It is a pity that the present age is so completely absorbed in
materialities, at a time when the facilities are so singularly great
for a philosophy which would inquire into the constitution of our
moral nature. In the North Pacific, we are in contact with tribes of
savages ripening, sensibly to the eye, into civilised communities; and
we are able to watch the change as dispassionately as if we were in
our studies examining the wonders of the minute creation through a
microscope. In America, we have before us a living model, blind, mute,
deaf, and without the sense of smell; communicating with the external
world by the sense of touch alone; yet endowed with a rare
intelligence, which permits us to see, through the fourfold veil that
shrouds her, the original germs of the human character.[1] Nearer
home, we have been from time to time attracted and astonished by the
spectacle of children, born of European parents, emerging from forests
where they had been lost for a series of years, fallen back, not into
the moral condition of savages, but of wild beasts, with the
sentiments and even the instincts of their kind obliterated for ever.
And now we have several cases before us, occurring in India, of the
same lapses from humanity, involving circumstances curious in
themselves, but more important than curious, as throwing a strange
light upon what before was an impenetrable mystery. It is to these we
mean to direct our attention on the present occasion; but before doing
so, it will be well just to glance at the natural history of the wild
children of Europe.[2]
The most remarkable specimen, and the best type of the class, was
found in the year 1725, in a wood in Hanover. With the appearance of a
human being--of a boy about thirteen years of age--he was in every
respect a wild animal, walking on all-fours, feeding on grass and
moss, and lodging in trees. When captured, he exhibited a strong
repugnance to clothing; he could not be induced to lie on a bed,
frequently tearing the clothes to express his indignation; and in the
absence of his customary lair among the boughs of a tree, he crouched
in a corner of the room to sleep. Raw food he devoured with relish,
more especially cabbage-leaves and other vegetables, but turned away
from the sophistications of cookery. He had no articulate language,
expressing his emotions only by the sounds emitted by various animals.
Although only five feet three inches, he was remarkably strong; he
never exhibited any interest in the female sex; and even in his old
age--for he was supposed to be seventy-three when he died--it was only
in external manners he had advanced from the character of a wild beast
to that of a good-tempered savage, for he was still without
consciousness of the Great Spirit.
In other children that were caught subsequently to Peter, for that was
the name they gave him, the same character was observable, although
with considerable modifications. One of them, a young girl of twelve
or thirteen, was not merely without sympathy for persons of the male
sex, but she held them all her life in great abhorrence. Her temper
was ungovernable; she was fond of blood, which she sucked from the
living animal; and was something more than suspected of the cannibal
propensity. On one occasion, she was seen to dive as naturally as an
otter in a lake, catch a fish, and devour it on the spot. Yet this
girl eventually acquired language; was even able to give some
indistinct account of her early career in the woods; and towards the
close of her life, when subdued by long illness, exhibited few traces
of having once been a wild animal. Another, a boy of eleven or twelve,
was caught in the woods of Canne, in France. He was impatient,
capricious, violent; rushing even through crowded streets like an
ill-trained dog; slovenly and disgusting in his manners; affected with
spasmodic motions of the head and limbs; biting and scratching all who
displeased him; and always, when at comparative rest, balancing his
body like a wild animal in a menagerie. His senses were incapable of
being affected by anything not appealing to his personal feelings: a
pistol fired close to his head excited little or no emotion, yet he
heard distinctly the cracking of a walnut, or the touch of a hand upon
the key which kept him captive. The most delicious perfumes, or the
most fetid exhalations, were the same thing to his sense of smell,
because these did not affect, one way or other, his relish for his
food, which was of a disgusting nature, and which he dragged about the
floor like a dog, eating it when besmeared with filth. Like almost all
the lower animals, he was affected by the changes of the weather; but
on some of these occasions, his feelings approached to the human in
their manifestations. When he saw the sun break suddenly from a cloud,
he expressed his joy by bursting into convulsive peals of laughter;
and one morning, when he awoke, on seeing the ground covered with
snow, he leaped out of bed, rushed naked into the garden, rolled
himself over and over in the snow, and stuffing handfuls of it into
his mouth, devoured it eagerly. Sometimes he shewed signs of a true
madness, wringing his hands, gnashing his teeth, and becoming
formidable to those about him. But in other moods, the phenomena of
nature seemed to tranquillise and sadden him. When the severity of the
season, as we are informed by the French physician who had charge of
him, had driven every other person out of the garden, he still
delighted to walk there; and after taking many turns, would seat
himself beside a pond of water. Here his convulsive motions, and the
continual balancing of his whole body, diminished, and gave way to a
more tranquil attitude; his face gradually assumed the character of
sorrow or melancholy reverie, while his eyes were steadfastly fixed on
the surface of the water, and he threw into it, from time to time,
some withered leaves. In like manner, on a moonlight night, when the
rays of the moon entered his room, he seldom failed to awake, and to
place himself at the window. Here he would remain for a considerable
time, motionless, with his neck extended, and his eyes fixed on the
moonlight landscape, and wrapped in a kind of contemplative ecstasy,
the silence of which was interrupted only by profound inspirations,
accompanied by a slight plaintive noise.
We have only to add, that by the anxious care of the physician, and a
thousand ingenious contrivances, the senses of this human animal, with
the exception of his hearing, which always remained dull and
impassive, were gradually stimulated, and he was even able at length
to pronounce two or three words. Here his history breaks off.
The scene of these extraordinary narratives has hitherto been confined
to Europe; but we have now to draw attention to the wild children of
India. It happens, fortunately, that in this case the character of the
testimony is unimpeachable; for although brought forward in a brief,
rough pamphlet, published in a provincial town, and merely said to be
'by an Indian Official,' we recognise both in the manner and matter
the pen of Colonel Sleeman, the British Resident at the court of
Lucknow, whose invaluable services in putting down thuggee and
dacoitee in India we have already described to our readers.[3]
The district of Sultanpoor, in the kingdom of Oude, a portion of the
great plain of the Ganges, is watered by the Goomtee River, a
navigable stream, about 140 yards broad, the banks of which are much
infested by wolves. These animals are protected by the superstition of
the Hindoos, and to such an extent, that a village community within
whose boundaries a single drop of their blood has been shed, is
believed to be doomed to destruction. The wolf is safe--but from a
very different reason--even from those vagrant tribes who have no
permanent abiding-place, but bivouac in the jungle, and feed upon
jackals, reptiles--anything, and who make a trade of catching and
selling such wild animals as they consider too valuable to eat. The
reason why the vulpine ravager is spared by these wretches is--_that
wolves devour children_! Not, however, that the wanderers have any
dislike to children, but they are tempted by the jewels with which
they are adorned; and knowing the dens of the animals, they make this
fearful gold-seeking a part of their business. The adornment of their
persons with jewellery is a passion with the Hindoos which nothing can
overcome. Vast numbers of women--even those of the most infamous
class--are murdered for the sake of their ornaments, yet the lesson is
lost upon the survivors. Vast numbers of children, too, fall victims
in the same way, and from the same cause, or are permitted, by those
who shrink from murder, to be carried off and devoured by the wolves;
yet no Indian mother can withstand the temptation to bedizen her
child, whenever it is in her power, with bracelets, necklaces, and
other ornaments of gold and silver. So much is necessary as an
introduction to the incidents that follow.
One day, a trooper, like Spenser's gentle knight,'was pricking on the
plain,' near the banks of the Goomtee. He was within a short distance
of Chandour, a village about ten miles from Sultanpoor, the capital of
the district, when he halted to observe a large female wolf and her
whelps come out of a wood near the roadside, and go down to the river
to drink. There were four whelps. Four!--surely not more than three;
for the fourth of the juvenile company was as little like a wolf as
possible. The horseman stared; for in fact it was a boy, going on
all-fours like his comrades, evidently on excellent terms with them
all, and guarded, as well as the rest, by the dam with the same
jealous care which that exemplary mother, but unpleasant neighbour,
bestows upon her progeny. The trooper sat still in his saddle watching
this curious company till they had satisfied their thirst; but as soon
as they commenced their return, he put spurs to his horse, to
intercept the boy. Off ran the wolves, and off ran the boy
helter-skelter--the latter keeping close up with the dam; and the
horseman, owing to the unevenness of the ground, found it impossible
to overtake them before they had all entered their den. He was
determined, nevertheless, to attain his object, and assembling some
people from the neighbouring village with pickaxes, they began to dig
in the usual way into the hole. Having made an excavation of six or
eight feet, the garrison evacuated the place--the wolf, the three
whelps, and the boy, leaping suddenly out and taking to flight. The
trooper instantly threw himself upon his horse, and set off in
pursuit, followed by the fleetest of the party; and the ground over
which they had to fly being this time more even, he at length headed
the chase, and turned the whole back upon the men on foot. These
secured the boy, and, according to prescriptive rule, allowed the wolf
and her three whelps to go on their way.
'They took the boy to the village,' says Colonel Sleeman, 'but had to
tie him, for he was very restive, and struggled hard to rush into
every hole or den they came near. They tried to make him speak, but
could get nothing from him but an angry growl or snarl. He was kept
for several days at the village, and a large crowd assembled every day
to see him. When a grown-up person came near him, he became alarmed,
and tried to steal away; but when a child came near him, he rushed at
it with a fierce snarl, like that of a dog, and tried to bite it. When
any cooked meat was put near him, he rejected it in disgust; but when
raw meat was offered, he seized it with avidity, put it upon the
ground, under his hands, like a dog, and ate it with evident pleasure.
He would not let any one come near while he was eating, but he made no
objection to a dog's coming and sharing his food with him.'
This wild boy was sent to Captain Nicholetts, the European officer
commanding the 1st regiment of Oude Local Infantry, stationed at
Sultanpoor. He lived only three years after his capture, and died in
August 1850. According to Captain Nicholetts' account of him, he was
very inoffensive except when teased, and would then growl and snarl.
He came to eat anything that was thrown to him, although much
preferring raw flesh. He was very fond of uncooked bones, masticating
them apparently with as much ease as meat; and he had likewise a still
more curious partiality for small stones and earth. So great was his
appetite, that he has been known to eat half a lamb at one meal; and
buttermilk he would drink by the pitcher full without seeming to draw
breath. He would never submit to wear any article of dress even in the
coldest weather; and when a quilt stuffed with cotton was given to
him, 'he tore it to pieces, and ate a portion of it--cotton and
all--with his bread every day.' The countenance of the boy was
repulsive, and his habits filthy in the extreme. He was never known to
smile; and although fond of dogs and jackals, formed no attachment
for any human being. Even when a favourite pariah dog, which used to
feed with him, was shot for having fallen under suspicion of taking
the lion's share of the meal, he appeared to be quite indifferent. He
sometimes walked erect; but generally ran on all-fours--more
especially to his food when it was placed at a distance from him.
Another of these wolf-children was carried off from his parents at
Chupra (twenty miles from Sultanpoor), when he was three years of age.
They were at work in the field, the man cutting his crop of wheat and
pulse, and the woman gleaning after him, with the child sitting on the
grass. Suddenly, there rushed into the family party, from behind a
bush, a gaunt wolf, and seizing the boy by the loins, ran off with him
to a neighbouring ravine. The mother followed with loud screams, which
brought the whole village to her assistance; but they soon lost sight
of the wolf and his prey, and the boy was heard no more of for six
years. At the end of that time, he was found by two sipahis
associating, as in the former case, with wolves, and caught by the leg
when he had got half-way into the den. He was very ferocious when
drawn out, biting at his deliverers, and seizing hold of the barrel of
one of their guns with his teeth. They secured him, however, and
carried him home, when they fed him on raw flesh, hares, and birds,
till they found the charge too onerous, and gave him up to the public
charity of the village till he should be recognised by his parents.
This actually came to pass. His mother, by that time a widow, hearing
a report of the strange boy at Koeleapoor, hastened to the place from
her own village of Chupra, and by means of indubitable marks upon his
person, recognised her child, transformed into a wild animal. She
carried him home with her; but finding him destitute of natural
affection, and in other respects wholly irreclaimable, at the end of
two months she left him to the common charity of the village.
When this boy drank, he dipped his face in the water, and sucked. The
front of his elbows and knees had become hardened from going on
all-fours with the wolves. The village boys amused themselves by
throwing frogs to him, which he caught and devoured; and when a
bullock died and was skinned, he resorted to the carcass like the dogs
of the place, and fed upon the carrion. His body smelled offensively.
He remained in the village during the day, for the sake of what he
could get to eat, but always went off to the jungle at night. In other
particulars, his habits resembled those already described. We have
only to add respecting him, that, in November 1850, he was sent from
Sultanpoor, under the charge of his mother, to Colonel Sleeman--then
probably at Lucknow--but something alarming him on the way, he ran
into a jungle, and had not been recovered at the date of the last
dispatch.
We pass over three other narratives of a similar kind, that present
nothing peculiar, and shall conclude with one more specimen of the
Indian wolf-boy. This human animal was captured, like the first we
have described, by a trooper, with the assistance of another person on
foot. When placed on the pommel of the saddle, he tore the horseman's
clothes, and, although his hands were tied, contrived to bite him
severely in several places. He was taken to Bondee, where the rajah
took charge of him till he was carried off by Janoo, a lad who was
khidmutgar (table-attendant) to a travelling Cashmere merchant. The
boy was then apparently about twelve years of age, and went upon
all-fours, although he could stand, and go awkwardly on his legs when
threatened. Under Janoo's attention, however, in beating and rubbing
his legs with oil, he learned to walk like other human beings. But the
vulpine smell continued to be very offensive, although his body was
rubbed for some months with mustard-seed soaked in water, and he was
compelled during the discipline to live on rice, pulse, and bread. He
slept under the mango-tree, where Janoo himself lodged, but was always
tied to a tent-pin.
One night, when the wild boy was lying asleep under his tree, Janoo
saw two wolves come up stealthily, and smell at him. They touched him,
and he awoke; and rising from his reclining posture, he put his hands
upon the heads of his visitors, and they licked his face. They capered
round him, and he threw straw and leaves at them. The khidmutgar gave
up his protégé for lost; but presently he became convinced that they
were only at play, and he kept quiet. He at length gained confidence
enough to drive the wolves away; but they soon came back, and resumed
their sport for a time. The next night, three playfellows made their
appearance, and in a few nights after, four. They came four or five
times, till Janoo lost all his fear of them. When the Cashmere
merchant returned to Lucknow, where his establishment was, Janoo still
carried his pet with him, tied by a string to his own arm; and, to
make him useful according to his capacity, with a bundle on his head.
At every jungle they passed, however, the boy would throw down the
bundle, and attempt to dart into the thicket; repeating the
insubordination, though repeatedly beaten for it, till he was fairly
subdued, and became docile by degrees. The greatest difficulty was to
get him to wear clothes, which to the last he often injured or
destroyed, by rubbing them against posts like a beast, when some part
of his body itched. Some months after their arrival at Lucknow, Janoo
was sent away from the place for a day or two on some business, and on
his return he found that the wild boy had escaped. He was never more
seen.
It is a curious circumstance, that the wild children, whether of
Europe or Asia, have never been found above a certain age. They do not
grow into adults in the woods. Colonel Sleeman thinks their lives may
be cut short by their living exclusively on animal food; but to some
of them, as we have seen, a vegetable diet has been habitual. The
probability seems to be, that with increasing years, their added
boldness and consciousness of strength may lead them into fatal
adventures with their brethren of the forest. As for the protection of
the animal by which they were originally nurtured becoming powerless
from age, which is another hypothesis, that supposes too romantic a
system of patronage and dependence. The head of the family must have
several successive series of descendants to care for after the arrival
of the stranger, and it is far more probable that the wild boy is
obliged to turn out with his playmates, when they are ordered to shift
for themselves, than that he alone remains a fixture at home. That
protection of some kind at first is a necessary condition of his
surviving at all, there can be no manner of doubt, although it does
not follow that a wolf is always the patron. The different habits of
some of the European children we have mentioned, shew a totally
different course of education. If, for instance, they had been
nurtured by wolves, they would no more have learned to climb trees
than to fly in the air. As for the female specimen we have mentioned,
hers was obviously an exceptional case. She was lost, as appeared from
her own statement, when old enough to work at some employment, and a
club she used as a weapon was one of her earliest recollections.
The wild children of India, however, were obviously indebted to wolves
for their miserable lives; and it is not so difficult as at first
sight might be supposed, to imagine the possibility of such an
occurrence. The parent wolves are so careful of their progeny, that
they feed them for some time with half-digested food, disgorged by
themselves; and after that--if we may believe Buffon, who seems as
familiar with the interior of a den as if he had boarded and lodged in
the family--they bring home to them live animals, such as hares and
rabbits. These the young wolves play with, and when at length they
are hungry, kill: the mother then for the first time interfering, to
divide the prey in equal portions. But in the case of a child being
brought to the den--a child accustomed, in all probability, to
tyrannise over the whelps of pariah dogs and other young animals, they
would find it far easier to play than to kill; and if we only suppose
the whole family going to sleep together, and the parents bringing
home fresh food in the morning--contingencies not highly
improbable--the mystery is solved, although the marvel remains. It may
be added, that such wolves as we have an opportunity of observing in
menageries, are always gentle and playful when young, and it is only
time that develops the latent ferocity of a character the most
detestable, perhaps, in the whole animal kingdom. Cowardly and cruel
in equal proportion, the wolf has no defenders. 'In short,' says
Goldsmith--probably translating Buffon, for we have not the latter at
hand to ascertain--'every way offensive, a savage aspect, a frightful
howl, an insupportable odour, a perverse disposition, fierce habits,
he is hateful while living, and useless when dead.'
But what, then, is man, whom mere accidental association for a few
years can strip of the faculties inherent in his race and convert into
a wolf? The lower animals retain their instincts in all circumstances.
The kitten, brought up from birth on its mistress's lap, imbibes none
of her tastes in food or anything else. It rejects vegetables, sweets,
fruits, all drinks but water or milk, and although content to satisfy
its hunger with dressed meat, darts with an eager growl upon raw
flesh. Man alone is the creature of imitation in good or in bad. His
faculties and instincts, although containing the _germ_ of everything
noble, are not independent and self-existing like those of the brutes.
This fact accounts for the difference observable, in an almost
stereotyped form, in the different classes of society; it affords a
hint to legislators touching their obligation to use the power they
possess in elevating, by means of education, the character of the more
degraded portions of the community; and it brings home to us all the
great lesson of sympathy for the bad as well as the afflicted--both
victims alike of _circumstances_, over which they in many cases have
nearly as little control as the wild children of the desert.