, there is no danger. Meantime the space and
freedom of the great cages, and the absence of that
<i>ennui</i> to which animals are subject when confined
separately, or even in pairs, have the best effect on
their growth and vivacity. In the Hamburg cage
the polar bear will play and romp with the tigers for
hours, and most wonderful exhibitions of strength
may be seen daily in these wrestling matches between
such gigantic and dissimilar creatures.</p>
<p class='c008'>Mr. Hagenbeck is the Moltke of the wild animal
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>trade. His menagerie at Chicago attracted more
visitors even than the “gigantic wheel,” mainly
because the creatures had more liberty and more
space than they enjoy in any other “gardens”; and
it is probable that he will effect a marked change in
the modes of animal exhibitions now in use.</p>
<p class='c008'>Meantime, whether in summer or winter, the Lion
House is perhaps better worth seeing than any branch
of the Society’s menagerie.</p>
<p class='c008'>Few public characters are “at home” to visitors
during so many hours of the day as its inmates; who
might with justice enter a protest against the incivility
of the public, which insists on taking the notice that
“The lions will be fed at three o’clock,” as a pressing
invitation to be spectators of their manners at mealtimes.
Yet the economy of the Lion House so far
differs from the ordinary life of the other inmates of
the Zoo that, for an undiscerning public which wants
excitement and has no time for observation, there is
every inducement to confine its visits to a particular
hour. The cattle-sheds, the Antelope House, the
Monkey Palace, or the Aviaries, present much the
same appearance at any time of the day. The pleasant
round of comfort—eating, drinking, playing, or
sleeping—goes on without variety or long cessation.
But the life of the great carnivora is ordered differently,
and with greater exactness. In the morning, in the
Lion House, all is quiet. The animals are resting or
sleeping, and the only visitors are artists or photographers,
whom the lions “oblige” with a sitting at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>a cheaper rate than any professional models in the
trade. We wonder in how many characters the old
Nubian lion, “Prince,” appeared? He has striven
with Hercules, carried Una, been vanquished by
Samson, and shot by Nimrod. He has roared at
Daniel, and eaten martyrs innumerable; and he still
lives on canvas to entertain Androcles in his den, or
dies, the last of his race, in the desert cavern of some
artist’s fancy.</p>
<p class='c008'>“<i>Ars longa, vita brevis</i>,” is, perhaps, a saying which
would appeal to the hungry lions equally with the
artistic visitors to the Zoo, as feeding-time approaches.
At two o’clock p.m., the animals awake, stretch themselves,
and yawn, showing the width of their enormous
jaws, and rows of gleaming teeth. The public grows
interested, and the artists desponding. Even the
little lad in knickerbockers, the work on whose easel
suggests the story of Michael Angelo’s first essay in
sculpture, drops his brushes and runs to the steps at
the back to watch his sitters in action. Then follows
the <i>mauvais quart d’heure</i> before dinner,—in this case
unduly protracted. All the beautiful lithe creatures,
pacing ceaselessly to and fro, noiseless as ghosts, seem
to be performing a kind of “grand chain,” which
becomes faster and faster as their impatience and
hunger increase. As the howling of the wolves in
their distant cages is heard by the lions, excitement
breaks beyond control, and the roars of the hungry
beasts only cease as the truck of food is emptied.
As a spectacle, the sight has a certain interest. But
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>except for those whose imagination can picture no
other side of animal life in daily contact with man, it
is, perhaps, the worst moment to select in order to appreciate
the real character of those most friendly beasts,
the lions and tigers at the Zoo. In the early morning
hours, when their “sitting-rooms” have been duly
swept and strewn with fresh sawdust, and their toilet—which
is always completed in their sleeping-chambers—is
finished, the iron doors are opened, and the
owners of the different cages come leisurely out to
greet the day, each in its humour as the night’s sleep
or natural temper dictates.</p>
<p class='c008'>On the last occasion on which the writer waited on
the tigers’ <i>levée</i>, it was evident that some disagreement
had marked the morning hours. The tigress from
Hyderabad came out with a rush, and greeted the
world with a most forbidding growl. She then stood
erect, like a disturbed cat, switching her tail to and
fro, and after examining every corner of the cage,
summoned her mate with a discontented roar. The
tiger then stalked out, and endeavoured to soothe his
partner with some commonplace caress, which apparently
soothed her ruffled nerves, for after sharpening
her claws upon the floor, she lay down, and, rolling
over on her back, with paws folded on her breast, and
mouth half-open, went most contentedly to sleep.
The pair of tiger-cubs in the next cage were still
sleeping the long sleep of youth, one making a pillow
of the other’s shoulder. Tigers, it may be observed,
do not sleep like cats, but resemble in all their attitudes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>of repose the luxurious languor of some petted house-dog,
constantly rolling over on their backs, and sticking
up their paws, with heads upon one side, and eyes
half-opened. This pair of cubs was presented by the
Maharanee of Odeypore in 1892. Both cubs, when
called by the keeper, can be stroked and petted like
cats. But no tiger which has yet lived in Regent’s
Park has been so completely tamed as the fine northern
tiger “Warsaw” from Turkestan, which died last
winter, after living in the Zoo since 1886. Taking
into account the hardships endured by a wild animal
in its transport from the distant steppes of Central
Asia, across the Caspian Sea, thence by rail to the
Euxine, and finally by ship to England, it is difficult
to maintain the belief in the “innate ferocity” of the
tiger after making the acquaintance of “Warsaw.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The way in which this tiger found its way to the
Zoo is typical of the unexpected means by which the
menagerie is supplied with rare animals. Colonel
Stafford, who had been engaged on the Afghan
Boundary Commission in 1885, was returning by land
through Central Asia, when he found the tiger, in a
little cage, waiting at the terminus on the eastern side
of the Caspian, and destined for some scientific gentleman
at Warsaw. As the northern tiger was almost
unknown in England, and there seemed some delay in
the arrival of the purchase-money, Colonel Stafford
bought it for the Indian Government, who approved
of his investment, and presented it to the Zoological
Society. To get the tiger by the Russian Central
<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>Asian railway to the Black Sea, and thence to England,
was no easy matter. In the first place, the railway
officials objected that tigers were not scheduled in their
bill of charges, and unlike the English station-master,
who held that cats is dogs, and rabbits is dogs, and
parrots is dogs, maintained that tigers were tigers, and
ought to be paid for at exceptional rates, including, of
course, a bribe to the officials. This view being disputed
by the tiger’s owner, it remained at the station,
where, being not only quite tame, but an adept at
small tricks, it became a general favourite. Its great
performance was that of raising a basin of water and
pouring it over its head; and this accomplishment,
displayed before the daughter of the superintendent of
the line, ultimately secured the tiger a passage to the
sea. At Poti it was shipped for Constantinople, being
supplied with a small flock of sheep as food in case
the voyage was protracted. The animal remembered
and recognized his first purchaser long after it had
found a resting-place at the Zoo, though not at so long
an interval as that after which the lion in the Tower
showed its affection for its old keeper. This lion,
which a certain Mr. Archer, employed at the Court of
Morocco, “had brought up like a puppy-dog, having
it to lie on his bed, until he grew as great as a mastiff,
and no dog could be more gentle to those he knew,”
was sent to the Tower, where, after an interval of seven
years, he recognized one John Bull, a servant of his
master, who, according to Captain John Smith, “went
with divers of his friends to see the lions, not knowing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>that his old friend was there. Yet this rare beast
smelt him before he saw him, whining, groaning, and
tumbling with such an expression of acquaintance,
that, being informed by the keepers how he came,
Bull so prevailed that the keepers opened the grate,
and Bull went in. But no dog could fawn more on
his master than the lion on him, licking his feet and
hands, and tumbling to and fro, to the wonder of all
the beholders. Bull was quite satisfied with this
recognition, and managed to get out of the grate; but
when the lion saw his friend gone, no beast, by
bellowing, roaring, scratching, and howling, could
express more rage and sorrow; neither would he
either eat or drink for four whole days afterwards.”
“Warsaw’s” affections were not put to so severe a
test; but his forbearance may be judged from the
fact that he would allow his paws to be pulled out
between the bars, and his toes to be examined, to see
<i>whether his nails wanted cutting</i>.</p>
<p class='c008'>This amiability is very difficult to explain, unless
on the ground that the tiger was captured when very
young, though many cubs are ferocious when only a
few months old. Another northern tiger, from China,
which came as a half-grown specimen to the Gardens
three years ago, was as tame as “Warsaw,” though it
had suffered much in captivity, and died before
attaining its full size. It was starved in China, and
never recovered this early ill-usage, its brief life being
a succession of illnesses; but its temper was never
soured, and it was far more demonstratively affectionate
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>than any cat. For some months it was kept
in invalid quarters at the back of the house, and its
loud “purrs” could be heard at the end of the passage
the moment its keepers entered. It ran up and down
its cage, rubbing against the bars, with its tail standing
stiffly up, and delighted to have its head and ears
rubbed and patted. Sutton, and the keepers more
especially concerned with the Lion House, took all
possible care of it, and after nursing it through an
illness in which it lost all its fur, they succeeded in
bringing it into condition to be shown. But the tiger
soon became sick again, and after a long illness, in
which it was kept alive mainly by the care and
affection of the keepers, it died, much lamented.</p>
<p class='c008'>Tameness is by no means confined to the northern
species of tiger. “Jack,” an Indian tiger, which died
in the same year as “Warsaw,” was quite as friendly
to its keepers, and surpassed him in beauty. For
some time it shared with the Sokoto lion the place of
honour as the finest creature in the Gardens. When
it arrived, in 1888, as a five-months-old cub, it was
led by a chain and collar like a big dog, and was for
some time taken to and from its cage by the keepers
with no other precaution, until its reluctance to be
shut up when it preferred to walk at large, and the
difficulty of “coercing” so large an animal, led to its
permanent incarceration. “Jack” was the tiger which,
in the experiments with different musical instruments
subsequently described, displayed so marked an objection
to the sounds of the piccolo.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>In spite of the deaths of the three tigers, of
“Duke,” the old lion, and of a jaguar and puma, the
years 1892-1894 have seen an increase in the
numbers of the inmates of the Lion House greater than
at any period since the return of the Prince of Wales
from his Indian visit, and the collection of so many
fine young animals gives a good idea of the difference
in “points” and form in creatures of the same species.
There is as much difference in lions as in horses
or in dogs of the same breed, and they are by no
means uniformly noble or impressive to look upon.
Some are “down at heel,” some narrow-chested,
others have Roman noses, a very ugly feature in a
lion; some, on the other hand, are all that a lion
should be.</p>
<div id='i072' class='figcenter id006'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i072.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Lion and Lioness.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier<br/>Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>By far the finest pair in the Gardens are the lion
presented to the Queen by the Sultan of Sokoto, and
the pale lioness bred in the Amsterdam Zoological
Gardens. Those in the “fancy” say, that if the
Sokoto lion had a black mane it would be the finest in
Europe, except that in the Clifton Zoological Gardens.
Its coat and mane are the colour of red gold-dust,
its head twice the size of that of the lioness, its eyes
a clear brown, and its gaze steady and tranquil. Its
body is compact, its limbs straight, and its attitudes
unconsciously striking and magnificent. The lioness
is a very pale fawn, almost cream colour, and the
damask spots of cub-hood were still visible on her legs
and feet when she was three years old. In temper
she is as savage and ferocious as her partner is gentle.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>As far as points go she is almost perfect, with a long
straight back, round black-tipped ears, short strong
legs, square head, flat forehead, rounded, cushioned
feet, and a chest like a bull-dog’s.</p>
<p class='c008'>The only other creature which is equally ferocious
is a very old tigress, called “Minnie.” The writer
has seen her “stalk” a keeper, when his back was
turned, and there is little doubt that the scene was an
exact reproduction of what takes place in an Indian
jungle. She crouched down on the floor of the den,
her body gradually flattening out until she seemed all
head. The jaw was flat on the ground, and the tail
also, with only the tip moving, and the profile of the
head seemed flattened as well as the body. Thus she
remained for a minute or more, the only movement
besides that in the tip of the tail being the rush of
dust upon the floor, as a blast of growls sent the
sawdust flying which strewed the planks. This was
followed by the spring, which was of course interrupted
by the bars. But the whole performance was
an instructive lesson in tiger tactics.</p>
<p class='c008'>Over-feeding in youth is almost as bad for the
future health of a tiger or lion as starvation. In
1893 three very fine tiger cubs, about five months
old, arrived as a present to the Princess Henry of
Battenberg from an Indian prince. They had been
so lavishly fed on mutton during the voyage, that
they were immensely fat and heavy when they reached
the Gardens. A few months later they all developed
weakness in the hind-quarters, and though they may
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>in time recover, the effects of over-stimulating food
taken too early are very noticeable.<SPAN name='r2' /><SPAN href='#f2' class='c017'><sup>[2]</sup></SPAN></p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f2'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r2'>2</SPAN>. </span>One has since died.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>In the last cage of the house, at the eastern end,
took place the celebrated fight in November 1879,
between a tiger and a tigress, which resulted in the
death of the latter. An account of this scene, derived
from Sutton the keeper’s description of what took
place, is almost the last thing written by Frank
Buckland, who himself died in the December of the
next year. The description of the fight as it appears
in the collection of <i>Notes and Jottings from Animal
Life</i>, selected and arranged by Buckland shortly before
his death, and edited by Mr. G. C. Bompas in 1882,
agrees very closely with the description given verbally
by Sutton himself. But the most curious point in
Buckland’s account is, that he apparently forgot that
the tigress died from her wounds, though he himself
paid his last visit to the Lion House in order to see the
suffering animal. The tigress began the quarrel by
sticking one of her claws through the tiger’s nostril.
The male tiger immediately pulled back his head with
a jerk, and the claw cut its way through the nose,
causing great pain and bleeding. The only people in
the house at this time—Sunday morning—were Sutton
the keeper and a Frenchman, and the two tigers at
once joined battle with very little chance of interference
by outsiders. The male used his feet, and throwing
the female down, gave her several heavy blows and
scratches, and then, having asserted its power,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>gave up the combat. The tigress got up, followed
him, and bit him in the thigh. This made the tiger
furious. He rushed at the other, and bit her through
and through the neck, while the most fearful growls
and screams came from both. This set a lion (Duke)
and lioness fighting at the opposite end of the house,
while the Frenchman, shouting and gesticulating,
rushed up and down, and further excited the animals.
Sutton quieted the lions, and then managed to drive
the tiger off his victim. The moment he let go his
hold the blood spouted from the tigress’s throat up
to the roof, and she fell down apparently dying,
while the tiger was driven into one of the sleeping
compartments. The tigress was also moved into a
room at the back. Buckland in his short account
says, that “though of course her nerves were considerably
shaken, she was soon all right again.” As a matter
of fact, she died ten days later, having been unable to
swallow food during that time, and being dreadfully
exhausted from her wounds. The strangest thing
in connection with this encounter and Buckland’s
note is, that his visit to see the wounded tigress was
his own last day in the Lion House. He was
anxious to do what he could for the creature, and
volunteered a visit, though so ill himself that he had
to be pushed into the passage between the dens
and the outdoor runs in a bath-chair. But his nerves
were so shaken by illness, that when the iron shutter
was about to be opened which led into the tigress’s sick
chamber, he begged that it might be kept closed; and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>though assured that the animal could not move, he
would not see it or have the door unclosed. A year
later he himself was dead, by no one more regretted
than by the keepers of the Zoo.</p>
<p class='c008'>The paragon of the Lion House at the present
moment is the snow leopard. It is a most lovely
creature, and deserves all the praises lavished on it.
It is exactly like a grey but spotted Angora cat, six
feet long from its pink nose to the tip of its bushy
tail, and of an exquisite pearly tint, just dashed and
spotted with black. Its eyes, liquid and large, with
swimming black pupils, are the colour of a greenish-grey
aqua-marine, and its expression as gentle as its
ways. It was a lady’s pet in India, and still remains
the same gentle, aristocratic, languid creature that it
was when the favourite of the “Mem Sahib’s” drawing-room.
Its neighbour, the pure black leopard from
Singapore, sent to England by the Duke of Newcastle,
is a strange contrast in colour and character.
It is so ferocious, that when let loose in the cage it
sprang at the bars with such force as to bulge the
steel netting with which they had been covered, by
the mere shock of contact with its head. It sulks day
and night, and is no more admirable in appearance
than a morose and gigantic black tom-cat.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>
<h2 class='c006'>DIVING BIRDS AT THE ZOO.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Submarine</span> boats, according to the naval architects,
would be the fastest in the world, if only their crews
could work them. This seems a hard saying; but
the fact can be proved by theory, and seen at work in
nature. On the surface most of the work done goes
to form waves. Below, no waves are made, as, for
example, when salmon are travelling up a stream.
There remains, of course, some resistance to the
submerged boat or bird, but so much less than on
the surface, that, given the same driving power, the
speeds below water are thrice or four times greater
than above, the evidence of which proposition may be
seen either in Mr. Froude’s experimental basin, near
Fort Gilkicker at Stokes Bay, or any morning at
12 o’clock in the glass tank in the Fish House at the
Zoo, when the diving birds are fed.</p>
<p class='c008'>Unlike the submarine boats, all of which are more
or less alike, the submarine birds show the most
obvious and extreme differences of design, both in
body and propelling machinery. Yet they all get
their living in exactly the same way, by chasing and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>catching fish in deep water far below the surface.
Cormorants, for instance, have been taken in crab-pots
set at a depth of 120 feet; penguins are found miles
out at sea, though they generally return to the
“rookery” at night; and puffins and guillemots
also fish during the whole of the hours of daylight
away from the coast, in deep water. The “darters”
are inhabitants of American and African lakes. At
the present time there is an unusually large collection
of all these species in the Zoological Gardens. The
most amusing and probably the best performers under
water are the small black-footed penguins. These
have for neighbours a young puffin, a couple of pairs
of guillemots, and a rare and beautiful cormorant, in
shape like the English bird, but with a white breast
and large sapphire-blue eyes; opposite these live a
pair of “darters.” Except the puffin, none of these
birds in the least resemble the penguins, which, as a
glance shows, are strangely altered from the usual
bird shape for some particular purpose. The penguin
has a large, round, intelligent head, a deep,
boat-shaped bill, and short neck. It cannot fly—in
the air—it cannot walk, but hops as if its feet were
tied together; it cannot even swim. Submarine flight
is its only form of motion—it is a winged seal. The
darters, on the other hand, have long, snake-like
necks, beaks like a wooden spit, heads only large
enough to support the bill and to bold a pair of eyes,
no brains to speak of, long, narrow, sparsely-feathered
wings and tail, and strong webbed feet. As they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>stand, with wings spread out to dry, and the light
shining through the pink skin and membranes, their
descent from some very early form of bird suggests
itself at once, though the anatomists forbid us to
jump to the conclusion that the darters are saurian-birds
as the penguins are seal-birds.</p>
<p class='c008'>The submarine flight of the penguin is perhaps the
most beautiful form of animal movement known;
certainly it is the most beautiful which we can see and
admire with our own eyes. The motions of flight in
the air, though now analyzed and laid before us in the
exquisite drawings of M. Marey, must always remain
something which must be taken on faith; transcripts
made by other eyes than ours, records of the camera
and the sun. The true movements of flight, so made
familiar to our brain, may in part be detected afterwards
by the naked eye. Yet the speed and direction
of birds’ flight in air, and the necessary distance
between them and ourselves, which every beat makes
greater, must always leave it something of a mystery.
But the change of medium from air to water gives an
added charm to flight. The substitution of aqueous
for aërial poise detracts nothing from the wonderful
powers of the wing. But it adds two conditions. In
the first place, the whole scene is directly cognizable
by our senses. All the wonderful phenomena of
flight can be watched from a distance of a few feet,
or even inches, from the eye. The simile of the
caged butterfly does not apply to the diving bird in
its tank, which exhibits its powers, pursuing its prey
<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>up and down in this space of a few feet as well as it
could in the open ocean. In the next, the water does
for the diving bird what it does for all its true
children, be they birds or fish or plants or flowers;
it adds a lustre and beauty, a something of “sea-change,”
whose effects not even sunlight can surpass.
The plumage of the birds undergoes a transmutation
in the “waves’ intenser day,” which seems to fit them
for everlasting flight in the palaces and grottos of the
sea-nymphs, across which they fly, bearing bubbles of
sunlight from above, scattering them through their
chambers like crystal globes of fire. Those who have
seen Sir E. Burne Jones’ painting of the mermaid,
<i>In the Depths of the Sea</i>, will guess the means
by which this glimpse of the water world was made
possible, and realize in part the effect which the
beauties so disclosed produce upon the senses, from
the use which the gifted artist made of them in this,
one of the few successful efforts made to paint a
submarine scene.</p>
<p class='c008'>The greater part of the end of the Fish House is
crossed by a large reservoir, some five feet deep and
ten wide, with a glass front. The light strikes upon
it from above, and for all purposes of vision the
spectator might be standing on the sea-floor, and
looking along the vista which is level with his eye.
Every movement of the birds can be seen and noted
from the moment of their first plunge till their exit
up the sloping board which leads to their cages.
Like most other animals at the Zoo, these birds are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>only fed once a day, and the appearance of the keeper
with his pail of live gudgeon is the signal for sudden
and intense excitement in the cages. The penguins
wave their little flippers and waddle to the door,
whence they peer eagerly down the wooden steps
leading to the pool; the cormorant croaks and sways
from side to side, and the darters poise their snaky
heads and spread their bat-like wings. At the water’s
edge the penguins do not launch themselves upon the
surface like other water-fowl, but instantly plunge
beneath. Once below water an astonishing change
takes place. The slow, ungainly bird is transformed
into a swift and brilliant creature, beaded with globules
of quicksilver where the air clings to the close
feathers, and flying through the clear and waveless
depths with arrowy speed, and powers of turning far
greater than in any known form of aërial flight. The
rapid and steady strokes of the wings are exactly
similar to those of the air birds, whilst its feet float
straight out level with the body, unused for propulsion,
or even as rudders, and as little needed in its
progress as those of a wild duck on the wing. The
twists and turns necessary to follow the active little
fish are made wholly by the strokes of one wing and
the cessation of movement in the other; and the fish
are chased, caught, and swallowed without the slightest
relaxation of speed, in a submarine flight which is
quite as rapid as that of most birds which take their
prey in mid-air. In less than two minutes some
thirty gudgeon are caught and swallowed below water,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>the only appearance of the birds on the surface being
made by one or two <i>bounds</i> from the depths, when
the head and shoulders leap above the surface for a
second and then disappear. Any attempt to remain
on the surface leads to ludicrous splashing and confusion—for
the submarine bird cannot float, it can
only fly below the surface. Immediately the meal is
finished, both penguins scramble out of the water, and
shuffle with round backs and drooping wings back to
their cage to dry and digest.</p>
<p class='c008'>The guillemots and puffins are some of the commonest
of English sea-fowl, and the last, with its
short thick neck, large beak, and upright attitudes on
land, is perhaps the nearest relative to the penguin
among British birds, with the exception of the little
auk. Like the penguins they fly below water, though,
unlike them, they can also fly in the air, the puffin
being almost the only English sea-fowl which is a
true bird of passage, and yearly leaves the cliffs and
islands where it breeds along our coasts, to spend the
winter in the Mediterranean. The young puffin at
the Zoo refuses to dive for fish at present, and only
takes to the water when chased by its keeper. The
guillemot is a far more graceful bird. Dark above and
white below, with a long, slender, and curved beak, it
combines the submarine powers of the penguin with
the buoyant gracefulness of a water-hen when floating
on the surface. Below water its movements are far
more deliberate than those of the penguin. Like the
water-hen, it can use its wings for aërial or aquatic
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>flight indifferently, but the feet are also used in turning,
and the wing-strokes are more sustained, regular,
and slower than in the case of the true “seal-birds.”
As an “all-round performer,” the guillemot is perhaps
the best in the Zoological Society’s collection, and
with the whole of the upper plumage, head and neck,
converted by a “sea-change” into what appears a
clinging mantle of quicksilver, it is certainly the most
beautiful in its favourite element. The “air-jacket”
which the guillemot carries with it after each dive,
and which, gradually vanishing in the water, is
renewed after its rise to the surface to breathe or
swim, probably plays a useful part in its submarine
flights. It lessens the surface friction of the water,
and, like the air below the “skimming-dish” boat,
which some inventors look upon as the probable
means of obtaining the next considerable rise of
speed on the surface, is the simplest and most natural
of all lubricants between the bird and the water.</p>
<p class='c008'>The other birds in the cages are perhaps more
truly classed as divers than the penguins and their
relations. They plunge and swim, using their wings
for aërial flight only.</p>
<p class='c008'>Those who watch the cormorant’s diving feats are
usually so interested in the fortunes of the chase as
the handsome bird dashes after the fish, that not
one visitor in twenty observes that, from the mode
of its entering the water to its exit, its methods of
movement are absolutely different to those of the
penguins. The cormorant does not plunge headlong.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>It launches itself on the surface and then “ducks”
like a grebe. Its wings are not used as propellers, but
trail unresistingly level with its body, and the speed at
which it courses through the water is wholly due to
the swimming powers of its large and ugly webbed
feet. These are set on quite at the end of the body,
and work incessantly like a treadle, or the floats of a
stern-wheel steamer. Yet the conditions of submarine
motion are so favourable, that the speed of the bird
below the surface is three or four times greater than
that gained by equally rapid movements of the feet
when it has risen and is swimming on the top. The
lustre of the feathers in the clear water, the cloud of
brilliant bubbles which pour from the plumage, like
the nebulous train of a comet, as the bird rushes
through the water, and the sapphire light of the large
blue eye, make the cormorant’s fishing one of the
prettiest aquatic exercises in the world.</p>
<p class='c008'>The darters, though resembling the cormorant
rather than the penguin in using their feet only for
propulsion, are so clearly a survival of some ancient
type, with their long snaky necks and pointed
mandibles, and meagre membranous wings, that the
imagination travels back at once to the steamy forests
and swamps, and fish and saurian-haunted waters of
some antediluvian epoch. The appearance of these
creatures below water is even stranger than when
perched on the bank above. Like the cormorant
they swim with the feet only, and with the same rapid
mechanical alternate movements of each. Like the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>cormorant also they allow their wings to float parallel
with the body, and the long black-and-white feathers
and tail, loosely set on, and retaining quantities of
air in the interstices, are at once transformed by a
surface of velvet and quicksilver as the bird descends.
But, unlike the cormorant, it keeps its neck drawn
back in the form of a flattened S when in pursuit of
the fish. Once within striking distance, the sharp bill
is shot out as if from a catapult, and the fish is
spiked through and carried to the surface. This
ascent is made after each single capture. Sometimes
the bird has great difficulty in disentangling the
pierced fish from the spear-like beak, and its companion
adroitly relieves it of the struggling victim
and swallows the prize. The brain capacity of these
creatures is probably less in proportion to their size
than that of any other bird. After years of familiarity
with their keeper, they would as soon dart their
piercing bills into his eye as into the body of a fish,
and are probably the lowest in the scale of intelligence
as well as in development of the bird creation. Yet
their movements below water are graceful and precise,
and their skill in their one accomplishment of fish-spearing
is unrivalled by human dexterity.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>
<h2 class='c006'>TAME DIVERS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>When</span> an ideal home for the diving birds is constructed
at the Zoo, we may hope to see them sitting
in the sunlight on the flat rocks they love, and watch
the guillemots and razorbills rearing their young, or
swimming on the surface with their offspring sitting
on their backs as they do off the cliffs of Freshwater
and Flamborough Head. These rock-fowl, unlike
the gulls and terns, are more easily tamed, and in a
sense domesticated, than any other bird except the
parrot. But unlike the parrots, they have so little
fear of man in a wild state, that is when quite young,
but able to fish for themselves at sea, that two or
three days in human company are enough to attach
them firmly to their new acquaintances. The tameness
of the full-grown young razorbills when engaged in
fishing in the narrow waters of the lochs on the west
coast of Scotland has been more than once mentioned
to the writer; they hardly care to move out of the
way of a yacht’s boats, when these are rowing to and
from the shore or rowing up the lochs. The young
full-grown birds would allow the boats almost to row
<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>over them, and when a hand was stretched out to
pick them up they would just dive below the keel,
and rise as near on the other side. In the Irish Sea
they kept so close to a yacht that the spray from the
bow, or the parting waves under the stern, seemed
often about to break over them. That this was due
to a certain confidence in man is partly shown by
the behaviour of a young bird which was found by
some members of the same ship’s party, swimming
by itself in a small lagoon left by the tide off the
Norfolk coast. Razorbills are not common near this
low shore, and this young bird had probably come in
pursuit of a shoal of fish, and been unable to find
its companions again. In any case it was quite alone,
and in the absence of any of its own kind, made itself
one of a bathing party of young people who frequented
the part of the beach where it was first seen.
It allowed itself to be caught and taken up to the
house, where, on the arrival of the elders from a drive,
it was found in the stableyard, sitting in the middle
of a large preserving-pan which had been turned into
a temporary stew-pond for a number of small eels
which the children had amused themselves with
catching when paddling in the stream the day before.
“It has eaten <i>all</i> the fish!” was the first intelligence
of the ways of the new arrival; as a fact, there were
one or two eels left, at which the razorbill, looking
like one who had greatly dined, now and then aimed
an apathetic peck. To be carried inland by children,
and then, surrounded by a whole family of humans,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>to catch and eat about twenty live eels in a stew-pan,
is good evidence of the confidence which these birds
have in man. From that day until its lamented
death the bird was as much a member of the family
as the fox-terrier or the cats. Next day it was
carried down to the beach, and placed on the wet
sand by the breakers. It waddled down to the
water, took a swim round, and came back to the
shore. This happened twice or thrice, and as it
showed no disposition to return to the sea it was
carried back once more to the house. Every day
the bird was taken down to the beach and set free,
while the whole party bathed from tents set on the
shore. It would swim out sometimes as far as a
quarter of a mile, until it was a mere black speck on
the water. Then, just as it seemed about to leave its
friends for good, the black speck turned into a white
one as the bird turned its white breast towards the
shore. It would swim steadily towards the bathing-tent,
scramble out of the water, and walk up to the
shingle bank on which the party were lying enjoying
the sun after their bathe. The razorbill, having completely
identified itself with the habits of its hosts
would do the same, opening its wings and sunning
itself beside them. One rather rough day,
with a choppy sea, it was carried some way down
the shore by a current, and landed at a considerable
distance from its usual point; but it succeeded
in landing at a place opposite to where some of
the party were waiting for it. During these excursions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>it dived and fished in the small lagoons
left by the tide, and the provision of a further supply
was of course a delightful occupation to the children,
to whom the razorbill’s unfailing appetite was a valid
reason for being on the shore and in the water at all
hours. This curious alliance lasted for some nine or
ten days, when the bird was choked by its food in a
rather odd way. One of the children was holding in
one hand a flat-fish, which was about to be cut up
into pieces of a size more suited to the size of the
razorbill’s throat. The bird was sitting on her other
hand at the time, and reaching across seized the fish
by the head, jerked it from her hand, and swallowed
it. But though not choked at the time, it never recovered
the effects of its surfeit of flounder, and
died greatly lamented on the following day.</p>
<p class='c008'>The penguin can be tamed almost as easily, or
rather are often tame from the first. The keeper of
the diving birds, like many others at the Zoological
Gardens, is an East Anglian, coming from one of the
most secluded and least aquatic districts of Central
Suffolk. But the instinct for the care of animals, from
cart-horses down to geese and game-bantams, is innate
in the intelligent Suffolk and Norfolk countryman;
and Waterman usually has at least one penguin
which is almost as companionable as a child. Prince,
a rock-hopper penguin from New Zealand, was perhaps
the most amusing and interesting of these amphibious
pets. It was the owner of a smart red flannel jacket
with yellow facings, which had been presented to it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>by an admirer, and dressed in this the penguin would
hop, hop, hop, in the most ludicrous and serious
fashion, after its keeper, or make an excursion on to
the lawn outside, where the <i>flight</i> of the sparrows
seemed a constant source of interest to this wingless
bird. Poor Prince died a victim to influenza, and it
will be long before his place is taken by a more
friendly or amusing creature.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE QUEST FOR THE WILD HORSE.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> sustaining hope of the discoverer of the unknown
is seldom wholly vague or visionary. No
man, as a rule, breaks into a new world by accident or
hap-hazard. New worlds, or lands, or men, or beasts,
have lived in the imagination, and been foreshadowed
and foretold by a hundred minute and subtle inductions,
grouping themselves round the central idea
in minds so set on finding what they felt was to be
found, that in the end their quest was gained, and they
have been able to tell the world that what they felt
must exist, did exist, and was found. Even though
the nominal object of his search be prosaic and
matter-of-fact, the explorer generally cherishes some
dear ideal, some side-issue, some pet project of his
own in the realm of discovery, which his efforts shall
bring to light, and which will realize some reasoned
result of his own sagacity and foresight. When
Pythias, the first navigator of the Northern seas, was
sent on a “commercial mission” by the colonists of
Marseilles to find the tin-islands, he performed the
practical part of his mission with all good faith and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>diligence; but to him, the man of science, the
mathematician and astronomer, the bare discovery
of new tribes of barbarians, new islands, and half-frozen
seas, could have brought no such nights of
triumph as that on which he tracked the Sun to his
lair behind the Lapland mountain, and saw the
brilliant creature slip again from his cavern, after his
brief but necessary repose. Such must have been
the triumph of Columbus when he fancied that he
identified on the shores of America the plants and
streams of India and Cathay; and such, in some
sense, the feelings of Prejvalski, the latest traveller to
seek the Eastern limits of the Old World through
new and untried paths, when he realized his hope of
discovering in the deserts of Mongolia the wild camel
and the wild horse.</p>
<p class='c008'>The experiences of this Russian soldier when he
had penetrated into the regions behind the plateau of
Tibet to the mysterious lake of Koko-Nor, lying
10,000 ft. above the sea, are more in the spirit and
setting of the journals of Columbus than any tale of
travel of modern times. The lake, blue as a sapphire,
lay in a setting of dull salt sand, with an encircling
rim of snowy mountains. Outside and beyond the
mountains lay on one side the forbidden land of
China; on another, Tibet, with its frozen and stereo-typed
government of a priestly caste; and on the
west, the broken tribes of Eastern Turkestan. As he
passed towards the great Desert of Gobi, which
divides the dwindling population on one side of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>mountains from the decaying civilization on the other,
he found himself almost alone among the primitive
animals and birds of the centre of the Old World;
and as the old Greeks imagined, and as Darwin found
in Patagonia, and voyagers at either Pole, that at the
ends of the world Nature was simplified, with fewer
and more primitive forms, so, in the “centre of the
world,” Prejvalski found that in these remote and
solitary regions he was face to face with some of the
early and original types of those animals which man
enslaved and turned to his own uses, at such a distance
of time that the original types were believed to have
perished for ever. The hope of discovering the
“undescended dark original” of some of our domesticated
animals, especially of those ancient servants
of Eastern mankind, the camel and the horse, seems
to have been ever present to the mind of Prejvalski,
and to have affected his imagination as the vision
of the shining walls of El Dorado did the old
adventurers, or the hope of finding the mother-rock
of the gold, the gold-seekers of our day. From the
sapphire lake of Koko-Nor he pushed towards the
North-West across the plain of Tsaidam, a strange,
unfinished region, once the bed of a huge lake, a
waste of sand, salt-impregnated clay, and marshes,
through clouds of mosquitoes and gadflies, towards
another lake, called Lob-Nor, lying in an extension of
the great Desert of Gobi. He had marked how, as
he journeyed across Asia westward, all the elements of
Nature grew more simple and severe, and that as the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>more complex landscape resolved itself into waterless
mountains, salt lakes, and rude vegetation, so the
types of animal life grew constantly more primitive.
He had left behind him the semi-wild horses of the
Don and Southern Russia, and seen the still wilder
ponies of the Mongols, “under the average height,
with thick necks, large heads, thick legs, and long,
shaggy coats.” The camels of the Koko-Nor were
smaller and rougher than those further West, and he
rejoiced to think that he must now be approaching
the original home of the wild camel, and even of the
wild horse. “Such a journey,” he wrote, “must
finally set at rest the question of the existence of wild
camels and wild horses; the people have repeatedly
told me of both, and described them fully.” The
wild camels were said to live in North-West Tsaidam,
and to have smaller humps and more pointed muzzles
than the tame camels, and grey hair. They were
hunted for food, and were exceedingly fleet, wary, and
suspicious of man. These stories of the Mongols
were found to be correct. Several skins of the wild
camel were brought to the traveller, and he was at last
rewarded by a sight of one of them, though the
distance was too great to enable him to shoot it or
compare it with the tame animals. Later, however,
some have been taken alive, and the existence of the
wild camel in the Desert of Gobi may be taken as
established.<SPAN name='r3' /><SPAN href='#f3' class='c017'><sup>[3]</sup></SPAN></p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f3'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r3'>3</SPAN>. </span>The skins and skeletons of the wild camel are now on view at
the Natural History Museum.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>The Mongol accounts of the wild horses, though
equally positive, were less satisfactory. They were
certain that there did exist wild horses in the same
districts as the wild camels; and they were also
certain that these were distinct from the horselike
kiang, the wild ass of Eastern Turkestan and Mongolia.
The kiangs do, in fact, resemble a Mongol
horse in many points. They have the same heavy
head, square shoulder, chestnut colour, and short ears;
but they differ in having their lower parts almost
white, and a true ass’s tail. They neigh, but also bray,
and, when going at full speed, have the characteristic
appearance of an ass with “great ugly head stretched
out straight before, and scanty tail straight behind,”
as Prejvalski says. They are, in fact, probably only
a variety of the wild ass of Persia and Western
Turkestan. But the Mongol accounts of the wild
horse were quite inconsistent with the description of
the kiangs. “The wild horses,” they said, “were
numerous near Lob-Nor, but were so shy that when
frightened they continued their flight for days. They
were of a uniform bay [? dun] colour, with black
tails, and manes sweeping the ground; and were
never hunted because they were too difficult of
approach.” Prejvalski obtained the skin of one of
these wild horses; but the evidence so obtained did
not bear out the account given by the Mongols,
who seem to have fallen into the usual error of
imagining that in the “wild horse” they would find
the species in a condition of original and primitive
<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>perfection. Of course nothing could be more contrary
to probabilities. “Wild” animals, compared
with domesticated descendants of the same species,
occupy much the same position as “wild” plants do
to their descendants in the garden; and the absence
of fine legs and a flowing mane in the <i>Equus
Prejvalskii</i> made the place assigned to it as the
ancestor of the modern horse all the more probable.
Now the news comes that the wild horse of Prejvalski
has been seen, hunted, and captured by two Russian
travellers, the brothers Grum-Grizimailo, and that
four specimens have been brought to the Zoological
Gardens of St. Petersburg from their Central Asian
home. These creatures are said to correspond in all
respects with the skin obtained by Prejvalski, and to
represent the ancestors of all our modern horses.
From a picture of the animal which appeared in the
<i>Graphic</i>, there seems some reason to doubt whether
they may not, after all, be only a variety of the kiang,
or wild ass of Turkestan. They have the ass’s hog-mane,
and a tail in which the long hairs, though not
confined to the tip, do not begin to grow until some
inches from the root. Neither has the animal any
forelock. On the other hand, the ears are short, not
long, as in all the ass tribe, and the square shoulder
is not more characteristic of the asses than of all
neglected breeds of horses. Moreover, it is a
commonplace in natural history, that the primitive
characteristics are shown in the young; and the thin
tail, short neck, and head set on so as to make an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>angle with the throat instead of a curve, are as
characteristic of a young colt as of the <i>Equus
Prejvalskii</i>. But, apart from all external differences
between the ass and the horse, lies the inexplicable
fact that the latter adapts itself to changed conditions
in almost all climates, while the former does not.
Under human care and selection, the horse varies so
rapidly, that we meet with all extremes, from the
dray-horse to the Shetland, and all colours from
black to white. But the ass in the last five thousand
years has varied little. It will not thrive except in
hot climates, and centuries of careful breeding have
not caused it to change colour further than from grey
to white,<SPAN name='r4' /><SPAN href='#f4' class='c017'><sup>[4]</sup></SPAN> and have done little to make it a pleasant
animal to ride, or big enough for heavy draught.
These facts give a starting-point from which we may
judge whether or not the <i>Equus Prejvalskii</i> is of the
true stock. Let those recently brought to Russia be
made the nucleus of a herd, and the variations of
successive generations be noted. Then if they are
true horses, they will vary first in colour, then in
shape, and human selection ought to be able to
guide the varieties towards different types. If, on
the other hand, they be asses, they will refuse to
vary, and remain true to the type of the steppes of
Dsungaria.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f4'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r4'>4</SPAN>. </span>There are black donkeys, but most appear to be instances
of “melanism” rather than of colour gradation.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Even in our own New Forest, this difference
between the horse and the ass is curiously persistent.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>In the Southern Forest there are many hundreds of
semi-wild donkeys, as well as ponies, which are left to
Nature from year to year. The ponies are of every
colour known in the annals of horse-breeding, but the
shaggy little donkeys are all of a uniform dark stone-colour,
which never varies. Looking at the beautiful
wild asses from the Desert of Cutch, Southern Africa,
and Central Asia, which are exhibited at the Zoo,
one is tempted to wonder how it comes that the race
in this country has been allowed to degenerate,
instead of being retained as a strong and useful
auxiliary to our unrivalled breed of horses.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO.<br/> <br/>THE ANIMAL SENSE OF BEAUTY.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>That</span> sense of beauty to which the gorgeous plumage
of the male birds in many species is an obvious and
direct appeal, is by no means limited to the knowledge
so naïvely shown by resplendent husbands and adoring
wives, that fine feathers make fine birds. So common
and varied is the pleasure derived from this sense, that
in many kinds it extends to the conscious search for
and appliance of beautiful objects in the decoration of
nests, of pleasure-houses, and the enrichment of collections.
This taste for ornament is by no means limited
to birds kept in captivity, in which they often learn
tricks and habits foreign to their nature, from <i>ennui</i> and
idleness. In the freedom of English woods or Papuan
jungles, they show the keenest pleasure in the strange
or beautiful shapes and colours of flowers, of feathers,
of fruits, of gay shells and insects, of woven fabrics, of
metal, glass, and gems; and similar tastes shown in
captivity are often but the survival and maimed reproduction
of their natural love for surrounding themselves
with what pleases the eye. It appears in species
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>where it might be least expected, and is developed to
a point at which it becomes an artistic passion identical
in motive and the means taken to gratify it, with the
same taste and its expression by civilized man. It is
not without reason that the Papuan, who lives naked
under a tree, calls the gardener-bird “the master,”
which can build not only a nest, but a lovely pleasure-house
besides, and adorns this with a hundred beautiful
objects to satisfy æsthetic wants which the
savage is not yet developed enough to feel or
understand.</p>
<p class='c008'>The gardener-bird has not yet become established
at the Zoo, but the bower-birds build their gallery
every spring, and decorate it with such “articles of
vertu” as visitors are kind enough to place at their
disposal. The bower-birds live in the compartments
of the western Aviary nearest to and on the left of
the main entrance. Apart from the claims to
sympathy which their æsthetic tastes suggest, the
birds themselves are singularly handsome, courageous,
and active, and thoroughly enjoy the excitement and
change of scene which is so distasteful to many
creatures confined in a public menagerie. They are
strongly-built, compact-looking birds, almost as large
as a rook, but in general shape something between a
thrush and the Indian mynah. The male in his adult
plumage is a splendid purple, while the hen-bird is
green and olive, almost as brilliant as the colours of
the ground parakeets. They hop from perch to perch
with wonderful agility, and whether on the ground or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>in the branches, are seldom still, but always active,
inquisitive, and alert.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the first warm days of early spring they begin to
collect materials for the bower. The twigs of a birch-broom
are usually given them for the raw material,
and these are soon arranged with astonishing skill into
two short incurved hedges, the tops being pulled over
to make the bower as nearly like a tunnel as the
material admits. If they had a larger allowance of
brooms no doubt the tunnel would be made longer.
As it is, it is only a section of a gallery. When this is
complete nothing makes the birds so happy as presents
of bright-coloured objects to arrange round the sides
of the playground. Unfortunately for the birds, the
mice, which have no æsthetic perceptions, but are of a
practical turn of mind, steal everything soft which is
put in the bower, to make nests for their own young.
All pieces of coloured paper, rags, and tinsel are carried
off in the night, or even in the day, so that the birds
can only rely for permanent ornament on things not
only bright but hard. But their taste for colour
may easily be tested by giving them shreds of paper
of different hues. If it be merely a question of
colour, not of texture, they usually prefer red, picking
out the red strips first and trying the effect in different
parts of the gallery. That their power of selection is
highly developed may be judged from the following
example. The writer was looking at the birds early
in January, when they showed signs of a wish to build,
and happened to have in his pocket some specimens
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>of silk, which had been sent in order to make a selection
of a pattern for neckties. The utmost variation
from black allowed by the severe taste of London
costume being some slight pattern of white, or grey
spots, the difference in the “colouring” of these little
bits of silk was so slight, as to be hardly appreciable
by any but the highly specialized sense of adornment
in the masculine mind, consisting as it did of more or
less frequent repetitions of little groups of spots or
other insignificant pattern. Eight or nine of these
were thrown on the floor of the aviary, and the cock-bird
at once flew out from the recess at the back, and
proceeded to pick them up and scrutinize them one
by one. Finally, after much consideration, it took to
the bower, which was just begun, the piece of silk on
which the pattern was closest and most obvious. Their
liking for what is bright and shining in texture is
even stronger than that for colour. Some ingenious
friend, finding that the mice robbed the birds of
their papers and silks, presented them with a number
of small glass phials filled with coloured shreds,
or with tin and brass filings. These were a source
of great delight, and when the supply was further
increased by a dozen pretty glass <i>solitaire</i> balls, they
spent a week in arranging and re-arranging their
treasures.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is obvious that the bower-birds are highly
intelligent creatures, but these tastes appear in birds
which are quite low in the scale of mental development,
even among the hawks, which are among the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>least keen-witted of the birds. The kite, for instance,
has a great liking for pretty things, or what it considers
such. In two of the rare instances in which
the kite’s nest has been recently found in this country,
the cock-bird had carried home a long, trailing spray
of woodbine in flower, and left it by the side of its
mate. When kites were common in England, their
habit of carrying off to their nests any strange objects
which took their fancy was well known. “The white
sheet bleaching on the hedge” has as great attractions
for them as it had for Autolycus. Shakespeare makes
the pedlar refer to this habit. “My traffic is sheets,”
he says; “when the kite builds, look to lesser linen.”
But the bird, though as much a “snapper-up of unconsidered
trifles” as Autolycus himself, is only a
fine-art and <i>bric-à-brac</i> collector in its way, and is
perhaps not more unscrupulous in annexing the
specimens that take its fancy. In a kite’s nest found
not long ago in this country, the “collection” was
enriched by pieces of newspaper and leaves of “Bradshaw’s
Railway Guide!”—and on the few estates in
England where these birds are still protected, the
keepers are said to be quite aware of their mania
for collecting linen when laid out to dry, and carrying
off socks and bright cotton handkerchiefs to
the nest.</p>
<p class='c008'>The sense of beauty naturally appears, in the rudest
and most elementary form, in such uncouth robbers
as the kites. In the far cleverer crows, ravens, magpies,
and jays, it is a marked and hereditary passion.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>From the Jackdaw of Rheims to the old raven at the
Tower of London, who amassed a unique and valuable
collection at the bottom of one of the venerable
cannon inside the Barbican, there can hardly have
existed a tame member of the tribe which has not at
times asserted its own right to a share in the enjoyment
of what we remember to have seen described in
the pompous advertisement of a modern art furnisher,
as “those products of the minor arts which contribute
to the dignity and refinement of domestic life.” They
have a wide and catholic sense of feeling for what may
contribute to their happiness in this way, and do not
always distinguish between what is beautiful and what
is merely curious. At the same time, they do often
distinguish and keep apart what they collect or steal
for <i>food</i>, and their art collections, which are hidden
separately, and far more carefully concealed. The
writer has seen this in the case of tame jays and
jackdaws, and has known it practised by a raven and
a magpie. The latter always hid the crusts, and
especially the small squares of toast made ready for
soup, which he stole or had given him in the kitchen,
between the layers of household linen in the drying-room
of a large house in Northumberland. But his
“collections” were buried in the straw in a disused
outhouse. The loss of several small cups and saucers
out of a bright-coloured set belonging to the children
led to the discovery of this hoard, as the bird was
seen to enter the shed, and was there found pulling
away the straw which covered the china.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>So far, we have traced the development of this
sense of beauty from the kites, which merely pick up
and carry to their nests what they consider to be
pretty and interesting, to the crow tribe, which have
a separate hiding-place for keeping and enjoying their
treasures. The conscious search for and application
of ornament to the decoration of the fabric of the
nest, even at the risk of its danger and discovery
through the gratification of their feeling for beauty, is
a further and most remarkable evidence of the pleasure
which they derive from that sense; for one of the
strongest impulses of the nesting bird is to subordinate
the colour and texture of the outside of the
nest to the tint of its natural surroundings, and none
but a strong and tempting bias to the indulgence of
a contrary instinct could compete with their natural
solicitude for the safety of their young. Yet two
undoubted instances of the addition of ornament by
English birds to the <i>outside</i> of a nest have come
under the writer’s notice, where its use clearly entailed
some danger from the enemy. The first was the nest
of a chiff-chaff, found in a plantation near Rosamond’s
Bower, on the Isis, near Godstow. It was a domed
nest of the usual kind, made of dry, colourless grass,
with an entrance in the side. But on the <i>outside</i>, and
round the entrance to the chamber, were stuck several
of the brilliant blue feathers of the kingfisher. The
position of these bright patches of colour on the
outside of the nest is strong evidence that beauty, not
utility, was the object of their insertion. The other
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>case was the nest of a goldfinch, which was built on
a high branch of a sycamore, near the window of a
house at Sidmouth in Devonshire. When the fabric
of the nest was completed, the birds, or rather one
bird, for the other was constantly employed in building,
brought long pieces of the blue forget-me-not
from the next garden, and so adjusted the sprays that
the flowers hung all round the top of the nest. The
sacrifice of safety to beauty did not cause any risk
from below, as the nest was at a considerable height
from the ground. Unfortunately it attracted the
notice of a jackdaw passing overhead, and the black
robber plundered the nest of the eggs on which the
bird had been sitting for some days. It may be
noticed that in both these cases, in each of which
there was a large choice of flowers or feathers—for
the feathers which lined the chiff-chaff’s nest were
brought from a farmyard near—the irresistible colour
was light-blue. This decorative instinct finds its final
and complete expression in the bower-birds, and the
still more interesting gardener-bird of New Guinea,
both of which construct an “art gallery” for the
reception of their treasures, and the better enjoyment
of their sense of the beautiful. These bowers are in
no sense nests, but “palaces of art” for the days of
their honeymoon, and are quite apart from the later
cares of the nest or nursery. The best of all are the
galleries of the gardener-birds, which Count Rosenberg
recently found in New Guinea.</p>
<p class='c008'>“It was a piece of workmanship more lovely than
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>the ingenuity of any animal has been known to
construct,” writes the discoverer. “It was a temple in
miniature, in the midst of a meadow studded with
flowers.” The bird, which is not much larger than a
thrush, chooses a level place round some shrub which
has a straight stem about the thickness of a walking-stick.
To this central pilaster it fastens the stems of a
kind of orchid, and draws them outwards to the ground,
like the cords of a bell-tent; but the leaves are left on
the stems, and remain fresh for some time. The upper
part is then fitted together, and the leaves and moss
make a beautiful umbrella-shaped roof. In front of
the central building, the birds clear a space about a
yard in diameter, which they cover with moss, after
removing all stones and weeds. On this moss carpet
they arrange flowers and brilliant fruits in great variety,
and of the brightest colours to be found. Showy
fungi and elegantly coloured insects are distributed
about the garden, and inside the tent, and when these
lose their freshness, they are thrown away and replaced
by others. The tent itself is about thirty-nine inches
in diameter and eighteen inches high. The Papuans
never disturb these bowers. They call the builder the
“Master Bird,” or “Tukan Robin,” the “Gardener,”
and say that it is wiser than mankind—and judged by
the Papuan standard, this estimate is a true one. In
the gallery of one of the bower-birds half a peck of
decorations was found. Among these were a large
white shell, four hundred shells of a bright-coloured
snail, flints and agates, red seed-pods and seeds, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>the bleached and shining bones of animals. If for
shells we read mother-of-pearl; for snail-shells,
nautilus cups; for flints and agates, agates and
malachite; for seeds, beads; and for bones, ivory,
where does the taste for beauty in the bird differ from
our own?</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO.<br/> <br/>SCENTS AND SOUNDS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'>One of the oddest tales in the “Bestiaries,” or stories
of Bible animals written by the monks, is the legend of
the panther. “The panther,” so the homily runs, “is
the most beautiful of all beasts. More than this, when
it goes abroad it diffuses a marvellous sweet perfume.
This odour is so sweet that all the other beasts and
birds follow the panther wherever it goes. Wherefore
the panther is a type of Virtue.” Perhaps the old
monks who borrowed and embellished this story had
heard and misunderstood the strong love of sweet
scents which the panther and its relations, the lions
and leopards, often show. The old theory of animal
liking for scents denied them any share in such
pleasures unless they suggested the presence of their
food or prey. But such a reason can hardly be alleged
for a lion’s liking for lavender-water! The writer,
wishing to test for himself the reported fondness of
many animals for perfumes, paid a series of visits to
the Zoological Gardens, provided with bottles of scent
and a packet of cotton-wool, and there tried some
<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>harmless experiments which apparently gave great
satisfaction to many of the inhabitants. Lavender-water
was the favourite scent, and most of the lions
and leopards showed unqualified pleasure when the
scent was poured on the wool and put into their cages.
The first leopard to which it was offered stood over
the ball of cotton, shut his eyes, opened his mouth,
and screwed up its nose, rather like the picture of the
gentleman inhaling “Alkaram” in the advertisement.
It then lay down and held it between its paws, rubbed
its face over it, and finished by lying down upon it.
Another leopard smelt it and sneezed; then caught
the wool in its claws, played with it, then lay on its
back and rubbed its head and neck over the scent.
It then fetched another leopard which was asleep in the
cage, and the two sniffed it for some time together;
and the last-comer ended by taking the ball in its
teeth, curling its lips well back, and inhaling the
delightful perfume with half-shut eyes. The lion and
lioness, when their turn came, tried to roll upon it
at the same time. The lion then gave the lioness a
cuff with his paw, which sent her off to the back of the
cage, and having secured it for himself, laid his broad
head on the morsel of scented cotton, and purred.
These were all old inhabitants of the Gardens, civilized.
But at the end of the building was the lovely young
Sokoto lion, with the spots of “cubhood” still
showing like a pattern in damask on his skin. If he
too liked the scent, it could hardly be an acquired
taste. His reception of the new impression was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>different from that of the others. He lay down
inhaling the scent with a dreamy look in his eyes.
Then he made faces and yawned, turned his back on
the scent, and thought. He then inhaled the perfume
again for some time, walked slowly off to his bed, and
lay down to sleep.</p>
<div id='i110' class='figcenter id007'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i110.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Tiger after smelling Lavender-Water.</span> <i>From a<br/>photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The smaller cats were in many cases as pleased with
the scent as the leopards, the ocelot in particular on
one occasion, after inhaling the perfume, <i>ate</i> the small
piece of paper on which it was poured. But the liking
for lavender-water is by no means confined to the
<i>felidæ</i>. The Cape ratels were delighted with the
scent, and the racoon, when the bottle was presented
to it corked, with great good sense pulled out the
stopper; but this may have been due to curiosity, as
it was at once thrown away. Other creatures, on the
contrary, either cared nothing for the scent or found
it disagreeable. An otter, in particular, gave a snort
of disgust, dived into the water, and then ran to its
mate, to whom it seemed to convey some of its
impressions, for both otters carefully avoided the
perfumed wool. No doubt there lies somewhere in
our rivers, “under the glassy, cool translucent wave,”
or on their flower-bordered banks, some odorous herb
or water-weed which the otter also loves. That the
pleasure felt by so many animals in the odour of
“sweet lavender” is due to pure and simple enjoyment
of a perfume, made intensely more delightful to
them than to ourselves by the wonderful development
of their sense of smell, seems clear, not only from the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>fact that so many species share this amiable fondness
for the scent, but also because their liking for perfumes
is by no means limited to that of lavender. A flask
of rose-water will make as many friends among the
leopards and their kin as will the former scent, and
they also enjoy the sweet odour of pinks and lilac-blossom.
The heavy scent of lilies and narcissi fails
to please, perhaps on account of their strong narcotic
qualities. It is not unlikely that the scent of these
plants, with which the Furies were said to stupefy their
victims, an odour which is often insupportable to men
themselves, should be distasteful to their far more
sensitive nostrils.</p>
<p class='c008'>It could hardly be expected that, in the matter of
sweet sound, animals, any more than men, should
think alike. The scent of the rose gives pleasure from
the Himalayas to the Hebrides; but the music that
soothes the Highlander is to the Japanese as the
howling of cats. Still, as to some men certain sounds
are always musical, so to some animals these same
sounds give pleasure. The taste finds perhaps its
highest expression in those birds which actually learn
to whistle the airs which they have heard from men,
and its lowest in the snakes and reptiles, which seem
to be fascinated by the Indian pipe. The writer has
heard more than one parrot whistle part of a tune, and
then strike the octave of the last note; and the piping
crow at the Zoological Gardens, and a Persian bulbul,
which was once an inmate of the same aviary, can
whistle a tune perfectly. It is to be expected that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>birds which take such pleasure in each other’s songs
should be most sensitive to sweet sounds new to
them.</p>
<p class='c008'>But the taste is not confined to birds. The old
horses in the regimental riding-schools learn the
meaning of the different bugle-calls; and though it is
not possible to say whether they distinguish between
different airs, it is well known that they trot or gallop
better to some tunes than to others. This may be
compared with a curious story told by Playford in his
<i>Introduction to Music</i>. “When travelling some years
since,” he writes, “I met on the road to Royston a
herd of about twenty bucks following a bagpipe and a
violin: while the music played they went forward;
when it ceased they all stood still; and in this manner
they were brought out of Yorkshire to Hampton
Court.” Seals have long been known for their love of
sweet sounds. Laing, in his account of a voyage to
Spitzbergen, says that when a violin was played on
board the vessel, a numerous audience of seals would
often assemble and follow the vessel for miles. Sir
Walter Scott mentions this taste in the lines,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Rude Heiskar’s seals, through surges dark,</div>
<div class='line in1'>Would oft pursue the minstrel’s bark;”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c016'>and it is said that when the bell of the church on the
island of Hoy rang, the seals within hearing swam to
the shore, and remained looking about them as long as
it was tolled. In a less prosaic age, the seals of Hoy
might have become an established myth of a successful
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>“deep-sea mission” to the mermaids of the North.
It would be interesting to make some musical experiments
at the Zoological Gardens; but the first
occasion on which the writer attempted this, led to
such strong suspicion of his insanity among the
visitors, that in the face of a caution addressed by an
elderly nurse to her charges, “Don’t go near ’im—he
ain’t right in his ’ead,” he had not the courage to
continue his researches.</p>
<p class='c014'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>—In a letter to the writer, the late Dr. John Rae, F.R.S.,
the discoverer of the fate of the Franklin Expedition, urged that
he should nevertheless make some trial of the effects of music on
the different animals at the Zoo. Dr. Rae spent the days of his
boyhood in the Orkney and Shetland Islands, and said that both
there and in the regions round the frozen rim of the northern
ocean, it was matter of common experience that the seals would
follow a boat in which music was played. The following chapters
give the interesting result of this suggestion.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.<br/> <br/>THE FIRST VISIT.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>In</span> making trial, with the aid of a skilled musician,
of the effect of sweet sounds on animal ears, we
knew that there was good reason to doubt whether
Orpheus himself might not fail to charm within the
precincts of the Zoo. For if, on the one hand, the
creatures so far share the blessings of the golden
age that they entertain a liking rather than a fear of
man, and have no dread of a possible enemy behind
the mask of music, many of them are no strangers
to such forms of it as are produced by the harmony
of a band which plays there weekly in summer
evenings. To those creatures which have lived for
years in that part of the Gardens near the band-stand,
the sound of music is no new thing; and it was possible
that they might be as indifferent to its strains
as an organ-grinder’s monkey to the music of the
street. On the other hand, there must be many
to which, either from living at a distance from the
musical centre of the band-stand, or in separate
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>buildings, such sounds are new and unusual; and
others which are but recent arrivals in the Gardens,
fresh from tropical forests, or the wastes and deserts
of an unmusical world. In any case, to listen to the
distant strains of a brass-band is a different experience
from that enjoyed in a chamber recital by your own
violin-player, one who can draw from his instrument by
sympathetic skill melodious chords, sounds soft and
weird, grave and gay, strident or tremulous, harmonious
or suddenly discordant, eye watching eye,
and quick to change or repeat a note as he marks
the varying expression of emotion roused by sound
on animal faces, sometimes strangely expressive, or
on others in which for minutes the eye alone gives
token even of life. It was on some of these last,
the snakes and creeping things, that we proposed
first to make trial of the powers of sound,—partly
because Eastern traditions of snake-charming are
some of the oldest in the world; partly because, if
they proved unresponsive, this would still leave room
to hope that creatures of a higher organization and
warmer blood might be more appreciative; and lastly,
the day was dark, with thunder and rain, and Orpheus
himself, in his sylvan concerts, might have failed to
charm with wetted strings.</p>
<p class='c008'>Before visiting the cobras and the pythons, we
made our way to the Insect House, with some design
of making trial of the tarantula spider, our violinist
having a theory of his own that spiders had a liking
for harmonious sound; partly, too, from a mixed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>feeling that the tarantula, whose bite makes others
dance, should itself have a feeling for musical
numbers. Apparently the tarantula’s powers are
objective only, for it remained in its corner sulky
and unmoved. But a nest of scorpions was less
indifferent. After the piece of bark behind which
these venomous creatures were lurking had been
gently overturned, and they had settled down to
their usual semi-slumbrous state, the violinist played
chords, at first gentle and melodious, then rising to
a high and sustained series of piercing notes. In a
few moments, one after another, the creatures began
to move, the mass became violently agitated, and
the torpid scorpions awoke into a writhing tangle of
legs and claws and stings. When the sounds ceased,
they became still; when the loud, shrill notes were
played again, they were again agitated. The talking
mynah, which lives in the same room, sprang from
end to end of its cage with ecstatic hops, and whistled
and coughed, and gave evidence that it at least was
a critical listener to the rival musician. The pretty
dappled Axis deer, which live in a little paddock
by the path, were our next audience; and as we
passed them on our way to the snakes’ house, a few
soft chords were played by way of trial. The
deer were at once attracted, and drew near the railings,
with ears pointed forward. While low, pathetic
chords were played, they stood still, panting, but
not unpleased. At a sudden discord they sprang
back, and shook their heads. Loud, quick music
<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>followed; but this failed to please, they stood further
off, stamped, and shook their heads again, looking
excited and defiant. But we had not come to play
to the deer that day. The snakes and pythons were
our object, the more so as we could play to these
without interruption from the interested visitors,
whose inconvenient attention our enterprise was
beginning to attract.</p>
<p class='c008'>“Behind the scenes” in the new Reptile House lies
a most interesting region; and Orpheus has a prescriptive
right of entry to the arcana of the serpent-world.
We explained the object of our visit,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Cessit immanis mihi blandienti</div>
<div class='line in4'>Janitor aulæ!”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c016'>and we were most kindly taken to the private side
of snake-land at the Zoo. There, if we may not
“breakfast on basilisks’ eggs,” as in the land of
Cleopatra’s asp, we may at least see the creature that
does breakfast on basilisks’ eggs, the great monitor
lizard, which eats the eggs of the crocodile—or of
hens at the Zoo, where crocodiles’ eggs are scarce.
There too we may see young basilisks, or crocodiles,
frisking in a homely watering-pot; young rats too,
by the score, parti-coloured and piebald, the destined
food of serpents, but meantime in high spirits and
playfully squeaking. It was the very place for a
chamber concert to the cobras, for the thick plate-glass
before the cages shuts out the sound of the
curious crowd in front, while in the back of each
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>compartment is a small square iron door, like those
through which food is passed in model prisons to
the inmates of the cells. This door, in the case of
the poisonous snakes, is set high above the ground,
and is reached by a set of steps which travels on
a rail. It is therefore possible to observe the creatures’
movements while the player of the music is
out of sight below.</p>
<div id='i118' class='figcenter id008'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i118.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Axis Deer Listening.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The “dweller on the threshold” of the snakes’
home is the monitor lizard, an active and formidable
saurian some 5 ft. in length, whose watchful habits
were said to give warning of the approach of the
crocodile. It did not belie its reputation for watchfulness,
for the instant that it heard the sounds of
the violin through its opened door, it raised its head,
and stood alert and listening. Then the forked
tongue came out and played incessantly round its
lips; soft, slow music followed, and the lizard became
quite still, except for a gentle swaying of the head
from side to side. Two groups of black snakes from
the Robben Islands next claimed our attention, and
gave some evidence of the way in which the physical
conditions of the moment affect the sensibilities of
these creatures. In the first cage, they remained
absolutely torpid, looking exactly as if carved out
in polished ebony. In the next, the heads were raised
at once, the forked tongues played, and at a sudden
discord each snake’s head started violently back.
Nor was this quick repulsion caused by any sudden
movement of the bow, for the player was invisible.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>In the next cages to these were some small boas,
and Madame Paulus’s pythons, with which that lady
used to perform in a tank at the Royal Aquarium.
The pythons showed no signs of interest, except by
a quickened respiration; but a boa was at once
attracted by the music. As it worked along the
rounded rim of its circular bath in the direction of
the sounds, it gave a beautiful exhibition of that
snake-movement for which we have no name—neither
crawling nor creeping, but gently enveloping
portions of the surface on which it lay with its lower
scales, and advancing noiselessly and almost imperceptibly.
Arrived at the side of the bath nearest
to the door, it extended its head with a kind of
tremulous motion until it obtained a view of the
violin. It remained for some minutes motionless,
with its eye fixed upon the instrument, until the
music became loud and strident. Then, in sinuous
folds, it dropped like some viscous fluid to the ground,
and slowly advanced to the door, from which it was
gently put back by its keeper.</p>
<p class='c008'>But the cobra is the snake to which all tradition
points as most susceptible to musical sounds, and
we prepared to watch its attitude towards the violin
with no little excitement and curiosity. The accounts
of Indian residents mainly agree in saying that the
snake-charmer does influence these serpents by the
monotonous notes of his little bagpipes; that as soon
as the sound is heard, the snake rises, spreads its
hood, and often waves its head from side to side in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>some sort of time to the music; and that, under these
conditions, these venomous serpents may be handled
with impunity. The last claim of the snake-charmer
is perhaps over-bold. The snakes appear generally
to have their fangs drawn. But in any case, opinion
agrees that the sound of the pipes does attract and
interest the cobra. Wild cobras are also induced
by the pipe-player to come out from the holes in
old wells or ruins in which they have taken up their
residence, the snake being noosed when its body
is sufficiently clear of the hole to enable it to be
jerked away by the snake-charmer’s partner.</p>
<p class='c008'>The behaviour of the cobras at the Zoo more
than justified the Indian stories. We selected for
our serenade a large yellow Indian cobra, which
was lying coiled up asleep on the gravel at the bottom
of its cage. At the first note of the violin, the
snake instantly raised its head, and fixed its bright
yellow eye with a set gaze on the little door at the
back. The music then gradually became louder,
and the snake raised itself in the traditional attitude
on its tail, and spread its hood, slowly oscillating from
one side to the other as the violin played waltz-time.
There was a most strangely “interested” look in
the cobra’s eye and attitude at this time, and the
slightest change in the volume or character of the
music was met by an instantaneous change in the
movements or poise of the snake. At the tremolo,
it puffed its body out. A rattlesnake in the next
cage was also listening intently at the same time,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>with its head drawn back, and slowly rising and
falling. But it was less apparently sensitive than the
cobra. The violin suddenly reproduced the sound
of the bagpipes, which greatly excited the snake;
and as the “drone” was put on to the tune of “The
Keel Row,” its hood expanded to its utmost dimensions.
Soft minor chords were then played, and a
sudden sharp discord struck without warning. The
snake flinched whenever this was done, as if it had
been struck, and this, it may be worth noting, was
subsequently found to be a general effect of discords
on most animals of a higher organization. The
results of these further experiments were naturally
more easy to detect and record than in the case of
the snakes; but it may be taken as established, that at
the Zoo there are serpents that are not yet deaf to
the voice of the charmer, even if he lack the training
of Eastern magicians.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.<br/> <br/>THE SECOND VISIT.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> result of the first experiments made upon
animals with musical sounds, was such as to invite a
second visit by the violin-player to the inmates of the
Zoo. The sun was shining brightly, and most of the
animals were just awaking from their morning sleep.
Some were not yet awake. The two Polar bears
were lying fast asleep in an affectionate embrace,
their noses touching, and each with one paw laid on
its companion’s side, while the other grasped its
friend’s. Both were dreaming, like dogs on a hearth-rug,
and gave slight starts and sounds from time to
time and movements of their feet and paws. We
seated ourselves on the balustrade of the bridge
above, and serenaded the bears. The young one
awoke at once, and slowly rolled over, stretched
itself, and as the music increased in volume, came
out into the main cage to listen. The violin was
some ten feet above the level on which the bear
was standing. In order to get nearer the sound, it
stood up on its hind-legs, and listened intently. It
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>then retired, and began to walk backwards and forwards,
uttering some half-formed sound. But a fresh
burst of music from the violin once more brought it
to the front, where it stood up, and, spreading its arms
wide on either side, pushed its muzzle between the
bars. When the musician descended from the
balcony and went close to the cage, the bear at once
crossed to the place, and sat down to listen, occasionally
putting its paws through the bars to try and reach
the instrument. It was not until we had ceased to
play for some time that the bear left its place against
the bars, and sought refreshment in a morning tub.
The two grizzly bears, at the first chord struck,
assumed at once an air of the most comic and critical
attention, each with its head on one side, and its paws
clasping the bars. A sudden discord made both
bears start back, and the lively tone of “The Keel
Row” set them walking up and down the cage. In
the Lion House, every head turned to the first sound of
the violin; as the strains continued, the largest lion,
to whom the music was more particularly addressed,
began to wave the black tuft on its tail from side to
side; and a lioness, which had been asleep in the
inner cage, walked straight out towards the violin, and
tried to push the lion from its “front seat.” But by
this time so much public interest was awakened in our
experiment that we were obliged to forego our concert
to the lions, and seek an audience less subject to interruption.
There is a German tale of a fiddler pursued
by wolves who was saved by the accidental breaking
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>of a string of his fiddle. The sound of the breaking
string frightened the wolves for the moment, and
afterwards, the legend adds, he kept them from
pulling him from the roof of the hut on which he had
taken refuge by playing continuously. The story of
the breaking string frightening the wolves, so far
agreed with our experience of the effect of sudden and
sharp discords on various animals, that it was decided
to make the experiment upon the wolves. The result
went far to show that the old legend of their fear of
music is based on fact. The common European wolf
set up its back, and drew back its lips into a fixed
and hideous sneer, showing all its teeth to the gums,
with its tail between its legs. The Indian wolf
showed signs of extreme and abject fear. It trembled
violently, its fur was erected, and cowering down
till its body almost touched the ground, it retreated to
the furthest corner of the cage. When the music
was played at the back of the cage, where the
musician was invisible, its alarm was in no degree
abated. It crept to the door to listen, and then
sprang back and cowered against the bars in front of
the cage, and so continued in alternate spasms of
curiosity and fear. The jackals and some of the
wilder foxes were only less alarmed than the wolves.
The female jackals ran back to their inner den and
hid themselves. The male erected its fur until it
appeared as rough as an Esquimaux dog, and crept
backwards and forwards, with its lips curled back,
opening and shutting its mouth, growling whenever a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>strong discordant note was struck. The scene at this
time was extremely amusing. The prairie wolves
next door sat down to listen, the African jackals sat
on a shelf and watched, and the performance was
overlooked from a distance by a nervous but highly
interested row of foxes of various sizes and colours,
all sitting on the party-walls which divide their cages
from the wolves and dingoes. It was like a picture
from an illustrated edition of <i>Æsop’s Fables</i>. The
foxes in the large cages came forward readily to listen
to the music, though the usual experiment of striking
a discord startled them greatly. But the rough fox
from Demerara, in a small cage behind the building,
was so violently alarmed that the keeper requested
that the music might cease, for fear the creature
should “have a fit,” to which ailment it appears
that foxes and wolves are very subject. As might
be expected, the sheep found pleasure in sounds which
terrified the wolves. The <i>burrhel</i>, or wild sheep of
the Himalayas, all came forward to listen, their ears
pointed forward to catch the sounds. Some even
stood up, and placing their fore-feet against the
palings, stretched their necks in the direction of the
music. Our violinist appropriately chose “The
Shepherd’s Call” in <i>William Tell</i>, and this served to
engage their intention more than “The Keel Row” or
any more violent airs. Like almost all other creatures,
they were startled at a discord. In the row of sheep-sheds,
the music drew out all the inmates, the
Markhor and the Cretan ibex coming forward to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>listen, and walking back to their food when the music
stopped. The old Indian wild boar was an unexpected
and appreciative convert to the charms of music.
It was lying fast asleep in the sun, with its back
towards the musician; but at the first chords it rose
and faced round towards the player. After listening
attentively, with ears forward, the boar began a series
of complacent grunts, and advanced to the front of
the pen, until disconcerted by a sharp discordant note,
which drove it back several feet. The wild swine
from Spain and Africa were also much interested in
the music. For some unknown reason, the sounds
which pleased the boars offended the African elephant.
Setting up its huge, flapping ears, it flung up its
trunk, snorted and whistled like a steam-engine,
driving its head against the rails, and exhibiting every
mark of anger and dislike. The Indian bison and
the gayal both brought forward their broad ears to
listen, and, resting their muzzles against the railings,
seemed to enjoy the sounds; a sharp discord caused
them to start back, and produced the same effect on
the zebras and African wild ass, both of which listened
to the harmonious chords with pleasure, and followed
the musician from one side of their stall to another.
But it was in the Monkey House that the music
caused the greatest wonder and excitement. The
large apes—two of which will never hear the violin
again, for “Sally” and the young ourang-outang
have both died since our visit—were more frightened
than pleased. “Tim,” the silver gibbon, was much
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>agitated, opening and shutting his mouth, and waving
his long arms about, until two loud discordant notes
were played, when he came flying down from his
tree, and flung himself against the bars. The young
ourang-outang turned his back at once, and made off
to the top of his cage, from which not even a banana
would tempt him. “Sally” listened gravely, with her
hands crossed and a far-off look in her eyes, until a
strong crescendo was played, when she made an
audible and perfectly articulate remark, though we
were unable to record its meaning. Outside the large
monkey house, a large Tcheli monkey was sitting in
a cage apart, thoughtfully chewing a stick. At the
sound of the violin, it gave a violent start and frowned,
which, however, is not a necessary sign of displeasure
in monkey physiognomy. When sudden discords
were played, it sprang forward and rattled the bars.
The Capuchin monkeys, the species selected by Dr.
Garnier for his experiments in monkey language,
showed the strangest and most amusing excitement.
These pretty little creatures have wonderfully expressive
and intelligent pink faces, with bright-brown
eyes and pink lips, and the play and mobility of their
faces and bodies while listening to the music was
extraordinarily rapid. The three in the first cage at
first rushed up into their box, and then all peeped
out chattering and excited. One by one they came
down and listened to the music with intense curiosity,
shrieking and making faces at a crescendo, shaking
the wires at a discord, and putting their heads upside-down
<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>in efforts of acute criticism at low and musical
passages. Every change of note was marked by some
alteration of expression in the faces of the excited little
monkeys, and a series of discordant notes roused them
to a passion of rage. Most of the other monkeys came
up to listen; the Malbrook monkey dropped the clay
pipe he was making-believe to smoke, and the white-nosed
monkey stole a lady’s veil and picked it
thoughtfully to pieces. But a big baboon recently
brought to the Gardens assumed a most comic look of
disgust and surprise, and walked off to the utmost
limits of its chain.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is easier to give a record of such experiments
than to speak with confidence of the feelings excited
in our various listeners. Darwin, while giving many
instances of the expression of anger, pain, and fear,
gives few of the expression of pleasure, or the milder
emotions of curiosity and contentment. It will not,
however, be difficult to show that in many cases the
animals at the Zoo did exhibit pleasure and curiosity
in a very marked degree; while strange to say, in the
case of others, anger or fear was shown in all the
modes which Darwin has described. With the
behaviour of the wolves we may compare his description
of the characteristic expression of fear in carnivorous
animals, by erecting the hair and uncovering
the teeth and trembling. “Cattle and sheep,” says
the great naturalist, “are remarkable for displaying
their emotions in a very slight degree, except that of
extreme pain.” But in the case of the wild sheep,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>and even of the wild cattle, the pleasure and curiosity
aroused by the music was plainly shown, as we
have described above, by their instant attention
and their approach towards the sounds. At the
sudden discords they instantly showed displeasure by
stamping the feet and retiring. The African elephant
gave unmistakable signs of anger; the wild boar and
pigs, of pleasure and curiosity; and among others
which shared these amiable emotions, were beyond
doubt the zebras, wild asses, Polar and grizzly bears,
and the ant-eater. No creature seemed wholly
indifferent except the seals, and the sudden start and
displeasure at a discord was almost universal, from the
snakes to the African elephant. There are many men,
perhaps many races of men, who could not detect a
discord, and would be indifferent alike to harmony
and its opposite. Must we not, then, infer that,
owing to some greater sensitiveness of the organ, most
animals have a musical ear, and that the stories of
Orpheus and his lute have, at any rate, a basis in the
facts of animal æsthetics?</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.<br/> <br/>THE CHOICE OF INSTRUMENTS.</h2></div>
<div class='lg-container-b c020'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial;</div>
<div class='line in1'>He with viny crown advancing,</div>
<div class='line in1'>First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;</div>
<div class='line in1'>But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,</div>
<div class='line in1'>Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>In</span> a former trial of the effects of sweet sounds on
animals’ ears at the Zoo, our Orpheus was so far in
character that he played but one instrument; and
though the violin did duty for the classic lute, the
audience was in many cases as responsive as in the
groves of Thessaly, when music still was young. Our
object so attained, curiosity went no further, though
if a matter-of-fact and scientific age demands “results”
as a natural sequence to experiments, however playful,
we would sum up the conclusions then reached as
follows:—All animals, except the cobras and the
wolves, showed pleasure and curiosity when listening
to soft and melancholy music; and all exhibited extreme
dislike of loud, harsh, discordant sounds. Minor
keys in all cases seemed most appreciated, and in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>some animals, such as the mountain sheep, the bears,
and the wolves, they produced the strangest results—in
the first two of pleasure, in the last of fear. But
though the violin-player is master of many sounds,
and can even imitate the drone of the bagpipe, which
the cobras so much enjoyed, it still remained to make
trial of our hearers with other sounds than those of
the tuneful strings. Animals, like the Passions, might
have their favourite instrument, if only it could be
found, and Orpheus, with his lute, could be matched
against the shepherd’s pipe, or could watch the
emotion of his animal admirers while melancholy
“poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul.”
Respect for the peaceful early hours at the Zoo induced
us to forego, for the time, the trial of instruments
of brass. But it was thought that the contrasts of
the violin, the flute, and the shrill and piping piccolo,
might afford some guide to animals’ taste in instrumental
music, without injury either to their own nerves,
or to the comfort of visitors to the Gardens. The
hour chosen was the earliest which the rules for
securing the animals’ comfort allowed; for the tests
to be made were far more delicate than those by
which we had proved the general susceptibility of
animals to musical sound, and demanded the undivided
attention of our captive hearers. The general order
of our experiments, based upon the supposition that
animal nerves are not unlike our own, was so arranged
that their attention should be first arrested by a low
and gradually-increasing volume of sound, in those
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>melodious minor keys which experience showed them
to prefer. The piccolo was then to follow, in shrill
and high-pitched contrast. And, lastly, the mellow
wood-notes of the flute were to soothe away whatever
ruffled feelings the less tuneful piccolo had aroused.
In case the creatures showed any marked preference
for the flute over the violin, then the flute was to take
precedence.</p>
<p class='c008'>There is a curious attraction in watching these half-human
appeals to animal emotion, and marking the
quick look of interest and surprise visible in most of
their faces, as the sweet sounds gradually steal on
their senses, and the growth of pleasure—or fear—as
the creature springs to its feet, and either advances
eagerly to listen, or with bristling hair retreats to the
farthest corner of the den, until perhaps pleasure or
curiosity overcomes their terror at the unusual sounds.
Pleasure or dislike are often most strongly shown
where least expected, and the result of our last experiment
goes to show that the tiger has stronger dislikes,
if not stronger preferences, in the musical scale than
the most intellectual anthropoid apes.</p>
<p class='c008'>Our first visit was paid to “Jack,” the young red
ourang-outang, which, since the death of “Sally,”
the chimpanzee, claims the highest place in animal
organization among the inmates of the Zoo. He
is a six-months-old baby, of extremely grave and
deliberate manners, and perhaps the most irresistibly
comical creature which has ever been seen in London.
He is extremely well-behaved, not in the least shy,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>and as friendly with strangers as with his keeper.
His arms are as strong as those of a man, while his
legs and feet seem to be used less for walking than as
a subsidiary pair of arms and hands. He is thus
able, when much interested, to hold his face between
two hands, and to rest his chin on the third, which
gives him an air of pondering reflection beyond any
power of human imitation. “He knows there’s something
up,” remarked his keeper, as we entered the
house, and the ape came to the bars and sat down
to inspect his visitors. As the sounds of the violin
began, he suspended himself against the bars, and
then, with one hand above his head, dropped the
other to his side, and listened with grave attention.
As the sound increased in volume, he dropped to the
ground, and all the hair on his body stood up with
fear. He then crept away on all fours, looking back
over his shoulder like a frightened baby; and taking
up his piece of carpet, which does duty for a shawl,
shook it out, and threw it completely over his head
and body, and drew it tight round him. After a
short time, as the music continued, he gained courage
and put out his head, and at last threw away the
cloak and came forward again. By this time his hair
was lying flat, and his fear had given place to pleasure.
He sat down, and, chewing a straw, sat gravely listening
to the music. “He looks just like our manager
when a new piece is on,” remarked the violinist, as
he concluded his share of the serenade. The piccolo
at first frightened the monkey, but he soon held out
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>his hand for the instrument, which he was allowed to
examine. The flute did not interest him, but the
bagpipes—reproduced on the violin—achieved a
triumph. He first flattened his nose against the
bars, and then, scrambling to the centre of the cage,
turned head over heels, and lastly, sitting down,
chucked handfuls of straw in the air and over his
head, “smiling,” as the keeper said, with delight and
approval.</p>
<div id='i136' class='figcenter id009'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i136.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Tiger Listening to Soft Music.</span> <i>From a photograph<br/>by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The Capuchin monkeys are kept in a large cage
next to one containing a number of grey macaques.
The little Capuchins were busy eating their breakfast;
but the violin soon attracted an audience. The
Capuchins dropped their food and clung to the bars,
listening, with their heads on one side, with great attention.
The keeper drew our notice to the next cage.
There, clinging in rows to the front wires, was a silent
assembly of a dozen macaques, all listening intently
to the concert which their neighbours were enjoying.
At the first sounds of the flute most of these ran
away; and the piccolo excited loud and angry screams
from all sides. Clearly in this case the violin was the
favourite. We then decided to take the opinion of
some of the largest and least vivacious animals, and
selected the young African elephant for our next
auditor. As this animal had shown the utmost dislike
to the violin on a previous occasion, the flute
was employed to open the concert, and with complete
success. The elephant stood listening with deep
attention, one foot raised from the ground, and its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>whole body still—a rare concession to the influence of
music from one of the most restless of all animals.
So long as the flute continued, it remained motionless
and listening. But the change to the piccolo was
resented. After the first bar, the elephant twisted
round, and stood with its back to the performer,
whistling and snorting and stamping its feet. The
violin was less disliked, but the signs of disapproval
were unmistakable. The deer, as before, were
strangely attracted by the violin, and showed equal
pleasure in the tones of the flute; the gemul deer, for
instance, ran up at once to listen to the latter, their
ears and tails being in constant movement at every
change of tone or tune. Even the ostrich seemed to
enjoy the violin and flute, though it showed marked
signs of dislike at the piccolo, writhing its neck and
walking uneasily up and down its enclosure. The
ibexes were startled at the piccolo, first rushing
forward to listen, and then taking refuge on a pile
of rocks, from which, however, the softer music of
the flute brought them down to listen at the railing.
The wild asses and zebras left the hay with which
their racks had just been filled; and even the tapir,
which lives next door, got up to listen to the violin;
while the flute set the Indian wild asses kicking with
excitement. But the piccolo had no charms for any of
them, and they all returned to their interrupted breakfasts.
So far, the piccolo had shown its inability to
please in most cases. Of its power to annoy we soon
had an amusing proof. The Lion House was almost
<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>deserted by the few visitors who were in the Gardens,
and the opportunity of making trial of the musical
preferences of its inmates was too good to be lost.
The violin-player approached a sleeping tiger, which
was lying on its side with its feet stretched and touching
the bars, and played so softly that the opening
notes were scarcely audible. As the sound rose, the
tiger awoke, and, raising its head without moving its
body, looked for some time with fixed attention at the
player. It remained for some time in a very fine
attitude listening to the music, and then making the
curious sound which, in tiger language, does duty
for “purring,” it lay down again and dozed. The
soft music still continued, as we were engaged in
watching a cheetah, which showed great uneasiness and
fear at the sounds, making sudden starts and bounds,
raising the fur on its neck, and waving its tail from
side to side like an angry cat. But whatever the
cheetah’s emotions of dislike, the tiger did not share
them, but lay half or wholly asleep, as if the chords
which were being played made an agreeable lullaby.
Judge, then, of our surprise, when, at the first notes
of the piccolo, which succeeded the violin, the tiger
sprang to its feet and rushed up and down the cage,
shaking its head and ears, and lashing its tail from
side to side. As the notes became still louder and
more piercing, the tiger bounded across the den,
reared on its hind feet, and exhibited the most ludicrous
contrast to the calm dignity and repose with which it
had listened to the violin. Then came the final and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>most successful experiment. The piccolo was stopped,
and a very soft air played upon the flute. The
difference in effect was seen at once. The tiger
ceased to “rampage,” and the leaps subsided to a
gentle walk, until the animal came to the bars, and,
standing still and quiet once more, listened with
pleasure to the music.</p>
<p class='c008'>No doubt it is possible to draw very different conclusions
from experiments of so imperfect a character
as those which we have described. But it would
probably be fair to infer that, for some cause, the
violin and flute, which human taste has marked as
among the most pleasing of musical instruments, are
those most acceptable to animals under that unknown
law which determines this branch of animal æsthetics.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>
<h2 class='c006'>TALKING BIRDS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> parrots and macaws which live in the Parrot
House at the Zoo are so numerous and noisy that the
keeper has no leisure to teach them to talk. But a
parrot which can say a very few words is very quickly
imitated by its neighbours, and a new phrase or word
travels from cage to cage, should the birds in the
immediate neighbourhood of the accomplished talker
be of one of the imitative species. Among birds there
are progressive and non-progressive races, which are
indifferent to “self-improvement,” and never try to
learn a song of their own, much less to imitate the
voices of other birds or of men. But the desire to
gain new notes is very much more common than is
generally believed, and there are at least twenty kinds
of birds which are able to reproduce even the complex
forms of articulate human speech. Aristotle mentions
an Indian parrot which could talk, and “when it drank
wine was somewhat improper,” habits and language
which it had picked up, no doubt, from Phœnician
sailors. But the most accomplished talker of Indian
birds is the mynah, a handsome purple-black bird, with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>a short tail, orange legs and beak, and bright yellow
ear-flaps, which run round to the back of its head like
a collar. It is a bold, lively bird, with a mellow song
and whistle of its own. Its power of reproducing
human speech is wonderful, and it exhibits the
greatest anxiety that the tones should be correct, first
repeating them softly to itself, with its head on one
side, and then shouting out the words.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the Insect House at the Zoo there lives a fine
old mynah, who was “deposited” in 1883. While a
visitor is examining the Indian moths coming out of
their cocoons, he may hear behind him a thoughtful
cough, and the “Hulloa!” shouted with startling suddenness.
It is the mynah, anxious to be friendly, and
to begin a conversation. The Hindoo traders in the
bazaars avail themselves of the mynah’s services in a
curious way. They teach it to pronounce the holy
name of Rama; and while the master’s thoughts are
on earthly gains intent, the bird compounds for the
neglect by shouting incessantly the name of the god,
and texts in honour of his power. If the poet Ovid’s
Indian parrot finds its way, as he hoped, to the paradise
of birds, and there</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“Convertit volucres in sua verba pias,”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c016'>it must surely meet the mynahs also.</p>
<p class='c008'>Another bird which talks better than most, and
whistles better than any, is the piping crow. It is a
lively black-and-white bird, as large as a rook, but far
more elegant in form. Several specimens inhabit the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>Gardens, but the best is in the western Aviary, where
it whistles “Merrily danced the Quaker,” in tones like
a flute.</p>
<p class='c008'>The American blue jay, a most brilliant creature,
with lines of emerald and turquoise, is an admirable
mimic of many sounds, even of the human voice.
Wilson writes of one “which had all the tricks and
loquacity of a parrot; pilfered all it could conveniently
carry off, answered to its name with great sociability
when called upon, and could articulate a number of
words pretty distinctly.” Our English jays can also
talk, and magpies, especially if kept in good health
and spirits by being allowed partial freedom, soon pick
up words. Jackdaws and the American crow can also
be made to talk. But in all the crow tribe, except the
piping crow, the reproduction of human speech seems
to be more a trick of mimicry than an effort to
acquire a substitute for song. Parrots, mynahs, and
some cockatoos take infinite pains to learn correctly
and increase their stock of phrases. But the magpie
or jay learns what is easy, and takes no further trouble.
Even the raven seldom has many words at command,
though, owing to its deep, resonant voice and imposing
size, it attracts more attention than a chattering jay.</p>
<p class='c008'>The raven is the largest creature, except man, that
can “talk,” and fancy and superstition have naturally
exaggerated its powers. Still the speech of the raven
has a depth and solemnity which that of no other bird
possesses, and whether in boding utterances, like those
attributed to the raven in <i>Barnaby Rudge</i>, or by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>Edgar Allen Poe, or in plain business, like the raven
in Guildford Street, which used to say “Ostler, here’s
a gentleman,” when a customer arrived, its powers are
generally marked and recorded. A fine bird, belonging
to a “statesman” in Northumberland, used to
say “Poor old Ralph,” or call the collie dog in the
exact tones used by its master. “It’s my very own
voice,” its owner used to say, laughing, as the dog
came running in from the garden. But the crow
tribe, though as clever as some parrots, are not so
easily domesticated, and their beaks and tongues are
less well suited for the musical sounds of human speech.
Most of the parrots, and some cockatoos and macaws,
have both the mental and physical gifts necessary to
make them excel in talking. Parrots of all classes
have fleshy tongues, moistened with saliva, and the
arched beak provides a substitute for our palate and
teeth. They have also wide nostrils, and their natural
voices are loud enough and strong enough to equal
the volume of human speech. In disposition they are
highly imitative. Cockatoos are almost like monkeys
in mimicking men. For instance, if you bow to them,
they will make elaborate bows. If you put your head
on one side, they will often do so too. But with many
parrots the desire to learn new sounds is not, we think,
a mere trick of mimicry, but the desire to possess
a song—an accomplishment with which to please,
identical in kind with the motive which prompts the
young of singing-birds to learn their parents’ notes, or,
in the case of the canary, to learn and improve upon a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>song, not their own, which they have transmitted to
their posterity.</p>
<p class='c008'>The following account of the development of the
talking power in a young parrot of which we have
seen much lately, is, we submit, a strong confirmation
of this view. Our informant is a lady whose sympathies
are by no means limited to parrots, as the context will
show, and her observations are wholly reliable. “We
bought ‘Barry,’” she writes, “when he was quite young
before his feathers were fully grown; and we had him
about a year before he began to talk. Then he began
to make very odd noises, as if he were trying to say
words, but could not quite do it. Now he constantly
learns new words and sentences, and early in the morning
I hear him practising them over to himself, <i>exactly
as our babies used to do in the early morning hours in bed</i>.
If he improves as much in the next ten years as he
has in the last, he should be able to recite a poem if
we teach him.” There is no reason why a parrot
should not continue to increase his stock of phrases as
he grows older, if the supposition that he looks upon
it as an accomplishment for which he is in some way
the better is correct. The butcher-bird, for instance,
and the sedge-warbler do not rest <i>satisfied</i> with learning
their own notes, but often learn and reproduce the
notes of other birds in great perfection. The mockingbird,
which, like the sedge-warbler, has a fine song of
its own, does the same. But the parrot has an
advantage in being very long-lived and constantly in
human company. The young parrot mentioned
<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>before gave an excellent instance of the association
in its mind of words with things. Before it could
talk, it was friendly with a kitten which used to enter
its cage. This kitten was sent away, and for a year
there was not another in the house. Then a grey
Persian kitten was bought, and when introduced to
the parrot was at once addressed as “Kitty,” a word
he had hardly heard since the departure of the other.
The <i>correctness</i> of parrots’ imitation, the result, no
doubt, of their careful practice, is remarkable. A lady
of the Dutch Court, visiting the palace in the wood at
the Hague soon after the death of the late Queen of
Holland, was startled by hearing the Queen’s voice
exactly reproduced. It was a white cockatoo that
had been a great pet of hers, which was in a corner of
the room.</p>
<p class='c008'>Parrots have no exclusive liking for the English
language. They learn German, French, and Dutch
quite easily. Another parrot at the Hague went
through part of the Lord’s Prayer in Dutch at an
afternoon party, with other fragments of its mistress’s
devotions, which it had heard when in her room. All
small white and sulphur cockatoos seem to say,
“Küpper crou” when they want their heads scratched.
We have translated it, “Scratch a poll;” but it is
probably pure parrot language. Go up to any cockatoo
and say this to him, at the same time holding
the hand well above his head, and he will probably
answer, and gradually lower his head and crest to allow
you to gently ruffle the feathers the wrong way.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>Macaws do not seem to understand cockatoo
language; but the grey parrots often use much
the same sound. It seems to be a call-note expressing
their willingness to make friends and be petted.</p>
<p class='c008'>“Is the talking of birds due to mental or physical
causes?” is a question often asked. In the first place,
no doubt, it is due to the disposition of the bird. Some
parrots and cockatoos never learn to talk, though their
organs of speech differ in no way from those of others
that do. They seem to be without the imitative bias,
like the hawks which have curved beaks and thick
tongues, but are equally silent. But where the disposition
to mimic is present, physical causes limit or widen
the bird’s powers. Parrots and the crow tribe are
both imitative, but the parrots’ beaks and tongues are
more suited for imitating human speech, just as the
raven, with his high-arched beak and big throat excels
the jay. Other birds with still less suitable organs,
such as the sedge-warbler, though excellent mimics,
cannot reproduce human speech at all. There seems
no reason why parrots, if they would breed in confinement,
should not teach their accomplishments to their
young ones, as the canaries have done theirs. Perhaps
in time the experiment may be made.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ELEPHANT LIFE IN ENGLAND</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> strangely artificial revival of elephant life in
the countries north of the Mediterranean, and in
districts where the bones of the fossil species show
that they once lived and flourished naturally, is yearly
more remarkable. The European elephant herd in
the present year numbers one hundred and thirteen,
or about thirty less than the annual catch in the
<i>keddahs</i> of the Indian Government. Their health
seems quite independent of climate, to judge from
the countries in which they are kept, often with very
rough provision against the chances and changes of
weather. Russia owns eighteen, Sweden and Norway
four, France and Belgium ten each, seven of which
are in the great travelling menagerie of the Lockharts,
which migrates to and fro across the Franco-Belgian
frontier; Germany has thirty-four, and England about
the same number; Holland has eight, and Italy two.</p>
<p class='c008'>The British stock is at present supplied almost
entirely from Burmah. There only in the East
elephants are bred in a half-wild state and not caught
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>in the <i>heddahs</i>. They are brought over to Europe
when quite young, and are now so cheap that any one
who pleases may become the owner of a sober, well-behaved
little elephant from four to five feet high,
delivered at the docks, for from £105 to £120,
or not more than the average price paid for first-class
shire-horses. Their subsequent development depends
mainly upon their daily treatment. In those
which spend their lives at ease in the elephant palaces
at the Zoological Gardens the rate of growth is
surprising, and they soon develop into magnificent
animals, not surpassed in size by the finest creatures
in the stables of Indian rajahs. The pair of Indian
elephants now in the Gardens are already nine feet
and ten feet high at the shoulder respectively, though
when they reached the Gardens in 1876 they were
hardly bigger than a Shetland pony. But the greater
number of English elephants spend their time as
hard-working members of the large circuses and
travelling menageries, and lead a wandering, homeless
life, in curious contrast to the comfort which surrounds
the fortunate inmates of the gardens of
learned societies. Their deliberate movements mask
a wakeful self-possession which hardly ever deserts
them, and whether marching by the cornfields on
the open downs, or through the streets of a manufacturing
town, the elephant never misses a chance of
levying contributions of food on the road. “Where
didst thou teach thy elephant that trick?” says
Petersen Sahib, in Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s charming
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>tale of the elephant dance, when the animal holds the
mahout’s son aloft in its trunk. “Was it to help
thee to steal green corn from the roof when the ears
are put out to dry?” “Not green corn, Protector of
the Poor-melons,” says little Toomai.</p>
<p class='c008'>In England the elephant is not an accomplice, but
helps himself freely in the back streets of the towns,
up which he is usually taken, to avoid difficulties with
the urban police. He has ever a sharp eye for an
open window or door, and many a batch of new
loaves smoking on the dresser or bunch of vegetables
intended for the mid-day dinner, is extracted through
the window, before the good woman, who is admiring
the procession at the door, has time to rush back to
the rescue. At Sanger’s repository last year a fine
gilded car came back for repairs. The body of the
car had been filled with loaves of bread on Saturday
night and then locked up. An elephant smelt the
bread, and not being able to open the lock, turned the
whole car over to see if it would open in that way, to
the serious damage of the ornamental upper works.
The clever picture of the “Disputed Toll,” by
Charlton Adams, in which an elephant is painted
breaking open a turnpike-gate, records an amusing
incident of elephant travel which occurred many years
ago outside the pretty little town of Sidmouth in
South Devon. Van Ambrugh’s show was expected,
and the turnpike keeper locked the gate and demanded
toll, not only for the cars but for the animals.
The elephant was leading the way, and after much
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>fruitless argument, its keeper, slipping through the
turnstile for foot-passengers, said to the elephant,
“Come along, Fido,” and the animal at once lifted
the gate off its hinges and walked through. Cool and
sagacious on the march, they seem also thoroughly
to enjoy the tinsel and trappings, the music of the
brass band, the lights, noise, and crowd of an evening
show. Perhaps there is something in this which
recalls to them memories of the “gorgeous East.”
Take for instance the annual “World’s Fair” at the
Agricultural Hall, which a Hindoo would describe as
a very fine <i>tumasha</i>, and in which no one but an
Oriental, a British working-man, or an elephant, could
keep his brains clear for half-an-hour. Two large
steam “round-abouts” at either end of the hall,
grinding a different tune with an engine of ten-horse
power, form only a portion of the bewildering attractions
of this Palace of Delight. Opposite each of
these machines, at the time of the writer’s last visit,
was stalled a small Indian elephant, cool, collected,
and sagacious, his business mind wholly intent on
raising contributions from the public. One occupied
a compartment in the centre of what was magnificently
described as the “Mammoth Wild Animal
Congregation.” He was a very little mammoth, not
five feet high, black and bristly, supported on one
side by a Persian goat and a kangaroo, and on the
other by a couple of llamas. In front stood a stall
of cakes, and to every visitor who came past the
elephant pointed out the biscuit pile, his trunk maintaining
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>a line true as the needle to the Pole, while
his head and eye followed the movements of the
passer-by. When quite neglected and alone, he tried
to attract attention by dancing a kind of double-shuffle
to the tune of the “round-about.”</p>
<p class='c008'>Some one ventured to give a biscuit to the unfortunate
goat, its neighbour. The elephant dexterously
twisted it from between the nibbling lips of the
goat, and at once mounted guard to prevent any such
diversion of its dues again. With ears cocked and
eye alert, he held his trunk stretched out a few inches
above the goat’s head, taking it away for a moment to
receive offerings tendered elsewhere, but switching it
back to the suspected quarter the moment the dainty
was swallowed.</p>
<p class='c008'>Elephants suffer from nervousness, and occasionally
from unreasoning panic, in England, just as
they do in India. A windmill has been known to
cause them to jib like a horse, and a large and very
tame female Indian elephant at the Zoological Gardens
actually died of fright, caused by a thunderstorm in
the summer of 1855. She was out at exercise, when
a violent and reverberant peal of thunder caused her
to break away from her keeper. When caught she
was found to be in a pitiable state of terror, shaking
and trembling with violent spasmodic twitchings
of the whole body. When led back to her stable
she continued to show unmistakable symptoms of
shock and collapse. In a short time she lay down,
and after a few days died, in spite of the anxious
<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>and skilled attention which she received from the
first.</p>
<p class='c008'>Minor instances of panic are not uncommon, but
it is not often that the English-trained animal loses
his head so as to be a source of danger to the public,
as so frequently happens in India. This is partly
because they seldom travel alone. In Mr. Sanger’s
menagerie, for instance, the elephants are led when on
the march by an old chestnut thoroughbred, known
as the “jumping horse,” from his feat of clearing six
five-barred gates in succession. It was when out at
exercise without its usual companion that one of
these elephants bolted at Highbury last September,
and spent an afternoon in rambling about the suburbs
of North London. The damage done by the animal
was greatly exaggerated, so far as the writer could
judge after a visit to the scene of its exploits. The
elephant was drinking from a water-trough just
opposite Finsbury Park, when it took fright at the
sudden ringing of a tram-car bell. Pursued by boys
and policemen, it ran through the Park and down a
street near the lower entrance. Seeing a large wooden
gate, like that which leads to its own yard at Tottenham,
it burst it open, and found itself in a labyrinth
of small sheds and wooden stables at the back of
some shops. Threading its way through these with
wonderful agility, it ultimately arrived in a <i>cul de sac</i>
in the yard at the back of a fishmonger’s shop.
Having thrown off its pursuers by this manœuvre,
the elephant proceeded to make itself as much at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>home as circumstances permitted. It first kicked
into quiet a collie dog which had resented its intrusion.
Next it picked up its kennel and pitched
it over the garden wall. Then cautiously approaching
the kitchen door, it looked in to see if any provisions
were lying within reach. Meantime the fishmonger,
who was taking a nap on his sofa, was apprised that
there was an elephant in his back-yard. Trespass,
whether by man or beast, is a thing no British house-holder
can put up with; so the fishmonger took down
his whip and went to turn it “off his premises.”
“Jim” was at that moment looking in at the door,
and elephant and fishmonger met on the threshold.
Victory lay with the latter, but only to a limited
extent. For the elephant, still bent on finding provender,
broke in the door of the stable in which the
tradesman kept his pony. The door was only six and
a half feet high, and the elephant more than eight.
But it stepped in, and being familiar with the economy
of a stable, looked for the corn-bin. This found, it
emptied the whole of the contents on the floor, and
soon ate up a bushel of oats. This was not to be
borne; so the plucky fishmonger determined to
“catch” the robber when it emerged from the stable.
This it did rather sooner than it had intended, as the
pony, frightened at its strange visitor, avenged the
collie by kicking the elephant’s ribs. Outside, the
indignant fishmonger and his man had barred the
passage by drawing a light van across it, and, armed
with whips, mounted guard on the other side of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>barricade. Jim on his part took a long drink out of
a small slate water-tank which stood near, and having
refreshed the inner elephant with food and drink,
surveyed the situation at his leisure. Seeing no other
way out of the yard than that by which he had
entered, he walked up, and with his head upset the
van, and brushing past the garrison and through the
crowd outside the gates, resumed his rambles in the
streets. When captured, it was long past seven
o’clock, and the animal was then well beyond the
river Lea. No one was hurt by the elephant, and
beyond the wanton destruction of a small shed
belonging to a fishmonger, which it mischievously
broke into pieces the size of barrel staves, and an
unfortunate rush through five garden walls in a rather
awkward place in Highbury Terrace, it did little harm
to property. Next day it was seen by the writer,
apparently none the worse for its adventures, though
a violent scolding administered by the keeper’s wife
caused it obvious uneasiness. It could hardly swallow
the hay which it was eating, but taking it from its
mouth, rubbed its knees with it, turning its head
away, and exhibiting signs of the utmost penitence
and confusion.</p>
<p class='c008'>African elephants are now very scarce in this
country. This is due partly to the total blockade by
the Dervish power at Khartoum of the ancient trade-route
down the river. At present there are only seven
left in Europe; of these one is in the London Zoological
Gardens, one at Manchester, and one in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>Wombwell’s travelling menagerie. But except to
complete the collections of learned societies, the
African is far less in demand than formerly. The
elephant trade exists mainly to supply performing
animals for the circuses, and the African is not
popular with circus owners, or with their keepers or
trainers. This is strange, because it was in the
Roman circus that the African elephant first became
a popular favourite in Europe. Though the first
war-elephants captured by the legions were baited to
death in the arena, the later arrivals appealed just as
much to the good-nature of the <i>populus Romanus</i>
as do their descendants to the British public. This
fact suggests one of the few humorous remarks which
can safely be credited to a Roman; and in keeping
with the rarity of the event the joke was made by
almost the greatest of all Romans, Caius Octavius
Augustus, Emperor, Proconsul, Prince of the Senate,
and Pontifex Maximus. One of the humbler Quirites,
anxious to present a petition, was so fortunate as to
escape the eye of the lictors and to catch that of the
Emperor, who graciously stretched out his hand for
the document which he saw lurking beneath the folds
of the citizen’s gown. Flustered at the sudden chance
of royal protection, he pushed his scroll towards the
outstretched hand, then shrunk back before the
thought of almost personal contact with the human
embodiment of power. “Come, man,” said Augustus,
“do you think you are giving a penny to the
elephant?” “<i>Putasne te assem elephanto dare?</i>”</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>To-day, though the public are ready to make the
biggest elephant their greatest favourite, as in the
case of the African “Jumbo,” the keepers and trainers
have little to say in favour of his kindred. Their
opinion seems almost as unanimous as it is hostile.
At the Zoo it is said that the Africans are “stupid,”
and therefore dangerous. For example, supposing
an Indian elephant to be backing towards the wall,
and so in danger of crushing its attendants, a push
or a slap on its huge thigh will instantly be understood
as a hint to move forwards, or to stop. The less
careful African would probably take no notice of
the warning, and the man must either slip on one
side or be crushed. The trainer alleges that they
have bad memories. This makes them uncertain
performers in the ring. They will learn a few tricks
without difficulty; but when called upon to show
off in public, they are extremely likely to refuse their
parts, and either to stand still, or bolt to their stable.
There seems also to be a general feeling among circus
attendants that they are unsafe. The fine young
African elephant now at the Zoological Gardens has
given far more trouble to its keepers than the two
large Indian specimens during the far longer period
of their sojourn in Regent’s Park. When quite a
baby its obstinacy was as marked as their docility.
The Indian pair would walk round the grounds with
their keeper between them, the man placing a hand
on each of their backs, and the two solemn little
fellows walking in step on either side. The African
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>would not even take the bath which most elephants
look upon as one of their greatest treats in hot
weather. He roared, and kicked, and made such a
determined resistance that it was necessary to rig
up a block and tackle, and haul him into the water.
When there he sulked, and seemed prepared to
undergo the fate of drowning rather than the humiliation
of obedience. The recollection that you may
bring a horse to the water but cannot make him
drink, hardly expresses the feelings of his keepers
when they realized that the tackle which is sufficient
to haul an elephant into the water may be unsuited
for hauling him out. Ultimately the Chinaman’s
recipe for driving a pig—“If you no can pushee,
no pullee, then try plenty stick,” was adopted with
success. The African elephant’s “uncertainty” has
one redeeming feature. It may shy or jib on one
day, and get the better of its keeper for an hour or
more, but he does not necessarily therefore lose
prestige in the eyes of the animal, and can assert
his authority next day unimpaired. An Indian elephant,
if once the master in a deliberate act of
disobedience, loses from that moment all respect for
the man whom it has worsted. Inferiority in “parlour
tricks,” and in comparative docility, does not excuse
the strange neglect which the native species receives
as a beast of burden suited for the work of African
pioneering. Dr. Sclater, writing from the offices of
the Zoological Society in Hanover Square, says that
there have been African elephants in the Gardens of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>the Society for nearly twenty years, and that in his
opinion they are quite as intelligent as those of the
Indian species, though perhaps not quite so docile.
He suggests that a <i>keddah</i> of Indian elephants and
their attendants should be transported to the East
African coast, and that the Indian elephants should
be used to capture and tame their African brethren.
General Gordon, shortly before the disaster at
Khartoum, wrote to Dr. Sclater advocating the employment
of the elephant in Africa, and making
inquiries as to its possibility. The size which the
African elephant will attain under favourable conditions
in this country is well illustrated by the case
of “Jumbo.” When this elephant came to the
Gardens he was about four feet high and weighed
700 lbs. At first he was troublesome, but after a
short time became perfectly manageable, and grew
very rapidly. This was attributed by Mr. Bartlett,
in his remarks on a paper read before the Society
of Arts in 1884, by Colonel Sanderson, to good food,
and a daily bath in hot weather. In sixteen years
he grew from four feet to eleven feet in height. By
that time he was probably twenty-three years old.
An elephant does not reach its prime till thirty-five,
and Jumbo increased another ton after a year at
Barnum’s; he was therefore probably not full grown
at the time of his lamented death.</p>
<p class='c008'>The reasons for his sale were not very clearly
stated at the time of his transfer. The cause of sale,
in the case of any animal, is never a point on which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>the vendor is anxious to dwell. “Sold for no fault,
but solely because the owner is giving up hunting,”
is the favourite formula at Tattersall’s; and an elephant
which is leaving a zoological garden to appear
in a monster circus might be supposed to be disqualified
for service in the latter, if it possessed any
vice which made it an undesirable inmate of the
former. The inference is more apparent than real;
for the harder work and exercise at Barnum’s could
hardly fail to make a change in the impressionable
elephant temperament. But a pleasing mystery
surrounded the “deal.” The shrewd sense of Barnum
himself nursed the growing excitement on both sides
of the Atlantic with a genial dexterity which will
ever be considered a masterpiece of management
among the illustrious exhibitors of the future. The
Society, on their side, kept their own counsel, and
the sale of the big elephant was briefly alluded to
in the report as “made for satisfactory reasons given
by the responsible executive.” Neither did the price
received figure as a separate item in the receipts.
But as the amount credited to “Garden sales” exceeded
that of the previous year by about £1800,
we may assume that the sum paid by Mr. Barnum
was well within that limit. A good authority informs
the writer that the net payment was £1000. Meantime
the “Jumbo boom” was immensely profitable
to the Society’s revenue. The fees paid for admission
to the Gardens rose by £5500 in the year, an increase
which the Secretary’s report attributes to the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>“great interest taken by the public in the removal
of a favourite animal.” The splendid new Reptile
House, with its unrivalled facilities for observing the
habits of the snakes, lizards, and alligators, was the
result of this most welcome windfall. It was in fact
the legacy of the African elephant to the Zoo.</p>
<p class='c008'>The facts as to Jumbo’s state of mind were afterwards
clearly given by Mr. Bartlett. During the
last years of his life in the Gardens he became at
times very excited, and terrified every one who came
near him except his keeper Scott, who had extraordinary
control over him. “Scott,” added Mr.
Bartlett, “was a very curious man himself, and it
was with the greatest difficulty that he could be
persuaded to allow another man to assist him in the
management of the huge animal. It was feared
that if Scott fell ill, or were injured by the elephant,
he would be entirely unmanageable, for no other
man dared go near him in his house, though when
out at exercise he was perfectly quiet. At night,
however, he would tear about and almost shake the
house down, and became such a source of trouble
that the Council decided to part with him.”</p>
<p class='c008'>He was quite tractable in Barnum’s show, and
became the father of two little elephants. Scott
went with him, and after his death in a collision with
a locomotive, was offered the charge of a large stud
of elephants which was shown afterwards at Olympia.
But his sturdy independence rebelled against the
wearing of “costume,” which Barnum’s feeling for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>the proprieties of the arena enjoined. Faithful to
his old charge he mounted guard over the stuffed
Jumbo, and preserved his hide from the knives of
relic-hunting visitors.</p>
<p class='c008'>In conclusion we may contrast the knowledge and
skill shown in the management of Jumbo at a critical
time, with the fate of an elephant which exhibited
much the same symptoms, in the Liverpool Zoological
Gardens, in 1848, before the present race of English
elephant-keepers had been trained to their work.
This elephant, like Jumbo, was said to be the finest
in Europe. It cost £800 eleven years before its
death, and was said to be then worth £1000.
It had already killed one keeper, accidentally, as it
was thought, but not long afterwards it struck down
and crushed a second. Such was the panic of the
owners, that two six-pounder cannon were bought
from the Albert Docks, and set loaded opposite to
the elephant’s house, in case it should succeed in
escaping. As it remained quiet, two ounces of
prussic acid and twenty-five grains of aconite were
given to it in its food. As the poison did not seem
to take effect, thirty men from the 52nd Regiment
were ordered to shoot it. The first fifteen delivered
their fire, and as the creature did not fall the next
squad discharged their muskets, and the elephant
sank dead with thirty bullets in his body, together
with enough poison to kill a ship’s company.</p>
<p class='c008'>It may fairly be claimed that we have made some
progress in the management of the elephant in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>England, since the days when the owner of such a
valuable animal was not only incapable of keeping
it with safety, but ignorant of the means to kill it
humanely. The average duration of their life in this
country is now probably well over fifty years; and
though this does not contrast favourably with the
eighty years of the Indian studs, there is every
prospect that it will increase. The office of mahout
promises to become almost as hereditary here as
in India; and while traditions of elephant management
are handed down from one generation of
keepers to another, so it is noticed that the new
and acquired habits practised by the more experienced
and sagacious animals are observed and copied by
the young arrivals. The elephant is being slowly
Europeanized.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>
<h2 class='c006'>WANTED—A NEW MEAT.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> lack of variety in those meats which, whether
flesh or fowl, must always form the ground-work and
basis of an English bill-of-fare, is a want keenly felt,
but most difficult to remedy. To judge from the list
of fresh food which the improved transport of the last
few years has made available for the London dinner-table,
a natural inference would be that, so far as novelty
has been studied, we had made provision, not for man
as humanized by Schools of Cookery, but for a race of
fruit-eating apes. We have a dozen new fruits, shaddocks,
limes, custard-apples, bananas, pines, Italian
figs, pomegranates, lichees, ground-nuts, gourds, water-melons,
and avocado pears. But among the thousands
of tons of foreign game imported yearly, there is
hardly a beast or bird which may not be had in better
quality and condition at home, except the prairie-bird
and the quail; for those canvas-backed ducks which
escape the keen search of the New York dealers and
find their way across the Atlantic, alight only on the
tables of City Companies and millionaires, like the
caladrus of old, that appeared only at the deaths of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>kings. Yet there are probably twenty people in this
country who have eaten canvas-backed duck for one
who has ever tasted swan, or rather cygnet, the finest
water-fowl for the table alike in size and flavour, a bird
easy to rear, most prolific, rivalling even the breast of
a teal, without the fatal drawback of that excellent
little bird, that no one has ever been able to get enough
of it. Even now, though so neglected by the world,
swans may be had from the Norwich Swan-Pit for £2
each. They weigh some sixteen pounds, and with
them is forwarded an ancient recipe for cooking
them—“done into rhyme by a Person of Quality.”</p>
<p class='c008'>Another “fowl” which was once reserved for the
tables of kings, and is now hardly thought good
enough for aldermen, is the peacock. What roast
swan is to roast goose, such is roast peacock to roast
turkey. Many owners of country houses who keep
peacocks and let them run wild and nest in their woods
and shrubberies, take little trouble either to fatten
or cook the pea-chicks. If they did, they would
perhaps take more pains to rear these birds for the
table. The meat is very white, and of exceedingly
fine and close grain, and has the true game-flavour,
with none of the stringiness of the common turkey.
The American wild turkey is, however, an even finer
bird for the table than the peacock. Those which
appear in the poulterers’ shops of London generally
arrive in such bad condition from careless packing and
refrigerating, that they are inferior to the domestic
bird. But when allowed to run wild and nest in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>English woods, as is done on some estates, on its
merits, and apart from any tricks of cookery, it is
perhaps the very best land-bird that is available for
food. The game-flavour is not too pronounced, but
gives a character to the whole which is altogether
absent in the tame black turkeys of the farmyard.</p>
<p class='c008'>But flesh, and not fowl, is what is mainly desired to
widen the possibilities of the dinner-table. Fatted
swans, or peacocks, or American turkeys might be
increased and multiplied without affording more than an
occasional relief to the monotony of the <i>menu</i> and the
brain-searching of housekeepers. What is wanted is
some new and large animal, whose flesh has a character
of its own which would readily distinguish it from beef
or mutton, and an excellence which shall make it
independent of any special treatment in cooking,—something
which shall combine the game-flavour with
the substantial solidity of a leg of mutton. An increase
in the quantity of venison reared in this country
naturally suggests itself; and it is not impossible that,
in neglecting the produce of our deer-parks, we are
hardly less careless than in losing sight of the culinary
possibilities of the swannery. Good doe-venison may
be bought in the neighbourhood of some large parks
at a much lower price than mutton; and the quantity
of first-class venison which finds its way to London is
surprisingly little, considering the number of parks
and private herds in the country. It is objected that
deer can never pay to fat for food, because the annual
growth of their horns reduces them so much in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>condition as for a time to make the venison worthless.
But this applies only to the bucks; stags might be kept
like bullocks, and doe-venison might still be remunerative.
As early as 1740, an enterprising Jersey squire,
of the name of Chevallier, who had succeeded to an
estate in Suffolk—whose descendants still constantly
sit in Parliament—had formed a small park for
fattening deer and sending them up to London. His
accounts of the cost and profits of the enterprise are
still preserved, and he abandoned the scheme, not
from difficulties encountered in fattening or selling
the deer, but because of the uncertainty of carriage to
London. Venison, even when reared under the present
unscientific method, or rather want of method, varies
greatly in quality, that from certain parks being much
superior to that grown on less suitable pasture; and
it is not too much to hope that, if bred and fattened
solely for the table, venison would be in demand as
something more than an occasional luxury.</p>
<p class='c008'>But swan, peacock, and venison are, after all, only
revivals of the old bill-of-fare which was available in
the households of Old England. To find a new
meat, we must take stock of the world’s resources of
animal food, and inquire, after due survey, if there
does not still exist some neglected quadruped which
will furnish what we seek. Roughly speaking, our
main supply of animal food is drawn either from the
rodents, the ruminants, or the pachyderms,—represented
by the rabbit, the ox or sheep, and the pig. To
vary the supply at our disposal, we shall probably not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>be able to go beyond these limits; for the general
experience of civilized man has already pronounced
judgment on the question, and science supports the
verdict. It is no good to eat a wolf; for the wolf has
already got the benefit of eating the lamb, and left no
surplus for us. Of the three great tribes, the rodents
may be dismissed from our search; for those that are
not already used as food are either too small to be
useful, as the lemming or the guinea-pig, or too
repulsive in appearance, like the capybara, or in habits,
like the rat. Of the pachyderms, we find only one
which is domesticated for food—the dear, familiar
Berkshire or Yorkshire piggie. The larger pachyderms
are too big; the smaller, like the peccary, too
savage; the wart-hog and other African varieties too
repulsive. Clearly, then, we must have resource to
the list of ruminants if we are to find one to add to
the British bill-of-fare. At first, the choice seems wide
enough. It embraces all the deer-tribe, the wild sheep
and antelopes, goats and ibexes, which are numerous;
but they all possess a rank and disagreeable flavour,
which must prevent their coming into the list of first-class
food. The possibility of extending the supply of
venison we have already considered. The wild sheep
would probably differ so little in flavour from mutton
as to make it hardly worth while to domesticate them,
though those of the Himalaya will breed freely in
confinement. The antelopes and wild oxen, therefore,
alone remain, and it is among their number that the
animal wanted must be found, if it is to be found at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>all. If the accounts of African hunters are reliable,
the venison obtained from the larger kinds of antelope
found in South and Central Africa is really excellent,
that of the koodoo, the oryx, and the eland being
the best. Perhaps the highest modern authority on
the subject is the opinion of Lord Randolph
Churchill. Those who read of and sympathized with
his account of his sufferings under the cuisine of the
Cape steamers, must have marked with a feeling of
relief, that in his letters to the <i>Daily Graphic</i> he
confessed to having made an excellent supper on
stewed roan antelope. His verdict on the eland has
not been given, but its flesh is said to surpass that of
all other antelopes by as much as Welsh mutton
surpasses Lincolnshire “teg.” Ten educated palates
have pronounced it “peculiarly excellent, having in
addition the valuable property of being tender immediately
after the animal is killed, which makes it
much appreciated in Central Africa, where the meat is
usually tough and dry.”</p>
<p class='c008'>In addition to the quality of the meat, the eland
has the additional recommendation of large size. A
full-grown eland is as large as a two-year-old shorthorn,
and has far more the appearance of a high-bred
Indian bullock than of an antelope. Its horns are
short and straight, pointing backwards, and it has a
dewlap like an ox. It can live on the hardest fare, and
soon grows fat on good pasture. Best of all, it
becomes quite tame, and is easily acclimatized.</p>
<p class='c008'>When Lord Derby, the President of the Zoological
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>Society, died in 1851, he directed that his herd of five
elands at Knowsley should be given to the Society for
use in their menagerie. They multiplied fast, and six
fawns were produced between 1851 and 1855, and it was
found that at two years old they stood thirteen hands
at the shoulder. The protection necessary was not
more than that usual in fattening fine cattle, and the
Society resolved to sell their fawns for the experiment
of acclimatization in English parks. Lord Hill
bought a young male and two females for his large
park at Hawkstone; but according to Whitaker’s
<i>Deer-Parks of England</i>, none of these survive. The
Marquis of Breadalbane also bought three. In 1861,
twenty-one calves had been born in the Zoological
Gardens since Lord Derby’s gift ten years before, and
there is still the nucleus of a herd of their descendants
at the Zoo, though their size and stamina is diminished
by inter-breeding. It does not appear that eland
breeding is now followed with much enthusiasm by the
owners of large parks and chases, partly, no doubt,
because the “shorthorn mania” was for a time such
an absorbing pursuit among country gentlemen as to
leave no thoughts for any other experiments.</p>
<p class='c008'>It seems a waste of the resources of nature to allow
these fine animals to be exterminated, as they soon
will be, in our new African empire. The argument,
that because South African negroes have not tamed
them, we should not attempt to do it, is of little force.
The African keeps cows to give <i>milk</i>; meat was
supplied in inexhaustible quantities by the wild
<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>antelopes and other game, and with far less trouble
than domesticated animals give, until the white man
with guns destroyed them. We are too apt to forget
that England owes the best of her trees, vegetables,
and animals to other countries. All are now so good
that we are prone to believe that neither can be added
to or improved. Perhaps Admiral Rous was right
when he declared that it made him “simply sick”
when an Arab cross was proposed for our English
thoroughbreds. But why should we not save the
eland, the harness antelope, and the koodoo, and other
large African species from extermination? America
has almost allowed the bison to perish. Shall we not
take warning, and preserve for our own use the
splendid African antelopes, which, within the memory
of man, were a thousand times more numerous than
they are to-day?</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>
<h2 class='c006'>AN EXPERIMENT IN ANIMAL PRESERVATION.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>When</span> the founders of our Zoological Gardens
formed plans for acclimatizing foreign animals in
England, they could scarcely have imagined that the
Gardens might form almost the last preserve of
animals then living in enormous numbers in America.
Yet it is not beyond the limits of possibility, that our
Zoological Gardens may within a few years contain
the last living specimens of the American bison. It
is said that thirty of the surviving herd in Yellowstone
Park were recently killed by poachers for the
sake of their hides and horns, and the chances of
their survival in the United States are thus further
diminished. If they do not disappear altogether, it
will be in a great degree due to an experiment in
the preservation of wild animals and natural scenery,
undertaken by a wealthy American, Mr. Austin
Corbin.</p>
<p class='c008'>The story of the enterprise, so far as it has yet
appeared, is given in a connected form in the last
report of the Smithsonian Institution of Washington.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>Mr. Corbin is a “railway king,” who owned a
property on Long Island. There he amused himself
by keeping a few deer at his home-farm, not in a
park, but much as antelopes, elands, and bison are
kept in the Queen’s stock-yard with the domestic
cattle at Windsor. This was in 1886. Six years
later Mr. Corbin conceived and carried out an idea
for extending his deer-farm on a scale which a comparison
with some of the forest areas most familiar to
Englishmen, scarcely enables us to grasp. He bought
twenty-two thousand acres in a compact block, and to
these he subsequently added an adjacent territory of
eight thousand acres more, and reserved them as a
sanctuary for all such of the large game of North
America—with the exception of bears, pumas, wolves,
and foxes—as could be obtained to stock the ground.
The area so reserved is larger by a quarter than
the twenty-two thousand acres of the Forest of Dean.
Windsor Forest contains barely fourteen thousand
acres, and the New Forest alone of the ancient game-preserves
of the Crown exceeds it in dimensions.
But all these are forests in the proper sense, not
enclosed parks, the animals of which are fenced in
and protected. The Corbin preserve is a true park,
surrounded with a fence high enough to confine a
wapiti, and strong enough to resist the charge of a
bull bison, and entered by nine gates, each under the
supervision of a resident warder. Contrasted with an
English park, it differs alike in dimensions and general
purpose. Here the object of the enclosure is to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>surround the mansion with a wild domain in which
deer may run wild within certain limits, and trees
reach their finest proportions without formality. The
park and its contents are really subordinate to the
daily pleasure and convenience of the resident owner,
though in some cases, notably that of Warwick
Castle, small and ancient deer-parks exist at a distance
from the mansion, and form preserves much in the
spirit of Mr. Corbin’s forest. But this enclosure of
thirty-five square miles in a ring-fence must be
without a rival either in modern or ancient history,
though perhaps the “paradises” of the Persian
satraps, “filled with all kinds of wild beasts and
trees,” watered by numerous streams and enclosed by
walls—parks like that in which Xenophon and the
Greek captains were led to expect that the army of
the great king was lying in wait to destroy them—may
have approached it in size.</p>
<p class='c008'>The modern “paradise” lies in New Hampshire,
almost the northernmost of the old States, on the
Atlantic slope, between Vermont and Maine, and
incloses a portion of the “White Mountains” and
hill-lands, running northwards from the Alleghanies
to the banks of the St. Lawrence, east of Montreal.
It is a temperate and well-wooded region, and water is
abundant. The park itself contains two large pools
of twenty and thirty acres, and nearly two miles of
streams, with timber of all sizes, and good pasture-land.
Bison, beaver, and deer should all find favourable
conditions in such a spot. The work of stocking
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>the park was doubtless made easy by the owner’s
indifference to expense; £80,000 were laid out on
the purchase of the land and the costly fencing alone;
but Mr. Corbin was fortunate in being able to obtain
twenty-five bison from the few survivors of the wild
herds to start his “buffalo ranch.” Those bred in
the paddocks of England during the last fifteen years
have steadily deteriorated in size and stamina, the
cows growing yearly more “weedy” and less prolific;
but there must be some source, not generally known,
from which they can still be bought, though at a
high price. Cross, the Liverpool dealer, is said to
have sold ten cows two years ago, and those in Mr.
Corbin’s preserve show a disposition to increase and
multiply. The history of the Chillingham and
Chartley wild cattle, which, though inbred for generations,
remain vigorous and prolific when allowed to
live their natural life in parks not a tenth of the area
of that in which the bison now roam, gives good
ground for hoping that the existence of the bison
may now be prolonged for such time as American
sentiment may think fit to preserve them. Besides
the bison, the original stock in the Corbin Park
includes sixty wapiti deer, or “elk,” as they are called
throughout North America; seventy deer, probably
the black-tailed deer of the Rocky Mountains; six
cariboo, the American reindeer; six of the rare
prong-horned antelopes; twelve moose, or elk proper;
eighteen wild boars, and by this time, it is hoped, a
colony of beavers. Of these, the moose, the antelope,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>and the beaver must soon be extinct species,
unless protected by some such means as Mr. Corbin
has chosen to preserve them. The cariboo seems to
have migrated beyond the extreme margin of human
habitation. Though rapidly disappearing in the
North-West, immense herds were seen last summer
by explorers in the almost unknown “barren lands,”
fringing the Arctic Sea, and the mouths of the
Coppermine and Fish rivers. The hunters employed
in the capture of the various deer were fortunate
enough to discover a “moose yard” in the deep
snows of northern Canada, in which three hundred
animals were collected on the area which they had
stamped down and made safe for movement amidst
the snow. Six of these were found isolated from the
herd, and adroitly frightened into the deep snow, in
which they were easily captured, the weight of the
animals breaking through the crust of ice above, and
leaving them helpless. These were sent with others
a distance of two thousand miles by train in four
days; but neither they nor any of the deer would
feed while in the train, and several of them died either
in transit or after their arrival. Twenty deer were
also killed in a railway collision. But more than two
hundred animals were before long collected in what is
to be their permanent home, and the wapiti alone
have already doubled in number.</p>
<p class='c008'>The limits to be set to the increase of each species,
should the experiment prove successful in all or most
cases, will no doubt be matter for careful inquiry.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>Large as the area is at their disposal, the space
required by wild animals is far larger than that which
suffices for domestic creatures. The three acres of
good land which is supposed to suffice for the poor
man’s cow, expands to twenty-five acres of the best
deer-forest as the yearly keep of a single stag; and,
setting the increased size of bison, moose, and wapiti
against the better pasturage of the New Hampshire
hills, it is probable that the proportion of game to
acreage in Corbin Park cannot safely be increased
beyond the limits which experience shows to be
necessary in the forest of Blair Athole. Two of the
species, the moose and the beaver, live entirely on
the branches of trees. The beavers are far more
destructive than the moose, and will soon level all
the timber near the streams. A single family in the
Island of Bute cut down one hundred and eighty-seven
large trees in ten years, and it is not likely that
they will be less industrious in what was once their
native home. Twenty thousand hawthorn-trees have
been imported from England to be planted, not as a
vast and beautiful feature in the landscape of the
park, an experiment well worthy of the author of the
enterprise, but as a hedge to take the place of the wire
fencing which now surrounds the enclosure. The
beavers will soon convey the thorn-trees to their
“lodges,” and make an easy road for the escape of
the rest of the colony.</p>
<p class='c008'>Nothing is said of the removal of human occupiers
from this area, though it seems improbable that such
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>favourable soil should be void of inhabitants, even if
the exhaustion of the land in the old States, and the
movements of the inhabitants westward, has been as
rapid as recent observers would have us believe.
New Hampshire is a small state; yet we hear no
protests against the exclusion of population from an
area one-third of that of the New Forest. On the
contrary, the project seems welcomed as suggesting a
new employment for millionaires. Preservation of
every kind is costly, and, as a rule, makes no return
in a case in which sentiment, and not prudence,
suggests it. When States intervene, it is generally
too late, and there is always a suspicion that the rights
of the poor may in some way be interfered with,
just as in the case of preservation by ancient land-owners,
whether of game or trees, or streams or
mountains. But though Mr. Corbin’s enterprise
provokes no suspicion, and seems to have gratified
American sentiment, he is evidently aware that time
and continuity are essential for its success. The
association of his son with the fortunes of the park
gives a guarantee of permanence not perhaps equal
to the traditions that have maintained Chillingham
and Chartley, but sufficient to insure a fair trial for
the experiment.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>
<h2 class='c006'>“JAMRACH’S.”</h2></div>
<p class='c007'>“<span class='sc'>Jamrach’s</span>,” the ancient and original centre of
the wild-beast trade in London, lies in what is now
called St. George Street, but was until late years
known as Ratcliffe Highway, not many minutes’
walk beyond the Tower. It existed when the King’s
lions were kept in the Tower itself, and was established
thirty years before Sir Stamford Raffles conceived
the notion of the Zoological Society. The shop
itself is almost the oldest building in the street, far
older than the docks and their lofty warehouses
opposite, and dating back as far as some of the later
work in the Tower itself. The main bulk of the
traffic from the docks which line the river for miles
below rolls past its doors, which open to receive
the ship-captains’ ventures of birds and wild beasts,
armour and “curios,” idols and fetishes, mummy
and Dyak skulls, weapons and snake-skins, and the
odd zoological <i>bric-à-brac</i> which are part of the minor
stock-in-trade of the “naturalist” salesman. The
front of the shop in which these are displayed looks
like an old picture. Time and varnish, with the dust
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>of the docks, have given a rich mellow colour both
to frame and contents, in curious contrast to the
brilliant hues of the parrots and lories which fill the
cages in the adjacent window. In the little office
at the back the steady traffic in wild beasts has gone
on for a hundred years, between the Jamrachs and
the ship-captains in the first instance, and later with
the buyers employed by Zoological Gardens and
menageries. Frank Buckland, Van Ambrugh, and
Mr. Bartlett, and most of the great circus and
menagerie proprietors, have sat in the old Windsor
chairs, and discussed the merits of new purchases,
or schemes for the capture of rare and valuable
animals.</p>
<p class='c008'>Few even of the most ancient business houses
of that most picturesque and characteristic part of
London, the City, and the eastern wards which cluster
round the Tower, have retained their old form so
entirely as this. Some of the old back parlours
and lobbies are still provided with the racks of
blunderbusses and bayonets, which the traditions
of the Gordon Riots suggested as a terror to daylight
robbers, and a guarantee of security to timid depositors.
Others keep upon their walls the charters and
firmans granted to adventurous merchants by sultans
and chieftains whose territories are now well-regulated
provinces of the British Empire. But the trade of
Jamrach’s has this peculiarity, that it always deals
in commodities which as a rule disappear before
advancing civilization, and must be drawn from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>beyond the ever-encroaching limits of common
commerce; from the regions where the half-armed
savage still robs the cubs of the Gætulian lioness,
and barters his barbaric spoils for the wares of the
civilized West. So in the old room at Jamrach’s,
the barbaric settings have gathered almost without
intention round the spot which the <i>nexus</i> of commerce
links with the rough outside edge of the white man’s
world, and the dusty shields and assegais, the bolas
and bows, the matchlock and two-handed swords
of the rhinoceros-hunting Arabs, are mingled with
sharks’ and crocodiles’ skulls, scalps and tomahawks,
wampum and Indian relics, and whatever in the
unnumbered lumber of the world of savage sport
and warfare corresponds to the tamer accessories
of the “gun-room” in our English country houses.
The place of the favourite dog before the fire, to
continue the simile, is of course taken by some foreign
pet which is the favourite of the moment. At the
time of the writer’s first visit to this naturalist’s
sanctum the goddess of the hearth was a lovely little
Japanese pug puppy. The little creature was covered
with the long silky black and white hair which in
the Japanese pug, like the Japanese bantam, takes
the place of the shorter and less elegant covering
of the Western breed. It was carefully clothed in
a neatly-fitting flannel jacket, and apparently had
all the fondness for English habits which distinguishes
the cultivated classes of modern Japan. It sat up and
begged, and wagged its tail like an educated little
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>British dog, and carefully measuring the appreciation
and temper of its visitor, suddenly dropped ceremony
and bounded into his lap. There, after an apologetic
wriggle, it curled itself up, and its master discussed
the present and future of the animal trade.</p>
<div id='i180' class='figcenter id010'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i180.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Japanese Pug and Cat.</span> <i>From a Japanese Drawing.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>A great revival in this ancient industry has recently
taken place, and at the time of the writer’s visit Carl
Hagenbeck, the largest owner of wild beasts in the
world, and exhibitor of the model Zoological Gardens
at the World’s Fair, was making a rapid inspection
of the stock of animals on view, in order to make
purchases for his new gardens in New York. In most
forms of live-stock buying, the necessary acquaintance
with the points of two or three species is sufficiently
difficult to master. In the present case it was necessary
not only to judge the merits of the animal, but
to identify the species with certainty. But once
among the stalls and cages, the “deals” for a dozen
different species were made in less time and with less
discussion than a Berkshire farmer would feel due
to the merits of a litter of pigs. The “stables,” as
the wild-beast store is called, lie away from the shop
and the main street, up a narrow court, like those
which run back from the north of Fleet Street. Up
this passage every animal must be either driven or
carried before it can be deposited in safe quarters
in the store, and though its length and want of breadth
lend themselves to blocking the escape of any creature
which might succeed in breaking out, it must offer
considerable difficulties to the transit of a large iron
<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>cage, or of a refractory camel or elephant. The lower
storey of the “stables” resembles a large, well-warmed
London cow-house, with antelopes, deer, or kangaroos
tethered to the walls and mangers, or stalled in loose boxes,
instead of Alderneys and shorthorns. An
immense aoudad,<SPAN name='r5' /><SPAN href='#f5' class='c017'><sup>[5]</sup></SPAN> with wild yellow eyes, horns curving
in an almost complete circle, and a thick shaggy beard
continued into a fringe down its chest, and sweeping
the ground between its feet, occupied the first loose-box.
Most of the other pens were vacant, as a large
shipment had left that day for the United States.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f5'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r5'>5</SPAN>. </span>The Barbary sheep.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>A steep flight of steps leads to the second and third
storeys, in which the animals are stored, not for exhibition,
but just as they have come from the ships in
the docks close by. There are no fixed rows of cages
for the carnivora, or wooden pens for the large birds
and harmless quadrupeds, because the former are
delivered in their sea-cages, and the latter have grown
used to confinement, and are either tethered or confined
by wattle hurdles in corners or against the walls.
The gallery is warm and dark, an important element
in the comfort of the nervous, night-feeding animals,
and of the more savage <i>felidæ</i>, lighted only by one
or two gas-jets, and redolent of sweet-scented clover-hay.
The floor is encumbered with boxes of various
dimensions, with all kinds of inmates, from squirrels
and civet cats to pumas and panthers. The small
size of the box or cage in which a large leopard or
panther will live in fairly good health for several
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>weeks makes their transport an easy matter. They
curl up like a cat in a basket, and if kept quiet and
in the dark, do not greatly suffer in condition. The
semi-darkness, and the position of the boxes on the
floor, make it difficult to see the full beauty of
the prisoners within. Nor is it desirable to approach
the roughly-constructed cages too closely. The
animals at Jamrach’s are not the half-domesticated
creatures of the Lion House at the Zoo, but the wild
and savage denizens of tropical jungles, captured
but not yet cowed, or even reconciled to the proximity
of man. As parts of the fronts as well as the sides
and backs of the cages are boarded over, the visitor
naturally seeks a view from a point somewhat close
to the bars—an approach which is at once converted
into a sudden movement in retreat, as the animal
inside appears to <i>explode</i>. A crash of claws upon
the bars, a sharp, throat-splitting blast of growls, and
a glimpse of white teeth and yellow-green eyes in
the darkness, is the instantaneous expression of the
panther’s dislike to intrusion. If the shutters are
removed, and the light admitted, the beautiful creature
shrinks slowly backward and downward, its soft and
elastic body slowly contracting and flattening with
the fluid suppleness of a python’s folds. A pretty pair
of young African cheetahs in another box spat and
bared their teeth with a show of high resentment
which would not have discredited wild beasts of a
far larger growth, and maintained a bickering sputter
of repugnance and hostility till the offending gaze
<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>was withdrawn. Two large and richly-coloured
Patagonian pumas, a pair of leopards, and several
striped hyenas, and small jungle and civet cats
occupied the same gallery. Of these, the pumas
were perfectly tame, as safe to caress and as willing
to be petted as a cat. They do not even catch the
infection of ill-temper from other animals; and the
writer observed a puma arching its back and rubbing
its face against an attendant’s hand, quite unmoved
by the hostile growls of the panther, its neighbour.
These pumas had probably been domesticated for
some time, and a certain proportion of the fiercer
animals which arrive at the docks must have been
in captivity for some time previous to shipment.
Men who habitually deal with wild animals are quick
to see the difference between the savage and the
half-tamed beast. Van Ambrugh, the celebrated lion-tamer,
is said to have called at Jamrach’s to purchase
a leopard. He soon selected one from the boxes,
and when asked how he would like it to be sent,
produced a steel chain and collar from the pocket
of his greatcoat. He then opened the box, dragged
the leopard out, put on the collar, and hauled it down
the passage and into a four-wheeled cab, in which
he drove off to Astley’s with his purchase. The
strange medley of animal forms in the upper
chambers, the gleam of green and yellow eyes in
their dusky recesses, and the juxtaposition of creatures
whose natural instinct is inveterately hostile, with
others which are their common prey, give to the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>chance menagerie at Jamrach’s a character quite
distinct from any exhibited collection. The creatures
are there for sale, not for show, and meantime are
kept as quiet and as close together as due attention
to health permits. The panthers’ room was shared
by an African black-buck from the Cape, a black-tailed
jackal, various kangaroos and wallabies, and
a pair of demoiselle cranes. On another storey were
a happy family of monkeys, lemurs, and Chinese dogs,
a pair of cassowaries, a viscacha, foxes large and small,
“native companion” cranes, a brown Tasmanian
opossum, coatimundis, a beautifully-marked civet cat,
and two small Siamese porcupines. This list, though
apparently no bad nucleus for a Zoological Garden,
is only a fraction of the number which is usually
stored in the depôt by the docks. There is a sudden
and unprecedented increase in the demand for wild
animals at present, not only for the Continent, but
for the United States. The stocks in most of the
European Zoological Gardens have decreased of late—a
shrinkage partly caused by the closure of the
Soudan by the Dervishes. In America the popularity
of the great menagerie at the World’s Fair has created
a sudden demand for wild animals of all kinds.
Circuses and private menageries are competing with
the Zoological Gardens and scientific societies for
rare and interesting animals, and the demand for
America is far greater than for the continent of
Europe. After five or six years of neglect, there
is such a “boom” in the wild-beast trade as is hardly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>remembered. Until the expeditions which Hagenbeck
and others have despatched into Central Africa, <i>viâ</i>
Berbera, and into Borneo and the West Coast of
Africa, return, there is little to fall back upon but
the average supply which arrives without system and
in chance ships. A single purchase by an agent from
the Philadelphia Zoological Gardens included a leopard,
a hyena, a pair of cheetahs, a Bornean bear, antelopes,
emus, and other birds. Other Zoological Gardens
are being laid out and built in New York and the
cities of the West; but it may be doubted whether,
even from Jamrach’s, the inhabitants will readily be
found to occupy them.</p>
<p class='c008'>The frailness of the cages in which many of the
animals arrive from their sea voyage is matter for
some surprise. They are nearly always wooden boxes
hardly stronger than a sound packing-case, with a
front of strong iron rails. The secret of their safe
carriage lies in their own stupidity. Like a lobster in
a pot, they always endeavour to escape from the front,
springing towards the light, and it is precisely at this
point that the strongest part of the case, the iron bars,
blocks the way. When the last black leopard arrived
at the Zoo, as a present from the Duke of Newcastle,
who had purchased it at Singapore when on a tour
round the world, it was soon shifted from its travelling
cage into the fine new den it was to occupy in the
Lion House. As it was known to be a violent and
savage creature, an inner lining of steel netting about
eight inches across the mesh had been fixed inside the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>vertical bars. The leopard on being turned into the
den at once made a violent spring towards the light,
and pitching head-foremost against the netting screen,
bulged it out to the exact contour of its face. It
never seems to occur to these creatures that they
could easily gnaw their way through the wooden
sides of their temporary prisons and escape, like the
hyena which recently maintained itself for a week in
the hold of a large cargo steamer, and was kept in a
good-temper by joints of prime New Zealand mutton,
until on the unloading of the vessel the hyena was
captured in the congenial cavern in which it had
taken up its residence.</p>
<p class='c008'>The well-known escape of the tiger which the
elder Mr. Jamrach recaptured in the street, was partly
due to the weakness of a cage. An Indian tiger
had been brought up from the docks, and was about
to be transferred to a larger den in the “stables.”
This animal showed more judgment than most of its
kind, for it used its back in the fashion of a lever, and
burst the rear of the cage. It then trotted down
the narrow passage, and into the main street, then
known by its old name of Ratcliffe Highway. The
only person who waited its approach was a little boy
of eight years old, who had put out his hand to touch
it. The tiger patted him with his paw, and of course
the child fell on the pavement, though the blow was
so gently given that the child was stunned but not
injured. The tiger then picked him up by the loose
part of his jacket, and was trotting off with him,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>exactly like a cat carrying a mouse, when Mr. Jamrach
the elder came running up in pursuit. He at
once sprang on the tiger’s back, and grasping its
throat with both hands drove his thumbs into the
soft part below the jaw. The tiger dropped the
child, and Mr. Jamrach literally “drove it home”
like some domestic animal, only with a crowbar instead
of a stick.</p>
<p class='c008'>The courage and readiness of Mr. Jamrach’s attack
can hardly be over-estimated. The creature was an
absolutely new arrival, as to whose temper nothing
but the worst could be imagined after so prompt an
escape and the attack on the child. The native
coolness and indifference to human powers of resistance
of the tiger could hardly be better illustrated than by
the unabashed impudence with which this tiger, after
months of captivity by human beings, after being fed,
moved hither and thither, lowered into ships and
hoisted on to quays, by men whom it was powerless
to injure, picked up the first nice little boy
it met after two minutes of freedom, and trotted
off to make a meal of him in a city of four millions
of people.</p>
<p class='c008'>Mr. Jamrach has been good enough to give the
writer details of another and less well-known tiger
escape, which took place on the North-Western
Railway near Weedon Station about fifteen years
ago. The tiger was being sent to a dealer in Liverpool,
and was in a cage fastened to the bottom of an
open truck. The cage was amply strong, but another
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>train, loaded with huge iron girders that had been
improperly packed, and projected from the sides of
the trucks, passed that in which the tiger was travelling,
and one of the girders struck the cage and
smashed it to pieces. The tiger was unhurt, but
the cage fell to pieces round it, and left it sitting on
the truck like a pigeon when the “trap” is pulled.
The tiger at once bounded off, and by a strange
chance alighted almost in the middle of a flock of
sheep. It knocked down half-a-dozen, and after
making a meal off one of these, trotted off up the
line. “The news soon spread,” writes Mr. Jamrach,
“and caused the greatest consternation everywhere.
Fortunately a troop of soldiers happened to be
quartered at Weedon, and these were called out and
packed away in a railway train, which followed up the
tiger at a slow rate, and out of the railway carriage the
soldiers potted away at the tiger until they killed him.
My father always considered he had a good claim
against the Railway Company for damages, but did
not follow it up, and consequently was a heavy loser.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The most troublesome arrival to recapture which
ever escaped from the “stables” in London was a
large baboon. It contrived to get clear of its cage
over-night, and opened the window of the room in
which it was confined. Thence it leapt on to the roof
of a house opposite; “crawling over the tiles,” says
a writer to whom Mr. Jamrach told the story, “it
ensconced itself among the chimneys, pleased with
the warmth, and chattered defiance at its pursuers.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>Then a grand commotion ensued among the neighbours.
Letters and messages of horror and entreaty
poured in to Mr. Jamrach; he was even threatened
with legal proceedings. All sorts of methods were
tried to catch the fugitive; but an ape’s feet are more
at home on narrow ledges and steep inclines than feet
cased in boot-leather. For days the baboon kept his
liberty, consoling himself for the chilliness of the
nights by abundant frolics during the day. Little
wonder if the children were afraid to go to bed at
the top of the house, or if the servant-girls looked up
nervously from their toilets at any sound on the tiles
outside, fearing to see the face of that ‘odious creature’
glaring in through the glass pane. There could be
no rest till he was caught and caged. Eventually he
was enticed into a room through an open window, and
a blanket having been thrown over him, he was caught
and carried home in triumph.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The panic caused by a big monkey at large is
almost equal to that which follows the escape of some
really dangerous beast. Only in the present year a
large mandrill owned by a lady was pursued and shot
without mercy in Essex, as a precaution against “its
well-known ferocity.”</p>
<p class='c008'>“The most interesting side of our profession,” says
Mr. Jamrach, “is the possible arrival of <i>new creatures</i>,
animals never seen alive in Europe, or new to our
experience.” The chance of such an event is never
quite absent. Even in 1894 he received a strange
deer from Japan. He sent this at once to Professor
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>Milne Edwards at the Jardin des Plantes of Paris,
who pronounced it to be a new species.</p>
<p class='c008'>The prices of rare animals, often differing little in
general appearance from common species, are high
enough at present to make the wild-beast trade a
lucrative business. But it would be a mistake to
suppose that the pursuit of this profession, or even
the business of owning and exhibiting wild beasts, is
solely a matter of sale and barter, or mere money-making.
In all connected with the sale or management
of wild animals with whom the writer is
acquainted, there is a genuine naturalist’s appreciation
in the creatures they deal in, often existing side by
side with something of that pride in maintaining
animals in good condition which they share in common
with the whole race of breeders of prize cattle,
race-horse trainers, masters of hounds and huntsmen,
down to the labourers with their pigs. From the
highest to the lowest, they seem to know most of
what is going on, not only in the different menageries
of England, but also on the continents. The masters
and owners will meet one another often in the course
of business, and the men pay cross visits to rival
establishments, and discuss the latest additions or
losses. We seldom fail to see at a circus or exhibition
of performing animals the well-known faces
of some of the keepers at the Zoo; and when going
round the houses at the Gardens, the best-known
owners of circuses, the lion-tamers or elephant-trainers
of the ring, may often be seen musing in front of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>cages and taking stock of their inmates. A Suffolk
villager in London nearly always chooses the meat-market
at Smithfield as the first place in which to
spend a happy day; and a wild-beast keeper goes
naturally for change of scene to another wild-beast
menagerie.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>
<h2 class='c006'>EXPRESSION IN THE ANIMAL EYE.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> wonderful compound eyes of insects recently
formed the subject of a paper read by Lord Rayleigh
before the Royal Society, recording observations of
minute accuracy and ingenious measurement by Mr.
A. Mallock. The general conclusions formed as to
the actual power of these complex organs rather
raises than lessens the claim to efficiency of the
simpler vertebrate eye. The compound eye pieces
together the separate impressions of the object seen,
and should any of the facets be out of order, a blank
must be left in the corresponding part of the picture.
The only advantage which is claimed for insect-sight
is that at the shortest distances the object seen is
still in focus, which partly accounts for the “short-sighted”
manner in which most insects seem to
examine any object in which they are particularly
interested. Seen under a powerful microscope, and
measured by the delicate instruments so skilfully
employed by Mr. Mallock, these insect eyes are
marvels of geometrical symmetry. But they are
merely organs of sight, not of expression. They are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>beautiful with the beauty of cut gems, and as devoid
as a brilliant of any power of expression of character
or emotion.</p>
<p class='c008'>A very brief visit to the stalls and cages of the Zoo,
shows that the importance of the eye in the physiognomy
of the higher animals is even greater than
in the human face; for in the greater number of even
the best animal types, the play of feature is so limited,
that expression is conveyed mainly by the eye, to
which the movable ear plays an important and
connected but always subsidiary part. By what
seems almost a paradox, many human eyes, which
produced a first impression of beauty, but are soon
discovered to be singularly lacking in expression,
are afterwards felt to have a strong resemblance to
the eyes of certain animals,—of deer, for instance,
or of birds; yet in the very animal which suggests
the resemblance, the eye often possesses great intrinsic
beauty, which is increased and dignified by a peculiar
fitness for the face in which it appears. It is in
keeping with the limits of animal expression that
the actual size of the eye should bear a greater
proportion to the area of the face than it does in
man; and it will be found that the general estimate
of animal beauty varies in the main with the size of
the eye; the giraffe, whose immense orbs exceed
those of any other animal in size, perfection of shape,
convexity, lustre, depth of colour, and length of
eyelash, being perhaps the most general favourite
in the rivalry of beauty, and the almost eyeless moles
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>and manatees those which stand lowest as judged
by the presence or absence of expression, without
the accession of hideous deformity.</p>
<p class='c008'>The analysis of beauty must always be approached
with diffidence. There is always the danger that,
like the crystal drop, it may, on the displacement
of a single component part, rebuke the impertinent
inquirer by the shivering and resolution of the perfect
whole into fragments which baffle reconstruction and
defy recognition. Common opinion, the fairest
arbiter in a matter of such general interest, is probably
agreed, that in the human eye, colour does
not control our estimate of beauty. “Black eyes
or blue eyes, hazel or grey,” as the song says, are
equally admired in the proper setting. But in the
eyes of all other creatures colour does make a marked
difference in the impression which they convey to
us, though the reason for this difference is obscure.
Light-coloured eyes of any shade seem to detract
strangely from the depth and significance of animal
expression. The usual tint in these light-coloured
eyes of animals is a bright golden yellow. Creatures
of very similar form and almost identical shape of
head and face, appeal, or fail to appeal, to us by the
expression of their eye largely on account of this
slight difference, though the probable range of
emotion and scope of intelligence in the one can
hardly be believed to differ greatly from the same
powers in the other. The yellow eyes of the sheep
and the goat have probably never been the subject
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>of a word of commendation, while poets and painters
have never tired of celebrating the dark eyes of their
cousins, the roebuck and the gazelle.</p>
<p class='c008'>In birds the contrast is even more marked. As a
rule, the eyes of the hawks are light-yellow, bright,
and piercing, with wonderful powers of vision. The
true falcons, which do not surpass the hawks either in
size or courage, have black eyes, which lend a nobility
and dignity to the expression of the bird which the
goshawk, with all its pride of carriage, never attains.
There is something infinitely roguish and mischievous
in the light-blue eye of the jackdaw, which would
be pure ruin to the character of its grave cousin
“parson” rook, if, by some unkind freak of nature,
one were born with such disfigurement; indeed, it
may be doubted if the colony would not pronounce
sentence of execution at once upon such a discredit
to the tribe. There seems good reason to believe
that this feature, often the only obvious mark which
distinguishes young nestlings of one species from
those of another, is that which leads to the detection
and prompt destruction by birds of the newly-hatched
young, from alien eggs which have been placed for
experiment in their nests. There is, however, one
middle shade found in birds’ eyes which is singularly
beautiful, the so-called “gravel-coloured” eye of
certain breeds of pigeon. This is really a brilliant
shade of tawny-red, and though unshaded by lashes,
and set in the centre of the bare “cere,” gives to
the birds a bold and intelligent appearance in complete
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>contrast to the vapid effect of red eyes in most
animal faces. We believe that the countenance of
a pink-eyed albino guinea-pig is as nearly devoid
of expression as it is possible for the face of a quadruped
to be; and whenever the pink eye accompanies
albinism there is an obvious loss of interest in the
face, though the eye, considered as an object apart,
may have the depth and lustre of a smooth garnet.
Where albinism develops blue eyes, as in white
cats, and sometimes in white horses, the loss of expression
is less; but even in the horse, the blue eye,
ringed with pinkish-white, is too like that of fish
to suggest a tenth part of the intelligence and power
of emotion latent in the face of the dark-eyed Arabian.
Even dogs with light eyes have less of the <i>appearance</i>
of truth and trustfulness than others, though the
pale eye is seen in some of the most ancient and
valuable breeds, such as the lemon-and-white Clumber
spaniel. In the case of the dog, the human preference
for the dark over the light eye is perhaps explained
by the affinity which the last has with that of the
wolf and the common fox. The cunning, shifty
look which the last animal possesses, is largely due
not only to the yellow colour, but also to the shape
and mechanism of the vulpine eyes. They are set
close together, and the inner corners run down almost
parallel to the muzzle. In addition, the pupil of
the fox’s eye expands and contracts like that of a
cat.<SPAN name='r6' /><SPAN href='#f6' class='c017'><sup>[6]</sup></SPAN> By day the eye is a mere yellow orb, with a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>narrow line of black in the centre. The reason that
the stuffed foxes’ heads to be seen in so many country
houses bear the amiable and most un-foxy expression
which they do, is that the “artist” who stuffs them,
sticks in nice brown glass eyes with black pupils,
which he takes from the compartment labelled
“dogs” in the curious box in which glass eyes for
all creatures, from tom-tits to stags, are kept duly
sorted for use. Cats’ eyes are by no means devoid
of a pleasing expression, except in strong light; but
among them the dark-grey iris of the Angora and
some of the “blue” cats give a look of repose and
serenity which the brassy orbs of the yellow-eyed
varieties never possess. A larger and more striking
example of the same difference is found in contrast
of the yellow eyes of the black leopard at the Zoo,
one of the most unpleasant-looking of the big <i>felidæ</i>,
and the dark, convex eyes of the ocelot. But the
most striking instance of the immense difference
between the effect of the light eye and the dark, is
seen in the case of a new species of eagle-owl which
has just been brought to the Zoo from Mashonaland.
The great brown eagle-owl of Northern Europe, with
its huge, round, yellow-and-black eyes with which
it sternly stares the visitor out of countenance, has
a fierce, wide-awake, resentful expression exactly in
keeping with its character. The “milky eagle-owl,”
a splendid bird, with plumage barred with wavy lines
<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>of grey from crest to talons, has oval eyes of the
deepest black, soft and lustrous, and shaded with
eyelids and lashes. The result is a change of expression
to something quite unlike the face of any
bird, and more human than that of most beasts.
It is certainly the finest bird-eye yet discovered.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f6'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r6'>6</SPAN>. </span>The miniature Asiatic foxes which are often shown in
numbers at the Zoo seem less affected by bright sunlight than the
English species.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The eyes of Homer’s goddesses must not be judged
too literally by the animal model in the standing
epithets by which he loves to describe them.
Γλαυχῶπις Ἀθήνη was the “bright-eyed” goddess;
and the owl probably had its Greek name from the
brightness of its eyes. So Hera was ox-eyed—that
is, with round dark eyes—fine to look at, but if we
may judge from her character, perhaps equally without
expression, with those of the animal which they
resembled. Helen, when restored to Menelaus, and
playing the part of hostess to Ulysses, artlessly apologizes
for the trouble which the Greeks had incurred
on her account,—</p>
<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div>“κυνώπιδος εἵνεκα κούρης,”</div>
</div></div>
<p class='c019'>in which the word κυνώπιδος, “with dog’s eyes,” may
be taken to mean what would now be described as
“rather a forward young person.” Yet in the recognition
of Ulysses by the old dog Argus, there is a
feeling for the pathos of animal expression which
finds adequate interpretation in the beautiful picture
in which Mr. Briton Riviere has depicted the longing
look of recognition in the eyes of the dog, and of
pity in those of the hero, who sees in the first the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>sole signal of welcome to his island home. The
charm of this picture lies in the truth that in the
eyes of the dog and in the eyes of the King the
same emotion is actually present, and exhibited
naturally and spontaneously by the organ of sight,
without transgressing the limits of expression in the
animal, which one of the greatest animal-painters
not unfrequently ventured to do, by transferring to
it modifications of feature only possible in the human
eye. The expression which is associated with the
most beautiful of animal eyes, those of the horse,
the stag, and the eagle, is so dependent upon particular
differences of shade and setting, in creatures whose
emotions and intelligence cannot greatly differ in
degree,—that its common interpretation must be due
rather to analogy than to any appreciation of its
meaning.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>
<h2 class='c006'>LONDON BEARS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'>“<span class='sc'>Never</span> make a pet of a bear,” is the advice given
by the experienced “bear-ward” at the Zoo. But
though his conclusions are the result of longer and
closer experience of the animals than is possessed by
any one person in Europe, there is something so
attractive in the apparent simplicity and <i>bonhomie</i> of
the comfortable, warmly-clad, deliberate ursine race
which appeals irresistibly to animal-loving Englishmen.
Ever since the early middle ages the performing bear
has been a favourite; and to this day there is in Turkey
and Bulgaria a wandering race of gipsies who are
known by the common name of “bear-tamers,” from
their traditional occupation of catching the young cubs
in the forests of the Carpathians, and leading them
through the villages as performers in all the feasts,
whether Christian or Mussulman, of the ancient land
of Thrace.</p>
<p class='c008'>The tame bear, which for the greater part of 1891
and 1892 was exhibited in the London streets, and
ultimately had an audience from her Majesty at
Windsor Castle, was also a familiar acquaintance of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>most of the London police magistrates. Its popularity
was such, that whenever exhibited it instantly
became the centre of a crowd, which increased until
the police constable on duty felt it incompatible with
his position not to take it into custody. Then came
the scene in the dock next morning, and the “dismissal
with a caution” as a sequence. Meantime the bear
had usually held a reception in the police-station the
night before; and so much did its endearing ways win
the hearts of the “force,” that on one occasion the
constable who had run it in made a collection for its
benefit the moment the case was dismissed.</p>
<p class='c008'>This was a small Pyrenean bear, about three years
old, with a rough coat the colour of a dusty cocoa-nut
fibre door-mat, and though it had a strong steel
muzzle of apparently needless severity fixed round the
base of its nose, the genial Provençal who owned it,
and whose bed it usually shared at night in the
quarters of the foreign artists in street music and ice-creams
in which he dwelt when not employed in exhibiting
his pet before royalty, or elsewhere, declared
that it was a “<i>brave bête, doux comme un enfant, et
doué de traits de caractère tout à fait remarquables</i>.”
The behaviour of the street urchins to the <i>brave bête</i>
was perhaps a reminiscence of the days when bear-baiting
was looked upon as an exhibition calculated to
maintain the pugnacious character of the true-bred
Englishman; for, once assured that it would not hurt
them, they stamped on its toes as occasion offered,
until the bear rose on its hind legs and assumed an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>attitude of defence, which drove the malicious tribe to
a safe distance. “<i>Pauvre bête, il a peur</i>,” said his
owner; and it was evident not only that the bear was
afraid of the brutal children of the street, but that it
looked to the “grown-ups” for protection.</p>
<p class='c008'>Probably the most easily tamed of the tribe are the
small Malayan bears, five of which are at present in
the collection of the Zoological Society. These are
true honey-eating bears, provided with long elastic
tongues, and covered with short close fur of the most
beautiful dark and glossy brown, of the tint to which
seal-skins are dyed. The largest is a perfect beauty
in the eyes of bear connoisseurs, sleek and glossy, its
coat fitting it like a well-made suit of felt, and when
walking upright, as it prefers to do when about to be
fed, it is “just like a person,” as we once heard a small
girl remark. It has a cream-coloured face, and a
beautiful orange “bib.” The oldest of the family has
been twenty years in the Gardens, and is so stiff and
decrepit, that when on the ground it moves like
a rheumatic old man. But it can still climb, and will
exhibit most amusing feats upon the bars in return
for a lump of sugar. Sugar is the greatest luxury
which can be given to these “sweet-toothed” animals
except honey, and their rations of this are carefully
regulated, as it does not agree with their constitutions
when in confinement. When a lump of sugar is
shown to the old bear it climbs the bars with great
deliberation, and then holding on by all four feet waits
for the visitor to go through his part of the performance.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>Unless this is carried out according to rule, the
bear descends and sits on the floor, waiting until it gets
the sugar thrown to it without further trouble. But
if the lump is slowly waved round in circles from right
to left—the opposite direction is not considered fair,
and the animal “won’t play” if it is persisted in—the
bear also turns “coach wheels” slowly on the bars.
His old elbows stick out and his paws turn in, but he
still feels equal to almost any number of turns if the
visitor is exacting. When rewarded with the sugar the
bear “makes it last,” like a nasty little boy with a
sugar-plum, only far more ingeniously. “That was
a white sugar-plum I gave you,” says the horrible
child in Mr. Du Maurier’s picture—“it was <i>pink once</i>.”
The bear is not really nasty, but it has discovered an
ingenious process by which loaf-sugar can be converted
into honey. It first wets its fore-paws, and then cracks
the sugar into two pieces, and puts one on to each paw.
It then rubs the bits on with its nose, and next picking
each up again cracks it, and lays two well-moistened
pieces on to each paw, as before. It then licks these
off again, and if any is left again deposits them on
the backs of its well-moistened sticky knuckles.
Finally it licks them quite clean, and turns slowly
head over heals, as an acknowledgment of the treat.</p>
<p class='c008'>A regiment of Life Guards recently owned a large
brown bear, which ultimately found a home in the Zoo
after giving proof of the wisdom of the keeper’s
opinion. It was a pet of the regiment, and was taken
from Knightsbridge to Windsor, and later to the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>Albany Street barracks, where it was kept chained
up like a big dog, and treated with all the consideration
due to a non-combatant member of the corps. A boy
who was rather a favourite with the men, and used
to run errands, and make himself useful about the
barracks, took a fancy to the bear, and was employed
to bring it its daily rations. One day, when the animal
was asleep, the boy woke it by pulling the chain, at
the same time laying the food before it. The experience
of all those employed in the care of animals,
whether wild or domesticated, forbids any approach
without speaking to the creature first. In this case
the bear, sulky at being wakened, and tethered only
by a very long chain, seized the lad, and bit and
clawed him so seriously that he was for some time an
inmate of the Middlesex Hospital. The bear was
“dismissed from the service,” and condemned to
solitary confinement in a cage in the terrace in the
Gardens. The ungrateful behaviour of the Guards’
bear must not be taken as a reflection on military
treatment of wild animals, for an almost similar
instance of the innate surliness of its species occurred
many years ago in the establishment of one of those
retired East India civilians whose Oriental habits were
such a puzzle to the country squires, in the country
seats in which the retired “Nabobs” often chose to
spend their latter days. The gentleman in question
had bought an estate in Devonshire; but it was his
pleasure always to be waited upon by a “black man”
at dinner, and in the later parts of the evening to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>sit at table with a pair of black bears, each adorned
with a silver collar, seated in a large arm-chair on
either side of him. An old Devonshire woman, who
had been a servant in his family, took the bears under
her charge, and fed them daily, until one of them
bit three of the fingers off her hand. This was too
much even for her master’s partiality for his pets,
and the bears were slaughtered, and their bodies duly
boiled down into “bears’ grease,” under the superintendence
of their former owner and the attached
domestic, who, though approving of the measure, like
John Gilpin’s wife, “had still a frugal mind,” and felt
that the unexpected supply of an expensive cosmetic
should not be wasted.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Polar bears are perhaps, with the exception of
the elephants and other great pachyderms, the longest
lived of animals when in captivity. In 1880 the first
of the Polar bears died, after spending thirty-four years
in Regent’s Park, and the eldest of the pair now in the
collection has already spent twenty-six years in the
Zoo. This is a splendid animal; at a rough guess it
must weigh nearly a ton, and no carnivorous creature
approaches it in size and strength. When we
recollect that its common prey is the walrus, a sea
beast nearly as large as a rhinoceros, seldom moving
far from the edge of the ice-floes, and able by mere
weight to drag both itself and its enemy into the sea,
and to fight for life in its native element, the strength
and armament of teeth and claws necessary to destroy
it must be greater even than those of the lion, which,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>with all its weight of bone and muscle, seldom attacks
even so large an animal as a buffalo, unless crippled
by wounds.</p>
<p class='c008'>The old Polar bear is now heavy with age and
indolence; but the young female exhibits an activity
and “lissomness,” whether on land or in the water,
which shows how swift, dexterous, and terrible a foe
to animal life the Polar bear must be. Confinement
and maturity have not in the least abated its vigour,
and it seems to enjoy life more than any creature in
the Zoo. Fresh water is let into their bath three
times in the week, and as soon as the bottom is
covered the young bear rolls in and “cuts capers,”
to use the keeper’s phrase. “She teased the old one
till he got up to have a look, and then shoved him
in,” he informed us on a recent visit; and though
he seldom enters the bath now, he quite enjoyed it
when once under-water. When in the bath by herself
the female bear is in a state of pure physical
enjoyment delightful to watch. She always prefers
to take a “header,” but not after the orthodox
fashion, for as her nose touches the bottom she turns
a somersault slowly, and then floats to the surface
on her back. After several rolls in the water she
begins to play. Taking hold of her hind-paws with
her fore-feet, she makes a huge ball of her body, and
turns round and over with a curiously buoyant, easy
movement, occasionally putting her head out to take
breath and look at the spectators. Then she clambers
out, shakes herself, and gallops round the edge of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>bath. In spite of her bulk, this bear is really as active
as a cat, and can go at speed round the narrow circle
without pausing or missing a step. The next object
of the bear is to find something to play with in the
water. Anything will do, but if nothing else is handy,
she usually produces a nasty bit of stale fish which
she seems to keep hidden in some handy place, and
dives for it, coming to the surface with the fish
balanced on her nose, or on all four paws. If the
water is still running in she will lie under the spout,
and let it run through her mouth. But the most
amusing game in which the writer has seen her
occupied was played with a large round stone. After
knocking it into the water, and jumping in to fish it
out, she took it in her mouth, and endeavoured to
push it into the hole in the pipe through which the
water was running. This was a difficult matter, for
the stone was as large as a tennis-ball, and the pipe
was not much wider. Several times the stone dropped
out, though the bear held it delicately between her
lips, and pushed it out with her tongue. At last she
sat up, and holding the stone between her fore-paws,
put it up to the pipe and pushed it in with her nose.
This was a great triumph, and she retired and contemplated
the result with much satisfaction. Later,
being apparently tired of this achievement, she threw
water at it with her head, and failing to wash it down,
picked it out with her claws, and went on diving for
it in the bath.</p>
<p class='c008'>Bears do not often have families in the Zoo. They
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>are bad mothers in confinement, though when wild
they are most devoted to their pretty little cubs.
It must be admitted that they are almost the least
well-housed of any creatures in the Gardens, as their
dens, though dry, are cold and small. The most
remarkable cubs ever born in the Gardens were a
cross between the Polar and American black bear,
born in 1853. In the spring of 1894, one of the
she-bears in the pit gave birth to a litter of two, but
one of these was killed by the male bear, and the
other fatally injured.</p>
<p class='c008'>Their place was, however, more than filled by a
pair of tiny cubs which arrived at the Gardens on
Easter Monday, a gift from Mr. Arnold Pike. They
are of the grey Syrian breed, which is found from
the Lebanon, across the high lands of Asia Minor,
as far as the Caucasus, in which mountains these cubs
were found when only a few days’ old. Though in
a sense they are distant relations of the bears that ate
the bad children who mocked the prophet Elisha,
these little fellows were extremely tame and friendly.
They were about the size of a large Skye terrier when
they arrived, with sawdust-coloured heads, white
collars, brown bodies, and sharp noses. They fed
heartily on bread-and-milk and treacle, and their little
stomachs stuck out roundly in evidence of their
appreciation of their diet.</p>
<p class='c008'>They were extremely sociable, and never quite
happy unless people were near them or within sight.
When they had human company they sat up,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>stretching their claws through the bars, in order to
take hold of and suck the fingers of any one who
would permit it. If not they sucked their own,
keeping up a continual humming noise all the time.
If left alone this became a loud, sustained complaint,
like the noise of a litter of hungry puppies.</p>
<p class='c008'>Bears are far more difficult to rear than would be
thought in the case of such rough, hardy creatures.
They are liable even after the first six months to
cramp and paralysis of the hind-quarters, which
gradually increase until the animal dies.</p>
<p class='c008'>In winter-time all the bears are worth a visit. The
black Himalayan bear, with its white front, the brown
Russian and American species, with their magnificent
soft fur, and most beautiful of all, the full-grown
Syrian bear, with coat of cinnamon-grey, carrying a
bloom like that on some soft fruit, are then in perfect
condition. The two grizzly bears are interesting
mainly on account of their rarity, and the possibility
that they may live to develop the huge proportions
which American hunters are unanimous in ascribing
to the monsters of the Rocky Mountains. But even
in full growth, it is much to be doubted whether the
grizzly ever reaches the size even of the smaller
Polar bear now in the Gardens.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>
<h2 class='c006'>YOUNG ANIMALS AT THE ZOO.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Artemis</span>, protectress of all young wild beasts, should
be honoured with a statue at the Zoo; for the cages
are yearly filled by the graceful young of wild creatures
native to every quarter of the globe. The greater
number are born in the menagerie, honest little British
lions and the rest, of the true Cockney breed. Others
come from the Gardens on the Continent, notably
from Amsterdam, where, for some reason, the wild-beast
farm thrives amazingly; and others, mainly the
whelps of the fierce carnivora, are the gifts of Indian
rajahs or of African sultans to the Empress of India,
or captured by English sportsmen in their distant
forays among the beasts of prey. By mere coincidence,
the Lion House has lately been almost restocked
by gifts which have been part of the tribute
from the East to the West since the days of Roman
Proconsuls. Five of the new arrivals were cubs, all of
rare beauty of form and colouring, and in the finest
health and condition. Three young tigers presented
to the Princess Henry of Battenberg by the Nawab
Sir Asmanjah had reached the Gardens only twenty-four
<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>hours before the writer paid them a visit, and
were in a state of royal indignation at their change of
quarters from the ship, to which they had become
temporarily reconciled. One only would enter the
front cage of the den, where it lay on its back with its
paws bent inwards, growling to itself, occasionally
turning over, laying its ears back on its head, and
flattening its nose against the back of its wrist, like a
sulky child. Two other half-grown cubs were in that
interesting region known as the “passage,” which runs
between the winter cages and the fine outdoor palaces
behind. The details of the daily management of from
twenty to thirty lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars, and
pumas can be comprehended at a glance from this
central position. The ground-floor of the cages in
the house, and of the playgrounds on the opposite
side, is about four feet higher than the floor of the
passage. The sleeping compartment of each cage has
an iron sliding shutter, always kept locked, which gives
on the passage. A corresponding shutter leads to the
playground. A travelling bridge, running on rails, and
barred on each side with iron rods, is the means of
transit from the cages to these outer runs. When an
animal is to be transferred from one to the other, the
bridge is run up, the shutters are raised, and the lion
or tiger, after sniffing and hesitating like a cat entering
a room, walks through the bridge-cage, and takes
possession of its apartments. Two of the young
tigers were in the sleeping-den; the other chose to
remain in the bridge-cage, where it lay, crouched and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>sulking, on the floor. Though not more than half-grown,
they are more massive in shape, richer in
colour and marking, than any full-grown tiger in the
Zoo. The record of their capture is more complete
than is usual in the case of animals presented by native
princes. They are part of a litter of five taken at
Charglain, about fifty miles from Hyderabad. The
Nawab himself shot the tigress, and had alighted from
his howdah to measure it, when an alarm was raised by
the beaters that another tiger had been seen creeping
in the jungle. On the beat being resumed the five
cubs, then about a fortnight old, were caught, each
being about the size of a full-grown cat. For the
first week a she-goat acted as foster-mother, but they
were afterwards brought up by hand with cows’-milk
from a feeding-bottle. For food on the voyage to
England they were provided with a flock of sheep,
and so well were they fed, that they arrived at the
Gardens with half a sheep still uneaten in the cage.<SPAN name='r7' /><SPAN href='#f7' class='c017'><sup>[7]</sup></SPAN>
The two lion cubs caught by Lord Delamere in
Somaliland were hardly of age to leave the nursery,
though the difference of temper which is so commonly
observed among lions was already marked. One,
a beautifully mealy-tinted little lioness, with a thick
rough coat like a St. Bernard puppy, and dark-brown
eyes, ran out to play with a handkerchief, and could be
petted like a kitten. The other was a morose little
savage, lying at the back of the cage, and growling at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>every passer-by. They are fed on mutton powdered
with bone-dust, and promise to rival in beauty even
the slim and elegant young lioness presented by the
Sultan of Zanzibar.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f7'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r7'>7</SPAN>. </span>The tigers were, in fact, over-fed. They were too heavy for
their legs, their hind-quarters grew weak, and one has died.</p>
</div>
<div id='i210' class='figcenter id011'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i210.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>The Queen’s Lion Cub.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Three litters of wild swine were born in the Gardens
during the first eight months of 1893—two early in
the spring, and one, of four beautiful piglings, late in
the summer. Young wild boars are far prettier than
might be expected from the rather forbidding appearance
of their parents. Their bodies are slim and
elegant, their snouts fine, their ears short, and
their legs and feet almost as finely-shaped as those of
a young antelope. Their colour is a bright fawn or
a rich tan, with longitudinal stripes like those on a
tabby kitten; and in place of the thick bristles of the
older pigs, their bodies are covered with a long and
thick coat of rough hair. Family life in the wild
boars’ quarters is harmonious and amusing. For the
first month the little orange-striped pigs depend on
their mother for food, and take no notice either of
visitors or of each other. Each roams about by itself
in the most independent fashion, or drops down to
sleep on its stomach, with its legs stretched straight
out before and behind, like a kneeling elephant in
miniature. Later, when they have to be satisfied with
the food provided in the troughs, they become the
most amusing and importunate beggars in the Zoo, the
old sow and boar setting the example, well supported
by the little pigs. The whole family stand upright on
their hind-legs in a row, like heraldic pigs supporting a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>coat-of-arms, with their fore-feet against the rails, and
squeak, grunt, and even climb the wire-netting for
contributions. Even if the floor is littered with
delicious hog-wash, they prefer to plead <i>in formâ
pauperis</i>, and the yearning to reach just one inch
farther than their brothers seems to give an impulse
to the growth of their snouts, which soon grow
long, flexible, and narrow, like those of the parent-swine.
The ancient breed of wild swine which haunted
the great Caledonian forest may claim to have been
re-established, for some of these are the third generation
in descent from ancestors bred in Scotland.</p>
<p class='c008'>But the youngest member of perhaps the oldest
family in the British Islands was the white calf, the
lineal descendant of the wild white cattle of ancient
Britain. The bull, cow, and calf formed one of the
happiest family groups in the Gardens, and should
be studied by any one desirous of appreciating the
natural beauty of these cattle, one of which, a wild
steer from Chillingham, took a first prize when judged
on its merits among the finest domestic breeds of
England. The bull at the Zoo belongs to the
Chartley herd, which has been in the possession of
Lord Ferrers’ family for nearly a thousand years, has
a short muzzle, broad forehead, and crescent horns
with a downward reversed curve. Its silky coat is
pure white, its eyes the deepest jet-black, shaded by
long white eyelashes. The tips of the ears and of the
horns are black, and just above the hoof are black and
white speckles, like the “flea-bites” on a Laverack
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>setter’s coat. The cow, like the bull, is white, with
black points, but the horns curve upwards. Between
the two stands the little bull-calf, a perfect miniature
of its father, except that the horns are only budding.
It has the same black muzzle and ear-tips; even its
tongue is black, and the black and lustrous eye is
shaded by thick, straight white lashes, like rims of hoar-frost.
Deer and antelopes breed freely at the Zoo. The
eland calf has a short body, more like that of a young
colt, with long legs, and the hump upon the back
undeveloped. All the elands are in fine condition, and
might be propagated to stock our English parks; but
as an ornament they cannot compare with the indigenous
wild cattle of the Chillingham or Chartley
herds. Both the wild ass and the zebra had young
ones. The young wild ass was a pretty, playful creature,
with a coat like grey velvet; but the infant zebra was
perhaps the greater favourite with the visitors to the
Zoo. It exactly resembled its mother in colour, and
in the distinctness and arrangement of the stripes, but
it was far lighter and finer in its proportions. With a
luxurious instinct for comfort, the little creature usually
lay asleep upon the light-green hay which the mother
pulls from the rack above—a background which
contrasted admirably with its rich sepia and cream-coloured
stripes.</p>
<p class='c008'>But the pride and flower of all the youth of the Zoo
is the young hippopotamus. As it lies on its side, with
eyes half closed, its square nose like the end of a bolster
tilted upwards, its little fat legs stuck out straight at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>right angles to its body, and its toes turned up like a
duck’s, it looks like a gigantic new-born rabbit. It
has a pale, petunia-coloured stomach, and the same
artistic shade adorns the soles of its feet. It has a
double chin, and its eyes, like a bull-calf’s, are set on
pedestals, and close gently as it goes to sleep with a
bland, enormous smile. It cost £500 when quite
small, and, to quote the opinion of an eminent grazier,
who was looking it over with a professional eye, it
still looks like “growing into money.” There are
connoisseurs in hippopotamus-breeding who think it
almost too beautiful to live. We had hoped to find a
prairie-dog family, as several of the smaller rodents
had produced young ones; but though several of the
solemn little fellows were sitting bolt upright,
cramming straw into their mouths with both hands
as fast as they could, like a conjuror swallowing tape,
there were no little prairie dogs. The kangaroos and
wallabies, on the other hand, had several “joeys”; and
nothing could well be stranger than this dual existence
of mother and young, in which, contrary to all
precedents, the young is carried by its parent, though
it is quite independent of its milk. Thus an old
kangaroo or wallaby will put its head down to drink,
while the young wallaby, wide awake and independent
in the pouch, picks up a piece of cabbage, and,
holding it in its hands, eats it like a boy eating an
apple and looking out of a window. The long, sharp
claws of the hind-legs are doubled forward when in the
pouch, and project like a couple of pens on either side
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>of the young one’s ears, while the tip of its tail also
hangs out just under its chin. In a cage in the small
mammals’ house there were a number of young weasels,
which were, without exception, the brightest and most
active creatures in the Gardens. They were absolutely
without fear of man,—bold, impudent, and astonishingly
agile. They had converted the hay at the
bottom of their cage into the likeness of a hedge-bottom,
with numerous tunnels, galleries, and holes,
and in these they would play by the hour. It was
always the same game, catching and killing, and the
fury with which they would roll over and over until
one had the other by the throat, and pretended to kill
it, was most excellent counterfeit. The difficulty was
to tell the number of the weasels. There were only
four, but there seemed to be as many more. They
were here, there, and everywhere, and scarcely had the
tail of one disappeared at one hole, than its sharp,
bright eyes were peering from another at the opposite
side of the cage. They could run either backwards or
forwards in the holes, and no mouse, rat, or rabbit
would stand a chance against these untiring and agile
little enemies.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is difficult to say why there are no young
wolves at the Zoo. According to Tschudi, the
naturalist of the Alps, they are pretty little creatures,
born blind, covered with reddish-white down, and
sprawl in a heap like puppies. The little dingoes, of
which a litter were born early in the year 1893, much
resemble this description, and, like the wolf cubs, are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>born blind. They are sold, and fetch £1 each.
Esquimaux puppies, which are often born at the Zoo,
are amusing little creatures, ready to eat boiled tripe
from a dish until their little stomachs resemble a
cricket-ball, an instance of heredity no doubt transmitted
by generations of half-starved ancestors. Young
marmosets and gerbilles, Angora goats, ibexes, mountain
sheep and wapiti deer, gazelles and opossums, with
a brood of young puff-adders, young seagulls, and wild
geese, hardly complete the list of the year’s increase at
the Zoo.</p>
<p class='c008'>In 1894 the black-headed gulls reared several
broods in the Gardens, but all the other water-fowl
in the large aviary failed to rear their young, though
the ibises nested, and seemed about to lay.</p>
<p class='c008'>The water-animals, unlike the water-birds, seldom
breed at the Zoo. Probably the little ponds and
pools in which otters, beavers, and seals are kept are
not large enough to give them that quiet and repose
which conduces to family life. But otters, true
Devonshire otters, did once have a litter at the Zoo,
and the head-keeper, Mr. James Hunt, who was
greatly interested in their welfare, gave the following
pretty description of their habits.<SPAN name='r8' /><SPAN href='#f8' class='c017'><sup>[8]</sup></SPAN></p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f8'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r8'>8</SPAN>. </span><i>Proceedings Zool. Soc.</i>, Mar. 13, 1847.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>“The female otter was presented to the Society by
Lady Rolle on February 4, 1840, being apparently
at that time about three months old. In 1846 a
large male was presented to the Society by the Rev.
P. M. Brunwin, of Braintree, Essex. Its weight
<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>when first taken was 21 lbs.; but it was not half that
weight when presented to the Society, having wasted
much in confinement in a cellar. About a month
after his arrival there was continual chattering between
him and the female at night, which lasted for four or
five nights, but they did not appear to be quarrelling.
On August 13, the keeper who has charge of them
went to give them a fresh bed, which he does once a
week. While pulling out the old bed he saw two
young ones, apparently about five or six days old,
and about the size of a full-grown rat; he immediately
put back the bed, with the young ones in it,
and left them.</p>
<p class='c008'>“On the twenty-first the mother removed them to the
second sleeping-den; her object appeared to be to let
them have a dry bed. On the 9th of September they
were first seen out of the house; they did not go into
the water, but crawled about, and appeared very feeble.</p>
<p class='c008'>“On September 26 they were first seen to eat
fish, and follow the mother into the water. They
did not dive like the mother, but went in like a dog,
with their head above water, and it was not till the
middle of October that they were observed to plunge
into the water like the old ones. When the water
was let out of the pond for the purpose of cleaning
it they were shut up, but got out, and into the pond
when it was half full of water. The young ones were
not able to get out without help, and for some
minutes the mother appeared very anxious, and made
several attempts to reach them from the side of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>pond where she was standing, but without success, as
they were not within reach.</p>
<p class='c008'>“She then plunged into the water to them, and
began to play with one of them for a short time, and
put her head close to its ears, as if to make it understand
what she meant; the next moment she made a
spring out of the pond, with the <i>young one holding on
to the fur</i> at the root of the tail <i>by its teeth</i>; this she
did several times during a quarter of an hour, as the
young ones kept going into the water as fast as she
got them out. Sometimes the young held on by the
fur of her sides, sometimes by that at the tail. As
soon as there was sufficient water for her to reach
them from the side of the pond, she took hold of
them near the ears with her mouth, and drew them
out, and led them round the pond close to the fence,
and kept chattering to them, as if telling them not to
go into the pond again.”</p>
<div id='i220' class='figcenter id012'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i220.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Otter Pursuing Fish.</span> <i>From a Japanese Drawing.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>A litter of young raccoons were born in the spring
of 1894. Unfortunately they all died, just as it was
hoped that they had passed the most dangerous time
of infancy. On the other hand, the little Caucasian
bear cubs, which arrived at Easter, throve amazingly,
and in three months grew to the size of a retriever
dog, though they had not abandoned the youthful
habit of sucking the paws and “humming,” to signify
that they wanted to be fed. But the great and
notable birth of the year, almost contemporaneous
with that of the infant prince, and worthy to be noted
as a <i>prodigium</i>, if the keeping of Sibylline books were
<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>part of the English Constitution, was the arrival of a
young “gnu.” It was even uglier than its mother,
whose compound features of a horse’s body, a bull’s
horns, and a goat’s beard combine to make her one
of the strangest beasts existing. The infant was
exactly like its mamma, minus the horns, but plus
a high nose, and a curly beard, which makes it in
profile rather like a portrait of Sennacherib or
Shalmanezar. Another most beautiful calf of the
wild cattle, a cross between the Chartley bull and the
white cow from the Bangor herd, is as pretty and
pleasing as the gnu calf is ugly. But in each case
the mother is vastly proud of its infant, and they are
probably the best judges of what their offspring
should be.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>
<h2 class='c006'>ANIMAL COLOURING.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> conclusions of naturalists as to the laws which
govern the colouring of animals must, it seems, be
modified. There is no reason, however, to fear any
loss of interest in one of the prettiest and most attractive
sides of natural history. The collection and
comparison of the wonderful analogies in colour
between animals and their environment, and between
one animal and another, will still be guided by the
leading principles which Bates and Wallace detected;
and the delight and surprise with which the non-scientific
world welcomed these discoveries need
neither be regretted nor diminished. But without
wishing to grudge one iota of the praise awarded to
explanations, the dexterity and aptness of which
would alone entitle them to admiration, it is still
possible to doubt whether some of the minor hypotheses
framed to account for facts which seemed to
stand outside the explanation of colour mimicry by
the general law of the survival of the fittest, are not
almost too ingenious. The fascination of the subject
is so great that it seems to develop an over-keenness
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>of scientific insight. The facts of resemblance themselves
are so wonderful, and the contrast between the
colours of the sexes in birds so startling, that the
temptation to make a great principle like that of
natural selection fit the exact requirements of each
case, and to explain the complexity of Nature in a
sentence, is almost irresistible. It is quite possible
that the principle of natural selection, which gives a
perfect explanation of the wonderful phenomena of
“protective mimicry,” may also be the master-key to
the remaining problems of animal hues. The chief
difficulties which remain, after accounting for protective
coloration, are, first, the extraordinary differences
between the tints and plumage of male and
female in many birds; and, secondly, the conspicuous
colours of certain creatures by which the attention of
their enemies must necessarily be attracted. The first
of these obvious difficulties has been explained by
what is called “sexual selection,” which is an auxiliary
to the general law of natural selection. The female
pheasants, or birds of paradise, or pigeons, as the case
may be, by an enduring good taste in choosing for
their mates those with the brightest plumage and
finest wattles and spurs, have played their part in the
general scheme of evolution so well, that their progeny
have in time developed all the beauties which they
now possess. That theory is obviously quite consistent
with the general law. It accounts logically in
part, if not entirely, for the perilous beauties of the
stronger sex. But there are creatures in gorgeous
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>attire for which “sexual selection” could give no
justification—caterpillars, for instance, which run additional
risks by their conspicuous hues. “That,”
said the naturalist, “is in order to advertise their
inedible qualities!” “They require,” writes Mr.
Wallace, “some signal, or danger flag, which shall
serve as a warning to would-be enemies not to attack
them, and they have usually obtained this in the form
of conspicuous or brilliant coloration, very distinct
from the protective tints of the defenceless animals
allied to them.” There is one obvious objection to
this explanation. It is really too clever. It fits the
case so perfectly that, in the absence of further experiment
and observation, one is reluctantly obliged
to pause before yielding entirely to such a brilliant
surmise, and to welcome the note of warning which
Mr. Beddard, the Prosector of the Zoological Society,
utters in his admirable work on “Animal Coloration.”<SPAN name='r9' /><SPAN href='#f9' class='c017'><sup>[9]</sup></SPAN>
It is evident, from the space given to the two points
of “Sexual Selection” and “Warning Colours” in
this work, which aims only at furnishing a general
notion of the facts and theories relating to animal
coloration, that room exists for doubt as to the value
to be attached to either theory. The contribution
which Mr. Beddard makes towards solving the difficulty
is threefold. He presents as alternatives to the
theories of sexual selection and warning coloration,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>the ingenious speculations of Mr. Stoltzmann and
Dr. Eisig, neither of which have yet found their way
into works of a popular character; and he gives an
account of numerous and careful experiments made
at the Zoo, with insects of brilliant colouring and
reputed evil flavour, as food for birds and reptiles.
No care or pains was omitted to get at the truth of
these supposed instances of warning colouring. No
augurs, with the purest motives to guide their interpretation
of the omens, ever watched the feeding of
the sacred chickens in the Capitol with a more ardent
desire to mark the real appetite of the prophetic fowls,
than did Mr. Beddard and his predecessors, in observing
the practical results of “warning coloration”
when making trial of the birds at the Zoo. But
the list of experiments does not give any clear line
of refusal or acceptance between the “protectively
coloured” insects and their more sober relations, and
Mr. Beddard’s conclusion is that “the experiments
which have been made might be taken to prove anything.”
That is, so far, disappointing. But it is
probable that with time and patience a body of
evidence will be accumulated which will throw more
light on the vexed question of the palatability of
these gaudy insects or reptiles. Meantime, the discoveries
of Dr. Eisig, to which Mr. Beddard introduces
us, throw light on the question from a different
point of view. If his surmises are confirmed, the
fact will be additional evidence in favour of that
minute and laborious specialization which so often
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>goes without reward. His researches were devoted to
the history of a small group of sea-worms. One of
these he found living parasitically upon a marine
sponge in the Bay of Naples. The sponge was of
a yellow colour, caused by the presence of small
particles of colouring-matter. The worm was of the
same colour, with bright orange spots, and the <i>pigment</i>
which coloured the sponge was found to be the same
which coloured the worm, having been simply transferred
from the tissues of the sponge to the skin of
the worm, after going through part of the alimentary
canal. Dr. Eisig is of opinion that the “pigment”
so transferred from the alimentary canal to the skin is
itself the cause of the creature being distasteful, which
suggests the conclusion that the brilliant colour—that
is, the secretion of a quantity of colouring-matter—has
itself caused the inedibility of species, rather than
that the inedibility has made necessary the production
of bright colour as an advertisement. “This explanation,”
Mr. Beddard remarks, “is not entirely
contrary to the views of Wallace, Poulton, and others;
for we may still suppose that the bright colours are
actually ‘warning’ colours, although they have not
been evolved for this purpose.” But the weakness, as
well as the attraction, of the unmodified theory really
lies in the supposition of the creation in the creature
of colour, for the express purpose of advertisement.
The modest conjecture of Dr. Eisig transfers the
explanation to safer ground.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f9'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r9'>9</SPAN>. </span><i>Animal Coloration</i>, by F. E. Beddard, M.A., Prosector to
the Zoological Society of London. Swan, Sonnenschein, and Co.,
London. Macmillan and Co., New York.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The mode by which, in the simple organisms which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>he observed, the colour was transferred from the food
to the feeder, also suggests the existence of some
simple and natural relation between the tints in the
skin, or hair, and external conditions of food and
temperature, to account for the strange changes of
colour to suit outside conditions in animals exposed to
the rigours of a northern winter. The mountain hare
of Ireland does not always change its colour to white
in winter, though in the colder climate of Scotland
and Norway the change is the rule. So the Arctic
fox seems always to be “bleached” in the extreme
north, though often retaining its darker dress throughout
the year when further south. Yet exactly the
same effects are found in connection with want of
food as with want of warmth. The rats in a large
iron ship which was recently wrecked off the coast of
Northumberland,<SPAN name='r10' /><SPAN href='#f10' class='c017'><sup>[10]</sup></SPAN> and remained stranded for many
weeks without connection with the shore, turned quite
white—a change due apparently to starvation.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f10'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r10'>10</SPAN>. </span>Near Blyth. When some shipwrights visited the vessel to
remove rigging and fittings, the starving rats swarmed round them,
and ate the food which they had brought for their dinners.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>In strong contrast with the modifications of the
part played by evolution in animal colouring, suggested
by Dr. Eisig, is the alternative which Mr.
Stoltzmann proposes to the theory of sexual selection.
It is not a change which will flatter the masculine
imagination. Contrasted with the view which accounted
for the predominance of male strength, and
in some cases of masculine beauty, over the weaker
<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>sex by a long course of discerning feminine selection,
it has an unconscious irony. Going quite outside the
merits of the male sex <i>per se</i>, Mr. Stoltzmann weighs
its worth in view of the survival of a species. So
considered, an excess of males is an evil, which the
law of natural selection is under obligations to
remedy.<SPAN name='r11' /><SPAN href='#f11' class='c017'><sup>[11]</sup></SPAN> The tendency of Nature is to produce a
superabundance of males, observations on the origin
of sex having shown that the percentage of male
birds among birds is greater than that of females.
Further inquiries into the influence of nutrition on
sex go to show that badly-nourished eggs produce
males, while well-nourished eggs produce females;
and scarcity of food is a more common condition
than its abundance. The fine feathers which “make
fine birds” have therefore been given to the males
with a view to exposing them to the attacks of their
enemies, and so reducing their numbers, always—be
it observed—in accordance with the law of the
survival of the fittest, but by a curiously different
line of argument from that which lent its weight to
the theory of sexual selection. Probably neither the
one nor the other should stand alone; nor is this result
to be feared. Bigotry seems almost unknown to the
spirit of the natural history research of to-day; the only
danger of the open mind of its followers is in the constructive
ingenuity of theory which it seems to foster.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f11'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r11'>11</SPAN>. </span>The bad result of an excess of males is perhaps best ascertained
in the case of grouse moors. See Mr. A. Stuart Wortley’s
remarks upon this in <i>The Grouse</i> (Fur and Feathers Series,
Longmans, Green & Co.).</p>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>
<h2 class='c006'>WILD-CATS AT THE ZOO.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> reservation of one-tenth of the area of Scotland
for deer-forests has probably arrested the extermination
of three, if not of four, of the largest and rarest
of our birds and beasts of prey for at least a century.
The great increase in the numbers of the golden
eagle, and the migration of the ospreys from the
lakes to the forests, are among the results of the
protection so afforded. It was reasonable to expect
that the wild-cat would also benefit by the policy, now
generally in favour with owners of forests, of encouraging
animals of prey to keep down the grouse
and hares. The arrival at the Zoological Gardens of
two genuine Scotch wild-cats, trapped during last
year on the same estate in Inverness-shire, is evidence
that even there the rarest and wildest of all British
quadrupeds are recovering from the persecution of
half a century of grouse and black-cock preserving.
Both were caught in steel traps, and each had lost
part of a fore-foot; but with the wonderful vitality of
all cats, they so far recovered from their injuries that,
on being confronted with each other, they at once
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>joined battle, like the Border rider at Chevy Chase,
who—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When his legs were smitten off,</div>
<div class='line in1'>Did fight upon his stumps.”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c016'>These bold and courageous beasts, fresh from the
remnants of the Caledonian Forest, have not diminished
either in size or courage since the wild-cat was described
by John Bossewell in 1597:—“He is slye and
wittie, and seeth so sharply that he overcometh the
darkness of night by the shyninge light of his eyen.
In shape of body he is like unto a leopard”—[this is
not the case, however]—“and hathe a great mouth.
He doth delight that he enjoyeth his liberty; and in
his youth he is swift, plyante, and merye. He
maketh a rueful noise and a gasteful when he profereth
to fight with another.” The growling of the
wild-cats is “gasteful” indeed, not only when they
proffer to fight with another, but whenever a friendly
visitor proffers to look at them. That owned by
Lord Lilford, which has been in the Zoological
Gardens for some time, when exhibited at the cat
show at the Westminster Aquarium, performed the
singular and creditable feat in wild-cat annals of
growling without ceasing for two whole days, varied
only by explosions of hisses and spitting. This cat is
somewhat lighter, and has fewer dark markings than
the Scotch wild-cats; the ground hue of the fur is
pepper-colour, its eyes pale-green, its nose very small—not
a usual feature in wild-cats—and covered with
fur, its face round and bushy, and its expression
<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>infinitely surly. The only stripes distinctly marked
are two on either side of the head.</p>
<p class='c008'>Though the list of so-called wild-cats includes
nearly twenty species, there is only one, besides the
animal we have described, which seems to compete
with it as the possible undescended great original of
the “bundle of concepts” which civilized man has in
his mind when, with reference to all the varieties of
the domestic animal, he uses the abstract term “cat.”
This is the “chaus,” or jungle-cat, which bears somewhat
the same geographical and tribal relation to a
Scotch or Russian wild-cat as a Pathan tribesman to a
Highlander. The Scotch wild-cat is found with very
little variation throughout Northern and Central
Europe, across the steppes of Northern Asia, as far as
the southern limits of the Nepaul Hills. At a height
of some 8000 ft. his place is taken by another cat,
equally bold, and far less retiring and solitary, the
“chaus,” which is common not only in India, but at
the roots of the Caucasus, and throughout Northern
Africa and Upper Egypt. A splendid specimen of
this Oriental cousin of our wild-cats occupies a cage
in the same house at the Zoo, under the somewhat
misleading name of the “Egyptian cat.” Nothing
could well be more different from the paintings of the
sleek tabbies of ancient Egypt, the sacred animals of
the goddess Bast, petted by priests, and taught to
catch wild-fowl for their masters in the reedy banks of
the Nile, than this rough, round, broad-headed, bushy-whiskered,
“upstanding” savage, who has held his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>own till the present day in the swamps of Asia and
Africa, and in the immediate neighbourhood of every
Indian country village or tank, just as the European
wild-cat did in England till the days of the Tudors.
The late General Douglas Hamilton, in his journals of
sport in Southern India, tells a story of the courage
of this Indian wild-cat, which matches exactly the
experience of Charles St. John in Sutherlandshire.
St. John’s terriers had brought a wild-cat to bay under
a rock, and when he approached, the animal sprang
straight at his face, and was only stopped by a blow
from a stick which he had cut before coming up to
aid the dogs. General Hamilton says of the chaus—“One
of these animals came into our cantonment
evidently on the prowl for fowls, or anything it could
pick up; so we collected all the dogs we could, and
had a hunt. We came to a long check, the dogs
being quite at fault. After looking for some time, I
spied the cat squatting in a hedge, and called for the
dogs. When they came I knelt down and began
clapping my hands and cheering them on; the cat
suddenly made a clean spring at my face; I had just
time to catch it as one would a cricket-ball, and
giving its ribs a strong squeeze, I threw it to the
dogs, not, however, before it had made its teeth meet
in my arm, just above my wrist. For some weeks
I had to carry my arm in a sling, and I shall carry
the marks of the bite to my grave.” The chaus is a
far finer animal even than the European wild-cat. It
is larger and more powerful, though its proportions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>and movements are almost the same. In colour it is
a fine tawny-grey, with long bushy hair, a ruff round
its face, yellow cheeks shading into white, a long, very
broad nose, long ears slightly tufted, yellow eyes, and
bars on its tail. There are also two dark bars on the
inside of the arm, above the elbow; when laying its
ears back, spitting and uttering growls like distant
thunder, it is the “very moral” of a big, ill-tempered
domestic tom-cat, which poaches all day, fights all
night, and sleeps by choice in the coal-cellar. Apart
from their general resemblance to the tame cat, both
the chaus and the Scotch cat in their moments of
repose exactly resemble the domestic species. They
never “pace” their cages—a habit which distinguishes
all leopards and tigers, and all the tiger-cats <i>when
young</i>. They sleep all day, if possible, either curled
up on their backs with their noses upwards, like a
tame cat in a sunny window; or with their backs
drawn up and their fore-paws tucked neatly under
their chests. When feeding, they do not lie down
like the leopards, but crouch over their food, with
their jaws almost upon the ground, and their backs
somewhat arched, like a tame cat with a mouse.
Anatomists state that the European wild-cat differs
from the tame animal in the dimensions of that
part of its interior which is in such request for violin-strings.
If this objection is fatal to the claim of
the former to be the ancestor of our cats, we should
be inclined to find its direct ancestor in the chaus—a
view which need not conflict with the conclusions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>of M. Champfleury, who considers that the Egyptian
cat was acclimatized in Egypt at the same time as
the horse, in 1668 <span class='fss'>B.C.</span></p>
<p class='c008'>All the other wild “cats” are either tiger-cats,
leopard-cats, or puma-cats, names in which the last
half of the compound should, we think, be read rather
as a “diminutive” than as an index to race. In them
the habits and appearance of the larger rather than
the smaller animal appear to the writer to bear the
greater proportion in the affinities of the whole.
From first impressions, the Bengal tiger-cat, for example,
appears to be a variety of the domestic cat with
the coat and colouring of a leopard, or rather of a
cheetah. Its attitudes, or rather those of the full-grown
specimen in the Society’s collection, are those
of a tired house-cat. It sleeps in the same positions,
and like the true cats never “paces” for exercise.
But a young one of the same species, shown this year
at the Westminster Aquarium, untamed, preserved
all the lion-like features strongly developed, just as the
young of lions and pumas preserve the spots which
disappear at maturity. The movements of this little
creature and its general proportions were almost exactly
those of a quarter-grown lion. It had the square
head, the flat massive jaws, and the same restless,
eager, pacing movements from side to side of its cage,
and feet always ready to claw or strike. The colouring
and texture of the skin in the full-grown animal
are wholly unlike any variety of domestic cat known
to the “fancy.” Its colour is tawny, its coat short
<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>and close, its eyes yellow with a black centre. The
face of the adult is narrow like that of a female house-cat;
but the six parallel lines, two on either side, and
two in the centre of the head, break into spots upon
the back. Its tail, which is long and thick, is spotted,
not ringed, and it has spotted, leopard-like legs.</p>
<p class='c008'>The collection of these beautiful smaller <i>felidæ</i>
in the Zoological Gardens is less complete than that
of any other tribe exhibited. Even the “clouded tiger,”
the most perfect in colouring of all the spotted kinds,
has disappeared from the collection, though some
years ago there were two fine specimens in the Cat
House. The “clouded tiger” is marked with almost
rectangular ornaments of clouded black on a ground
of rich buff. It is the largest of all the “tiger-cats,”
and has a very long, thick, silky tail, ringed with black.
This animal has a special claim to be an inmate of
the Zoo, for it was first discovered and brought to
this country by Sir Stamford Raffles, the moving
spirit in the establishment of the Zoological Society.
They were no less good than beautiful, and the
following description of their behaviour from the pen
of Sir Stamford Raffles himself should be contrasted
with the ancient and inbred malignity of the true
wild “cat.”</p>
<p class='c008'>“Both my specimens,” he wrote, “were remarkable
for good-temper and playfulness; no domestic kitten
could be more so. They were always courting intercourse
with persons passing by, and in the expression
of the countenance, <i>which was always open and smiling</i>,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>showed the greatest delight when noticed, throwing
themselves on their backs, and delighting in being
tickled and rubbed. On board the ship there was
a small Musi dog, who used to play round the cage
with one of these animals, and it was amusing to see
the playfulness and tenderness with which the latter
came in contact with its inferior-sized companion.
When fed with a fowl that had died, he seized the
prey, and after sucking the blood and tearing it a
little, he amused himself for hours in throwing it
about, and jumping after it, in the manner that a cat
plays with a mouse before it is quite dead. He never
seemed to look on men or children as prey, but as
companions. The natives assert that when wild they
live principally on poultry, birds, and the smaller kind
of deer. They are not found in numbers, and may
be considered rather a rare animal, even in the southern
part of Sumatra. Both specimens constantly amused
themselves by jumping and clinging to the top of
their cage, and throwing a somersault, and twisting
themselves round in the manner of a squirrel when
confined, the tail being extended, and showing to
great advantage when so expanded.”</p>
<p class='c008'>It is obvious that so active and beautiful an animal
could not be seen with advantage, or kept in good
health in the cramped little cages of the present Cat
House. But the Society still possess a good specimen
of the finest of the “self-coloured” puma-cats,—the
golden cat of Sumatra, an island in which every ornamental
species, whether bird or beast, seems endowed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>with a double gift of beauty. In colouring it is
unique, and its proportions are as elegant as its tints.
The fur on the back is the colour of the red variety
of gold-stone, with the texture of thick-piled velvet.
This warm and luminous hue pales into white on the
belly, and runs up the chest, ending on the chin,
which is square and almost bearded, giving a tigerish
expression to the head. On the mask of the face the
reddy golden fur is striped with wavy lines of orange
and white. The eyes are strangely large, dark, clouded,
beryl-brown globes, with smoky-yellow topaz lights,
and shine like round translucent gems set in a velvet
case. This mass of orange-tawny, gold, and topaz,
is set off by the pale rose-pink of the nose and lips,
and the not unfrequent exhibition of rows of ivory
teeth. The whole body is elegant and symmetrical,
and the colouring so exactly balanced, that the warm
white of the lower parts which ends in front at the
point of the chin, extends with the same precision
along the lower part of the tail even to the tip, as if
the golden cat were fresh from a swim across a lake
of cream. Among the <i>lacunæ</i> in this part of the
collection the marbled tiger-cat, the viverrine cat, the
Pampas-cat, the Margay, the Eyra cat, the jaguarondi,
and the leopard-cat of Bengal may be mentioned.
Most of these have been seen at the Zoo at one time
or another, and Mr. Bartlett found the “Eyra cat” a
most affectionate and amusing pet. It is an American
wild-cat, but far longer and lither in shape than others
of the true cats, resembling a genet in shape. It is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>a tree-climbing species, as active on the branches as
a squirrel.</p>
<p class='c008'>On the other hand, there are a pair of ocelots which,
in the absence of the clouded tiger, may be taken as
representing almost the highest development of ornament
among four-footed animals. One of the pair
comes from Southern and the other from Central
America. No two ocelots are marked exactly alike,
but the general tone and shading is sufficiently alike
to compare them generally with other species. The
Argus pheasant alone seems to afford a parallel to the
beauties of the ocelot’s fur, especially in the development
of the wonderful “ocelli,” which, though never
reaching in the beast the perfect cup and ball ornament
seen on the wings of the bird, can be traced in
all its earlier stages of spots and wavy lines, as far as
the irregular shell-shaped ring and dot on the feet,
sides, and back, just as in the subsidiary ornament of
the Argus pheasant’s feathers. Most of the ground
tint of the fur is a pearly smoke-colour, on which the
spots develop from mere dots upon the legs, and
speckles on the feet and toes to large egg-shaped
ocelli on the flanks. There are also two beautiful
pearl-coloured spots at the back of each ear, like those
which form the common ornaments of the wings of
many moths. As in the golden cat, the very large
convex translucent eye and the pink nose make the
face of the ocelot a wonderful combination of contrasts
in colour and texture. Apparently they are
tame and friendly, though the conditions of their life
<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>at the Zoo are hardly such as tend to promote good-temper.</p>
<p class='c008'>The remaining occupants of the Cat House are
mostly lynxes, or half-lynxes, like the servals and
caracals, or civets and genets. There is a fine collection
of the last pretty little creatures, which are
far more like ichneumons and mongooses than any
form of cat. The most interesting fact about these
thoroughly Oriental-looking beasts is that one is
actually found in the Alps, where one could almost
as soon expect to discover a cobra or a crocodile.
They are beautifully marked and spotted with black
and dark-brown or smoky-grey, and are as restless as
a mongoose or a coati.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Mr. Garner’s</span> claim to have gained a clue to a form
of language understood by monkeys for a short time
excited more interest than any subject of natural
history in recent years. It was based on such ingenious
experiments, including the practical use of
such an invention as the phonograph, and was based
on methods so pleasing to the scientific mind, that
there seemed more than a probability that he was on
the verge of a great discovery. On the other hand,
men like the keepers of the monkeys in the Zoological
Gardens, who have a special and practical knowledge
of the subject, refused for a moment to entertain the
idea, either that there was a universal “Simian tongue,”
or even one which was common to more than the
members of a single class. In his book on the “Speech
of Monkeys,”<SPAN name='r12' /><SPAN href='#f12' class='c017'><sup>[12]</sup></SPAN> he gives in a complete form the result
of the ingenious inquiries, the first instalment of which
roused such curiosity when published in the <i>New
Review</i>. Every one who read the story of the clever
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>experiments made by the aid of the phonograph, which
caught, and reproduced when required, the characteristic
tones of monkey chatter, will be anxious to learn
whether the increase in the numbers and variety of the
experiments recorded strengthened or weakened the
conclusions which Mr. Garner first formed. With
one important modification, he is still confident that
he has obtained evidence, not only of the existence of
a form of speech current between monkeys, but of the
meaning and modifications of some of the sounds
in use. The exception is one which would occur to
most minds on reading the evidence, if not from
natural probability. He no longer claims for monkeys
any one speech common to all races, a universal
“Simian tongue,” which if it existed would argue a
greater uniformity among the diversities of monkey
structure than exists among the uniformity of human
physique. The experiments on which Mr. Garner
based his conclusion, that there is a common “Simian
tongue,” was no doubt difficult to explain on any other
supposition, for having obtained on his phonograph a
record of the sounds made by two chimpanzees, he
found that a note which he translated to mean “milk,”
but which he subsequently took to stand for “food”
in general, was used by the Capuchin monkey in apparently
the same sense. He now believes that the
sounds are only understood by members of the same
species. This admission agrees with the views of the
keepers, who maintain that the cries and exclamations
of different species of monkey, when expressing the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>ordinary emotions of fear or pleasure, offer no sort of
resemblance, and scout the notion of a common
“Simian tongue.”</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f12'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r12'>12</SPAN>. </span><i>The Speech of Monkeys</i>, by R. Garner. London: Heinemann.</p>
</div>
<div id='i240' class='figcenter id013'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i240.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Arabian Baboon.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The fact of the interpretation of the chimpanzee’s
note by the Capuchin, can perhaps be explained without
throwing doubt upon the whole theory. Monkeys
in captivity do learn occasionally the notes of another
species, not as mere mimics, but with the meaning
which the other naturally attaches to the sounds.</p>
<p class='c008'>“The most remarkable case,” writes Mr. Garner,
“which has come under my notice, is one in which a
young white-faced monkey has acquired the sound
which means ‘food’ in the Capuchin tongue. This
event occurred under my own eyes, attended by such
conditions as showed that the monkey had a motive
for learning the sound. In the room in which the
monkeys were kept by a dealer in Washington, there
was a cage which contained a young white-faced cebus,
of more than average intelligence. He was a quiet,
sedate, and thoughtful little monkey, whose grey hair
and beard gave him quite a venerable aspect, and for
this reason I called him ‘Darwin.’ From some cause
unknown to me, he was afraid of me, and I showed
him but little attention. On the same shelf, and in an
adjacent cage, lived the little Capuchin ‘Puck.’ For
some weeks I visited ‘Puck’ almost daily, and in
<i>response to his sound for food</i>, I always supplied him
with nuts or bananas. I never gave him any of these
things to eat unless he would ask for them in his own
speech. On one of my visits, my attention was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>attracted by little ‘Darwin,’ who was uttering a
strange sound, which I had never before heard one
of his species use. I did not recognize the sound at
first, but very soon discovered that it was intended to
imitate the sound of the Capuchin, in response to which
I always gave ‘Puck’ a nice morsel of food. After
this I always gave him some in acknowledgment of
his efforts, and I observed from day to day that he
improved in making this sound, until at last it could
scarcely be distinguished from that made by the
Capuchin.”</p>
<p class='c008'>This may explain the mistake as to the “Simian
tongue.” Professor Garner also wishes to get rid of
the notion that monkeys can carry on a connected
conversation. “Their speech is usually limited to a
single sound or remark, which is replied to in the same
manner.” What Mr. Garner now claims for monkeys’
speech is, that it is voluntary, deliberate, and articulate;
that the sounds are always addressed to some certain
individual with the evident purpose of having them
understood, and that they wait for, and expect an
answer, and if they do not receive one, frequently
repeat the sounds, which they do not utter when alone.
He further finds that they understand the sounds made
by other monkeys of their own kind, and usually
respond to them with a like sound, and that the <i>sound
is interpreted to mean the same thing</i>, and obeyed in the
same manner by different monkeys of the same species.
The words which we have placed in italics are, of
course, the most important part of the conclusion.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>But much, if not the whole value which they bear,
must depend not only on the certainty that “their
sounds convey a fixed idea on a given subject from
one mind to another,” but also on the assurance that
these sounds are sufficiently numerous and definite in
meaning not to come under the same head as mere
exclamations of alarm, or pleasure, which form part of
the usual utterance of so many animals. A cat, for
instance, shows pleasure by sound,—that is, by purring;
displeasure or fear by sound,—that is, by growling and
spitting; and desire by sound,—that is, by mewing;
and if all that Professor Garner had to show was that
monkeys had something equivalent, or rather more
than equivalent, to a cat’s purring, growling, or mewing,
there would be nothing very remarkable in the fact,
though the extreme ingenuity and patient attention
which he has exhibited in making his experiments
must always lend these a subordinate and secondary
interest of their own. But he rightly excludes mere
sounds of emotion from the faculty of “speech,” such
as he claims for monkeys. “Speech,” he says, “is
that form of materialized thought which is confined to
oral sounds, when they are designed to convey a
definite idea from mind to mind;” and “sounds
which only express emotion are not speech.” It is,
therefore, not sufficient for Professor Garner to
show that the sounds which he has so carefully
observed and noted are understood by his monkeys,
he has also to show that they are distinct from
mere expressions of emotion. The fuller experiments,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>from which he now writes, do not tend to
clear away this difficulty.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Capuchins, which are alike the most voluble
and the cleverest of the smaller monkeys, have a
sound which Professor Garner first translated as
“food,” but to which he subsequently found he must
attach a wider meaning. He now thinks that when
modulated in one way the sound means a certain kind
of food, and when modulated in another, it means
“give,” or “give me that.” By repeating it to a
Capuchin, he often induced it to hand over a part of
its food, or some plaything. But it would be possible
to infer from this that the sound was a mere expression
of desire, and not really different from the mewing of
a cat when it wants its kittens returned, or a door
opened. The word for “drink” he still considers to
be distinct from that expressing “food,” and fixed
alike in form and meaning. The sound which he took
to mean “weather,” because uttered by a sick monkey
when a storm burst, has now resolved itself into a
general expression of discontent. The alarm sound is
dual, one form, “e-c-g-k,” expressing fear, another,
“c-h-i,” merely calling attention. But some animals,
such as the elephant, have more than one “warning
sound,” and warning sounds in themselves do not
constitute “speech”; nor does the fact that the
Professor has been able to reproduce and get replies
to the “food sound” of the rhesus and cebus monkeys
prove more than that he has been a clever and careful
observer of a particular exclamation. He thinks,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>however, that there is a sound meaning “monkey,”
because this is uttered when one meets another, or is
shown its image in a mirror after solitary confinement;
and he finds that the shake of the head, by which
monkeys, like men, signify “no,” is also accompanied
by a clucking sound, which he takes for a negation.
But even if the results of his later experiments are less
fruitful than might have been anticipated, Professor
Garner has still good reasons for hope. The phonograph,
which alone made it possible to conduct his
inquiry with scientific accuracy, promises to give aid in
a new and unexpected quarter. The same invention
which has rendered possible a permanent record of
sound, and its reproduction at will, also facilitates its
analysis or synthesis. One of the main difficulties for
the human ear in dealing with monkey speech, is its
extreme rapidity, and the possibility of modulations
existing which are to us inaudible, but are perfectly
distinct to the acute Simian perception. By recording
the monkey notes on the drum, and then spinning the
machine at a slow rate, the sounds are analyzed, and
modulations detected, and in a way hitherto impossible.
Much is hoped from such analysis of the
main “words” of monkey speech, which seem now to
have different meanings, though the vocal difference
is indistinguishable. Professor Garner pins his faith
to the obvious fact that monkeys, like men, have
tongues, teeth, lips, and all the organs of speech;
that they use the organs, and that there is at least a
probability that a distinction is attached by them to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>many sounds in which no difference is detected by
our ears. He deserves every success in his new
experiments, though the effect of the latest has been
to diminish rather than to increase the range of the
monkey vocabulary.</p>
<p class='c008'>The later experiments with the larger anthropoid
apes, from whose deliberate utterances better results
might be expected than from the volatile chatter of
the small monkeys, do not seem to have given much
additional information. Mr. Garner’s expedition to
Western Africa, in the hope of inducing wild monkeys
to answer the sounds which he had succeeded in learning
from the tame ones, ended as such an enterprise
might have been expected to end—in failure. Perhaps
the whole inquiry may lead to the conclusion that we
know no more now of monkey speech than we did
before. But in any case it was a hopeful and ingenious
experiment, and without boldness and enterprise fresh
knowledge comes slowly.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>
<h2 class='c006'>RARE AND BEAUTIFUL MONKEYS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Among</span> the hundred inmates of the Monkey Palace
at the Zoo, more than half the species shown may
claim a place among the more elegant animal forms;
and an acquaintance with the smaller and squirrel-like
members of the tribe which abound in the forests
of Central and Southern America, and which, in spite
of their delicate constitutions, are generally represented
in greater or less numbers in the Society’s
collection, shows that in at least three elements of
beauty, the delicate modelling of the hands, the
brightness and vivacity of the eye, and in the colour
of the fur, they hold their own with the prettiest and
most attractive of the four-footed animals of the four
continents. The repulsion with which all monkeys
are now commonly regarded, is a curious instance of
the change of association with animal types. It is
mainly modern sentiment that has identified the
monkey with the idea of repulsive ugliness, and if the
great anthropoid apes, with their disgusting “affinities,”
had never been discovered, the monkey tribe
might have retained the place which they held in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>imagination of old Cosimo Tura, “the rugged and
angular but illustrious painter” of the fifteenth
century, who filled the backgrounds of his stately
pictures of pageants and processions, and his illuminations
in the choir-books of Ferrara, with groups of
the fantastic and decorative monkeys which he had
seen kept as pets in the precincts of the ducal palace.</p>
<div id='i248' class='figcenter id014'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i248.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Macaque Monkeys.</span> <i>From a photograph by<br/>Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Like the lemurs and lories, with which they are not
remotely related, the most elegant little monkeys are
natives of the great tropical forest; but the rarest and
most interesting of the tribe are so delicate that their
brief lives are passed almost unnoticed at the Zoo,
where most of them, as they arrive from time to
time in the Gardens, are kept secluded in an inner
chamber. Those from the woods of Guiana and
Brazil are at once the most beautiful in form and the
richest in colouring. Like all the monkeys of the
New World, they have round heads and broad noses,
of the order known as the “cogitative nose” in the
classification by which an ingenious physiognomist
recently determined the place of that organ as an
index to character. There is, however, little else in
the countenances of these vivacious little creatures
which suggests a reflective mind; though the separation
of the nostrils by a wide breadth of cartilage is
the character-mark which distinguishes the monkeys
of the New World from those of the Old, and rescues
the face of each and all of them from the cast of
vicious inanity which disfigures so many of the latter.
Whatever human features they possess are neither
<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>exaggerated nor degraded; and the intelligence which
this resemblance lends to their expression is fully
borne out by their behaviour as observed by Humboldt
and others, who have recorded their character
in confinement. It is on record from more than one
reliable source, that these South American monkeys,
we believe alone among animals, can recognize the
meaning of a picture. Audubon showed one the
portraits of a cat and of a wasp, at both of which
the monkey was much frightened, whereas on seeing
the painted picture of a grasshopper and a
beetle, its natural food, it “precipitated itself towards
the picture, as if to seize the object there
represented.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The beauty of the fur is perhaps the most marked
feature of these South American monkeys. One, the
squirrel-monkey of Guiana, possesses the most brilliant
colouring of any mammalian creature great or small.
When lying along a branch, it might be taken for
some slender, golden-hued squirrel, did not its round
head and baby-like face at once claim a place for it
among the monkey tribes. Its arms looks as though
they had been dipped in gamboge-yellow dye up to
the elbows. Above, the fur shades off into rich hues
of greenish-olive, with alternating lengths of short
and long hairs, of gold, green, and black, which cover
the arched squirrel-like back. Its eyes are a brilliant
black, but the cheeks are pink, and the hands flesh-coloured,
like those of a very young child. This is a
most vivacious little creature, quick and active in its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>movements, and extremely short-tempered. If it is
not fed when it stretches out its imperious little hand,
it flies into a passion at once, making ugly faces,
shaking the bars of its cage, and uttering shrill bat-like
cries; for the squirrel-monkey is by no means
the silky little pet which it appears, but a bold,
carnivorous little creature, though its prey is only
butterflies and the insects of the Guiana forest.
Another pretty and extremely rare Central American
monkey, lived for some time at the Zoo during the
summer of 1893. This was the Negro Tamarin, also
a Guiana species, which had not been seen in London
for twenty years. Two of these were still alive when
the writer visited them in their private apartments at
the Zoo. Seated on a small strip of Turkey carpet,
they looked like statuettes of the negro chieftains
whose portraits adorn the works of travellers in
Central Africa. Each was about seven inches high,
with head, limbs, and body in perfect proportion.
Their faces, hands, and feet were highly polished
ebony-black, with black bead-like eyes, and black nails,
or rather claws; for the Tamarins, like the squirrel-monkey
and the marmosets, are insect-feeders. The
fur is close and silky, and covers all the body except
the face, ears, and hands. The back is “shot” and
mottled with wavy bars of orange, an ornament which
seems peculiar to the monkeys of tropical America.
Unlike the rest of its near relations, the little “negro”
has one thoroughly monkey feature, large, sharp-pointed
ears, too like the impish forms of Fuseli to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>allow it to rank amongst the first in the scale of
monkey beauty.</p>
<p class='c008'>The pre-eminence in this respect belongs without
question to the marmosets. Two of these are by
this time sufficiently acclimatized to be placed in a
separate cage in the large room of the Monkey
House, where they live in great contentment with
another little tropical rarity, the Pinche monkey from
Guiana. Except on very hot days, they prefer to
spend their time curled up in a nest of hay, made
in a small box at the top of the cage. When the
keeper calls them, there is an answering cry from the
inmate, and in a few seconds the sounds in the box
are like those from a nest of active little twittering
birds. Presently three bright little heads and a row
of six miniature hands appear at the door, so rapidly
put out and withdrawn that it is impossible to say to
which of the inmates they belong. Then, after much
conversation, apparently directed to the question of
which is to get out of bed first, one marmoset descends
a few inches of the stick which serves as a
ladder to the sleeping-box, eagerly pushed from
behind by the others, who are anxious to go shares
in the food offered below, but unwilling to fetch it.
When once out of the nest, the beauty of the
marmoset’s colouring, as well as of its face and limbs,
is at once apparent. The fur is more like the plumage
of birds or moths than the hair of any four-footed
animal, loose and feathery, and mottled with tortoise-shell
on black, like the ornament seen in some of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>rarer Oriental pheasants; this mottling is exchanged
for bars on the tail, and runs up between the
shoulders to the neck. The beautiful little pink faces
of these black marmosets, set with bright, jewel-like
brown eyes, are fringed over the eyebrows and above
the ears with white fan-like sprays. Their movements,
like their voices and their fur, resemble those
of birds rather than of monkeys, a resemblance which
their insect-feeding habits indirectly promote. The
king of the tribe, the lion marmoset, covered with
golden-yellow fur, with a mane-like cloak across its
shoulders, is not among the present inmates of the
Zoo; but some years ago a pair of black-eared
marmosets produced a family, whose welfare was the
engrossing care of the keeper. These tiny creatures
were scarcely so large as a mouse, with shorter and
lighter fur than their parents, but of exquisite proportions,
their baby hands being, it is said, one of the
most beautiful instances of minute proportion ever
seen in young animals. For three weeks the marmoset
mother nursed her babies, until after one exceptionally
cold night, father, mother, and infants were
all found dead.</p>
<p class='c008'>As a rule it is fog, not cold, which is fatal to the
monkeys at the Zoo. In the past year, which was
exceptionally sunny and free from fog, though with
many weeks of low temperature, scarcely any rare
monkeys died. In the season which preceded it
the fogs killed sixty. But the marmosets are an
exception to the rule. They can no more endure
<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>cold than a tropical butterfly, and a fall of a few
degrees of temperature on a winter night chills the
last sparks of life in their tender little bodies. The
Pinche monkey fully deserves its place in the marmoset
cage. Except in face it might pass for one of the
latter, for its body has the same bird-like plumage,
barred with yellow and black, and it warbles a little song
like some tropical wren. But its head and neck are
plumed with white, like the war-dress of some Indian
chief, and its black face and high features make the
resemblance more amusing and complete.</p>
<p class='c008'>Of all the American monkeys the Capuchins seem
the most hardy and long-lived species. They occupy
a portion of the large central cage at the Zoo, being
well able to take care of themselves both in human
and monkey society. The last addition to the family
is a brown Capuchin, a bright, intelligent, round-headed,
round-eyed little monkey, with a long thick
tail, and a coat of rich brown fur. Though perfectly
fearless when with grown men, pulling them towards
it with all the strength of its little arms, this Capuchin
has a vehement and aggressive dislike of boys. The
instant one approaches the cage it warns him to keep
his distance with menacing and imperious gestures,
and if a face comes too near the bars, slips its arms
through and slaps the odious countenance with the
utmost fury and aversion. The monkey appreciation of
degrees in human development is as alert and vigilant
as the limits which human instinct sets between themselves
and the latest prodigy of infant humanity.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE LARGER MONKEYS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Though</span> most of the best specimens of monkey
beauty belong to the New World, the richness and
variety of the colouring of one or two of the African
species is not surpassed by that of any American
species. Yet the ornamental value of their skins
is little known, even among those professionally
engaged in the fur trade. In the catalogues of the
great sales at Sir Charles Lampson’s in College Street,
there is always a column headed “various,” to which
the visitor, tired with the enumeration of the regular
commercial skins by the hundred thousand, always
turns with a sense of curiosity. Most of these are
“dressed” skins, of exceptional rarity and beauty,
sold separately, and not in “lots,” like the pelts of
musquash, beaver, and bear, and exhibited in a room
by themselves instead of by sample. At the last of
these great sales which the writer attended, the
collection in the room set apart for this purpose was
exceptionally interesting, and the buyer of one of the
great wholesale fur dealers marked several of the lots
for purchase. A row of fourteen skins of the northern
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>(Manchurian) tiger, with long, deep fur and magnificent
markings of rich tawny and white, was perhaps
the most striking feature in the room. But dozens of
leopard and lynx hides, Chinese coats of Thibetan
lamb, fleece inwards, ocelot, tiger-cat, and even
pythons’ skins, made up a richly-coloured and curious
collection. Turning over a pile of small unnamed
skins lying on a trestle table, the buyer discovered a
set of monkey hides of a species quite unknown to
him. The prevailing colour was a beautiful iron-grey,
and in the centre of each skin was an oval scutcheon
of the richest chestnut brown. These were at once
marked for purchase, and next day the writer identified
the species to which the skins belong by a visit to the
Zoo. They were those of the Diana monkey of West
Africa, a creature which, though of a thorough monkey
type, has almost the colouring of some of the most
ornamental wild ducks. Its face is black, with a
white crescent on the forehead, and a long white
beard, and a white throat and shoulders. The rest of
the body and fore-legs is mainly of a tint of iron-grey,
speckled all over with a “pepper and salt”
arrangement of dots. In the centre of the back is the
deep chestnut patch which has such a curious effect
in the dressed skin, and the lower parts are a brilliant
pale yellow. The Diana monkey now in the Gardens
is an extremely friendly creature, and spends much
time in stroking and arranging its beautiful fur.
One kept in confinement is said to have always
drawn its beard aside with the hand to prevent its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>being soiled when drinking. The “moustache”
monkey, though not so brightly coloured as the
Diana, is in many respects a most beautiful creature.
It is a medium-sized monkey, five or six times
larger than the tiny squirrel monkey of Guiana,
but the scheme and method of its colouring is much
the same, with the substitution of “powder blue”
for gamboge. In most of the “self-coloured”
monkeys the whole body seems permeated with
some particular colouring matter, black, blue, yellow,
or green, as the case may be, just as human beings
who have been dosed with nitrate of silver acquire a
violet tinge. The colour is brightest in the skin,
especially on the face and hands, but extends all over
the body, shows between the roots of the soft fur,
and seems to climb the hair and colour the “stalk,”
just as the green liquid in which a white carnation is
placed ascends into the flower and tinges it with an
unnatural dye. In the “moustache” monkey the
face and lips are a beautiful “powder” blue, the eyes
bluish smoke-colour, the inside of the ears as blue
as a hyacinth, and the skin which shows between the
soft hair on the arms, legs, and chest a paler turquoise
shade, which makes the greyish fur of the lower
parts a chinchilla colour. The fur on the back is of
yellow and black mixed, shading into the grey of the
abdomen by gradual changes.</p>
<p class='c008'>The inmates of the main cages in the centre of the
house, with the exception of the Capuchins, are nearly
all Old World species, and exhibit much that is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>strange and interesting, and a good deal that is
repulsive in monkey characteristics. Though the
cages seemed first to contain a chance medley of all
sorts, the monkeys are really distributed with due
regard to affinities of continent and species; and a
“synoptic” view of the various tribes behind the bars
shows better than any book the manner in which
certain monkey types, like particular races of mankind,
have either advanced or receded over great tracts of
continent.</p>
<div id='i258' class='figcenter id015'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i258.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Monkeys pelting Coolies with Fir-Cones.</span> <i>From a<br/>Japanese Drawing.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The sole European monkey has retreated literally
to the last stone of the continent, and only lives on
the great cliff of the Rock of Gibraltar, in the
vertical face of which it still maintains itself, midway
between sea and sky. On the cliffs of the opposite
coast they are more plentiful, and its name of
“Barbary Ape” is more appropriate than any
European title. That at the Zoo is a female, a large,
heavy, round-backed monkey, with olive-tinted fur, a
dull, morose face, and a by no means pleasant temper.
Like most large monkeys, it is a far heavier, stronger,
and more active creature than it appears to be when
sitting bunched up on the floor. The big monkeys,
not only the baboons, but creatures like the large
macaques and the Chinese and Japanese monkeys,
have the power of leaping suddenly in almost any
direction without any previous contraction of the
limbs or body. They may be sitting in the most
listless and apparently dejected attitude, and yet in a
moment fling themselves upon an enemy, inflict a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>frightful bite, and be away before he has time for
defence or retaliation. The large Chinese Tcheli
monkey outside the house will usually give an
example of this form of monkey tactics. It is a long-legged,
short-bodied, powerful creature, extremely
heavy and contemplative in manner, and, it must be
owned, an ugly, unpleasant-looking brute, though it
is both loyal and attached to its keeper. If a visitor
pretends to strike the keeper, or use any rough gesture
to him, the monkey catches up and flings whatever
missile happens to be at hand, straight at the
offender’s head, following the shot itself with a furious
and sudden leap, which, if not stopped by the bars,
would bring the animal full upon the head and
shoulders of the person attacked. If nothing else is
available, the monkey flings a handful of sawdust,
with violence and precision, thus preparing the way
for the onset by partly blinding the enemy. Both the
sudden leap and the missile are characteristic of
monkey attack, though the last is the special weapon
of the Chinese and Japanese apes. In the pine forests
of their native country they fling the large and heavy
pine-cones—not light fir-cones, but solid and substantial
missiles—at the heads of intruders; and the
pelting of coolies by the apes is a not unfrequent
subject of Chinese and Japanese paintings. The
Japanese ape occupies an outside cage at the opposite
end of the house to that inhabited by the Tcheli
monkey, which it much resembles.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the large cages in the centre of the Monkey
<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>House the animals are mainly grouped geographically.
African monkeys, such as the velvet, malbrook,
grivet, and green monkey, are in one compartment,
Capuchins and other South American monkeys in
a second, Indian monkeys in a third. One of the
most friendly and amusing is a little “bonnet-monkey,”
not much bigger than a rat. Its face is exactly like
that of an old Chinaman, with the slanting eyes, flat,
short nose, wrinkled and surprised cast of expression,
long upper lip, and hair growing backwards with a
parting. Another odd little monkey is the little Java
pig-tail, “Bob.” He is a most friendly little fellow,
running up and catching hold of the keeper’s arm
the moment he comes near the cage, or putting its
arms round his neck if he leans with his back against
the wires. Bob keeps the whole cage-full in good
spirits with his tricks. He is not the least afraid of
any visitor, catching hold of a human hand or arm in
the most familiar way, though his attention may be
mainly engaged in what is going on among the
monkeys.</p>
<p class='c008'>Though so many species of monkeys are now
known, there is always the chance of the discovery of
some unknown and monstrous ape, because these are
always animals living in the region of the great forests
near the equator. Great forests are now well understood
to be the most inaccessible portions of the
earth. It is no paradox to say, that the range of life
in the ocean abyss, where the explorer gropes for
creatures which have invaded regions lying below
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>miles of superincumbent ocean in eternal darkness and
everlasting cold, may be better known in fifty years
than the list of inhabitants of the Central African
forest, with its horrible incubus of twilight gloom,
and the matted tangle of encroaching vegetation,
which rises solid and unbroken from the rotten soil
beneath to the lowering and electric clouds and
vapours that brood upon its upper surface. This
forbidding region is probably the home of monkeys
large and small, of strange forms and unknown habits,
which will from time to time find their way to the
Zoo, and astonish the visitors to the Monkey House
as much as the first arrival of the ourang-outang and
the gorilla. Even from the well-known Indian hills
a monkey arrived lately which was quite new to the
experience of connoisseurs; and it was at first pronounced
to be a hybrid between a rhesus and a
macaque. It is a large, solemn monkey, with thick
“vandyke-brown” fur, and round, tranquil, brown eyes,
as deliberate in its movements as the larger apes.
Further information identified this monkey as a true
macaque, from the little Himalayan State of Sikkim.
The doubts as to its identity can hardly be matter for
surprise, for the question of the possession of the
State of Sikkim itself was only recently settled between
the Indian and the Chinese Empires after a small
frontier war, and protracted negotiations.</p>
<p class='c008'>So much has been written on the questions of
monkey temper and monkey talk, that the conclusions
of one who has for twelve years watched them daily,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>fed them in health and disease, and has besides that
form of insight into animal character which seems
innate in some persons to a very high and exceptional
degree, deserve some attention. Eustace Jungbluth,
a German of Bremen, is the chief keeper of the
Monkey Palace—tall, handsome, fair, with the
figure of an athlete, and the sound sense of one who
prefers to observe and think, than to think and make
observation square with theory. He also speaks
English, French, and Dutch well, and expresses himself
with great clearness. So far as the present writer
has been able to gather his views in conversation, he
absolutely disbelieves in any form of universal
monkey speech, though each species has its own
special sounds of fear or pleasure, which are naturally
interpreted aright by others of the same kind. The
Capuchin monkeys remain good-tempered always,
as do many of the smaller species. But as a rule
monkey-temper fails after the animals have been for
four or five years in the Gardens, and they become
uncertain and often unsafe. An ounce of fact is
worth a pound of theory. A large monkey escaped
in the evening when it was being transferred to another
cage. It dodged the net, and was outside and had
disappeared almost in a moment. It could not be
found, and spent the night out. Next morning it
was discovered in a tree, and shot before the Gardens
opened. It had been sent to the Zoo because it was
“troublesome,” and it was not considered safe to
leave it at large even for a morning.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>
<h2 class='c006'>LIZARDS AND CROCODILES AT THE ZOO.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>It</span> is hardly matter for surprise that the colubrine
snakes, with their gorgeous colouring and wonderful
form, or the poisonous cobras, rattlesnakes, and puff-adders
which inhabit the closed cases in the Reptile
House at the Zoo, excite more interest and comment
among visitors than the four-footed reptiles, ranging
from the alligators of South America to the tiny
“gecko” lizards of Southern Europe, which have
their abode under the same roof. Yet there is something
peculiarly interesting in these modern survivors
of the ancient saurians which swarmed in the hot and
steaming waters of a prehistoric world, and seem,
like the elephants and rhinoceroses, to carry the
imagination back to the circumstances and surroundings
of a previous though still more ancient era. It
may, perhaps, be taken as evidence of the unfitness
of such survivals for modern times, that the only
inhabitants of the Reptile House which seem to
invite unqualified dislike and disgust are the crocodiles
and alligators which swarm in the large oval tank
<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>in the centre. It seems at first somewhat strange
that creatures, many of which are of a strength and
ferocity almost equal to that of the largest carnivora,
can be kept in safety within the slight barrier formed
by the incurved railing which surrounds the pool;
but the natural strength of the alligator is only
equalled by its sluggishness, and the hideous beasts
are content to doze and feed all day in the warm
and steaming water. The art of crocodile culture is
now fairly understood, and when the baby “basilisk”
is transferred from the cool depths of the watering-pot
in which he spends his infancy, in the nurseries
behind the snakes’ quarters, to the tropical temperature
of the tank, it thrives apace. The monster
alligator, which now measures some ten feet in length,
came from the Mississippi when about twelve months
old, nine years ago. Hideous, huge, and hide-bound
in armour of horn, it swings round like an
enormous eft, and as it lies just beneath the surface
of the water, shows, more clearly than any book can
picture, the curious adaptation to surroundings of
the carnivorous water-lizard. The eyes on their
raised orbits are set like dormer-windows in the
head. The nostrils are two tiny slits in a raised boss
at the end of the nose; apparently the sluggish beast
is a quick breather, for the respirations are at the
rate of twenty-eight per minute, or nearly double
those of a man at rest. Another alligator has been
in the collection for twenty-two years, but does not
yet equal the size of the later comer, owing, it is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>said, to the early days spent in the cold and cramped
quarters provided before the building of the new
house. It is, however, a formidable creature; and
as it sprawls on its stomach across the big tree-stump
in the centre, with its ugly webbed claws dangling
on either side, its mouth partly open, and its tail
drooping in the water, its appearance is sufficiently
repulsive to deter the most well-meaning visitor from
offering the charitable bun. Crocodiles from the
Nile, India, and Ceylon share the waters with the
alligators. The crocodile evidently bears the same
analogy to the alligator as the frog to the toad.
It is lighter in colour and in build, and a more active,
as well as a more malicious creature. Neither is it
so entirely hideous, though the lower jaw shows
projecting tusks like those of a wild boar. The
creature’s eyes, celebrated in connection with the
“crocodile tears,” with which legend declared that
it attracted its sympathizing victims to the bank of
the stream, are highly “decorative,” if not beautiful.
The head, narrow and flat, resembles the head of
a snake; the nose is sharp, and the fixed and motionless
eyes are of the palest dusty gold, set in a short
horny pillar of a deeper golden brown. The crocodile’s
coat of armour is less complete than that of
the alligator; and its quick, vivacious movements
make it far more troublesome to the keepers when
the tank has to be refilled and cleansed, than the
big alligators, which will allow themselves to be used
as stepping-stones as the water ebbs away. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>crocodiles and their kin exhaust the list of noxious
lizards at the Zoo, with one curious exception. The
heloderin, a fat and torpid lizard from Arizona, is
supposed to be the sole existing member of its tribe
which possesses not only the poison-glands which
exist in most of the toads, but also the true poison-teeth,
with a channel for the emission of the venom.
The lizard is about 1½ ft. long, with a fat, fleshy
body, a round tail ending in a blunt point, and a flat
head with squared sides, resembling a small padlock.
The whole body is covered with a curious coat of
scales, like black and pink beads, arranged in an
arabesque pattern. In its daily life it is a dull and
stupid creature, feeding mainly on eggs, which it
breaks and laps with its tongue. Its first and only
victim was a guinea-pig, which was put into its cage
with a view to testing the reports as to its poisonous
nature, which were by no means universally credited.
The lizard bit the guinea-pig in the leg, and the
animal died in a minute and a half—almost as soon
as after the bite of a cobra.</p>
<div id='i264' class='figcenter id016'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i264.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Alligator.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Eggs are favourite food with many lizards and
snakes; but the “monitor,” a very large and handsome
lizard approaching the size of the half-grown
crocodile, is perhaps the most remarkable egg-swallower
of the tribe. It bolts the eggs unbroken,
and the oval morsel may be watched in its slow
descent down the long neck until it disappears in
the lower regions. Many of the smaller lizards in
the house are almost unmatched for quaintness of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>form and beauty of colouring, among the inhabitants
of the Zoo. It sometimes happens that the chameleons
die in winter before the summer stock has
arrived to take their place, as most of those brought
from the Cape die when the vessels enter the cold
atmosphere of the English Channel. But the
“horned lizards” of California are hardly less amusing
in form and habits than the true chameleons. Shaped
like a miniature sole, their backs bristling with pinkish
spikes like the thorns of a briar-rose, they bury
themselves in the sand at the bottom of their cage
until the head only projects, presenting an exact
resemblance to one of the thorny “burrs” which
lie scattered on the Californian desert. If possible,
the lizard remains still until the spiders and other
insects walk unsuspecting into its mouth; but at the
Zoo, where insects are scarce, the horned lizards have
to some extent abandoned concealment, and rush upon
their prey with a suddenness and ferocity most amusing
in such tiny creatures. The writer watched a
violent contest between a horned lizard and a “gecko”
for the possession of a mealworm, which was wriggling
on the sand. The “gecko,” one of the swift and
agile little lizards which are so common in Southern
Europe, was darting down from a branch above just
as the horned lizard made its spring, and each seized
the mealworm at opposite ends. In the tug-of-war
which followed, the ground-lizard proved an easy
winner; and the “gecko” retired defeated, to finish
pulling off its old skin, which hung loosely round
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>its shoulders like a jacket. The cast skin, which
was of an exquisite, semi-transparent grey colour, like
that of a moonstone, was pulled off by the lizard in
long strips, by the aid of its teeth and feet. The
toads perform this operation in a far neater manner,
pulling their cast skins over their heads with their
hands, as a football-player strips off his jersey.</p>
<p class='c008'>Perhaps the tamest, if not the most beautiful among
the smaller reptiles, are the odd little palm-lizards
which have recently arrived at the Zoo. They are
vegetable feeders, and their appetite for cabbage-leaves
is so keen, and the diet supplied so liberal, that after
a hearty meal they resemble a well-stuffed oval pincushion
with a small lizard’s head, feet, and tail
attached to the padding. Yet, even in this condition,
they are ready to eat if fresh food be offered to them,
sitting contentedly in the visitor’s hand, and “swelling
visibly” as they munch their cabbage, like the lady
who excited the alarm of Mr. Weller, senior, at the
Temperance tea. A near neighbour of the palm-lizards
is the existing type of the impostor frog,
who tried to inflate himself to the size of the bullock,
according to the fable. Æsop’s frog, no doubt, lived
in the swamps of Lake Copais; but the strange
creature, which naturalists have named the “adorned
ceratophorus,” but which is nothing but an enormous
fat round caricature of a frog, with a mouth wide
enough to swallow a young chicken, lives in South
America. His daily habit is to bury himself in the
loose earth where small animals, such as rats, mice,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>other frogs, and the young of ground-birds, ducks or
chickens are likely to wander. Half covered with
dry earth, the frog resembles a patch of greenish wet
moss on wet mud. The chicken or rat which approaches
this is immediately seized by an enormous
mouth, which opens and shuts with a snap like the
back of a watch. Like other selfish and greedy
people, this frog is extremely short-tempered and
resentful when its own comfort is interfered with:
and when poked, and otherwise teased, swells its body
out to nearly double its original size, and slowly hops
with gasps and growls after its tormentor in a
paroxysm of rage and excitement.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>
<h2 class='c006'>FROM THE ANIMALS’ POINT OF VIEW.<SPAN name='r13' /><SPAN href='#f13' class='c017'><sup>[13]</sup></SPAN></h2></div>
<div class='footnote c021' id='f13'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r13'>13</SPAN>. </span>The immunity of the keepers at the Zoo from serious injury
or attack by the animals in their charge is <i>à priori</i> evidence that
the animals’ point of view is not necessarily hostile.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'><span class='sc'>One</span> of the most curious and unconsciously
paradoxical claims ever advanced for man in his
relation to animals is that by which M. Georges
Leroy, philosopher, encyclopædist, and <i>lieutenant des
chasses</i> of the Park of Versailles, the vindicator of
Buffon and Montesquieu against the criticisms of
Voltaire, explains in his <i>Lettres sur les Animaux</i>
the intellectual debt which the carnivorous animals
owe to human persecution. He pictures with wonderful
cleverness the development of their powers of
forethought, memory, and reasoning which the interference
of man, the enemy and “rival,” forces upon
them, and the consequent intellectual advance which
distinguishes the <i>loup jeune et ignorant</i> from the <i>loup
adulte et instruit</i>. The philosophic <i>lieutenant des
chasses</i> had before long ample opportunities for comparing
the “affinities” which he had discovered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>between civilized man and “instructed” wolves, in
the experiences of the French Revolution; but without
following his fortunes in those troublous times
for game-preservers, we may perhaps return to the
question of the natural relation of animals to man,
which, as pictured by Rousseau to prove his <i>à priori</i>
notions of a state of nature, so justly incurred the
criticism of the practical observer and practised writer,
M. Georges Leroy.</p>
<p class='c008'>That man is, generally speaking, from the animals’
point of view, an object of fear, hostility, or rapine, is
to-day most unfortunately true. But whether this is
their natural relation, and not one induced, and capable
perhaps of change, is by no means certain. Savage
man, who has generally been first in contact with
animals, is usually a hunter, and therefore an object
of dislike to the other hunting animals, and of dread
to the hunted. But civilized man, with his supply of
bread and beef, is not necessarily a hunter; and it is
just conceivable that he might be content to leave
the animals in a newly-discovered country unmolested,
and condescend, when not better employed, to watch
their attitude towards himself. The impossible island
in <i>The Swiss Family Robinson</i>, in which half the
animals of two hemispheres were collected, would be
an ideal place for such an experiment. But, unfortunately,
uninhabited islands seldom contain more
than a few species, and those generally birds, or sea-beasts;
and in newly-discovered game regions, savage
man has generally been before us with his arrows,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>spears, and pitfalls. Some instances of the first
contact of animals with man have, however, been
preserved in the accounts of the early voyages collected
by Hakluyt and others, though the hungry navigators
were generally more intent on victualling their ships
with the unsuspecting beasts and birds, or on noting
those which would be useful commodities for
“trafficke,” than in cultivating friendly relations with
the animal inhabitants of the newly-discovered islands.
Thus, we read that near Newfoundland there were
“islands of birds, of a sandy-red, but with the multitudes
of birds upon them they look white. The birds
sit there as thick as stones lie in a paved street. The
greatest of the islands is about a mile in compass.
The second is a little less. The third is a very little
one, like a small rock. At the second of these islands
there lay on the shore in the sunshine about thirty or
forty sea-oxen or morses, which, when our boat came
near them, presently made into the sea, and <i>swam
after the boat</i>.” Curiosity, not fear or hostility, was,
then, the emotion roused in the sea-oxen by the first
sight of man. The birds, whales, and walruses in the
Wargate Sea and near Jan Mayen’s Land, were no
less tame, and the sea-lions in the Southern Pacific,
the birds that Barents first discovered in Novaya
Zembla, and even the antelopes which the early
explorers encountered in the least-inhabited parts of
Central South Africa, seem all to have regarded the
newly-discovered creature, man, with interest and
without fear. Sir Samuel Baker, in his <i>Wild Beasts</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span><i>and their Ways</i>, remarks on the “curious and inexplicable
fact that certain animals and birds exhibit
a peculiar shyness of human beings, although they
are only exposed to the same conditions as others
which are more bold.” He instances the wildness of
the curlew and the golden plover, and contrasts it
with the tameness of swallows and wagtails. The
reason does not seem far to seek. The first are
constantly sought for food, the latter are left undisturbed.
Perhaps the best instance of such a contrast
is that of the hawfinch and the crossbill, birds of
closely allied form and appearance. The hawfinch,
which is probably the shyest of English small birds,
seems to have acquired a deep mistrust of man. But
the crossbills, on the rare occasions when they descend
from the uninhabited forests of the North into our
Scotch or English woods, are absolutely without fear
or mistrust of human beings, whom they see very
probably for the first time. When animals do show
fear on first acquaintance, it is probably due, not to
any spontaneous dread of man as man, but because
they mistake him for something else. “Nearly all
animals,” says Sir Samuel Baker, “have some natural
enemy which keeps them on the alert, and makes
them suspicious of all strange objects and sounds that
might denote the approach of danger:” and it is to
this that he attributes the timidity of many kinds of
game in districts where they “have never been
attacked by firearms.” A most curious instance of
this mistaken identity occurred lately when Kerguelen
<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>Island was visited by H.M.S. <i>Volage</i> and a party of
naturalists and astronomers, to observe the transit of
Venus. There were large colonies of penguins nesting
on the island, which, though the place is so little
frequented by man, used at first to run away up the
slopes <i>inland</i> when the sailors appeared. They apparently
took the men for seals, and thus took what
appeared the natural way of escaping from their
marine enemies. They soon found out their mistake,
for it is said that “when they became accustomed to
being chased by men”—an experience for which the
sailors seem to have given them every opportunity—“the
penguins acquired the habit of taking to the
water at the first alarm.” In another colony, the
nesting females would settle down peacefully on their
eggs if the visitors stood still. “The whole of this
community of penguins (they numbered about two
thousand) were subsequently boiled down into ‘hare-soup’
for the officers and men of H.M.S. <i>Volage</i>,”
writes the Rev. A. E. Eaton, “and very nice they
found it.” We may compare with this destruction of
the penguins, the letter of Hakluyt on the voyage to
Newfoundland by Antony Parkhurst, describing with
high approval the business facilities for the fishing
trade offered by the tameness of the great auks,—called
“penguins” in the passage:—“There are seagulls,
musses, ducks, and many other kind of birdes
store too long to write about, especially at one island
named ‘Penguin,’ where we may drive them on a
planke into our ship as many as shall lade her. These
<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>birds are also called penguins, and cannot flie; there
is more meat in one of them than in a goose. The
Frenchmen that fish neere the Grand Bank doe bring
small store of flesh with them, but do victuall themselves
alwayes with these birdes.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The point of view from which the lion or tiger
looks on man, is perhaps not so far removed from
that of the non-carnivorous creatures as might be
supposed. Man is certainly not the natural food of
any animal—except of sharks and alligators, if he is
so rash as to go out of his native element into theirs—and
if the item “man” were subtracted from the
bill-of-fare of all the carnivora, they would never want
a meal. The notion of the natural attitude of a lion
to a young lady,—</p>
<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>“When as that tender virgin he did spye,</div>
<div class='line in1'>Upon her he did run full greedily,</div>
<div class='line in1'>To have at once devoured her tender corse,”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c016'>is still popular, but hardly correct. More probably
the lion would get out of the way politely,—if we may
judge by the pacific behaviour of those in our last-explored
lion-haunt, Mashonaland. M. Georges
Leroy’s contention for the natural affinity, or semi-sympathy,
which should exist between man and the
intelligent hunting animals, is no doubt partly reasonable.
Leigh Hunt, when recording his impressions
of a visit to the Zoological Gardens, was unpleasantly
struck by the <i>incongruity</i> of the notion of being eaten
by a wild beast,—“the hideous, <i>impracticable fellow-creature</i>,
looking one in the face, struggling with us,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>mingling his breath with ours, tearing away scalp or
shoulder-blade.” But the “fellow-creature” is not
nearly so impracticable as he is supposed to be.
More human beings are probably killed by tigers
than by any other wild beast, except by starving
wolves. Yet this is what Sir Samuel Baker has to
say on the subject—“There is a great difference in
the habits of tigers. Some exist upon the game in
the jungles; others prey especially upon the flocks
belonging to the villagers. A <i>few</i> are designated
‘man-eaters.’ These are sometimes naturally ferocious,
and having attacked a human being, <i>may</i> have devoured
the body, and thus acquired a taste for human
flesh; or they <i>may</i> have been wounded on more than
one occasion, and have learnt to regard man as a
natural enemy. But more frequently the ‘man-eater’
is a very old tiger, or more probably tigress, that,
having hunted in the neighbourhood of villages and
carried off some unfortunate woman, has <i>discovered</i>
that it is far easier to kill a native than to hunt
jungle game.” As a rule, the tiger is only anxious to
avoid men; and it is noticed that in high grass tigers
are more dangerous than in forests, because in the
former they cannot be seen, neither can they see, until
the stranger is close upon them. An ancient instance
of the opposite behaviour is that recorded of the new
colonists of Samaria, whom the lions attacked, “and
slew some of them.” A curious inversion of this experience
occurred when the islands in the Brahmaputra,
which were swarming with tigers, were first cultivated.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>The natives, mainly by the aid of traps set with a
bow and arrow, killed off the tigers so fast that the
skins were sold by auction at from eight annas to one
rupee apiece. In this case, the tigers were the first
aggressors by carrying off cattle. But it seems
evident that there exists no <i>à priori</i> reason, founded
in natural antipathy, why man and animals, if we
could reconstruct a “state of nature” in which we
could put civilized, not savage man, should not dwell
together in profound peace, or at least in such peace
as obtains between accidental neighbours. The only
ground for quarrel that seems inevitable is the everlasting
one between the shepherd and the wolf; and
that, after all, is a question, not of prejudice, but of
property.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>
<h2 class='c006'>POSSIBLE PETS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> number of animals which with ordinary tact
and kindness can be tamed by man is so great, that
the range of possible pets would seem almost co-extensive
with the limits of the animal world. But
tame tigers must, as a rule, remain a luxury for
Sultans and Sarah Bernhardts, and the sociable bear
be left to the professional gentlemen who make a
living from his society. We say “as a rule,” not without
reason, because there is hardly any limit to an
Englishman’s fancy for pets. The writer was requested
last year to act as a friendly broker to bid for the
bear which found its way so often to the London
Police Courts after being exhibited before the Queen
at Windsor. The would-be purchaser was a worthy
butcher before whose shop the bear was being exhibited,
while the writer heard its history from the
genial and dirty foreigner who owned it. “Sir,” said
the butcher,” excuse the liberty; but would you
kindly ask that Frenchman what he will take for the
bear?” “Certainly,” we replied, “if you will say
why you want it; is it for professional purposes?”—for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>the bear was fat. “Oh, no! I should not think
of such a thing,” said the butcher. “I want him
for a pet.” “Very well; how high will you go?” we
asked. “Up to ten pounds,” the butcher replied.
But though we did our best, the owner would not
accept less than eight hundred francs, to the great
disappointment of the would-be purchaser. What is
required for an every-day pet is that it shall be
beautiful and intelligent; that it shall neither be too
large nor too delicate; and, if a bird, that it shall
sing or talk—preferably both. The two first requirements
will not go far to limit the choice. Beauty
of form and harmony of colour are the almost inseparable
attributes of that physical perfection which the
natural life of animals demands; and he would be a
rash man who classed any of the more highly
organized animals as “stupid” without trial.</p>
<p class='c008'>But there are “diversities of gifts,” and the exquisite
beauty of the silky little chinchilla must be
held to compensate for the want of the lively cleverness
of the coati-mundi or the Capuchin monkeys.
The limits set by size and constitution are the main
consideration in the choice of pets. Yet even so the
possible range is very great, and might well extend
far beyond the species which form the main body
of those usually seen in this country. To begin with
our native animals, who has seen a tame hare?
Most school-boys have kept tame rabbits by the dozen—singularly
uninteresting pets when shut up all
day in a box munching cabbage-stalks—and generally
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>turned over to younger sisters in favour of a terrier
puppy after brief possession. Yet even after the experience
of tame hares so charmingly told by Cowper,
the most domestic of poets, the hare is neglected as a
pet. Yet its form and fur are beautiful, and so far as
the writer has been able to judge of this, perhaps one
of the least carefully observed, except for persecution,
of our wild animals, the hare is a clever, affectionate
creature, as far above the rabbit in the scale of intelligence
as it is in physique. Last spring, after a late
fall of snow, an old hare brought her leverets from
the hill, and hid them in a straw-stack near a farm,
and remained constantly near them all day, coming
to them regularly as soon as the twilight made it
safe. They are bold as well as affectionate, and
have been known to drive off a hawk which was
carrying away a young one, springing up and striking
the bird as it flew low above the ground; and their
attachment to locality is so great, that even if kept at
large, they would probably not leave their owner’s
grounds.</p>
<p class='c008'>A charming little foreign pet for the house is the
suricate, or meer-cat. This pretty creature, which,
if we remember rightly, was among the number of
Frank Buckland’s animal companions, is an active
and vivacious little fellow, some 10 in. long, with
greenish-brown fur, large bright eyes, a short pointed
nose and dainty paws, which, like the squirrel’s or
the racoon’s, are used as hands, to hold, to handle,
and to ask for more. Eloquent in supplication,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>tenacious in retention, the suricate’s paws are expressive,
plaintive, and wholly irresistible. The creature
is made for a pet, and is so affectionate to its master
that it can undergo any degree of “spoiling” without
injury to its temper. A larger, more beautiful, and
most charming creature, not unlike the suricate in
some respects, though in no way related to it, is the
brown opossum from Tasmania. “Sooty Phalanger”
is the elegant name given to it by naturalists; but
except when the specimen kept by the writer discovered
that a chimney made a good substitute for
a hollow tree for its midday sleep, there was nothing
in its appearance to justify the scientific adjective.
The fur is of the richest dark-brown, and covers its
prehensile tail like a fur boa. Its head is small, with
a pink nose and very large brown eyes; and it has
a “compound” hand, with the claws on its fingers,
and an almost human and clawless thumb, with the
aid of which it can hold a wine-glass, or eat jam out
of a teaspoon. That owned by the writer was, without
exception, the most fearless and affectionate pet
he has ever known. In the evening, when it was
most lively, it would climb on to the shoulder of any
of its visitors, and take any food given it. It had
a mania for cleanliness, always “washing” its hands
after taking food, or even after running across the
room, and was always anxious to do the same office
by the hands of any one who fed it. It made friends
with the dogs, and would “wash” their faces for them,
catching hold of an old setter’s nose with its sharp
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>little claws, to hold it steady while it licked its face.
The staircase and banisters furnished a gymnasium
for exercise in the winter, and in summer it could
be trusted among the trees in the garden. This
opossum is becoming scarce, owing to the demand
for its fur; but there is little doubt that specimens
could still be bought for a moderate sum. That
owned by the writer cost three pounds. The
American grey squirrel is a common and hardy
species, which becomes very tame, though scarcely so
pretty as our red squirrel; and the South American
coatis, especially the small kind, are most amusing
pets; though, like the mongoose, they need to be kept
warm. All the coatis are sociable, lively creatures,
quite omnivorous, and with as many odd tricks as
a monkey. The mongoose, that “familiar” of Indian
households, has such a natural bias for human society,
that, according to Mr. Kipling, it will often come
into a house from the jungle, and voluntarily enrol
itself among the members of the family. It is a slim,
active little animal, varying from a foot to nearly two
feet in length, of a curious mottled silvery-grey colour,
and so amazingly rapid in its movements that its
victory over the cobra is not surprising. Provided
that it is kept warm in winter, it will live well in
an English home, and loses none of those domestic
qualities which make it such a favourite in India.
The marmot and the viscacha, or prairie-dog, are
amusing little fellows, and if allowed the use of a
small enclosure in which the marmots can burrow and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>make hay for the winter, and the viscachas make their
“collections” of curiosities, either species would,
no doubt, add to the interest of an English country
house. But as both the marmot and the viscacha
hibernate in winter, their owner must be prepared
for their disappearance underground from Christmas
until March.</p>
<p class='c008'>There is only one monkey which we can thoroughly
recommend as an indoor pet, the beautiful and intelligent
little Capuchin. The marmosets, even more
beautiful and equally pleasing, are too delicate for our
climate, and die of colds and coughs after the first fogs
of winter. But the lively little Capuchins may be kept
for years in an English house; and no monkey
approaches their good-temper and pretty winning
ways. They all have good round heads, with black
fur on the top and light-brown on the cheeks. Some
have pinkish faces, and others dark-brown skins, with
eyes like brown jewels. Their faces are most expressive,
and seldom still, for they take deep and abiding interest
in everything in or about their cages. One kept in a
large house in Leicestershire had learnt to put out
burning-paper, which it did most adroitly by beating
it with its hands or knocking it against the floor.
Another, which was kept at the Zoo, would, if it got a
match, collect a heap of straw, strike the match, light
its bonfire, and dance round it. This dangerous
accomplishment led to its removal from the cages on
Saturdays and Bank-holidays, when the crowd makes
it difficult to keep a watch on its movements. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>Capuchin is so small, so pretty, and so clever, that it
seems to embody all the good and none of the bad
points of monkey nature.</p>
<p class='c008'>No one who has seen pumas when kindly treated
in captivity can doubt the justice of the impression
that these friendly and beautiful cats at once produce,
that they <i>must</i> be suited for pets and companions. The
general verdict of South Americans as to their gentleness
and natural liking for man, even when wild on
the Pampas, is given in some detail in a later chapter
on Animal Temper. There was at least one puma
kept as a pet in this country, by Captain Marshall,
the owner of a unique private menagerie at Marlow
on the Thames. Reports of a gentleman, “with a
tame lioness by his side,” having been seen sitting
by a lock gate on the Thames, evidently pointed
to the taming, not of a lioness, which, however
domesticated among those whom it knows, would
be too dangerous and uncertain a creature to take
abroad, but of a puma, which, being neither striped
nor spotted, would be at once described as a “lioness”
by the ordinary “man in a boat.” This was the case,
and the following is Captain Marshall’s short account
of his late pet, for unfortunately it died of liver-complaint
before the writer could ask to make its
acquaintance. “My big full-grown puma,” writes
its master, “was as tame as a cat. It was kept for
months on a chain and collar, and could be led
about. It would rest its head on my lap, and I
could pull it about as much as I liked. I also had a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>baby one, but she was <i>not</i> tame.” The lovely snow
leopard, which came to the Zoo in 1894, was a
lady’s pet. It had always been fed upon cooked
meat, and was perfectly tame. The writer has patted
it as it lay in its box in the Lion House, and it
merely looked up exactly like a sleepy grey Angora
cat. Yet this was a full-grown leopard, in perfect
condition and health, living in the next cage to one
of the black variety, which was almost the wildest
creature in the menagerie.</p>
<p class='c008'>Those who possess an aviary may be interested to
hear that at the Zoo, blackcaps, whitethroats, garden-warblers,
and nightingales, all birds of passage, are
living in excellent health through the winter; and one
nightingale was singing on December 29, but the
song, though very beautiful, was not a true nightingale’s
note, but largely borrowed from that of the
bulbul in the next aviary, the bird being a young one,
caught in the autumn. It is evident, from the experiment
at the Zoo, that our summer warblers may be
kept as pets; but the bird of all others suited for the
aviary, but neglected as a rule in England, is the
bulbul. The Persian variety has the finest song, but
the Indian is an even prettier bird, and sings exquisitely.
In appearance, the bulbuls are not unlike
the Bohemian waxwing, with a black conical top-knot,
cinnamon-coloured backs, red-and-white or yellow-and-white
cheeks, and white breasts, with some bright
colour near the tail. The note is most liquid and
beautiful, and the bird has a pretty habit of varying
<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>the volume of the sound, singing loudly in the open,
and almost whispering its song to its master or mistress
if confined in a room. We might do worse than
follow the example of the Persians, and make the
bulbul our favourite cage-bird, instead of the canary.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE PARIS ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS IN THE TWO SIEGES.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Here</span> is an odd scene in the Jardin des Plantes at
the end of April 1871. The communards were defending
the ramparts, and a steady rain of shells had
been pouring in from the Versaillist batteries for a
week. Every one in Paris was “stale” from continued
siege and bombardment. War had lost all
its excitement, and nothing relieved its squalid discomfort.
An order to impress all citizens for the
National Guard had just been issued, and one of these,
M. Henri de Goncourt, an author, a man of taste,
and a man of peace, had wandered into the Jardin des
Plantes, partly from sheer ennui, partly, as he would
have us believe, in the hope that he might find an
empty loose box of a deer or antelope, in which he
could sleep, and escape the <i>réquisition militaire</i> of the
omnipotent M. <i>Pipe-en-Bois</i>. He found a party of
National Guards sauntering round the Gardens, conducted
by a philosophical Republican, who halted
his squad in front of the kangaroos’ cages, and gravely
took for his text the maternal virtues of “<i>Citoyenne</i>”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span><i>Kanguroo</i>, begging them, “with emotion,” to observe
the contrast of the animal, which always carried its
infant in its pocket, with the indifference of “<i>les
femmes aristo</i>” to their babies! The republican zeal
for improving the occasion is typical of the frame
of mind to which the average Parisian can always
bring himself and his audience over any political
or patriotic question, on the most trifling occasion,
a kind of conscious insincerity which his hearers
agree to share in order to enjoy the sentiment of the
moment. But the time and occasion are not often
so comical. The observer of the scene, M. de
Goncourt, a writer steeped in the literary life of Paris,
a life which the siege had starved and crushed, leaving
the poor man in a state of acute <i>mental</i> starvation
very curiously shown in his journal of the siege,
declared that the animals which had survived the first
siege, or had been introduced to the Gardens after
the Prussian occupation, were almost as bored by the
loss of their “public” as he was at the loss of his.
“The animals,” he says, “are silent. The elephant,
<i>abandonné de son public</i>, leaning indolently against
the wall, was eating his hay with the air of a man
compelled to dine alone.</p>
<p class='c008'>In the first siege, the animals of the Paris Zoo
which could by any means be classed as “game”
or venison early found their way into the butchers’
and game-dealers’ shops. As early as October 3
two large stags were exposed for sale; at the
same time big tame carps, which had adorned the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>fountains in the Gardens, were rubbing their purple
noses against the sides of a baby’s bath, set upon the
counter, and a young bear, freshly killed, its broad
paws clenched in death, was hanging like a sheep
from the hooks above, destined for auction by hungry
Parisians on the following day. On the last night
of the old year, in the shop of the butcher Roos, in
the Boulevard Haussmann, far less appetizing viands
were the subject of a sale, which for the moment was
invested with an interest equal to that attending an
auction of masterpieces of art at Christy’s. The last
batch of animals from the Jardin d’Acclimatation was
on offer, to supply the materials for a New Year’s
dinner. The trunk of “Pollux,” a young elephant,
was the central attraction, and among a number of
unfamiliar heads and horns, a shopman was pointing
to a pile of camel steaks.</p>
<p class='c008'>The butcher was concluding his speech, in the
centre of a circle of women—</p>
<p class='c008'>“It is forty francs a pound, for the filet or the ribs.
Yes—forty francs. Dear, you say? Not at all; I do
not see my way to making a penny on it. I counted
on 3000 lbs., and he (the elephant) has only cut up
into 2300 lbs. The feet—you ask the price of the
feet?—are twenty francs; the other portions eight
francs to fourteen francs a pound. Allow me to
recommend the elephant sausage; there is onion in
my sausage, ladies and gentlemen!”</p>
<p class='c008'>De Goncourt was able to purchase two larks for
his breakfast—like the toasted mice of the hero of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>Bulwer Lytton’s <i>Parisians</i>, “dainty, but not nutritious.”
That evening he found, at Voisins, the
famous elephant sausage, <i>and he dined on it</i>.</p>
<p class='c008'>The rarer animals from the Jardin d’Acclimatation
in the Bois de Boulogne were transferred before the
siege to the Jardin des Plantes. These were mostly
bought by the proprietor of the English butcher’s
shop, M. Debos; he also bought the elephants of
the Jardin des Plantes for 27,000 francs. “Personally,
I have eaten the flesh of elephants, wolves, cassowaries,
porcupines, bears, kangaroos, rats, cats, and horses,”
says the author of the <i>Englishman in Paris</i>. His
views on these creatures as articles of food are only
given at length in the case of the dog, cat, and horse.
The last was supposed to have become a recognized
part of the food supply of Paris in the year before
the siege, but it never acquired any popularity. “It
is very curious, but a positive fact nevertheless, that
I have heard Parisians speak favourably afterwards
of dog’s and cat’s flesh, even of rats baked in a pie;
I have heard them say, that for once in a way, and
under ordinary circumstances, they would not mind
partaking of those dishes; I have never heard them
express the same good-will towards horse-flesh.
One thing is certain. At the end of the siege, the
sight of a cat or dog was a rarity in Paris, while
by the official reports there were thirty thousand
horses left.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The same writer records the opinion of an officer
who was most successful in “siege cookery” on the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>subject of the dog as food. This gentleman, aided
by a soldier servant, had made an excellent dish of
“larks,” which turned out to be field-mice, slightly
flavoured with saffron to disguise their musky taste.
“You may disguise anything with saffron except
dog’s flesh. His meat is oily and flabby; stew him,
fry him, do what you will, there is always a castor-oil
flavour remaining, which cannot be got rid of. The
only way to minimize that flavour, to make him
palatable, is to salt or rather pepper him; to cut
him up into large slices and leave them a fortnight,
bestrewing them very liberally with peppercorns.
Then before cooking them, put them into boiling
water for a time, and throw the water away.”</p>
<p class='c008'>All palates do not seem to have disliked dog so
greatly. At Brebant’s, where M. Renan and other
leading writers dined regularly during the siege, a
“saddle of mutton” was brought in. “We shall
have the shepherd served up to-morrow,” said M.
Hébrard. It was explained that it was a “<i>très belle
selle de chien</i>,” and that this was the third time they
had eaten dog.</p>
<p class='c008'>“No, no,” exclaimed M. Saint-Victor, horrified.
“M. Brebant is a respectable man—he would have
told us—horse, <i>not</i> dog.”</p>
<p class='c008'>“Dog or mutton,” said Nefftzer, his mouth full,
“I have never eaten a better <i>rôti</i>. If Brebant would
give you rat, it is excellent, a mixture of pork and
partridge.”</p>
<p class='c008'>During this dissertation poor M. Renan, who
<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>appeared preoccupied and thoughtful, grew pale, then
green, threw his five francs on the table, and left
hurriedly.</p>
<p class='c008'>The result of the compulsory experiments in food
during the siege will not be much assistance to guide
the work of acclimatization, or to aid in the discovery
of a new meat, either from the menageries of the
Zoological Gardens, or our beasts of burden, though
all the needful accessories of good cooks, good wines,
and good company were available to secure success.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>
<h2 class='c006'>OTHER BEASTS OF BURDEN.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> failure of the Zoological Society to establish
any new draught animal in this country seems to show
that as long as an Englishman can get a horse, he tries
to do without any other beast of burden. The use
of dogs is no longer legal, and we have nearly discarded
the sturdy ox, even for ploughing. A few are
to be seen in Wiltshire and on the Cotswold Hills;
in Berkshire there are some half-dozen teams, among
them a famous quartette of red steers belonging to
Sir William Throckmorton; and Mr. Beresford
Hope’s team of “sheeted” Dutch oxen, black giants
with white “sheets” of identical shape, is one of the
sights of the farm at Bedgebury in Sussex; but
outside these counties we know of none in England.</p>
<p class='c008'>Were we right to legislate against the use of dogs
for draught? A careful inquiry has been made in
Brussels, and the verdict is that dogs are more useful
than horses for minor town traffic—quieter, cleaner,
and cheaper. “The first distinctive institution that
attracts the attention of a stranger in Belgium,” writes
the Consul, “is the working-dog. Liège is a city of
great wealth and industry, employing as many horses
<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>as any other town of its size in Europe; and yet for
every horse, at least two dogs are to be seen in its
streets.” In the early morning, we are told, the
boulevards are literally alive with them. The butcher,
the baker, the grocer, the porter, carriers of all kinds,
engage the dog’s services. His step is so much
quicker than that of the horse, that he will in an
hour cover twice as much ground, and he carries with
him a greater burden in proportion to his size. Six
hundred pounds is the usual weight for an ordinary
dog, though a mastiff often draws as much again.
They cost about 3<i>d.</i> a day to keep on black bread
and horse-flesh, and draught-dogs are now carefully
bred, mastiffs crossed with the bull-dog to give lungs
and chest fetching the highest prices, averaging from
£4 to £6. The Consul concludes by stating his
opinion that “there is not an article of merchandise,
from a ton of coals to a loaf of bread, sold in our
cities, which might not be more advantageously
delivered by dogs than horses.” The Consul is
doubtless thinking of ordinary “tradesmen’s” deliveries.
It would be ridiculous to expect dogs to
take the place of the brewers’ dray horses, or the
railway-goods horses,—but his views certainly deserve
consideration. In England, where their use was once
common, we seem to look on dogs as only suitable
for draught inside the Arctic circle. The absence of
a strong shoulder and hard hoofs suggests cruelty in
their employment. Nothing in Holland and Belgium
gives an Englishman a keener sense of discomfort
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>than seeing dogs in carts. His first impulse is to
protest against it as ill-usage. In reply he will learn
that a careful inquiry had been held many years ago;
that Mr. Grantley Berkeley, whose personal affection
for animals, as shown in his <i>Memoirs</i>, was almost a
passion, had been consulted, and that the verdict had
been in favour of continuing their use. Many
months of careful observation confirmed this view.
No animal so enjoys his work, or does it so willingly,
as a dog. Except the elephant, no other animal can
be trusted to work alone like the smugglers’ dogs
between France and Belgium, or collies watching
sheep. They are scarcely ever struck or beaten either
in Holland or Belgium. They do not fight, and the
only drawbacks to their use are their readiness to
attack a stranger who approaches their cart when
left in their charge, and the severe hydrophobia
“scares” which their numbers at times produce.
They are exuberantly happy in their daily work, and
come of their own accord at the right hour to be
harnessed. Small dogs in little carts are always
ready and anxious to race against big ones; and
though at the Hague the barking and galloping of
dogs within the city-bounds is forbidden, as “furious
driving” is here, the dogs, when returning with empty
carts, may race as much as they please. Two little
boys, with their cart drawn by a sturdy bull-terrier,
used often to wait for and race a couple of half-bred
mastiffs drawing a cart with two men, the owners
running alongside, and jumping on when the carts—mere
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>narrow shelves like all dog-carts, whether on
wheels or sledges—were going at ten miles an hour.
There may be cruelty, just as in the use of any other
creature. But men are always hardest on a sluggish
animal. One donkey suffers more than twenty dogs.
The legislation which stopped their use in England
was nominally humanitarian. But it has often been
asserted, that it was chiefly due to the objection which
persons who drove horses entertained for dog-carts,
and to the country gentleman’s dislike of dogs as
enemies to game. We should be sorry to see dogs
replace ponies in common use. But it should not
be illegal to employ them. We have seen a little
Pomeranian helping to pull its invalid master’s chair,
and evidently proud of its work. In this case, it
would have been difficult for the policeman to put the
law in force. In snow-time we have harnessed a
setter and a retriever to a toboggan-sledge, and they
enjoyed the fun quite as much as their master,—indeed,
they upset us at the first corner.</p>
<p class='c008'>The English reliance on horses, big and little, is
almost justified by the wonderful adaptation for
manifold uses which careful breeding has produced.
The work of the dog must, in civilized countries, be
limited to petty draught on well-made roads and in
towns. In the Arctic circle he is a necessity to man
as a beast of burden. When the Greenland dogs die,
the Greenlander must become extinct. It is impossible
for him to drag home the seals, sharks, white whales,
and narwhals, which he shoots on the ice, without his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>dogs, or for the Eskimo to make his long migrations
with his family and household goods to fresh hunting-grounds
without their aid. If the epidemic of rabies
which half-destroyed their teams had not been arrested
by the ice-fiord of Jacobshaven, the Greenlanders
would by now have been pensioners on Danish
charity. It was noticed, as evidence of the absolute
dependence of the Arctic man upon the services of
the Arctic dog as a beast of burden, that whenever a
native lost his dogs, he went very rapidly down-hill in
the scale of Eskimo respectability, and became a sort
of hanger-on to the fortunate possessor of a sledge-team.
Exactly the same degradation has been observed
in the case of the Tartar who is too poor to
keep his horse, and a corresponding rise in the social
scale of the “foot” Indians of Patagonia, when a
neighbouring tribe of horse-Indians lent them horses,
and provided them with hunters to teach their use in
the capture of game. On good ground, a team of
six Eskimo dogs will draw a load of from eight to ten
hundred-weight at a speed of seven miles an hour.
Large teams, with light sledges and little except the
driver to carry, are wonderfully rapid. Kane, the
Arctic traveller, was carried for seven hundred miles
at an average rate of fifty-seven miles a day.
Lieutenant Schwatka sent two Eskimo with a double
team of forty dogs, the sledge having its runners
“iced” by pouring water over them, to the rescue of
a half-frozen sailor, who was viewed from the ship at
a distance of ten miles across an ice-covered bay just
<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>before nightfall. Two drivers sat on either side of
the sledge, with knives to cut the harness of any dog
that might stumble and be dragged to death, and the
sledge was driven at perhaps the highest speed ever
known. The dash of ten miles was accomplished in
twenty-two and a half minutes. But creditable as such
an achievement is to the half-starved descendants of
the Arctic wolf, the strongest evidence against the use
of the dog for general draught purposes is the fact,
that wherever the surface, even in the snow regions, is
sound and safe for any other creature than the light
and active dogs, the reindeer, or, in the more southerly
districts, the horse, at once takes its place. There is
one exception, the great Thibetan mastiff, which
stands apart. These dogs, the largest in size of any
native and unimproved breed, cross the mountains
regularly as beasts of burden, and bring their loads as
far as Darjeeling. For size, courage, and general utility
they are probably the finest race of dogs in the world.</p>
<p class='c008'>But as a rule in Asia the dog is the draught animal
of the inferior races. Mr. Nordenskiold, in his voyage
in the <i>Vega</i> to the Asiatic shore of the Behring Sea,
noticed a marked difference between the “Dog
Chukchs,” the inhabitants of the coast, and the
“Reindeer Chukchs” of the interior. The latter
were better clothed and in better circumstances.
Both showed great kindness to their animals, which
is unusual among semi-savages. The “Coast
Chukchs” always carried dog-shoes, neatly-made
bags of soft leather, with straps attached, to put on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>their dogs’ feet if cut by the sharp snow. The herd
of a “Reindeer Cutch” came down from the pasture
every morning to meet their master. The leading
stag came first; and bade him good-morning by
gently rubbing his nose against his master’s hands.
All the other deer were then allowed to do the same,
the master taking each by the horn, and carefully
examining its condition. The inspection over, the
herd then wheeled, and returned to the pasture. It
would be difficult to name another beast of burden so
tame and so efficient as the reindeer. A good reindeer
will travel one hundred miles a day over frozen
snow, and can draw a weight of three hundred pounds;
thus surpassing the dog by one-half in distance and
two-thirds in drawing power. The loads carried by
the camels of the Heavy Camel Corps across the
Bayuda Desert were very little heavier than those
drawn by the reindeer across the Northern steppes.
Including the rider, the average weight was about
three hundred and forty-two pounds. Even so,
they were over-weighted, and the little Egyptian horses
ridden by the Hussars, who accompanied the column,
were less exhausted than the larger beasts when the
forced march was completed. The llama, admirable
as it was for climbing the step-roads of the Incas,
which ruined Pizarro’s horses, is only an inferior
camel; and the yak, Thibetan goat, and buffalo are
highly specialized forms, suited to particular climates
and conditions. The water-buffalo is the one domestic
animal which evolves the enthusiasm and affection of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>the Chinaman. He loves it as the Hindoo does his
cow, and paddles by its side in the squashy rice-fields,
with a smiling contentment on his bland
countenance, due to a feeling that in his buffalo he
owns the one thing needful to make his husbandry a
success and satisfaction. Of all the creatures of the
flowery land, it is the only one which the Celestial
takes with him into the countries of the barbarians
into which he migrates. Long ago the Chinaman in
Singapore and the Straits Settlements became a
buffalo breeder, and now he has imported them into
the Sandwich Islands. There also the trotting ox is
now established, and is regularly ridden by the Kanaka
boys. The breed is maintained in great purity, and
for pace and size they match the best animals of the
Indian plains.</p>
<p class='c008'>But the elephant must still hold the first place
as a beast of burden. His normal load is eight
hundred pounds, so that in India he is reckoned equal
to eight ponies, to five pack-mules or stout bullocks,
and to three and one-third of a camel. Next to the
elephant in general usefulness we should be inclined
to place the “trotting ox” of India. “All Indian
oxen can be trained to trot,” says Mr. Lockwood
Kipling. “The sloping quarter and straight hock
may possibly account for something in their more
horselike gait. One of the first things to strike a
stranger is the hurrying ox. The rekla, a light two-wheeled
cart drawn by a pair of oxen, cheap, speedy,
and convenient, is the hansom cab of the natives of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>Bombay. All through the Mahratta country the ox
is the common draught-animal, differing in speed and
size according to the work for which he is required.
Cattle of the Nagore breed, used by rich men to draw
their state carriages, used to be kept near Delhi for
carrying despatches. Mr. Youatt was informed that
they would travel with a soldier on their back fifteen
or sixteen miles in the day, at the rate of six miles an
hour. The Nagore cattle have none of the awkward
swinging motion of the legs of the English cow.
They bring their hind-legs under them in as straight
a line as the horse. “They are very active,” continues
Mr. Youatt, “and can clear a five-barred gate with
the greatest ease.” One owner possessed a calf
which would jump an iron railing higher than a gate,
and a bull which would leap the same railing to go
to water, and having drunk, leap back again.</p>
<p class='c008'>Napoleon borrowed his idea of bullock transport
for the first stages of his Russian campaign from the
Indian army. But the Indian bullocks are shod,
Napoleon’s were not, and the bullock transport was
ruined before the frontier of Poland was reached.
But even if this important detail had received attention,
it may be doubted whether a large experiment
in the use of a new beast of burden ever succeeds in
an old country. Natural selection never proceeds
faster than when controlled by human necessity, and
though the dog may be reinstated in the tradesman’s
carts, the ox continues to disappear from the dwindling
area of arable land in this country.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE SOLDIER’S CAMEL.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'>“<span class='sc'>Bactrian</span> camels,” says Major A. Leonard in his
work on the <i>Camel, its Uses and Management</i>,<SPAN name='r14' /><SPAN href='#f14' class='c017'><sup>[14]</sup></SPAN> “or
those from Afghanistan, or any such cold climate,
would thrive just as well in a re-mount depôt in
England as they do at the Zoo. What in the world
is to prevent their introduction into this country, and
the formation of camel and mule transports? Nothing,
that I can see.”</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f14'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r14'>14</SPAN>. </span>Longmans, Green and Co., London. 1874.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Major Leonard speaks with the authority of one
who has spent sixteen years as a transport officer, and
if the suggestion which he makes, based as it is on the
observation of the good health and long lives enjoyed
by the northern camels at the Zoological Gardens, be
adopted by the War Office, the original intention of
the founders of the Society, to make their Gardens an
example of what was possible in the way of acclimatization,
would be fulfilled in an unexpected quarter.</p>
<div id='i302' class='figcenter id017'>
<ANTIMG src='images/i302.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='c001'><span class='sc'>Bactrian Camel.</span> <i>From a photograph by Gambier<br/>Bolton.</i></span></p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The reason for Major Leonard’s suggestion is to be
found in the failure in the management of our camel
<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>transport in war-time. The natural liking of Englishmen
for domestic animals of all kinds is quite equalled
by the skill they usually show in their management.
Yet the sufferings of our transport animals in war are
such as at any other time would cause a pang to the
national conscience. It is a fact that the feeling of
humanity, which will not tolerate the overcrowding of
a cattle-ship, is scarcely shocked when, as in the
Afghan War, twenty-thousand camels perish, mainly
from mismanagement, or when a transport officer can
write of the fate of those creatures in the Nile Expedition—“Seeing,
as I have done, hundreds and thousands
of camels die from sheer exhaustion, brought on
by neglect and ill-treatment, arising from down-right
stupidity, obstinacy, and ignorance, is enough to make
one ashamed of having had any connection with the
business.” The push across the Bayuda Desert was
a race against time; yet it hardly seems consonant
with the usual fairness of Englishmen to their
“mounts,” that of the thousand camels used, probably
not one survived the treatment it received; and Count
Gleichen, writing after service with the Camel Corps
throughout the war, says, “I am afraid we looked
upon them as mere machines for carrying, and hardly
thought of their sufferings from hunger and thirst as
long as they could be whacked along.” This was
after the battle of Metemmeh. Of the same example
of cruel and disastrous mismanagement Sir C. Rivers
Wilson says—“The camels had been without water
for from six to seven days, having been accustomed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>to water every second or third day. They were on
one-third rations, which they did not always get. For
thirty-seven hours they were tied down so tightly in
the zeribah before Abu Klea, that they could not
move a limb, and I doubt if they were fed at all during
that time. Then for sixteen hours they were on the
march, and tied down for another twenty-four hours
without any food. The result almost justified the
saying, that we thought we had found in the camel an
animal which required neither food, drink, nor rest;
we certainly acted as if the camel were a piece of
machinery.” Except during the time of battle, all
this cruelty to the animals and waste of mobility in
the force was unnecessary. The so-called “desert”
was full of food and well supplied with water. On the
day before the retreat from Metemmeh, a camel convoy
of the friendly Kababish came in across the desert in
perfect condition. “It made my mouth water,” writes
an officer, “to see these magnificent, well-fed brutes
swinging along, each with its load balanced on its
hump.” His own beast had holes in its skin into
which you could have put a cocoa-nut. Read in the
light of these facts, the inimitable ballad in which Mr.
Rudyard Kipling sums up the miseries of the commissariat-camel,
and the incompetence of the uninstructed
British private to manage it, is an invitation
to substitute common-sense and kindness for ignorance
and cruelty in the treatment of the four-footed army
which helps to fight our battles.</p>
<p class='c008'>Major Leonard has been engaged in this service in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>Afghanistan, South Africa, India, and the Soudan.
That is in itself a credential for his book; for no one
not possessed of an equable and reflective temper could
have gone through his experiences and yet be enthusiastic
over his branch of the profession, and, above
all, over what he justly calls that “little-known and
strangely unsympathetic animal,” the camel. Yet
Major Leonard’s practical experience leads him to
the conclusion that, of all transport animals, it is the
best for military use in the East. Incidentally, he
gives us an historical note on Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s
immortal ballad on the Commissariat Camel—</p>
<p class='c008'>“The driver question in Afghanistan was enough to
appal the heart of the stoutest transport officer. They
deserted, and soldiers had to be told off to act as
drivers. On December 20, 1878, I had to leave 161
bags of Commissariat stores on the ground, many of
the drivers having deserted, and taken their camels with
them. This is a common trick of the Sind drivers.
They go back by a circuitous route, and in many cases—it
is said—are re-engaged by the Commissariat.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The place assigned to the camel in this estimate need
not raise any bright ideal of the creature as a travelling
companion. Mr. R. Kipling’s remark, that you might
as well lavish your affections on a luggage-van as on
a camel, still holds good. But there is a balance in
favour of the camel when compared with other Oriental
beasts of burden. The experiences of a single march,
noted by Major Leonard, gives a glimpse of the comparative
“cussedness” of different transport animals,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>which is as fresh as it is amusing. The occasion was
the advance of the Candahar force from Quetta in the
last Afghan War. At the crossing of the river Lora,
at the foot of the Kojak-Amran range, the camels were
swallowed up wholesale in the quicksands, owing
entirely to their extraordinary stupidity. We quote
this incident first, because the one serious drawback to
the use of the camel consists precisely in this strange
insensibility to danger—</p>
<p class='c008'>“The river was not very broad, and not more than
two feet deep in any part of the stream; but the bed
was full of quicksands, in whose treacherous depths
many an unfortunate camel perished. It is only
natural to suppose, that by sheer force of example
an ordinarily intelligent animal would have learnt to
avoid the danger, by seeing those which preceded it
sinking deeper and deeper out of sight. Yet these
camels plodded steadily on into the quicksands,
though those which had preceded them were disappearing
so fast that in many cases only their necks and
heads were visible.”</p>
<p class='c008'>Not a single horse, elephant, or mule, was lost in this
way in crossing the ford, and they one and all displayed
a marked and consistent caution which was clearly the
result of reason—</p>
<p class='c008'>“One elephant, which the officer commanding the
6-11 Battery of the Royal Artillery lent to assist in
extricating some camels which were being engulfed in
the quicksands, showed an amount of sagacity which
was positively marvellous. It was with the utmost
<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>difficulty that we could get him to go near enough to
attach a drag-rope to one camel I wanted to rescue.
In spite of our being about fifty yards from the bank
of the river, he evinced the greatest anxiety, while his
movements were made with extreme caution. Despite
coaxing, persuasive remonstrance, and at last a shower
of heavy blows dealt upon his head by the exasperated
mahout, this elephant stubbornly refused to go where
he was wanted, but, with his trunk shoved out in front
of him, kept feeling his way with his ponderous feet,
placing them before him slowly, deliberately, and methodically,
treading all the while with the velvety softness
of a cat, and taking only one step at a time. Then
suddenly he would break out into a suppressed kind of
shriek, and retreat backwards in great haste. When the
animal had nearly completed a circuit of the ground
with the same caution and deliberation, he advanced to
within ten yards of the poor camel, but not another
inch would he move, though several men were walking
between him and the camel without any signs of the
ground giving way.”</p>
<p class='c008'>But if the camel is too mechanical, the elephant is
too soft for the hardships of the baggage train or rough
country. He requires good roads, a temperate climate,
and meals not only “regular,” but luxurious. Ten
elephants out of eleven reached Candahar safely in
1878, on a diet of chapatties, rice, sugar, and two
bottles of rum apiece after their supper. No wonder
“the faces of the men, and their remarks, as they
looked on with watering mouths and overpowering
<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>envy, were worthy of a camp-ballad by Rudyard
Kipling.” Yet this is, we submit, an error on the
right side, both in economy and efficiency. Which
cost most, the elephants’ comforts on the road to Candahar,
or the ninety-two camels which dropped from
exhaustion and hunger on the first day’s march back
from Metemmeh, where the day before 50,000 lbs.
weight of stores had been flung into the Nile? The
“patient ox” combines the cunning of the mule
with a spirit of revenge which is generally attributed
to the camel, though Count Gleichen states, that only
one case of camel-bite was reported to him during the
Nile expedition. A leading bullock on the Candahar
march lay down six times, and when it was at last
reluctantly agreed that the creature must be dying
from exhaustion, it “rushed at a private and tossed
him ten feet in the air, then on to the next man and
sent him flying, and lastly at its own driver, whom it
tumbled over like a ninepin, while the rest took refuge
behind the wagons.” The creature would not move in
harness, and finally had to be unyoked and driven into
camp. The mule is the handiest and hardiest, the
donkey the least trouble, and the pony the pleasantest
of all pack animals, according to Major Leonard’s experience,
the Spanish donkeys and Sicilian mules being
perhaps the finest and most useful of their respective
kinds. But though military opinion is, on the whole, in
favour of the mule, he gives facts and figures to show
that the camel, unmanaged as it is, is a still more economical
and effective beast for military service. Its power
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>of enduring hunger and thirst is greater, it carries
double the load of two mules, needs fewer drivers, is
never shod, and costs less to buy and less to keep; for
food and water have to be carried for miles in desert
country, while the camel browses on almost any shrub,
and can make the ordinary caravan march from well
to well.</p>
<p class='c008'>This opinion must not rest on general considerations,
for the good working example of the comparative
efficiency of the two animals in a campaign is obtainable.
Lord Roberts, on his march from Cabul to
Candahar, covered a daily average of fourteen and a
half miles for nineteen days. This was done with
mules and ponies, the camels belonging to the
regiments being exchanged for the former. In the
Bayuda Desert the camels travelled thirty-four miles
daily in the first march; and allowing for the two days’
rest and two of fighting, nearly thirty miles a day in
the second march of two hundred miles. But in this
case the camels were starved, and worked to death. The
difference between the careful treatment of the cavalry
horse—Marbot’s reminiscences of his life as a cavalry
officer must have opened the eyes of many readers
to the practical anxieties of that profession—and the
ignorant neglect of the camel suggests a doubt whether
the Englishman is really so adaptable as we are pleased
to think. The two hundred pages which Major
Leonard devotes to instruction in feeding, watering,
loading, doctoring, equipping, and purchasing camels,
contain so many “glimpses of the obvious” that the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>reference as to our general neglect of this indispensable
animal for Asiatic warfare is irresistible.</p>
<p class='c008'>The two great breeding grounds of the camel are
the whole central zone of Asia north of the Himalayas,
and the centre and northern fringe of the African
Soudan. With the latter we are in touch through
the frontier tribes of Egypt, and there is little doubt
that we could make Egypt the nucleus of a camel
transport unrivalled in the history of the world. But
unless our officers and men have some training in
their management, the suffering camels will continue to
cause, as they have hitherto in our frontier wars, an
embarrassed strategy, neglected sick, and an ill-supported
soldiery. A permanent camel transport
service in Egypt and on the north-west frontier of
India would probably save in our next considerable
war, millions of money and hundreds of soldiers’
lives.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE CANADIAN BEAVER.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>Indian</span> tradition ascribes the rescue of the world
from its aqueous ages to the industry and intelligence
of the beaver, the animal which first learnt to control
and turn to account the opposing elements of land
and water. The beavers were of gigantic size, before
the Great Spirit smoothed them down to their present
dimensions, after they had completed his work on the
unfinished earth; and they, with their fellow-workers,
the musquash and the otter, dived and brought up
the mud, and with it made mountains and lakes,
caves and cataracts, dividing the land from the waters,
while the envious spirits of evil pelted the Titan
beavers with gigantic rocks, which still strew the
plains and valleys with monstrous boulders of
misshapen stone. If the legend needed any justification
beyond its picturesqueness and simplicity, a
study of Mr. Martin’s work on <i>The History and
Traditions of the Canadian Beaver</i><SPAN name='r15' /><SPAN href='#f15' class='c017'><sup>[15]</sup></SPAN> would almost
bear out the Indian belief, that the intelligence
and mechanical skill of the beaver were prior
<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>and superior to that of man in the development
of the New World. The exaggerated descriptions of
the beaver-lodges and engineering feats given by the
early French Canadians, hardly deserve the author’s
condemnation; the works themselves are so complete
and so ingenious, that the symmetrical additions of
early explorers add but little to the facts which their
incomplete observations only partially grasped. That
a creature whose engineering structures were based,
consciously or unconsciously, on principles only
known to highly civilized man, should embellish
them with conveniences known to half-civilized man,
was a natural inference; and to credit the beaver with
a wish to insert windows in the walls of his lodge was
no great flight of fancy to men who had seen with
their own eyes that the same animal could construct
a dyke a mile long, with the precise section which
human experience has determined to be that best
adapted to resist the forces of pent-up water. Mr.
Martin has so well fulfilled the promise of his title-page,
to present an “exhaustive monograph popularly
written” on the life and history of the beaver, that
an attempt to follow the varied commercial, historical,
and palæontological references in which the story of
the beaver abounds, would be impossible. It will,
perhaps, be sufficient to consider the main questions
of the extraordinary intelligence exhibited by the
animal, and the possibility of its preservation from the
total destruction with which the species is now
threatened. So far as the most careful modern
<span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>observation shows, there is but one claim which has
been seriously made for the beaver’s sagacity which is
matter for doubt. It has been asserted that the
animal always cuts the trees it selects, so that they
may fall towards the water. There is evidence that this
is not <i>always</i> the case. But trees growing near the
water naturally tend to lean towards the stream, and
naturally extend the heaviest growth of branches over
the water, where light and space are greatest, and the
greater number of those cut by the beavers would
probably fall in that direction without any special
provision. But the inseparable features of a beaver-colony,
the dyke or “dam,” and the less famous
but almost equally wonderful “canal,” suggests an
estimate of brain-power or inherited instinct for
mechanics which an exhaustive examination of the
facts heightens rather than diminishes.</p>
<div class='footnote c018' id='f15'>
<p class='c019'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r15'>15</SPAN>. </span>Edward Stanford: London.</p>
</div>
<p class='c008'>The object of the dam is to supply a temporary
want, not a permanent necessity always present to
the beaver-mind. In summer, the beavers wander
up the streams, finding food without difficulty. In
winter, they require a permanent supply of water at
a certain level, in which they can swim beneath the
ice, store their supply of branches for food so as to
be accessible without exposing themselves, and keep
a “moat” round their lodges. Left to itself, the
stream would run low in winter, when the freezing
of the snow and earth stops the water-supply.
Hence the necessity for the dam to maintain it at a
constant level. Such a train of arguments supposes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>a number of “concepts” in the beaver’s brain which
would occur to no other animal. To carry it out
efficiently would puzzle most human beings not
acquainted with engineering. Moreover, the work
must be done with the material at hand, so that
beaver-dams are found built of branches and mud,
of grass, of sand, and of mud only. To get the wood
to the water-side, the beaver clears paths, or “rolling-ways,”
cuts a water-channel to meet and assist in
the transportation of the wood, and in some cases
actually makes a long canal for water-carriage and
safe travelling. “Though the beaver-canal is not so
popularly known,” writes Mr. Martin, “and is more
easily reconciled with instinct, it must not be supposed
that it is a minor feature in the performances of this
animal; it is almost incredible that a work, so
apparently artificial, could have remained unnoticed
till 1868, when Mr. Morgan published his valuable
notes, so amply illustrating the works of the American
beaver. When the colony has been settled quietly
for many years, and has cut all the desirable trees
close at hand, and further supplies are sometimes
hundreds of yards away, the necessity for clear rolling-ways
and good canals is obvious.” No doubt the
necessity is obvious, but that does not explain the
wonder that a small rodent animal should anticipate
civilized man, and make a road to bring commodities
to its city, instead of shifting to a fresh encampment
like the Red Indian himself when supplies are
exhausted. Our estimate of the <i>individual</i> intelligence
<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>of beavers must greatly depend on the power of
adaptation shown by them in special cases. Mr.
Martin seems to lean to the opinion that the creature
is controlled by a dominant instinct, which makes its
action almost automatic, and alleges this want of
adaptability as an insurmountable obstacle to its
domestication. The instances given of its behaviour
in captivity hardly justify such a conclusion. A
tame beaver, kept as a pet in a trapper’s hut, “used
to lie before the fire as contentedly as a dog. It
was not till winter set in that it became a nuisance.
Poor old Bill McHugh’s house was well ventilated,
an open chink between the logs being thought very
little of by himself and his family; but the beaver
was very impatient of such negligence, and used to
work all night at making things air-tight and comfortable,
without much discrimination as to the materials it
employed. If Bill or his guests went to bed leaving
their moccasins and tichigans drying before the fire,
they were certain to be found in the morning stowed
away in some chink or cranny; and stray blankets and
articles of clothing were found torn up for the same
purpose.” That was contrary to our notions of
housekeeping, but the beaver’s wish to keep out the
cold was not more “instinctive” than that of any
squatter’s wife on a Surrey heath. The preparations
made to meet the severe cold of the winter of 1890
by the beavers at the “Zoo” in Regent’s Park were
an odd mixture of cleverness and what seems too
like the stupidity of “instinct.” Their “lodge” was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>partly their own building, and partly “subsidized” by
the authorities. That is, it had a roof of corrugated
iron supported by strong posts at the corners. The
sides were carefully built up with branches set on end
by the beavers themselves, and well plastered with
mud, which they push in with their fore-paws and pat
down hard. They not only carried the plaster up to
the “eaves” of the house, but patted a quantity of
mud down on the iron roof, a quite unnecessary
labour, except on the assumption that there were
joints in it which require filling. The whole was
crowned with a pile of branches, which served no
useful purpose. Last year these beavers dug a canal
from the stone-rimmed pond to one of the burrows
running under their house. We were not able to see
whether it actually joined the pond, or whether the
rim of stone which divided it from the pool at the
surface was continued downwards. In any case, they
had managed to fill the canal with water, and had
a clear waterway from the house to the edge of the
pool. They were also busy cutting through a poplar
stem; the largest chip of wood lying at its foot
measured 3½ in. Another stump was being carefully
gnawed into fine sawdust, which was probably intended
for bedding.</p>
<p class='c008'>Since then the beavers have been supplied with a fine
new house of concrete, which will probably keep out
their enemies the rats which invaded the old house,
though it will leave less inducements to the animals
to go on with their interesting building feats. Yet
<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>as soon as the new house was completed they at once
set to work to scratch out a “canal” in the run, and
managed to fill it partly with muddy water.</p>
<p class='c008'>If the beaver is to be saved from extermination,
some means for its artificial preservation must be
found, though, from the failure of the attempts
made in Prussia and elsewhere in Central Europe to
save the species—so late as 1725 an edict was
published in Berlin prohibiting the destruction of the
beavers of the Elbe—Mr. Martin is not hopeful of
success, even in Canada. Lord Bute’s colony in the
island from which he takes his title appear to have
been less fortunate than was at first supposed. In
1883, when it was desired to send specimens to the
Fisheries Exhibition, it was found that their numbers,
as estimated by the work done, had been much
exaggerated, and the enclosure was completely ransacked
before a couple could be secured. One
hundred and eighty-seven large trees were cut down
by the beavers between 1874 and 1878. In that
time they dammed a pool seventy-eight yards long,
and constructed seven dykes, one having an embankment
of one hundred and five feet. But in spite of the
difficulties which their engineering industry presents
to their would-be preservers, proposals for a “beaver-ranch”
are still being discussed in Canada; and though
experience forbids the hope that they can be kept for
profit, sentiment may yet succeed in preserving the
creature which has been adopted as the “totem” of
the pale-faces’ colony by the great Lakes.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>
<h2 class='c006'>THE TEMPER OF ANIMALS.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> old theory that animal good-temper might be
accounted for on the ground that animals are sensible
of pleasure and pain, but not of advantage and disadvantage,
was only a half-truth, for animals are
subject to jealousy, and jealousy is the direct result
of a feeling of personal disadvantage. But it draws
attention to the fact that occasions for disagreement
in the case of most animals are rare and unusual.
Questions of domicile are almost the sole ground of
discord in the animal world, with the exception of the
fierce dissensions raised at pairing-time, and even in
the last case combat is only general in the case of
polygamous animals. Deer fight more fiercely than
wolves, and wild sheep than lions; and though there
is, or was, an eagle in the Zoo which was caught
locked in the talons of another eagle when fighting in
the spring, the fiercest birds are usually friendly with
their own species, and while ruffs and black-game
fight like gladiators for their wives, the eagles and the
peregrines as a rule mate in peace. Proximity, the
severest trial to human temper, seldom ruffles the
animal mind, and different species live in harmony
together, each seeming, as in the case of the owls and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>the prairie-dogs, or rooks and starlings, rather to
prefer than shun the society of the other. The
choicest spots for homes are naturally the source of
warfare among birds, and other animals frequently
fight for the possession of some favourite breeding-place.
Badgers and foxes which have shared the
same earth during winter often fight for sole possession
in the spring, when the fox invariably wins,
a result which would hardly be expected from the
relative physique of the two animals. But such
quarrels are only for the sake of rearing their young,
not for selfish reasons; and even apprehended pressure
of the food-supply rarely excites ill-will, except in the
case of the largest carnivorous birds and animals,
which require a wider range for hunting, and drive
their young to other districts. The rodents and
ruminants are less jealous; and that strong social and
gregarious instinct which the existence of ill-temper
as a permanent characteristic would inevitably destroy,
keeps them together in peace and harmony. They
love society, and not the least marked difference
between the temperament of animals and men, is that
animals do not by mere contact irritate each other,—a
positive and not unimportant compensation for the
absence of the gift of speech.</p>
<p class='c008'>Since occasions of difference are so few, nothing
but the assumption of an ancient and inbred malignity
in animal minds, such as the author of <i>Three Men in
a Boat</i> supposes in the case of fox-terriers to have
been due to a double dose of original sin, could
justify the view so generally held that animals are, as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>a rule, ferocious and ill-tempered, a notion summed
up in Mr. Burnand’s conclusion in <i>Happy Thoughts</i>,
that most of the creatures with which he came in
contact in the country were, “when not dangerous,
always very uncertain.” The exact contrary would
be nearer the truth. Animal temper is naturally
pacific, equable, and mild. Bad temper is the privilege
of more highly organized natures; and the mild
resentment of the placable tiger finds its development
in the apoplectic fury of the mandrill and the
measured malice of mankind. Horace’s suggestion,
that Prometheus added to the ill-temper of man the
strength of a mad lion, must be taken literally. The
general law of good-nature in the animal world makes
the exceptions all the more remarkable. Quarrelsome
species appear among a friendly tribe, just as an ill-tempered
individual does in a kindly species. The
ruminants are a most peaceful race, yet deer are
savage, and so is that handsome Indian antelope the
nilgai. A tame stag is a very dangerous pet, and
even the beautiful roebuck has been known to kill a
boy in a wild fit of rage. But the fiercest and most
vindictive of all, with the exception of the Cape
buffalo, is the South African gnu, which never loses
its ill-temper when tamed, and always remains among
the few dangerous animals which the keepers at the
Zoo have to deal with. Hardly less ill-tempered are
the zebras and the wild asses, which suggests that
human mismanagement is not entirely to blame for
the occasional ill-temper and obstinacy of mules and
donkeys. To the ill-tempered species we may add
<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>the buffalo and the two-horned black rhinoceros. The
last is really ferocious, charging down on any creature,
man or beast, without provocation, and capable of
inflicting mortal wounds even on the lion, the
elephant, or its own kind.</p>
<p class='c008'>But among all the larger creatures of the animal
kingdom, it is difficult to find more than a dozen
species which are, as a class, ill-tempered, unless
we include all those carnivorous animals which exhibit
a certain ferocity in the capture of their prey.
But it will be found that, apart from this law of
their being, such animals are not, as a rule, either
ill-tempered or malicious. On the contrary, their
natural bias is towards good-nature, and it may be
inferred that the fierceness exhibited by them when
actually striking their prey, is rather a gradual development
from a particular necessity than an essential
part of their nature. The good-humour of the
lions and other <i>felidæ</i> was well illustrated by a scene
at the Zoo a few weeks ago. The young lion from
Sokoto was much intent on breaking in the iron
shutter which separates the house it now occupies
from its former quarters next door. Apart from the
very proper wish to assert a right to its former
domicile, it had the irritating stimulus supplied by an
ill-tempered and decrepit old leopard, which was
growling on the other side of the shutter, and even
went so far as to insert one of its longest teeth into
the crack between the shutter and the wall, as a
reminder to the lion of what was waiting for it on the
other side. The lion was striking constant heavy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>blows on the door, and was so intent on its occupation
as to disregard the call of its keeper. The keeper
quietly attracted its attention by pulling its tail!—and
the lion at once desisted, rubbed its face against the
keeper’s hand, and lay down to be stroked, patted,
and have its mane caressed.</p>
<p class='c008'>That good-tempered races contain very ill-natured
individuals, raises the difficult question of temperament.
A good authority on horses, Mr. Mayhew,
endeavours to show that ill-temper among them is
accidental, not innate. In his work, “jibbing” is
shown to be due to brain-disease, shying to defective
vision, and temper to the mismanagement of man.
There is much truth, but also much error here.
Those best acquainted with the nature of domesticated
animals know how greatly the temperaments of
individuals differ. Take, for instance, the case of
three highly-bred young Jersey heifers, of which the
writer has watched the up-bringing from their earliest
days. They have never been frightened or struck;
they have not even heard a rough word from their
earliest days, even when they jumped the garden-fence
and browsed on an apricot-tree. One is as gentle and
domesticated as a well-bred cow can be, the others
are ready with their horns at any or no provocation.
The same is true of horses: some are so ill-tempered
that they will kick or bite at any living thing that
comes near them. It is as impossible to trace these
dislikes to any known cause as it is to find a reason
for the antipathy which cows have for hares. However
great our liking for horses, we cannot deny that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>some of the best thoroughbreds are revengeful,
quarrelsome, and liable to frightfully sudden fits of
rage. No doubt this evil temper is often accompanied
by splendid qualities of endurance. Chestnut horses,
which have generally the most uncertain tempers, are
perhaps the most high-couraged. But courage and
temper are not always allied; and temper and human
management are not necessarily connected. “Bendigo”
and “Surefoot” were both trained in the
“Seven Barrows” stable by the late Mr. Jousiffe, who
always avoided any severity of treatment, and never
ran his horses “light.” Each as a three-year-old won
a great race, “Bendigo” the Cambridgeshire, “Surefoot”
the Two Thousand Guineas. Both carried off
the Eclipse Stakes at Sandown, worth £10,000, later
in their career. Yet “Bendigo” had a perfect
temper, while “Surefoot’s” is well known to be
ferocious. “Bendigo” would train himself, and however
well he ran in trials on the White Horse Hill,
his trainer knew that he would do still better on the
race-course. In his last race, when he was just beaten
when carrying a crushing weight, Watts gave him
one stroke of the whip. But the horse was doing all
he could, and the jockey did not touch him again.
In the stable, the big brown horse was almost as
friendly with strangers as he was with his devoted
attendant, “Bendigo Pat,” and the writer has seen no
prettier sight than that of his trainer’s little daughter
hugging “dear old ‘Bendy’s’” nose. The horse had
the courage and gentleness of a knight of romance.
“Surefoot,” on the other hand, under identical treatment,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>was dangerous in the stable, and savage even
when running. In the actual race for the Derby, he
tried to bite the jockeys on the horses in front of
him, and when being put into the horse-box for the
journey, gave more trouble than a Murcian bull.
Yet this savage temper was not accompanied by
unusual courage and endurance, and in severe races
the even-tempered “Bendigo” was his undoubted
superior. “Peter,” another race-horse noted for his
stubborn obstinacy, once gave an interesting object-lesson
in temper as between man and horse at Ascot.
The horse fought with his jockey (Archer) for twenty
minutes at the post, but the indomitable good-humour
of the jockey won. When the flag fell, the horse
went off with a rush, but stopped in the middle of
the race to kick. Archer neither moved nor struck
him, and “Peter” then went on like the wind, and
won! But horses of this temperament are the exception,
not the rule; and the success with which we
have developed power and courage, without producing
animals like “Cruiser” or the celebrated “General
Chassé,” of whom his owner, Mr. Kirby, the dealer,
who sold largely in Russia, used to say that “the
Emperor Paul was nothing to him,” is one of the
triumphs of domestication. The union of reckless
courage and habitual ferocity is rare in the animal
world, and the general law of good-nature remains
absolute and unquestioned.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>
<h2 class='c006'>CRIMINAL ANIMALS.</h2></div>
<p class='c022'>“Mr. Gladstone narrowly escaped a serious accident when taking
exercise in Hawarden Park. A cow, which had escaped
from its owner when being driven to market, had taken
refuge in the park, and attacked Mr. Gladstone when
passing. Fortunately, though knocked down, Mr. Gladstone
escaped unhurt.”—<i>Daily Paper.</i></p>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> general view of good or bad in animal disposition
is, no doubt, mainly determined by their
behaviour to ourselves. That is the fixed opinion
of the moral relation of animals to man. But there
is every reason to believe that there are a few individuals
among the many in all species which have
some pronounced and inborn bias towards mischief
and ferocity, which almost entitles them to a place
in the “criminal classes” of animal society. No
excuse, for instance, can be found for the cow which
so nearly ended the hopes of Home-rule by knocking
down the greatest of all Home-rulers, after spending
a week or more in the hospitable security afforded
to her by the park at Hawarden, after she had broken
loose from her owners on the way to market. She
was, in fact, a heifer, not a cow; and so had no calf
<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>hidden in the fern whose protection might have been
urged as an excuse for her ferocity; and her conduct
must be ascribed to some such ancient and inbred
malignity as possessed the “dun cow of Warwick.”
No doubt the last animal, if legend be true, was
possessed by a deeper and darker instinct of hatred
to the human race; for she used to mingle with
the herds and entice the milkmaids to perform their
kindly office by all kinds of endearments known to
her race, and then most cruelly kill them, until the
renowned Guy of Warwick rid the country of the
monster, avenged the milkmaids, and earned himself
a place in story. But the cow of Hawarden may
in time win its way to the marvellous, and have a
place in the great Gladstone myth by the side of
“Joe”—or “Io”— once the friend, now the foe of
the hero, whose legend is in after-ages to be identified
with the rationalistic record of the promise of “three
acres and a cow.” The danger to which Mr.
Gladstone was exposed, which was a very real one,
suggests the question whether there is not some
ground for supposing that, apart from questions or
our own convenience, there are not some desperately
wicked animals which are not only wicked <i>per se</i>, but
quite conscious that they are doing actions which place
them outside the pale both of human and animal
consideration? We believe that there is not the
least doubt of it, any more than there is a doubt
whether certain so-called “criminal lunatics” richly
deserve hanging. If animals had no power of self-control,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>it would be nonsense to speak of them as
either good or bad. But they have the power of
self-control when domesticated. That we know. It
is only the knowledge that they have such power
that induces a man to trust himself in a dog-cart
behind a young horse, or to ride in a howdah on
an elephant. But they must always have the same
power when wild. If they had not, they could not
be gregarious—a condition which could only be
maintained by submission to a law of “live and let
live,” which is perhaps better understood by wholly
wild animals than by semi-civilized man. Gregarious
animals not only exhibit self-control to the extent
of not showing temper towards each other, but even
obey the command of their leader, when obedience
to the command must be extremely irksome—witness
Major Skinner’s account of the elephant leader posting
live videttes around the tank, at which the herd was
then, and not till then, allowed to drink. The “rogue”
elephant, which exhibits such unusual and malignant
ferocity towards men as well as his own kind, may
be, and often is, an animal driven from the herd
by a stronger rival; sometimes he is merely suffering
from excitement, which passes away after a certain
period. But this, though affording a reason for some
of the abnormal conditions found in the actions of
the “rogue” elephant, does not account satisfactorily
for the strange reluctance of its own species ever to
re-admit it to their society.</p>
<p class='c008'>The “rogue” elephant, even when driven from one
<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>herd, is never admitted to another; and though
Saunderson found them occasionally in company
with another solitary of their own species, Sir J. Tennant
records that, even when driven into the keddah, a
“rogue” elephant was never allowed to enter the herd
of captives with which he was enclosed. Good-temper
is the fundamental condition of animal society, and
it is probably to the lack of this, and the growing
conviction that the “rogue” is an unclubable,
unsociable fellow, that his exclusion is due. When
separated from the wholesome discipline of society,
his temper goes from bad to worse, and he joins the
ranks of criminal animals. The wanton ferocity then
developed is, perhaps, best shown by Colonel Saunderson’s
description of the state of things on the main
road between Mysore and Uznand, caused by a
creature called the “rogue of Kakankote.” Policemen
were planted at the entrance of the jungle to warn
travellers to proceed only in parties, and even then
the wretched Kurrabas who lived in the forest were
from time to time caught, and pulled to pieces limb
by limb, to gratify the ill-temper of the elephant.
When mastered, the naturally ferocious elephant has
been known to die of sheer fury. A noosed “rogue”
in the keddah lay down and died, though those suffering
from the excitement of “must” are often reclaimed.
The ferocity of the “rogue” buffalo and
“rogue” hippopotamus must probably be accounted
for in the same way. They are individuals which
have become intolerable to their own species, and,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>being outlawed from society, revenge themselves by
the indulgence of their criminal bent.</p>
<p class='c008'>Instances of this homicidal mania among the
animals at the Zoo are by no means common. The
tact and good management which prevails in all the
dealings of the keepers with their charges is largely
responsible for this. But one unquestionable example
of this type of animal aberration occurred some years
ago, which might have had very serious consequences.
The temper of all the wild asses is very uncertain,
or rather very unreliable. This natural surliness
took the form of absolute ferocity in the case of a
very fine male zebra. The object of its especial
dislike was not so much the occasional visitors to its
stable, as the keeper whose duty was to feed it and
arrange its stable. The viciousness was such that it
would endeavour to climb the railings of its loose box
in order to attack them. There was absolutely no
ground for this animosity, for it had met with the
same kind treatment and attention as the other
creatures in the stalls. It was clearly a case of the
“criminal instinct” prevailing. One Sunday morning,
a Frenchman who had some work to do in the Zebra
House accidentally left open the door which led into
the box of this striped savage, and when another
keeper advanced to drive it back it rushed at him
open-mouthed, knocked him down, knelt on him, and
would most probably have killed or maimed him if
it had not been driven off by some of his fellow
<i>employés</i> who most fortunately came to the rescue.</p>
<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>Among domesticated animals, the consciousness of
evil-doing is far more clearly existent than among
their wild relations, where it can only be matter for
probable conjecture and surmise. Perhaps the most
convincing instances of the gratification of a consciously
criminal instinct are to be found in the cases in which
dogs, especially sheep-dogs, have been detected in the
habit of going away to considerable distances at
night and worrying the sheep in other folds, returning
before daybreak to their own flock. In one case, a
collie was seen by a shepherd to slip away from the
fold early in the morning, and plunge into a stream,
where he swam for a short time, came out, shook
himself, and then galloped off in the direction of
another farm, to which, on inquiry, the dog was
found to belong. In the fold which it had just left,
several sheep were found dying and dead, and it was
surmised that the dog’s bath had for its object the
removal of the traces of its sanguinary amusement.
In another case, two dogs were found to have been
in the habit of slipping away at night, and returning
quietly to their kennel after killing sheep at a distance
of ten or twelve miles. In both instances, the flock
of which they were the natural guardians was uninjured.</p>
<p class='c008'>The secret gratification of the criminal instinct is
not confined to sheep-dogs. In one case, a mastiff
ran wild, and lived among the Cheviot Hills, killing
sheep at night, and retiring to the roughest and most
difficult ground during the day. Though more than
once hunted by a pack of foxhounds, he always
<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>prevailed on them to spare him, lying down on his
back and putting up his feet, as a puppy will when a
big dog approaches him.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is more difficult to account for the extreme
viciousness of certain horses, creatures which have
no hereditary tendency to cruelty, like the dog,
whose ancestor, the wild hunting dog, is perhaps the
most ferocious creature in the world. What, for
instance, are we to say of an animal like “General
Chassé,” which commenced the day, when being led
to York, by kneeling on his groom and trying to
tear him to pieces, until a squad of labourers charged
him, armed with sticks and forks? Or of “Merlin,”
who was obliged to be double chained to the rack in
the painting-room when his portrait was taken by
Mr. Herring, and afterwards made use of his liberty
by killing his groom? Another horse could only be
groomed during several seasons by a series of well-timed
dashes with a birch-broom.</p>
<p class='c008'>“King Pippin,” a celebrated Irish horse, which ran
early in the century, had a habit of rushing at and
worrying any person who came within reach as he
was being saddled, and if he had a chance would get
his head round, seize his rider by the leg, and pull
him off his back. When brought to the Curragh to
run, no one would put a bridle on his head. A
countryman volunteered to do so, when the horse
caught him by the chest, shaking him as a dog does
a rat. “Fortunately for the poor fellow,” wrote an
eye-witness of the scene, “his body was very thickly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>covered with clothes, as an Irishman on great occasions
is fond of displaying the resources of his wardrobe,
and if he has three coats will put them all on.”</p>
<p class='c008'>The celebrated “Whisperer,” an old man named
Sullivan, who had a strange power of taming vicious
horses, was sent for. He remained shut up with
the horse all night, and next day exhibited him on
the course as quiet as a sheep. He won his race,
and for three years remained docile. Then he suddenly
gave way to his criminal instincts, and killed a man,
for which he was shot.</p>
<p class='c008'>But considering the great number of horses on
training, and the accuracy with which their disposition
and temper is known, the instances of homicidal
tendency in the horse are singularly few. It will
probably be found that bulls, and often cows, are
responsible for nearly all the deaths deliberately caused
by animals in this country. It is the fashion to
laugh at people who are nervous about cattle. This
is hardly fair or sensible. There can be no two
opinions as to the power of full-grown cattle to catch
or kill any person who has not some shelter at hand,
though the owners who drive them along the roads
never are willing to admit the possibility. An amusing
instance of this, as well as of the local jealousies which
ramble between people of different counties, even if
only separated by an imaginary border-line, occurred
to an acquaintance of the writer, just within the border
of Cornwall where it marches with Devon. A farmer
was driving cows down a narrow lane, when some foot-passengers
<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>remonstrated. “Don’t ’ee be a-veared,
m’am,” shouted the owner, “<i>’em be a deal better
behaved here than ’em be in Devon</i>.” In the case of
the bull, a period of savageness generally occurs once
or twice in its life, and in the number of fatal gorings
inflicted by these brutes on the old labourers and
boys who usually attend on them, a fair case could be
made out for making compulsory some precautions
in their transport along public roads.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c002' /></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>
<h2 class='c006'>A YEAR AT THE ZOO.</h2></div>
<p class='c007'><span class='sc'>The</span> Report of the Council of the Zoological
Society for the sixty-fourth year of the existence of
its “Gardens” in Regent’s Park will be read with
interest by those whose curiosity extends beyond the
menagerie which they see, to its management which
is unseen. The public are only dimly aware of their
debt to Dr. Sclater, the honorary secretary of the
Zoological Society, and to Mr. Bartlett and his son,
managers of the Gardens; and the glimpse of a
twelvemonth’s history—animal, personal, and financial—of
one of the most pleasing and popular outdoor
institutions of London, explains much that is not
at first obvious in a visit to the Zoo. Among the
most evident improvements of recent years is the great
and growing beauty of the Gardens, the fine turf
and flowers, and the other amenities which, apart from
the interest inseparable from the natural history collections,
have made possible in the precincts occupied by
the Society a nearer counterpart of the outdoor life
enjoyed in the gardens of Continental capitals, than
anywhere else in the Metropolis. The explanation of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>this, as well as of the curious and interesting details of
the maintenance of a menagerie of 2,413 birds, beasts,
and reptiles of all kinds and sizes, from the African
elephant and Indian rhinoceros, down to the tiny lemmings
and the last litter of dingo-puppies, is to be found
in the financial Report for the year. It is a unique
document, and deserves attentive study. Those whose
custom it is to buy paper packets of broken bread
and buns, duly labelled “Food for the animals,” at the
refreshment-stalls, or who know from experience that
there is hardly any creature there, from the hippopotamus
to the smallest monkey, which disdains to
eat a raisin, will be astonished at the quantity and
variety of the solid nutriment which has to be provided
yearly for 650 “beasts,” 1,391 birds, and 366 reptiles;
though those more conversant with the powers of
consumption of “stock” in an ordinary farmyard
would probably hesitate to take a feeding-contract at
a lower figure. The year’s cost for provisions consumed
in the Gardens is a little under £4000: 105
loads of clover, 153 loads of meadow-hay, 130 quarters
of oats, and 340 quarters of bran, may be put down
roughly as the quantity of vegetable food required for
the large antelopes, elephants, zebras, and wild sheep.
Bread and milk are almost as safe a diet for most
animals as for human beings, and 5000 quarterns of
bread and 6000 quarts of milk represent the quantity
of this wholesome food consumed at the Zoo. Most
of the insect-eating birds, many monkeys, and certain
snakes and lizards are egg-eaters; and nineteen thousand
<span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>eggs probably account for twice that number of
breakfasts supplied to the smaller occupants of the
houses. The large carnivora, of which the collection
contains so many and such fine examples, require
stronger food, and are not stinted in their supply.
The figures in this case suggest some interesting
reflections on the ravages said to be due to wild
beasts among flocks and game. No doubt these
creatures, notably wolves and wild dogs, occasionally
destroy more than they require to satisfy their hunger.
But usually a lion or a tiger kills one animal, and
feeds upon it so long as it lasts; after which it kills
another victim, and no more. The total of carcasses
eaten by all the lions, tigers, bears, hyenas, wolves,
leopards, and other large carnivora in the Gardens
during the year amounts to 230 horses and 152 goats.
If the number consumed in captivity bears any proportion
to the loss of cattle caused by these creatures
when wild, the reports of natives must be much exaggerated.
The fishmonger’s bill is naturally a heavy
one, when not only seals, otters, and sea-lions, which
will eat nothing else, but also numbers of piscivorous
birds, and even the polar bears, have to be provided
with fresh flounders, whiting, and conger-eels daily,—36,000
lbs. of whiting, 10,000 lbs. of “rough fish,”
630 quarts of shrimps, and 2000 lbs. of flounders
were consumed by the seals and other aquatic creatures.
The live gudgeons, whose pursuit and capture form
the daily excitement of the penguins in their glass-fronted
tank, do not appear in the list of food provided,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>any more than the army of mice and rats, and dozens
of live frogs, which frolic behind the scenes in the
Snake House. Unhonoured in their lives, their deaths
are unrecorded, or figure darkly among “miscellaneous
expenses.” The fact is, that the rearing of tame mice
and rats, and the capture and purveyance of live frogs,
is an interesting and unexplored side-industry of
London life. Breeding mice and white rats is an
easy and lucrative addition to small incomes, carried
on in back-yards and attics. The frogs, which are
genuine wild animals, are captured by special emissaries
employed by the “dealers,” who go round to the
mouse-farms and froggeries and collect the creatures,
just as the poultry-men make their rounds to country
farms and cottages. The Zoo is by no means the
largest customer to the trade, which relies mainly on
the “biologists” for its steady demand. Fruit is
almost as necessary as fish at all seasons in the
Gardens, and no visitor can have failed to notice the
daintily-arranged “dessert” of sliced bananas, grapes,
dates, and apples, which is served up to the rarer
monkeys and fruit-eating birds. Thirteen thousand
oranges, 2000 lbs. of grapes, 1,200 lbs. of dates, and
200 lbs. of raisins and currants, represent the fruiterer’s
bill; the green-grocer comes last, with 2,641 bunches
of tares, 4,500 bunches of greens, and 2,600 bundles
of cress. Cherries, onions, melons, marrows, bananas,
and figs vary the bill of fare, which we may close with
the solid item of 139 cwt. of carrots, and nearly two
tons of ground nuts. To provide for the welfare of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>its animal pensioners, its works and repairs, its gardens,
and to assist in the valuable scientific inquiries into
animal structure carried out in the Prosector’s
Department, the Society employs, under the direction
of the superintendent and his assistant, a head-keeper,
twenty-two keepers, a prosector’s assistant, clerks, a
head-gardener, twenty-three helpers in the menagerie,
twelve gardeners, artisans, firemen, messengers, and a
butcher,—in all, nearly one hundred persons. At the
Society’s rooms in Hanover Square, the publication of
the <i>Zoological Record</i>, containing a complete summary
of all the Zoological inquiries of the year throughout
the world, costs annually about £450. The last, and
not the least, interesting item in the list of expenditure
is that of £843 19<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> for the cost and carriage of
animals, £500 of which represents the money paid
for the young hippopotamus, whose comfortable
figure and complacent demeanour have been not the
least attraction of the Gardens during the season.</p>
<p class='c008'>£23,855 has been the total cost of the Zoo for the
year 1892. This is covered by receipts of £25,968.
The form in which these moneys were received is
perhaps less unusual than the items of expenditure;
but it includes one considerable source of income
which would scarcely be expected. “Fares” for
rides on the elephants and camels reach the respectable
amount of £606 17<i>s.</i> 4<i>d.</i>, a sum which seems
nearly constant in the recent annual records of the Zoo.
Admissions to the Gardens reached £13,981, an
increase of £272 over last year; and the subscriptions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>of Fellows of the Society amount to over
£6,000, which represents roughly the sum in which
the public, after paying their entrance-fees, are indebted
to the Society. Lastly, the assets at Regent’s
Park and in the offices at Hanover Square are valued
at £70,000, including one estimate of £21,542 for
the animals in the menagerie, and another of £15,600
for the unrivalled library of Zoology owned by the
Society.</p>
<p class='c008'>With the exception of the young hippopotamus,
which, in bulk at least, is a substantial addition to the
assets of the Society, the arrivals in the Gardens were
more than counterbalanced by the losses during the
year. The obituary of the last giraffe has already
been given; and it is interesting to notice that the
Report corroborates the fear there expressed, that for
the present there is no hope of obtaining a successor.
“Owing to the closure of the Soudan by the Mahdists,”
we read, “the supply of this and other large
African mammals, which were formerly obtained <i>viâ</i>
Kassala and Suakim, has ceased, and so far as can be
ascertained, there are now no living giraffes in the
European market.” Among the other deaths recorded
are those of a lioness, a male cheetah, two
common zebras, an Aard wolf, and a Beatrix antelope.
More than sixty monkeys also succumbed to the
intense cold of the winter. On the other hand, a
large and varied progeny of young creatures was born
in the Gardens during the year, and many hundreds
of birds, animals, and reptiles were presented to the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>Society by donors of all ranks and conditions, from
the Queen, whose gigantic ostrich occupies the empty
giraffe-house, to the public-school boy with a taste
for natural history, whose donation of a couple of
“yellow-bellied toads,” brought carefully to the
Gardens in his coat-pocket, is duly acknowledged in
close proximity to the gift of “Her Majesty the
Queen.”</p>
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<p class='c031'> </p>
<div class='tnbox'>
<ul class='ul_1 c002'>
<li>Transcriber’s Notes:
<ul class='ul_2'>
<li>The Greek quotes on page <SPAN href='#Page_198'>198</SPAN> were checked and corrected by a native Greek speaker.
</li>
<li>Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
</li>
<li>Typographical errors were silently corrected.
</li>
<li>Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant
form was found in this book.
</li>
</ul>
</li>
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<p class='c031'> </p>
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