[Illustration: Emu Enclosure]
[Illustration: Pelican Enclosure]
[Illustration: Aviary for Small Birds]
Our strolls to this scene of intellectual amusement, (or "the gardens
with a long name," as Lord Mulgrave's new heroine naively calls them,)
are neither few nor far between. The acquaintance is of some standing,
since _The Mirror_ was the first journal that contained any pictorial
representation of these Gardens, or any connected notice of the
animals.[1] At that time the Society had not published their "List," and
our twopenny guide was common in the hands of visiters. We do not ask
for the thanks of the Council in contributing to their annual receipts,
now usually amounting to £10,000.: we were studying the interest of our
readers, which uniformly brings its own reward. The first of the present
illustrations is the _Emu Enclosure_, in the old Garden. Several broods
of _Emus_ have been reared by the Society at their Farm at Kingston
Hill; and some of the year's birds are usually exhibited here. Next is
the _Pelican Enclosure_, containing a house of mimic rock-work, and a
capacious tank of water, the favourite element of the Pelican. One pair
in mature plumage, and a second pair, supposed to be the young of the
same species, are exhibited. The third Cut is the _Aviary for small and
middle-sized birds_, at the north-eastern corner of the Garden. Here are
kept various British Birds, as the different species of Crows and Song
Birds. The bamboo ornaments of the building are not, therefore, of the
appropriate character that we so much admire elsewhere in the Gardens.
[1] The _Literary Gazette_ first published the Ground Plan of
the Zoological Gardens, from a lithograph circulated among the
members, towards the close of the year 1827. In seeking to do
ourselves justice, we must not forget others. Our first
Engraving, a _Bird's Eye View of the Gardens_ from an original
sketch, appeared in No. 330, of _The Mirror_, September 6, 1828.
[Illustration: "Happy Jerry"]
The individual with this felicitous _soubriquet_, was a specimen of the
great Mandrill Baboon, in its adult state, the _Papio Maimon_ of
Geoffrey, and the _Cynocephalus Maimon_ of Desmarest. It is a native of
the Gold Coast and Guinea, in Africa, where whole droves of them often
plunder the orchards and vineyards. Their colours are greyish brown,
inclining to olive above; the cheeks are blue and furrowed, and the chin
has a sharp-pointed orange beard; the nose grows red, especially towards
the end, where it becomes of a bright scarlet. Such are, however, only
the colours of the adult animal; the young differs materially, on which
account it has been considered by naturalists as a distinct species.
Jerry is now a member of death's "antic court," but his necrology may be
interesting to the reader. Mr. Cross describes him as "from on board a
slave vessel that had been captured off the Gold Coast, in the year
1815," when he was supposed to be three years old. He was landed at
Bristol, and was there purchased by the proprietor of a travelling
menagerie, who kept him for some years, and taught him the various
accomplishments he after excelled in, as sitting in a chair, smoking,
drinking grog, &c.; probably he required but little tuition in the
latter; since we find a fondness for fermented liquors numbered among
his habits by the biographers of his species. In 1828, Jerry was
purchased by Mr. Cross, and exhibited at the King's Mews, when he
appeared in full vigour, and attracted a large number of daily visitors.
He was fed daily from the table of his owner, and almost made a parlour
guest; taking tea, toast, bread and butter, soup, boiled and roast
meats, vegetables, pastry, &c., with as much _gout_ as any member of a
club in his vicinity. In 1829, his eccentricities reached the royal ear
at Windsor, and George the Fourth, (whose partiality to _exotics_,
animate or inanimate, was well known,) sent an "express command" that
Jerry should attend at the Castle. The invitations of royalty are always
undeclinable, and Jerry obeyed accordingly. The King was much amused
with his visiter, and, says our informant, "his Majesty was delighted at
seeing him eat the state dinner, consisting of venison, &c., which had
been prepared for him."[2] Thus, Jerry was not in the parlous state
described by Touchstone: he was not damned, like the poor shepherd: _he_
had been to court. He had also learnt good and gallant manners. He
recognised many of his frequent visiters, and if any female among them
was laid hold of, in his presence, he would bristle with rage, strike
the bars of his cage with tremendous force, and violently gnash his
teeth at the ungallant offender.
[2] This reminds us of the attachment of the late Duke of
Norfolk to his dogs. They were admitted to the apartment in
which his Grace dined; and he often selected the fine cuts from
joints at table, and threw the pieces to the curs upon the
polished oak floors of Aruudel Castle.
In the autumn of 1831, Jerry's health began to decline, and he was
accordingly removed from Charing Cross to the suburban salubrity of the
Surrey Zoological Gardens. All was of no avail: though, as a biographer
would say of a nobler animal, every remedy was tried to restore him to
health. Life's fitful fever was well nigh over with him, and in the
month of December last--he died. His body was opened and examined, when
it appeared that his death was through old age; and, although he had
been a free liver, and, as Mr. Cross facetely observes, "was not a
member of a Temperance Society," his internal organization did not seem
to have suffered in the way usually consequent upon hard drinking.
Perhaps a few ascetic advocates of cant and care-wearing abstinence will
think that we ought to conceal this exceptionable fact, lest Jerry's
example should be more frequently followed. Justice demands otherwise;
and as the biographers of old tell us that Alexander the Great died of
hard-drinking, so ought we to record that Happy Jerry's life was not
shortened by the imperial propensity: in this case, the monkey has beat
the man: proverbially, the man beats the monkey. Jerry had, however, his
share of ailment: he had been a martyr to that love-pain, the
tooth-ache; several of his large molar teeth being entirely decayed.
This circumstance accounted for the gloomy appearance he would sometimes
put on, and his covering his head with his hands, and laying it in his
chair. Poor fellow! we could have sympathized with him from our very
hearts--we mean teeth. Jerry's remains have been carefully embalmed, (we
hope in his favourite spirit,) and are now at the Surrey Gardens; where
the arrival of a living congener is daily expected. Meanwhile, will
nobody write the _hic jacet_ of the deceased? or no publisher engage for
his reminiscences? Mr. Cross would probably supply the skeleton--of the
memoir--not of his poor dead Jerry. What tales could he have told of the
slave-stricken people of the Gold Coast, what horrors of the slave-ship
whence he was taken, what a fine graphic picture of his voyage, and his
travels in England, _à la Prince Puckler Muskau_, not forgetting his
visit to Windsor Castle.
Baboons may be rendered docile in confinement; though they almost always
retain the disposition to revenge an injury. At the Cape, they are often
caught when young, and brought up with milk; perhaps Jerry was so
nurtured; and Kolben tells us, that they will become as watchful over
their master's property as the most valuable house-dog is in Europe.
Many of the Hottentots believe they can speak, but that they avoid doing
so lest they should be enslaved, and compelled to work! What a libel
upon human nature is conveyed in this trait of savage credulity. The
bitterest reproofs of man's wickedness are not only to be found in the
varnished lessons of civilization. Here is a touching piece of
simplicity upon which James Montgomery might found a whole poem.
Baboons, in their native countries, are sometimes hunted with dogs, but
their chase is often fatal to the assailants. Mr. Burchell tells us that
several of his dogs were wounded by the bites of baboons, and two or
three dogs were thus bitten asunder. A species of baboon common in
Ceylon, often attains the height of man. It is very fearless; and Bishop
Heber relates that an acquaintance of his having on one occasion shot a
young baboon, the mother came boldly up and wrested the gun out of his
hand without doing him any injury.
* * * * *
By way of pendent, we add the present state of THE ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY,
from the report just completed.
Gross amount of the income of last year £17,633[3]
Being an increase over the preceding year of 1,857
Receipts of four months of the past year 3,330
Receipts of corresponding months of the present year 3,755
_Receipts of the Society since its formation_
In 1827 £ 4,079
1828 11,515
1829 13,991
1830 15,806
1831 17,662[3]
-------
Total since its formation £63,053
_Visiters to the Gardens_.
In 1830--224,745 paying 9,773£
1831--258,936 11,425£
_Visiters to the Museum_.
In 1831--11,636 paying 333£
Number of Fellows 2,074
[3] These items, which are not quite correct, are from the
_Morning Chronicle_ report.
The Society have obtained a grant of nine acres and a half of land, in
the Regent's Park, contiguous to their gardens; and they intend to
devote 1,000_l_. annually to the improvement of the Museum.
* * * * *