The seal is an affable fellow, though sloppy. He is friendly to man:
providing the journalist with copy, the diplomatist with lying practice,
and the punster with shocking opportunities. Ungrateful for these
benefits, however, or perhaps savage at them, man responds by knocking
the seal on the head and taking his skin: an injury which the seal
avenges by driving man into the Bankruptcy Court with bills for his
wife's jackets. The puns instigated by the seal are of a sort to make
one long for the animal's extermination. It is quite possible that this
is really what the seal wants, because to become extinct and to occupy a
place of honour beside the dodo is a distinction much coveted amongst
the lower animals. The dodo was a squabby, ugly, dumpy, not to say
fat-headed, bird when it lived; now it is a hero of romance. Possibly
this is what the seal is aiming at; but personally I should prefer the
extinction of the punster.
[Illustration: A SHAVE.]
The punster is a low person, who refers to the awkwardness of the seal's
gait by speaking of his not having his seal-legs, although a mariner or
a sealubber, as he might express it. If you reply that, on the contrary,
the seal's legs, such as they are, are very characteristic, he takes
refuge in the atrocious admission, delivered with a French accent, that
they are certainly very sealy legs. When he speaks of the messages of
the English Government, in the matter of seal-catching in the Behring
Sea, he calls it whitewashing the sealing, and explains that the
"Behrings of this here observation lies in the application on it." I
once even heard a punster remark that the Russian and American officials
had got rather out of their Behrings, through an excess of seal on
behalf of their Governments; but he was a very sad specimen, in a very
advanced stage, and he is dead now. I don't say that that remark sealed
his fate, but I believe there are people who would say even that, with
half a chance.
[Illustration: TOBY--BEHIND.]
Another class of frivoller gets his opportunity because it is customary
to give various species of seals--divers species, one might
say--inappropriate names. He tells you that if you look for sea-lions
and sea-leopards, you will not see lions, nor even see leopards, but
seal-lions and seal-leopards, which are very different. These are called
lions and leopards because they look less like lions and leopards than
anything else in the world; just as the harp seal is so called because
he has a broad mark on his back, which doesn't look like a harp. Look at
Toby, the Patagonian sea-lion here, who has a large pond and premises to
himself. I have the greatest possible respect and esteem for Toby, but I
shouldn't mistake him for a lion, in any circumstances. With every wish
to spare his feelings, one can only compare him to a very big slug in an
overcoat, who has had the misfortune to fall into the water. Even his
moustache isn't lion-like. Indeed, if he would only have a white cloth
tucked round his neck, and sit back in that chair that stands over his
pond, he would look very respectably human--and he certainly wants a
shave.
[Illustration: THE BIG-BOOT DANCE.]
Toby is a low-comedy sea-lion all over. When I set about organizing the
Zoo Nigger Minstrels, Toby shall be corner-man, and do the big-boot
dance. He does it now, capitally. You have only to watch him from behind
as he proceeds along the edge of the pond, to see the big-boot dance in
all its quaint humour. Toby's hind flappers exhale broad farce at every
step. Toby is a cheerful and laughter-moving seal, and he would do
capitally in a pantomime, if he were a little less damp.
Toby is fond of music; so are most other seals. The complete scale of
the seal's preferences among the various musical instruments has not
been fixed with anything like finality; but one thing is certain--that
far and away above all the rest of the things designed to produce music
and other noises, the seal prefers the bagpipes. This taste either
proves the seal to be a better judge of music than most human beings, or
a worse one than any of the other animals, according as the gentle
reader may be a native of Scotland or of somewhere in the remainder of
the world. You may charm seals by the bagpipes just as a snake is
charmed by pipes with no bag. It has even been suggested that all the
sealing vessels leaving this country should carry bagpipes with them,
and I can see no sound objection to this course--so long as they take
all the bagpipes. I could also reconcile myself to a general extrusion
of concertinas for this useful purpose--or for any other; not to mention
barrel organs.
[Illustration: THE SEAL ROW.]
By-the-bye, on looking at Toby again I think we might do something
better for him than give him a mere part in a pantomime; his fine
moustache and his shiny hair almost point to a qualification for
managership. Nothing more is wanted--except, perhaps, a fur-trimmed coat
and a well-oiled hat--to make a very fine manager indeed, of a certain
sort.
[Illustration: A VERY FINE MANAGER.]
I don't think there is a Noah's ark seal--unless the Lowther Arcade
theology has been amended since I had a Noah's ark. As a matter of fact,
I don't see what business a seal would have in the ark, where he would
find no fish to eat, and would occupy space wanted by a more necessitous
animal who couldn't swim. At any rate, there was originally no seal in
my Noah's ark, which dissatisfied me, as I remember, at the time; what I
wanted not being so much a Biblical illustration as a handy zoological
collection. So I appointed the dove a seal, and he did very well indeed
when I had pulled off his legs (a little inverted v). I argued, in the
first place, that as the dove went out and found nothing to alight on,
the legs were of no use to him; in the second place, that since, after
all, the dove flew away and never returned, the show would be pretty
well complete without him; and, thirdly, that if, on any emergency, a
dove were imperatively required, he would do quite well without his
legs--looking, indeed, much more like a dove, as well as much more like
a seal. So, as the dove was of about the same size as the cow, he made
an excellent seal; his bright yellow colour (Noah's was a yellow dove on
the authority of all orthodox arks) rather lending an air of distinction
than otherwise. And when a rashly funny uncle, who understood wine,
observed that I was laying down my crusted old yellow seal because it
wouldn't stand up, I didn't altogether understand him.
[Illustration]
Toby is a good soul, and you soon make his acquaintance. He never makes
himself common, however. As he swims round his circular pond, behind the
high rails, he won't have anything to say to a stranger--anybody he has
not seen before. But if you wait a few minutes he will swim round
several times, see you often, and become quite affable. There is nothing
more intelligent than a tame seal, and I have heard people regret that
seals can't talk, which is nonsense. When a seal can make you understand
him without it, talking is a noisy superfluity. Toby can say many things
without the necessity of talking. Observe his eyes fixed upon you as he
approaches for the first time. He turns and swaps past with his nose in
the air. "Pooh, don't know you," he is saying. But wait. He swims round
once, and, the next time of passing, gives you a little more notice. He
lifts his head and gazes at you, inquisitively, but severely. "Who's
that person?" he asks, and goes on his round.
[Illustration]
Next time he rises even a little more. He even smiles, slightly, as he
recognises you from the corner of his eye. "Ah! Seen you before, I
fancy." And as he flings over into the side stroke he beams at you quite
tolerantly.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: GOOD DOGGY!]
He comes round again; but this time he smiles genially, and nods.
"'Morning!" he says, in a manner of a moderately old acquaintance. But
see next time; he is an old, intimate friend by this; a chum. He flings
his fin-flappers upon the coping, leans toward the bars with an
expansive grin and says: "Well, old boy, and how are you?"--as cordially
and as loudly as possible without absolutely speaking the words. He will
stay thus for a few moments' conversation, not entirely uninfluenced, I
fear, by anticipations of fish. Then, in the case of your not being in
the habit of carrying raw fish in your pockets, he takes his leave by
the short process of falling headlong into his pond and flinging a good
deal of it over you. There is no difficulty in becoming acquainted with
Toby. If you will only wait a few minutes he will slop his pond over you
with all the genial urbanity of an intimate relation. But you must wait
for the proper forms of etiquette.
[Illustration: "CAUGHT, SIR!"]
[Illustration: FANNY.]
The seal's sloppiness is annoying. I would have a tame seal myself if he
could go about without setting things afloat. A wet seal is unpleasant
to pat and fondle, and if he climbs on your knees he is positively
irritating. I suppose even a seal would get dry if you kept him out of
water long enough; but _can_ you keep a seal out of water while there is
any within five miles for him to get into? And would the seal respect
you for it if you did? A dog shakes himself dry after a swim, and, if he
be your own dog, he shakes the water over somebody else, which is
sagacious and convenient; but a seal doesn't shake himself, and can't
understand that wet will lower the value of any animal's caresses.
Otherwise a seal would often be preferable to a dog as a domestic pet.
He doesn't howl all night. He never attempts to chase cats--seeing the
hopelessness of the thing. You don't need a license for him; and there
is little temptation to a loafer to steal him, owing to the restricted
market for house-seals. I have frequently heard of a dog being engaged
to field in a single-wicket cricket match. I should like to play
somebody a single-wicket cricket match, with a dog and a seal to field
for me. The seal, having no legs to speak of--merely feet--would have to
leave the running to the dog, but it _could_ catch. You may see
magnificent catching here when Toby and Fanny--the Cape sea-lion (or
lioness), over by the turkeys--have their snacks of fish. Sutton the
Second, who is Keeper of the Seals (which is a fine title--rather like
a Cabinet Minister), is then the source of a sort of pyrotechnic shower
of fish, every one of which is caught and swallowed promptly and neatly,
no matter how or where it may fall. Fanny, by the way, is the most
active seal possible; it is only on extremely rare occasions that she
indulges in an interval of comparative rest, to scratch her head with
her hind foot and devise fresh gymnastics. But, all through the day,
Fanny never forgets Sutton, nor his shower of fish, and half her
evolutions include a glance at the door whence he is wont to emerge, and
a sort of suicidal fling back into the pond in case of his
non-appearance, all which proceedings the solemn turkeys regard with
increasing amazement.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration] Toby, however, provides the great seal-feeding show. Toby
has a perfect set of properties and appliances for his performance,
including a chair, a diving platform, an inclined plane leading
thereunto, and a sort of plank isthmus leading to the chair. He climbs
up on to the chair, and, leaning over the back, catches as many fish as
Sutton will throw for him. He dives off the chair for other fish. He
shuffles up the inclined plane for more fish, amid the sniggers of
spectators, for Toby's march has no claim to magnificence. He tumbles
himself unceremoniously off the platform, he clambers up and kisses
Sutton (keeping his eye on the basket), and all for fish. It is curious
to contrast the perfunctory affection with which Toby gets over the kiss
and takes his reward, with the genuine fondness of his gaze after
Sutton when he leaves--with some fish remaining for other seals. Toby is
a willing worker; he would gladly have the performance twice as long,
while as to an eight hours' day----!
[Illustration]
The seals in the next pond, Tommy and Jenny, are insulted with the
epithet of "common" seals; but Tommy and Jenny are really very
respectable, and if a seal do happen to be born only _Phoca vitulina_,
he can't really help it, and doesn't deserve humiliation so long as he
behaves himself. _Phoca vitulina_ has as excellent power of reason as
any other kind of seal--brain power, acquired, no doubt, from a
continual fish diet. Tommy doesn't feel aggrieved at the slight put upon
him, however, and has a proper notion of his own importance. Watch him
rise from a mere floating patch--slowly, solemnly, and portentously, to
take a look round. He looks to the left--nothing to interest a
well-informed seal; to the front--nothing; to the right everything is in
order, the weather is only so-so, but the rain keeps off, and there are
no signs of that dilatory person with the fish; so Tommy flops in again,
and becomes once more a floating patch, having conducted his little
airing with proper dignity and self-respect. Really, there is nothing
common in the manners of Tommy; there is, at any rate, one piece of rude
mischief which he is never guilty of, but which many of the more
aristocratic kinds of seal practise habitually. He doesn't throw stones.
[Illustration: FISH DIET.]
He doesn't look at all like a stone-thrower, as a matter of fact; but
he--and other seals--_can_ throw stones nevertheless. If you chase a
seal over a shingly beach, he will scuffle away at a surprising pace,
flinging up the stones into your face with his hind feet. This assault,
directed toward a well-intentioned person who only wants to bang him on
the head with a club, is a piece of grievous ill-humour, particularly on
the part of the crested seal, who can blow up a sort of bladder on the
top of his head which protects him from assault; and which also gives
him, by-the-bye, an intellectual and large-brained appearance not his
due, for all his fish diet. I had been thinking of making some sort of a
joke about an aristocratic seal with a crest on it--beside a fine coat
with no arms--but gave up the undertaking on reflecting that no real
swell--probably not even a parvenu--would heave half-bricks with his
feet.
[Illustration: INTEREST IN THE NEWS.]
All this running away and hurling of clinkers may seem to agree ill with
the longing after extermination lately hinted at; but, in fact, it only
proves the presence of a large amount of human nature in the composition
of the seal. From motives of racial pride the seal aspires to extinction
and a place beside the dodo, but in the spirit of many other patriots,
he wants the other seals to be exterminated first; wants the individual
honour, in fact, of being himself the very last seal, as well as the
corporate honour of extinction for the species. This is why, if he live
in some other part, he takes such delighted interest in news of
wholesale seal slaughter in the Pacific; and also why he skedaddles from
the well-meant bangs of the genial hunter--these blows, by the way,
being technically described as sealing-whacks.
[Illustration: "DAS VAS BLEASANT, AIN'D IT?"]
The sea-lion, as I have said, is not like a lion; the sea-leopard is not
like a leopard; but the sea-elephant, which is another sort of seal, and
a large one, may possibly be considered sufficiently like an elephant to
have been evolved, in the centuries, from an elephant who has had the
ill-luck to fall into the sea. He hasn't much of a trunk left, but he
often finds himself in seas of a coldness enough to nip off any ordinary
trunk; but his legs and feet are not elephantine.
[Illustration: "AND THE NEXT ARTICLE?"]
What the previous adventures of the sea-lion may have been in the matter
of evolution, I am at a loss to guess, unless there is anything in the
slug theory; but if he keep steadily on, and cultivate his moustache and
his stomach with proper assiduity, I have no doubt of his one day
turning up at a seaside resort and carrying on life in future as a
fierce old German out for a bathe. Or the Cape sea-lion, if only he
continue his obsequious smile and his habit of planting his
fore-flappers on the ledge before him as he rises from the water, may
some day, in his posterity, be promoted to a place behind the counter of
a respectable drapery warehouse, there to sell the skins his relatives
grow.
But after all, any phocine ambition, either for extinction or higher
evolution, may be an empty thing; because the seal is very comfortable
as he is. Consider a few of his advantages. He has a very fine fur
overcoat, with an admirable lining of fat, which, as well as being warm,
permits any amount of harmless falling and tumbling about, such as is
suitable to and inevitable with the seal's want of shape. He can enjoy
the sound of bagpipes, which is a privilege accorded to few. Further, he
can shut his ears when he has had enough, which is a faculty man may
envy him. His wife, too, always has a first-rate sealskin jacket, made
in one piece, and he hasn't to pay for it. He can always run down to the
seaside when so disposed, although the run is a waddle and a flounder;
and if he has no tail to speak of--well, he can't have it frozen off.
All these things are better than the empty honour of extinction; better
than evolution into bathers who would be drownable, and translation into
unaccustomed situations--with the peril of a week's notice. Wherefore
let the seal perpetuate his race--his obstacle race, as one might say,
seeing him flounder and flop.
[Illustration]
_The Major's Commission._