_ANACONDA AND ANGUIS FRAGILIS._
MAXIMUS and MINIMUS. Yet by right of its name _Anguis_, our little
slow-worm—truly a lizard—claims a place in these pages; by right
of form also, and by right of promise; and still further, because on
the authority of some of our eminent physiologists there is in the
dentition of some of the boas an affinity with lizards; and inasmuch
as this little limbless lizard affords a good example of those whose
ancestry, as Huxley tells us, found it profitable to do without their
legs and become snakes, she shall be introduced in company with the
largest of all her ophidian cousins.
Anaconda also, in having vestiges of hind limbs, affords in these
another example of what Darwin calls atrophied organs, remnants of what
were once, no doubt, a pair of very excellent saurian legs.
Illustrious naturalists who were authorities in their day—as, for
instance, Linnæus and Cuvier—included slow-worms with serpents, the
links between them being so close. They have also been included among
the burrowing snakes, many of which have no better right to the name
of _Anguis_. With the advance of herpetology more minute distinctions
of classification occur, and anatomy now proves in the ‘brittle snake’
a stronger relationship to lizards than to serpents. It has eyelids,
like the lizards; no palate teeth, non-extensible jaw-bones, and more
consolidated head-bones; so that you never see the facial distortion
in these lizard-snakes when feeding, that is so striking in the true
ophidians. It has scales alike all round, and also a distinct neck and
a vestige of sternum and pelvic bones whence formerly two pairs of legs
proceeded. From an evolutionary point of view, therefore, it is even in
advance of Anaconda, which has still its ‘spurs’ to get rid of.
Space need not here be occupied in a recapitulation of other features
and the manners and habits of _Anguis fragilis_ beyond what the subject
in hand demands; and in connection with this our two anguine heroines
will be found to display one other striking feature in common. For the
rest, in Bell’s _British Reptiles_ it is treated at length. In Wood’s
_Natural History_, also, there is a long and minute account of the
slow-worm, including details of a most interesting character, as being
gathered from personal observations.
Anaconda, however, claims historical priority.
As a water snake it has already been partially described (p. 228), and
some of its synonyms were given in explanation of its scientific name
_Eunectes_, to trace its right to be included among the water snakes,
and _murinus_, to show the nature of its food. Being a native of
tropical America—which embraces many extensive countries and includes
numerous tribes of the aboriginal inhabitants—this serpent is also
known under numerous vernaculars, puzzling enough to the reader of
travels who does not at first sight realize that the book in which he
now reads of the _Matatoro_ describes one region, and the volume in
which he has read of the _Sucariuba_ or of the _Jacumama_ describes
another, and that these are one and the same snake. The spelling and
pronunciation of even the same word among adjacent tribes add to the
perplexity. Among other of Anaconda’s familiar vernaculars, which we
meet with in all South American books of travel, are _Aboma_, _Cucuriù_
or _Cucuriubù_, _El trago venado_, _Camoudi_ or _Kamoudi_, _Sucurujù_,
and others. The name by which it is now generally known, _Anaconda_, or
_Anacondo_, was fixed by Cuvier in 1817.
Very exaggerated ideas as to its size have obtained, probably traceable
to Waterton, who tells us the Spaniards of the Oroonoque positively
affirm that he grows to the length of from seventy to eighty feet; and
that as his name _Matatoro_ implies, he will eat the largest bull.
Before yielding full faith to such stories, we must ascertain whether
that ‘bull’ corresponded in dimensions with our Durham prize ox, or the
miniature bovines of the Himalayas. Hartwig improves upon Anaconda’s
dinner capacities in telling us that the ‘Hideous Reptile will engulph
a horse and its rider, or a whole ox’ (prize ox, no doubt) ‘as far as
its horns.’
Turn we to science and to ocular proof of what Anaconda really is—for
there are and have been living examples in our zoological collections,
and whatever she may have been ‘formerly,’ her modern dimensions rarely
exceed thirty feet.
In the present case her interest lies in her maternal aspect, for
it is the one that was brought to London in 1877 of which we now
speak, and who astonished the ophiological public by giving birth to
fully-developed young ones in April of that year.
In _Land and Water_ of the preceding February, Mr. Frank Buckland
described the arrival of this snake at Liverpool in a box, which with
its occupant weighed over 2 cwt., and of the necessary examination
‘he’ (the snake) was obliged to undergo by Mr. Bartlette previous to
purchase. Being at length conveyed to the Zoological Gardens, ‘he’ was
reported as being thin and as having no inclination to feed, but glad
to remain in ‘his’ bath almost continuously.
It was brought from the vicinity of the Amazons, and must have been
cramped up for many months in this close prison. No wonder it turned at
once into its native element, although the small tank restricted its
movements almost as much as its travelling box. The poor thing was seen
to be suffering discomfort, presumably from its long journey and close
confinement; and one day, when endeavouring to extend itself and move
more at ease in the narrow space between the tank and the front glass,
it forced out the entire frame by the power of its coils. Fortunately
the huge python and two other Anacondas in the same cage at the time
were in a torpid condition; or had those four powerful snakes been
lively or spiteful, and all at liberty at this crisis, grave results
might have accrued. Aid being at hand, the loosened frame was promptly
re-adjusted; but this practical illustration of Anaconda’s powers was a
useful lesson to snake keepers.
The peculiar condition of this snake not being suspected, not even
her sex, the appearance of two fully-developed though dead young ones
on April 2d was an important event in the Ophidarium, and one to be
forthwith chronicled in the _Zoological Society’s Proceedings_. The
secretary, at the ensuing meeting, exhibited the two young Anacondas,
and afforded some interesting details concerning the mother. During
the next few days four more young ones were born, but all dead; and
during several weeks, others in a high state of decomposition were
produced. ‘She might have had a hundred!’ said the keeper, who felt
fully persuaded that she had voluntarily ‘kept them back.’ Four were
well developed; one was partly coiled in the ruptured shell, which was
of a tough, coriaceous texture, white, and as thick as orange peel.
Occurrences of this nature send us to our book-shelves. The python and
some of the boas had laid eggs, and Anaconda might have been expected
to do the same, as we read in the papers that wrote ‘leaders’ on the
event. But suddenly we all discover (‘_we_’ second and third rate
naturalists, who regard the biological professors at a respectful
distance, and aspire only to a printed half column in a similarly
aspiring journal),—we all discover that Cuvier had long ago pointed
out that _l’Eunect murin_ is viviparous (like the regular water
snakes), and that Schlegel had subsequently confirmed the fact from
personal observation. Thus we learn as we go.
Those born dead in London offered no exception, therefore, to the rule,
but were rather to be regarded as one of those cases in which the
mother, under circumstances unpropitious for the production of her
progeny, retards the deposition of her eggs or her young.
Let us picture to ourselves the condition of this poor Anaconda. Just
at the very time when instinct would have guided her to the spot most
favourable for the coming brood, she is transferred from her native
lagoons, and crowded into a dark close box just large enough to contain
her. Though without water for many months, this ‘good swimmer’ arrives
alive, a proof of her astonishing powers of endurance; but she has now
no morass, no lagoon or refreshing river in which to invigorate herself
and aid her natural functions, and the young ones die unborn. The poor
mother soon showed evidence of disease and suffering, and was after a
time mercifully put to death.
There was no possibility of ascertaining the period of gestation in
her case, but there was every reason to regard it as one of postponed
functions, and another illustration of that astonishing capability
described by ophiologists of snakes which ‘may at pleasure,’ _i.e._ at
will, retard the laying of eggs or birth of young!
The prejudice against snakes has been so strong, that there are persons
who would even exclude them from zoological collections. Should these
pages fall under the eye of such persons, they must admit that the
Ophidia in captivity present grand opportunities towards the attainment
of scientific knowledge. These important results far outweigh the less
pleasing spectacles.
* * * * *
And now for our little _Anguis fragilis_, with all her wrong names and
the wrong impressions produced thereby, which, with some particulars
of her behaviour in captivity, shall form the subject of the next
chapter. Here she will, I think, be accepted among those examples of
abnormal incubation which belong to the present one.
Searching for the lovely little _Drosera_ and its attendant exquisite
mosses on ‘The Common’ at Bournemouth (the one close to the town), on
the look-out for lizards also, I saw what at first sight appeared to
be an extremely long, black slug, lying on a smooth little patch of
grass in the sunshine. Approaching to inspect this shining nondescript,
I at once recognised a slow-worm. Being not only entirely and deeply
black, but unusually short and proportionately thicker than any I had
ever seen, the familiar ‘worm’ had not at first sight been identified.
Its short, blunt tail had evidently lost an inch or two; and its bulk
suggested a speedy increase of family. Already I had four others and
a green lizard, the male _Lacerta agilis_, which I had also captured.
The date of ‘Blackie’s’ capture was August 26, 1879; the precise time
being important, because, as just now stated, the period of gestation
depends much on the degree of external warmth that can be had to assist
in maturing the embryo; and, as many of my readers will recollect, very
little sunshine had we that summer. Chilly rains and cloudy weather
marked the season; and to this I attributed the fact that at the end of
August the slow-worm was still enceinte, when, as Bell informs us, its
ordinary time to produce young is June or July.
Taking her up, ‘Blackie’ struggled and kicked, if such a remnant
of tail can be said to ‘kick’ (the action being very similar), and
displayed activity enough to show that she could be quick enough when
occasion required it. Knowing her shy, burrowing instincts, I at once
laid her on the mosses which filled my little basket, and down she
retreated, there remaining without further trouble.
Deposited in a box with the others, she acted similarly, remaining
hidden under the sand and moss, and never showing herself on the
surface, as the rest did whenever a hopeful gleam of sunshine tempted
them. Just the tip of her little black, shining nose was sometimes
visible, as if she were getting a breath of fresh air on the sly.
One of the other slow-worms—already several weeks in my
possession—had appeared to be in a similar condition, and was much
wilder than the rest, effecting escape and circumventing me in a
variety of ways, while her companions were comparatively tame and
contented. The green lizard, also, had to be well watched, being
exceedingly active, darting away like a flash whenever the cover of the
box was removed for an instant. Their cage was necessarily and cruelly
small, in anticipation of a journey to London, and that I might have
them in my own keeping while on the move, which I expected to be for
some weeks. It was covered with a net secured by a strong elastic; but
they could easily reach the top, and managed most cleverly to push up
this net, and so get out. The way in which one of them called ‘Lizzie’
achieved this, is described in the ensuing chapter. Here we must keep
to our subject.
The box was generally close to an open window, in order to catch any
chance ray of sunshine; but the truant propensities of the inmates
necessitated a frequent investigation, and a raking up of the moss
and sand with which they were supplied, much too often for Blackie’s
peace of mind. She continued wild and alarmed, defeating search by
quick movements below. The ever active lizard, too, had frequently to
be hunted out; for whether he had retreated below, or had gone off
altogether, could not be ascertained unless the box and its inmates
were turned out bodily to count heads—a species of roll-call not
tending to tranquillize the unquiet pair. These trifles are mentioned
to show the sort of life the poor little captives led for many weeks.
They were raked over or turned out literally topsy-turvy every few
hours. Only at night had they any peace; for being well disposed
reptiles, who kept regular hours and retired early to rest, but _not_
rising betimes in the morning, they could be safely left uncovered
until and unless sunshine enticed them upwards.
All ate and drank regularly but Blackie, who, so far as I was able to
ascertain, was a total abstainer.
Thus, in their incommodious box, they lived until the middle of
October, when (after making visits on the way, and secretly harbouring
my ‘snakes’ like stolen booty) I arrived in London. At that time the
sun seemed trying to atone for its summer deficiencies, and whenever
any of its grateful warmth could be obtained through the London
atmosphere the lizards were deposited in a window, but Blackie remained
always below. Suddenly she also grew refractory. She got out of the
box, and had frequent falls from the table to the floor. So had the
other restless one, necessitating still more frequent roll-calls, and
bringing troublous times on themselves. I had observed in a former pet,
that when the season of hibernation was approaching, _Anguis fragilis_
had exhibited an errant disposition, and I had attributed it to a
natural instinct to seek a winter retreat; but in the present case only
these two tried to get away, and in both there appeared to be a similar
motive.
On one occasion, late in October, Blackie could not be found for
several days, and was even given up for lost, when, on removing a
number of books that, when unpacked, had been temporarily stacked
against the wall, there lay the little black slow-worm in so narrow a
space between a quarto volume and the wall that it seemed impossible
she could have got there. Strange to tell, the poor little thing no
longer struggled to get away, but seemed even glad to be lifted and
fondled and restored to her moss.
On the 2nd November, some frosty days having arrived, and no more
worms and flies being procurable, I thought it time to put them away
for their winter sleep, having been so instructed by Mr. Green, the
taxidermist at Bournemouth, of whom I had purchased several. So, having
dismissed all idea of an increase in their numbers, I prepared a large
deep jar and furnished it with soft hay, moss, and sand, enough for
them to burrow into, intending to consign it and them to an attic.
The first thing on the morning of the cold foggy 3rd of November
1879, I went as usual to examine the box and its inmates—as yet in
my sitting-room. Lifting the moss to count heads, I saw what on the
first glance in that half daylight seemed to be a small tender snail,
apparently injured in some way, and crawling extended in a wonderfully
thin line from its shell. What presented a snail to my thoughts was
because a few days previously—insects being now no more, and other
food hard to procure—my maid had brought in some small snails as an
offering for the ‘snakes.’ These having been declined, I wondered to
see one in the box, but turned away faint-hearted from the unpleasant
duty of removing a half-crushed snail, as I took it to be.
After being fortified with a hot breakfast, daylight being now
brighter, I began with dainty fingers to remove the moss. Judge of
my amazement to find three of the loveliest little tiny scraps of
life, wriggling, twisting, diving, and defiantly—let me rather say
intelligently, or instinctively—using their tongues like grown-up
slow-worms. They were Blackie’s children. Not a doubt about it! Three
were free from the shell, one of which was still connected with it by
an inch or more of the umbilical cord; and within the shell—a mere
membrane—was some yellow yoke and a good deal of glaire, so that the
membrane still retained the rounded form. Possibly I had ruptured
this egg in disturbing the moss. There was another egg quite perfect,
and within that could be discerned the little creature curled up, and
presenting those convolutions which in the half light had looked so
like a small snail shell. On tenderly taking up this perfect egg, the
wee reptile within threw itself into such an agitation that it burst
its prison house, and emerged prematurely into the cold, rough world. A
yolk as big as a hemp seed and much of the glaire remained behind. It
was a precisely similar case to that of a young Typhlops in Jamaica,
described by Gosse, where the reptile ‘crawled nimbly out of a ruptured
egg, but remained attached to the vitellus.’ In the present instance
the umbilical slit was ominously gaping, showing that the poor little
creature was not nearly ready to battle with life. In the other that
was not yet wholly detached, the slit was less, and in the two which
had hatched themselves (no doubt during the night) it was nearly closed.
During the day six more were born, and four of the six in the
membranous shell. _Anguis fragilis_ is always considered to be
viviparous; but so are vipers, and here in three distinct cases under
public observation the young have been produced in a membranous
covering.
The activity of these tiny creatures was marvellous. If meddled with,
they seemed as if agitated by a galvanic battery. Their whole length
vibrated with nervous irritability. In colour they were black beneath
and a silvery white above, with a spot of black on the head, and a
fine, thread-like line of black all down their back. The head was the
largest part, the body tapering gradually to the tail. They were in
length about 2-1/2 inches. Very bright black eyes had they, and manners
like the adults, pressing their head against the hand, or wherever
they were, with the instinct to burrow and hide. Their silvery aspect,
together with their mobile susceptibility, was truly mercurial. To hold
or retain them was simply impossible; as well try to restrain a stream
of quicksilver. In a fury of agitation they would leap and turn over
and twist themselves away like eels. Flaccid and tender and apparently
boneless, the difficulty of taking up and restraining such shreds of
vitality was no less difficult than interesting. The wee, half-matured
fury that rushed impetuously into the world spent itself in restless
efforts to dive into the earth. It grew gradually more feeble, and died
the third day. Altogether there were eight or more. Three were hatched
before I saw them, the rest were produced in the membranous ‘shell,’
and in all the shells the remains of the yolk were seen. A remarkable
feature was that these remains of egg all vanished in a manner that
wholly baffled my investigations. The yellow yolk was too palpable to
become absorbed in the moss and sand; it could not have escaped notice.
With the greatest care I searched and examined every spray of moss,
every blade of grass, over and over again, but could discern no trace;
neither the skin nor any slimy glaire, nor one tinge of yolk, nor any
globulous collections of moisture whatever. Blackie did not eat them;
for she remained at the bottom of the box while the cares of maternity
were upon her, never moving. There was no possible doubt about her
being the mother of the brood. Her companions in captivity came to the
surface as usual during an hour or two of sunshine, and then retired
underground.
In removing the moss that first day to look for Blackie, I saw by an
enlargement at the lower part of the body that her family was still
increasing; and if such a creature _can_ appeal, the look with which
she feebly raised her head as if to entreat not to be disturbed, was
one not to be disregarded. So I left her unmolested the whole day, and
indeed until she began to show herself and move about like the rest,
coming up if enticed by sunshine, and retiring early below, as they all
did daily.
I communicated this interesting event to Mr. Frank Buckland at the
time, and to the editor of a zoological journal, inviting both to
inspect the interesting family. I also sent a short account of the
November brood to _Land and Water_. Mr. Buckland was, I believe, absent
from town; and my MS. (now before me) was returned from _Land and
Water_ for ‘want of space.’
Evidently the November brood were after all but sorry little
slow-worms, beneath the notice of scientific eyes, and unduly endowed
with imaginary importance in the estimation of their enthusiastic
guardian!
In my careful examination of the contents of the cage next day, in
order to ascertain the chance of yet other silvery shreds of life,
I observed a little dry, globular substance, which had a somewhat
suspicious look. It was firm to the touch, and on breaking it, showed
a veiny sort of conglomerate appearance, as of layers or convolutions.
Several of these hard, dry masses I afterwards found, all on being
broken presenting a similar appearance. Then it suddenly occurred to
me that they must be dried-up eggs of the other slow-worm, and that
she must have deposited them some time previously. The surface of sand
was easily accounted for by the frequent turning over and stirring up
of the soft rubbish in the cage. At first thinking only of Blackie,
and being satisfied that these singular little masses contained no
life, I threw them away; when, too late, resolving to keep some and
investigate their nature, only one more could be found; but this one
was preserved in spirits of wine, together with two or three of the
tiny slow-worms. The female that conjecturally laid them had frequently
got out of the box and sustained many falls to the floor; which, even
had other circumstances been propitious, might sufficiently account
for the destruction of embryo life. But in addition to accidents were
the extremely cold and sunless summer and the ten weeks of disturbed
and comfortless existence; and then the green lizard was for ever
scrambling about and scratching the earth in all directions. He alone
was enough to make a conglomerate of the unmatured eggs.
The remaining one of the supposed eggs was put aside with other
specimens, and almost forgotten till the present time. Looking at it
now after it has been two years in the spirits of wine, I find the
sandy surface washed off and deposited as sediment, and in a partly
torn and ruptured membrane behold a perfect little _Anguis fragilis_
quite as big as those others which were hatched. Whether this happens
to be a more perfect embryo than those that were hardened, or whether
it has grown softer and more distinguishable through being in liquid,
it is impossible to say, except that here it is. There were, then,
_two broods_, as had been anticipated, and in both cases eight or
nine. The precise date of the hard eggs is not clear; probably they
were produced first. The warmth of the room at length did for Blackie
what the sun had failed to do; and even then her young ones were not
fully matured. The other one, through many vicissitudes, in common
with her big cousin Anaconda, produced bad eggs. Truly are not these
two—or say only one—is not Blackie’s case a verification of what the
author of _British Reptiles_ affirmed of these slow-worms: ‘There is
no doubt that the duration of the period of gestation must depend on
the temperature to which the animal is exposed,’ even if this be not
another instance of retarded deposition.
A word more, in conclusion, about the tiny progeny.
To the touch having no more bone or substance than an earth-worm of
the same size, their ability to burrow seemed marvellous. When placed
in the sunshine—such as there was of it—they basked in apparent
satisfaction, retiring betimes and working themselves underground to
the depth of four or five inches. Often two or more were missing,
when every scrap of earth and moss had to be spread on a newspaper
and minutely separated to search for them. Indeed, I have never felt
certain whether the family originally consisted of eight, nine, or
ten, having a strong suspicion that their grown-up relatives or the
lizard had supposed them to be worms placed there for their express
delectation. And when, one day, the number was reduced to six, and the
green lizard looked unusually plump and impudent, the young fry were
quickly transferred to a separate home, a glass bowl, through which
they could be watched without molestation, and up which they could not
possibly crawl. The smallest of worms (the weather being warm again)
and a cockle-shell of water, the softest of sand and the prettiest of
mosses, ministered to their comfort; but though they grew very slightly
and their colour became more defined, I do not think they partook of
food or water during the whole six weeks that they were thus watched
and cared for. One from the first day was always livelier than the
rest. It was one of those that had been hatched first or possibly
born alive, being perfect, and with the navel closed when I had first
discovered it. Through the glass we could see them deep down in the
earth, and so close to the side that they could nearly always be easily
counted. Not at all sociable were the little ones, one here, another
there, as if getting as far apart as their home permitted. In the
evening, if placed on the table near the lamp, they seemed to mistake
that for sunlight, and would come up and ramble restlessly about on the
surface for several hours. Their vitality was amazing.
One evening when showing them to a friend and permitting their antics
upon the table, one of them was suddenly and mysteriously missing. We
had carefully guarded the edge of the table; indeed, they were well in
the centre of it, and it seemed impossible for them to fall off. We
searched the carpet, notwithstanding, and with most careful scrutiny;
and finally deciding that the truant must have been replaced with some
moss unobserved, gave up the search.
Next morning, on entering the room, my maid thus greeted me: ‘Lor’,
Ma’am! if I didn’t find one of your little snakes down on the carpet
close to your chair, and for all the world I as near as possible
tramped on it. I put it in along with the others, and it worked its way
down in no time!’
Imagine that poor little shred of life passing the night in frantic
efforts to burrow into the carpet and retire below according to custom!
Whenever held or touched, their first impulse was to conceal themselves
beneath, and they would dive and butt with impetuous agitation in their
endeavours to push themselves out of sight.
The event in the family had caused me to postpone the hibernating
arrangements; so as long as the others ate (a thaw enabling us to dig
up worms again) and courted daylight, I kept them in the warm room. But
as will be remembered, very severe frost set in that winter (1879-80),
and no more worms could be dug up. While hibernating, no pangs of
hunger could assail them; and though it cost me an effort to consign
those beautiful wee things to the cold and gloom of a temporary tomb,
yet it seemed the kindest thing to do under the circumstances; so, in
company with their unsympathizing mother and cousins, they were stowed
away in moss and darkness, but in a box instead of the jar. Well!—that
is all! My ignorance and its sad results were alluded to on p. 165. I
can only hope the poor little victims died insensible to their cruel
fate.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]