We are in the Studio of a friend of ours, whose knowledge of
all kinds of Beasts and Birds has never been surpassed, and to
whose profound acquaintance with the whole Animal Kingdom, every
modern picture-gallery and every print-shop, at home and abroad,
bears witness. We have been wanted by our friend as a model for a
Rat-catcher. We feel much honored, and are sitting to him in that
distinguished capacity, with an awful Bulldog much too near us.
Our friend is, as might be expected, the particular friend of the
Lions in the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park, London. On behalf of
that Royal Family dear to his heart, he offers--standing painting away
at his easel, with his own wonderful vigour and ease--a few words of
friendly remonstrance to the Zoological Society.
You are an admirable society (says our friend, throwing in, now a
bit of our head, and now a bit of the Bulldog’s), and you have done
wonders. You are a society that has established in England, a national
menagerie of the most beautiful description, and that has placed it
freely and in a spirit deserving of the highest commendation within the
reach of the great body of the people. You are a society rendering a
real service and advantage to the public, and always most sensibly and
courteously represented by your excellent Mitchell.
Then why (proceeds our friend), don’t you treat your Lions better?
In the earnestness of his enquiry, our friend looks harder than usual
at the Bulldog. The Bulldog immediately droops and becomes embarrassed.
All dogs feel that our friend knows all their secrets, and that it
is utterly hopeless to attempt to take him in. The last base action
committed by this Bulldog is on his conscience, the moment our friend
fixes him. “What? You did, eh?” says our friend to the Bulldog. The
Bulldog licks his lips with the greatest nervousness, winks his red
eyes, balances himself afresh on his bandy forelegs, and becomes a
spectacle of dejection. He is as little like his vagabond self, as that
remarkable breed which the French call a bouledogue.
Your birds (says our friend, resuming his work, and addressing himself
again to the Zoological Society), are as happy as the day is--he was
about to add, long, but glances at the light and substitutes--short.
Their natural habits are perfectly understood, their structure is
well-considered, and they have nothing to desire. Pass from your birds
to those members of your collection whom Mr. Rogers used to call, “our
poor relations.” Of course I mean the monkeys. They have an artificial
climate carefully prepared for them. They have the blessing of
congenial society carefully secured to them. They are among their own
tribes and connexions. They have shelves to skip upon, and pigeon-holes
to creep into. Graceful ropes dangle from the upper beams of their
sitting-rooms, by which they swing, for their own enjoyment, the
fascination of the fair sex, and the instruction of the enquiring minds
of the rising generation. Pass from our poor relations to that beast,
the Hippopotamus--What do you mean?
The last enquiry is addressed, not to the Zoological Society, but to
the Bulldog, who has deserted his position, and is sneaking away.
Passing his brush into the left thumb on which he holds his palette,
our friend leisurely walks up to the Bulldog, and slaps his face!
Even we, whose faith is great, expect to see him next moment with the
Bulldog hanging on to his nose; but, the Bulldog is abjectly polite,
and would even wag his tail if it had not been bitten off in his
infancy.
Pass, I was saying (coolly pursues our friend at his easel again),
from our poor relations to that impersonation of sensuality, the
Hippopotamus. How do you provide for him? Could he find, on the banks
of the Nile, such a villa as you have built for him on the banks of the
Regent’s canal? Could he find, in his native Egypt, an appropriately
furnished drawing-room, study, bath, wash-house, and spacious
pleasure-ground, all en suite, and always ready? I think not. Now, I
beseech your managing committee and your natural philosophers, to come
with me and look at the Lions.
Here, our friend seizes a piece of charcoal and instantly produces, on
a new canvas standing on another easel near, a noble Lion and Lioness.
The Bulldog (who deferentially resumed his position after having
his face slapped), looks on in manifest uneasiness, lest this new
proceeding should have something to do with him.
There! says our friend, throwing the charcoal away, There they are! The
majestic King and Queen of quadrupeds. The British Lion is no longer
a fictitious creature in the British coat of arms. You produce your
British Lion every year from this royal couple. And how, with all the
vast amount of resources, knowledge, and experience at your command,
how do you treat these your great attractions? From day to day, I
find the noble creatures patiently wearing out their weary lives in
narrow spaces where they have hardly room to turn, and condemned to
face in the roughest weather a bitter Nor’-Westerly aspect. Look at
those wonderfully-constructed feet, with their exquisite machinery for
alighting from springs and leaps. What do you conceive to be the kind
of ground to which those feet are, in the great foresight of Nature,
least adapted? Bare, smooth, hard boards, perhaps, like the deck of a
ship? Yes. A strange reason why you should choose that and no other
flooring for their dens!
Why, Heaven preserve us! (cries our friend, frightening the Bulldog
very much) do any of you keep a cat? Will any of you do me the favour
to watch a cat in a field or garden, on a bright sunshiny day--how she
crouches in the mould, rolls in the sand, basks in the grass, delights
to vary the surface upon which she rests, and change the form of the
substance upon which she takes her ease. Compare such surfaces and
substances with the one uniform, unyielding, unnatural, unelastic,
inappropriate piece of human carpentery upon which these beautiful
animals, with their vexed faces, pace and repace, and pass each other
two hundred and fifty times an hour.
It is really incomprehensible (our friend proceeds), in you who should
be so well acquainted with animals, to call these boards--or that
other uncomfortable boarded object like a Mangle with the inside taken
out--a Bed, for creatures with these limbs and these habits. That, a
Bed for a Lion and Lioness, which does not even give them a chance of
being bruised in a new place? Learn of your cat again, and see how
_she_ goes to bed. Did you ever find her, or any living creature, go to
bed, without re-arranging to the whim and sensation of the moment, the
materials of the bed itself? Don’t you, the Zoological Society, punch
and poke your pillows, and settle into suitable places in your beds?
Consider then, what the discomfort of these magnificent brutes must be,
to whom you leave no diversity of choice, no power of new arrangement,
and as to whose unchanging and unyielding beds you begin with a form
and substance that have no parallel in their natural lives. If you
doubt the pain they must endure, go to museums and colleges where the
bones of lions and other animals of the feline tribe who have lived in
captivity under similar circumstances, are preserved; and you will find
them thickly encrusted with a granulated substance, the result of long
lying upon unnatural and uncomfortable planes.
I will not be so pressing as to the feeding of my Royal Friends
(pursues the Master), but even there I think you are wrong. You may
rely upon it, that the best regulated families of Lions and Lionesses
don’t dine every day punctually at the same hour, in their natural
state, and don’t always keep the same kind and quantity of meat in the
larder. However, I will readily waive that question of board, if you
will only abandon the other.
The time of the sitting being out, our friend takes his palette
from his thumb, lays it aside with his brush, ceases to address the
Zoological Society, and releases the Bulldog and myself. Having
occasion to look closely at the Bulldog’s chest, he turns that model
over as if he were made of clay (if I were to touch him with my little
finger he would pin me instantly), and examines him without the
smallest regard to his personal wishes or convenience. The Bulldog,
having humbly submitted, is shown to the door.
“Eleven precisely, to-morrow,” says our friend, “or it will be the
worse for you.” The Bulldog respectfully slouches out. Looking out of
the window, I presently see him going across the garden, accompanied by
a particularly ill-looking proprietor with a black eye--my prototype I
presume--again a ferocious and audacious Bulldog, who will evidently
kill some other dog before he gets home.