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Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
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SNAKES:
Curiosities and Wonders of Serpent Life.
Morrison & Gibb, Edinburgh,
Printers to Her Majesty’s Stationery Office.
[Illustration:
Hamadryad,
_Ophiophagus bungarus_.
_Echis carinata._
Cobra,
_Naja tripudians_.
Reticulated Python,
_Python reticulatus_.
Rat Snake,
_Ptyas mucosus_.
_Amphisbæna._
SOME OPHIDIANS AT HOME.
INDIA.]
SNAKES:
Curiosities and Wonders of Serpent Life_.
by
CATHERINE C. HOPLEY,
Author of ‘Sketches of the Ophidians,’ ‘Life in the South,’ ‘Rambles and
Adventures in the Wilds of the West,’ etc. etc.
‘These lithe and elegant Beings.’—RYMER JONES.
‘Can outswim the Fish and outclimb the Monkey.’—OWEN.
[Illustration]
Griffith and Farran,
Successors to Newbery and Harris,
West Corner of St. Paul’s Churchyard, London.
E. P. Dutton & Co., New York.
1882.
The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved.
_TO MY
MUCH HONOURED AND ESTEEMED FRIEND_,
Professor Richard Owen, F.R.S.,
_WHO HAS GRACIOUSLY ENCOURAGED THE STUDIES
OUT OF WHICH IT CAME;
AND WHOSE CORDIAL SYMPATHY AND REGARD,
WITH FRANKEST RECOGNITION OF HIS
DEEP DEVOTION TO HIS ART,
GAVE ONE OF ITS FEW GREAT PLEASURES TO THE
SHORT LIFE OF
A DEAR BROTHER OF MINE,
THIS BOOK
IS HUMBLY DEDICATED,
WITH GRATEFUL RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PAST_.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. SEEING A SNAKE FEED, 27
II. SNAKES OF FICTION AND OF FACT, 41
III. OPHIDIAN TASTE FOR BIRDS’ EGGS, 59
IV. DO SNAKES DRINK? 75
V. THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE—PART I. WHAT IT IS ‘NOT,’ 94
VI. THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE—PART II. WHAT IT ‘IS,’ 107
VII. THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE—PART III. ITS USES, 115
VIII. THE GLOTTIS, 129
IX. BREATHING AND HISSING OF SNAKES, 142
X. HIBERNATION, 159
XI. THE TAIL OF A SNAKE, 170
XII. OPHIDIAN ACROBATS: CONSTRUCTION AND CONSTRICTION, 192
XIII. FRESH-WATER SNAKES, 221
XIV. THE PELAGIC OR SEA SNAKES, 233
XV. ‘THE GREAT SEA SERPENT,’ 247
XVI. RATTLESNAKE HISTORY, 268
XVII. THE RATTLE, 294
XVIII. THE INTEGUMENT—‘HORNS,’ AND OTHER EPIDERMAL APPENDAGES, 315
XIX. DENTITION, 342
XX. VIPERINE FANGS, 368
XXI. THE CROTALIDÆ, 381
XXII. THE XENODONS, 395
XXIII. OPHIDIAN NOMENCLATURE, AND VERNACULARS, 413
XXIV. DO SNAKES INCUBATE THEIR EGGS? 431
XXV. ANACONDA AND ANGUIS FRAGILIS, 452
XXVI. ‘LIZZIE,’ 470
XXVII. DO SNAKES AFFORD A REFUGE TO THEIR YOUNG? 483
XXVIII. SERPENT WORSHIP, ‘CHARMING,’ ETC., 507
XXIX. THE VENOMS AND THEIR REMEDIES, 532
XXX. NOTES FROM THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS, 561
INDEX, 593
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION.
TO the many friends who have repeatedly asked me, ‘What _could_ induce
you to take up such a _horrid_ subject as snakes?’ a few words of
explanation must be offered. Some words of apology are also due that
I, a learner myself, should aspire to instruct others. I cannot do
better, therefore, than tell the history of this book from its birth,
and in so doing cancel both obligations. The little history will be a
sort of _OPHIDIANA_, or gossip about snakes; and in this I only follow
the example of most herpetologists, who, when writing exclusively on
these reptiles, preface their work with some outline of the history of
ophiology, and generally with an excuse for introducing the unwelcome
subject at all. There is still reason to lament that traditional
prejudice invests everything in the shape of a serpent with repulsive
qualities, and that these prejudices are being only very slowly swept
away by the besom of science.
Serpents are intimately associated with our religious beliefs. Not
that we _worship_ them! Far otherwise. Many excellent and orthodox
persons associate with a serpent all the sin and misery which ever
existed on our globe, and are persuaded that the sooner everything in
the shape of one is exterminated the better.
On the other hand, those who can look at a snake with unprejudiced eyes
and study its habits, find continual reason to wonder at and admire the
extraordinary features which exhibit themselves in its organization.
Owing to their retiring habits, many of them nocturnal, and partly in
consequence of preconceived errors, less is understood about them than
almost any other natural group of animals; therefore—as the reader
will discover—a student, when left to himself, has to wade through
ages of writers in order to find out what to believe regarding them.
Scientific ophiologists are still engaged in settling mooted questions
concerning them. But apart from science there is a glamour of poetry,
romance, and mystery about snakes, and not without reason. There has
been a great deal of what we may call ‘Drawing-room Natural History’
of late years—charmingly sensational and romantic; attractive also in
illustrations and colouring, but not always intended as reliable guides
for students.
All travellers are not naturalists; and though they may contribute
valuable information in one branch of science, it is possible they may
mislead in another; and from the very popularity of their books, such
errors are rapidly disseminated. I aspire to a place on drawing-room
tables for my book also, but let me assure my readers that my aim has
been to assist by diligent search to establish truthfulness. Whatever
of romance or sensation attaches to it, is due to the marvellous powers
of the creatures who fill its pages, and whose true nature I have
laboured to comprehend.
Schlegel and Dumeril are two authorities on serpents much quoted by
English writers, and both give us a list of all the naturalists of
repute who have done service to herpetology, up to the date of their
works. As many of these are introduced in the body of my work, let
us glance at the progress of ophiology since the date of these two
distinguished authors. In zoology as much as in any branch of science
progressiveness is observable; and in zoology the advance of ophiology
has of late years been remarkable. In 1843, when Schlegel’s _Essai sur
la Physionomie des Serpents_, 1837, was translated into English by Dr.
Thos. Stewart Traill, of the University of Edinburgh, he mentioned as a
reason for curtailing the original (and not adding the atlas containing
421 figures, with charts and tables), that the low state of ophiology
in this country did not invite a larger work, and ‘deters booksellers
from undertaking such costly illustrations;’ but he hoped to be useful
to science by cultivating a branch of zoology hitherto neglected. Ten
years prior to that date, viz. 1833, the monthly scientific magazine
_The Zoologist_ was started; in introducing which the Editor, Mr. Ed.
Newman, wrote: ‘To begin, the attempt to combine scientific truths with
readable English has been considered by my friends one of surpassing
rashness;’ that he had ‘many solicitations to desist from so hopeless
a task,’ and many ‘supplications to introduce a few Latin descriptions
to give it a scientific character,’ science being then confined to
the scientific alone. Nevertheless the _Zoologist_ has survived half a
century, and under able editorship has taken its stand as a popular as
well as scientific journal. Formerly you might have hunted the pages of
such magazines year after year without finding mention of an ‘odious
snake;’ but within the last decade, not only this but other periodicals
have frequently opened their pages to ophiology, and a considerable
removal of prejudice is noticeable.
Mr. Newman felt encouraged by the success attending the publication
of White’s _Selborne_, that being one of the first works to induce a
practical study of nature. Yet, until the appearance of Bell’s _British
Reptiles_ in 1849, our present subject occupied but very stinted space
in literature. Indeed, we must admit that as a nation we English have
_followed_, not _taken_, the lead as naturalists. So long ago as
1709, Lawson in his _History of Carolina_ lamented the ‘misfortune
that most of our Travellers who go to this vast Continent are of the
meaner Sort, and generally of very slender Education; hired laborers
and merchants to trade among the Indians in remote parts.’ ... ‘The
French outstrip us in nice Observations,’ he said. ‘First by their
numerous Clergy; their Missionaries being obedient to their Superiors.’
Secondly by gentlemen accompanying these religious missions, sent out
to explore and make discoveries and to keep strict journals, which duly
were handed over to science. And what Lawson remarked of the American
colonies was extended to wherever the French, Portuguese, and Italians
established religious communities. We find our book-shelves ever
enriched by foreign naturalists.
In Germany, also, ophiology was far in advance of us. Lenz, Helmann,
Effeldt, and many others pursued the study practically; and produced
some valuable results in their printed works, which unfortunately are
too little known in England. Doubtless because we in England have so
few native reptiles, there is less inducement to concern ourselves
about them. Not so in America, where herpetology soon found many
enthusiasts; and the researches of Holbrooke, Emmons, De Kay, and Weir
Mitchell were published within a few years of each other. Dr. Cantor
in India, and Dr. Andrew Smith in South Africa, Drs. Gray and Günther
and P. H. Gosse in England, all enriched ophiological literature
previous to 1850, to say nothing of the valuable additions to the
science dispersed among the _Reports_ and _Transactions_ of the various
scientific Societies. After the appearance of Dr. Günther’s important
work, _The Reptiles of British India_, in 1864, published under the
auspices of the Ray Society, another fresh impetus was observable, and
we had Krefft’s _Snakes of Australia_, 1869; _Indian Snakes_, by Dr. E.
Nicholson, 1870; culminating in _The Thanatophidia of India_, by Sir
Joseph, then Dr. Fayrer, F.R.S., C.S.I., etc., Surgeon-Major of the
Bengal Army, in 1872, which brings me to the commencement of my own
studies.
A few years ago, I knew nothing whatever about snakes; and to them,
though deriving my chief pleasures from an inherited love of all
things in nature, a faint interest _at a respectful distance_, was
all I accorded. In Virginia and Florida, where a country life and a
gorgeous flora enticed my steps into wild and secluded districts, we
not unfrequently saw them and one or two ‘narrow escapes’ seasoned
the pages of my notebook. When in such rambles we caught sight of one,
we flew at our utmost speed, encountering the far greater danger of
treading on a venomous one in our precipitous flight, than in shunning
the probably innocent one from which we were fleeing.
My first startling adventure in Virginia was more ridiculous than
dangerous. We were about to cross a little rivulet that ran rippling
through a wood, in which there were many such to ford. Often fallen
boughs or drifting logs, dragged into the shallow parts by the negroes,
served as stepping-stones. These becoming blackened in the water, and
partially covered with tangled drift-weed, were so familiar a sight
that, without pausing to observe, I was making a spring, when my
companion caught hold of my dress, crying out, ‘Don’t step on them!
They will bite you!’ The supposed shining and tangled boughs were
two large black snakes commonly known as ‘Racers,’ enjoying a bath;
but until I had hastily regained the top of the bank, alarmed at the
excitement of my young friend, I did not discover the nature of our
intended stepping-stones. The snakes were not venomous, but very
‘spiteful,’ and might have resented the interruption by sharp bites. In
moving, they probably would have caused me to fall upon them and into
the water, when they might have attacked me with unpleasant results.
Now, however, my chief vexation was that they got away so quickly, I
could learn nothing about them.
Another ‘escape’ was on an intensely hot day, when in early morning
we had started for a botanical ramble. Our way lay along a sloping
bit of pasture land, bounded on the east and higher ground by a dense
wood, which afforded shelter from the sun. Beguiled on and on, among
the lovely copses of exquisite flowering shrubs and a wealth of floral
treasures which carpeted the turfy slopes, we were unconscious of time.
Though only in the merry month of May, blackberries of enormous size
and delicious flavour, trailing on long briars yards and yards over the
mossy grass, invited us to break our fast; and, all unmindful of the
breakfast-hour, we feasted and rested.
Suddenly we found ourselves no longer shaded by the wood to the east
of us, for the sun had mounted high; and at the first touch of his
scorching rays as we rose to our feet, we glanced at each other in
dismay, for we had open ground to cross in getting home. My Virginia
companion said that it would be better to ford the streams in the wood,
than risk sunstroke by crossing a cornfield, our nearest way home.
This we decided to do, and having surmounted all obstacles, were almost
within earshot of the house, when Ella, with a shriek, started and ran
back, exclaiming, ‘A moccasin!’
‘What? where?’ I eagerly inquired, trying to follow the direction of
her eye.
‘Oh, Miss Hopley, come back! Quick! Come away! Water moccasins are
worse than rattlesnakes, for they dart at you!’
Sufficiently alarming, certainly; yet I wanted to _see_ the terrible
object, and ascertain how far off it was, and at length discovered
the head and neck of a snake erect. About a foot of it was visible,
and might have been taken for a slight stem or stick standing
perpendicularly out of the swampy herbage bordering the narrow path.
The fixed eyes and darting ‘sting’—which I then thought the tongue to
be—seemed to endorse the character my young friend had given it. Yet
I lingered, ‘fascinated,’ no doubt, by its gaze, the fascination in my
case partaking of curiosity chiefly. The reptile remained so rigid that
I was inclined to venture nearer; nor did I welcome the idea of having
to retrace our steps and risk the open field under that Virginia sun.
But Ella would not hear of passing the deadly snake. There were others,
she was sure, in that swampy part.
Well, we reached home at last, more dead than alive, having discarded
our treasured specimens and substituted sprays of enormous leaves with
which to shield our heads from the sun. And I have ever reflected, that
of the two dangers—snakes and sunstroke—we risked the greater in
traversing that cornfield at such an hour.
Besides that ‘deadly moccasin’ and frequent ‘black snakes,’ there
were ‘whip snakes,’ ‘milk snakes,’ and many others which the negroes
would bring home as trophies of their courageous slaughter; but by no
scientific names were they known there. Except this name _moccasin_
or _mokeson_, which probably conveyed some especial meaning to the
aborigines, few of the Indian vernaculars have been preserved in the
United States, as we find them in other parts of America, which latter
are treated of in chapters xxii. and xxiii. of this work; but common
English names prevail.
After a time I proposed to write a book about snakes, starting with the
stereotyped ideas that they all ‘stung’ in some incomprehensible way;
that the larger kinds crushed up horses and cattle like wisps of straw;
and that all, having viciously taken the life of the victim, proceeded
with epicurean gusto to lick it all over and smear it with saliva, that
it might glide down their throat like an oyster! There are those who to
this day believe the same.
My proposed book was, however, simply to recount some adventures
among the snakes which were encountered in our American rambles. It
was intended for the amusement of juvenile readers, and to supplement
the little work about my pet birds[1], which had met with so kind and
encouraging a reception.
But in order to merely recount an adventure with a snake, some
knowledge of the reptile is essential. One must, at least, be sure
of the correct name of the ‘horrid thing’ which lifted its ‘menacing
head’ a few feet in front of us; such local names as ‘black snake’ and
‘moccasin snake’ affording no satisfactory information.
Nor were hasty references to books much more satisfactory. Mr. P. H.
Gosse had been over the same ground, gathering many interesting items
of natural history; but in his _Letters from Alabama_ I could not
decide on my moccasin snake. From this and his other works, and then
from the authors quoted by him, I discovered only that there were
many ‘black snakes,’ some deadly, others harmless. The same with the
‘moccasin’ snake, which was now of this colour, now of that. While one
writer expatiates on the beauty of the ‘emerald snake,’ a ‘living
gem, which the dark damsels of southern climes wind round their necks
and arms,’ another describes snakes of emerald green which are dreaded
and avoided. One traveller tells of a ‘coral snake’ whose bite is
fatal within an hour; while elsewhere a ‘coral snake’ is petted and
handled. Equally perplexing were the ‘carpet snakes,’ ‘whip snakes,’
‘Jararacas,’ and ‘brown snakes.’
Nor were names the only puzzle to unravel; for in almost every other
particular writers on snakes are at variance.
Those ‘moccasin snakes’ in Virginia were venomous, I was sure, having
known of accidents from their bite. Hoping to become enlightened as to
their true name and character, I repaired to the Zoological Gardens to
ascertain if they were known there. Yes; there were several together
in one cage, labelled ‘Moccasins’ (_Tropidonotus fasciatus_) ‘from
America;’ but to identify them with the one in Virginia, of which I
had seen only a short portion from a distance, was impossible. To add
to the perplexity, Holland the keeper assured me these were ‘quite
harmless.’
‘But are you _sure_ these are harmless snakes? They are poisonous in
America.’
‘Well, miss, they have bitten my finger often enough for me to know,’
returned Holland.
‘Then there must be _two_ kinds of moccasin snakes,’ I argued, ‘for
the others are _extremely_ venomous;’ and I related my Virginia
experiences, and that I had known of a horse bitten by one that had
died in an hour or so, fearfully swollen.
‘They have never hurt me,’ persisted Holland.
Subsequently I discovered that in the United States this name
_moccasin_ is a common vernacular, first and chiefly applied to a
really dangerous viper, _Ancistrodon pugnax_ or _piscivorus_, the
one, most likely, that we saw in the wood; and secondly, to a number
of harmless snakes which are _supposed_ to be dangerous, and of which
those at the Gardens, _Tropidonotus fasciatus_, are among the latter.
Thus at the very outset the puzzles began.
Nevertheless, after some research I learnt enough of snake nature to
feel safe in proceeding with my book of _Adventures_, and in presenting
it to a publisher.
‘As a gift-book no one would look at it, and as an educational work
there would be no demand for it,’ was its encouraging reception.
This was about ten years ago; and so far from inducing me to relinquish
the subject, I began to aspire to become a means of assisting to
overcome these prejudices. For the space of two years the anticipated
‘sequel’ to my _American Pets_ went the round of the London publishers
of juvenile works, and to several in Scotland. It was read by many
of them, who professed to have been unexpectedly and ‘extremely
interested’ in it—‘_but_’—none could be persuaded to ‘entertain so
repulsive a subject.’ One member of a publishing house distinguished
for the high standard of its literature, positively admitted among
his insurmountable objections, that when a child his mother had never
permitted him to look through a certain favourite volume late in
the day, ‘for fear the pictures of snakes in it should prevent his
sleeping!’
An editor of a magazine told me he should lose his subscribers if he
put snakes in its pages; and another made excuse that his children
would not look at the magazine with a snake in it.
Perhaps this is not so surprising when we reflect that until within
a late date snakes in children’s books, if represented at all,
are depicted as if with full intent of creating horror. They are
represented with enormously extended jaws, and—by comparison with
the surrounding trees or bushes—of several hundred feet in length;
sometimes extending up a bank or over a hedge into the next field, or
winding round a rock or a gnarled trunk, that must be—if the landscape
have any pretensions to perspective—a long way off. Slender little
tree snakes of two or three feet long are represented winding round
and round thick stems and branches strong enough to support you. Into
the chasm of a mouth from which an enormous instrument (intended for a
tongue) is protruding, a deer the size of a squirrel (by comparison),
or a squirrel the size of a mouse, is on the point of running meekly to
its doom.
No wonder children ‘skip’ the few pages devoted to snakes in
their natural history books, and grow up full of ignorance and
prejudices regarding them. In no class of literature are original and
conscientious illustrations more required than to replace some of those
which reappear again and again, and have passed down from encyclopædias
into popular works, conveying the same erroneous impressions to each
unthinking reader.
The strongly-expressed opinions of publishers convinced me that the
prejudices of adults must first be overcome before children could be
persuaded to look at a snake as they would look at a bird or a fish,
or to enter the Reptile House at the Zoological Gardens without the
premeditated ‘Aughs!’ and ‘Ughs!’ and shudders.
During the two years that witnessed the MS. of _Aunt Jenny’s
Adventures_ lying in first one and then another publishing house, an
especial occurrence acted as a great stimulant, and induced an almost
obstinate persistence in my apparently hopeless studies.
This was the sensation caused by the daily papers in reporting the
case of ‘Cockburn _versus_ Mann;’ and the ‘SNAKES IN CHANCERY.’ To
the horror and dismay of the ‘general public,’ Mr. Mann, of Chelsea,
was represented as ‘keeping for his amusement _all manner of venomous
serpents_;’ or, as another paper put it, ‘Mr. Mann had a peculiar
penchant for keeping as domestic pets a large number of venomous
snakes.’ (I copy verbatim from the papers of that date.) That these
‘water vipers and puff adders’ were ‘apt to stray in search of
freedom;’ or, ‘being accustomed to take their walks abroad,’ had
strayed into the neighbours’ gardens, to the terror of maid-servants
and children;’ and were ‘now roaming up and down Cheyne Walk,’ and
‘turning the College groves into a garden of Eden.’ So an action was
brought against Mr. Mann: for the neighbours decided that ‘there was no
better remedy for a stray cobra than a suit in Chancery.’ ‘Everybody’
during July 1872 was reading those delightfully sensational articles,
and asking, ‘_Have_ you heard about Mr. Mann’s cobras?’
Mr. Frank Buckland was brave enough to venture into the dangerous
precincts of Cheyne Walk, and even into the house of Mr. Mann, to test
the virtues and vices of both the ‘pets’ and their possessors. He
finally tranquillized the public mind by publishing accounts of his
visit, affirming that not _one_ of the snakes was venomous, but, on
the contrary, were charmingly interesting and as tame as kittens. The
testimony of so popular an authority served not only to allay local
terrors, but to modify the sentence that might otherwise have been
passed on the ophiophilist, who was merely cautioned by the honourable
judge to keep his pets within due bounds.
After this, Mr. and Mrs. Mann and their domesticated ophidians held
daily receptions. I was invited to see them, and in company with a
clerical friend repaired to Chelsea. It was the first family party
of snakes I had ever joined, and I must confess to considerable
fluctuations of courage as we knocked at the door. Nor could one quite
divest oneself of apprehension lest the boa-constrictors to which we
were introduced should suddenly make a spring and constrict us into a
pulp. But they didn’t. On the contrary, towards ourselves they were
disappointingly undemonstrative, and only evinced their consciousness
of the presence of strangers by entwining themselves about the members
of the family, as if soliciting their protection. They were very
jealous of each other, Mr. Mann said; jealous also of other company, as
if unwilling to lose their share of attention. There were half-a-dozen
or more snakes—viz., several boas, of whom ‘Cleo,’ or Cleopatra, has
become historical; two or three lacertine snakes from North Africa; and
a common English snake. The smaller ones were regaled on frogs for our
special edification. At that time I had never been to the Reptilium at
the Zoological Gardens on feeding days, and when Mr. Mann permitted a
frog to hop about the table, and we saw the ring snake glide swiftly
towards it and catch it in its mouth, we could not comprehend what was
to happen next. ‘What _will_ he do with it?’ we both exclaimed. We had
not long to wait. Somehow or other the frog, caught by its hind leg,
got turned round till its head was in the snake’s mouth and the hind
legs were sprawling and kicking, but in vain. Then head-foremost it
vanished by degrees into the jaws of the snake; while the head of the
latter, ‘poor thing,’ seemed dislocated out of all shape! It was a
wonderful but painful sight; for how the snake’s head stretched in that
amazing manner, and how the frog was drawn into the mouth, was past our
comprehension.
An equally wonderful but far more attractive sight was Mrs. Mann,
a graceful and charming little lady in black velvet, with Cleo
coiling around her in Laocoon-like curves. The rich colouring of the
beautifully-marked reptile entwining the slender form of the woman, the
picturesque and caressing actions of Cleo, and the responsive repose
of Mrs. Mann as the snake was now round her waist, now undulating
around and over her head and neck, was altogether a sight never to
be forgotten. Two sweet little children were equally familiar with
the other boas, that seemed quite to know who were their friends and
play-fellows, for the children handled them and patted and talked to
them as we talk to pet birds and cats.
Such were the ‘vipers, cobras, and puff adders’ that had figured in the
daily papers.
After this, the reptile house at the Zoological Gardens became a
new attraction. From there to the bookshelves and back again to the
Gardens, my little book of adventures was discarded for a more
ambitious work; but still was confronted by disaffected publishers,
whom even the Chelsea snakes failed to convince of public interest.
Friends protested—and still demand—even while I write—‘How _can_
you give your mind to such odious, loathsome, slimy creatures?’ and
I boldly reply, ‘In the hope of inducing you to believe that they
are _not_ odious and loathsome, and especially not “slimy,” but in
the majority graceful, useful, beautiful, _wonderful_!’ And I invite
them to accompany me to the Zoological Gardens, and endeavour there
to contemplate a reptile as they look at the other denizens of the
Gardens, simply as a member of the wide family of the brute creation,
appointed by the Great All-wise to live and feed and enjoy existence
as much as the rest, and that have to accomplish the purpose for which
they were created equally with the feathered families which we admire
and—devour!
And as whatever may be original or novel in this book has been obtained
at the Zoological Gardens, I now invite my readers to accompany me in
imagination to the Ophidarium, where we may learn how that little ring
snake was able to swallow his prodigious mouthful without separating it
limb from limb, as a carnivorous mammal would divide the lamb it has
killed.
‘But’—you exclaim in horror—‘we do not wish to contemplate so
painful, so repulsive a spectacle! How _could_ you, how _can_ you,
stand coolly there and see that poor frog tortured and swallowed alive?’
Dear, tender-hearted reader, I did not, I _could_ not, unmoved,
contemplate this sight at first; nor for a very long while could I
bring myself to watch a living creature being drawn into that living
trap. Nor could we—you and I—feel aught but horror in visiting a
slaughter-house and watching a poor calf slowly die. Nor could we, for
pleasure merely, look coolly on at a painful surgical operation. Yet we
know that such things must be. The life of the snake is as important
as that of the frog. If we are to talk about cruelty, this book of
natural history, and of intended—let me say, of hoped-for—usefulness,
would become one of political economy instead. We might discuss the
sport of the angler, the huntsman; the affairs of the War Office;
of railroad managers and of road-makers; the matters of the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; followed by an examination
into the questions that have been ventilated in so-called ‘benevolent
organs;’ and how some of them employ writers who in every tenth line
betray their ignorance of the creatures they attempt to describe. Not
even theology could be dispensed with in this work; for, since the time
when Adam was told to have ‘dominion over the fish of the sea, and
over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon
the earth,’ the question of ‘cruelty’ has never been satisfactorily
solved. Morally and broadly, let us understand it to mean _unnecessary_
torture—pain and suffering that can be _avoided_, and which offers
a very wide scope indeed. In the animal world, ‘every creature is
destined to be the food of some other creature;’ and by these economies
only is the balance of nature maintained. Happily we are spared the
too vivid realization of the destruction of life ceaselessly going on
throughout creation; the myriads of insects destroyed each moment by
birds, the sufferings inflicted by the feline families and by birds
of prey, the countless shoals of the smaller fish devoured—swallowed
_alive_ too!—by larger ones, or caught (and not too tenderly) for
our own use. These things we dismiss from our minds, and accept as
inevitable. We do not ventilate them in daily journals. Nor do we
take our children to the slaughter-house or the surgery for their
entertainment; or repair thither ourselves for the sake of minutely
discussing afterwards the sufferings we have witnessed. You will,
I hope, discover that the pain inflicted by the constrictor or the
viper is not, after all, so acute as it is by some imagined to be. The
venomous bite of the latter causes almost immediate insensibility; the
frog which the ring snake ate probably died of suffocation, which also
produces insensibility; the constriction of the boa—in its natural
condition—produces also a speedy death. Besides, as Dr. Andrew Wilson,
in a paper on this subject, has explained to us, the sufferings of a
frog or a rat are not like _our_ sufferings. Their brain and nerves are
of a lower order.[2]
Permit me, therefore, in the outset, to dismiss from these pages the
question of cruelty as not being a branch of zoology; and as we cannot
prevent snakes from eating frogs, or the vipers from catching field
mice (nor need we wish to do so, or the small quarry would soon become
too many for us), let us examine the curious construction of a snake’s
head and jaw-bones that enables it to accomplish the task so easily.
With reference to the rapid development of science, it has been said
that a scientific work is old as soon as the printer’s ink is dry. Up
to the moment of sending my concluding pages to press, I realize this;
and remarkably so in the growing interest in the Ophidia. Writings on
this subject are becoming so frequent that, while correcting proofs, I
am tempted to add footnotes enough almost for another volume.
Several circumstances have combined to enrich ophiological literature
within a few years; one which, in 1872, I quite think established a
sort of new era in this branch of zoology, was the appearance of Dr.
Fayrer’s magnificent work, _The Thanatophidia of India_. Mr. Bullen,
then the Superintendent of the Reading-Room at the British Museum,
knowing that the subject was engaging my attention, informed me of the
arrival of this book, and, with his ever kind thought for students,
ordered it into the room for my express use; and I think I may affirm,
that I was the very first ‘reader’ who had the privilege of inspecting
the work, and, I hope, of helping to make it popular. For as day after
day those huge folio leaves stood open, with the conspicuous and
lifelike illustrations almost moving before your eyes, readers would
linger and gaze, acquaintances would stop to inquire and inspect; some
with a shudder would ask ‘how on earth I could endure the sight of such
fearful creatures?’ while a few would manifest sufficient interest and
intelligence to be indulged with a full display, and to whom I eagerly
aired my convictions of the tremendous errors afloat concerning the
snake tribe.
‘Beyond the pale of science but little is known of Ophiology,’ were
Fayrer’s words. Two years previously to this, in 1870, Dr. Edward
Nicholson wrote his book, _Indian Snakes_, ‘in the hope of dispelling
the lamentable ignorance regarding some of the _most beautiful and
harmless_ of God’s creatures.’
This enthusiasm is gradually spreading, and we now not unfrequently
hear of domesticated snakes in English homes; both from friends
who keep them, and from the correspondence of the _Field, Land and
Water_, and similar papers, in whose columns inquiries for information
are often made regarding ophidian pets. Lord Lilford, one of the
kindest patrons of the London Reptilium, has, I believe, for many
years been a practical ophiologist. There is one little favourite
snake that figures in these pages of which his lordship gave an
excellent character from personal acquaintance, ‘the beautiful species
_Elaphis-quater-radiatus_, as being the most naturally tame of all the
colubrines, never hissing or trying to bite though frequently handled.’
A noble lady not long since carried a pet snake to the Gardens. It was
twined round her arm, where it remained quiet and content, though to
the alarm of some monkeys who caught sight of it. Some members of our
Royal Family, with the enlightened intelligence which displays itself
in them all, have more than once paid visits to the Reptile House at
the Zoological Gardens, where the keeper has enjoyed the high honour of
taking snakes out of their cages to place in royal hands. The good-will
and interest towards the inmates of the Ophidarium are likewise
displayed by some country gentlemen in presents of game, in the form
of ring snakes for the Ophiophagus and frogs for the lesser fry. Lord
Arthur Russell, Lord Lilford, and other distinguished personages set
excellent examples of this kind. All of which proofs of prejudices
overcome are features in the history of ophiology, and especially in
the last decade.
Then, in glancing at recent literature, a great change is discernible,
more particularly so during the last two years, since the popular
contributions of Dr. Arthur Stradling, a corresponding member of the
Zoological Society, have imparted a novel interest to this branch of
zoology. To this gentleman my own most grateful acknowledgments are
due, as will be evident to the reader, not only for the zest imparted
by his correspondence from Brazil, but for some important specimens
presented to me by him, which have enabled me to describe them
minutely from personal observations, as well as to add some original
illustrations from them. Though my work and my studies were far
advanced, previous to his valued acquaintance, yet I have been able to
enrich my pages from his experience, and have added footnotes from his
published writings.
Already, however, some few dispassionate students of nature among
editors were promoters of herpetology, and I must here express my
acknowledgments to the talented daughters of the lamented Mrs. Alfred
Gatty (and editresses of that _facile princeps_ among juvenile
periodicals, _Aunt Judy’s Magazine_), for having been the first
to encourage and accept from my pen a snake in their pages, and
subsequently several papers on ophidian manners and habits for their
magazine.
In preparing ‘Sketches of the Ophidians’ for the _Dublin University
Magazine_, December 1875, and January and February 1876 (in all, about
forty closely-written pages), I, by request of the editor, included
a paper on the venom and the various remedies, though, reluctant to
intrude within the arena of professional science, a sort of summing
up of evidence was all that I attempted. Having been thus required to
glean some crude ideas from technical writings (which necessitated
glossaries and dictionaries to be ever at hand), I again add a chapter
on the ‘Venoms’ to my present work. Left entirely to my own independent
conclusions, if I have ventured to think in opposition to some popular
writers, and have even presumed to offer some suggestions of my own, I
trust I may be treated with clemency.
With regard to the terrible death-rate from snake-bite in India, it
does, however, appear to me that journalists who hold up their hands
in horror, and write strong articles on this subject, lose sight of
the religious and social condition of the low-caste Hindûs, who are
the chief sufferers, and whose superstition is so fatal to them.
_Snake-worship_ is the root of the evil! _Education_ must lower the
death-rate. During the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to India,
the entire programme was on one occasion interrupted because some
Hindû children, to whom a feast was to be given, could not eat in
the presence of Christians, whose ‘shadow would have polluted their
food,’ or some obstacle of this nature. Similar difficulties arise when
they are snake-bitten; their creed prohibits their having recourse to
approved remedies. ‘Snake-charmers’ and native quacks are sent for
instead, and often when cures are possible the fatalists submit to
death.
To Professor Owen, who six years ago permitted me the honour of
dedicating this contemplated work to him, and to others who were then
led to expect its early appearance, I may be allowed to offer an excuse
for tardiness. Like the creatures which fill its pages, I succumb to
the chills of winter, and depend on the suns of summer for renewed
vigour and activity. At one time impaired health, and the enforced
suspension of literary pursuits under the threatened loss of the use of
my right hand, were grievous interruptions.
Filial duties and domestic bereavements caused another two years’
delay. Banished to the seaside, and the pen prohibited during the
winter of 1874-75, I had almost despaired of turning my studies to
account, when a new impulse arrived in the shape of a note from the
editor of _Chambers’s Journal_, begging to know if my ‘work on the
Ophidia was out, and by whom published’? My ‘work on the Ophidia’?
Could that mean my poor, despised little book that had been long ago
submitted among others to those Edinburgh publishers? _My work on the
Ophidia!_ I began to get better from that day; and from that date,
March 1875, I have had the inexpressible pleasure and privilege of
including among my kindest and most sympathetic ophiological friends,
the Editor of that popular journal. On the Ophidia, he entrusted me
with work in various directions, encouraged by which I again returned
to town, and to the Zoological Gardens.
If I am so fortunate as to afford instruction or entertainment in the
following pages, my readers will join me in congratulating ourselves
on the possession of so large and valuable a zoological collection as
that in the Regent’s Park, without which this book could not have been
attempted. And I may embrace this opportunity of expressing my sincere
thanks to the President and Council of the Zoological Society for the
privileges and facilities afforded me at their Gardens, where not only
the Reptilium but the annual series of zoological lectures there, given
by the first biologists of the day, have been of inexpressible use to
me.
I would also express my thanks to Professor Flower, Hunterian Professor
at the Royal College of Surgeons, London, for his invariable courtesy
in facilitating my examination of the ophiological specimens in the
museum of that College, to which my honoured father (himself a member)
attributed all the love of the study of natural history which from our
earliest recollections were encouraged in his children. My thanks are
also due to Dr. Günther of the British Museum for similar facilities
there. Indeed, the words of encouragement given me, no less than six
years ago, by the distinguished heads of the zoological department
of our great national collection, sustained my courage in opposition
to all counter influences _outside_ the British Museum. When first
contemplating and presenting some outline of this work to Dr. Günther,
he honoured me by expressing his opinion that such a book was ‘much
needed;’ that it would be ‘extremely useful and interesting.’ He was
even so kind as to promise to state this opinion in writing to any
publisher who might consult him on the subject. I here claim the
pleasure of thanking my present publishers for dispensing with the
necessity of troubling Dr. Günther, and for entrusting me with the
preparation of this book, which, before a chapter of it was completed,
they engaged to publish. Deficient as I feel it to be, it is at length
launched on the doubtful waters of public criticism. If any scientific
eyes honour it with a glance, they will with clemency remember that,
with no scientific knowledge whatever to start with, I have had to
grope my way unaided, plodding over technicalities which in themselves
were studies; and if, as no doubt is the case, any misapprehension of
such technicalities has here and there crept in and misinterpreted the
true meaning, I anxiously trust that the truth has not been altogether
obliterated by such obscurities.
In conclusion, let me not omit a grateful tribute to the invariable
kindness of the heads of the Reading-Room at the British Museum;
and for their assistance in obtaining books of which I might never
have known. The kindness of Mr. Garnett extended even beyond the
Reading-Room; for while I was invalided at the seaside, and could only
read, _not write_, he translated and forwarded to me some important
pages from Lenz, a German ophiologist. To him, therefore, the thanks of
the reader are also due.
In the choice of illustrations my aim has been rather to exemplify a
few leading features than to attract by brilliantly-figured examples.
Some of the woodcuts are borrowed from Günther’s and Fayrer’s works;
others I have drawn faithfully from natural specimens; but in them
all I am indebted to the kind and patient work of Mr. A. T. Elwes in
reproducing my own imperfect attempts. And as it was impossible to draw
a snake _in action_ from life, or to witness a second time the precise
coils or movements which had at first struck me as remarkable, the
composition of some of these subjects was by no means an easy one. Our
united efforts have been to represent the natural actions as far as
possible, and this I hope may commend them to the reader.
There are few English persons who have not relatives in India,
Australia, America, and Africa, and from whom they are continually
hearing of escapes or accidents from snakes. Many letters from these
friends beyond the seas find place in the columns of the daily
journals. Whether, therefore, naturalists or not, a very large class of
the intelligent public claims an anxious interest in the Serpent race,
and to all of whom my OPHIDIANA or snake gossip is hopefully addressed.
CATHERINE C. HOPLEY.
LONDON, _October 1882_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SNAKES:
_CURIOSITIES AND WONDERS OF SERPENT LIFE._
CHAPTER I.
_SEEING A SNAKE FEED._
IN any person who for the first time witnesses a snake with prey
just captured, the predominant feeling must be one of surprise at
the seemingly unmanageable size of the animal it has seized; and he
probably exclaims to himself, or to his companion, as we did on the
occasion described in the introduction, ‘What will he do with it?’
Let us again take our common ring snake, _Coluber natrix_, that ate a
frog for our edification; only, in the present instance, instead of
seeing a tame snake in a private residence at Chelsea, we will suppose
ourselves to be watching one on the banks of a stream in fine summer
weather. A slight movement in the grass causes us to turn our eyes
towards the spot, and we are just in time to see the quick dash, and
the next instant a recalcitrant frog held aloft in the jaws of a snake
that with elevated head glides up the bank. Coluber’s head is no bigger
than a filbert, and the frog is nearly full grown, its body inflated
to twice its original size, and its legs, of impracticable length and
angles, kicking remonstrantly.
‘How in the world is the snake going to manage it?’ again you exclaim,
and your amazement is not exceptional. It is what has been witnessed
and heard weekly in London when the public were admitted to the
Reptilium on feeding days, and it is what the reader will recall in his
own case when first informed that a snake was going to swallow that
monstrous mouthful undivided.
In the present instance, the injury to froggie’s feelings thus far
partakes more of moral than of physical pain, for the grasp of the
snake is not violent, and he finds that the more he struggles the
more he injures himself. Yet he kicks and struggles on, at thus being
forcibly detained against his will. In the mouth of the snake he is
as proportionately large as the shoulder of mutton in the jaws of
the dog that has just stolen it from the butcher’s shop. How do the
canines manage unwieldy food? The dog can tackle the joint of meat, big
though it be, because he has limbs to aid him, and he was prepared for
emergencies before he stole it. He knew of a certain deserted yard up
a passage close by, and of some lumber stacked there; he watched his
opportunity, and is off to his hiding-place; and once hidden behind the
lumber, he settles down quietly with his ill-gotten dinner firmly held
between his fore-paws, while, with eyes and ears on the alert, he gnaws
away.
The snake, no doubt, knows of a hole in the bank, or in a hollow
tree, in which he can hide if alarmed; but he cannot set his frog down
for one instant, nor can he relax his jaws in the slightest degree,
or his dinner hops away, and he has to pursue it, or wait for another
frog, when the same thing may happen again. He has only his teeth to
trust to, and these have all the work of paws and claws, and nails
and talons, to accomplish, while yet, not for one instant, must they
relinquish their hold.
‘Besides!—how much too big that frog is for Coluber’s small mouth!’
And we continue to gaze in wonderment, filled with amazement that
brings us to the bookshelves, to endeavour to comprehend the
phenomenon. Not, however, until we have seen the end of that frog on
the banks of the stream, where the reader is supposed to be waiting.
First, let me explain that in the manner of feeding, snakes may
be divided into three classes, viz. those that kill their prey by
constriction or by smothering it in the coils of their body; those
that kill by poison; and some smaller kinds, which, like the ring
snake, eat it alive—the latter a quick process, which may also be
said to be death by suffocation. Our little Coluber is in a spot where
we can watch it easily; so we keep rigidly still, and soon perceive
that though the snake just now had hold of froggie’s side, he now has
the head in his mouth. How can this be? and how has he managed to
shift it thus, almost imperceptibly, while seeming to hold it still?
Now the head begins to disappear, and the snake’s jaws stretch in a
most distorted fashion, as if dislocated; its head expands out of all
original shape, while slowly, slowly, the frog is drawn in as if by
suction. Now its legs are passive; they no longer kick right and left,
but lie parallel, as by degrees they also vanish, and only the four
feet remain in sight. These presently have been sucked in, and the
skin of the snake is stretched like a knitted stocking over the lump
which tells us just how far down Coluber’s neck the frog has reached.
Gradually the lump gets farther and farther down, but is less evident
as it reaches the larger part of the body. The snake remains still for
a few moments till his jaws are comfortably in place again; then he
yawns once or twice, and finally retires for his siesta, and we to the
bookshelves.
‘Snakes work their prey down through the collapsed pharynx,’ says
Günther. That is, the muscles of the throat seize upon what is
presented to them, and do their part, as in other animals. Only, in
most other animals there is the _action_ of swallowing, one mouthful
at a time; whereas in serpents the action is continuous, the throat
going on with the work begun by the teeth, which in a snake is
only grasping and working the food in with a motion so gradual as
to simulate suction. The reason why the head and jaws have been so
enormously stretched and distorted, is because all the bones are, in
common language, _loose_; that is, they are not consolidated like the
head-bones of higher animals, but united by ligaments so elastic as
to enable them to separate in the way we have seen. This extends to
the jaws, and even to the palate, which is also armed with teeth, two
rows extending backwards. The lower jaw or mandible being extremely
long, the elastic ligament by which the pair of bones is connected
in front, forming the chin, enables them to separate widely and move
independently. This is the case in a lesser degree with the palate
bones, and the upper jaw-bones, all six being furnished with long,
fine, recurved, close-set teeth, adapted for _grasping_ and _holding_,
but not for dividing or for mastication in any way.
For, as we have seen, if a snake were to open its mouth one moment
for the purpose of what we call _biting_, the prey would escape. In
addition to a very unusual length, the lower jaw is joined to the
skull by an extra bone,—one which is not found in mammals, but only,
I think, in birds,—a long ‘tympanic’ bone, which forms an elbow, and
permits of that wide expansion of the throat necessary for the passage
of such large undivided prey.
The illustration of the skeleton of a cobra, on p. 33, will enable
the student to distinguish the principal head-bones. There is so much
similarity of construction throughout the whole ophidian families
that a cobra is chosen here, because the unusually long anterior ribs
which form the hood can be observed, and the expansion of which is
described elsewhere. The longer teeth in the upper jaw are here fangs;
the inclination of the other rows of teeth and the bones sufficiently
illustrate those of the non-venomous kinds generally, such as the
little ring snake that has just swallowed his frog. A few of the larger
constricting snakes possess an additional bone—an intermaxillary in
front between the upper jaws, very small, yet sometimes furnished with
two or four teeth, thus facilitating the expansion of the jaws as well
as the retention of the food.
It is this adaptive development of head-bones that enabled _Coluber
natrix_ to turn his frog round to a more convenient position, and then
draw it into his mouth so gradually that we scarcely comprehended how
it disappeared. The six rows of small teeth form six jaws so to speak,
each one of which advanced a very little, while the other five were
engaged in holding firmly. In those largest pythons which have the
little bone in front between the two upper jaw-bones (intermaxillary)
we may say there are _seven_ jaws. As those gigantic snakes have to
deal with proportionately large and strong prey, they are thus enabled
to retain and manage it.
In the graphic language of Professor Owen let me recapitulate.
The mouth can be opened laterally or transversely, as in insects, as
well as vertically, as in other vertebrates. The six jaws are four
above and two below, each of which can be protruded or retracted
independently of the others. ‘The prey having been caught and held,
one jaw is then unfixed by the teeth of that jaw being withdrawn and
pushed forward, when they are again unfixed farther back upon the prey;
another jaw is then unfixed, protruded, and re-attached, and so with
the rest in succession. This movement of protraction, being almost
the only one of which they are susceptible, while stretched apart to
the utmost by the bulk of the animal encompassed by them: and thus by
their successive movements, the prey is slowly introduced into the
gullet.’[3]
[Illustration: Skeleton of a Cobra (from Owen’s _Anatomy of the
Vertebrates_).]
This working of the jaws would be almost imperceptible excepting to
a very close observer. In the lower jaw-bones the independent action
can be more readily perceived and is often very grotesque, one side of
the mouth opening while the other is closed, conveying the idea of the
reptile making grimaces at you; but the gradual disappearance of the
prey so much more bulky than the snake itself is quite incomprehensible
until we are acquainted with the remarkable phenomena of the six rows
of teeth acting independently. Thus, in turning the frog round to
adjust it to a more convenient position, the jaws acted like hands in
moving, dragging, or shifting some cumbrous article, say a carpet or
a plank, when the left hand follows the movement of the right hand
until the plank or carpet is worked round or forward in the required
direction.
The form and arrangement of the fine claw-shaped teeth assist the
process. They are too close together, and the pressure is too slight
to inflict a wound; they merely retain what they hold, and it is in
vain for the prey to struggle against them, or it might get some ugly
scratches as they all incline backwards. In chapter xix. illustrations
of teeth, life-size, show their forms and direction; here it only need
be added regarding them, that the above description refers chiefly to
the non-venomous snakes.
The palate being covered with that armoury of teeth, the snake must
have but a slight sense of taste, which is to its advantage, we should
say; for having no assistant in the shape of beak or limbs to divide
its prey, hair, fur, feathers, dust—all must be swallowed with the
meal, completely disguising whatever flesh they cover, so that we
should suppose the process of feeding could be productive of very
little enjoyment to the reptile. Perhaps out of this state of things
has developed their habit of eating so seldom, but when they do take
the trouble of feeding, of doing it thoroughly, so that their meal
lasts them a long while.
Deglutition is greatly facilitated by an abundant supply of saliva,
which lubricates that uncomfortable coating of feathers or fur; but
‘lubrication’ is understood to refer merely to the natural secretions
of the mouth, in which the tongue performs no part at all.
The salivary apparatus of snakes is peculiar to them, and very
complicated. Even the nasal and lachrymal glands pour their superfluous
secretions through small canals into the mouth.[4] These active and
abundant glands are excited by hunger or the sight of food, just as in
mammals; and for the more common expression of the mouth ‘watering’
that of ‘lubrication’ is here used, because over the rough-coated
prey these salivary secretions act as a great aid in deglutition. The
erroneous impressions that have obtained on this subject are touched
upon in describing the tongue (chap. vi.).
A circumstance happened at the London Zoological Gardens a few years
ago, which, although familiar to many, may be referred to as bearing
on two of the above features—namely, the dull sense of taste in a
snake, and the abundant supply of mucous secretions. It was in the case
of a large boa which swallowed her blanket. She was about to change
her skin, and, as usual on such occasions, was partially blind, as
also indifferent to food. The rabbits given to her dodged her grasp,
and her appreciation of flavours was not sufficient to enable her to
discriminate between blanket and rabbit fur; so, seizing a portion of
the rug, she with natural instinct constricted this, and proceeded to
swallow it. She was, however, made to disgorge it afterwards, when it
was scarcely recognisable from the thick and abundant coating of mucous
in which it was enveloped. Mr. F. Buckland described its appearance as
that of a ‘long flannel sausage.’
These highly-developed salivary glands are beneficent provisions in
the economy of the serpent race. The reptile cannot, as we said, tear
flesh from bones, and discard the latter; nor separate the food from
the enveloping feathers or fur; nor reject whatever unsavoury portions
other animals might detach and leave uneaten. All must be swallowed by
a snake, and all digested; and its digestion, sufficiently powerful, is
aided by the excessive flow of saliva, or the insalivation of such food.
It is not difficult to make snakes disgorge their food. They often
do so on their own account, when, after swallowing some bulky meal,
they are alarmed or pursued, and escape is less easy with that load to
carry. The illustration exhibiting the numerous ribs, which are all
loosely articulated with the spinal column, enables us to comprehend
the capacity for bulk, and the ease with which these fine ribs would
expand to accommodate a body even broader than the snake itself. We
comprehend, also, why it is that a creature swallowed alive need not
be injured or wounded by the mere fact of being swallowed, but would
die of suffocation after all. A frog has been known to turn round and
escape from the body of the snake, if the latter indulge in a prolonged
yawn; and yawning almost always does follow as soon as the prey is
swallowed, because the snake has for the time breathed less regularly,
and now requires to take in a fresh supply of air. In this act you see
the two jaws extended to an enormous degree, almost, indeed, to form
one straight line perpendicularly. In such condition the teeth are well
out of the way, and the adjustable ribs, expansile covering, and loose
head bones render them not insurmountable obstacles to an escape when
the prey is uninjured.
One sometimes hears of the egg-stealing snakes, cobras, etc., when
surprised and pursued, first relieving themselves of their plunder
before they attempt to escape. Often it may be observed, when two
snakes are in a cage together, and both get hold of the same frog
or rat, that they each advance upon it till their heads meet, when
either the stronger or the larger snake will gain the day, and
finish his frog, and then proceed to swallow his friend; or else
one will relinquish his hold, when, even in those few minutes, the
half-swallowed prey will be completely disguised in the mucous saliva
which has already enveloped it.
Some snakes, though not quarrelsome at other times, for some reason
inexplicable to the looker-on, persistently set their heart on the same
bird or frog, though many are presented for their choice. In a pair
of _Tropidonoti_ at the Gardens this occurs almost every week; and in
such instances the keeper keeps a sharp watch over them; for as neither
snake will relinquish its capture, the one that begins first comes in
contact with the head of his comrade, who will assuredly be swallowed
too, were not a little moral, or rather physical coercion in the shape
of a good shaking administered. Sometimes both get their ears boxed,
figuratively; yet the discipline has no more than a passing effect,
and next week the same thing happens again.
Not many months ago a very valuable snake was thus rescued literally
from the jaws of death. A South American rat snake (_Geoptyas
collaris_) began to eat a rabbit that was put in the cage for a python,
which also began to eat it. _Collaris_ would not let it go, and so the
python continued to advance upon it until he came to his comrade, and
proceeded with this prolonged repast. _Collaris_ is a rather large
snake of some eight or ten feet long. When nearly the whole of him had
vanished, the keeper—who, of course, had been occupied at each cage in
turn—fortunately discovered about a foot of tail fast disappearing in
the mouth of the python, the whole of _Collaris_, excepting this caudal
portion, having been swallowed. Just in time to rescue the victim,
the keeper, by his experienced manipulation, made the python open his
mouth, while the assistant helped to pull at _Collaris_. At last they
pulled back all the seven feet of snake, which sustained no further
injury than a slight scratch or two against the python’s teeth; but he
seemed none the worse, and was no sooner free than he seized a rat,
constricted and ate it with a celerity which seemed to say he would
make sure of a meal this time.
On the following Friday the very same thing was about to occur again.
_Collaris_ had begun to swallow the python’s rabbit, the latter having
prior hold; but the keeper was on the watch, and administered a little
practical reproof which made the rat snake loosen his hold. Matters
were further complicated on this occasion by the python throwing some
coils around his intended feast, so that to get a purchase and manage
these two constrictors was less easy than on the previous occasion,
though then the snake had been swallowed. In the same cage were also
two other pythons, quite strong enough to strangle a person had
they taken a fancy to hug him round the neck. Both were aroused and
displeased at the commotion, and ready to ‘fly’ at the men, who, on the
whole, had an exciting time with the four constrictors, all from eight
to twelve feet long.
Cannibalism is very common in snakes, particularly among the _Elapidæ_,
which have small and narrow heads, and can therefore more conveniently
swallow a fellow-creature than a bird or a quadruped. The keeper told
me that often a box arrives at the Gardens labelled ‘Ten cobras,’
or ‘twelve,’ as may be; when, on opening the box, the number falls
short; suggesting that cannibalism has diminished the company. It is
a curious fact, however, that snakes, as a rule, seize prey whose
bulk far exceeds their own, even when a more manageable kind could be
easily caught. It is as if they were aware of the accommodating nature
of their multifold ribs; as a snake longer than themselves must be
doubled up in their stomach, and those broader than themselves must,
one would imagine, be a most uncomfortable meal to dispose of. Yet this
is common. Mr. H. W. Bates found in a jarraraca an amphisbœna larger
than itself, and in another snake a lizard whose bulk exceeded its own.
My Brazilian correspondent, Dr. Arthur Stradling, wrote me of a similar
circumstance. He received a little _Elaps lemniscatus_ in Maceio, which
presented a singularly bloated appearance. It no doubt felt itself
in a condition not favourable to rapid escape; or captivity impaired
its digestion, for ‘the next morning it disgorged an amphisbœna or
small serpent (it was half digested) actually longer than itself, and
weighing half as much again.’
Prodigious meals engender drowsiness, and thus the Ophidia habitually
repose a long while after taking food.
This habit of gorging enormous prey being one of the most striking
of ophidian characteristics, it has been introduced thus early in my
work, as affording opportunity for a general glance at the anatomical
structure. In the next chapter we will enumerate a few other peculiar
features, ere proceeding to examine in detail some of the most
important organs.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
_SNAKES OF FICTION AND OF FACT._
IN a celebrated lecture on ‘Snakes,’ given by Mr. Ruskin at the London
Institution in March 1880, he introduced his subject with the three
considerations: ‘What has been thought about them?’ ‘What is truly
known about them?’—extremely little, as he suggested;—and, ‘What is
wisely asked about them, and what is desirable to know?’
The three questions exactly agree with the object of my work, this
chapter especially; and I will invite my readers to seek in their own
minds the answer to the first question, which will also furnish a
solution to the second, and, I trust, incite some interest in the third.
The learned lecturer carried us through the realms of fancy, to conjure
up all the grotesque creatures which, under the name of ‘serpents,’
have figured in heraldry and mythology. By these, and by the light
of the poets of old, and in later times through the naturalists of
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, we learn what a ‘serpent’
was to them, and what it included. In remote antiquity it was an
embodiment of the hideous and the terrible; and in spite of Aristotle
(a comparatively recent authority), dragons and such-like chimærical
creatures have pervaded the mind both of the erudite and the ignorant,
in association with serpents, till within three hundred years, and are
not even yet altogether discarded.
Nor am I inclined to believe that the terror-inspiring representations
of classic days are so unreal as might be supposed. Palæontology is
continually bringing to light new evidences of the presence of man
on the earth in ages far remote; and we do not know for certain what
strange forms of animal life were his contemporaries, or when the
faculty of speech was so far developed in him as to enable him to learn
about his predecessors, which were still more terrible. We do know that
fossils of mammoth creatures, passing strange, are coeval with fossil
human remains, and to those early types of humanity a knowledge of
still stranger creatures of reptilian forms may have been handed down
from mouth to mouth; for there is generally a germ of truth at the root
of a myth. Fossil remains tell us of the gigantic forms of ancient
reptiles, or compound reptile-fish or reptile-birds, and quadrupeds
which have gradually diminished in size or become altogether extinct as
our own period has been approached.
Said Professor Huxley, at the British Association in 1878, ‘Within the
last twenty years we have an astonishing accumulation of evidence of
the existence of man in ages antecedent to those of which we have any
historical record. Beyond all question, man, and what is more to the
purpose, intelligent man, existed at a time when the whole physical
conformation of the country was totally different from that which now
characterizes it.’
Did these intelligent beings know anything of the _Dinotherium_
(dreadful beast), or the _Dinornis_ (dreadful bird), or any other of
those fearful forms which have furnished historic ages with a dragon?
Coming down to our own era, and the time when travel and education
first induced the observation and study of animals with a view to learn
their habits, and to arrange them under some system of classification,
we begin to see the perplexities that presented themselves to
naturalists, especially with regard to egg-producing creatures. To
Topsell, a writer of the seventeenth century, every creeping or
crawling thing was ‘a Serpente,’ and many insects were included in his
category. To Lawson, on the contrary, every egg-producing creature, if
not a bird, was an ‘Insect.’ In his _History of Carolina_, 1709, he
describes, under ‘Insects of Carolina,’ all the snakes he saw, also
the alligators, lizards, etc., and thus continues: ‘The Reptiles or
smaller Insects are too numerous to relate here, the Country affording
innumerable quantities thereof; as the Flying Stags with Horns,
Beetles, Butterflies, Grasshoppers, Locusts, and several hundred of
uncouth Shapes.’ Having thus gone through the ‘Insects,’ except the
‘Eel-snake’ (which turns out to be a ‘Loach’ or _leech_), he gets
puzzled over a ‘Tortois, vulgarly called Turtle, which I have ranked
among the Insects, because they lay Eggs, and I did not know well
where to put them.’ And Lawson was not alone in not knowing ‘where to
put’ a countless number of other creatures that go to form the endless
links in the long chain of living organisms; even plants, which, to
use Darwin’s words, ‘with animals, though most remote in the scale of
nature, are bound together by a web of complex relations.’ You may
place the dove at one end of the chain and the crocodile at the other,
without one broken link. The earliest bird which palæontology has
revealed had teeth in its bill, claws on the end of its wings, and a
long tail with feathers growing out of it, like a pinnate leaf.
We see those strange forms reproduced in the gardens of the Crystal
Palace. Lizards with the head of a bird and other combinations, the
Pterosauria or winged-lizards, Ichthyosauria or fish-lizards, of which
some representative types still exist in the African _Lepidosiren_
and the Mexican _Axolotl_, which have puzzled modern physiologists as
much as the Carolina tortoise puzzled Lawson; for whether to call them
reptiles or fishes was long a disputed question. Dr. Carpenter, in his
_Zoology_, reckons fifty-eight of such links among reptiles; as, for
instance, the transition from turtles to crocodiles, from tortoises
to lizards, in which latter we find the legs growing shorter, till
they are gone altogether in the blindworms and amphisbænas. These
again branch off to the cecilias, and the cecilias to worms on one
side, and to frogs on the other, having the form of a snake, but the
skin of the batrachian. There are the Ophiosaurians, snake-lizards,
and Saurophidians, lizard-snakes; there are lizard-like frogs and
frog-like lizards; some of them beginning life with gills, and becoming
air-breathers afterwards, others of saurian aspect retaining their
gills through life; and from these, again, is the transition between
reptiles and fishes. There are diminutive snakes of worm-like aspect,
and gigantic worms which might be mistaken for snakes; and among modern
naturalists, that is to say within one hundred years, worms have been
classed with reptiles when none such enormous species as those lately
found in Africa were dreamed of.
There is in no branch of zoology so much confusion as in herpetology;
and if the reader will, with a sweep of the imagination, embrace the
innumerable forms that come under the class _Reptilia_, their various
coverings, and their close gradations, he will not wonder at this. Let
us glance at a few of the systems adopted by Linnæus and others of his
time, who, we must remember, had to combat not only inherited ideas
of ‘creeping things,’ but the difficulties presented by badly stuffed
or bottled specimens; the latter often having been so long in alcohol
that their colours had flown, or their covering changed in texture. The
Atlantic was not crossed in a week in those days; and three months,
instead of three weeks, barely sufficed to reach India, to say nothing
of inland journeys when you got there. If foreign specimens came home
after the manipulations of a taxidermist, he had done his very best to
render them as hideous as tradition painted them. Sometimes a wooden
head on a stuffed body; teeth that might furnish the jaws of the
largest felines, and a tongue to match; while with external cleansings,
scrapings, and polishings, it were hard to discover what manner of skin
had originally clothed the creature.
Carefully chosen was Aristotle’s name for reptiles, ‘the terrestrial,
oviparous, sanguineous animals;’ for those which we are considering,
breathe by lungs, and are therefore red-blooded. Cuvier divided the
egg-producing animals into oviparous quadrupeds (lizards, turtles,
crocodiles, and frogs); bipeds, the birds; insects and serpents.
Linnæus—who, by the way, preceded Cuvier—called all reptiles
‘amphibious animals,’ of which serpents were the second order, those
‘without limbs.’ He also divided them into orders, genera, and species;
but in the Ophidia was guided too much by the scales, which has caused
confusion ever since, as both poisonous and harmless snakes often
present similar characters in this respect.
[Illustration]
If the reader will turn to the illustration of scales (p. 193), he will
see an example of the large scutæ or ventral plates that are possessed
by the majority of the true Ophidia. The burrowing snakes, most of
them small and allied to lizards in their structure, are protected by
a cuirass of hard, close-set, polished scales, _alike all round_; or
else with a thick, smooth skin arranged in rings. Some very poisonous
serpents, notably the sea-snakes, have also the scales alike all round,
because they do not require the hold which those large ventral scales
afford to land serpents in progression; but it will at once be seen
that on so slight a resemblance it would be unsuitable to arrange such
widely-differing families in the same group. The majority of snakes
have the scales under the tail different from those under the body;
and a very large number, both of venomous and innocuous snakes, have
broad ventral scales, as far as the termination of the body, and then a
double row where the tail commences. The accompanying illustration is
sufficient to convey a general idea of the arrangement of the scales
before and after the anus.
Linnæus called all serpents with these two rows of sub-caudal scales,
_Colubers_, including under this name many both large and small,
land and water, poisonous and harmless snakes. In respect for the
great talent and vast work accomplished by this eminent naturalist,
as well as his then paramount and diffusive knowledge, his systems
prevailed for a very long while. Cuvier, after Linnæus, became also a
great authority for a time. He recognised distinctions in the fangs
of venomous snakes, and would reform some previous errors regarding
scales. ‘_Boa_ comprenaient autrefois tous les serpens venimeux ou
non, dont le dessous du corps et de la queue est garni de bandes d’une
seul pièce.’[5] It was equally unsuitable to mingle those with the
double rows, as it put a viper and a coluber together. Cuvier also
made closer distinctions between the lizard-like snakes and the true
Ophidia, ‘_serpens proprement dit_.’ The words _herpetology_ (from the
Greek), and _serpents_ (from the Latin _serpo_), formerly embraced a
much larger variety; the former may include _all_ reptiles, while the
more recently adopted one of _ophiology_ comprises snakes only. And the
history of the word tells of the history of the distinctions gradually
adopted as above described, as the true snakes or serpents, without
external limbs, were separated from the rest.
The various names for a snake—Anguis, Serpens, Coluber, etc.—having
been made generic distinctions by some of the older naturalists, cause
considerable puzzle to the student, who finds these words applied
alike to many varying species in as many books, because a writer has
often taken one author for his guide, instead of comparing a number.
Many modern writers on ophiology give us a list of synonymes, which
in time are found to unravel the above perplexities, but which are at
first more puzzling than not, because a single snake is presented to
you under so many different names. This will be apparent in the course
of this work, wherein much that is merely suggestive in the present
chapter will be treated more fully under various headings, without, I
trust, offering a too wearisome repetition. Indeed, the whole study of
the Ophidia presents so many exceptions that recapitulations may be
acceptable rather than otherwise. An interlacing of subjects has not
here been avoided so much as contrived, in the hope of presenting the
whole more clearly to the mind of the student.
Ruskin favoured his audience with printed lists of the ‘names of the
snake tribe in the great languages.’ And these I gladly reproduce for
the benefit of my readers.
‘NAMES OF THE SNAKE TRIBE IN THE GREAT LANGUAGES.’
1. Ophis (Greek), ‘the seeing’ (creature, understood). Meaning
especially one that sees all round it.
2. Dracon (Greek), Drachen (German), ‘the beholding.’ Meaning one that
looks well into a thing, or person.
3. Anguis (Latin), ‘the strangling.’
4. Serpens (Latin), ‘the winding.’
5. Coluber (Latin), Couleuvre (French), ‘the coiling.’
6. Adder (Saxon), ‘the grovelling.’
7. Snake (Saxon), Schlange (German), ‘the crawling’ (with sense of
dragging, and of smoothness).
The first, and _Ophidion_, a small serpent, _Ophiodes_, etc., have
given the name _Ophiology_ to the science; the second was also a
‘serpente’ in days of yore. The third, _Anguis_, is now applied to some
of the smooth, burrowing snakes; and the rest speak for themselves.
Before quite taking leave of obsolete teachings, a few lines from
two very distinguished authors of the seventeenth century must be
quoted, the influence of both having no doubt gone a great way towards
diffusing beliefs. Lord Bacon—in his book, _Of the Proficience and
Aduancement of Learning, Diuine and Humane_. To the King. 1605—writes,
‘It is not possible to join Serpentine Wisdom with the Columbine
Innocency, except men know exactly all the conditions of the Serpent;
his Baseness and going upon his Belly, his Volubility and Lubricity,
his Envy and Sting; for without this, Virtue lyeth unfenced.’
What quality is to be understood by ‘Volubility,’ the reader must
decide. Of the other five offences, all except that of crawling are
simply imaginary. By ‘Lubricity,’ a supposed sliminess may be intended,
or the old fable of ‘licking’ the prey; and the only reasonable
interpretation of the ‘Sting’ is that the old Saxon word _styng_ did
imply a wound punctured or pierced with any fine, sharp instrument; and
the venomous tooth is not so very unlike an insect’s sting after all.
The next is from _Pepys’ Diary_, vol. i. p. 322.—Feb. 4th,
1661:—‘Mr. Templer, an ingenious Man, discoursing of the Nature of
Serpents, told us that some in the waste Places of Lincolnshire do grow
to a Great Bigness, and do feed upon Larkes which they take thus:—They
observe when the Larke is soared to the Highest, and do crawl till they
come to be just underneath them, and there they place themselves with
their mouth uppermost; and there, as it is conceived, they do eject
Poyson upon the Bird; for the Bird do suddenly come down again in its
course of a Circle, and falls directly into the Mouth of the Snake.’
This story, founded on fact, is related by a beholder who, to use the
words of Dr. Andrew Wilson when discoursing on ‘Zoological Myths,’ made
‘an unscientific use of his imagination.’ Our largest English snake has
no poison to ‘eject, as it was conceived.’ Quite possible that it might
have looked up towards the singing lark, and with the swiftness of the
bird in its descent, glided towards the spot, ready to pounce upon it.
The absurdity of poison being ejected upwards through a needle-like
fang,—had the snake possessed such an instrument,—and to such a
height, is evident.
Having reduced a very large circle of anomalous reptiles, till the
Ophidia only are in possession of the enclosure, let me endeavour
to dispose of these according to the present accepted methods—not
of classification, or this volume would be mere lists of names. In
1858, when Dr. Günther arranged and classified the collection in
the British Museum, there were 3100 colubrine snakes (those with no
viperine features); and when you think of these three thousand odd
having, on an average, a dozen names each (the reason for which is
deferred till the later chapters), my readers will cheerfully dispense
with much in the way of classes and orders, especially as the present
methods are reckoned very defective, and there is a loud cry for a new
classification of the _Reptilia_. Already the reader can surmise some
of the difficulties, and they will be more evident as we proceed.
The whole order of Ophidia may be divided into the venomous and the
non-venomous, or into other two divisions, viz. those which approach
the Saurians, having scales alike all round, vestiges of shoulder bones
and hind limbs, and with ribs nearly encircling the body; and those
which have the broad ventral plates, no rudimentary limbs, and a tongue
far more extensible than the previous group.
It will not, I trust, be out of place to introduce a table as presented
to us at some of the ‘Davis Lectures’ at the London Zoological Gardens;
for I think I am safe in saying this arrangement is adopted by nearly
all our living authorities. To go back to the days of our childhood
and the game of ‘Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?’—the original three
kingdoms of Nature,—the first heads our table: ANIMAL KINGDOM. Next
comes the sub-kingdom, comprising five divisions, namely mammals,
birds, reptiles, frogs, and fishes, each of which is divided into
class, order, family, genus, species, with sometimes a sub-class or
a sub-order. Professor St. George Mivart divides the whole of the
reptiles into—(1) _Chelonia_, the tortoises; (2) _Ophidia_, the
snakes; (3) _Crocodilia_, or _Loricata_, the crocodiles; (4) _Sauria_,
the lizards. _Batrachia_, the frogs, he separates, because they begin
life as a fish. Originally there were nine orders of reptiles; then
for a long while we were taught that there were four,—Chelonians,
Ophidians, Saurians, and Batrachians. Every one of the above so merges
into the others that many herpetologists differ in drawing the lines
between them.
If we were asked to define our little friend, the ring snake, that ate
a frog while we were studying his anatomy, we would say that he belongs
to the—
1. ANIMAL KINGDOM.
2. SUB-KINGDOM, _Vertebrata_.
3. CLASS, _Reptilia_.
4. ORDER, _Ophidia_.
5. FAMILY, _Tropidonotus_.
6. GENUS, _Coluber_.
7. SPECIES, _Natrix_.
He is most frequently known as _Coluber natrix_, though as both words
mean simply a snake, the name is inadequate. In fact, our common
English snake has been rather neglected in the way of titles, the
only generic name which is at all descriptive being _Tropidonotus_,
so called from the keel which characterizes the scales. So he is
_Tropidonotus natrix_, and _Natrix tropidonotus_, and _Natrix torquata_
of the different authors, the last-named specific presumably given on
account of the collar which he wears, and which being often yellow,
has gained for him the name of ‘ring snake.’ _Coluber natrix_, having
so few synonymes, they are all given, in illustration of what has
been already said of the perplexity of names assigned by different
naturalists. And, by the way, this ‘ring’ or ‘collar’ is not an
invariable mark. Sometimes the yellow is wanting altogether, and only
a white collar is displayed. At the time of writing[6] there is one
of these snakes at the Zoological Gardens with not the least tint of
yellow on its neck; and I have before me in alcohol a very young and
beautiful little specimen in which the white collar is very bright
and large, and set off with deep black behind it, but there is not an
approach to yellow or to a ring, the throat being pure white. His Latin
specific is therefore more appropriate than his English one, the collar
being always there, but not always the ring.
Dr. Günther divides the whole of the Ophidia into five groups, and in
briefly describing these I shall hope to conduct my readers towards
a consideration of those remarkable features which will be discussed
under their various heads, and which will exhibit the class as unique
in their marvellous organization and physical powers.
The five groups are—
1. BURROWING SNAKES.
2. GROUND SNAKES.
3. TREE SNAKES.
4. FRESH-WATER SNAKES.
5. SEA SNAKES.
(1) The _Burrowing Snakes_ live chiefly underground, some of them
working their way down like the worms; and to fit them for this life
they are characterized by having short stiff bodies covered with hard,
firm, close scales, to form an armour. Most of them have short and
rather curious tails, as described in chap. xi.; but many that burrow
and hide in the ground live a good deal on the surface as well. Our
little native slow-worm (_Anguis fragilis_) is allied to these. Their
heads are small and narrow, their muzzle smooth and strong to help them
to work their way. Their jaws do not stretch apart, nor does their head
get out of shape in eating, the bones being all more consolidated;
and their food being chiefly insects, slugs, worms, etc., they seize
upon these, and hold them, and then with quick snaps get them down
their throats. Many of them have rudiments of a sternum, and pelvic
bones—_vestiges_, perhaps, is a more correct term, as we shall find
by and by, for their saurian ancestors had perfect limbs. The group is
large, perfectly harmless, and has representatives in most countries
where a snake or a lizard is to be found. None are of great size.
(2) The _Ground Snakes_ include by far the greatest number and
diversity, and though passing their time chiefly on the surface like
our ‘ring-snake,’ can both climb trees and enjoy the water. Some of the
most venomous as well as the harmless and gentle kinds, and some of the
largest as well as the smallest, live habitually on the ground. To fit
them for progression, they have the broad ventral scales described on
p. 46, wide dilatable jaws like _Coluber natrix_, and scales of various
patterns and colourings. Vipers, the cobras, the coronellas, the boas,
moccasins, ‘carpet snakes,’ and other familiar names belong to this
large group.
(3) _Tree Snakes_ include both venomous and innocent genera. They are
none of them large, many of them of a brilliant green, and some of them
exquisitely beautiful. Slender and active, the harmless kinds skim
among the branches, which scarcely bend beneath their weight. Many of
them have small and peculiarly arranged ventral shields, not requiring
to hold on in progression; many also have long prehensile tails, which
wind and cling while the little acrobats swing to and fro, or hang down
to take a young bird or an egg out of the nest. The poisonous kinds
of tree snakes abound in India, have a thick body, broad head, and a
dull, sluggish habit, but still are handsome as to colour, and mostly
green. They hide in the trunks of trees, or in the hollow forks of the
branches, and rarely venture upon the ground. Some, however, live only
in bushy foliage lower down, while other arboreal species frequent the
highest branches, where, moving with amazing celerity, they are as much
at home as the feathered inhabitants.
(4) _Fresh-Water Snakes_ are especially adapted for an aquatic
existence, and have their nostrils on the top of the snout, to enable
them to breathe easily when in the water. Some of them can hold on
to weeds or other things by their tails. They swim and dive, and are
as active as eels. None are very large, and all are harmless. But a
good many of the second group that are poisonous, spend so much of
their time in the water that they are known as ‘water vipers,’ ‘water
moccasins,’ etc., though not truly water snakes.
(5) _Sea Snakes._—All highly venomous. These, as also the fresh-water
snakes, are treated fully in chapters xiii. and xiv. The five divisions
assist the student towards grasping an idea of the principal groups,
but the whole five pass into each other by intermediate forms and
imperceptible degrees.
Some other general characteristics of the Ophidia are that all
are carnivorous, catching their prey alive; all are oviparous;
and in organization and intelligence they rank between birds and
fishes,—higher than fishes in having lungs, and lower than birds,
which are warm-blooded animals. Their heart is so formed as to send
only a portion of blood to the lungs on each contraction of it;
their temperature, therefore, is that of the surrounding atmosphere
(see p. 142). Their normal condition, particularly that of the
venomous species, is one of lethargic repose and indolence, with a
disposition to retreat and hide, rather than to obtrude themselves.
On this account, and also because so many of them are nocturnal in
their habits, less has been truly known of serpents than of most
other creatures, prejudice having added to a prevailing indifference
regarding them. The duration of their lives is uncertain, or whether
they have a stated period of growth. Some naturalists think they grow
all their lives; but this must not be taken literally, or that if a
small snake happened to escape dangers, and live a very long while, it
would acquire the dimensions of a python. Some think that formerly the
constrictors did attain more formidable proportions than those of the
present day.
Snakes have small brains, slight intelligence, and slow sensations,
amounting almost to insensibility to pain. They can live a long while
without their brains and without their heart; while the latter, if
taken from the body, will continue its pulsations for a considerable
time. Also if the head be severed, the body will for a certain time
continue to move, coil, and even spring, and the head will try to bite,
and the tongue dart out as in life.
Persons who dislike snakes continually ask, ‘What is the use of them?’
That they are not without a use will, I hope, appear in the course of
this work, were it necessary to preach that _all_ things have their
use. But in one habit that offended Lord Bacon, viz. of ‘going on
their belly,’ lies one of their greatest uses, because that, together
with their internal conformation and external covering, enables them
to penetrate where no larger carnivorous animal could venture, into
dense and noisome morasses, bogs, jungles, swamps, amid the tangled
vegetation of the tropics, where swarms of the lesser reptiles, on
which so many of them feed, would otherwise outbalance the harmony
of nature, die, and produce pestilences. Wondrously and exquisitely
constructed for their habitat, they are able to exist where the higher
animals could not; and while they help to clear those inaccessible
places of the lesser vermin, they themselves supply food for a number
of the smaller mammalia, which, with many carnivorous birds, devour
vast numbers of young snakes. The hedgehog, weasel, ichneumon, rat,
peccary, badger, hog, goat, and an immense number of birds keep snakes
within due limits, while the latter perform their part among the
grain-devouring and herbivorous lesser creatures. Thus beautifully is
the balance of nature maintained.
Dr. Kirtland, an eminent naturalist of Ohio, who lived at a time when
that State was being very rapidly settled, namely, during the early
and middle part of the present century, observed a great increase of
certain snakes as game birds which fed on them decreased. The latter
were, of course, in request for the market, and the snakes, the ‘black
snake’ particularly, having fewer enemies to consume him, flourished
accordingly. It would be worth while to ascertain whether the farmer
in Ohio had reason to rejoice over this redundancy of rat and vermin
consumers. At the present time, when so much of the land is under
cultivation, snakes have decreased again through human agency.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
_OPHIDIAN TASTE FOR BIRDS’ EGGS._
CAN we correctly say that snakes have a ‘taste’ for eggs? What flavour
can there be in an egg-shell, and what pleasure or gratification can
a snake derive from swallowing a hard, round, tasteless, apparently
odourless, and inconvenient mass like a large egg?
That snakes do devour eggs and swallow them whole, though the
fact is often questioned in zoological journals, is well known in
countries where snakes abound. Therefore, we are led to consider by
what extraordinary insight or perception a snake discovers that this
uncompromising solid contains suitable food? Avoiding, as snakes do as
a rule, all dead or even motionless food, it is the more surprising
that eggs should prove an exception. And not merely the small and
soft-shelled eggs of little birds, that can be got easily into the
mouth and swallowed, but the eggs of poultry and the larger birds,
which must in the first place be difficult to grasp, and in the second
place to which the jaws so wonderfully adjust themselves that the egg
passes down entire into the stomach.
Many snakes which do not habitually live in trees, will climb them
in search of birds’ eggs; and many others, not so agile in climbing,
consume vast numbers of eggs from the nests of birds which build upon
the ground. In countries where snakes are numerous and population
sparse, their depredations in the poultry-yards of secluded residences
are of common occurrence. And it is a noteworthy fact that the crawling
culprits possess an excellent memory for the localities of hens’ nests,
so that when once the eggs have been missing, and the snake’s tracks
discovered, the farm-hands well know that the offence will be repeated,
and watch for the thief, to whom no mercy is shown. But between their
virtues as mousers and their vices as egg-thieves, an American farmer
does sometimes hesitate in destroying certain non-venomous snakes, and
may occasionally feel disposed to save his crops, to the sacrifice of
his wife’s poultry-yard.
A gentleman, long a resident in India, informed me that a cobra once
got through a chink into his hen-house, and ate so many eggs from under
a sitting hen, that it could not effect its exit through the same
chink, and so remained half in and half out, where the next morning it
was discovered in a very surfeited condition. It was immediately killed
and cut open, when, as the eggs were found to be unbroken and still
warm, the experiment was tried of replacing them under the mother,
who in due time hatched the brood none the worse for this singular
‘departure’ in their process of incubation.
In another poultry-yard a cobra was found coiled in a hen’s nest, from
which all the eggs were gone but two. In this case, also, the snake
had swallowed more than it could conveniently manage, but either alarm,
capture, or greediness so impaired its digestion that all the eggs were
ejected entire!
A similar incident was recorded in the _Field_ newspaper, in May 1867,
the editor introducing the narrator as one of undoubted intelligence
and veracity.
His gardener informed him that a cobra had attacked a guinea-fowl’s
nest in the compound. He took his gun and repaired immediately to
the spot, where he saw the cobra making off, followed by a host of
screaming fowls. The gentleman shot the culprit through the head, and
then observed a tumour-like swelling, as of an egg recently swallowed.
The gardener cut the reptile open, and took out the egg safe and sound.
The gentleman marked the egg, and set it with fourteen others under a
guinea-fowl. In due time the young chick was hatched; and this he also
marked, in order to observe whether it would grow up a healthy bird,
which it did.
Several other well-authenticated instances of this nature might be
related; but those who have friends or relatives in India are no doubt
sufficiently familiar with such stories to dispense with them here.
Aware of a cobra’s penchant for eggs, the snake-catchers, or those who
pack them for transportation to Europe, sometimes place a supply in the
cages, as convenient food for the snakes during the voyage. The keeper
of the Ophidarium[7] at the London Zoological Gardens frequently finds
hens’ eggs unbroken on opening a case containing the newly-arrived
cobras. How many eggs were originally in the box, and how many had
been eaten and digested, or reproduced during the voyage, it would be
interesting to ascertain if possible.
Snakes are fastidious feeders and long fasters during confinement.
Those cobras may have fasted during the whole journey, or they may have
swallowed and disgorged the eggs through terror, like their friends
at home. Two things are clear, viz. that the eggs were deposited in
the cage as a favourite delicacy, and that a hen’s egg is not a too
cumbrous morsel for even the small-headed cobra to manage.
A gentleman, accustomed to snakes, on hearing of this, regarded the
eggs found intact in the box as a proof against their egg-eating
propensities, and pointed to the Ophiophagus which, for lack of his
ordinary food one winter, had in vain been tempted with both pigeons’
and hens’ eggs. ‘He won’t eat them, he won’t notice them,’ was the
keeper’s testimony; but, then, other snakes often decline food, even
their habitual and favourite food, when in confinement; and so far as
the Indian snakes are concerned, their egg-eating habits are confirmed
by many writers, including Sir Joseph Fayrer, who affirms that ‘they
will eat and swallow the eggs whole.’ ‘Snakes are all carnivorous,
existing on animals and birds’ eggs,’ he again remarks.[8] ‘Cobras rob
hen-roosts, and swallow the eggs whole.’[9]
And does not the very fact of the eggs being placed in the cages by the
natives for their food during a journey, show that these latter knew
what would be most likely to tempt them?
The Indian vernacular of the Ophiophagus is _Sunkerchor_, which means,
as Fayrer tells us, ‘a breaker of shells.’ I have taken some pains to
ascertain a more definite reason for this name being assigned to the
Ophiophagus, or snake-eater, but without success. Is it because he is
an _exception_ to the rule of eggs being swallowed _whole_, he having
for his size a particularly small mouth and swallow; and that he, like
his relatives the cobras, being unwilling to relinquish the dainty,
manages them clumsily, and breaks the shells? There must be some reason
for his being known as the ‘shell-breaker.’
Being a tree snake, it may be that ‘Sunkerchor,’ the shell-breaker,
attempts the smaller birds’ eggs, which are too tender to be swallowed
without fracture.
The cobra-worshipping Hindûs on their festivals place eggs for their
gods, that they also may partake of the feast.
But examples of egg-eating snakes are not confined to India. America,
the Cape colonies, and all snake countries are prolific of them.
Mr. P. H. Gosse in Jamaica killed a yellow boa (_Chilobothrus
inornatus_), inside of which he found seven unbroken hen’s eggs. It had
been caught in a rat trap.
Catesby, the early American naturalist, in describing the corn-coloured
snake, says ‘it is harmless except as a robber of hens’ roosts.’
Lawson, the still earlier traveller, in his quaint description of the
‘Racer,’ or ‘black snake’ (_Coluber constrictor_), says:—‘He is an
excellent Egg Merchant, for he does not suck the Eggs, but swallows
them whole. He will often swallow all the Eggs from under a Hen that
sits, and coil himself under the Hen in the nest, where sometimes the
Housewife finds him.’ Lawson, also, describes the ‘Egg and Chicken
Snake’ (a doubtful vernacular), ‘so called because it is frequent about
the Hen-Yard, and eats Eggs and Chickens.’ The early American settlers
guarded their poultry-yards against snakes as vigilantly as against
rats, foxes, and other such predators. As for the ‘black snake,’ though
non-venomous, all rearers of poultry visit him with vengeance.
Often in our rambles through the woods in Virginia we saw these snakes,
and the swiftness with which they would vanish through the grass like
a flash of steel, proved how well they merited their name of ‘Racer.’
These are the ‘black snakes’ _par excellence_, in distinction to the
black water-viper and several other kinds which have more or less black
about them. Sometimes they lay basking in our path, probably after a
meal, when they become sleepy and inactive. On one such occasion I had
an excellent opportunity of examining one of them, and of measuring
it. It was exactly six feet long, and in the largest part as thick as
a man’s arm. Its scales were beautifully bright, like an armour of
steel, the white throat and pale under tints completing the resemblance
of polished metal. It was sleeping on a soft carpet of moss and grass
which bordered our sandy path, and which showed the Racer to great
advantage. My young companion, a Virginian boy to whom no sport came
amiss, espied it with delight, and ran to pick up a stout stick.
Knowing that it was harmless, and so excellent a mouser, I pleaded for
its life; for in truth the nocturnal visitors in the shape of rats
at our country dwelling were so noisy and numerous, that I regarded
the Racer as a friend rather to be encouraged and domesticated than
ruthlessly slain. Its couch now, in its spring green and freshness,
was enamelled with the star-like partridge-berry (_Mitchella repens_),
dotted here and there with twin coral berries that had lingered through
the winter; the bright-leaved, white-flowered winter green (_Chimaphila
maculata_); the Bluets (_Oldenlandia purpurea_), and other exquisite
little flowers too lovely to be crushed and tainted; while a sunbeam
glancing through the trees, and showing up the polished scales of the
unconscious Racer, all seemed eloquent with mercy.
It was the first time I had been close enough to touch so large a
snake; and the whole scene is vividly before me now. Culprit though it
might be, it was splendid and beautiful; and I entreated Johnny to wait
and wake it up, so that we might watch its actions.
‘All very fine!’ cried the boy, not yet in his teens, ‘and fourteen
more eggs gone from the hen-house last night!’
So he pounced upon a fallen bough, which he rapidly trimmed to suit
his purpose, then with one sharp blow across the poor thing’s back,
disabled it. I think the snake was quite killed by the blows the boy
subsequently dealt, for I do not remember that it moved at all.
‘_Now_ you can look at it as much as you please,’ said the juvenile
sportsman as he straightened the reptile out to its full length. Then I
examined and measured it, and found it was more than two lengths of my
long-handled parasol. Black creatures with two hands and two legs were
far more likely to be the egg-stealers than that poor Racer far off in
the woods.
This ‘black snake’ climbs trees with ease, and hangs from a branch to
reach a nest below him. ‘He is the nimblest creature living,’ says an
old writer on Virginia, for he not only has the credit of stealing
hens’ eggs, but he ‘even swallows the eggs of small birds, without
breaking them,’ which again is a proof of the remarkable control these
creatures possess of regulating the pressure of their powerful jaws.
Many of the African snakes climb trees, and also suspend themselves
from a branch while reaching into a bird’s nest lower down for the
eggs it may contain. Both Livingstone and Dr. Andrew Smith[10] make
particular mention of some of the egg-eating snakes of South Africa,
the latter in his general description of ophidians stating that ‘many,
perhaps all snakes, devour eggs when they have an opportunity. A few
feed entirely on eggs,’ notably some of the small tree snakes, to which
the name _Oligodon_ (few teeth) has been given, this family having no
teeth on the palate, like all other snakes. Their food, therefore,
cannot be of a nature to require a very strong grasp, though we have no
authority for stating that the _Oligodons_ feed exclusively on eggs.
There is, however, one of the family with a dentition so remarkable
that it has been considered a distinct type, and Dr. Andrew Smith,
who was the first to observe its habits, gave it the generic name
of _Anodon_ (toothless), the jaws being merely roughened with the
rudiments of teeth. This little snake, of about two feet in length, is
exclusively an egg-feeder. ‘Its business,’ says Professor Owen in his
_Odontography_, ‘is to restrain the undue increase of small birds by
devouring their eggs.’ Its remarkable organization is favourable for
the passage of these thin-shelled eggs unbroken until far back in the
throat or gullet, when the egg comes in contact with certain ‘gular
teeth,’ which then break the shell without any loss of the contents to
the feeder. These gular teeth are a curious modification of some of
the spinal processes, presenting a singular anomaly in the presence of
points of enamel on the extremity of some of them.
Professor Owen has very fully described this remarkable
development,[11] and as his works have been the text-books of many
later physiologists, his words may here be quoted, even at the risk of
repetition.
‘In the rough tree snake, _Deirodon scaber_, with 256 vertebræ,
a hypapophysis—from ὑπὸ (Latin, _sub_), an offshoot from
beneath—projects from the 32 anterior ones, which are directed
backwards in the first ten, and incline forwards in the last ten,
where they are unusually long, and tipped with a layer of hard cement
(dentine). These perforate the dorsal parietes of the œsophagus, and
serve as teeth.
‘Those who are acquainted with the habits and food of this species
have shown how admirably this apparent defect—viz. the lack of
teeth—is adapted to its well-being. Now, if the teeth had existed
of the ordinary form and proportions in the maxillary and palatal
regions, the egg must have been broken as soon as it was seized, and
much of the nutritious contents would have escaped from the lipless
mouth; but owing to the almost edentulous state of the jaws, the
egg glides along the expanded mouth unbroken, and not until it has
reached the gullet, and the closed mouth prevents the escape of any
of the nutritious matter, is it exposed to the instruments adapted to
its perforation. These instruments consist of the inferior spinous
processes,’ etc., already described. ‘They may be readily seen even in
very small subjects, in the interior of that tube in which their points
are directed backwards. The shell being sawed open longitudinally by
these vertebral teeth, the egg is crushed by the contractions of the
gullet, and is carried to the stomach, where the shell is no doubt soon
dissolved by the acid gastric juice.’
[Illustration:
Portion of spine of the Deirodon, from Andrew Smith’s
_Zoology of South Africa_.
Gular teeth penetrating into the gullet, _ib._
Portion of spine from a skeleton at the museum of the R.
C. S., natural size.]
The two from Smith’s _Zoology_ must be much magnified; the third, from
the skeleton, being the true size, excepting that the ribs are broken
short off, some entirely so. The minute processes extend two or more
inches.
As the learned professor has described the _Deirodon_ (neck-toothed)
both under the head of teeth, and also of vertebrated animals, the two
accounts are blended, but given _verbatim_ as far as possible.
The colour of the _Deirodon_ is of a brightish or yellowish brown, very
minutely spotted with white. Such few true teeth as some individuals
may possess are extremely small and conical, discovered only towards
the angle of the mouth.
Dr. Andrew Smith first examined a specimen in 1829, when he found that
the gular teeth commence exactly 2-1/4 inches behind the apex of the
lower jaw, and penetrate the œsophagal canal through small holes in its
tunics, and that each point is armed with enamel. He had observed that
the living specimens which he had in captivity always, when feeding,
retained the egg stationary about two inches from their head, and while
there, used great efforts to crush it. Dissecting a specimen in order
to investigate this strange action, he discovered the gular teeth just
where the egg had stopped, and which, he felt satisfied, had assisted
in fixing it there, and also in breaking the shell when subjected to
the muscular action of the surrounding parts. The gular teeth are
developed in very young _Deirodons_.
Dr. Smith saw that the broken shell was ejected, while the fluid
contents were conveyed onwards; but this may have been an exceptional
case, because by a snake in health egg-shells are easily digested.
Probably those snakes watched by Dr. A. Smith being captives, and
presumably not altogether as happy and healthy as in their sylvan
homes, found the shells too much for them, and so ejected them; as
the cobras above described disgorged the stolen eggs. This habit of
disgorging food appears to be sometimes voluntary.
Snakes have been known to pass the egg through their body entire, but
this also must be owing to an abnormal state of health or of habit, as
the strong juices of the stomach, which can convert even bones and horn
to nutriment, ordinarily dissolve an egg-shell.
Throughout nature we find that, whatever the habits of the creature may
be, its structure and capacities are adapted to it. Every need is, as
it were, anticipated in the process of development; and wherever, as
in this harmless little tree snake, we find a departure from general
rules, it is because some especial requirements are met, and in order
that the creature may be the better prepared for the struggle for
existence. In the present example we find a marvellous adaptation of
spine bones to dental purposes; how many ages it has taken to develop
them we cannot conjecture. All we know is that these spinal projections
are just the sort of teeth that the egg-swallower requires, and that
its natural teeth are gradually becoming obsolete from disuse.
A writer who was quoted at some length in the _Zoologist_ for 1875, and
in several other contemporary journals, stated that some snakes ‘suck
out the contents of hen’s eggs by making a hole at the end.’[12]
We are not told with what instrument these evidently scientific
serpents punctured the shell. Some skill is required, as schoolboys
give us to understand, to prick an egg-shell without breaking it; and
even when the hole _is_ bored, additional care is required to suck out
the contents. How a snake could first grasp firmly, and then puncture a
fowl’s egg, is incomprehensible; how the sucking process is achieved
is still more so. We can understand that a snake which discovered a
broken egg might seem to lap some of the contents, because, as we shall
by and by show, the tongue habitually investigates, and is immediately
in requisition under all circumstances. But to lap up an egg would be a
very slow process for so slender an instrument. One is reminded of the
dinner which Sir Reynard invited his friend the Stork to partake with
him.
While still marvelling over these South African egg-suckers, I
watched some lizards with a broken egg in their cage. Their tongues
were long, thin, blade-like, and bifid, much better adapted for
the purpose of lapping than that of a snake, yet stupidly slow and
inefficient was this ribbon-like tongue. The lizards threw it out,
spatula-fashion, into the midst of the pool of egg which was spreading
itself over the floor, and caught whatever of the fluid adhered to it.
Had the lizards possessed lips adapted for such a purpose, and, in
addition, intelligence enough to ‘suck,’ they might have drawn some
of the cohesive mass into their throats, but they only obeyed their
instinctive habit of lapping. Snakes would do the same. Their habit
is to moisten the tongue in lapping; and I fear we must not place too
much credence in the exceptional intelligence of that South African
egg-sucker, but rather regret the loose account which conveys so
erroneous an impression. I watched those lizards for many minutes, and
decided that the egg would be dried up long before it could be consumed
by lizard-lapping.
The tongue of a snake is undoubtedly an important and highly-developed
organ. That its sensitiveness assists the smell, we have reason to
believe, and possibly it possesses other faculties of which we are at
present ignorant. In the case of an unbroken egg, for instance, the
tongue has told the snake that there is something good inside it; and
instinct immediately leads the reptile to get the awkward mouthful
between its jaws, which expand just so far as to retain it safely,
yet just so lightly that not one of those rows of long, sharp teeth
shall penetrate the shell or fracture it in the slightest degree. How
delicate must be the adjustment whereby those six jaws, all bristling
with fine, needle-like teeth, grasp and yet not break the delicate
shell! for, after all, an egg _is_ a fragile substance in proportion to
the size of the feeder and its muscular power.
Snakes have been known to get choked in attempting to swallow an egg,
as they have also come to grief with other impediments, such as horns
of cattle; but this we must attribute to their not being able to
estimate their own swallowing capacities, or to some other untoward
event.
The Messrs. Woodward’s scientific snake would not have crept into
these pages had it not previously figured in the _Zoologist_, and
thence copied in other prints, thereby misleading many readers. It
also proved a subject worth discussing by thinking persons, and was
alluded to very particularly by an ophiological friend and publisher
in a letter to myself, which may be here usefully quoted. My friend,
who has long stimulated me by his kind encouragement of my work, and by
the assistance of his experience and judgment, was pleased to express
much interest in a little paper on the _Deirodon_[13], which I had
written for _Aunt Judy’s Magazine_, he having read it shortly before
the appearance of the Messrs. Woodward’s statement in the _Zoologist_,
April 1875:—
‘In this month’s _Zoologist_,’ wrote my friend, ‘a writer says that a
certain snake makes havoc of the hen-house, by boring a hole in the
egg and sucking its contents! Can this be true? To a letter of mine to
Mr. Newman (the then editor of the _Zoologist_), on the subject, he
replies, “With regard to snakes eating eggs, it has been repeated so
often that I cannot help fearing Mr. Woodward may have _imbibed the
notion from American sources_. It is so common in the United States to
find snakes in holes in the bottoms of trees made by woodpeckers, that
it seems almost impossible to resist the conviction that they enter
these holes to get the birds themselves, or their young, or their eggs.
It must be regretted that those witnesses who come into court with
such evidence are not, generally speaking, the kind of close observers
in whose dicta we can place implicit reliance.” This,’ continues my
correspondent, ‘Mr. Newman writes after I had suggested that some
families of snakes have triturating powers (learned from _Aunt Judy_)
in the throat, independent altogether of palatal teeth. The subject
seems to be as much steeped in the unknown, as are the ways of the
beautiful creatures themselves.’
This from a well-known and highly-popular publisher, a man of
education, culture, and scientific attainments, though snakes hitherto
had not been his specialty, any more than that of the late editor of
the _Zoologist_. The latter, however, admitting his doubts on the
subject of ophidian egg-feeders, would have done well to have added
a note to that effect to the account given by Mr. Woodward, which,
simply from its appearance in a scientific journal, might be received
as authority.
A few more well-known proofs of ophidian taste for eggs may conclude
this chapter. Of our own green or ring snake (_Coluber natrix_), Mr.
Bell says, ‘It feeds upon young birds, _eggs_, and mice, but prefers
frogs.’ In Balfour’s _India_, on the subject of cobra-worship, mention
is made of the snakes getting into larders for _eggs_ and milk, and
being protected as the good genius of the house on such occasions.
But the Hindû custom of placing eggs for snakes at their serpent
festivals must be too familiar to most of my readers to need further
comment.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
_DO SNAKES DRINK?_
PERHAPS in no other branch of natural history has such a degree of
interest been awakened during the last decade, and such an advance made
as in ophiology. The result of a spirit of inquiry thus set afloat is
that information is being continually elicited from travellers and
observers. Those who now entertain predilections for this branch of
science, will many of them admit that whatever interest they feel in
the subject has been of a comparatively recent date; that since they
have at all studied snake nature, they have repeatedly had to combat
with preconceived notions. Again and again they have been ‘surprised to
learn that so-and-so’—some now established fact, perhaps—is the case,
when they had ‘_always_ thought’—probably something quite the contrary.
This has been frequently verified in my own experience in my
correspondence with really scholarly men, who have generously admitted
as much. Not a few, during my ten years’ study of the Ophidia, have
traced their interest in snakes to my own enthusiasm. Preconceived
errors are not to be wondered at when we consider that, apart from
scientific works, so much that has been related of serpents has
been mingled with prejudice, fable, and tradition, clouding our
intelligence at the very outset. Nor need we hesitate in admitting our
misconceptions, when we find scientific men themselves devoting page
after page to a mooted question, and after all, sometimes venturing to
sum up a given subject with a modest doubt only. (Would that the less
scientific writers were equally cautious in their statements!) Whether
snakes drink, and _what_ they drink, have been among these debated
questions.
Those who possess a love for natural history are, of course, acquainted
with the works of the eminent naturalist, Dr. Thomas Bell, on our
native fauna; and those who admit their interest in the much-maligned
snakes have included in their studies his _British Reptiles_.[14] In
one portion of that work, where science is so charmingly blended with
personal observations, we are carried on to the heaths and commons to
watch our pretty little agile lizards skim across the grass, and flit
away with legs too fleet for us to follow them.
We linger on the banks of a stream where a ring snake lies in wait for
a frog; and then we are conducted into Mr. Bell’s study, where the same
harmless creature, now tamed, is nestling in his sleeve, or lapping
milk from his hand.
Most of my readers also, whether naturalists or not, are familiar
with some of the numerous works on India, its creeds, customs, and
superstitions, where mention is so frequently made of cobra-worship,
and of the natives setting saucers of milk near its hole to conciliate
and propitiate the serpent. Familiar to us all, too, is the picture of
a little child with a bowl of milk on its lap, and a snake receiving
a tap with the spoon to check the too greedy intrusion of its head
into the bowl, but into which, according to the story, it had been
accustomed and permitted to dip its tongue. Some persons place that
story in Wales; others, and with better reason, trace it to New
England. The child and its surroundings, the size of the snake, all
justify this latter belief, and that the intruder is the notorious
milk-stealer so common in the United States, the ‘black snake,’ or
Racer (introduced p. 64).
In the face of these well-known facts, it may seem strange to propose
the question, ‘Do snakes ever drink?’ and still stranger to affirm that
this was lately a disputed point among some of our scientific writers.
‘On s’ignore,’ says Schlegel, ‘si les serpents boivent, et s’il est
juste d’opiner pour la negative; toutefois on n’a jamais aperçu des
fluides dans ceux dont on a examiné l’estomac.’[15]
Schlegel, when he wrote, had not the benefit of Mr. Bell’s experience,
and as a foreigner, probably he had not read Jesse’s _Gleanings_ nor
White’s _Selborne_; nor, as a scientific student, had he time to bestow
on promiscuous works on India, which, by the way, were not so numerous
then as now. But there are several well-known milk-drinking snakes
in America which had been described by writers prior to Schlegel.
This learned author, however, puts down the milk-loving snakes among
the ‘fables’ and ‘prejudices;’ and, as we have seen, dismissed the
water-drinkers with a doubt.
Mr. Bell’s work has enjoyed upwards of thirty years’ popularity, and
his milk-drinking pet has been quoted by scores of writers of both
adult and juvenile books. Thomas Bell, F.L.S., F.G.S., was secretary
to the Royal Society; Professor of Zoology of King’s College, London;
and one of the Council of the Zoological Society of London. He was
also a ‘corresponding member’ of the learned societies of Paris and
Philadelphia, and of the Boston Society of Natural History.
As a gentleman of widely recognised learning and veracity, therefore,
it may be considered that Mr. Bell, and with good reason, entertained
no doubt whatever as to snakes drinking, and also drinking milk. Mr.
Bell, moreover, had known of the celebrated python at Paris (see chap.
xxiv.), which in 1841 evinced a thirstiness that has become historical
in all zoological annals. The circumstance was fully recorded by M.
Valenciennes at the time; when a no less distinguished ophiologist
than M. Dumeril,[16] _Professeur d’Erpétologie au Musée à Paris_,
was especially appointed to the management of the reptile department
there. That very distinguished ophidian lady, the python, need be
referred to here only as regards the drinking question, the rest of her
history coming in its place in this book. It will be remembered that
she laid eggs, and to the surprise of all, coiled herself upon them
to hatch them. ‘Pendant tout le temps d’incubation la femelle n’a pas
voulu manger’ (she began to incubate on the 6th May); ‘mais le 25^e de
mai, après vingt jours de couvaison, son gardien, Vallée, homme très
soigneux et très intelligent, la voyant plus inquiète que de coutume,
remeuée la tête, et lui présenta de l’eau dans un petit basin; elle
y plongea le bout de son museau, et l’animal en _but_ avec avidité
environs de deux verres. Elle a ensuite bu quatre fois pendant le reste
du temps de sa couvaison: le 4 juin, 13, 19, 26.’ (Her eggs began to
hatch early in July.)
The interesting invalid, ordinarily tame and gentle, had latterly
displayed anger and irritability on being disturbed, pushing away
the hand if touched; but in her present state the want of water was
so great that she evinced uneasiness to her guardian, and permitted
him to move and turn her head, so that she could dip the end of her
muzzle into the basin. The narrator argued, from this remarkable
demonstration, that the incubation (in which a rise of temperature was
observable) produced a sort of feverishness which caused her to decline
solid food, though her thirst was so great that she almost asked for
drink.
When eight of the fifteen eggs were hatched, the little pythons ate
nothing until after their first moult (which happened to them all
within a fortnight), but during those early days of their existence
they ‘_drank several times_, and also bathed themselves.’
This event perhaps established the fact beyond any doubt that snakes
do drink, so far as modern and scientific ophiologists had ventured to
decide; and M. Dumeril, from long observation, is able to tell us how.
Speaking of the tongue of a snake, this experienced naturalist informs
us that ‘cette langue fort longue sert-elle comme on l’a observée
quelquefois à faire pénétrer un peu de liquide dans la bouche, car nous
avons vu nous-même des couleuvres laper ainsi l’eau, que nous avions
placée auprès d’elles dans la cage, où nous les tenions renfermées
pour les observer à loisir.’[17]
But, as he goes on to describe, ‘quelques serpents avalent de l’eau
sans se servir de la langue pour laper. Alors ils tiennent la tête
enfoncée sous l’eau au-dessous du niveau, ils écartent un peu les
mâchoires, et font baisser le fond de la gorge, dans laquelle l’eau
descend par son propres poids.’ You can then perceive the slight
movements of swallowing, like a thirsty man gulping down a beverage (_à
la régalade_).
What follows affords an explanation of M. Schlegel’s statement that
he had never discovered water in a snake which he had dissected, this
learned author not having gone so thoroughly into the matter. ‘Cette
eau,’ says M. Dumeril, ‘sert à laver les intestines; car elle est
rendue liquide avec les fèces, elle ne parait pas expulsée par les
voies urinaires.’
M. Dumeril speaks very clearly on this point both in his introductory
preface, and again in vol. vi., under the more detailed descriptions of
each especial sense and organ.
Snakes rarely drink (that is, not every day, as most animals do),
most of them living in dry regions or forests, where for long periods
they are deprived of water. The live prey upon which they subsist
supplies them with sufficient liquid. This may be known by the natural
discharges, which are usually of a liquid nature. Nevertheless, a large
number of serpents live close to water, and love to plunge and to swim.
These truly drink,—lapping with the tongue, as above described; at
other times with the head under water, and the neck still lower, so
that the water _falls into the mouth by its own weight_, and is then
swallowed. But this, he repeats, does not go into the blood, or _very
little_ of it, _car ils rendent en grand partie_, etc., as above, its
function being principally to moisten the intestines.
Lenz, a German ophiologist of still earlier date than Schlegel,
went very conscientiously into the subject of whether snakes drink
or not,[18] having adopted various means in order to test them. His
personal experience was, however, of a more limited range.
It is worth while to bear in mind the dates of some of these writings,
both that we may watch the gradual advance of ophidian knowledge, and
also that we may the better appreciate the vast amount of time, care,
labour, and research by which we are finally put in possession of facts
of natural history.
As a comparatively modern writer, Lenz, without doubt, made very
valuable contributions to the science of ophiology, and at a time when
fact was only beginning to be sifted from fable. It will be seen that,
though writing several years before Schlegel, he had arrived at the
same conclusions.
‘The numerous snakes and other animals which inhabit arid mountains,
or plains destitute of water, can only quench their thirst with rain
or dew. Snakes require but little water as long as they live in the
open air. It is an established rule that no water is found in the maw,
stomach, or entrails of snakes killed in the open air, even when
destroyed by or in a piece of water. _Snakes are never seen to go to
drink in any part of the world._’
This last clause is, as we have now seen, a too positive assertion,
and one not subsequently borne out by other equally conscientious and
intelligent writers. Livingstone, who was a close observer of nature,
informs us that he has known some of the African snakes _come a long
way to pools and rivers to drink_. Dr. Theodore Cantor, who is one of
the best authorities on the Indian sea snakes, and who was a member
of the Zoological Society, tells us that he has seen snakes ‘both
drink and also moisten the tongue; _two distinct operations_,’ he
explains.[19] This conviction having been stated prior to Dumeril’s
elaborate and much-prized work, is valuable testimony. The majority of
snakes in India are partial to water, he tells us, with the exception
of the arboreal species, which probably obtain sufficient moisture from
the rain or dew upon the leaves; and as it is not in their nature to be
on the ground, their organization doubtless renders them independent of
water.
We of late so often see it said of any particular snakes in captivity
that ‘they neither ate nor drank at first;’ or that ‘they drank, though
they would not eat,’ that we almost wonder their bibulous propensities
were ever doubted; especially as the majority of snakes are fond of
water, and swim readily. We are surprised, therefore, that the second
edition of Mr. Lenz’ really valuable work, published so lately as 1870,
should still retain the assertion that snakes have never been _seen_ to
drink.
Mr. Frank Buckland saw his Coronella drink frequently, though she
ate nothing; and as the discovery and captivity of this interesting
lady and her brood, born in London in 1862,[20] formed the subject of
many papers in the scientific journals at the time, one would suppose
that they would have been heard of in Germany, where the species (_C.
lævis_) is well known.
‘Though not to be tempted with food, they are very fond of water,’ says
Mr. F. Buckland.
Lenz’ experiments are, however, well worth noticing, because subsequent
observations have in many instances confirmed this author’s conclusions.
‘In confinement,’ he says, ‘snakes are more easily induced to lick up
drops sprinkled on grass than to drink from a vessel.’ Naturally so. In
their native haunts they are not accustomed to pans of water or saucers
of milk, but they _are_ accustomed to moisten their tongues on the
blades of grass or the leaves of plants which hold the drops of rain
or dew. Lenz then mentions some experiments which he himself made with
snakes. He placed a ring snake and an adder in an empty box, and kept
them there without food for a fortnight, at the end of which period he
placed them in a tub containing half an inch of water, and left them
there for half an hour. He then killed them both, and on dissection
found no water inside of them. This led him to the conclusion that
they had not drank at all; but, in the first place, had they occupied
the whole half-hour in lapping with their thread-like tongue, it may
be doubted whether any appreciable quantity could be imbibed during
that time; and in the second place, the sudden transition and strange
situation in which they found themselves would, through fright,
entirely destroy whatever inclination they might have had to appease
hunger or thirst.
It will be seen that snakes are exceedingly capricious in taking food;
and that when in an abnormal or strange locality they rarely feed for
a long while. Mr. Lenz himself is of opinion that, had he left them
longer in the water, or placed them in a dry tub where liquid could
be got at, they would or might have drunk. Thus, the experiments only
go to corroborate what all keepers of snakes have observed, viz. that
captivity or strange surroundings render them averse to feed.
M. Lenz placed his snakes among the cows in order to test the foolish
belief that obtains in some countries that snakes will ‘suck’ the
udders; but of course, and for similar reasons, even could such an
achievement be possible, the snakes attempted no such thing.
His snakes were strict members of a temperance society also, for not
even wine could tempt them to drink, though this and other liquids
were placed within reach to entice their taste. Not so Pliny’s snakes,
for he would have us believe that they show ‘a great liking for wine,’
whenever an opportunity presented itself for their tasting it!
But how came the idea to obtain that snakes suck cows,—a fact so
frequently asserted by the older naturalists? One old writer goes so
far as to state that a certain American snake ‘causes cows to give
forth bloody milk.’ And yet, to the thinking or observing person,
the origin of the belief may be easily accounted for. That snakes
have partiality for milk no longer admits of a doubt; that they like
warmth and shelter is an equally established fact. Therefore, they
find their way into cattle-sheds, and hide in the straw or any snug
corner, possibly even among the recumbent cattle; and, being there,
their ever busy exploring tongues discover a savour of milk, and the
snake is led by this intelligent tongue to the very fountain of their
favourite drop. The irritated cow would then naturally stir or kick,
and endeavour to shake off the strange intruder, who, in its turn
alarmed or angered, would bite the udder, and fetch blood. This, in the
dark ages of natural history, and during the period when the serpent
was invested with all manner of cruel and revolting wilfulness, would
suffice to give rise to the belief that has so long prevailed. The
rat snake (_Ptyas mucosus_) and the _Clothonia_ of India are ‘said’
to suck the teats of cows; so also are the ‘hoop snake’ and several
other American species, which, with their climbing propensities, may
sometimes twine themselves about the legs of cattle, and thus reach the
udders, where persons have discovered them. It is just possible that
the snakes may get the teat into their mouths, and advance upon it,
with the intention of swallowing it, not knowing that it was only a
teat, with a cow inconveniently attached to it, and not some small and
more manageable prey.
Among the American milk-drinking snakes is _Coluber eximius_, known as
the ‘milk snake,’ one of the dairy frequenters, which is said to seek
milk with avidity. This snake is mentioned by De Kay,[21] Emmons,[22]
and Holbrooke,[23] who all describe it as being very beautiful and
‘innocent’ (except in the eyes of the farmers’ wives). It is of a pale,
pearly white, sometimes tinged with pink, and with rich chocolate spots
on its back. The Racer, of egg-stealing notoriety, is also a sad milk
thief, and, like our own little ring snake, has been known to retrace
its way into dairies. Such depredations were more frequent formerly
when the snakes were more numerous. Of the Racer, Lawson[24] says,
‘This Whipster haunts the Dairies of careless Housewives, and never
misses to skim the Milk clear of the Cream.’
The same love of warmth which takes the reptiles among cattle, guides
them into dwellings, particularly during the night; and in hot
countries where nursing-women of the poorer classes lie exposed, snakes
have been found upon their breasts, and absurd stories have been told
of their sucking the teats of women. In India, Australia, and America,
such stories are common.
After all, it does not seem surprising that snakes should like milk.
Being carnivorous by nature, they would at once detect an animal
flavour in the liquid by the agency of their sensitive tongue.
Now turning to India, we find that the love of snakes for milk is
mentioned by numerous writers on the manners and customs of the Hindûs,
as well as by travellers and naturalists. Balfour[25] tells us ‘when
a snake discovers how to get at the eggs and _milk_ in a larder, no
native will on any account kill it, because it is regarded as the good
genius of the house.’ And again, ‘that the cobra is fed with _milk_ in
some of the temples where it is worshipped.’
Dr. Shortt of Madras keeps a man to attend to his cobras, and finds
they thrive excellently on sour milk, which is administered once in
ten or twelve days.[26] ‘Snakes feed on eggs and _milk_,’ says Sir J.
Fayrer.
When we read similar facts mentioned incidentally, and with no especial
object, we may give them credence even more than if a prejudiced writer
were endeavouring to prove such or such a thing. For instance, during
the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to India, the exhibition
of snakes and snake-charming formed a not unimportant item in the
programme, and furnished many columns of cobra performances and
cobra traditions to the papers. More than one of the journalists
unintentionally corroborated what Balfour and other writers tell us
about the ‘good luck’ of having a cobra in the _chuppur_ of the hut,
the fearlessness with which the children regard their ‘uncle,’ as they
call it, and their care in placing _milk_ and eggs for it each evening.
But I am reminded of a singular case which came to me through a
personal acquaintance from India who was present at the time.
Four officers sitting in a bungalow in India were deep in a game of
whist. Suddenly one of them, turning deadly pale, made signs that no
one should move or speak. In a hushed voice he exclaimed, ‘Keep still,
for God’s sake! I feel a cobra crawling about my legs!’ He knew that
timidity was one of the strongest characteristics of this snake, and
that if not disturbed or alarmed, it would in due time depart of its
own accord. All present were accustomed to the stealthy intruders, and
did not, happily, lose their presence of mind. They very noiselessly
bent down so as to take a survey beneath the table, when, sure enough,
there was the unwelcome visitor, a full-sized cobra, twining and
gliding about the legs of their hapless friend. Literally death was at
his feet! A movement, a noise, even an agitated tremble might have been
fatal.
Luckily one of the four was acquainted with the milk-loving habit of
the cobra, and rising from his seat with quiet and cautious movements,
not daring to hasten, yet dreading delay, he managed to steal from
the room, while he signed the rest to remain motionless. Quickly he
crept back with a saucer of milk in his hand, and still with noiseless
movements set the saucer under the table as close to the terrible
reptile as it was safe to venture.
That fearful strain on their nerves was happily of not long duration,
for presently they were relieved by seeing the creature gradually
untwine itself and go to the milk.
Never before or since did that officer leap from his seat as he did
then, the moment he felt himself free from the coils of the cobra, and
read in the faces of his comrades that he was saved. Short thrift,
however, had Mr. Cobra, for sticks and whip-handles were freely
administered, even before the saucer was reached.
The enemy got rid of, the game was resumed; and it is worth the while
of those in India to bear this narrow escape in mind, and bring milk to
the rescue in case of similar danger.
That snakes drink, and occasionally drink milk, is sufficiently
established. Modern authorities now affirm it decidedly. Says Dr.
Günther in his great work, published by the Ray Society,[27] ‘All
snakes drink, and _die_ when deprived of water.’ Dr. Edward Nicholson,
another of our practical ophiologists, speaking of one of his pet
snakes, a _Tropidonotus_, says ‘the offer of a drink of water will at
once gain its heart.’ In watching snakes drinking, he has frequently
counted one hundred gulps before the drinker is satisfied.[28] If
_Anguis fragilis_, the common blindworm, from its snake-like form, may
be cited here, I may mention one of my own, which, after being shut up
in a box for safety during my absence from home for some days, drank
for such a long while when first released from captivity, that I was
really tired of waiting to watch her. She almost immediately went to
a flower-pot saucer of water, with which she was familiar, and which
I placed near her. For some time I watched the tongue thrown out and
withdrawn, till I began to wonder how much longer she would remain
dipping that little bifid organ. I then began to count, and she dipped
it seventy-five times more, after drinking at least as long as that
previously. Then she moved away, and explored among the books on the
table, but soon returned to the saucer and dipped her tongue again
upwards of seventy times. How much more I cannot affirm, as I could
not remain any longer waiting for her, and left her still drinking.
(‘Lizzie,’ thus named from her lizard nature, must claim a chapter
to herself in this book, for she greatly distinguished herself in
lacertine doings.)
While puzzling over this drinking question, I find a favourite author,
P. H. Gosse, affirm, ‘Snakes drink by suction, not by lapping,’ and
that ‘serpents are said to lap up fluids with their forked tongue,
which, however, seems to be ill suited to such an operation.’[29]
Then one naturally turns to the encyclopedias, where we grow still more
perplexed, for no two agree precisely on all points.
‘The use of the tongue in serpents is not exactly known.’[30] And
again, ‘It is believed that serpents never drink.’[31] It is true that
the compiler of the article _Reptilia_ quotes Schlegel a good deal;
but unfortunately that is the very point on which Schlegel speaks
doubtfully. Nor do we presume to include the learned Schlegel as one
of the inaccurately informed individuals, though he does discredit
the milk-drinkers. Of him Dumeril thus writes, or of his work rather,
which he pronounced to be ‘le plus detaillé et le plus complet qui
ait paru jusqu’ici (1844), et auquel nous serons sans cesse obligé
d’avoir recours.’ Schlegel is also quoted by Cantor, 1841; by Dr. J. E.
Gray, 1849; by Dr. A. Günther, 1864; and, in fact, by most scientific
ophiologists. Natural history is an ever-advancing science, more so,
perhaps, than any other. Linnæus and Cuvier were great in their day,
but their systems obtain no longer.
Unfortunately, a dozen book-makers and a thousand journalists seek
no farther than encyclopedias when they are ‘reading up’ a subject;
and not until too late, if at all, or after long searchings and a
realization of the importance of dates, do these wide spreaders of
information discover the error. Compilers of articles for encyclopedias
are always limited as to space, and often as to time; and life would
not be long enough to wade through _Zoological Records_ covering fifty
years, or _Annales des sciences naturelles_ which date from 1824 to the
present time. Only, the compilers of articles on the _Reptilia_ should
surely have known of Mr. Bell’s _Coluber natrix_, and of the Paris
python, and of the _Amphisbæna_ of the Zoological Gardens, all ophidian
celebrities in their day.
The mention of the Zoological Gardens reminds me of my promise
to conduct my readers thither as an agreeable change from the
book-shelves. Therefore, without further wearying them with the
conflicting statements of fifty writers, let us repair thither, and see
what Holland, the keeper, tells us about his thirsty snakes.
First, we observe that most of the cages are furnished with a tank or
a pan of water, and this not for the watersnakes only. Many of the
others, also, are lying in their bath, coiled up in apparent enjoyment.
Questioning the intelligent keeper, he tells us that when fresh
ophidian inmates arrive, they almost invariably go to the water, and
though for a time they refuse food, they _always drink_. On several
occasions some have drunk so eagerly that the water has visibly sunk in
the tank. These were the larger snakes, of course. He does ‘not believe
they would live without water.’ He then tells us the story of the
_Amphisbæna_ over again, the snake that lived for six months on milk
only, and which was chronicled in the zoological magazines of the day,
and has figured in books ever since.
Mr. Mann confirmed all these facts in his own ophidian pets, and going
to see these interesting individuals, we felt no doubt about it when a
saucer of water was in the way.
But I do feel inclined to doubt whether the use of the tongue in
‘lapping,’ as it has been called, is not rather to moisten that organ
than to quench the thirst. We shall see in the following chapter what
it does for its owner, and we shall see the necessity for this delicate
organ to be well lubricated. Both it and its sheath require to be
constantly moistened; how else could it glide in and out with that
wonderful activity? how in a dry and parched condition could it retain
its exceeding flexibility and delicacy of perception?
Unfortunately, the position of the tanks in the cages at the London
Zoological Gardens, and the stone ledge in front of them, prevent the
visitors from watching the actions of the snakes in the water, either
when swimming or drinking. Occasionally one of the inmates of the
larger cages may be seen in a pan of water, though their motions are
necessarily restricted there. One day, however, the yellow Jamaica
boa, when drinking from the pan, afforded an excellent opportunity for
observation. And he was a long time imbibing. There was no perceptible
action of the lips, which were barely parted. The snake kept its mouth
just below the level of the water, and the only action or movement
seen was at the back of the head, or on each side of the neck, like
a pulsation, as the water passed down in short gulps. This is the
‘suction’ which writers describe, a drawing in of the liquid; but the
lips do not take part in the act. When, therefore, we read that snakes
drink both by lapping and also by suction, we may surmise that the
former is for the benefit of the tongue, the latter of the body; and
a large quantity of liquid is often drawn in by this sort of suction,
very distinct from ‘sucking,’ the reputed way of enjoying milk from the
living fountain, and a process impossible to creatures that have not
soft lips and a broad tongue. The Jamaica boa drew in those perceptible
gulps for a long time, then raised his head, and rested awhile, and
presently drank again, and this several times while we were watching.
It was what Dumeril described _à la régalade_.
Mr. Sam Lockwood of New Jersey, writing in the _American Naturalist_,
vol. ix. 1875, describes the pine snake drinking. ‘It lays its head
flat upon the water, letting the lower jaw just sink a little below the
surface, when with a very uniform movement the water is drawn up into
the mouth and passed into the throat. It is true drinking, like that of
a horse.’ One that he watched drank five minutes by the clock without
taking breath. Then it paused, looked about for three minutes, and then
drank again for five minutes more. ‘In all, it drank a little over a
gill. Previously it has been without water for four weeks.’
In size this pine snake differs not much from the Jamaica boa
(_Chilobothrus inornatus_), that we watched at the Gardens, and the
manner and time were very similar. True, we did not time him by a
watch, nor could we tell exactly how much he drank, nor how long
previously he had been without drinking; but, at a guess, he could not
have been much less than five minutes without taking breath. _Anguis
fragilis_, that lapped seventy times, and stopped, and lapped again,
must also have been some minutes without breathing, because hers was
the most leisurely lapping I ever saw.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
_THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE._
PART I.—WHAT IT IS _NOT_.
GOSSIP from the Zoological Gardens to confirm what has been so often
said, namely, that nine out of every ten of the visitors to the
Ophidarium will point to the tongue of a snake and exclaim, ‘Look
at its sting!’ seems too trivial and too defiantly challenging the
credulity of my readers, to introduce here. Nevertheless, that it is
necessary emphatically to state not only that the tongue of a snake is
not its sting, but that a snake has no sting at all, you will admit
the very next time you go there. You will hear not only the Monday,
but the _Sunday_ visitors—well dressed, and apparently well educated
persons—say to each other when watching a snake, ‘That’s its sting!’ I
must be permitted, therefore, to ‘gossip’ a moment in confirmation.
One Friday, in April 1881, just before the time when the public were
excluded at feeding hours, we were watching the movements of a pretty
little harmless snake, the rapid quivering of whose tongue denoted
excitement of some kind. Probably it was anticipating the frog in
store for it, as this was feeding day. Its tongue was unusually active,
and was exserted to its extreme length, its motions being almost
invisible in their rapidity.
Two gentlemen drew near, and also stopped before this cage. One of
them, a tall, dark man, looked like a foreigner; but he was talking
pure English to his friend, and had been talking a good deal about the
snakes, as if he were familiar with their habits. ‘From the Tropics,’
observed my companion, _sotto voce_, and looking as if we might hear
something worth knowing from this large, loud-voiced visitor.
‘See _that_?’ he presently exclaimed to his friend. ‘Look there!’
‘That thing it keeps putting out of its mouth?’
‘Yes. That’s its sting. One touch of that, just one little touch, and
you’re a dead man. There’s no cure for it!’
No less than four different parties made similar remarks in our hearing
during our short visit to the reptile house that day, and these not of
the common crowd either.
First, two lads who looked as if they ought to have known better. Next,
a party of several persons, of whom the one more particularly addressed
when his friend informed him, ‘That’s the sting that it jerks out so,’
replied, ‘Ah, but they extract it!’ Thirdly, a young gentleman remarked
to his lady companion, ‘See how it keeps darting out its sting!’ to
whom she ejaculated, ‘Oh, the fearful creature!’ Fourthly, the tall
man. And all this of poor little innocent _Tropidonotus_ (our common
ring snake), with not even a fang to injure you!
Like many other of the zoological myths not yet extinct, this
‘stinging tongue’ has its origin in mystery. Long before a deadly
serpent was examined by an intelligent reasoner, and the nature of its
fatal stroke comprehended, the mysterious ‘dart’ was seen to play;
this, to the ignorant, being the only visible and possible instrument
of such fatality. But that the fable should still obtain is amazing.
Even some learned men of the present century, if they do not happen to
have included natural history in their studies, assist in disseminating
the error. Can they, however, be acquainted with classical writers?
Pliny, to whom many of the old-time errors in natural history have
been traced, must be acquitted as regards the poisonous tongue; for
though he speaks of the ‘sting’ of a serpent, I do not recall that he
once attributed the injury to the tongue. Aristotle, whose reputation
as a naturalist ranks far higher, distinctly and frequently speaks of
the _bite_, and the degrees of injury inflicted by the various kinds
of serpent bites. It is possible that some classical writers may have
supposed the tongue to be an instrument of death, as it is certain
that some of the sacred writers did. But our inherited faith in Bible
history has, until recently, checked all doubt and even inquiry. Now,
however, that a new version of Holy Writ has been deemed essential, it
is to be hoped that an efficient naturalist is included in the Council.
In justification of the above criticism I may be permitted to quote
just one of the many unquestioning writers. The author of the _History
of Egypt_, W. Holt Yates, M.R.C.P. of London, President of the Royal
Medical Society of Edinburgh, Physician to the General Dispensary,
etc., says in a footnote (vol. i. p. 322), ‘It is a mistake to suppose
that snakes hurt only with their teeth. Some have no teeth, but only
hard gums. Others only attack with their tongue—the same end is
attained in either case by the insertion of the poison.’
Now were you to ask that writer, as I have several times asked persons
who were under the same impression, ‘What reason have you to suppose
that the snake’s tongue is poisonous?’ he would very likely reply,
‘Oh! well—it _is_ venomous. I always thought so.’ Then, reflectively,
he might add, ‘Poisonous-tongued?—“whose tongue outvenoms”—“with
deadlier tongue than thine, thou serpent”’—or some such familiar
words, proving that his idea was poetical, imaginative, and acquired he
can scarcely explain how.
What very little he knew about snakes, then, was learned from
Shakspeare—we say Shakspeare, for what other author has been read and
re-read, and committed to memory, and quoted during the last three
centuries like the Bard of Avon? The bard, genius though he was, and
wide his field of information, was certainly _not_ a naturalist. Nor
did he make any pretensions to be one. He was as unconscious of the
errors in natural history which he was handing down to posterity, as
he was unconscious of his own enduring fame; or that he would be ‘the
immortal bard’ three hundred years later, with every probability of
ever living in the human mind as such.
His idea of the poisonous tongue of a snake was the prevalent one of
his day. It was an inherited prejudice, which he had never stopped
to question, any more than nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every
thousand of his readers have ever stopped to question the fact of an
adder’s _tongue_ being poisonous, Shakspeare having affirmed that it is
so.
People do not read Shakspeare to learn natural history, you say. True;
but his poetry, his similes, take hold of the mind, fix themselves in
the memory, and take root; and an assertion, as in the case of the
gentle little ‘blindworm,’ takes very deep root, as it seems, and
thrives for three hundred years; or naturalists of the present day
would not feel called upon to explain that it is neither ‘blind,’ nor
‘deaf,’ nor ‘venomous.’
Still you reject the idea that Shakspeare through his immense and
universal popularity is responsible for a ridiculous error. Not
Shakspeare alone, then, or culpably so. But since the idea has
prevailed for thousands of years, even to the present time, and since
persons are more likely to quote Shakspeare on the subject than any
other author, let us glance at the literature of Shakspeare’s time,
and endeavour to account for his fixed impression as to a serpent’s
tongue being poisonous. Let us also try to recall from any one of the
writers of the same era, or those who wrote in English previously, any
single line on the present subject that has become so engrafted on the
mind, so incorporated with our education, as those, for example, above
quoted. There was a host of other play-writers in Shakspeare’s time,
but very few naturalists.
Poetry, plays, and Protestantism characterized the literature of the
period. But familiar to us _by name_ as are his contemporaries, it will
be as easy to find one educated person who has read the whole of their
works, as it would be to find one educated person who has not read
Shakspeare.
There were travels and histories written, the great maritime
discoveries of the age giving birth to this new class of literature.
Hakluyt’s voyages were printed when Shakspeare was only twenty-five
years of age, and even if he read them he would not have learned much
about serpents there. Nor in Sir Walter Raleigh’s histories either,
which were written chiefly during his prison life, he being liberated
the same year that saw the death of Shakspeare, 1616.
Many other well-known authors will occur to the reader, to say nothing
of the writers of the previous eras, the great divines and scholars who
wrote in Latin, and the many English ballad-writers more likely to be
perused by ‘the Bard.’
As for natural history, it found no place on those shelves, for as a
science it did not as yet exist in England. Lord Bacon, Shakspeare’s
celebrated contemporary, did make some pretensions to be a naturalist;
but his _Novum Organum_ was written in Latin, and we are not led to
believe that the poet enjoyed any very great educational and classical
advantages, having had
‘Small Latin and less Greek,’
according to his friend and eulogist, Ben Jonson.
And even if Shakspeare did read what was then _the Book_ of the period,
Lord Bacon unfortunately fell into some of the popular errors, or made
very hazardous conjectures, so far as natural history was understood;
and of him Dr. Carpenter says, ‘So far from contributing to our
knowledge of natural history, he often gave additional force to error
by the weight of his authority.’
In recalling some lines from Shakspeare, the reader will find how very
familiar to the mind are the serpent similes. Some of them prove that
the poet was cognizant of a tooth being also a source of evil; but
it is evident that he thought the tongue was so also, especially the
tongue of the ‘blindworm.’
For a few out of the many in which Shakspeare’s plays abound, _vide_
_Timon of Athens_, Act iv. Scene 3: ‘The gilded newt and eyeless
venomed worm.’
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act iii. Scene 2. When Hermia thinks
that Demetrius has killed Lysander while sleeping, she scathingly
ejaculates: ‘O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder do so much? An
adder did it; for with deadlier tongue than thine, thou serpent, never
adder stung!’
In _Cymbeline_, Act iii. Scene 2, Pisanio says: ‘What false Italian, as
poisonous tongued as handed, hath prevailed on thy too ready hearing?’
Again, in Scene 4 of the same Act, Pisanio would not hear evil of his
mistress, and cries: ‘No, ‘tis slander; whose edge is sharper than the
sword, whose tongue outvenoms all the worms.’
_Henry VI._, Act ii. Scene 2, Clifford says to the King: ‘Who ‘scapes
the lurking serpent’s mortal sting!’ Act iii. Scene 2: ‘Their touch
affrights me as a serpent’s sting.... What! art thou like the adder
waxen deaf? Be poisonous too!’
_Much Ado about Nothing_, Act v. Scene 1, Antonio says: ‘As I dare take
a serpent by the tongue.’
And in _King John_, Act ii. Scene 1, Randolph says to King Philip,
‘France, thou may’st hold a serpent by the tongue!’
Not snakes only, but toads, lizards, spiders, and other ‘creeping
things,’ were thought venomous in Shakspeare’s time.
Song in _Midsummer Night’s Dream_: ‘You spotted snakes, with double
tongue.’ Then, in appeal to the ‘serpents’ not to injure the Fairy
Queen: ‘Newts and blindworms, do no wrong.’
The nearest approach to a scientific work on natural history written in
English at that time was a curious volume published in 1608, in whose
folio pages may be seen most astonishing ‘Serpentes,’ combinations
of worms and feathered fowls, saurian, ophidian, and batrachian,
wonderfully adorned with horns, gills, wings, spear-shaped or forked
tongues, and arrow-shaped tails. The zoological illustrations of that
work give us some idea of what a snake was supposed to be. Among them
is one with a human head, and another with a crown, because he is ‘the
King of Serpentes for his Magnitude or Greatnesse.’ There is also a
‘Dragon’ with horns, wings, scales, claws, two rows of robust teeth,
and an arrow-headed tongue. Mingled fable and fancy with some few
facts, these anomalies are solemnly described as ‘The Naturall Historie
of Serpentes,’ the said serpents including bees, wasps, ‘frogges,’
toads, earthworms, lizards, spiders, etc., and a ‘cockatrice.’
The author, E. Topsell, addresses the ‘gentle and pious Reader’ on the
‘publishing of this Treatise of Venomous Beasts,’ and more particularly
of ‘Serpentes, Divine, Morall, and Naturell, their Poyson and Bitings,
since the gentle and pious Reader will see how that the Historie of
Serpentes begineth at the Creation.’
[Illustration: Fabulous tongues.]
Thus we see that the ideal snake was a religious principle, carried
out in illustrations and architectural embellishments, where ‘that
old serpent the devil’ was depicted as a creature as terrible as
imagination could conceive it; and of course with a highly-developed
tongue in the form of a dart or a spear, more or less alarming.
Far in advance of Topsell, and far in advance of England, were the
naturalists of Southern Europe. Gesner, professor of philosophy at
Zurich, published his _Historia Animalium_ in 1551; and Aldrovanus,
professor of philosophy and physic at Bologna, wrote thirteen folio
volumes of natural history, four only of which were published during
his lifetime, and the rest after his death, which was in 1605. These
two authors, though out of date at the present day, have left their
names perpetuated in plants and animals examined by them.
As one of the objects of this work is to trace the origin of some of
the many errors that have obtained regarding the serpent race, and to
note the gradual enlightenment observable in successive writers, it is
a part of our duty to quote the Bible; and this we do with reverence,
emboldened by the fact that the present state of knowledge has demanded
a new translation to satisfy the intellect of the age.
Shakspeare himself might have had the Bible devoutly in his mind when
he talked of the adder’s ‘sting.’
Among the many commentators and exponents of Holy Writ, Cruden (A.D.
1794) says, ‘Some place the venom of the serpent in its gall, others
in its tongue, and others in its teeth.’ David seems to place it in
its tongue:—Ps. cxl. 3, ‘They have sharpened their tongues like a
serpent.’ So also Job, xx. 16, ‘The viper’s tongue shall slay him.’
The sacred writers, however, quite understood that serpents did bite as
well as ‘sting.’ Solomon made the same distinction that is observable
in Shakspeare, ‘biteth like a serpent, stingeth like an adder.’
In fact, the _tongue_ of an adder, whether in allusion to ‘the worm of
the Nile,’ or to our own pretty little ‘deaf-adder,’ seems still to
bear the evil character which it has borne from time immemorial.
Superstition, prejudice, and ignorance are still rampant whenever a
snake is thought of. Inherited and educated antipathies regarding them
are still so strong that some persons will not even allow themselves to
_un_learn their misconceptions; others by misrepresentations do their
best to prevent a true comprehension of their habits from being better
understood; and, again, there are those who know better, and who are
even engaged in instructing others by their pen, but who fall into the
habit of encouraging horror and hatred, instead of reason, truth, and a
tolerance towards a creature wisely produced to fulfil its part and to
perform its duties in the great balance of organized beings.
Some journalists religiously keep up the delusion about the tongue
of a snake, by using a prejudicial prefix. From a pile of newspaper
cuttings and other printed matter relative to snakes, I transcribe a
few sentences at random, to illustrate what is meant:—‘Its horrid
forked tongue.’ ‘Its slithering tongue.’ ‘Its villanous poisonous
tongue,’ etc. And if sensationalism seem to demand still more forcible
language, as, for instance, in describing an injury or an escape, our
journalist tells us of the ‘forked tongue darting defiance.’ ‘The
wicked-looking serpent tongue protruded with lightning-like swiftness.’
‘To see the reptile run its devilish tongue out at you.’ ‘Its horrid
lancinating tongue protruded,’ etc. These are only a few of such
sentences copied _verbatim_, but they are unfortunately too common,
even with the better-informed writers.
The idea of a snake being sufficiently intelligent, reasoning, and
reflective to deliberately ‘run its tongue out at you,’ as if conscious
of its own moral power and your moral weakness, is too ludicrous.
If the snake could truly inflict injury with those soft, flexible,
delicate filaments,—if it could, with one rapid touch, insert poison,
as the tall talker at the Zoological Gardens affirmed, the threatening
quiver could only be in friendly warning. Let the poor reptile at least
be thanked for that.
Our lamented friend, Frank Buckland, fell into the same error (or
inadvertency, since he quite understood that the tongue could do no
harm) when he wrote thus of the tongue in his _Curiosities of Natural
History_:—‘The tongue is generally protruded in order to intimidate
the bystanders;’ and, ‘The tongue acts as a sort of intimidation
to its aggressors;’ thus giving the snake the credit of a waggish
sort of intelligence, far more complimentary to the reptile than
to the bystander. In imagination we behold a solemn Convention of
snakes, held in ages long ago, and a resolution to this effect passed
unanimously:—‘Now these poor ignorant mortals think we can kill them
with our soft and tender tongues. Though so tall, and powerful, and
terrible to us, they look dreadfully frightened whenever we use our
tongues in our own service. Therefore, whenever any of these two-legged
creatures come near us, we will put out our tongues at them, and
frighten them off,’—a resolution which has answered admirably well
down to the present time. ‘Down to the present time’ is written and
repeated in all seriousness.
Let me be pardoned for introducing a little more gossip here, as it is
the fashion to relate what is seen and heard at the Zoological Gardens.
And so much is related, and has been related, and even printed, to
mislead the public, that, in the earnest hope and aspiration of
assisting in correcting false impressions, I claim to repeat what was
heard as well as the rest. Besides, when persons talk as loudly as if
they were delivering a lecture, and apparently with the benevolent
intention of instructing the public generally, one feels justified in
quoting them.
Eight years ago, when first contemplating this work, and anxiously
seeking to ascertain precisely what could be learned, and what was
already understood about snakes, so far as the reptile house at the
Zoological Gardens was a means of instruction, I made very careful
notes of what I saw there, and occasionally of what I _heard_ there.
In the summer of 1874 some well-dressed children, accompanied by their
parents, were watching the pythons in the largest cage, when one of
the little ones asked, ‘Papa, what is that thing that the snake keeps
putting out of its mouth?’ ‘Oh, that is its poisonous sting,’ replied
the father. The eldest girl (in her teens), with an affected shudder,
cried ‘Ugh!’ and a boy exclaimed, ‘I am glad it can’t put it through
the glass at _us_!’
August 3, 1877.—A gentleman, to all appearance well-bred and
intelligent, told his two boys, ‘That’s the sting,’ as they were
watching the play of a snake’s tongue in one of the cages. The boys
looked wonderingly at the terrible instrument, and were evidently
anxious to know more about it, and turned to ask their father. But he
had passed on, and was then calling to them to look at something else.
July 1880.—A lady, apparently the governess of two girls of about
twelve and fourteen, and of a boy of about eight, who were with her,
was conscientiously endeavouring to blend instruction with amusement,
and was telling them some strange and hitherto unheard-of facts
about the snakes; as, for instance, that the rattlesnake was now
going to ‘crush a guinea-pig by winding itself round it;’ for it was
feeding-day, and the keeper had just put poor piggy into the cage.
But the children got tired of waiting to see what did not occur; the
rattlesnake was merely investigating matters by means of its useful
tongue. ‘Now, watch it!’ cried the lady eagerly, ‘and you’ll see it
lick the guinea-pig with its poisonous tongue.’
Neither was this feat performed by the Crotalus, and as the children
got tired of waiting, and were impatient to ‘see something else,’ the
party moved on.
But the reader will be weary of hearing what the tongue of a snake is
_not_, and be desirous of knowing what it _is_; and to this purpose we
will devote another chapter.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
_THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE._
PART II.—WHAT IT _IS_.
IF only by the law of compensation, another chapter must be devoted to
the innocent tongue of a snake. It has been an object of hatred and
aversion for untold ages, and the misrepresentation of it, and the
abuse of it, would fill many chapters. Were it endowed with speech, and
the words of St. James applied to it,—‘the tongue is a fire, a world
of iniquity,’—no stronger animosity could be displayed.
Happily, this animosity is by degrees dying away; but only by degrees,
as we have seen, some writers during the last twenty years having
been undergoing a sort of transition state with regard to the use of
the tongue, inasmuch as, while they have arrived at the conviction
that it does not ‘sting,’ they are not yet quite clear as to what it
does do. Some few have even clung to the lubrication theory. _Popular
writers_, to speak more correctly, not scientific ones. Still, it is
the popular writers who most influence the casual reader. To satisfy a
passing interest, we turn to these, to the books they quote, and next
to encyclopedias, and not to scientific text-books, where we are beset
by technicalities which are in themselves a study to be first mastered.
Otherwise, from scientific works a good deal might have been learned
long ago about this exceedingly wonderful organ, the tongue of a snake.
It is evident, however, that a good many of our drawing-room
naturalists have not thought it necessary to first devote themselves to
the scientific study of a snake’s tongue before they ventured to write
about it; therefore they remained only partially enlightened. To such
an extent has the supposed ‘lubrication’ prevailed, that ophiologists
of the day have not thought it too trivial to speak of and to refute.
The same visitors to the Zoological Gardens who tell their friends or
children to look at the snake’s ‘sting,’ also wait to ‘see the snake
lick the rabbit all over before it begins to swallow it.’
Were a painter to set to work to paint a house, or a mason to whitewash
the ceiling, with a camel’s-hair pencil, it would not be a more tedious
and impossible process than that of a snake ‘licking all over with its
tongue’ the body of the animal it is about to devour. Illustrations, in
order to be as startling as possible, and to feed the educated horror
of snakes, often represent a boa or an anaconda coiled round a bull or
some other equally large and rough-coated animal, which, as the writer
informs us, ‘it was seen to lick all over and cover with its mucus.’
Let the reader reflect a moment, and he will perceive what supply
of moisture this degree of lubrication would demand. Even were the
snake’s whole body furnished with salivary glands, and were it provided
with a broad, flat tongue to work with, what must the rate of secretion
be to enable the snake to go through such a task, and to enable it to
perform it in a period of time in which a spectator (supposing he had
sufficient powers of endurance) could stand by and watch the process!
Snakes are, it is true, supplied very abundantly with a mucous saliva.
Describing the mode of swallowing, Dr. Günther says: ‘But for the
quantity of saliva discharged over the body of the prey, deglutition
would be slow.’ Slow in comparison with the feeding of other animals
it is, under any circumstances, and it would be painfully tedious,
almost impossible, for the unfortunate reptile to feed at all, were
its difficulties not relieved by this ‘abundant supply’ of saliva.
But this is not saying that the tongue performs any office in
systematic lubrication. It simply means that the mouth of the hungry
snake ‘waters’ over its food, and waters far more freely than is the
usual case with other animals. We ourselves know something of this
stimulation of the salivary glands at the sight or smell of food when
we are hungry; but snakes are beneficently provided with the salivary
apparatus (described in the first chapter), and the mouth waters
over its prey, as much when the tongue is in its sheath as when the
tongue is engaged in its own peculiar and distinct functions. What the
spectator does see is this tongue fulfilling its office of feeling,
examining, exploring, investigating, ascertaining whether the prey is
thoroughly dead, and the best way of setting to work on the great task
of swallowing the huge, rough mass. All this work the tongue does for
its owner; and we shall, as I hope, see before we have done with it,
that so far from exciting our hatred and disgust, there is perhaps no
other feature or organ belonging to the helpless snake so important
to it, so worthy of our own observation and admiration, as this
much-abused tongue.
We have an admirable opportunity for study in our visits to the
Zoological Gardens, and there the lover of nature can decide for
himself. Hours and hours has one watched, and I admit (in the early
days of my studies) _waited_, to see this lubrication which, as the
books told me, was performed by the tongue. Often and often one has
heard visitors say to each other when they have seen the prey about to
be devoured, ‘Now we shall see, or you will see’ (as the case might be)
‘the snake lick it all over before he swallows it.’
An observation to this effect was once made in our hearing while I was
on the point of asking the keeper if he had ever observed anything of
the kind, and was telling him how often it had been so stated in print.
‘Snakes never did, and never _will_, lick their prey, ma’am,’ returned
Holland emphatically; ‘but I have seen the saliva flow, it is so
plentiful.’ And so have I, and so may you, patient reader, if you are
sufficiently interested in the subject. You will soon become convinced
that such a process as ‘licking’ is impossible, and you will soon
decide that if the reptile did this instinctively, its tongue would
have developed into something more like that of a cat, strong and rough
with tiny spines, or some organ better adapted to the performance than
a thin pencil or fork of tender flesh.
It is much to be regretted that a number of anecdotes which describe
this ‘lubrication’ have been retained and quoted over and over again in
books on snakes. Writers who are conscientiously instructing us, and
who are even telling us ‘snakes do _not_ lick their prey,’ quote the
anecdotes which tell us that they _do_, and thus appear to favour the
assumed mistake.
Space will not permit of the numerous examples which might be here
introduced in proof of this. Nor is it necessary to name more than
two or three of these misleading anecdotes; the reader will at once
recognise them, for they appear everywhere.
First comes the M’Leod narrative, which has found favour with popular
writers for no less than sixty-three years! The first edition of the
_Voyage of the Alceste_, by Dr. M’Leod, the surgeon on board, was
published in London in 1817, a second edition in 1818, and a third
(so popular was the work) in 1819. His account of feeding the boa
constrictor was not the least popular part of the little book; for in
those days there were few who knew what to believe where a snake was
concerned. The account of a goat being swallowed fills several pages,
written in a style to exaggerate horrors, and apparently deny to the
reptile any right to obey nature’s laws. ‘The python fixed a deadly and
malignant eye on the goat:’ ... ‘first operation was to dart out its
forked tongue:’ ... ‘continued to grasp with its fangs:’ ... ‘began
to prepare for swallowing:’ and ‘commenced by lubricating with its
saliva:’ ... ‘commission of this murder,’ etc.
Maunder, in his _Treasury of Natural History_, quotes this, having
previously stated (under the head Boa Constrictor): ‘The prey is
then prepared for being swallowed, which the creature accomplished by
pushing the limbs into the most convenient position, and _then covering
the surface with a glutinous saliva_.’ Though not positively asserted
that the tongue is the agent in this ‘covering,’ the reader naturally
jumps to this conclusion. The ‘Penny’ and several other encyclopedias
quote the M’Leod story, among them the _Encyclopedia Britannica_, ed.
1856, notwithstanding the compiler of the article ‘Reptilia’ affirms,
‘The use of the tongue is not exactly known.’ Surely this licking over
an enormous mass of fur or wool, each time the reptile partakes of
food, would be a very important use indeed of the tongue, did such a
process take place.
Mr. Philip Henry Gosse, in his _Natural History of Reptiles_, 1860,
repeats the M’Leod story but he follows it up by also quoting a writer,
Broderip, who carefully considered the subject, and who doubted the
possibility of such a tongue performing this office.
Mr. Gosse is one of the most popular of our ‘drawing-room’ naturalists.
A careful and conscientious writer, he has contributed in his various
works a great deal of valuable information, and has done as much, if
not more, towards inducing a taste for natural history than any other
author of his day and class.
Another popular anecdote much used is that of Sir R. Ker Porter,
who (_cir._ 1820-24) sent an anaconda to the United Service Museum,
accompanied by an account of its seizing its prey. ‘In an instant every
bone is broken, and the long, fleshy tongue passes over the entire form
of the lifeless beast, leaving on it a sort of glutinous saliva which
greatly facilitates deglutition.’ This last clause was particularly
striking, and you find those three words, ‘greatly facilitates
deglutition,’ used ever since by more writers than one can enumerate.
A third of the many well-worn anecdotes in which the ‘lubrication’ is
conspicuous, is taken from a German journal, the _Ephemerides_, in
which a combat between a boa constrictor and a buffalo is described in
the approved sensational style, and this sentence occurs:—‘In order to
make the body slip down the throat more glibly, it (the snake) was seen
to lick the whole body over, and thus cover it with its mucus.’
Perhaps these three anecdotes, copied from book to book for, say, only
fifty years, have done as much to mislead regarding the second reputed
use of the tongue, as Shakspeare and his predecessors did regarding the
stinging theory.
Sir Robert Ker Porter published two very handsome quarto volumes
(illustrated) of his _Travels in Georgia, Persia, and the East_, during
the years 1817 to 1821. Such a work from a distinguished traveller in
that day would soon grow into popularity; but, like Dr. M’Leod, he does
not describe his snake by the cool light of science.
In a very able article, ‘Boa’ in the good old _Penny Cyclopedia_,
dated 1835, the writer, quoted by Mr. Philip Henry Gosse, mildly
criticises the lubrication theory, and gives at length an excellent
paper on the subject, contributed to the _Zoological Journal_ in 1826
by the distinguished naturalist, W. J. Broderip, F.L.S., etc.[32]
Very courteously Mr. Broderip discusses Dr. McLeod’s description,
and in giving an account of what he himself witnessed in the manner
of a boa feeding, speaks of ‘the secretion of lubricating mucus
being excessive,’ and that ‘the jaws dripped with the mucus which had
lubricated the parts,’ but not once mentioning the tongue as having any
part in this function. The writer in the _Penny Cyclopedia_ concludes
by saying that he had himself frequently watched the snakes while
feeding, and they ‘never covered the victim; the tongue was thrust
forth, but only,’ etc. And yet so many book-makers who must have read
this have copied the anecdotes without the comment, and have thus
popularized the lingual lubrication!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
_THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE._
PART III.—_ITS USES_.
ONE more function in which the tongue has no part it is important first
to mention. ‘It is supposed to be concerned in the function of voice,
that is, hissing,’ says Mr. Frank Buckland in his _Curiosities of
Natural History_, 1860. Now, as this is an extremely popular book, and
as Mr. Buckland was a very popular writer, and much quoted and believed
in from his pleasant and genial style, and his many opportunities, it
is necessary to explain that the tongue is often or generally in its
sheath while the snake hisses, and therefore has _no part whatever_ in
the ‘function of voice.’
More recently still, a writer in 1876 is under the same impression.
It is well known that the contributors to that excellent magazine,
the _Leisure Hour_, are for the most part persons of good literary
standing. However, in the matter of snakes we are all only learners.
There are in the magazine referred to, three chapters ‘On Snakes,’
occupying, with the illustrations, about eight pages, in which the
general subject is treated.
‘It is a very general belief that the sting of a poisonous snake is in
its tongue,’ says this writer, ‘and to any one who has seen an adder
ready for attack, with its body coiled, its head and neck reared aloft,
and its long, narrow tongue, split for a considerable distance from
the point inwards, and thus resembling a two-pronged fork, vibrating
rapidly, accompanied by a hissing sound, the needle-like points of the
tongue have a decidedly stinging aspect. It need hardly be said that
the tongue is only responsible for the hissing.’ The hissing is from
the lungs (see chap. ix.), and, as may be repeated, often while the
tongue is within its sheath, the opening of which is forward in the
mouth.
The tongue of a snake occupies much the same place in the lower jaw as
that of other animals; only being, while passive, within its sheath,
which opens at the tip, the tongue can move but in one direction,
namely, _forwards_.
The illustration in the _Leisure Hour_ which accompanies the above
writer’s explanation, displays a rattlesnake with widely-extended jaws,
and a tongue which, by comparison, must be from root to tip half a foot
in length, and represented as coming from far back in the throat, as if
no sheath existed.
The tongue of a snake not being so planted, and not by any possibility
intercepting the breath, it is needless to repeat that it can never
be any agent of the voice, _i.e._ ‘hissing,’ nor is it every snake
that does hiss (see chap. ix.). Illustrations conveying an entirely
erroneous impression are very much to be regretted, and unfortunately
this misplacing of the snake’s tongue is an extremely common error,
and we recognise the familiar woodcut again and again in a number of
different publications, misconceptions thus being seriously multiplied.
Bad illustrations, even more than printed errors, are responsible,
because more persons turn the leaves of a book to look at these, than
those who read the page, and a glance either instructs or misinforms
the eye.
The hissing of a snake, as we may here add, is merely an escape or
expulsion of air from the lungs, more or less quick or ‘loud,’ as
the reptile is more or less alarmed or angry. Conjecturally, one may
suppose this hissing to correspond with the agitated breathing or
panting of other animals, or of an excited person.
In the seventeenth century, when travellers were visiting for the first
time the newly-settled colonies in America and Africa, and when the
early explorers in various parts of the world were sending home stuffed
specimens of animals (in the days when taxidermy, like other sciences,
was in its infancy), a stuffed snake was furnished with a huge, broad,
fleshy tongue, big enough to crowd its entire mouth, minus teeth and
gums.[33] Whether this broad tongue was to favour the delusion of
‘licking,’ or whether the licking was presupposed from the look of the
tongue, we cannot say, but that the stuffed specimens did encourage the
delusion is clear.
Our Philosophical Society, founded about the middle of that century,
and the ‘Philosophical Transactions’ of those days record the first
arrival of tropical serpents in England, and the marvellous beliefs
concerning them. From them we learn, nevertheless, that many things
said to be ‘new to science’ in our own time, were not unknown two
centuries ago.
Passing by a large number of writers on snakes, who, being convinced
that the tongue neither ‘stings’ nor ‘licks’ nor ‘aids in hissing,’
and who, therefore, cursorily dismiss it with, ‘the use of the tongue
is not known,’ let us thoroughly examine for ourselves this mysterious
organ; and this we can do with the assistance of those who have devoted
careful attention to the subject.
Quoting first our English authorities, Dr. J. E. Gray tells us: ‘Tongue
very long, retractile into a sheath at its base. Apex forked, very
long, slender, and tapering.’
Says Dr. Günther: ‘Tongue long, vermiform, forked; an organ of touch;
frequently and rapidly exserted to examine an object. The slightest
provocation brings the tongue into play.’
Rymer Jones, in his _Organization of the Animal Kingdom_, tells us that
‘in snakes the bulk of the tongue is reduced to the utmost extent. The
whole organ seems converted into a slender, bifid instrument of touch,
and is covered with a delicate membrane.’ Again, in Todd’s _Cyclopedia
of Anatomy_, the same writer says that ‘the tongue of a snake seems to
perform functions, the nature of which is not so obvious’ (as that of
some other reptiles).
Der Hœven (Clark’s translation) tells us ‘the tongue of a snake is an
organ of feeling or tact, and much used, as the antennæ of insects.’
It will be observed that while no two of the above writers use
precisely the same words, each helps us to picture the tongue
more accurately, and we glean from each some new particular. The
_Encyclopedia Britannica_, after telling us ‘the use of the tongue is
not exactly known,’ adds, ‘they (the snakes) are continually lancing it
into the air, and may possibly in this way gather moisture from grass
or herbage’ (alluding to the question of ‘drinking,’ see chap. iv.).
Professor Owen still further defines it as a pair of muscles, or
a double muscle partly connected and partly free. The reader will
prefer the learned Professor’s own words, notwithstanding the slight
repetition.
In his _Anatomy of the Vertebrates_, p. 463, after describing the
prehensile character of the tongue in some reptiles, notably the toad
and the chameleon, he says: ‘In serpents the tongue takes no other
share in the prehension of food than by the degree in which it may
assist in the art of drinking. It is very long, slender, cylindrical,
protractile, consisting of a pair of muscular cylinders in close
connection along the two basal thirds, but liberated from each other,
and tapering each to a point at the anterior third; these are in
constant vibration when the tongue is protruded, and are in great
part withdrawn with the undivided body of the tongue into a sheath
when the organ is retracted.’ The pair of parallel muscles can be
distinguished in the largest of the accompanying illustrations, viz.
the tongue of a Jamaica boa of about 8 feet long. It was cut out and
given me immediately after the death of the reptile, and while soft
and flexible was carefully copied. The hair-like points diminish to an
almost invisible fineness impossible to represent with pen or pencil.
The _slender_ little tongue is that of the young _Jararaca_; and the
shortest is that of the African viperling. I have drawn only as much as
is usually exserted when in use. The entire tongues are much longer,
of a pale flesh tint, and somewhat thicker towards the root. It is
observable that the organs, like their possessors, are either shorter
and stouter, or longer and more slender.
[Illustration: Three tongues from nature (exact size).]
The reader will concur with Mr. P. H. Gosse and the _Penny Cyclopedia_,
that ‘no instrument is less adapted for licking.’
There is yet one more of our English scientific writers who must be
quoted, and who, though he wrote so far back as 1834, shows us that
even then this tongue was far better understood by the French and
German zoologists than ourselves. Roget, in his _Animal Physiology_
(one of the Bridgewater Treatises), says: ‘Hellmann has shown us that
the slender, bifurcated tongue of snakes is used for the purposes of
touch.’
It is to be regretted that we have no translation of this and of
several other German ophiologists of whom mention is made by Roget and
others. Lenz gives us to understand that in 1817 Hellmann had decided
that a snake uses its tongue as an insect does its antennæ. And in
watching with unprejudiced eyes the varying play of the organ, the
similarity of action will at once be recognised.
After all, how little can we ever know of these organs beyond
conjecture! Who shall say whether each or both may not possess a
sense of which we ourselves have no true perception? Close observers
are convinced that the tongue of a snake is endowed with peculiar
sensibilities; and it is the more astonishing, therefore, that reason
and observation have so long been blinded and enslaved by prejudice
regarding it.
Some naturalists think that the sense of smell lies in antennæ. The
sense of smell itself is dull in snakes; yet they have means of
ascertaining what other animals learn by smell. Says Huxley, ‘The
great majority of the sensations we call taste are in reality complex
sensations, into which smell and even touch largely enter.’[34] It is
certain that the snake’s tongue is in constant use for some purpose or
other, though beyond what we see of its form and actions we can only
speculate, or, at best, draw conclusions from observation.
Both Dumeril and Lenz give the result of their own observations. The
former, however, devotes so many pages to the tongue and its functions
under the various headings of ‘touch,’ ‘nutrition,’ ‘the senses,’ etc.,
that it will be necessary to curtail a good deal, particularly as this
great author has been quoted by those other physiologists whose words
were given above. Of the sheath into which the tongue is received he
says:—‘Une gaîne cylindrique, charnue; mais l’extrémité de cette
langue est fourchue, ou divisée en deux pointes mobiles, vibrantes,
susceptible de se mouvoir indépendamment l’une de l’autre, de s’écarter
et d’être lancées, pour ainsi dire: ce que la fait regarder par le
vulgaire comme une sorte de darte, auquel même quelques peintres ont
donné dans leurs tableaux la forme d’un fer de flêche. Le vrai est que
cette langue est molle, humide, très faible, et que l’on a fait des
conjectures, plutôt sur les usages auquels on l’a cru destinée, que
sur l’utilité réelle dont elle peut être aux serpents dans l’acte de
la deglutition; car les serpents ne mâchent jamais leurs alimens.’[35]
‘Quoiqu’on ignore le véritable usage de la langue humide et charnue que
les serpents brandissent et font continuellement sortir de la bouche
et vibrer dans l’air, il est facile de concevoir qu’à cause de la
forme cylindrique et de son etroitesse elle ne pourrait faciliter la
mastication, quand même les dents seraient propres de cet usage.’[36]
This first volume of _Erpétologie générale_ treats of all reptiles
inclusively; but in the sixth volume, where the _ophidia_ particularly
are introduced, the tongue is, with the rest of the organs, more
minutely described. Some repetition necessarily occurs; but there is
still a good deal that will repay perusal.
After stating that in serpents the sense of touch is dull, on account
of the integument, and the absence of what may be regarded as tactile
organs, and that the sense of smell is dull, the nostrils being feebly
developed, Dumeril adds: ‘The tongue, though fleshy, very mobile, and
constantly moist, is rather an especial instrument for touch, for the
action of lapping, and for other functions, than to perceive the nature
of liquids;’ in other words, than as an organ of _taste_. ‘It is,
however, very remarkable; though smooth and even above, it is furnished
with little fringes or papillæ along the sides. Notwithstanding its
length and narrowness, it is singularly protractile and retractile; and
in its exceedingly rapid vibrations has impressed the vulgar with the
idea that it is formed with the two spear-like points. It is clothed
with a delicate skin.’[37]
Lenz made many interesting experiments. In his work he gives us the
result of these, and also what some other German ophiologists had seen
and done. He observed how entirely the snake trusted to its tongue
in any unusual circumstances; the all-important member was then in
ceaseless activity. Confined in a glass jar containing wine or any
liquid that the snake did not like, the tongue was ever agitated.
Crawling up the side, the tongue was in constant request to feel the
glass (as may be often seen at the Zoological Gardens); and on arriving
at the top, the head was turned this way and that, and then bent over
the edge, as if to make certain that no further obstacle existed; the
tongue not for one instant quiet, but exserted sometimes as far forward
as the whole length of the head, telling to its owner all that the
other senses could not discover.
Permitting it to touch his hand, he felt it like the sweep of a thread,
so light and delicate. Too fine and flexible to injure any surface, the
slightest touch of one or both the tips suffices for intelligence. Nay,
sometimes without even touching—that is, without positive contact, but
by some subtle sense, it seems to act as guide.
When the snake is excited by fear or alarm, or when in a strange place,
the activity of the tongue is so great, the vibrations are so rapid,
that the eye cannot follow them. It is like the play of electricity.
So far from participating in deglutition, the snake withdraws the
slender instrument into its sheath, which, while feeding, is safely
closed. For this highly-endowed organ is so guarded against injury,
that the reptile has not only a place of safety provided, but power
to close the mouth of its scabbard, lest dust or other irritating
particles should enter.
We have only to reflect upon and to observe the habits of snakes to
perceive the importance of their tongue to them. For the most part
nocturnal, winding their way under tangled masses of vegetation, often
in dark caves, holes, crevices, and obscure retreats, with their eyes
so placed that they can see neither before nor under them, and with
other senses only feebly developed, the tongue with its sensitive
papillæ feels its way, and conveys impressions to its owner.
Cats have their whiskers to help them in the dark; moles and mice have
their quick sense of smell to guide them; all nocturnal animals are
gifted in some manner or another, but snakes have only their tongue.
We can now imagine the helpless condition of the reptile if deprived of
the tongue! Rudolph Effeldt, of whom Lenz speaks as the ‘most eminent
observer of living snakes,’ found that when deprived of the tongue,
they would neither eat nor drink, and, of course, died after a while.
But Lenz had some snakes sent him which had been deprived of their
tongues, and he observed that though for a time dull and declining,
they did recover, and by and by ate as usual. From which we can only
conclude that snakes, like other animals, differ in their powers of
endurance. Some survive mutilation and suffering, some do not.
Another error in illustrations is to represent the tongue far extended
while the mouth is wide open. Snakes very rarely open their mouths and
use their tongues at the same time. Indeed, excepting to gape, the
snake does _not_ generally open its mouth; nor invariably keep it open
while advancing on its prey, as illustrations often represent.
Nature has further provided for the safety of the tongue by leaving a
small opening in the upper lip, or at the point of the muzzle, just
where no teeth are in the way, so that the snake can use its tongue
without exposing the sheath and mouth to injury. This ‘chink in the
rostral shield,’ to use technical language, permits the free exit of
the tongue and the independent actions of the two muscles of which
it is formed, enabling the reptile to hold the two fine tips close
together as one tip, while passing the tongue through the narrow chink,
and to expand them afterwards.
Lenz never observed any dust or small particles adhering to the tongue;
but Mr. Arthur Nicols, the author of _Zoological Notes_, informs me
that he _has_ noticed little fragments of rubbish cling to the tongue
and carried into the mouth. Dr. Cantor also says: ‘Sea snakes make no
use of the tongue while _in_ the water, but considerable use of it as
a feeler when out of the water.’ He has noticed ‘several Indian land
snakes use it to bring into the mouth various small bodies, as stones,
sand, twigs, which they swallow to stimulate digestion.’
This is curious and noteworthy. The power or volition which can control
the sheath and close the valve can, no doubt, exclude these foreign
particles; as, while lapping, the mouth must be moistened as well as
the interior of the sheath, both it and the tongue requiring frequent
lubrication.
But we have now reached the confines of speculation. There is enough of
real fact about this ‘horrid forked tongue’ to interest and astonish
us. We find it guarded, aided, especially provided for, and especially
constructed and endowed; especially _harmless_ also. To the owner its
importance ranks not second even to the eyes.
The importance of the antennæ to insects is evident to all who have
ever watched the play of those active and beautifully-elaborate organs,
their infinitely varying forms (often many times the length of the
insect itself), their ceaseless play and independent action. Constantly
waving, they lightly touch every contiguous object; investigating on
all sides, they convey to insect intelligence all it requires to know
regarding its environments. Like a herald or a scout, they literally
‘spy out the land,’ and thus become a guide and a guard to the tiny
feeble creature which possesses them. Through them the owner learns all
that is needful for its well-being.
Much as an insect uses these exquisitely-constructed antennæ, so does
a snake its long, slender, pliant, bifurcate, and highly-sensitive
tongue. Ever busy, ever vigilant, exploring while barely touching each
surface within reach, yet by night and by day conveying with that
slight contact all necessary information to its owner. Sent out with
the speed of a flash, it telegraphs back with like quickness the result
of its discoveries.
If we may assign intelligence to any single organ, we might affirm that
there is more of what we consider rational intelligence in the tongue
of a snake than in any other of its perceptive faculties. Probably the
most important knowledge demanded by the reptile is conveyed, or, at
least, confirmed by this organ.
‘_Colorée_,’ says Dumeril of the tongue, as botanists say of the part
of a plant ordinarily green, as, for instance, a calyx; ‘coloured,’ but
not what colour. This is precisely as we may describe the colour of a
snake’s tongue. My attention was first drawn to this on reading one of
Dr. Arthur Stradling’s communications to _Land and Water_, April 2,
1881. ‘It would be interesting to know why some snakes have red tongues
and others black,’ he writes. ‘Here beside me, in a glass case, are two
little snakes, both belonging to the same genus (_Tropidonotus_)—a
seven-banded (_T. leberis_), and a moccasin (_T. fasciatus_), both
hailing from the United States, and both alike in their habits and
choice of food; yet it is a case of _rouge et noir_ with their lingual
appendages.’
After reading this, I noticed the varieties of colour in all the
‘forked tongues’ that exhibited themselves at the Zoological Gardens.
Black or very dark tongues, I think, predominate; and next to black,
brownish or olive tints, resembling those of the snake itself. But
not as a rule; for some very light snakes have dark tongues, and the
converse. In two small green tree snakes of distinct genera, one had
a pale pink or flesh-coloured tongue, and the other a black one. Some
tongues are almost white, while a few are red. There seems to be as
much caprice as in the colour of the human hair and eyes; and as
physiologists have traced some sort of connection or relationship with
complexions and constitutions in these, so ophiologists may, after a
time, discover a similar relation or sympathy between the colour of a
snake’s tongue and its integument or eyes. At present, I have observed
only so far as that two entirely black and two entirely green snakes
may present four distinct colours as regards their four tongues, and
that many tints of brown, black, and pink may be seen in the tongues of
as many snakes.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]