advanced for man in his relation to animals is that by which M. Georges
Leroy, philosopher, encyclopædist, and _lieutenant des chasses_ of the
Park of Versailles, the vindicator of Buffon and Montesquieu against the
criticisms of Voltaire, explains in his _Lettres sur les Animaux_ the
intellectual debt which the carnivorous animals owe to human
persecution. He pictures with wonderful cleverness the development of
their powers of forethought, memory, and reasoning which the
interference of man, the enemy and “rival,” forces upon them, and the
consequent intellectual advance which distinguishes the _loup jeune et
ignorant_ from the _loup adulte et instruit_. The philosophic
_lieutenant des chasses_ had before long ample opportunities for
comparing the “affinities” which he had discovered between civilized man
and “instructed” wolves, in the experiences of the French Revolution;
but without following his fortunes in those troublous times for
game-preservers, we may perhaps return to the question of the natural
relation of animals to man, which, as pictured by Rousseau to prove his
_à priori_ notions of a state of nature, so justly incurred the
criticism of the practical observer and practised writer, M. Georges
Leroy.
That man is, generally speaking, from the animals’ point of view, an
object of fear, hostility, or rapine, is to-day most unfortunately true.
But whether this is their natural relation, and not one induced, and
capable perhaps of change, is by no means certain. Savage man, who has
generally been first in contact with animals, is usually a hunter, and
therefore an object of dislike to the other hunting animals, and of
dread to the hunted. But civilized man, with his supply of bread and
beef, is not necessarily a hunter; and it is just conceivable that he
might be content to leave the animals in a newly-discovered country
unmolested, and condescend, when not better employed, to watch their
attitude towards himself. The impossible island in _The Swiss Family
Robinson_, in which half the animals of two hemispheres were collected,
would be an ideal place for such an experiment. But, unfortunately,
uninhabited islands seldom contain more than a few species, and those
generally birds, or sea-beasts; and in newly-discovered game regions,
savage man has generally been before us with his arrows, spears, and
pitfalls. Some instances of the first contact of animals with man have,
however, been preserved in the accounts of the early voyages collected
by Hakluyt and others, though the hungry navigators were generally more
intent on victualling their ships with the unsuspecting beasts and
birds, or on noting those which would be useful commodities for
“trafficke,” than in cultivating friendly relations with the animal
inhabitants of the newly-discovered islands. Thus, we read that near
Newfoundland there were “islands of birds, of a sandy-red, but with the
multitudes of birds upon them they look white. The birds sit there as
thick as stones lie in a paved street. The greatest of the islands is
about a mile in compass. The second is a little less. The third is a
very little one, like a small rock. At the second of these islands there
lay on the shore in the sunshine about thirty or forty sea-oxen or
morses, which, when our boat came near them, presently made into the
sea, and _swam after the boat_.” Curiosity, not fear or hostility, was,
then, the emotion roused in the sea-oxen by the first sight of man. The
birds, whales, and walruses in the Wargate Sea and near Jan Mayen’s
Land, were no less tame, and the sea-lions in the Southern Pacific, the
birds that Barents first discovered in Novaya Zembla, and even the
antelopes which the early explorers encountered in the least-inhabited
parts of Central South Africa, seem all to have regarded the
newly-discovered creature, man, with interest and without fear. Sir
Samuel Baker, in his _Wild Beasts_ _and their Ways_, remarks on the
“curious and inexplicable fact that certain animals and birds exhibit a
peculiar shyness of human beings, although they are only exposed to the
same conditions as others which are more bold.” He instances the
wildness of the curlew and the golden plover, and contrasts it with the
tameness of swallows and wagtails. The reason does not seem far to seek.
The first are constantly sought for food, the latter are left
undisturbed. Perhaps the best instance of such a contrast is that of the
hawfinch and the crossbill, birds of closely allied form and appearance.
The hawfinch, which is probably the shyest of English small birds, seems
to have acquired a deep mistrust of man. But the crossbills, on the rare
occasions when they descend from the uninhabited forests of the North
into our Scotch or English woods, are absolutely without fear or
mistrust of human beings, whom they see very probably for the first
time. When animals do show fear on first acquaintance, it is probably
due, not to any spontaneous dread of man as man, but because they
mistake him for something else. “Nearly all animals,” says Sir Samuel
Baker, “have some natural enemy which keeps them on the alert, and makes
them suspicious of all strange objects and sounds that might denote the
approach of danger:” and it is to this that he attributes the timidity
of many kinds of game in districts where they “have never been attacked
by firearms.” A most curious instance of this mistaken identity occurred
lately when Kerguelen Island was visited by H.M.S. _Volage_ and a party
of naturalists and astronomers, to observe the transit of Venus. There
were large colonies of penguins nesting on the island, which, though the
place is so little frequented by man, used at first to run away up the
slopes _inland_ when the sailors appeared. They apparently took the men
for seals, and thus took what appeared the natural way of escaping from
their marine enemies. They soon found out their mistake, for it is said
that “when they became accustomed to being chased by men”—an experience
for which the sailors seem to have given them every opportunity—“the
penguins acquired the habit of taking to the water at the first alarm.”
In another colony, the nesting females would settle down peacefully on
their eggs if the visitors stood still. “The whole of this community of
penguins (they numbered about two thousand) were subsequently boiled
down into ‘hare-soup’ for the officers and men of H.M.S. _Volage_,”
writes the Rev. A. E. Eaton, “and very nice they found it.” We may
compare with this destruction of the penguins, the letter of Hakluyt on
the voyage to Newfoundland by Antony Parkhurst, describing with high
approval the business facilities for the fishing trade offered by the
tameness of the great auks,—called “penguins” in the passage:—“There are
seagulls, musses, ducks, and many other kind of birdes store too long to
write about, especially at one island named ‘Penguin,’ where we may
drive them on a planke into our ship as many as shall lade her. These
birds are also called penguins, and cannot flie; there is more meat in
one of them than in a goose. The Frenchmen that fish neere the Grand
Bank doe bring small store of flesh with them, but do victuall
themselves alwayes with these birdes.”
The point of view from which the lion or tiger looks on man, is perhaps
not so far removed from that of the non-carnivorous creatures as might
be supposed. Man is certainly not the natural food of any animal—except
of sharks and alligators, if he is so rash as to go out of his native
element into theirs—and if the item “man” were subtracted from the
bill-of-fare of all the carnivora, they would never want a meal. The
notion of the natural attitude of a lion to a young lady,—
“When as that tender virgin he did spye,
Upon her he did run full greedily,
To have at once devoured her tender corse,”
is still popular, but hardly correct. More probably the lion would get
out of the way politely,—if we may judge by the pacific behaviour of
those in our last-explored lion-haunt, Mashonaland. M. Georges Leroy’s
contention for the natural affinity, or semi-sympathy, which should
exist between man and the intelligent hunting animals, is no doubt
partly reasonable. Leigh Hunt, when recording his impressions of a visit
to the Zoological Gardens, was unpleasantly struck by the _incongruity_
of the notion of being eaten by a wild beast,—“the hideous,
_impracticable fellow-creature_, looking one in the face, struggling
with us, mingling his breath with ours, tearing away scalp or
shoulder-blade.” But the “fellow-creature” is not nearly so
impracticable as he is supposed to be. More human beings are probably
killed by tigers than by any other wild beast, except by starving
wolves. Yet this is what Sir Samuel Baker has to say on the
subject—“There is a great difference in the habits of tigers. Some exist
upon the game in the jungles; others prey especially upon the flocks
belonging to the villagers. A _few_ are designated ‘man-eaters.’ These
are sometimes naturally ferocious, and having attacked a human being,
_may_ have devoured the body, and thus acquired a taste for human flesh;
or they _may_ have been wounded on more than one occasion, and have
learnt to regard man as a natural enemy. But more frequently the
‘man-eater’ is a very old tiger, or more probably tigress, that, having
hunted in the neighbourhood of villages and carried off some unfortunate
woman, has _discovered_ that it is far easier to kill a native than to
hunt jungle game.” As a rule, the tiger is only anxious to avoid men;
and it is noticed that in high grass tigers are more dangerous than in
forests, because in the former they cannot be seen, neither can they
see, until the stranger is close upon them. An ancient instance of the
opposite behaviour is that recorded of the new colonists of Samaria,
whom the lions attacked, “and slew some of them.” A curious inversion of
this experience occurred when the islands in the Brahmaputra, which were
swarming with tigers, were first cultivated. The natives, mainly by the
aid of traps set with a bow and arrow, killed off the tigers so fast
that the skins were sold by auction at from eight annas to one rupee
apiece. In this case, the tigers were the first aggressors by carrying
off cattle. But it seems evident that there exists no _à priori_ reason,
founded in natural antipathy, why man and animals, if we could
reconstruct a “state of nature” in which we could put civilized, not
savage man, should not dwell together in profound peace, or at least in
such peace as obtains between accidental neighbours. The only ground for
quarrel that seems inevitable is the everlasting one between the
shepherd and the wolf; and that, after all, is a question, not of
prejudice, but of property.
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POSSIBLE PETS.
THE number of animals which with ordinary tact and kindness can be tamed
by man is so great, that the range of possible pets would seem almost
co-extensive with the limits of the animal world. But tame tigers must,
as a rule, remain a luxury for Sultans and Sarah Bernhardts, and the
sociable bear be left to the professional gentlemen who make a living
from his society. We say “as a rule,” not without reason, because there
is hardly any limit to an Englishman’s fancy for pets. The writer was
requested last year to act as a friendly broker to bid for the bear
which found its way so often to the London Police Courts after being
exhibited before the Queen at Windsor. The would-be purchaser was a
worthy butcher before whose shop the bear was being exhibited, while the
writer heard its history from the genial and dirty foreigner who owned
it. “Sir,” said the butcher,” excuse the liberty; but would you kindly
ask that Frenchman what he will take for the bear?” “Certainly,” we
replied, “if you will say why you want it; is it for professional
purposes?”—for the bear was fat. “Oh, no! I should not think of such a
thing,” said the butcher. “I want him for a pet.” “Very well; how high
will you go?” we asked. “Up to ten pounds,” the butcher replied. But
though we did our best, the owner would not accept less than eight
hundred francs, to the great disappointment of the would-be purchaser.
What is required for an every-day pet is that it shall be beautiful and
intelligent; that it shall neither be too large nor too delicate; and,
if a bird, that it shall sing or talk—preferably both. The two first
requirements will not go far to limit the choice. Beauty of form and
harmony of colour are the almost inseparable attributes of that physical
perfection which the natural life of animals demands; and he would be a
rash man who classed any of the more highly organized animals as
“stupid” without trial.
But there are “diversities of gifts,” and the exquisite beauty of the
silky little chinchilla must be held to compensate for the want of the
lively cleverness of the coati-mundi or the Capuchin monkeys. The limits
set by size and constitution are the main consideration in the choice of
pets. Yet even so the possible range is very great, and might well
extend far beyond the species which form the main body of those usually
seen in this country. To begin with our native animals, who has seen a
tame hare? Most school-boys have kept tame rabbits by the
dozen—singularly uninteresting pets when shut up all day in a box
munching cabbage-stalks—and generally turned over to younger sisters in
favour of a terrier puppy after brief possession. Yet even after the
experience of tame hares so charmingly told by Cowper, the most domestic
of poets, the hare is neglected as a pet. Yet its form and fur are
beautiful, and so far as the writer has been able to judge of this,
perhaps one of the least carefully observed, except for persecution, of
our wild animals, the hare is a clever, affectionate creature, as far
above the rabbit in the scale of intelligence as it is in physique. Last
spring, after a late fall of snow, an old hare brought her leverets from
the hill, and hid them in a straw-stack near a farm, and remained
constantly near them all day, coming to them regularly as soon as the
twilight made it safe. They are bold as well as affectionate, and have
been known to drive off a hawk which was carrying away a young one,
springing up and striking the bird as it flew low above the ground; and
their attachment to locality is so great, that even if kept at large,
they would probably not leave their owner’s grounds.
A charming little foreign pet for the house is the suricate, or
meer-cat. This pretty creature, which, if we remember rightly, was among
the number of Frank Buckland’s animal companions, is an active and
vivacious little fellow, some 10 in. long, with greenish-brown fur,
large bright eyes, a short pointed nose and dainty paws, which, like the
squirrel’s or the racoon’s, are used as hands, to hold, to handle, and
to ask for more. Eloquent in supplication, tenacious in retention, the
suricate’s paws are expressive, plaintive, and wholly irresistible. The
creature is made for a pet, and is so affectionate to its master that it
can undergo any degree of “spoiling” without injury to its temper. A
larger, more beautiful, and most charming creature, not unlike the
suricate in some respects, though in no way related to it, is the brown
opossum from Tasmania. “Sooty Phalanger” is the elegant name given to it
by naturalists; but except when the specimen kept by the writer
discovered that a chimney made a good substitute for a hollow tree for
its midday sleep, there was nothing in its appearance to justify the
scientific adjective. The fur is of the richest dark-brown, and covers
its prehensile tail like a fur boa. Its head is small, with a pink nose
and very large brown eyes; and it has a “compound” hand, with the claws
on its fingers, and an almost human and clawless thumb, with the aid of
which it can hold a wine-glass, or eat jam out of a teaspoon. That owned
by the writer was, without exception, the most fearless and affectionate
pet he has ever known. In the evening, when it was most lively, it would
climb on to the shoulder of any of its visitors, and take any food given
it. It had a mania for cleanliness, always “washing” its hands after
taking food, or even after running across the room, and was always
anxious to do the same office by the hands of any one who fed it. It
made friends with the dogs, and would “wash” their faces for them,
catching hold of an old setter’s nose with its sharp little claws, to
hold it steady while it licked its face. The staircase and banisters
furnished a gymnasium for exercise in the winter, and in summer it could
be trusted among the trees in the garden. This opossum is becoming
scarce, owing to the demand for its fur; but there is little doubt that
specimens could still be bought for a moderate sum. That owned by the
writer cost three pounds. The American grey squirrel is a common and
hardy species, which becomes very tame, though scarcely so pretty as our
red squirrel; and the South American coatis, especially the small kind,
are most amusing pets; though, like the mongoose, they need to be kept
warm. All the coatis are sociable, lively creatures, quite omnivorous,
and with as many odd tricks as a monkey. The mongoose, that “familiar”
of Indian households, has such a natural bias for human society, that,
according to Mr. Kipling, it will often come into a house from the
jungle, and voluntarily enrol itself among the members of the family. It
is a slim, active little animal, varying from a foot to nearly two feet
in length, of a curious mottled silvery-grey colour, and so amazingly
rapid in its movements that its victory over the cobra is not
surprising. Provided that it is kept warm in winter, it will live well
in an English home, and loses none of those domestic qualities which
make it such a favourite in India. The marmot and the viscacha, or
prairie-dog, are amusing little fellows, and if allowed the use of a
small enclosure in which the marmots can burrow and make hay for the
winter, and the viscachas make their “collections” of curiosities,
either species would, no doubt, add to the interest of an English
country house. But as both the marmot and the viscacha hibernate in
winter, their owner must be prepared for their disappearance underground
from Christmas until March.
There is only one monkey which we can thoroughly recommend as an indoor
pet, the beautiful and intelligent little Capuchin. The marmosets, even
more beautiful and equally pleasing, are too delicate for our climate,
and die of colds and coughs after the first fogs of winter. But the
lively little Capuchins may be kept for years in an English house; and
no monkey approaches their good-temper and pretty winning ways. They all
have good round heads, with black fur on the top and light-brown on the
cheeks. Some have pinkish faces, and others dark-brown skins, with eyes
like brown jewels. Their faces are most expressive, and seldom still,
for they take deep and abiding interest in everything in or about their
cages. One kept in a large house in Leicestershire had learnt to put out
burning-paper, which it did most adroitly by beating it with its hands
or knocking it against the floor. Another, which was kept at the Zoo,
would, if it got a match, collect a heap of straw, strike the match,
light its bonfire, and dance round it. This dangerous accomplishment led
to its removal from the cages on Saturdays and Bank-holidays, when the
crowd makes it difficult to keep a watch on its movements. The Capuchin
is so small, so pretty, and so clever, that it seems to embody all the
good and none of the bad points of monkey nature.
No one who has seen pumas when kindly treated in captivity can doubt the
justice of the impression that these friendly and beautiful cats at once
produce, that they _must_ be suited for pets and companions. The general
verdict of South Americans as to their gentleness and natural liking for
man, even when wild on the Pampas, is given in some detail in a later
chapter on Animal Temper. There was at least one puma kept as a pet in
this country, by Captain Marshall, the owner of a unique private
menagerie at Marlow on the Thames. Reports of a gentleman, “with a tame
lioness by his side,” having been seen sitting by a lock gate on the
Thames, evidently pointed to the taming, not of a lioness, which,
however domesticated among those whom it knows, would be too dangerous
and uncertain a creature to take abroad, but of a puma, which, being
neither striped nor spotted, would be at once described as a “lioness”
by the ordinary “man in a boat.” This was the case, and the following is
Captain Marshall’s short account of his late pet, for unfortunately it
died of liver-complaint before the writer could ask to make its
acquaintance. “My big full-grown puma,” writes its master, “was as tame
as a cat. It was kept for months on a chain and collar, and could be led
about. It would rest its head on my lap, and I could pull it about as
much as I liked. I also had a baby one, but she was _not_ tame.” The
lovely snow leopard, which came to the Zoo in 1894, was a lady’s pet. It
had always been fed upon cooked meat, and was perfectly tame. The writer
has patted it as it lay in its box in the Lion House, and it merely
looked up exactly like a sleepy grey Angora cat. Yet this was a
full-grown leopard, in perfect condition and health, living in the next
cage to one of the black variety, which was almost the wildest creature
in the menagerie.
Those who possess an aviary may be interested to hear that at the Zoo,
blackcaps, whitethroats, garden-warblers, and nightingales, all birds of
passage, are living in excellent health through the winter; and one
nightingale was singing on December 29, but the song, though very
beautiful, was not a true nightingale’s note, but largely borrowed from
that of the bulbul in the next aviary, the bird being a young one,
caught in the autumn. It is evident, from the experiment at the Zoo,
that our summer warblers may be kept as pets; but the bird of all others
suited for the aviary, but neglected as a rule in England, is the
bulbul. The Persian variety has the finest song, but the Indian is an
even prettier bird, and sings exquisitely. In appearance, the bulbuls
are not unlike the Bohemian waxwing, with a black conical top-knot,
cinnamon-coloured backs, red-and-white or yellow-and-white cheeks, and
white breasts, with some bright colour near the tail. The note is most
liquid and beautiful, and the bird has a pretty habit of varying the
volume of the sound, singing loudly in the open, and almost whispering
its song to its master or mistress if confined in a room. We might do
worse than follow the example of the Persians, and make the bulbul our
favourite cage-bird, instead of the canary.
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THE PARIS ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS IN THE TWO SIEGES.