At the Zoological Gardens in London, and at several places on the continent, seals have been exhibited which had been taught to perform a number of tricks. The first “learned seal” which appeared in this country was one exhibited first at Barnum’s old Museum, on the corner of Broadway and Ann street, and afterward in various parts of the country. Ned, as he was called, was quite a philosopher in his way, and submitted gracefully to the change from his secluded haunts on the icy shores of Greenland, to the excitements of a public life.

Seals are naturally docile and intelligent, but skill in grinding a hand organ is scarcely a gift which comes by nature, and even in the case of Ned it was necessary to stimulate his musical taste before he became an adept on that instrument. This stimulus was the same as that to which we owe the curb-stone performances of modern Romans—hunger.

He had before this learned of his own accord to come up out of the water on the appearance of his keeper. He was kept in a large tank, or box, one half of which held the water, while the other half was floored over forming a platform on which he was exhibited. From this platform an inclined plane, formed of planks, led down into the water. Around the edge of the tank and platform a wooden railing extended, and in one corner of this enclosure was kept a tin box containing the fish with which the seal was fed. When the seal was first exhibited his keeper was in the habit of taking a fish from this box at each half-hourly exhibition, and tossing it to the seal who would come partly out of the water and open his mouth to catch it when he saw it in the keeper’s hand. This box had a lid to prevent Ned helping himself, and the seal soon learned that the noise of opening the box was followed by his getting a fish; so before long it was only necessary to tap on the lid to make him come up on the platform.

There was one trick which Ned invented himself, and used to perform to his own great satisfaction. He always liked to be able to see his keeper, but visitors often crowded around the tank so much as to obstruct his view. When this happened, Ned had a way of beating vigorously about in the water and splashing the offending spectators so that they were glad to withdraw to a more respectful distance. This afforded considerable fun to the attachÉs of the museum, who had discovered Ned’s little game, while, we believe, visitors never suspected that their ducking was anything more than mere accident.

The first feat he was taught was to sit up on his hind quarters. This was easily accomplished by holding a fish in the air as an encouragement for the seal to keep an erect position. More difficulty was experienced in teaching him to play the organ. Day after day his paw was placed on the handle, while the trainer industriously turned the crank and held Ned’s paw in position at the same time. Ever and anon the man would remove his hand to see if the seal continued the motion, but down would flop Ned’s paw and he would gaze vacantly at the instrument without the least apparent consciousness of what was to be done. But by-and-by there was a little hesitation in the paw and it did not drop quite so promptly on the trainer’s hand being removed. Then Ned got a little fish. The next time the paw lingered quite perceptibly on the handle, and there was just the faintest movement toward turning the crank. Then Ned got a bigger fish, which he undoubtedly relished exceedingly, for all this time he had been on short allowance. So it went on, the seal grinding a few notes, increasing their number each time and being rewarded with fish, until he had learned to roll out the full supply of tunes the instrument afforded, though his “time” would have puzzled a musician, his efforts being to grind at the greatest possible speed, and we feel safe in asserting that his “Old Hundred” was the fastest thing on record. After every exhibition he was rewarded with fish.

Quite a number of instances are recorded where seals have been tamed without any design of public exhibition. A writer in the London Field gives some curious details of his own experiment. He says:

“When a boy, I was presented by some fishermen with one apparently not more than a fortnight old, which in a few weeks became perfectly tame and domesticated, would follow me about, eat from my hand, and showed unmistakable signs of recognition and attachment whenever I approached. It was fond of heat, and would lie for hours at the kitchen fire, raising its head to look at every new comer, but never attempting to bite, and would nestle close to the dogs, who soon became quite reconciled to their new friend. Unfortunately the winter after I obtained it was unusually rough and stormy. Upon that wild coast boats could seldom put to sea, and the supply of fish became scanty and precarious. We were obliged to substitute milk in its place, of which the seal consumed large quantities, and as the scarcity of other food still continued, it was determined, in a family council, that it should be consigned to its own element, to shift for itself. Accompanied by a clergyman, who took a great interest in my pet, I rowed out for a couple of miles to sea, and dropped it quietly overboard. Very much to our astonishment, however, we found that it was not so easy to shake it off. Fast as we pulled away it swam still faster after the boat, crying all the time so loudly that it might easily have been heard a mile away, and so pitifully that we were obliged to take it in again and bring it home.”

A somewhat similar story is told in Maxwell’s Wild Sports of the West, where may be found a very interesting and touching narrative of a tamed seal, which lived for several years with a family, and which, although it was repeatedly taken out to sea in a boat and thrown overboard, always found its way back again to the house which it loved, even contriving to creep through an open window and to gain access to the warm fireside.

In the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris, there was, for some time, a specimen of the marbled seal. Two little dogs, in the same enclosure, amused themselves by mounting on its back, barking, and even biting it—all of which the seal took in good part. Sometimes it would pat them with its paw; but this seemed intended more to encourage than to repress their gambols. In cold weather, they warmed one another by huddling together. If the dogs snatched a fish from the seal’s mouth, it bore the loss patiently; but it generally had a fight with another seal, the sharer of its mess, until the weaker one sounded a retreat.

Some few years ago a “talking fish” was profitably exhibited in London and the principal provincial towns, at a shilling a head. The fish was a species of seal, and the “talking” consisted of a free translation of its natural cry into the words ma-ma, or pa-pa, according to the fancy of the showman or spectator.

Gold and silver fish are frequently kept as ornaments in glass globes or aquaria; those vessels which present the largest surface to the air being preferable. Fish kept in the flask shaped, or narrow mouth globes, so often used by thoughtless persons, can never be kept healthy, and their spasmodic efforts to get breath are a sufficient indication of their sufferings.

These fishes may be easily tamed. Gentleness is the all-essential requisite. They can be taught to eat from their owner’s hand by first dropping morsels of food in the water while your finger is placed on the outside as near it as possible. For a little while they will be afraid to approach the food, restrained by the sight of the finger, but by-and-by they will approach and seize it. After they have ceased to fear your fingers on the outside, attach a bit of the food to your finger and cautiously insert it in the water; if hungry they will presently muster courage to come and take it, and in due time will take their food in that manner as a matter of course. If fed at stated hours they will learn to distinguish the approach of the customary feeding time and will signify the fact by floating up to the surface shaking their fins, and sticking their heads out of the water. In this same manner they recognize their master or mistress and express their pleasure at his or her approach.

A lady writer thus describes some fish kept in her family as pets: “They knew a wonderful deal more did these little fishes. They would come to the top of the water to be fed and take their food from my fingers. When they wanted fresh water they could call for it by making an odd, clicking noise. They would remain perfectly still while being talked to, and wink with evident satisfaction at the compliments lavished upon them. When, after a prolonged absence, their lawful owners returned to them, these little fishes would wriggle about and indulge in wonderful demonstrations of joy and welcome. Oh, the learned seal was nothing in comparison to them.”

It is not alone gold and silver fish that admit of being tamed. A correspondent writing from Franklin, Indiana, says of the fishes in a pond on his grounds that they will approach on hearing his whistle, eat from his hands, and allow him to take them from the water. A little girl in one of the New England states rendered some trout, which inhabited a brook near her father’s house, so exceedingly tame, that, when feeding them, she was obliged to check the impetuosity of the more voracious ones by a little stick armed at the point with a needle.

Mr. C. L. Vallandigham, of Ohio, is our authority for the following story: “While upon the Island of Bermuda, in traveling from one portion of the island to the other, I passed by a stone enclosure, perhaps a hundred feet in diameter. The islands are coral in their formation. There was a pool of water full of fish inside the enclosure. I paid an English shilling for admission inside, where I saw perhaps a hundred fish, thoroughly tamed, each one having a name, and each one answering to the name by which he was called. One of them, I recollect, was called Dick. I spoke to him as I would to a dog, and he came and lifted up his head and allowed me to rub his back, just as you would a cat. Now, as I told you, if any body else had told me that I wouldn’t have believed it. But it is nevertheless true. There is just such a pool there, and they are so intelligent that they recognize their names.”

Possibly some of our readers remember the queer little fishes Barnum exhibited some years ago, and which he called “seahorses” on account of the great resemblance of the heads to those of miniature horses. These were labeled as coming from the Gulf of Mexico, though in reality caught in New York Bay. They were what are known to naturalists as the short-nosed hippocampus, and being peculiar we give an illustration which will convey a better idea of their appearance than any mere description. They are commonly about five inches in length, and are to be found on many parts of our coast. When swimming about they maintain a vertical position, but the tail is ready to grasp whatever it meets in the water, and this is the means by which the creature appears to obtain rest. The tail will quickly entwine in any direction around weeds, or other supports; and when fixed the animal watches the surrounding objects intently and darts at his prey with great dexterity. They raise themselves to higher positions on their supports by the aid of the hinder part of their cheeks, or chins, when the tail entwines itself afresh. We do not think those at the museum performed in public but their keeper to while away leisure time made them very tame and taught them several little tricks, among others to perch in a row on his finger. The four little fellows, each only about four inches in length, presented a most comical appearance. The system of training in this case was very similar to that which we have described as having been practiced in the case of the “learned seal.”

We cannot say that we ever had any personal experience with oysters in the capacity of pupils, but in at least one case has a bivalve been made subject to the tamer’s art. In an English paper of 1840 we find a curious account of a gentleman at Christ Church, Salisbury, England, who kept a pet oyster of the largest and finest breed then known. It was fed on oat meal, for which it regularly opened its shell, and was occasionally treated to a dip in its native element; but the most extraordinary trait in the history of this amphibious was that it proved itself an excellent mouser, having killed at least five mice, by crushing the heads of such as, tempted by the luscious meal, had the temerity to intrude their noses within its bivalvular clutches. On one occasion two of these little intruders suffered together.