Part 18

“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.

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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 19s. 6d. 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 17s. 4d., 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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