has long been a subject of interest and instruction in civilised
communities, and in many countries either the State or the Sovereign has
considered it as part of their duty or privilege to maintain a more or
less perfect establishment of the kind.
Before the Zoological Society was formed the “lions” at the Tower had
been for centuries a national institution; and it may be interesting to
those who derive pleasure in tracing the links between the present and
the past, to be reminded that our collection is in some measure a lineal
continuation of that time-honoured institution, as it appears from the
Reports of the Council that in the year 1831 His Majesty King William
the Fourth “was graciously pleased to present to the Society all the
animals belonging to the Crown lately maintained at the Tower.” It is
also recorded that in the previous year His Majesty had made a
munificent donation of the whole of the animals belonging to the Royal
Menagerie kept in Windsor Park. This may perhaps be the place to mention
that in the Report read April 1837 the Council “had the gratification to
call the special attention of the members to a donation from Her Royal
Highness the Princess Victoria,” consisting of a pair of those pretty
and interesting little animals, the Stanley musk-deer. During the fifty
years that have elapsed since this first-recorded mark of interest in
the society on the part of her present Majesty, the Queen and her family
have never failed to show their regard for its welfare whenever any
opportunity has arisen, of which the acceptance of the Presidency by the
late Prince Consort, on the death of the Earl of Derby in 1851, was one
of the most signal instances. The advantages which the Society has
received from the numerous donations to the Menagerie, and the constant
kindly interest shown in its general progress by H.R.H. the Prince of
Wales, are so continually before the observation of the Fellows, that I
need scarcely do more than allude to them here, beyond stating that in
no year of the Society’s existence has the number of visitors to the
Gardens or the Society’s income been so great as in 1876, when the large
collection of animals brought from India by His Royal Highness formed
the special object of attraction.
Except for the collection, necessarily of limited extent, exhibited in
the Tower, and a few others having their origin in commercial
enterprise, as Mr. Crosse’s menagerie at Exeter Change and the various
itinerant wild-beast shows, there were, before the foundation of the
Society’s Gardens, little means in the country of gaining knowledge of
the strange forms of exotic animal life with which the world abounds.
An extensive, well-arranged, and well-kept collection, where the
circumstances of exhibition were more favourable than in the
institutions just referred to, seemed then to fulfil a national need, as
the rapidly-acquired popularity of the Society already alluded to
testifies. Indeed, when we consider the amount of enjoyment and
instruction which has been afforded to the 24,572,405 visitors who are
registered as having entered our Gardens from their first opening in
1828 to the end of last year, it is easy to realise what a loss the
country would have sustained if they had not existed. There was a
period, it is true, in which they fell rather low in popular favour, the
record of 1847 showing both the smallest number of visitors and the
lowest income of any year in the Society’s existence. A new era of
activity in the management of the Society’s affairs was then happily
inaugurated, which resulted in a prosperity which has continued ever
since, with only slight fluctuations, arising from causes easy to be
understood--a prosperity to which the scientific knowledge, zeal, and
devotion to the affairs of the Society of our present Secretary, ably
seconded in all matters of detail by the Resident Superintendent, have
greatly contributed.
Among the great improvements which have been gradually effected in the
Gardens in recent years is the erection of larger, more commodious, and
more substantial buildings for the accommodation of the animals than
those that existed before. A few examples will suffice to illustrate the
successive steps that have been taken in this direction. The primary
habitation of the lions and other large feline animals was the building
near the north-east corner of the Gardens, which many of us may remember
as a Reptile-house, and which has been lately restored as a
dwelling-place for the smaller Carnivora. The Council Reports of the
period frequently speak of the bad accommodation it afforded to the
inmates, the consequent injury to their health, and the disagreeable
effects on visitors from the closeness of the atmosphere. In September
1843 the terrace, with its double row of cages beneath, was completed;
and the report of the following spring, speaking of this as “one of the
most important works ever undertaken at the Gardens,” congratulates the
Society upon the fact that the anticipations of the increased health of
this interesting portion of the collection, resulting from a free
exposure to the external air and total absence of artificial heat, have
been fully realised. The effects of more air and greater exercise were
indeed said to have become visible almost immediately. Animals which
were emaciated and sickly before their removal became plump and sleek in
a fortnight after, and the appetites of all were so materially increased
that they began to kill and eat each other. This, however, led to an
immediate increase in their allowance of food, since which time, it is
stated, no further accidents of the kind have occurred. As this
structure, looked upon at that period as so great an improvement upon
its predecessors, still remains, though adapted for other inmates, we
all have an opportunity of contrasting the size of its dens and the
provision it affords generally for the health and comfort of the animals
and the convenience of visitors, with those of the magnificent building
which superseded it in 1876.
In the report of the year 1840 it is stated that the only work of
considerable magnitude undertaken since the last anniversary was the
erection of the “New Monkey-house,” and the Council speak with great
satisfaction of the substantial nature of the structure and the superior
accommodation which its internal arrangements were calculated to afford
to its inmates.
Many of us may remember this building, which stood on the space now
cleared in the centre of the Gardens. Twenty-four years after its
erection, in their report, dated April 1864, we find the Council
speaking of it as “what is at present perhaps the most defective portion
of the Society’s Garden establishment,” and the erection of a second
“New Monkey-house” was determined upon. This is the present light and
comparatively airy and spacious building, the superiority of which over
the old one in every respect is incontestable.
Up to the year 1848 the only attempt which had been made to familiarise
the visitors with the structure and habits of animals of the class
Reptilia was by the occasional display of a pair of pythons, which were
kept closely covered in a box of limited dimensions in one of the
smaller Carnivora-houses. In 1849 the building which had been rendered
vacant by the removal of the lions to the new terrace was fitted up with
cases with plate-glass fronts on a plan entirely novel in this country,
and which for many years afforded an instructive exhibition of the
forms, colours, and movements of many species of serpents, lizards, and
crocodiles. This house was a vast improvement upon anything of the kind
ever seen before; but the contrast between it and the present handsome
and spacious building so recently erected in the south-eastern corner of
the grounds affords another illustration of the great progress we are
making.
If time allowed I might also refer to the Elephant-house, completed in
1870, to the Insect-house, opened in 1881, and to various others of less
importance.
The erection of these houses has necessarily been a very costly
undertaking; in fact, since what may be called the reconstruction of the
permanent buildings of the Gardens, which commenced in the year 1860,
more than £50,000 has been expended upon them. It is only in years of
great prosperity, when the Society’s income has considerably exceeded
its necessarily large permanent expenditure, that works such as these
can be undertaken.
Much as has been done in this direction, we must all admit that there is
still more required. The buildings of to-day will, we may even hope,
some day seem to our successors what the former ones appear to us. The
old idea of keeping animals in small cramped cages and dens, inherited
from the Tower and travelling wild-beast shows, still lingers in many
places. We have a responsibility to our captive animals, brought from
their native wilds to minister to our pleasure and instruction, beyond
that of merely supplying them with food and shelter. The more their
comfort can be studied, the roomier their place of captivity, the more
they are surrounded by conditions reproducing those of their native
haunts, the happier they will be, and the more enjoyment and instruction
we shall obtain when looking at them. Many of our newest improvements
are markedly in this direction. I may especially mention the new
inclosure for wild sheep near the Lion-house in the South Garden, with
its picturesque rockwork and fall of water, and the large Aviary for
herons and similar birds just completed on what used to be called the
Water-Fowls’ Lawn.
All such improvements can, however, only be carried out by the continued
aid of the public, either by becoming permanently attached to the
Society as Fellows or by visiting the Gardens. I trust that this brief
record of the principal events of the Society’s history will show that
such support is not undeserved by those who have had the management of
its affairs.
XIV
WHALES, AND BRITISH AND COLONIAL WHALE FISHERIES[34]
When asked by your Council to lecture upon some subject connected with
natural history, it occurred to me that the great link between Britain
and all her Colonies was the ocean, and that, therefore, something
concerning its animal inhabitants might be interesting to those whose
avocations and situation in life call them to traverse its pathless
ways. Even in an ordinary voyage, such as is necessitated by any
intercourse between a Colony and the Mother Country, some familiarity
may be acquired with the gigantic denizens of the deep; but the
knowledge of them so gained is generally so slight and superficial that
I venture to think that some more accurate and definite information
about them would be welcome. The subject I have chosen is, however, so
large that I can only, in the limited time allowed on one evening,
select a few of the more interesting features in the history of these
remarkable animals, both from the point of view of the naturalist and in
their relation to human civilisation and commerce.
In the admirable sketch, by our greatest living naturalist, of the
history of the science of comparative anatomy during the present
century, appended to the recently published _Life of Sir Richard Owen_,
Professor Huxley says: “Take, for example, the question whether a whale
is a fish or not, which, I observe, is not yet quite settled for some
people. As the whale is not a little like a fish outside, and lives
permanently in the sea, why should it not be classed with the fishes?”
Before proceeding to answer this question, I must ask another. In what
sense do you use the term “fish”? It happened to me a few years ago to
receive a semi-official inquiry from the Colonial Office, as to whether
a lobster was a fish, because an important point in the dispute between
the French and English about the Newfoundland fisheries depended upon
the interpretation of an old treaty in which the word “fish” occurs.
After giving the modern naturalists’ definition of a fish, by which a
lobster is clearly excluded from the class, of course I felt it
necessary to remind my correspondents that in such a case the real
answer to the question lay in the sense in which the word was used at
the time of the treaty, and by those who were parties to drawing it up,
and if that could be ascertained it would be more to the point than the
strictest of scientific definitions. Now, on turning to what was, in the
beginning of the present century, our greatest authority on the meaning
of words, I find in _Johnson’s Dictionary_ (I now quote from Todd’s
edition, 1818) “_fish_” defined as “an animal that inhabits the water.”
Without doubt this was the general and popular view, as the universally
used expressions _shell-fish_, lobster and oyster _fisheries_, whale
_fisheries_, and even seal _fisheries_, abundantly testify. I therefore
cannot say that in a certain vague and antiquated sense of the word,
“fish” may not be applied to the animals of which I propose to speak to
you this evening. This must not, however, cause us to forget that,
tested by the light of modern scientific knowledge, a whale is in
everything essential in its structure entirely removed from the class of
animals to which zoologists now restrict the term “fish,” a very clearly
defined group of cold-blooded creatures, breathing by means of gills the
air which is dissolved in the water in which they swim, with lowly
organised brain, and producing their young from eggs, and after they are
born not nourishing them by the mother’s milk--in all of which, and many
other important characters, whales are entirely removed from them. In
fact, as Professor Huxley continues, in response to the question with
which I stopped the quotation:--
The answer, of course is, that the moment one compares a whale with
any one of the thousands of ordinary fishes, the two are seen to
differ in almost every particular of structure and, moreover, in
all those points in which the whale differs from the fish, it
agrees with ordinary mammals. Therefore the zoologists put the
whales into the same class with the mammals, and not into that of
the fishes. But this conclusion implies the assumption that animals
should be arranged according to the totality of their resemblances.
It means that the likenesses in structure of whales and mammals are
greatly more numerous and more close than the likenesses between
whales and fishes.
It also means, if the derivative hypothesis of animal species is true,
that the whale is far more nearly related to, say, a horse or a cow than
it is to a cod or a shark.
It is decided, then, that, from the point of view of a zoologist at all
events (whatever the fisherman and the man of business may continue to
say), the whales and their allies belong to the class _Mammalia_, and
not to that of _Pisces_. We can easily fix their place in that class as
constituting a distinct and clearly defined order, the _Cetacea_,
derived from the Latin word _cetus_ = a whale. Although the term “whale”
is generally, if somewhat vaguely, restricted to the larger and
middle-sized members of the order, the smaller ones, commonly called
“dolphins” and “porpoises,” to all intents and purposes belong to it,
and no line can be drawn to separate them except size; and even in this
respect there is a regular gradation between the colossal rorqual of 80
feet in length to the pontoporia, or dolphin of the estuary of the La
Plata, which scarcely exceeds a yard from snout to tail. On this
occasion, after a few general observations on the group, I propose to
limit myself almost entirely to the larger species, to which the term
“whale” is most especially appropriate, and which have the greatest
interest to man, on account of the industries to which the commercial
value of their products gives rise.
Taken altogether, as I have mentioned, the _Cetacea_ constitute a
perfectly distinct and natural order of mammals, characterised by their
purely aquatic mode of life and external fish-like form. Their body
passes anteriorly into the head without any distinct constriction or
neck, and posteriorly tapers off gradually to the tail, which is
provided with a pair of lateral pointed expansions of skin, supported by
dense fibrous tissue, called “flukes,” forming together a horizontally
placed triangular propelling organ, quite different from the
vertically-placed tail-fin of a fish. The fore limbs are reduced to the
condition of flattened paddles, encased in a continuous skin, showing no
external sign of division into arm, forearm, hand, or fingers, and
without any trace of nails. There are no vestiges of hind limbs visible
externally, although in many species rudiments of the hip and thigh
bones, and of the muscles and joints connecting them, are found buried
far away below the surface. The general surface of the body is smooth
and glistening and devoid of hair, the absence of which, as a preserver
of the animal heat, is compensated for by the remarkable layer of dense
fat or “blubber” immediately beneath the skin. The whole organisation
necessitates their life being passed entirely in the water, as on land
they are absolutely helpless; but they have to rise very frequently to
the surface for the purpose of respiration. The position of the
respiratory orifice, nostril, or “blowhole” on the highest part of the
head is very important for this mode of life, since it is the only part
of the body of which the exposure above the surface is absolutely
necessary. Of the numerous erroneous ideas connected with natural
history, few are so widespread and still so firmly believed,
notwithstanding repeated expositions of its falsity, as that whales
spout out through their blowholes water taken in at their mouth. The
fact is, the “spouting,” or more properly “blowing,” of the whale is
nothing more than the ordinary act of breathing, which, taking place at
longer intervals than in land animals, is performed with a greater
amount of emphasis. The moment the animal rises to the surface it
forcibly expels from its lungs the air taken in at the last inspiration,
which of course is highly charged with watery vapour in consequence of
the natural respiratory changes. This, rapidly condensing in the cold
atmosphere in which the phenomenon is generally observed, forms a column
of steam or spray, which has been erroneously taken for water.
It also often happens, especially when the surface of the ocean is
agitated into waves, that the animal commences its expiratory puff
before the orifice has quite cleared the top of the water, some of which
may thus be driven upwards with the blast, tending to complete the
illusion. In hunting whales the harpoon often pierces the lungs or air
passages of the unfortunate victim, and then fountains of blood may be
forced high in the air through the blow-holes, as commonly depicted in
scenes of Arctic adventure; but this is nothing more (allowance being
made for the whale’s peculiar mode of breathing) than what always
follows severe wounds of the respiratory organs of other warm-blooded
animals.
The _Cetacea_ all subsist on animal food of some kind. One genus alone
(the killers, _Orca_) eat other warm-blooded animals, as seals, and even
members of their own order, both large and small. Some feed on fish,
others on small floating crustacea, pteropods, and medusæ; while the
staple food of many is constituted of the various species of cephalopods
(squid and cuttlefish), which abound in some seas in vast quantities.
With some exceptions they are generally timid, inoffensive animals,
active in their movements, sociable and gregarious in their habits. They
are remarkable for the great care and affection with which they treat
their young.
Among the existing members of the order there are two very distinct
types--the toothed whales (_Odontoceti_) and the whalebone or baleen
whales (_Mystacoceti_), which present throughout their organisation
markedly distinct structural characters, and have no transitional forms
between them. The giants of the order, of which I am about to speak,
contain representatives of both groups.
The whales that have teeth and no whalebone are far the most numerous,
and include all the smaller members of the order, the various kinds of
dolphins and porpoises, among which are the fresh-water dolphins of the
great rivers of India and South America. Some of the moderate-sized
animals of this group, especially those spoken of by sailors under the
vague designations of “grampuses,” “bottle-noses,” and “black fish”
(_Orca_, _Hyperoodon_, and _Globicephalus_ of zoologists), may be
classed as whales, and some of them, as well as the narwhal and beluga
or white whale of the Arctic Seas, are objects of pursuit by man, and
when captured yield products, mainly oil, of commercial value. But time
will only allow me now to speak in any detail of one species, which
greatly surpasses all the others, not only in size, but in value and
interest, as having long afforded material for a regular and important
branch of human industry. This is the animal commonly called the “sperm
whale,” known in books by its French name of _cachalot_, or its
scientific designation of _Physeter macrocephalus_, which, taken
altogether--not in length, but in bulk and weight--is the most colossal
of all animals.
[Illustration: FIG. 8.[35]]
Although a contrary opinion prevailed at one time, it is now fairly well
established that there is but one species of sperm whale, which has a
remarkably wide geographical distribution, being met with, usually in
herds, or “schools” as they are termed, in almost all tropical or
subtropical seas, but not occurring, except accidentally, in the Polar
regions. Not unfrequently specimens appear on the coasts of Great
Britain, but only as solitary stragglers, or as dead carcasses floated
northwards by the Gulf Stream. It is remarkable that every case of these
of which we have an accurate record has been an old male. The females
and young appear never to wander so far from their usual haunts,
although they have been met with in the Mediterranean, and even on the
Atlantic coast of France. The sperm whale (Fig. 8) is a strange-looking
animal, and cannot be mistaken for any other cetacean. The head is about
one-third of the whole length of the animal, very massive, high, and
truncated in front, and owes its huge size and remarkable form mainly to
the great accumulation of a peculiar form of oily matter, contained in
great cells, connected with the nasal passages, and filling the large
hollow on the upper surface of the skull. This oily matter, liquid at
the natural temperature of the body, crystallises when cold, and yields
when refined the spermaceti of commerce, so valuable in the manufacture
of surgical ointments and candles. The nostril or “blowhole” is single,
in the form of a longitudinal slit, and placed, not near the top of the
head, as in most other cetaceans, but near the front end of the great
snout, and rather to the left of the middle line. Consequently the
“blowing” of the sperm whale is so different from that of all other
species that the whalers can recognise it at any distance. The steamy
jet, instead of being double and projected directly upwards, as in an
ordinary fountain, which is the case with all the large whalebone
whales, is single and directed obliquely forwards. The opening of the
mouth is on the under side of the head, considerably behind the end of
the snout. The lower jaw is extremely narrow, and has on each side from
twenty to twenty-five stout conical teeth, which furnish ivory of good
quality, though not in sufficient bulk for most of the purposes for
which that article is required. The upper teeth are quite rudimentary
and buried in the gum. The pectoral fin, or flipper, is short and broad,
and on the back, where many whales have a dorsal fin, there is a series
of low, rounded protuberances, scarcely to be called fins. The general
colour of the surface is black above and gray below, the colours
gradually shading into each other. The food of the sperm whale consists
mainly of various species of cephalopods (squid and cuttlefish), but
they also eat fish of considerable size.