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Title: Life at the Zoo - Notes and Traditions of the Regent's Park Gardens
Author: Cornish, C. J. (Charles John)
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Life at the Zoo - Notes and Traditions of the Regent's Park Gardens" ***
[Illustration:
MARTIAL HAWK EAGLE. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIFE AT THE ZOO
NOTES AND TRADITIONS
OF THE REGENT’S PARK GARDENS
BY
C. J. CORNISH
With Illustrations
from Photographs by GAMBIER BOLTON, F.Z.S.
and from Japanese Drawings
LONDON
SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED
ESSEX STREET, STRAND
1895
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
IT 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, _mea culpa_.
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 _Spectator_, 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unpublished chapters which are now added, present a fair picture of the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.
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.
C. J. CORNISH.
Orford House, Chiswick Mall,
September 28, 1894.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ZOO IN A FROST 1
THE GHOSTS OF THE TROPICAL FOREST 13
THE BUTTERFLY FARM AT THE ZOO 20
PATTERNS ON LIVING ANIMALS 29
THE GIRAFFE’S OBITUARY 38
THE ELECTRIC EEL 48
DEEP-SEA LAMPS 55
THE LION HOUSE AT THE ZOO 62
DIVING BIRDS AT THE ZOO 77
TAME DIVERS 86
THE QUEST FOR THE WILD HORSE 91
ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO—THE ANIMAL 99
SENSE OF BEAUTY
ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO—SCENTS AND 109
SOUNDS
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO—THE FIRST VISIT 115
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO—THE SECOND VISIT 123
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO—THE CHOICE OF 131
INSTRUMENTS
TALKING BIRDS 139
ELEPHANT LIFE IN ENGLAND 146
WANTED—A NEW MEAT 162
AN EXPERIMENT IN ANIMAL 170
PRESERVATION
“JAMRACH’S” 177
EXPRESSION IN THE ANIMAL EYE 192
LONDON BEARS 200
YOUNG ANIMALS AT THE ZOO 210
ANIMAL COLOURING 222
WILD-CATS AT THE ZOO 229
THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS 240
RARE AND BEAUTIFUL MONKEYS 248
THE LARGER MONKEYS 255
LIZARDS AND CROCODILES AT THE ZOO 263
FROM THE ANIMALS’ POINT OF VIEW 270
POSSIBLE PETS 278
THE PARIS ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS IN THE 287
TWO SIEGES
OTHER BEASTS OF BURDEN 293
THE SOLDIER’S CAMEL 302
THE CANADIAN BEAVER 311
THE TEMPER OF ANIMALS 318
CRIMINAL ANIMALS 325
A YEAR AT THE ZOO 334
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
MARTIAL HAWK EAGLE Frontispiece
POLAR BEAR 6
THE LAST GIRAFFE 38
PUMAS 62
LION AND LIONESS 72
TIGER AFTER SMELLING LAVENDER-WATER 110
AXIS DEER LISTENING 118
TIGER LISTENING TO SOFT MUSIC 136
JAPANESE PUG AND CAT 180
THE QUEEN’S LION CUB 210
OTTER PURSUING FISH 220
ARABIAN BABOON 240
MACAQUE MONKEYS 248
MONKEYS PELTING COOLIES WITH 258
FIR-CONES
ALLIGATOR 264
BACTRIAN CAMEL 302
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIFE AT THE ZOO
THE ZOO IN A FROST
SUDDEN 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 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 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.
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 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.
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 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
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.
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 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.
[Illustration:
POLAR BEAR. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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.
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 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.
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.
The gulls were particularly noisy, and playing at a new game with bits
of ice, which they picked up from 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.”
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
drowsy brain was insensible to the warnings of physical _malaise_.
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.
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 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 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.
NOTE.—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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GHOSTS OF THE TROPICAL FOREST.
PERHAPS 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.
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 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 _lemures_, the unquiet ghosts of the
departed.
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 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 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.
A near relation of the lemurs is a beautiful little 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 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 _furry-coated
chameleon_. 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
“A couch of down, raised high on ebony,
Self-coloured, sombre, draped with sable pall,
Stands in the midst, whereon that god doth lie,
While all his limbs relaxed in slumber fall,”
wants but one touch to complete the drowsy theme—a sleeping lemur curled
up on Somnus’ dusky pillow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BUTTERFLY FARM AT THE ZOO
A COLLECTION of tropical butterflies and moths reared in the Zoological
Gardens was exhibited in the rooms of the Royal Society at their annual
_soirée_ 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 _Kenelm Chillingly_, 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.”
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 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 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.
Perhaps the most brightly coloured moths which are raised in the house
are the _Eacles regalis_, 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 _Eacles imperialis_, in which an exquisite shade
of “old rose” invades and is lost in a rich cream-coloured ground.
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 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.
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 ground,” writes Mr. Thomas
Wardle, in his _History of the Growth of the Tussur Silk Industry_, “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.”
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
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.
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 _Papilio
Cresphontes_. 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.
Among the butterfly cages is a glass case which, 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.
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PATTERNS ON LIVING ANIMALS.
EARLY 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.
Being small and elegant, they have a long and ugly scientific name, the
_Girardinus Guppyi_. 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.
Each of the little creatures, though so frail and so 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. _Pattern_, by which we mean the repetition of certain and
regular forms, so as to produce an ornament which pleases the eye
without making any 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, 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 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 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 _Gallium_ 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 _Salatura Melanippus_ 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 _Gastropoda_, 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 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.
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 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?
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GIRAFFE’S OBITUARY.
THE 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.
[Illustration:
THE LAST GIRAFFE. From a photograph by Gambier
Bolton.
]
The time of their death, unfortunately, coincided 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. 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.”
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 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 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.”
The Report of the Council of the Society as to the progress of this
great undertaking is worth quoting in full.
“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.
“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 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.”
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 _Manchester_, 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 _Manchester_ 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 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.
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.
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. _Onions_
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 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
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 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.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ELECTRIC EEL.
IF 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 _remora_, 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 _mare
pigrum_, 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,” 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 _remora_. 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 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, 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.”
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.
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 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 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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DEEP-SEA LAMPS.
THE 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 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.
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 _The Fauna of the Deep Sea_, published in the “Modern Science
Series.”[1] 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 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 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.”
Footnote 1:
_The Fauna of the Deep Sea_, by Sydney J. Hickson, M.A., D.Sc. London:
Kegan Paul and Co.
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 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 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.
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, 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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE LION HOUSE AT THE ZOO.
[“_Hic habitat leones._”—Old Map of Central Africa.]
JUST 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
_felidæ_ 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.
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.
[Illustration:
PUMAS. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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 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.
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 animals improved is shown by the list of creatures which
lived in the Gardens, including brown and black bears, leopards, and
ocelots.
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 _ennui_ 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.
Mr. Hagenbeck is the Moltke of the wild animal 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.
Meantime, whether in summer or winter, the Lion House is perhaps better
worth seeing than any branch of the Society’s menagerie.
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 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.
“_Ars longa, vita brevis_,” 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 _mauvais quart d’heure_ 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 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.
On the last occasion on which the writer waited on the tigers’ _levée_,
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 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.”
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
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 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 _whether his nails wanted cutting_.
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 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.
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.
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.
[Illustration:
LION AND LIONESS. From a photograph by Gambier
Bolton.
]
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. 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.
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.
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 in time recover, the effects of
over-stimulating food taken too early are very noticeable.[2]
Footnote 2:
One has since died.
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 _Notes and Jottings from Animal Life_, 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, 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 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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DIVING BIRDS AT THE ZOO.
SUBMARINE 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.
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 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
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.
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 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, _In the Depths of the Sea_, 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.
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 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, the only appearance of the birds
on the surface being made by one or two _bounds_ 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.
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 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.
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.
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. 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.
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TAME DIVERS.
WHEN 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 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 _all_ 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, 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 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.
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 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 _flight_ 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE QUEST FOR THE WILD HORSE.
THE 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 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.
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 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 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.[3]
Footnote 3:
The skins and skeletons of the wild camel are now on view at the
Natural History Museum.
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 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 _Equus Prejvalskii_ 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 _Graphic_,
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 angle with the throat instead of a
curve, are as characteristic of a young colt as of the _Equus
Prejvalskii_. 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,[4] 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 _Equus
Prejvalskii_ 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.
Footnote 4:
There are black donkeys, but most appear to be instances of “melanism”
rather than of colour gradation.
Even in our own New Forest, this difference between the horse and the
ass is curiously persistent. 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO.
THE ANIMAL SENSE OF BEAUTY.
THAT 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 _ennui_ 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 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.
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
in the branches, are seldom still, but always active, inquisitive, and
alert.
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 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 _solitaire_ balls,
they spent a week in arranging and re-arranging their treasures.
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 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 _bric-à-brac_ 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.
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. 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 _food_, 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.
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 _outside_ 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 _outside_, 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 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.
“It was a piece of workmanship more lovely than 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 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?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO.
SCENTS AND SOUNDS.
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
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 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.
[Illustration:
TIGER AFTER SMELLING LAVENDER-WATER. From a
photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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, _ate_ the small piece of paper on which it was poured. But the
liking for lavender-water is by no means confined to the _felidæ_. 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 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.
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 birds which take such
pleasure in each other’s songs should be most sensitive to sweet sounds
new to them.
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 _Introduction to Music_. “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,—
“Rude Heiskar’s seals, through surges dark,
Would oft pursue the minstrel’s bark;”
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 “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.
NOTE.—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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.
THE FIRST VISIT.
IN 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 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.
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 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 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.
“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,—
“Cessit immanis mihi blandienti
Janitor aulæ!”
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 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.
[Illustration:
AXIS DEER LISTENING. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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. 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.
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 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.
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, 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.
THE SECOND VISIT.
THE 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 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 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 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 _Æsop’s Fables_. 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 _burrhel_, 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
_William Tell_, 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 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 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 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.
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, 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?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.
THE CHOICE OF INSTRUMENTS.
“Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial;
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.”
IN 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 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 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.
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.
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, 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 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.
[Illustration:
TIGER LISTENING TO SOFT MUSIC. From a photograph
by Gambier Bolton.
]
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 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 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
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TALKING BIRDS.
THE 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 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.
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
“Convertit volucres in sua verba pias,”
it must surely meet the mynahs also.
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
Gardens, but the best is in the western Aviary, where it whistles
“Merrily danced the Quaker,” in tones like a flute.
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.
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 _Barnaby Rudge_, or by 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 song, not
their own, which they have transmitted to their posterity.
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, _exactly as our
babies used to do in the early morning hours in bed_. 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 _satisfied_ 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 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 _correctness_ 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.
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.
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.
“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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ELEPHANT LIFE IN ENGLAND
THE 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 _keddahs_ 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.
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 in the _heddahs_. 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 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.
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 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 _tumasha_, 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 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.”
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.
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 and skilled
attention which she received from the first.
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
_cul de sac_ 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 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 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.
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 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 _populus
Romanus_ 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?” “_Putasne te assem elephanto
dare?_”
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 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 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 _keddah_ 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.
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 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 “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.
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.”
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 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.
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.
It may fairly be claimed that we have made some progress in the
management of the elephant in 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED—A NEW MEAT.
THE 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 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.”
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
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.
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 _menu_ 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 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.
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 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 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 _Daily
Graphic_ 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.”
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.
When Lord Derby, the President of the Zoological 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
_Deer-Parks of England_, 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.
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 _milk_; meat was supplied in inexhaustible quantities by the
wild 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?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
AN EXPERIMENT IN ANIMAL PRESERVATION.
WHEN 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.
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. 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 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.
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 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, 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.
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. 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.
Nothing is said of the removal of human occupiers from this area, though
it seems improbable that such 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“JAMRACH’S.”
“JAMRACH’S,” 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 _bric-à-brac_ 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 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.
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 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 _nexus_ 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 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.
[Illustration:
JAPANESE PUG AND CAT. _From a Japanese Drawing._
]
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 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,[5] 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.
Footnote 5:
The Barbary sheep.
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 _felidæ_, 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 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 _explode_. 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
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 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 remembered. Until the expeditions which
Hagenbeck and others have despatched into Central Africa, _viâ_ 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.
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 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.
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, 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.
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.
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 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.”
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. 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.”
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.”
“The most interesting side of our profession,” says Mr. Jamrach, “is the
possible arrival of _new creatures_, 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 Milne Edwards at the Jardin des Plantes of Paris,
who pronounced it to be a new species.
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
EXPRESSION IN THE ANIMAL EYE.
THE 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 beautiful with the beauty of cut gems, and as
devoid as a brilliant of any power of expression of character or
emotion.
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 and manatees
those which stand lowest as judged by the presence or absence of
expression, without the accession of hideous deformity.
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 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.
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 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 _appearance_ 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.[6] By day the eye is a mere yellow orb, with a 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 _felidæ_, 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 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.
Footnote 6:
The miniature Asiatic foxes which are often shown in numbers at the
Zoo seem less affected by bright sunlight than the English species.
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,—
“κυνώπιδος εἵνεκα κούρης,”
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONDON BEARS.
“NEVER 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 _bonhomie_ 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.
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 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.
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 “_brave bête, doux
comme un enfant, et doué de traits de caractère tout à fait
remarquables_.” The behaviour of the street urchins to the _brave bête_
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 attitude of defence, which drove the malicious
tribe to a safe distance. “_Pauvre bête, il a peur_,” 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.
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. 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
_pink once_.” 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.
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 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 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.
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, with all its weight of bone and muscle, seldom attacks even so
large an animal as a buffalo, unless crippled by wounds.
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 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.
Bears do not often have families in the Zoo. They 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.
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.
They were extremely sociable, and never quite happy unless people were
near them or within sight. When they had human company they sat up,
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.
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
YOUNG ANIMALS AT THE ZOO.
ARTEMIS, 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 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 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.[7] 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 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.
Footnote 7:
The tigers were, in fact, over-fed. They were too heavy for their
legs, their hind-quarters grew weak, and one has died.
[Illustration:
THE QUEEN’S LION CUB. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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 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 _in formâ pauperis_, 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.
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 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.
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 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 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.
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 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.
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.
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.[8]
Footnote 8:
_Proceedings Zool. Soc._, Mar. 13, 1847.
“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 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.
“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.
“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 pond where she was standing,
but without success, as they were not within reach.
“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 _young one holding on to the fur_ at the root of the
tail _by its teeth_; 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.”
[Illustration:
OTTER PURSUING FISH. _From a Japanese Drawing._
]
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 _prodigium_, if the keeping of Sibylline books
were 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ANIMAL COLOURING.
THE 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 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 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.”[9] 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, 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 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 _pigment_ 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.
Footnote 9:
_Animal Coloration_, by F. E. Beddard, M.A., Prosector to the
Zoological Society of London. Swan, Sonnenschein, and Co., London.
Macmillan and Co., New York.
The mode by which, in the simple organisms which 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,[10] and remained stranded for
many weeks without connection with the shore, turned quite white—a
change due apparently to starvation.
Footnote 10:
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.
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 sex by a long course of discerning feminine selection,
it has an unconscious irony. Going quite outside the merits of the male
sex _per se_, 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.[11] 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.
Footnote 11:
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 _The Grouse_ (Fur and Feathers Series, Longmans, Green & Co.).
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WILD-CATS AT THE ZOO.
THE 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 joined battle, like the
Border rider at Chevy Chase, who—
“When his legs were smitten off,
Did fight upon his stumps.”
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 infinitely surly. The only stripes distinctly marked are two
on either side of the head.
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 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 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 _when young_. 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 of M. Champfleury, who considers that the Egyptian cat was
acclimatized in Egypt at the same time as the horse, in 1668 B.C.
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 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.
The collection of these beautiful smaller _felidæ_ 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.”
“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, _which was always open and smiling_, 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.”
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 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 _lacunæ_ 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 a tree-climbing species,
as active on the branches as a squirrel.
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 at the Zoo are hardly such as tend
to promote good-temper.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS.
MR. GARNER’S 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,”[12] he gives in a complete form the result
of the ingenious inquiries, the first instalment of which roused such
curiosity when published in the _New Review_. Every one who read the
story of the clever 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 ordinary emotions of fear or pleasure, offer no sort of resemblance,
and scout the notion of a common “Simian tongue.”
Footnote 12:
_The Speech of Monkeys_, by R. Garner. London: Heinemann.
[Illustration:
ARABIAN BABOON. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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.
“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 _response to his sound for food_, 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 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.”
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 _sound is interpreted to mean the same thing_, 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. 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, from which he now writes, do not tend to clear away this
difficulty.
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, 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 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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
RARE AND BEAUTIFUL MONKEYS.
AMONG 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 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.
[Illustration:
MACAQUE MONKEYS. From a photograph by
Gambier Bolton.
]
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 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.”
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
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 allow it to rank amongst the
first in the scale of monkey beauty.
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 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.
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 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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE LARGER MONKEYS.
THOUGH 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 (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 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.
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 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.
[Illustration:
MONKEYS PELTING COOLIES WITH FIR-CONES. _From a
Japanese Drawing._
]
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 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.
In the large cages in the centre of the Monkey 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.
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 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.
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, 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIZARDS AND CROCODILES AT THE ZOO.
IT 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 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
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
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.
[Illustration:
ALLIGATOR. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
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 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 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.
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, 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FROM THE ANIMALS’ POINT OF VIEW.[13]
Footnote 13:
The immunity of the keepers at the Zoo from serious injury or attack
by the animals in their charge is _à priori_ evidence that the
animals’ point of view is not necessarily hostile.
ONE 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 _lieutenant des chasses_ of the
Park of Versailles, the vindicator of Buffon and Montesquieu against the
criticisms of Voltaire, explains in his _Lettres sur les Animaux_ 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 _loup jeune et
ignorant_ from the _loup adulte et instruit_. The philosophic
_lieutenant des chasses_ had before long ample opportunities for
comparing the “affinities” which he had discovered 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
_à priori_ notions of a state of nature, so justly incurred the
criticism of the practical observer and practised writer, M. Georges
Leroy.
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 _The Swiss Family
Robinson_, 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, 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 _swam after the boat_.” 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 _Wild Beasts_ _and their Ways_, 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 Island was visited by H.M.S. _Volage_ 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 _inland_ 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. _Volage_,”
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
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.”
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,—
“When as that tender virgin he did spye,
Upon her he did run full greedily,
To have at once devoured her tender corse,”
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 _incongruity_
of the notion of being eaten by a wild beast,—“the hideous,
_impracticable fellow-creature_, looking one in the face, struggling
with us, 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 _few_ are designated ‘man-eaters.’ These
are sometimes naturally ferocious, and having attacked a human being,
_may_ have devoured the body, and thus acquired a taste for human flesh;
or they _may_ 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 _discovered_ 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. 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 _à priori_ 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
POSSIBLE PETS.
THE 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 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.
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 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.
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, 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 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 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.
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 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.
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 _must_ 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 baby one, but she was _not_ 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.
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE PARIS ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS IN THE TWO SIEGES.
HERE 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 _réquisition militaire_ of the
omnipotent M. _Pipe-en-Bois_. 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 “_Citoyenne_” _Kanguroo_, begging
them, “with emotion,” to observe the contrast of the animal, which
always carried its infant in its pocket, with the indifference of “_les
femmes aristo_” 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 _mental_ 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, _abandonné de son public_, leaning
indolently against the wall, was eating his hay with the air of a man
compelled to dine alone.
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 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.
The butcher was concluding his speech, in the centre of a circle of
women—
“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!”
De Goncourt was able to purchase two larks for his breakfast—like the
toasted mice of the hero of Bulwer Lytton’s _Parisians_, “dainty, but
not nutritious.” That evening he found, at Voisins, the famous elephant
sausage, _and he dined on it_.
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 _Englishman in Paris_. 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.”
The same writer records the opinion of an officer who was most
successful in “siege cookery” on the 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.”
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
“_très belle selle de chien_,” and that this was the third time they had
eaten dog.
“No, no,” exclaimed M. Saint-Victor, horrified. “M. Brebant is a
respectable man—he would have told us—horse, _not_ dog.”
“Dog or mutton,” said Nefftzer, his mouth full, “I have never eaten a
better _rôti_. If Brebant would give you rat, it is excellent, a mixture
of pork and partridge.”
During this dissertation poor M. Renan, who appeared preoccupied and
thoughtful, grew pale, then green, threw his five francs on the table,
and left hurriedly.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
OTHER BEASTS OF BURDEN.
THE 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.
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 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_d._ 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 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 _Memoirs_, 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 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.
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 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 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.
But as a rule in Asia the dog is the draught animal of the inferior
races. Mr. Nordenskiold, in his voyage in the _Vega_ 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 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 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.
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 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.
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.
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THE SOLDIER’S CAMEL.
“BACTRIAN camels,” says Major A. Leonard in his work on the _Camel, its
Uses and Management_,[14] “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.”
Footnote 14:
Longmans, Green and Co., London. 1874.
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.
[Illustration:
BACTRIAN CAMEL. From a photograph by Gambier
Bolton.
]
The reason for Major Leonard’s suggestion is to be found in the failure
in the management of our camel 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 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.
Major Leonard has been engaged in this service in 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—
“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.”
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, 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—
“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.”
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—
“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 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.”
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 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 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.
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 reference as to our general neglect of this
indispensable animal for Asiatic warfare is irresistible.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE CANADIAN BEAVER.
INDIAN 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 _The History and Traditions of the Canadian Beaver_[15]
would almost bear out the Indian belief, that the intelligence and
mechanical skill of the beaver were prior 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 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 _always_ 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.
Footnote 15:
Edward Stanford: London.
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 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 _individual_
intelligence 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
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.
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 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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE TEMPER OF ANIMALS.
THE 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 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.
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
_Three Men in a Boat_ 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 a rule, ferocious and ill-tempered,
a notion summed up in Mr. Burnand’s conclusion in _Happy Thoughts_, 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 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.
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 _felidæ_ 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 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.
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 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, 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CRIMINAL ANIMALS.
“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.”—_Daily Paper._
THE 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 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 _per se_, 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, 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.
The “rogue” elephant, even when driven from one 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, being outlawed from society, revenge themselves by the
indulgence of their criminal bent.
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 _employés_ who most fortunately
came to the rescue.
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.
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 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.
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.
“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 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.”
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.
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 remonstrated. “Don’t ’ee be a-veared, m’am,”
shouted the owner, “_’em be a deal better behaved here than ’em be in
Devon_.” 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A YEAR AT THE ZOO.
THE 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 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 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, 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 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
_Zoological Record_, 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_s._ 6_d._ 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.
£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_s._ 4_d._, 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 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.
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 _viâ_ 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 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.”
THE END.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ The Greek quotes on page 198 were checked and corrected by a
native Greek speaker.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
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