NOTES FROM THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

ARRANGING the following examples, not so much in chronological sequence as in elucidation of special facts, I will first give some cases of venomous serpents killing themselves and each other. My notes began in 1872, after the interest so strongly awakened in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, when those tame snakes were fed to gratify our curiosity (see Introduction).

Holland was then the keeper at the Reptile House of the London Zoological Society’s Gardens, and had occupied this place upwards of twenty years, gathering much experience and knowledge of reptilian habits. Incidents known to him, when not witnessed by myself, may therefore be received as trustworthy.

On Sunday, July 20th, 1873, a ‘River Jack’ (Vipera rhinoceros), from West Africa, really did kill itself, though the act can scarcely be called intentional ‘suicide.’ It was from dashing its head against its cage either in anger or pain. Holland was of opinion that it had been severely bitten by one of the others of the same kind in the cage at the time; for he had known snakes to die from bites in this way, sometimes from their own bites. On one occasion three Puff adders (Vipera arietans) all died through quarrelling and biting each other. One of the three survived ten days, the others dying sooner.

One day in April 1873 or 1874, on going to the Gardens, I was informed that a water viper (Cenchris piscivorus) had been found in the tank in its cage, presenting a very unusual appearance, and enormously swelled. On going his rounds that morning, the keeper observed it, and touching it with his iron rod, he discovered that it was quite dead. He said these vipers frequently quarrel, biting each other and causing this great inflation of the body, as if blown out by wind. The vitality of this species is very strong. From such bites the inflation is sometimes only temporary, and they recover, but not always. One of them lived a long while with a broken back. It was endeavouring to escape by the sliding door, which was raised while the keeper was making some arrangements. The movements of the reptile were so swift that Holland was obliged to suddenly drop the slide; and though he succeeded in partly pushing back the snake, it got caught and was jammed under it, completely dislocating its spine. But it did not appear to suffer very much, he said, and entirely recovered from the injury.

Some ‘viperine snakes’ (named from their aspect, but not really venomous) not only bit each other, but killed and swallowed each other.

Several cases of cobras injuring each other and themselves are on record at the Gardens. On one occasion a cobra got loose, and, as may be supposed, created considerable terror. While being caught, it turned and bit itself, burying its fangs in its own flesh. I could not learn exactly the spot where it wounded itself; but it was no doubt where the hooked rod, or the snake tongs, had been offendingly applied.

A couple of cobras were presented by Sir Joseph Fayrer. One of them bit the other repeatedly, and in so many places that it was ‘torn to pieces,’ in the language of the keeper. ‘The body was all over sores.’ Notwithstanding this, it was several weeks dying. This painful spectacle did not fall under my own observation, happily, but there is no reason to doubt the occurrence.

Next to the rattlesnakes few are more nervously timid than cobras; only, while the former displays fear by a shrinking retreat, a cobra is aggressive, inasmuch as it raises itself with a threatening aspect and distended hood. It is on account of their extreme timidity that the cobras’ cages are screened with painted glass at the lower part, or the reptiles, in aiming at offending spectators, would be continually dashing their heads against the front, to their own detriment. In this manner snakes wound themselves very seriously, producing various mouth diseases.

Before writing another word of what, as a student, I have witnessed at the Gardens, I must here affirm that any distressful occurrences are not related to gratify a morbid curiosity in those who read only to be amused, but to enable other students to acquire a better insight into ophidian habits and physiology, and as a duty which I have set myself to accomplish—a duty which has cost much moral courage to carry out, and which demands, as I now discover, an equal amount of moral courage to commit to writing. A good deal is painful, if not revolting; therefore I would commend the perusal of this chapter only to those who, as naturalists, wish to be informed on these subjects.

‘Lip fungus,’ gum boils, canker, and abscesses are among the mouth diseases to which snakes in confinement are subject, and for these, very delicate surgical operations have sometimes to be performed,—‘very delicate’ often, by reason of the dangerous character of the patient, and in consideration for the operator as much as for the sufferer. The keepers have sometimes to lance the gums, sometimes to wash the sores! One very venomous patient was so covered with sores that the keeper’s only resource was to throw the lotion all over the reptile.

‘Why not let the odious serpent die, or kill it at once?’ some will exclaim. Well, in the first place, many snakes cost large sums of money to purchase; secondly, humanity as well as economy demands that their sufferings should be allayed wherever possible. And in return, they frequently reward such care by recovering and entertaining the visitors, climbing with renewed vigour about their cages.

On the other hand, so tenacious of life are some snakes, that they might survive as disgusting objects a long while—not in a state to be exhibited at all, but only to be an additional care and trouble to those whose duty it is to attend to them. One very astonishing instance of tenacity of life must be introduced. It was in a rattlesnake which would not feed, and must have greatly suffered in some way, whether physically or from nervous terror cannot be determined; but the reptile struck its head so repeatedly against the side of its cage, that, in the keeper’s words, ‘it completely smashed it.’ At last it died, its head one mass of putrid sores; and in that state it had sustained life for many months. It had eaten nothing for ten months.

It must be owing to the excessive and nervous timidity of snakes, that some of them reject food for so long a time during the first months of their captivity. I think for even more than two years snakes have been known to fast, and to recover their appetite afterwards. So strong a disinclination for food do cobras show, when first brought that it is of no use whatever to put mice into their cages. Now and then, if no one is near them, they will partake of a mouse or a sparrow, but never until they become somewhat reconciled to their surroundings.

Almost equally alarmed and irreconciled was the Hamadryad, which is closely allied to the cobras. When first brought to the Gardens in the spring of 1875, he did little else than suspiciously watch for some weeks. With his head elevated in front of the glass, and his hood expanded, he made a dash whenever any one approached or stopped to look at him, and ate nothing for many days. Within a year these fears gradually subsided, and he became so tame as to watch for the keeper instead of for supposed enemies, raising himself to the roof of his cage, and remaining close to the little trapdoor at the top, awaiting the snake which, as he had already learned, made its appearance through there for dinner. Much caution is requisite in feeding him; for though he does not now display spite or anger, once let his head find egress through that little trapdoor when raised, he, one of the most venomous snakes in existence, would be through in a moment, creating a stampede indeed among the visitors, to say nothing of danger both to them and to himself. He well recognised a change of guardianship when poor Holland was compelled from ill-health to resign his place; and not even yet, in spite of the kindest treatment, will he trust his present keeper as he trusted Holland. During the interregnum and frequent change of attendants, his nerves were tried in a manner that he has been slow to recover.

The Hamadryad’s appointed diet is one ring snake per week; but ‘Ophi,’ as we now call him, is occasionally required—and with no sacrifice of his principles either—to eat an extra snake to satisfy the curiosity of some distinguished visitor. Sometimes, too, colubers are plentiful, and two small ones are not too much for his ten or twelve feet of appetite. This splendid serpent has rewarded care by remaining in perfect health, and growing several feet. He was between eight and nine feet long when he came, and is now not far short of twelve, and proportionately larger in circumference. Sometimes during winter, when ring snakes are scarce, ‘Ophio’ is compelled to fast; for, as related p. 62, he is not to be tempted with other food. During the first year of his residence in the Gardens, the supply was good, and he ate no less than eighty-two fellow-creatures before the winter was well over. Towards spring, however, the supply ran short, and only two more remained for him. He had now fasted two entire weeks, and looked hungry and eager. The keeper offered him a guinea-pig, at which he took great offence, spreading his hood and hissing angrily for a long while. Eggs he declined, also a lizard and a rat, in great disgust. In India the Ophiophagi are said to feed on lizards and fish occasionally, but our Ophiophagus preferred to fast. At last one of the two ring snakes was produced, and Ophio was to be regaled. It was the 31st of March 1876, and he had been a denizen of the Gardens just one year. My notebook informs me that it was a lovely, soft spring day, and that Ophio was quite lively. He had rejected frogs on his own account, but in the uncertainty of more ring snakes arriving, he was now decoyed into eating half a dozen. Holland contrived that the snake destined for his dinner should answer the purpose of a feast, and had allowed it to eat as many frogs as it chose. Like the poor wretch who, doomed to the gallows, is permitted to fare sumptuously the last morning of his life, the ring snake ate three frogs, by which the Ophiophagus was to derive chief benefit; he, all unconscious of the cause of his victim’s unusual plumpness, swallowing him speedily.

Soon after this Ophio doffed his winter coat entire, and having again fasted for ten days, was at once rewarded by the last remaining ring snake in a similarly plethoric condition, namely, with three more frogs inside him. Now and then during the winter months the scarcity of ring snakes has compelled the sacrifice of some far rarer colubers to Ophio’s cannibal tastes. And yet each year we hear of hundreds of ring snakes being ruthlessly killed in country districts, while at great cost and trouble others are purchased or brought from the Continent for the Hamadryad’s sustenance. Lord Lilford, one of the Ophidarium’s best patrons, sometimes sends presents of game in the shape of ring snakes to the Hamadryad.

While watching this snake-eater over his dinner, one is struck with the remarkable tenacity of life exhibited in the victim, or the slow action of the venom if poisoned in the first grasp. The Ophiophagus seizes it anywhere, that is, at whichever part happens to come first, and then, after holding it quietly for a time, works his jaws up to the head in the usual hand-over-hand, or ‘jaw-after-jaw’ fashion, invariably swallowing the snake head first. On one occasion when I watched attentively, Ophio, having seized a ring snake by the middle, held it doggedly still for one quarter of an hour, while the lesser snake did its very best to work its way out of the jaws, and also to fetter his captor by twirling itself over his head and coiling round his neck. This continued while Ophio, with his head and neck raised, remained motionless, and after the quarter of an hour commenced to work his jaws up towards the head of the ring snake, which, as more and more of its own body was free for action, twirled itself about, and at length coiled its tail round the bit of branch nailed into the cage.

Persistently, like a sailor making his vessel fast to the windlass, the ring snake lashed as much of himself as was free round the branch a foot off, and so pulled and pulled till he looked in danger of severing himself in two. Meanwhile Ophio, slowly but surely advancing, caused its head and neck to disappear, grasping tightly with his venomous jaws, as if he would say, ‘We’ll see who is master.’ It was a close tussle, so firmly did the little coluber retain his hold on the ‘tree;’ but as the upper part of him was gradually drawn into those unrelaxing jaws, he by degrees gave way, and by and by was gone.

Not far short of an hour was occupied in this meal, during which the victim showed no signs of being poisoned, nor were his coils round the stump relaxed in the slightest degree, till Ophio reached the tail. The ring snake is not a constrictor, yet he thus tied himself round the tree by the coils of his tail.

One more singular case of tenacity of life must be recorded. A ring snake had been caught in the usual way, and the usual struggle ensued between captor and captive. Coluber, with its head tightly gripped in the jaws of his enemy, had still all the rest of himself at liberty and in full activity, and after wriggling a violent protest, he coiled what was left of himself so closely round the neck of his persecutor that the latter made little or no progress with his dinner for a time. He seemed to be deliberating how to proceed next, and asking, ‘What is the meaning of this?’ then shook his head, lowered it to the shingle, and tried to rub off the coils. The only result thus achieved was that the extreme end of coluber’s tail was loosened for a moment, but only to coil afresh round Ophio’s jaws, which nevertheless slowly and surely advanced.

For nearly an hour the progress was very slow; but when the ring snake was all swallowed except a few inches of tail, these became so tight a muzzle that Ophio in turn was the victim. Shaking his head and vainly endeavouring to free his jaws of this muzzle, a minute or two elapsed, during which he seemed to suffer some discomfort, when suddenly his mouth opened widely, and out crawled Natrix, apparently none the worse for this temporary entombment. He had turned round when two or three feet from daylight, and come back to see the world once more. But it so happened that Ophio closed his jaws in time over the few inches of tail which still remained between them. Nor did he once relax his grasp of this, but quickly and patiently began to work his way up to the head and recommence his meal, and this time with better success. An hour and a quarter I watched, nor was any evidence of poison seen, so as to reduce the powers of the bitten snake for bitten it must have been in those prolonged and forcible grasps.

In these conflicts one could but observe a dogged stupidity on the part of the venomous snake, who, had he but brought coils to his aid, might have simplified matters so easily. The little Heterodons and even the Lacertines often assist themselves with coils in managing their prey, though not themselves constrictors but the venomous ones have not the slightest notion of helping themselves in this way, as if confident that in time their venom would do its work. In self-protection, however, we have seen that a rattlesnake can coil, p.394.

This Ophiophagus has caused to vanish, on an average, not far short of a hundred snakes per annum since his arrival in England, say seven hundred in all. In his native haunts, actively moving and climbing amidst plenty of other snakes, one might multiply the consumption by at least three, and give to the Hamadryads the credit of assisting Government in exterminating snakes to the extent of 300 each per annum. These snakes, therefore, should be much prized by the Government snake-exterminators, and in reward for services rendered, have their own lives spared. They are not very common, nor very obtrusive; and we do not hear of so many deaths laid to their charge as to cobras and Bungari. So long as you do not molest their nests or their young, they get out of your way; but for all that, they might be turned to very good account as snake consumers.

So might some in Australia and in South America, and elsewhere; for although this especial Hamadryad usurps the name of ‘Snake-eater,’ there are Ophiophagi in many parts of the world. They are chiefly ElapidÆ. Probably on account of the small head and slender form of these snakes, a fellow-creature is more convenient to swallow than an animal all joints and elbows, and fur-covered. Many snakes are also involuntarily or rather unintentionally cannibals, as in the case of the Tropidonoti, when two seize the same frog, or the python swallowing Geoptyas (p. 38). In such cases the swallower does not first seize his comrade with the intention of devouring him; but both having hold on a meal which neither chooses to relinquish, it is a mere question of which one first reaches the jaws of the other, and which pair of jaws happens to be most widely extended. A case is recorded in Nature, March 8th, 1877, of a Mr. L. Heiligbrodt in Texas capturing an unusually thick ‘Water moccasin’ (Ancistrodon pugnax), and on opening it finding a large ‘Copper-head’ (Ancistrodon contortrix), recently swallowed.

This was ‘the only case on record,’ for it is very unusual for the CrotalidÆ to eat each other; and very probably, in this instance, the cause was a mutual meal. ‘Moccasins’ (Tropidonoti) at the Gardens sometimes have such a hard grip on each other as to fetch blood. I once saw two of these rearing themselves high in their scuffle for the unhappy frog of which both had equal hold. The keeper was obliged to administer corporeal reproof, which caused one of them to let go, when the other swallowed the frog almost at one gulp, as you might swallow an oyster. Nor do they invariably turn the frog round to swallow it head first. This is done if the frog is likely to escape. These so-called ‘moccasins’ are of a very pugnacious disposition. One of them once startled me by dashing at me through the glass, with such violence that I thought the glass would have been broken. I was doing nothing whatever to alarm it, and I knew the snakes quite well. But in that angry mood its aspect seemed so changed, that I asked the keeper if that were a new snake and a venomous one, which it certainly resembled at the moment. I may here mention that Professor Brown Goode (who presided over the ‘American Science Convention on Snakes’) once caught a Tropidonotus fasciatus in Florida, which was so like the ‘dreaded moccasin’ (Ancistrodon piscivorus), that not until he had examined the mouth and found it was harmless could he identify it. These Tropidonoti have been known to take raw meat occasionally; so has the Xenodon, and so has a rattlesnake at the Gardens. Indeed, of one of these the keeper said, ‘It will eat any dead thing;’ and he found it convenient sometimes to give it a rat or a guinea-pig which a neighbouring snake had killed by poisoning, but not eaten. The Crotalus in such cases imbibed some foreign venom with his dinner. One Crotalus at the Gardens would eat only rats, others prefer guinea-pigs.

‘Look at that rat!’ exclaimed a lady to her friend, when the keeper gave the rattlesnake a good-sized guinea-pig.

‘I think it must be a rabbit; it is too big for a rat,’ returned the friend.

Before they could decide this zoological question, it lay dead. The rattlesnake struck it and left it. It gave one gasp, fell over, and in half a minute was dead. Another day a guinea-pig was six minutes dying, but on this occasion the rattlesnake had expended some of its venom in angrily striking the iron rod with which the keeper was moving something in the cage. When the guinea-pig seemed to be dead, the Crotalus, after eyeing and smelling it all over, that is, investigating it with its tongue as if to be assured, was about to take it, when the little animal had one slight spasm more, and the snake darted back its head and rapidly retreated. Watching them as I have done for years, I am still undecided whether excessive timidity or their low order of intelligence is paramount in the rattlesnakes. They are so slow and sluggish of movement, that those accustomed to them hold them in tolerable contempt. I have seen Holland watch his opportunity, open the cage, and put his hand in to snatch away a guinea-pig to give to another snake if the Crotalus did not want it.

‘They always coil before striking,’ is often said. They certainly take time to think about an attack and to make ready by having plenty of coils—slack rope, as it were—at their command, in order to reach their aim, the ‘always coiling’ not truly meaning that they wind themselves round and round as a sailor coils a rope, with their head in the middle. The ‘coiling’ has been thus described by persons with ‘unscientific imaginations;’ but having its head in the centre of such a coil, the snake would not easily reach its object. Often the coils are like those of ‘Totsey’ when taking her choice of a bird, having loose folds near the head, which is always forward in readiness for the attack.

Excellent opportunities of observing the relative venoms present themselves in zoological collections—not only the degrees of poison seen in the different serpents, but the effects produced by one serpent at different times. Of those species when in full vigour there is no doubt but that the South American rattlesnake (Crotalus horridus) is one of the most virulent. Sometimes this species will strike at a young rabbit or a guinea-pig, and death is almost instantaneous. One such instance was observed when a rattlesnake struck a guinea-pig on the head, the little animal falling as if shot, and in such a flash of time that Holland examined it to ascertain the cause, and ‘its brains had turned quite green directly.’

‘A new rattlesnake’ was introduced in the autumn of 1873. Not new to science, but this, I regret to find, is all that my notebook records in heading some observations made September 26th of that year, ‘a very warm day’ for the season. A guinea-pig was put into the cage, when the snake (I think it was Crotalus durissus) approached its head closely and stealthily till quite near to the little animal, shrinking back at the slightest movement on the part of the guinea-pig, which sat staring and blinking in a corner. Each time the snake recoiled, even at a blink, it kept its eyes fixed in alarm on the piggy, who stupidly returned the gaze, not knowing what to make of the snake or of the people so close to him. By and by the snake, regaining courage, again ventured nearer, and again when nearly close started back at a slight movement of the guinea-pig. Three times a similar approach was made before the snake ventured to strike, betraying its extreme caution and timidity. As soon as struck, the guinea-pig was convulsed, and falling on its side was dead in three minutes.

Rats do not succumb to the poison nearly so quickly as rabbits, guinea-pigs, and birds.

Another guinea-pig struck by a rattlesnake immediately fell over on its side, and died, panting hard, in about three minutes. One could not discern the precise moment of its last gasp; but in this case there were no convulsive jerkings of the limbs.

The rattlesnakes always strike and then recede quickly, keeping a stealthy watch over their prey until it is perfectly still, often much longer. Puff adders and some others of the African vipers, on the contrary, retain their hold after biting. Cobras sometimes strike and retain their hold, and sometimes let the prey go and wait for it to die. On a small creature the effect of Puff-adder venom is instantaneous; and a remarkable difference is observable between the effect on a timid victim and on a rat. One of these adders ate a sparrow alive August 20, 1874, that is, struck and held it, swallowing it so quickly that it had not time to die. A sparrow is, however, a very small prey for so large a serpent. Another Puff adder, about to cast its coat, bit a guinea-pig, which was rapidly convulsed, as with spasms, accompanied by sharp jerkings of the limbs for nearly five minutes, when it became motionless. In this case the charge of venom might be feeble. In September of that year a Puff adder (I think the same as the last named) bit a rat, which at first ran about trying to escape, going close to the viper, as if unconscious of an enemy, and apparently unharmed during the first minute. Then it became aware of pain, and began to lash its tail, whisking it round and round in a frantic manner. Then one of its hind legs kicked out, probably the bitten limb, jerking violently for a time, and the rat lay helpless thus for about two minutes. In four minutes from the bite it gasped, and continued to gasp harder and harder for nearly three minutes more. It then bled at the mouth. The Puff adder then bit it again, when, after two or three more minutes, it leaped violently in convulsions from the effect of the second bite. The convulsions became gradually less; but fully twenty minutes elapsed, in spite of a double charge of venom, before the rat was dead. In all similar cases I noticed that rats were very tenacious of life. A guinea-pig has been killed in five seconds from the bite of a Puff adder.

On the same day, a ‘nose-horned viper’ (Vipera nasicornis) struck a rabbit, which immediately ran and started spasmodically, panting as if astonished and wondering what had hurt him. Then he leaped into the well at the back of the cage, but in that short moment was too feeble to crawl back again. He attempted to run, but sank quickly. Being out of sight, it was impossible to state the exact moment in which it died, but the whole was in less than two minutes. These vipers are no doubt intensely virulent. Another day one of them with a bad swelled face from abscess bit a guinea-pig, which in thirty seconds fell over on its side. It squeaked convulsively the moment it was bitten, and several times afterwards. It lay motionless for half a minute, appearing to be dead, but gave one slight start afterwards, and was perfectly still before three minutes expired.

In stating these periods of time decisively, it is by the watch. When I did not keep my watch in hand, I do not state the time so positively.

Between those larger African vipers, when all are in full vigour, there would appear to be not much difference in power of bite. A ‘River Jack’ (Vipera rhinoceros) struck a guinea-pig, holding it in his mouth till dead, which was in less than two minutes. Poor little piggy struggled convulsively the first few moments as if in pain; then only gasped as if labouring to breathe, but soon was insensible.

The poison of Cenchris piscivorus, though a much slighter snake, seems as potent as that of the rattlesnake. One of these struck a guinea-pig—the action being so swift that some of us who were attentively observing were not sure that the animal had been bitten at all, except from the instantaneous effects, the guinea-pig leaping frantically and dashing itself about for a few seconds; then it sank gasping heavily, and kicking convulsively, until in a few minutes life was extinct. Some of the creatures live ten minutes, others not ten seconds. I was glad to observe that in most cases insensibility rapidly overcame them. And without exception, it was observable that of the two—the snake or the destined food—the first named was by far the most alarmed, or ‘charmed.’ In the actions of the little creatures thrown into the cages, there was a fearless, unsuspicious freedom, when once they had recovered the surprise of finding themselves suddenly there instead of in a dark box. Rabbits hop about and over the snakes, and then sit up and clean themselves. Birds plume themselves and look about to see what they can pick up, perching upon the snake as if it were a log of wood. Rats run hither and thither to find something to eat, and then wash their faces. Many of the little animals run over the snakes, quite unconscious of their being live enemies, or force their noses under them, to the evident alarm and discomfort of the Ophidian, should he be disinclined to move. Sometimes, if faint and languid, and huddled together in a corner, it is because they—the victims—are oppressed with the closeness of the cage and the vitiated air, but quite apart from any ‘spell’ or magnetic influence. They may stare at the serpent that is staring at them, and as they stare in alarm at the people, but they have never seen a python, a puff adder, or a rattlesnake before in their lives, and have not the slightest idea that they are going to be eaten by one. And for this reason you so often see the startled and surprised look the moment of being struck. Thus far they have been unconscious of danger; and when a shock does come, it is incomprehensible, because instinct does not guide them under the circumstances.

On account of the excessive timidity of cobras, it is seldom that they can be observed when feeding, which is frequently in the night, or ‘when no one is looking,’ to repeat the keeper’s words; but the little Indian viper (Echis carinata) should not be omitted in these notes, because there is difference of opinion regarding its virulence. Being one of the smallest vipers, only from sixteen to eighteen inches in length, one would argue extraordinary power from effects seen. A friend who had resided in India expressed great astonishment on hearing it said that a cobra was supposed to be more deadly than this one, known as the ‘carpet viper’ or the ‘whip snake,’ which, he said, could kill a man in a half-hour, and that he had seen men thus die. ‘If a cobra bite you, you have at least four or five hours to live,’ he said; ‘but half an hour for the whip snake, and you are a dead man.’ The individual brought to the Gardens in 1875 died the day after it gave birth to three young ones. While alive it ate nothing, and, as it was then thought, because it had not its natural food, Dr. GÜnther having discovered nothing but scolopendrÆ in the specimens which he had examined. Now it would be interesting to discover whether, as Aristotle affirmed, the bites of all venomous animals are more pernicious if they have devoured each other, or if snakes have devoured scorpions, and whether the toxic powers of the little Echis are aggravated by the venomous food it evidently prefers at home. ‘In India is a certain little serpent for the bite of which alone the natives have no remedy,’ said Aristotle; and one can scarcely err in deciding this to be the Echis, being not only the smallest venomous snake there, but the only viper, except Russell’s viper, a much larger snake.

Only twice could I observe the toxic effects of the Echis carinata at present (1882) in the collection; both cases being in hot weather. It has so far conformed to circumstances in England, as to consent to dine on small white mice, failing scorpions. In the first case it struck the mouse savagely as soon as it was dropped into the cage, and the mouse died in less than two minutes. Echis approached it stealthily and timidly, but having at last got courage to seize it, ate it very quickly; and as the snake moved and dragged it, the mouse appeared to be quite stiff in that short time. On the second occasion, it bit a mouse on the leg, and it was five minutes dying. At first only the leg was paralyzed; then a spasm followed, and the mouse fell over and lay extended flat and still as if dead; but presently a spasmodic convulsion followed. It again appeared to be dead, and the little viper approached; but on a very slight spasm receded swiftly, not once taking its eyes off the mouse, which was dying slowly. The viper was at least five minutes swallowing this, and as if it did not much care about it. One must argue, therefore, that the charge of venom had been scantily expended, as the difference between this and the previous victim was remarkable. Echis poison has been seen to take instantaneous effect. The small Vipera atropos from the South African mountains is also astoundingly virulent. One in the collection in 1881 struck a mouse as soon as it arrived, and death occurred in fifty seconds by the watch. A large store of poison must have accumulated during its journey and since its previous meal.

One more African snake must be mentioned before I conclude the painful duty of describing the inevitable—though happily short—sufferings inflicted by venomous serpents.

Three young Najas, the well-known Ring Halsschlange of South Africa, were brought in the spring of, I think, 1877. They were very black and very shy, and for a long while one could see nothing more of them than three little heads in a row peeping out from under their blanket, and watching with their large round black eyes, but vanishing like a shot at your approach. ‘They cut away the moment you go near them,’ said the keeper. When they did give us an opportunity of looking at them, we found that one was quite black, and another was speckled with white; they erected their heads and distended their necks defiantly. Their eyes had a white rim round them, and were bright and undeniably beautiful, even though belonging to a venomous snake. Whether because they were young and inexperienced, or naturally stupid, I could not decide but of all the snakes none ever went so awkwardly to work in feeding, or put their victims to such unnecessary torture, as did these ridiculous little Najas. The feeding observations were made in August, when they had grown considerably, and had become accustomed to their home. They seemed to bite the prey anywhere without much effect, sometimes retaining it in their mouth, and at other times beginning at once to eat it. One frog was ten minutes from the time it was struck until it was swallowed, and for no reason beyond the feeder’s awkwardness. The little snake began at a hind leg, and not being able to get the frog into its mouth, put it down and began again at the side, but with no better result, the legs being in the way. Then he gave it up and let the frog go, and presently his comrade struck the half-dead thing and took five minutes to eat it. One might decide from this that frogs were not their natural food; but with very young sparrows the same mismanagement was observable. The bird was awkwardly bitten on the tip of the wing, and the snake held it helplessly for a quarter of an hour while the bird was struggling violently. Not getting good hold, the snake put it down and began again, so that the poor little sparrow was twenty minutes in being swallowed, gasping to the last, and evidently only very feebly poisoned. One of the Najas bit his companion, and held on for about ten minutes, and for no reason whatever that one could discern. In no other venomous snakes have I seen such prolonged suffering caused by such stupidity or bungling as in those young African ‘Ring Hals.’ Their fangs are, however, exceedingly short, as I found on examining a dead one, and this may account for the slow effect of them.

Three other heads were often seen in a row peeping out, but belonging to harmless ‘glass snakes,’ and there was intelligence in their looks; for they recognised the keeper, and advanced to the glass whenever he passed, asking for their dinner as plainly as little snakes could ask. A Heterodon exhibited equal intelligence when it was dinner-time, and sprang at the glass when he saw the keeper coming. Some of the pythons display intelligence too, on feeding days, but of quite an epicure form. One day in May 1876, on remarking that the pythons were disinclined to eat, Holland said ‘they were waiting for young ducks,’ only elderly birds being in their cage at the time. Even in summer they don’t eat the old ducks so eagerly, because the large, hard quills annoy them. A bunch of these quills passes undigested. Hair or feathers in a desiccated mass pass through the snakes, and occasionally, when they are not in health, digestible but undigested substances too, also the beaks of the ducks.

Vegetable substances have been found in snakes, from which it has been argued that they sometimes eat vegetables. But it rather argues that they don’t digest vegetables, which have probably been swallowed in the stomach of a rabbit or some other herbivorous animal that they have caught.

An indifference to food was noticeable in the snakes in ungenial weather. One cold, raw, foggy day in October 1873, a python caught a duck and partially coiled it, but so feebly that the bird, after passively submitting for a time, at last disengaged her feet and walked away to shake herself, and then turn and stare as if to discover what possibly had kept her there.

A similar disinclination to exert themselves was seen that same chilly day in the largest cage, where were three large pythons. One of them having killed a duck, could not get a satisfactory hold of its head, and let go repeatedly. Another held a duck, but not to crush it or hurt it; for it, like the one above named, only gazed deliberately around, and as if asking the meaning of its detention. A third duck was put into the den for the third python, who, however, only lazily stared at it and made no attempt to seize it; while the bird gazed in astonishment at the one in the embrace of the other snake, as if to inquire, ‘What are you doing there?’ Presently this duck also got away, and was again caught and only partially coiled. The python seemed too large and fat to constrict so small a thing as a duck. It was like tying up a pill-box with a rope. Some of the spectators expressed satisfaction that the duck was not more tightly coiled, and hoped it would succeed in getting away (the duck was not worth two shillings, the python could not be bought for twenty pounds), and were far more horrified when a vigorous constrictor caught and killed its prey in one flash, as when an extended watch-spring flies back to its original position. But a half-constricted creature does suffer, and happily this does not often occur, the chilly weather that day diminishing ophidian energy considerably. A gentleman, disappointed because they did not eat, and wishing to assign some reason for such unaccountable abstinence, remarked to his friend, ‘I have an idea they sting themselves.’

Watching these gigantic ophidians on one of those half-wintry days, it happened that two of them were lazily gliding, partially hidden by their blanket, and with neither heads nor tails visible, so that the two bodies seemed as only one snake. Two youths stood watching and vainly endeavouring to calculate the numbers of feet or of yards which were entwined and entwisted in those moving coils. Portions and loops of two other pythons in the same cage were visible beyond the rug, but only one head of all the four snakes was to be seen; and to distinguish to which of the gliding, shining curves that head belonged, was impossible. ‘It seems to me that snake’s such a length that he doesn’t know the other part belongs to him,’ remarked one boy to his friend.

‘I don’t think he knows where it is,’ returned the other boy sympathetically.

Not a little are the keepers sometimes tried in replying to the inquiries of visitors desirous of improving their minds. Let me repeat one or two conversations overheard on those Fridays.

‘Is that duck put in there for the snake to eat?’ asked a respectably dressed man of the keeper on one of those autumnal days, when a duck sat pluming itself as if settling itself for the evening.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the keeper.

‘Will he swallow it whole?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Choke him! I should think?’

‘No, sir; no—it won’t choke him.’

The man studied the duck, and studied the size of the python’s head and throat for some time. The duck apparently going to rest, but not quite reconciled at so many persons intruding upon her, the man looked disappointed, and again began:

‘Now is that duck charmed, sitting there?’

‘I should think, sir, she was not at all charmed with the prospect,’ sedately replied Holland.

‘Does that duck know it’s going to be eaten?’ then inquired the man after fresh scrutiny.

‘No, sir,’ returned the keeper with the utmost gravity.

‘That snake don’t seem to be hungry,’ then said the disappointed observer.

‘No, sir. He’ll eat well enough next Friday. He’s going to change his skin.’

‘Oh!’ said the man to a boy by his side, satisfied, though still rather puzzled, ‘that snake’s going to change his skin next Friday.’

Though there are always on an average fifty snakes in the Reptile House, and on an average each casts its coat three times a year, the visitors are for the most part much mystified about this phenomenon. A snake that had just completed a new toilet had a portion of the old slough still adhering to its tail, when a boy drew attention to it, saying, ‘Papa, that snake is all ragged and torn on its tail.’

‘Yes, my dear, it is casting its tail.’ Papa must have been reading Aristotle, who wrote: ‘Tails, also, of serpents and lizards when cut off are reproduced.’ With regard to the reproduction of their eyes, Aristotle spake more cautiously. ‘It is reported that the eyes of serpents, if dug out, will be reproduced.’ But, on the contrary, the eyes of snakes are easily injured, and not easily healed; snakes are therefore frequently seen partially blind. As need scarcely be said, only lizards ‘reproduce’ a tail that has been accidentally abridged; and the repair is after all only a boneless one. The truncated member gradually heals, and by and by a short point is again formed, but can always be recognised as a repaired, and not the original, tail; and as far as I have been able to observe, viz. for three or four months, no bone was reproduced. Probably also a snake’s tail might heal in the same way, and to a casual observer appear quite perfect; but the anatomical structure in either case would not, I imagine, be restored.

That boy was not far wrong when he said he thought the python did not know which was its own tail. At all events, it is not endowed with much external sensation, as one might judge by the way in which the rats and guinea-pigs take liberties with it. This must be owing to the thickness of the cuticle, because, as we have seen in the constricting snakes, there is keen muscular sensibility in the tail. I may cite an instance of each case. One day a young rabbit caught hold of a small python with its teeth and held firmly on. The reptile was moving across the cage, and did not appear to feel any hindrance. Indeed, being much the stronger of the two, the persistent bunny was compelled to hop along at the same pace, still holding on by its teeth. But presently, from the position of the snake, the rabbit was obliged to let go, when it next caught hold of the tip of the python’s tail, and again holding tight, hopped after the retreating reptile as if enjoying the joke. In this case I do not think the snake was conscious of the insult, as perhaps the rabbit had hold of the skin only.

On the other occasion a guinea-pig was biting a coiled and passive constrictor, Python seboe. The snake wished to be quiet, but piggy got among its coils and worried it, hopping over it and biting its tail. The python on this, moving only the end of its tail, pushed away the guinea-pig, which soon returned to the attack. The snake again gave the little animal a caudal hint that his fidgeting was annoying; but as the guinea-pig did not take the hint, and still nibbled and teased the snake, the latter with two coils of the tail put an end to the annoyance, not once turning its head, but just tucking up its persecutor in the end of its tail as you might tuck up a parcel under your arm. The python was not hungry, and took no more notice of the offender, though thus effectually punishing the offence with the last two feet of its practical tail. Could we suppose such a quality as muscular intelligence, we might think the tails of those constricting snakes were surely endowed with it. As in other instances already described in chaps. xi. and xii., the eyes took no part in directing the movements of the snake; the whole nine or ten feet of the animal remaining passively coiled, while only the extremity of the tail exerted itself. When reptiles are in a partially torpid condition, their sensations are slow; when hibernating, they are reduced to a minimum. At such times, the creatures being half dead, they may be maimed or injured without any apparent effect. Rats have been known to attack and nibble snakes under these circumstances, and even to eat bits out of them, the snakes being at the time unconscious of injury, though possibly dying from the after effects.

A good deal of very interesting matter might be added on the economics of the reptilian mÉnage, the mode of ventilating and warming it, the cost of its larder, and the best means of preserving the health of the inmates. There are, besides, some incidental experiences not devoid of sensationalism in connection with snake guardianship, but my own herpetological experience does not extend beyond the keeping of pet lizards, including blindworms. I may add a word, however, in reply to some often-heard lamentations of disappointed spectators who object to the coverlets, after sometimes waiting in vain to see the snakes emerge from beneath them.

‘Those horrid blankets! Why not give the snakes moss or hay in their cages? or turf and sand and dead leaves? Much more natural for them than those woollen rugs.’

I, too, may have echoed such plaints until a better comprehension of ophidian nature showed the wisdom of what is certainly a somewhat disappointing arrangement. And those who have honoured these pages with a patient perusal, and discovered the nervous timidity and sensitiveness of these reptiles, their proneness to reject or to disgorge their food, to injure themselves or each other when molested, not to mention the danger of meddling with the venomous kinds and the easy escape of the swifter snakes, will admit the importance of providing them with such retreat and shelter as can be most speedily arranged, and which will secure the least annoyance to the terrified serpents while the keepers are doing their best to preserve order and cleanliness.

The allusion to lizards tempts me to add a word or two on the exceptional species which has lately become an inmate of our Zoological Gardens. There are certain features in it so much in common with viperine snakes, that I may be pardoned for dragging a lizard into these pages. I allude to the Heloderm (Heloderma horridum) from Mexico, presented to the Zoological Society in July 1882 by Sir John Lubbock. Its advent was an event in reptilian annals; and being surrounded by a halo of curiosity, it claims a passing notice. We have been at some pains to exonerate saurians from the evil character which our ancestors were apt to give them; but suddenly—and to the surprise of even some herpetological authorities—there comes a lizard that with one grip of his jaws caused a frog to fall dead in a moment, and a guinea-pig in three minutes, the symptoms appearing to be the same as those produced by deadly snakes. The Heloderm is ‘said’ to be furnished with poison glands in both jaws! But until a dead specimen has been further examined and described, the signification of ‘poison gland’ must be restricted. Its teeth—many and strong—are grooved with a deep furrow; its salivary glands are largely developed; and under excitement a thick, acrid secretion flows abundantly from its jaws. Yet so far as present observations enable us to form an opinion, the reptile does not use these formidable teeth to secure its prey, or even in feeding. It did not devour the victims of its bite, nor has it since killed any creature for the express purpose of eating it. Up to the date at which I write (Oct. 1882), eggs have formed its chief diet, varied by an occasional dead mouse. Now it certainly does not require deeply-grooved teeth and venomous saliva to bite raw eggs and dead mice. Nor does the noxious secretion flow continuously from its gums in repose, but abundantly so when irritated.

Though a stranger in England, this lizard was known more than two hundred years ago. Hernandez, in his Nova Animalium Mexicanum, published at Rome in 1651, described its bite as ‘hurtful, but not deadly;’ and that it was ‘more dreadful in appearance than reality.’ Its Mexican name, Acaltetepon, is (or was then) applied to all large and suspicious-looking lizards. Scorpione is its modern name. As Heloderma horridum was awarded plenty of space in the journals at the time of its arrival, full accounts of it will be found elsewhere; it is introduced here merely as one of the venomous reptiles that form the chief subjects of this chapter, and to trace its analogy with them. In its slow, stealthy movements there is the same striking contrast between the Heloderm and most other lizards, that there is between the deadly vipers and the active colubrine snakes; and the inquiry suggests itself, Can the venom elaborated in their system so act upon themselves as to produce this habitual lethargy? Drowsiness and coma are almost invariable effects of snake venom in the blood, and why is it that the deadly serpents are so constitutionally different from others? The Heloderm has a round, heavy tail, of no service to it in swimming, and short, weak fingers, ill suited to climbing; and it passes its lethargic existence on the sandy plains of Mexico, manifesting in its actions, or rather in its inactivity and stealthiness, a conscious timidity and cowardice. Motionless for hours, with an impulse to retreat if molested, but attempting to bite if angered, its noxious saliva would seem to be rather protective than aggressive. It may have formidable enemies at home; and by all we see of it here, it does not use its teeth as a means of obtaining food. In this respect, therefore, it is an exception to deadly serpents, and cannot take its venom into its stomach as they do. And, again, the remarkable development of its tongue suggests a peculiarity of food. In lapping the egg, the action of it is apparently perfected by practice; the tongue is twisted, extended, twined under, then over, now used as a shovel, a scoop, or a broom, as occasion requires. It is the very reverse of what I noticed in some other lizards feebly lapping up an egg (see p. 71), for in a most expeditious manner does Heloderm cause its raw eggs to disappear.

A word À propos of its name horridum, supposed by many to refer to its objectionable qualities. Unfortunately the word ‘horrid’ has almost entirely lost its original signification and become mere slang in English. But when Wiegmann assigned it the name of Heloderma horridum in 1829, ‘horrid’ was understood according to its original meaning, from horridus, rough, rugged, etc.; and as this reptile has a remarkable skin, dotted over with little prominences, like knobs or warts (hence its generic name, Heloderma, warty skin), there can be but little doubt as to the intention of horridum. In a communication to Knowledge (Sept. 29), I ventured to call this the ‘Warty-skinned Lizard,’ in consequence of the confused accounts of it which have appeared in print. There are several other warty-skinned or ‘tuberculous lizards.’ The specific horridus, as applied to the South American Crotalus, also signified its terrible or dreadful character, and not the ‘horrid’ which spectators apply indiscriminately to snakes and their blankets.

With the rapid advance of ophiology comes the splendid new home for snakes which will shortly grace our Zoological Gardens; and in taking leave of my readers, I cannot offer them a kinder wish than that their visits there to observe the snakes will be productive to them of as much pleasure as has been mine to describe them.