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.