difficult to find more than a dozen species which are, as a class,
ill-tempered, unless we include all those carnivorous animals which
exhibit a certain ferocity in the capture of their prey. But it will be
found that, apart from this law of their being, such animals are not, as
a rule, either ill-tempered or malicious. On the contrary, their natural
bias is towards good-nature, and it may be inferred that the fierceness
exhibited by them when actually striking their prey, is rather a gradual
development from a particular necessity than an essential part of their
nature. The good-humour of the lions and other _felidæ_ was well
illustrated by a scene at the Zoo a few weeks ago. The young lion from
Sokoto was much intent on breaking in the iron shutter which separates
the house it now occupies from its former quarters next door. Apart from
the very proper wish to assert a right to its former domicile, it had
the irritating stimulus supplied by an ill-tempered and decrepit old
leopard, which was growling on the other side of the shutter, and even
went so far as to insert one of its longest teeth into the crack between
the shutter and the wall, as a reminder to the lion of what was waiting
for it on the other side. The lion was striking constant heavy blows on
the door, and was so intent on its occupation as to disregard the call
of its keeper. The keeper quietly attracted its attention by pulling its
tail!—and the lion at once desisted, rubbed its face against the
keeper’s hand, and lay down to be stroked, patted, and have its mane
caressed.
That good-tempered races contain very ill-natured individuals, raises
the difficult question of temperament. A good authority on horses, Mr.
Mayhew, endeavours to show that ill-temper among them is accidental, not
innate. In his work, “jibbing” is shown to be due to brain-disease,
shying to defective vision, and temper to the mismanagement of man.
There is much truth, but also much error here. Those best acquainted
with the nature of domesticated animals know how greatly the
temperaments of individuals differ. Take, for instance, the case of
three highly-bred young Jersey heifers, of which the writer has watched
the up-bringing from their earliest days. They have never been
frightened or struck; they have not even heard a rough word from their
earliest days, even when they jumped the garden-fence and browsed on an
apricot-tree. One is as gentle and domesticated as a well-bred cow can
be, the others are ready with their horns at any or no provocation. The
same is true of horses: some are so ill-tempered that they will kick or
bite at any living thing that comes near them. It is as impossible to
trace these dislikes to any known cause as it is to find a reason for
the antipathy which cows have for hares. However great our liking for
horses, we cannot deny that some of the best thoroughbreds are
revengeful, quarrelsome, and liable to frightfully sudden fits of rage.
No doubt this evil temper is often accompanied by splendid qualities of
endurance. Chestnut horses, which have generally the most uncertain
tempers, are perhaps the most high-couraged. But courage and temper are
not always allied; and temper and human management are not necessarily
connected. “Bendigo” and “Surefoot” were both trained in the “Seven
Barrows” stable by the late Mr. Jousiffe, who always avoided any
severity of treatment, and never ran his horses “light.” Each as a
three-year-old won a great race, “Bendigo” the Cambridgeshire,
“Surefoot” the Two Thousand Guineas. Both carried off the Eclipse Stakes
at Sandown, worth £10,000, later in their career. Yet “Bendigo” had a
perfect temper, while “Surefoot’s” is well known to be ferocious.
“Bendigo” would train himself, and however well he ran in trials on the
White Horse Hill, his trainer knew that he would do still better on the
race-course. In his last race, when he was just beaten when carrying a
crushing weight, Watts gave him one stroke of the whip. But the horse
was doing all he could, and the jockey did not touch him again. In the
stable, the big brown horse was almost as friendly with strangers as he
was with his devoted attendant, “Bendigo Pat,” and the writer has seen
no prettier sight than that of his trainer’s little daughter hugging
“dear old ‘Bendy’s’” nose. The horse had the courage and gentleness of a
knight of romance. “Surefoot,” on the other hand, under identical
treatment, was dangerous in the stable, and savage even when running. In
the actual race for the Derby, he tried to bite the jockeys on the
horses in front of him, and when being put into the horse-box for the
journey, gave more trouble than a Murcian bull. Yet this savage temper
was not accompanied by unusual courage and endurance, and in severe
races the even-tempered “Bendigo” was his undoubted superior. “Peter,”
another race-horse noted for his stubborn obstinacy, once gave an
interesting object-lesson in temper as between man and horse at Ascot.
The horse fought with his jockey (Archer) for twenty minutes at the
post, but the indomitable good-humour of the jockey won. When the flag
fell, the horse went off with a rush, but stopped in the middle of the
race to kick. Archer neither moved nor struck him, and “Peter” then went
on like the wind, and won! But horses of this temperament are the
exception, not the rule; and the success with which we have developed
power and courage, without producing animals like “Cruiser” or the
celebrated “General Chassé,” of whom his owner, Mr. Kirby, the dealer,
who sold largely in Russia, used to say that “the Emperor Paul was
nothing to him,” is one of the triumphs of domestication. The union of
reckless courage and habitual ferocity is rare in the animal world, and
the general law of good-nature remains absolute and unquestioned.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CRIMINAL ANIMALS.
“Mr. Gladstone narrowly escaped a serious accident when taking exercise
in Hawarden Park. A cow, which had escaped from its owner when being
driven to market, had taken refuge in the park, and attacked Mr.
Gladstone when passing. Fortunately, though knocked down, Mr.
Gladstone escaped unhurt.”—_Daily Paper._
THE general view of good or bad in animal disposition is, no doubt,
mainly determined by their behaviour to ourselves. That is the fixed
opinion of the moral relation of animals to man. But there is every
reason to believe that there are a few individuals among the many in all
species which have some pronounced and inborn bias towards mischief and
ferocity, which almost entitles them to a place in the “criminal
classes” of animal society. No excuse, for instance, can be found for
the cow which so nearly ended the hopes of Home-rule by knocking down
the greatest of all Home-rulers, after spending a week or more in the
hospitable security afforded to her by the park at Hawarden, after she
had broken loose from her owners on the way to market. She was, in fact,
a heifer, not a cow; and so had no calf hidden in the fern whose
protection might have been urged as an excuse for her ferocity; and her
conduct must be ascribed to some such ancient and inbred malignity as
possessed the “dun cow of Warwick.” No doubt the last animal, if legend
be true, was possessed by a deeper and darker instinct of hatred to the
human race; for she used to mingle with the herds and entice the
milkmaids to perform their kindly office by all kinds of endearments
known to her race, and then most cruelly kill them, until the renowned
Guy of Warwick rid the country of the monster, avenged the milkmaids,
and earned himself a place in story. But the cow of Hawarden may in time
win its way to the marvellous, and have a place in the great Gladstone
myth by the side of “Joe”—or “Io”— once the friend, now the foe of the
hero, whose legend is in after-ages to be identified with the
rationalistic record of the promise of “three acres and a cow.” The
danger to which Mr. Gladstone was exposed, which was a very real one,
suggests the question whether there is not some ground for supposing
that, apart from questions or our own convenience, there are not some
desperately wicked animals which are not only wicked _per se_, but quite
conscious that they are doing actions which place them outside the pale
both of human and animal consideration? We believe that there is not the
least doubt of it, any more than there is a doubt whether certain
so-called “criminal lunatics” richly deserve hanging. If animals had no
power of self-control, it would be nonsense to speak of them as either
good or bad. But they have the power of self-control when domesticated.
That we know. It is only the knowledge that they have such power that
induces a man to trust himself in a dog-cart behind a young horse, or to
ride in a howdah on an elephant. But they must always have the same
power when wild. If they had not, they could not be gregarious—a
condition which could only be maintained by submission to a law of “live
and let live,” which is perhaps better understood by wholly wild animals
than by semi-civilized man. Gregarious animals not only exhibit
self-control to the extent of not showing temper towards each other, but
even obey the command of their leader, when obedience to the command
must be extremely irksome—witness Major Skinner’s account of the
elephant leader posting live videttes around the tank, at which the herd
was then, and not till then, allowed to drink. The “rogue” elephant,
which exhibits such unusual and malignant ferocity towards men as well
as his own kind, may be, and often is, an animal driven from the herd by
a stronger rival; sometimes he is merely suffering from excitement,
which passes away after a certain period. But this, though affording a
reason for some of the abnormal conditions found in the actions of the
“rogue” elephant, does not account satisfactorily for the strange
reluctance of its own species ever to re-admit it to their society.
The “rogue” elephant, even when driven from one herd, is never admitted
to another; and though Saunderson found them occasionally in company
with another solitary of their own species, Sir J. Tennant records that,
even when driven into the keddah, a “rogue” elephant was never allowed
to enter the herd of captives with which he was enclosed. Good-temper is
the fundamental condition of animal society, and it is probably to the
lack of this, and the growing conviction that the “rogue” is an
unclubable, unsociable fellow, that his exclusion is due. When separated
from the wholesome discipline of society, his temper goes from bad to
worse, and he joins the ranks of criminal animals. The wanton ferocity
then developed is, perhaps, best shown by Colonel Saunderson’s
description of the state of things on the main road between Mysore and
Uznand, caused by a creature called the “rogue of Kakankote.” Policemen
were planted at the entrance of the jungle to warn travellers to proceed
only in parties, and even then the wretched Kurrabas who lived in the
forest were from time to time caught, and pulled to pieces limb by limb,
to gratify the ill-temper of the elephant. When mastered, the naturally
ferocious elephant has been known to die of sheer fury. A noosed “rogue”
in the keddah lay down and died, though those suffering from the
excitement of “must” are often reclaimed. The ferocity of the “rogue”
buffalo and “rogue” hippopotamus must probably be accounted for in the
same way. They are individuals which have become intolerable to their
own species, and, being outlawed from society, revenge themselves by the
indulgence of their criminal bent.
Instances of this homicidal mania among the animals at the Zoo are by no
means common. The tact and good management which prevails in all the
dealings of the keepers with their charges is largely responsible for
this. But one unquestionable example of this type of animal aberration
occurred some years ago, which might have had very serious consequences.
The temper of all the wild asses is very uncertain, or rather very
unreliable. This natural surliness took the form of absolute ferocity in
the case of a very fine male zebra. The object of its especial dislike
was not so much the occasional visitors to its stable, as the keeper
whose duty was to feed it and arrange its stable. The viciousness was
such that it would endeavour to climb the railings of its loose box in
order to attack them. There was absolutely no ground for this animosity,
for it had met with the same kind treatment and attention as the other
creatures in the stalls. It was clearly a case of the “criminal
instinct” prevailing. One Sunday morning, a Frenchman who had some work
to do in the Zebra House accidentally left open the door which led into
the box of this striped savage, and when another keeper advanced to
drive it back it rushed at him open-mouthed, knocked him down, knelt on
him, and would most probably have killed or maimed him if it had not
been driven off by some of his fellow _employés_ who most fortunately
came to the rescue.
Among domesticated animals, the consciousness of evil-doing is far more
clearly existent than among their wild relations, where it can only be
matter for probable conjecture and surmise. Perhaps the most convincing
instances of the gratification of a consciously criminal instinct are to
be found in the cases in which dogs, especially sheep-dogs, have been
detected in the habit of going away to considerable distances at night
and worrying the sheep in other folds, returning before daybreak to
their own flock. In one case, a collie was seen by a shepherd to slip
away from the fold early in the morning, and plunge into a stream, where
he swam for a short time, came out, shook himself, and then galloped off
in the direction of another farm, to which, on inquiry, the dog was
found to belong. In the fold which it had just left, several sheep were
found dying and dead, and it was surmised that the dog’s bath had for
its object the removal of the traces of its sanguinary amusement. In
another case, two dogs were found to have been in the habit of slipping
away at night, and returning quietly to their kennel after killing sheep
at a distance of ten or twelve miles. In both instances, the flock of
which they were the natural guardians was uninjured.
The secret gratification of the criminal instinct is not confined to
sheep-dogs. In one case, a mastiff ran wild, and lived among the Cheviot
Hills, killing sheep at night, and retiring to the roughest and most
difficult ground during the day. Though more than once hunted by a pack
of foxhounds, he always prevailed on them to spare him, lying down on
his back and putting up his feet, as a puppy will when a big dog
approaches him.
It is more difficult to account for the extreme viciousness of certain
horses, creatures which have no hereditary tendency to cruelty, like the
dog, whose ancestor, the wild hunting dog, is perhaps the most ferocious
creature in the world. What, for instance, are we to say of an animal
like “General Chassé,” which commenced the day, when being led to York,
by kneeling on his groom and trying to tear him to pieces, until a squad
of labourers charged him, armed with sticks and forks? Or of “Merlin,”
who was obliged to be double chained to the rack in the painting-room
when his portrait was taken by Mr. Herring, and afterwards made use of
his liberty by killing his groom? Another horse could only be groomed
during several seasons by a series of well-timed dashes with a
birch-broom.
“King Pippin,” a celebrated Irish horse, which ran early in the century,
had a habit of rushing at and worrying any person who came within reach
as he was being saddled, and if he had a chance would get his head
round, seize his rider by the leg, and pull him off his back. When
brought to the Curragh to run, no one would put a bridle on his head. A
countryman volunteered to do so, when the horse caught him by the chest,
shaking him as a dog does a rat. “Fortunately for the poor fellow,”
wrote an eye-witness of the scene, “his body was very thickly covered
with clothes, as an Irishman on great occasions is fond of displaying
the resources of his wardrobe, and if he has three coats will put them
all on.”
The celebrated “Whisperer,” an old man named Sullivan, who had a strange
power of taming vicious horses, was sent for. He remained shut up with
the horse all night, and next day exhibited him on the course as quiet
as a sheep. He won his race, and for three years remained docile. Then
he suddenly gave way to his criminal instincts, and killed a man, for
which he was shot.
But considering the great number of horses on training, and the accuracy
with which their disposition and temper is known, the instances of
homicidal tendency in the horse are singularly few. It will probably be
found that bulls, and often cows, are responsible for nearly all the
deaths deliberately caused by animals in this country. It is the fashion
to laugh at people who are nervous about cattle. This is hardly fair or
sensible. There can be no two opinions as to the power of full-grown
cattle to catch or kill any person who has not some shelter at hand,
though the owners who drive them along the roads never are willing to
admit the possibility. An amusing instance of this, as well as of the
local jealousies which ramble between people of different counties, even
if only separated by an imaginary border-line, occurred to an
acquaintance of the writer, just within the border of Cornwall where it
marches with Devon. A farmer was driving cows down a narrow lane, when
some foot-passengers remonstrated. “Don’t ’ee be a-veared, m’am,”
shouted the owner, “_’em be a deal better behaved here than ’em be in
Devon_.” In the case of the bull, a period of savageness generally
occurs once or twice in its life, and in the number of fatal gorings
inflicted by these brutes on the old labourers and boys who usually
attend on them, a fair case could be made out for making compulsory some
precautions in their transport along public roads.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A YEAR AT THE ZOO.
THE Report of the Council of the Zoological Society for the sixty-fourth
year of the existence of its “Gardens” in Regent’s Park will be read
with interest by those whose curiosity extends beyond the menagerie
which they see, to its management which is unseen. The public are only
dimly aware of their debt to Dr. Sclater, the honorary secretary of the
Zoological Society, and to Mr. Bartlett and his son, managers of the
Gardens; and the glimpse of a twelvemonth’s history—animal, personal,
and financial—of one of the most pleasing and popular outdoor
institutions of London, explains much that is not at first obvious in a
visit to the Zoo. Among the most evident improvements of recent years is
the great and growing beauty of the Gardens, the fine turf and flowers,
and the other amenities which, apart from the interest inseparable from
the natural history collections, have made possible in the precincts
occupied by the Society a nearer counterpart of the outdoor life enjoyed
in the gardens of Continental capitals, than anywhere else in the
Metropolis. The explanation of this, as well as of the curious and
interesting details of the maintenance of a menagerie of 2,413 birds,
beasts, and reptiles of all kinds and sizes, from the African elephant
and Indian rhinoceros, down to the tiny lemmings and the last litter of
dingo-puppies, is to be found in the financial Report for the year. It
is a unique document, and deserves attentive study. Those whose custom
it is to buy paper packets of broken bread and buns, duly labelled “Food
for the animals,” at the refreshment-stalls, or who know from experience
that there is hardly any creature there, from the hippopotamus to the
smallest monkey, which disdains to eat a raisin, will be astonished at
the quantity and variety of the solid nutriment which has to be provided
yearly for 650 “beasts,” 1,391 birds, and 366 reptiles; though those
more conversant with the powers of consumption of “stock” in an ordinary
farmyard would probably hesitate to take a feeding-contract at a lower
figure. The year’s cost for provisions consumed in the Gardens is a
little under £4000: 105 loads of clover, 153 loads of meadow-hay, 130
quarters of oats, and 340 quarters of bran, may be put down roughly as
the quantity of vegetable food required for the large antelopes,
elephants, zebras, and wild sheep. Bread and milk are almost as safe a
diet for most animals as for human beings, and 5000 quarterns of bread
and 6000 quarts of milk represent the quantity of this wholesome food
consumed at the Zoo. Most of the insect-eating birds, many monkeys, and
certain snakes and lizards are egg-eaters; and nineteen thousand eggs
probably account for twice that number of breakfasts supplied to the
smaller occupants of the houses. The large carnivora, of which the
collection contains so many and such fine examples, require stronger
food, and are not stinted in their supply. The figures in this case
suggest some interesting reflections on the ravages said to be due to
wild beasts among flocks and game. No doubt these creatures, notably
wolves and wild dogs, occasionally destroy more than they require to
satisfy their hunger. But usually a lion or a tiger kills one animal,
and feeds upon it so long as it lasts; after which it kills another
victim, and no more. The total of carcasses eaten by all the lions,
tigers, bears, hyenas, wolves, leopards, and other large carnivora in
the Gardens during the year amounts to 230 horses and 152 goats. If the
number consumed in captivity bears any proportion to the loss of cattle
caused by these creatures when wild, the reports of natives must be much
exaggerated. The fishmonger’s bill is naturally a heavy one, when not
only seals, otters, and sea-lions, which will eat nothing else, but also
numbers of piscivorous birds, and even the polar bears, have to be
provided with fresh flounders, whiting, and conger-eels daily,—36,000
lbs. of whiting, 10,000 lbs. of “rough fish,” 630 quarts of shrimps, and
2000 lbs. of flounders were consumed by the seals and other aquatic
creatures. The live gudgeons, whose pursuit and capture form the daily
excitement of the penguins in their glass-fronted tank, do not appear in
the list of food provided, any more than the army of mice and rats, and
dozens of live frogs, which frolic behind the scenes in the Snake House.
Unhonoured in their lives, their deaths are unrecorded, or figure darkly
among “miscellaneous expenses.” The fact is, that the rearing of tame
mice and rats, and the capture and purveyance of live frogs, is an
interesting and unexplored side-industry of London life. Breeding mice
and white rats is an easy and lucrative addition to small incomes,
carried on in back-yards and attics. The frogs, which are genuine wild
animals, are captured by special emissaries employed by the “dealers,”
who go round to the mouse-farms and froggeries and collect the
creatures, just as the poultry-men make their rounds to country farms
and cottages. The Zoo is by no means the largest customer to the trade,
which relies mainly on the “biologists” for its steady demand. Fruit is
almost as necessary as fish at all seasons in the Gardens, and no
visitor can have failed to notice the daintily-arranged “dessert” of
sliced bananas, grapes, dates, and apples, which is served up to the
rarer monkeys and fruit-eating birds. Thirteen thousand oranges, 2000
lbs. of grapes, 1,200 lbs. of dates, and 200 lbs. of raisins and
currants, represent the fruiterer’s bill; the green-grocer comes last,
with 2,641 bunches of tares, 4,500 bunches of greens, and 2,600 bundles
of cress. Cherries, onions, melons, marrows, bananas, and figs vary the
bill of fare, which we may close with the solid item of 139 cwt. of
carrots, and nearly two tons of ground nuts. To provide for the welfare
of its animal pensioners, its works and repairs, its gardens, and to
assist in the valuable scientific inquiries into animal structure
carried out in the Prosector’s Department, the Society employs, under
the direction of the superintendent and his assistant, a head-keeper,
twenty-two keepers, a prosector’s assistant, clerks, a head-gardener,
twenty-three helpers in the menagerie, twelve gardeners, artisans,
firemen, messengers, and a butcher,—in all, nearly one hundred persons.
At the Society’s rooms in Hanover Square, the publication of the
_Zoological Record_, containing a complete summary of all the Zoological
inquiries of the year throughout the world, costs annually about £450.
The last, and not the least, interesting item in the list of expenditure
is that of £843 19_s._ 6_d._ for the cost and carriage of animals, £500
of which represents the money paid for the young hippopotamus, whose
comfortable figure and complacent demeanour have been not the least
attraction of the Gardens during the season.