The Project Gutenberg eBook, Snakes, by Catherine Cooper Hopley

SNAKES:

CURIOSITIES AND WONDERS OF SERPENT LIFE.

Morrison & Gibb, Edinburgh,
Printers to Her Majesty’s Stationery Office.

SOME OPHIDIANS AT HOME.
INDIA.

SNAKES:
CURIOSITIES AND WONDERS OF SERPENT LIFE.

BY

CATHERINE C. HOPLEY,

AUTHOR OF ‘SKETCHES OF THE OPHIDIANS,’ ‘LIFE IN THE SOUTH,’ ‘RAMBLES AND ADVENTURES IN THE WILDS OF THE WEST,’ ETC. ETC.

‘These lithe and elegant Beings.’—Rymer Jones.
‘Can outswim the Fish and outclimb the Monkey.’—Owen.

GRIFFITH AND FARRAN,

SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS,

WEST CORNER OF ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD, LONDON.
E. P. DUTTON & CO., NEW YORK.
1882.

The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved.

TO MY
MUCH HONOURED AND ESTEEMED FRIEND,
Professor Richard Owen, F.R.S.,
WHO HAS GRACIOUSLY ENCOURAGED THE STUDIES
OUT OF WHICH IT CAME;
AND WHOSE CORDIAL SYMPATHY AND REGARD,
WITH FRANKEST RECOGNITION OF HIS
DEEP DEVOTION TO HIS ART,
GAVE ONE OF ITS FEW GREAT PLEASURES TO THE
SHORT LIFE OF
A DEAR BROTHER OF MINE,
THIS BOOK
IS HUMBLY DEDICATED,
WITH GRATEFUL RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PAST

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

TO the many friends who have repeatedly asked me, ‘What could induce you to take up such a horrid subject as snakes?’ a few words of explanation must be offered. Some words of apology are also due that I, a learner myself, should aspire to instruct others. I cannot do better, therefore, than tell the history of this book from its birth, and in so doing cancel both obligations. The little history will be a sort of OPHIDIANA, or gossip about snakes; and in this I only follow the example of most herpetologists, who, when writing exclusively on these reptiles, preface their work with some outline of the history of ophiology, and generally with an excuse for introducing the unwelcome subject at all. There is still reason to lament that traditional prejudice invests everything in the shape of a serpent with repulsive qualities, and that these prejudices are being only very slowly swept away by the besom of science.

Serpents are intimately associated with our religious beliefs. Not that we worship them! Far otherwise. Many excellent and orthodox persons associate with a serpent all the sin and misery which ever existed on our globe, and are persuaded that the sooner everything in the shape of one is exterminated the better.

On the other hand, those who can look at a snake with unprejudiced eyes and study its habits, find continual reason to wonder at and admire the extraordinary features which exhibit themselves in its organization. Owing to their retiring habits, many of them nocturnal, and partly in consequence of preconceived errors, less is understood about them than almost any other natural group of animals; therefore—as the reader will discover—a student, when left to himself, has to wade through ages of writers in order to find out what to believe regarding them. Scientific ophiologists are still engaged in settling mooted questions concerning them. But apart from science there is a glamour of poetry, romance, and mystery about snakes, and not without reason. There has been a great deal of what we may call ‘Drawing-room Natural History’ of late years—charmingly sensational and romantic; attractive also in illustrations and colouring, but not always intended as reliable guides for students.

All travellers are not naturalists; and though they may contribute valuable information in one branch of science, it is possible they may mislead in another; and from the very popularity of their books, such errors are rapidly disseminated. I aspire to a place on drawing-room tables for my book also, but let me assure my readers that my aim has been to assist by diligent search to establish truthfulness. Whatever of romance or sensation attaches to it, is due to the marvellous powers of the creatures who fill its pages, and whose true nature I have laboured to comprehend.

Schlegel and Dumeril are two authorities on serpents much quoted by English writers, and both give us a list of all the naturalists of repute who have done service to herpetology, up to the date of their works. As many of these are introduced in the body of my work, let us glance at the progress of ophiology since the date of these two distinguished authors. In zoology as much as in any branch of science progressiveness is observable; and in zoology the advance of ophiology has of late years been remarkable. In 1843, when Schlegel’s Essai sur la Physionomie des Serpents, 1837, was translated into English by Dr. Thos. Stewart Traill, of the University of Edinburgh, he mentioned as a reason for curtailing the original (and not adding the atlas containing 421 figures, with charts and tables), that the low state of ophiology in this country did not invite a larger work, and ‘deters booksellers from undertaking such costly illustrations;’ but he hoped to be useful to science by cultivating a branch of zoology hitherto neglected. Ten years prior to that date, viz. 1833, the monthly scientific magazine The Zoologist was started; in introducing which the Editor, Mr. Ed. Newman, wrote: ‘To begin, the attempt to combine scientific truths with readable English has been considered by my friends one of surpassing rashness;’ that he had ‘many solicitations to desist from so hopeless a task,’ and many ‘supplications to introduce a few Latin descriptions to give it a scientific character,’ science being then confined to the scientific alone. Nevertheless the Zoologist has survived half a century, and under able editorship has taken its stand as a popular as well as scientific journal. Formerly you might have hunted the pages of such magazines year after year without finding mention of an ‘odious snake;’ but within the last decade, not only this but other periodicals have frequently opened their pages to ophiology, and a considerable removal of prejudice is noticeable.

Mr. Newman felt encouraged by the success attending the publication of White’s Selborne, that being one of the first works to induce a practical study of nature. Yet, until the appearance of Bell’s British Reptiles in 1849, our present subject occupied but very stinted space in literature. Indeed, we must admit that as a nation we English have followed, not taken, the lead as naturalists. So long ago as 1709, Lawson in his History of Carolina lamented the ‘misfortune that most of our Travellers who go to this vast Continent are of the meaner Sort, and generally of very slender Education; hired laborers and merchants to trade among the Indians in remote parts.’ ... ‘The French outstrip us in nice Observations,’ he said. ‘First by their numerous Clergy; their Missionaries being obedient to their Superiors.’ Secondly by gentlemen accompanying these religious missions, sent out to explore and make discoveries and to keep strict journals, which duly were handed over to science. And what Lawson remarked of the American colonies was extended to wherever the French, Portuguese, and Italians established religious communities. We find our book-shelves ever enriched by foreign naturalists.

In Germany, also, ophiology was far in advance of us. Lenz, Helmann, Effeldt, and many others pursued the study practically; and produced some valuable results in their printed works, which unfortunately are too little known in England. Doubtless because we in England have so few native reptiles, there is less inducement to concern ourselves about them. Not so in America, where herpetology soon found many enthusiasts; and the researches of Holbrooke, Emmons, De Kay, and Weir Mitchell were published within a few years of each other. Dr. Cantor in India, and Dr. Andrew Smith in South Africa, Drs. Gray and Günther and P. H. Gosse in England, all enriched ophiological literature previous to 1850, to say nothing of the valuable additions to the science dispersed among the Reports and Transactions of the various scientific Societies. After the appearance of Dr. Günther’s important work, The Reptiles of British India, in 1864, published under the auspices of the Ray Society, another fresh impetus was observable, and we had Krefft’s Snakes of Australia, 1869; Indian Snakes, by Dr. E. Nicholson, 1870; culminating in The Thanatophidia of India, by Sir Joseph, then Dr. Fayrer, F.R.S., C.S.I., etc., Surgeon-Major of the Bengal Army, in 1872, which brings me to the commencement of my own studies.

A few years ago, I knew nothing whatever about snakes; and to them, though deriving my chief pleasures from an inherited love of all things in nature, a faint interest at a respectful distance, was all I accorded. In Virginia and Florida, where a country life and a gorgeous flora enticed my steps into wild and secluded districts, we not unfrequently saw them and one or two ‘narrow escapes’ seasoned the pages of my notebook. When in such rambles we caught sight of one, we flew at our utmost speed, encountering the far greater danger of treading on a venomous one in our precipitous flight, than in shunning the probably innocent one from which we were fleeing.

My first startling adventure in Virginia was more ridiculous than dangerous. We were about to cross a little rivulet that ran rippling through a wood, in which there were many such to ford. Often fallen boughs or drifting logs, dragged into the shallow parts by the negroes, served as stepping-stones. These becoming blackened in the water, and partially covered with tangled drift-weed, were so familiar a sight that, without pausing to observe, I was making a spring, when my companion caught hold of my dress, crying out, ‘Don’t step on them! They will bite you!’ The supposed shining and tangled boughs were two large black snakes commonly known as ‘Racers,’ enjoying a bath; but until I had hastily regained the top of the bank, alarmed at the excitement of my young friend, I did not discover the nature of our intended stepping-stones. The snakes were not venomous, but very ‘spiteful,’ and might have resented the interruption by sharp bites. In moving, they probably would have caused me to fall upon them and into the water, when they might have attacked me with unpleasant results. Now, however, my chief vexation was that they got away so quickly, I could learn nothing about them.

Another ‘escape’ was on an intensely hot day, when in early morning we had started for a botanical ramble. Our way lay along a sloping bit of pasture land, bounded on the east and higher ground by a dense wood, which afforded shelter from the sun. Beguiled on and on, among the lovely copses of exquisite flowering shrubs and a wealth of floral treasures which carpeted the turfy slopes, we were unconscious of time.

Though only in the merry month of May, blackberries of enormous size and delicious flavour, trailing on long briars yards and yards over the mossy grass, invited us to break our fast; and, all unmindful of the breakfast-hour, we feasted and rested.

Suddenly we found ourselves no longer shaded by the wood to the east of us, for the sun had mounted high; and at the first touch of his scorching rays as we rose to our feet, we glanced at each other in dismay, for we had open ground to cross in getting home. My Virginia companion said that it would be better to ford the streams in the wood, than risk sunstroke by crossing a cornfield, our nearest way home.

This we decided to do, and having surmounted all obstacles, were almost within earshot of the house, when Ella, with a shriek, started and ran back, exclaiming, ‘A moccasin!’

‘What? where?’ I eagerly inquired, trying to follow the direction of her eye.

‘Oh, Miss Hopley, come back! Quick! Come away! Water moccasins are worse than rattlesnakes, for they dart at you!’

Sufficiently alarming, certainly; yet I wanted to see the terrible object, and ascertain how far off it was, and at length discovered the head and neck of a snake erect. About a foot of it was visible, and might have been taken for a slight stem or stick standing perpendicularly out of the swampy herbage bordering the narrow path. The fixed eyes and darting ‘sting’—which I then thought the tongue to be—seemed to endorse the character my young friend had given it. Yet I lingered, ‘fascinated,’ no doubt, by its gaze, the fascination in my case partaking of curiosity chiefly. The reptile remained so rigid that I was inclined to venture nearer; nor did I welcome the idea of having to retrace our steps and risk the open field under that Virginia sun. But Ella would not hear of passing the deadly snake. There were others, she was sure, in that swampy part.

Well, we reached home at last, more dead than alive, having discarded our treasured specimens and substituted sprays of enormous leaves with which to shield our heads from the sun. And I have ever reflected, that of the two dangers—snakes and sunstroke—we risked the greater in traversing that cornfield at such an hour.

Besides that ‘deadly moccasin’ and frequent ‘black snakes,’ there were ‘whip snakes,’ ‘milk snakes,’ and many others which the negroes would bring home as trophies of their courageous slaughter; but by no scientific names were they known there. Except this name moccasin or mokeson, which probably conveyed some especial meaning to the aborigines, few of the Indian vernaculars have been preserved in the United States, as we find them in other parts of America, which latter are treated of in chapters xxii. and xxiii. of this work; but common English names prevail.

After a time I proposed to write a book about snakes, starting with the stereotyped ideas that they all ‘stung’ in some incomprehensible way; that the larger kinds crushed up horses and cattle like wisps of straw; and that all, having viciously taken the life of the victim, proceeded with epicurean gusto to lick it all over and smear it with saliva, that it might glide down their throat like an oyster! There are those who to this day believe the same.

My proposed book was, however, simply to recount some adventures among the snakes which were encountered in our American rambles. It was intended for the amusement of juvenile readers, and to supplement the little work about my pet birds[1], which had met with so kind and encouraging a reception.

But in order to merely recount an adventure with a snake, some knowledge of the reptile is essential. One must, at least, be sure of the correct name of the ‘horrid thing’ which lifted its ‘menacing head’ a few feet in front of us; such local names as ‘black snake’ and ‘moccasin snake’ affording no satisfactory information.

Nor were hasty references to books much more satisfactory. Mr. P. H. Gosse had been over the same ground, gathering many interesting items of natural history; but in his Letters from Alabama I could not decide on my moccasin snake. From this and his other works, and then from the authors quoted by him, I discovered only that there were many ‘black snakes,’ some deadly, others harmless. The same with the ‘moccasin’ snake, which was now of this colour, now of that. While one writer expatiates on the beauty of the ‘emerald snake,’ a ‘living gem, which the dark damsels of southern climes wind round their necks and arms,’ another describes snakes of emerald green which are dreaded and avoided. One traveller tells of a ‘coral snake’ whose bite is fatal within an hour; while elsewhere a ‘coral snake’ is petted and handled. Equally perplexing were the ‘carpet snakes,’ ‘whip snakes,’ ‘Jararacas,’ and ‘brown snakes.’

Nor were names the only puzzle to unravel; for in almost every other particular writers on snakes are at variance.

Those ‘moccasin snakes’ in Virginia were venomous, I was sure, having known of accidents from their bite. Hoping to become enlightened as to their true name and character, I repaired to the Zoological Gardens to ascertain if they were known there. Yes; there were several together in one cage, labelled ‘Moccasins’ (Tropidonotus fasciatus) ‘from America;’ but to identify them with the one in Virginia, of which I had seen only a short portion from a distance, was impossible. To add to the perplexity, Holland the keeper assured me these were ‘quite harmless.’

‘But are you sure these are harmless snakes? They are poisonous in America.’

‘Well, miss, they have bitten my finger often enough for me to know,’ returned Holland.

‘Then there must be two kinds of moccasin snakes,’ I argued, ‘for the others are extremely venomous;’ and I related my Virginia experiences, and that I had known of a horse bitten by one that had died in an hour or so, fearfully swollen.

‘They have never hurt me,’ persisted Holland.

Subsequently I discovered that in the United States this name moccasin is a common vernacular, first and chiefly applied to a really dangerous viper, Ancistrodon pugnax or piscivorus, the one, most likely, that we saw in the wood; and secondly, to a number of harmless snakes which are supposed to be dangerous, and of which those at the Gardens, Tropidonotus fasciatus, are among the latter. Thus at the very outset the puzzles began.

Nevertheless, after some research I learnt enough of snake nature to feel safe in proceeding with my book of Adventures, and in presenting it to a publisher.

‘As a gift-book no one would look at it, and as an educational work there would be no demand for it,’ was its encouraging reception.

This was about ten years ago; and so far from inducing me to relinquish the subject, I began to aspire to become a means of assisting to overcome these prejudices. For the space of two years the anticipated ‘sequel’ to my American Pets went the round of the London publishers of juvenile works, and to several in Scotland. It was read by many of them, who professed to have been unexpectedly and ‘extremely interested’ in it—‘but’—none could be persuaded to ‘entertain so repulsive a subject.’ One member of a publishing house distinguished for the high standard of its literature, positively admitted among his insurmountable objections, that when a child his mother had never permitted him to look through a certain favourite volume late in the day, ‘for fear the pictures of snakes in it should prevent his sleeping!’

An editor of a magazine told me he should lose his subscribers if he put snakes in its pages; and another made excuse that his children would not look at the magazine with a snake in it.

Perhaps this is not so surprising when we reflect that until within a late date snakes in children’s books, if represented at all, are depicted as if with full intent of creating horror. They are represented with enormously extended jaws, and—by comparison with the surrounding trees or bushes—of several hundred feet in length; sometimes extending up a bank or over a hedge into the next field, or winding round a rock or a gnarled trunk, that must be—if the landscape have any pretensions to perspective—a long way off. Slender little tree snakes of two or three feet long are represented winding round and round thick stems and branches strong enough to support you. Into the chasm of a mouth from which an enormous instrument (intended for a tongue) is protruding, a deer the size of a squirrel (by comparison), or a squirrel the size of a mouse, is on the point of running meekly to its doom.

No wonder children ‘skip’ the few pages devoted to snakes in their natural history books, and grow up full of ignorance and prejudices regarding them. In no class of literature are original and conscientious illustrations more required than to replace some of those which reappear again and again, and have passed down from encyclopædias into popular works, conveying the same erroneous impressions to each unthinking reader.

The strongly-expressed opinions of publishers convinced me that the prejudices of adults must first be overcome before children could be persuaded to look at a snake as they would look at a bird or a fish, or to enter the Reptile House at the Zoological Gardens without the premeditated ‘Aughs!’ and ‘Ughs!’ and shudders.

During the two years that witnessed the MS. of Aunt Jenny’s Adventures lying in first one and then another publishing house, an especial occurrence acted as a great stimulant, and induced an almost obstinate persistence in my apparently hopeless studies.

This was the sensation caused by the daily papers in reporting the case of ‘Cockburn versus Mann;’ and the ‘SNAKES IN CHANCERY.’ To the horror and dismay of the ‘general public,’ Mr. Mann, of Chelsea, was represented as ‘keeping for his amusement all manner of venomous serpents;’ or, as another paper put it, ‘Mr. Mann had a peculiar penchant for keeping as domestic pets a large number of venomous snakes.’ (I copy verbatim from the papers of that date.) That these ‘water vipers and puff adders’ were ‘apt to stray in search of freedom;’ or, ‘being accustomed to take their walks abroad,’ had strayed into the neighbours’ gardens, to the terror of maid-servants and children;’ and were ‘now roaming up and down Cheyne Walk,’ and ‘turning the College groves into a garden of Eden.’ So an action was brought against Mr. Mann: for the neighbours decided that ‘there was no better remedy for a stray cobra than a suit in Chancery.’ ‘Everybody’ during July 1872 was reading those delightfully sensational articles, and asking, ‘Have you heard about Mr. Mann’s cobras?’

Mr. Frank Buckland was brave enough to venture into the dangerous precincts of Cheyne Walk, and even into the house of Mr. Mann, to test the virtues and vices of both the ‘pets’ and their possessors. He finally tranquillized the public mind by publishing accounts of his visit, affirming that not one of the snakes was venomous, but, on the contrary, were charmingly interesting and as tame as kittens. The testimony of so popular an authority served not only to allay local terrors, but to modify the sentence that might otherwise have been passed on the ophiophilist, who was merely cautioned by the honourable judge to keep his pets within due bounds.

After this, Mr. and Mrs. Mann and their domesticated ophidians held daily receptions. I was invited to see them, and in company with a clerical friend repaired to Chelsea. It was the first family party of snakes I had ever joined, and I must confess to considerable fluctuations of courage as we knocked at the door. Nor could one quite divest oneself of apprehension lest the boa-constrictors to which we were introduced should suddenly make a spring and constrict us into a pulp. But they didn’t. On the contrary, towards ourselves they were disappointingly undemonstrative, and only evinced their consciousness of the presence of strangers by entwining themselves about the members of the family, as if soliciting their protection. They were very jealous of each other, Mr. Mann said; jealous also of other company, as if unwilling to lose their share of attention. There were half-a-dozen or more snakes—viz., several boas, of whom ‘Cleo,’ or Cleopatra, has become historical; two or three lacertine snakes from North Africa; and a common English snake. The smaller ones were regaled on frogs for our special edification. At that time I had never been to the Reptilium at the Zoological Gardens on feeding days, and when Mr. Mann permitted a frog to hop about the table, and we saw the ring snake glide swiftly towards it and catch it in its mouth, we could not comprehend what was to happen next. ‘What will he do with it?’ we both exclaimed. We had not long to wait. Somehow or other the frog, caught by its hind leg, got turned round till its head was in the snake’s mouth and the hind legs were sprawling and kicking, but in vain. Then head-foremost it vanished by degrees into the jaws of the snake; while the head of the latter, ‘poor thing,’ seemed dislocated out of all shape! It was a wonderful but painful sight; for how the snake’s head stretched in that amazing manner, and how the frog was drawn into the mouth, was past our comprehension.

An equally wonderful but far more attractive sight was Mrs. Mann, a graceful and charming little lady in black velvet, with Cleo coiling around her in Laocoon-like curves. The rich colouring of the beautifully-marked reptile entwining the slender form of the woman, the picturesque and caressing actions of Cleo, and the responsive repose of Mrs. Mann as the snake was now round her waist, now undulating around and over her head and neck, was altogether a sight never to be forgotten. Two sweet little children were equally familiar with the other boas, that seemed quite to know who were their friends and play-fellows, for the children handled them and patted and talked to them as we talk to pet birds and cats.

Such were the ‘vipers, cobras, and puff adders’ that had figured in the daily papers.

After this, the reptile house at the Zoological Gardens became a new attraction. From there to the bookshelves and back again to the Gardens, my little book of adventures was discarded for a more ambitious work; but still was confronted by disaffected publishers, whom even the Chelsea snakes failed to convince of public interest.

Friends protested—and still demand—even while I write—‘How can you give your mind to such odious, loathsome, slimy creatures?’ and I boldly reply, ‘In the hope of inducing you to believe that they are not odious and loathsome, and especially not “slimy,” but in the majority graceful, useful, beautiful, wonderful!’ And I invite them to accompany me to the Zoological Gardens, and endeavour there to contemplate a reptile as they look at the other denizens of the Gardens, simply as a member of the wide family of the brute creation, appointed by the Great All-wise to live and feed and enjoy existence as much as the rest, and that have to accomplish the purpose for which they were created equally with the feathered families which we admire and—devour!

And as whatever may be original or novel in this book has been obtained at the Zoological Gardens, I now invite my readers to accompany me in imagination to the Ophidarium, where we may learn how that little ring snake was able to swallow his prodigious mouthful without separating it limb from limb, as a carnivorous mammal would divide the lamb it has killed.

‘But’—you exclaim in horror—‘we do not wish to contemplate so painful, so repulsive a spectacle! How could you, how can you, stand coolly there and see that poor frog tortured and swallowed alive?’

Dear, tender-hearted reader, I did not, I could not, unmoved, contemplate this sight at first; nor for a very long while could I bring myself to watch a living creature being drawn into that living trap. Nor could we—you and I—feel aught but horror in visiting a slaughter-house and watching a poor calf slowly die. Nor could we, for pleasure merely, look coolly on at a painful surgical operation. Yet we know that such things must be. The life of the snake is as important as that of the frog. If we are to talk about cruelty, this book of natural history, and of intended—let me say, of hoped-for—usefulness, would become one of political economy instead. We might discuss the sport of the angler, the huntsman; the affairs of the War Office; of railroad managers and of road-makers; the matters of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; followed by an examination into the questions that have been ventilated in so-called ‘benevolent organs;’ and how some of them employ writers who in every tenth line betray their ignorance of the creatures they attempt to describe. Not even theology could be dispensed with in this work; for, since the time when Adam was told to have ‘dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth,’ the question of ‘cruelty’ has never been satisfactorily solved. Morally and broadly, let us understand it to mean unnecessary torture—pain and suffering that can be avoided, and which offers a very wide scope indeed. In the animal world, ‘every creature is destined to be the food of some other creature;’ and by these economies only is the balance of nature maintained. Happily we are spared the too vivid realization of the destruction of life ceaselessly going on throughout creation; the myriads of insects destroyed each moment by birds, the sufferings inflicted by the feline families and by birds of prey, the countless shoals of the smaller fish devoured—swallowed alive too!—by larger ones, or caught (and not too tenderly) for our own use. These things we dismiss from our minds, and accept as inevitable. We do not ventilate them in daily journals. Nor do we take our children to the slaughter-house or the surgery for their entertainment; or repair thither ourselves for the sake of minutely discussing afterwards the sufferings we have witnessed. You will, I hope, discover that the pain inflicted by the constrictor or the viper is not, after all, so acute as it is by some imagined to be. The venomous bite of the latter causes almost immediate insensibility; the frog which the ring snake ate probably died of suffocation, which also produces insensibility; the constriction of the boa—in its natural condition—produces also a speedy death. Besides, as Dr. Andrew Wilson, in a paper on this subject, has explained to us, the sufferings of a frog or a rat are not like our sufferings. Their brain and nerves are of a lower order.[2]

Permit me, therefore, in the outset, to dismiss from these pages the question of cruelty as not being a branch of zoology; and as we cannot prevent snakes from eating frogs, or the vipers from catching field mice (nor need we wish to do so, or the small quarry would soon become too many for us), let us examine the curious construction of a snake’s head and jaw-bones that enables it to accomplish the task so easily.

With reference to the rapid development of science, it has been said that a scientific work is old as soon as the printer’s ink is dry. Up to the moment of sending my concluding pages to press, I realize this; and remarkably so in the growing interest in the Ophidia. Writings on this subject are becoming so frequent that, while correcting proofs, I am tempted to add footnotes enough almost for another volume.

Several circumstances have combined to enrich ophiological literature within a few years; one which, in 1872, I quite think established a sort of new era in this branch of zoology, was the appearance of Dr. Fayrer’s magnificent work, The Thanatophidia of India. Mr. Bullen, then the Superintendent of the Reading-Room at the British Museum, knowing that the subject was engaging my attention, informed me of the arrival of this book, and, with his ever kind thought for students, ordered it into the room for my express use; and I think I may affirm, that I was the very first ‘reader’ who had the privilege of inspecting the work, and, I hope, of helping to make it popular. For as day after day those huge folio leaves stood open, with the conspicuous and lifelike illustrations almost moving before your eyes, readers would linger and gaze, acquaintances would stop to inquire and inspect; some with a shudder would ask ‘how on earth I could endure the sight of such fearful creatures?’ while a few would manifest sufficient interest and intelligence to be indulged with a full display, and to whom I eagerly aired my convictions of the tremendous errors afloat concerning the snake tribe.

‘Beyond the pale of science but little is known of Ophiology,’ were Fayrer’s words. Two years previously to this, in 1870, Dr. Edward Nicholson wrote his book, Indian Snakes, ‘in the hope of dispelling the lamentable ignorance regarding some of the most beautiful and harmless of God’s creatures.’

This enthusiasm is gradually spreading, and we now not unfrequently hear of domesticated snakes in English homes; both from friends who keep them, and from the correspondence of the Field, Land and Water, and similar papers, in whose columns inquiries for information are often made regarding ophidian pets. Lord Lilford, one of the kindest patrons of the London Reptilium, has, I believe, for many years been a practical ophiologist. There is one little favourite snake that figures in these pages of which his lordship gave an excellent character from personal acquaintance, ‘the beautiful species Elaphis-quater-radiatus, as being the most naturally tame of all the colubrines, never hissing or trying to bite though frequently handled.’ A noble lady not long since carried a pet snake to the Gardens. It was twined round her arm, where it remained quiet and content, though to the alarm of some monkeys who caught sight of it. Some members of our Royal Family, with the enlightened intelligence which displays itself in them all, have more than once paid visits to the Reptile House at the Zoological Gardens, where the keeper has enjoyed the high honour of taking snakes out of their cages to place in royal hands. The good-will and interest towards the inmates of the Ophidarium are likewise displayed by some country gentlemen in presents of game, in the form of ring snakes for the Ophiophagus and frogs for the lesser fry. Lord Arthur Russell, Lord Lilford, and other distinguished personages set excellent examples of this kind. All of which proofs of prejudices overcome are features in the history of ophiology, and especially in the last decade.

Then, in glancing at recent literature, a great change is discernible, more particularly so during the last two years, since the popular contributions of Dr. Arthur Stradling, a corresponding member of the Zoological Society, have imparted a novel interest to this branch of zoology. To this gentleman my own most grateful acknowledgments are due, as will be evident to the reader, not only for the zest imparted by his correspondence from Brazil, but for some important specimens presented to me by him, which have enabled me to describe them minutely from personal observations, as well as to add some original illustrations from them. Though my work and my studies were far advanced, previous to his valued acquaintance, yet I have been able to enrich my pages from his experience, and have added footnotes from his published writings.

Already, however, some few dispassionate students of nature among editors were promoters of herpetology, and I must here express my acknowledgments to the talented daughters of the lamented Mrs. Alfred Gatty (and editresses of that facile princeps among juvenile periodicals, Aunt Judy’s Magazine), for having been the first to encourage and accept from my pen a snake in their pages, and subsequently several papers on ophidian manners and habits for their magazine.

In preparing ‘Sketches of the Ophidians’ for the Dublin University Magazine, December 1875, and January and February 1876 (in all, about forty closely-written pages), I, by request of the editor, included a paper on the venom and the various remedies, though, reluctant to intrude within the arena of professional science, a sort of summing up of evidence was all that I attempted. Having been thus required to glean some crude ideas from technical writings (which necessitated glossaries and dictionaries to be ever at hand), I again add a chapter on the ‘Venoms’ to my present work. Left entirely to my own independent conclusions, if I have ventured to think in opposition to some popular writers, and have even presumed to offer some suggestions of my own, I trust I may be treated with clemency.

With regard to the terrible death-rate from snake-bite in India, it does, however, appear to me that journalists who hold up their hands in horror, and write strong articles on this subject, lose sight of the religious and social condition of the low-caste Hindûs, who are the chief sufferers, and whose superstition is so fatal to them. Snake-worship is the root of the evil! Education must lower the death-rate. During the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to India, the entire programme was on one occasion interrupted because some Hindû children, to whom a feast was to be given, could not eat in the presence of Christians, whose ‘shadow would have polluted their food,’ or some obstacle of this nature. Similar difficulties arise when they are snake-bitten; their creed prohibits their having recourse to approved remedies. ‘Snake-charmers’ and native quacks are sent for instead, and often when cures are possible the fatalists submit to death.

To Professor Owen, who six years ago permitted me the honour of dedicating this contemplated work to him, and to others who were then led to expect its early appearance, I may be allowed to offer an excuse for tardiness. Like the creatures which fill its pages, I succumb to the chills of winter, and depend on the suns of summer for renewed vigour and activity. At one time impaired health, and the enforced suspension of literary pursuits under the threatened loss of the use of my right hand, were grievous interruptions.

Filial duties and domestic bereavements caused another two years’ delay. Banished to the seaside, and the pen prohibited during the winter of 1874-75, I had almost despaired of turning my studies to account, when a new impulse arrived in the shape of a note from the editor of Chambers’s Journal, begging to know if my ‘work on the Ophidia was out, and by whom published’? My ‘work on the Ophidia’? Could that mean my poor, despised little book that had been long ago submitted among others to those Edinburgh publishers? My work on the Ophidia! I began to get better from that day; and from that date, March 1875, I have had the inexpressible pleasure and privilege of including among my kindest and most sympathetic ophiological friends, the Editor of that popular journal. On the Ophidia, he entrusted me with work in various directions, encouraged by which I again returned to town, and to the Zoological Gardens.

If I am so fortunate as to afford instruction or entertainment in the following pages, my readers will join me in congratulating ourselves on the possession of so large and valuable a zoological collection as that in the Regent’s Park, without which this book could not have been attempted. And I may embrace this opportunity of expressing my sincere thanks to the President and Council of the Zoological Society for the privileges and facilities afforded me at their Gardens, where not only the Reptilium but the annual series of zoological lectures there, given by the first biologists of the day, have been of inexpressible use to me.

I would also express my thanks to Professor Flower, Hunterian Professor at the Royal College of Surgeons, London, for his invariable courtesy in facilitating my examination of the ophiological specimens in the museum of that College, to which my honoured father (himself a member) attributed all the love of the study of natural history which from our earliest recollections were encouraged in his children. My thanks are also due to Dr. Günther of the British Museum for similar facilities there. Indeed, the words of encouragement given me, no less than six years ago, by the distinguished heads of the zoological department of our great national collection, sustained my courage in opposition to all counter influences outside the British Museum. When first contemplating and presenting some outline of this work to Dr. Günther, he honoured me by expressing his opinion that such a book was ‘much needed;’ that it would be ‘extremely useful and interesting.’ He was even so kind as to promise to state this opinion in writing to any publisher who might consult him on the subject. I here claim the pleasure of thanking my present publishers for dispensing with the necessity of troubling Dr. Günther, and for entrusting me with the preparation of this book, which, before a chapter of it was completed, they engaged to publish. Deficient as I feel it to be, it is at length launched on the doubtful waters of public criticism. If any scientific eyes honour it with a glance, they will with clemency remember that, with no scientific knowledge whatever to start with, I have had to grope my way unaided, plodding over technicalities which in themselves were studies; and if, as no doubt is the case, any misapprehension of such technicalities has here and there crept in and misinterpreted the true meaning, I anxiously trust that the truth has not been altogether obliterated by such obscurities.

In conclusion, let me not omit a grateful tribute to the invariable kindness of the heads of the Reading-Room at the British Museum; and for their assistance in obtaining books of which I might never have known. The kindness of Mr. Garnett extended even beyond the Reading-Room; for while I was invalided at the seaside, and could only read, not write, he translated and forwarded to me some important pages from Lenz, a German ophiologist. To him, therefore, the thanks of the reader are also due.

In the choice of illustrations my aim has been rather to exemplify a few leading features than to attract by brilliantly-figured examples. Some of the woodcuts are borrowed from Günther’s and Fayrer’s works; others I have drawn faithfully from natural specimens; but in them all I am indebted to the kind and patient work of Mr. A. T. Elwes in reproducing my own imperfect attempts. And as it was impossible to draw a snake in action from life, or to witness a second time the precise coils or movements which had at first struck me as remarkable, the composition of some of these subjects was by no means an easy one. Our united efforts have been to represent the natural actions as far as possible, and this I hope may commend them to the reader.

There are few English persons who have not relatives in India, Australia, America, and Africa, and from whom they are continually hearing of escapes or accidents from snakes. Many letters from these friends beyond the seas find place in the columns of the daily journals. Whether, therefore, naturalists or not, a very large class of the intelligent public claims an anxious interest in the Serpent race, and to all of whom my OPHIDIANA or snake gossip is hopefully addressed.

CATHERINE C. HOPLEY.

London, October 1882.

SNAKES:

CURIOSITIES AND WONDERS OF SERPENT LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

SEEING A SNAKE FEED.

IN any person who for the first time witnesses a snake with prey just captured, the predominant feeling must be one of surprise at the seemingly unmanageable size of the animal it has seized; and he probably exclaims to himself, or to his companion, as we did on the occasion described in the introduction, ‘What will he do with it?’ Let us again take our common ring snake, Coluber natrix, that ate a frog for our edification; only, in the present instance, instead of seeing a tame snake in a private residence at Chelsea, we will suppose ourselves to be watching one on the banks of a stream in fine summer weather. A slight movement in the grass causes us to turn our eyes towards the spot, and we are just in time to see the quick dash, and the next instant a recalcitrant frog held aloft in the jaws of a snake that with elevated head glides up the bank. Coluber’s head is no bigger than a filbert, and the frog is nearly full grown, its body inflated to twice its original size, and its legs, of impracticable length and angles, kicking remonstrantly.

‘How in the world is the snake going to manage it?’ again you exclaim, and your amazement is not exceptional. It is what has been witnessed and heard weekly in London when the public were admitted to the Reptilium on feeding days, and it is what the reader will recall in his own case when first informed that a snake was going to swallow that monstrous mouthful undivided.

In the present instance, the injury to froggie’s feelings thus far partakes more of moral than of physical pain, for the grasp of the snake is not violent, and he finds that the more he struggles the more he injures himself. Yet he kicks and struggles on, at thus being forcibly detained against his will. In the mouth of the snake he is as proportionately large as the shoulder of mutton in the jaws of the dog that has just stolen it from the butcher’s shop. How do the canines manage unwieldy food? The dog can tackle the joint of meat, big though it be, because he has limbs to aid him, and he was prepared for emergencies before he stole it. He knew of a certain deserted yard up a passage close by, and of some lumber stacked there; he watched his opportunity, and is off to his hiding-place; and once hidden behind the lumber, he settles down quietly with his ill-gotten dinner firmly held between his fore-paws, while, with eyes and ears on the alert, he gnaws away.

The snake, no doubt, knows of a hole in the bank, or in a hollow tree, in which he can hide if alarmed; but he cannot set his frog down for one instant, nor can he relax his jaws in the slightest degree, or his dinner hops away, and he has to pursue it, or wait for another frog, when the same thing may happen again. He has only his teeth to trust to, and these have all the work of paws and claws, and nails and talons, to accomplish, while yet, not for one instant, must they relinquish their hold.

‘Besides!—how much too big that frog is for Coluber’s small mouth!’ And we continue to gaze in wonderment, filled with amazement that brings us to the bookshelves, to endeavour to comprehend the phenomenon. Not, however, until we have seen the end of that frog on the banks of the stream, where the reader is supposed to be waiting.

First, let me explain that in the manner of feeding, snakes may be divided into three classes, viz. those that kill their prey by constriction or by smothering it in the coils of their body; those that kill by poison; and some smaller kinds, which, like the ring snake, eat it alive—the latter a quick process, which may also be said to be death by suffocation. Our little Coluber is in a spot where we can watch it easily; so we keep rigidly still, and soon perceive that though the snake just now had hold of froggie’s side, he now has the head in his mouth. How can this be? and how has he managed to shift it thus, almost imperceptibly, while seeming to hold it still? Now the head begins to disappear, and the snake’s jaws stretch in a most distorted fashion, as if dislocated; its head expands out of all original shape, while slowly, slowly, the frog is drawn in as if by suction. Now its legs are passive; they no longer kick right and left, but lie parallel, as by degrees they also vanish, and only the four feet remain in sight. These presently have been sucked in, and the skin of the snake is stretched like a knitted stocking over the lump which tells us just how far down Coluber’s neck the frog has reached. Gradually the lump gets farther and farther down, but is less evident as it reaches the larger part of the body. The snake remains still for a few moments till his jaws are comfortably in place again; then he yawns once or twice, and finally retires for his siesta, and we to the bookshelves.

‘Snakes work their prey down through the collapsed pharynx,’ says Günther. That is, the muscles of the throat seize upon what is presented to them, and do their part, as in other animals. Only, in most other animals there is the action of swallowing, one mouthful at a time; whereas in serpents the action is continuous, the throat going on with the work begun by the teeth, which in a snake is only grasping and working the food in with a motion so gradual as to simulate suction. The reason why the head and jaws have been so enormously stretched and distorted, is because all the bones are, in common language, loose; that is, they are not consolidated like the head-bones of higher animals, but united by ligaments so elastic as to enable them to separate in the way we have seen. This extends to the jaws, and even to the palate, which is also armed with teeth, two rows extending backwards. The lower jaw or mandible being extremely long, the elastic ligament by which the pair of bones is connected in front, forming the chin, enables them to separate widely and move independently. This is the case in a lesser degree with the palate bones, and the upper jaw-bones, all six being furnished with long, fine, recurved, close-set teeth, adapted for grasping and holding, but not for dividing or for mastication in any way.

For, as we have seen, if a snake were to open its mouth one moment for the purpose of what we call biting, the prey would escape. In addition to a very unusual length, the lower jaw is joined to the skull by an extra bone,—one which is not found in mammals, but only, I think, in birds,—a long ‘tympanic’ bone, which forms an elbow, and permits of that wide expansion of the throat necessary for the passage of such large undivided prey.

The illustration of the skeleton of a cobra, on p. 33, will enable the student to distinguish the principal head-bones. There is so much similarity of construction throughout the whole ophidian families that a cobra is chosen here, because the unusually long anterior ribs which form the hood can be observed, and the expansion of which is described elsewhere. The longer teeth in the upper jaw are here fangs; the inclination of the other rows of teeth and the bones sufficiently illustrate those of the non-venomous kinds generally, such as the little ring snake that has just swallowed his frog. A few of the larger constricting snakes possess an additional bone—an intermaxillary in front between the upper jaws, very small, yet sometimes furnished with two or four teeth, thus facilitating the expansion of the jaws as well as the retention of the food.

It is this adaptive development of head-bones that enabled Coluber natrix to turn his frog round to a more convenient position, and then draw it into his mouth so gradually that we scarcely comprehended how it disappeared. The six rows of small teeth form six jaws so to speak, each one of which advanced a very little, while the other five were engaged in holding firmly. In those largest pythons which have the little bone in front between the two upper jaw-bones (intermaxillary) we may say there are seven jaws. As those gigantic snakes have to deal with proportionately large and strong prey, they are thus enabled to retain and manage it.

In the graphic language of Professor Owen let me recapitulate.

The mouth can be opened laterally or transversely, as in insects, as well as vertically, as in other vertebrates. The six jaws are four above and two below, each of which can be protruded or retracted independently of the others. ‘The prey having been caught and held, one jaw is then unfixed by the teeth of that jaw being withdrawn and pushed forward, when they are again unfixed farther back upon the prey; another jaw is then unfixed, protruded, and re-attached, and so with the rest in succession. This movement of protraction, being almost the only one of which they are susceptible, while stretched apart to the utmost by the bulk of the animal encompassed by them: and thus by their successive movements, the prey is slowly introduced into the gullet.’[3]

Skeleton of a Cobra (from Owen’s Anatomy of the Vertebrates).

This working of the jaws would be almost imperceptible excepting to a very close observer. In the lower jaw-bones the independent action can be more readily perceived and is often very grotesque, one side of the mouth opening while the other is closed, conveying the idea of the reptile making grimaces at you; but the gradual disappearance of the prey so much more bulky than the snake itself is quite incomprehensible until we are acquainted with the remarkable phenomena of the six rows of teeth acting independently. Thus, in turning the frog round to adjust it to a more convenient position, the jaws acted like hands in moving, dragging, or shifting some cumbrous article, say a carpet or a plank, when the left hand follows the movement of the right hand until the plank or carpet is worked round or forward in the required direction.

The form and arrangement of the fine claw-shaped teeth assist the process. They are too close together, and the pressure is too slight to inflict a wound; they merely retain what they hold, and it is in vain for the prey to struggle against them, or it might get some ugly scratches as they all incline backwards. In chapter xix. illustrations of teeth, life-size, show their forms and direction; here it only need be added regarding them, that the above description refers chiefly to the non-venomous snakes.

The palate being covered with that armoury of teeth, the snake must have but a slight sense of taste, which is to its advantage, we should say; for having no assistant in the shape of beak or limbs to divide its prey, hair, fur, feathers, dust—all must be swallowed with the meal, completely disguising whatever flesh they cover, so that we should suppose the process of feeding could be productive of very little enjoyment to the reptile. Perhaps out of this state of things has developed their habit of eating so seldom, but when they do take the trouble of feeding, of doing it thoroughly, so that their meal lasts them a long while.

Deglutition is greatly facilitated by an abundant supply of saliva, which lubricates that uncomfortable coating of feathers or fur; but ‘lubrication’ is understood to refer merely to the natural secretions of the mouth, in which the tongue performs no part at all.

The salivary apparatus of snakes is peculiar to them, and very complicated. Even the nasal and lachrymal glands pour their superfluous secretions through small canals into the mouth.[4] These active and abundant glands are excited by hunger or the sight of food, just as in mammals; and for the more common expression of the mouth ‘watering’ that of ‘lubrication’ is here used, because over the rough-coated prey these salivary secretions act as a great aid in deglutition. The erroneous impressions that have obtained on this subject are touched upon in describing the tongue (chap. vi.).

A circumstance happened at the London Zoological Gardens a few years ago, which, although familiar to many, may be referred to as bearing on two of the above features—namely, the dull sense of taste in a snake, and the abundant supply of mucous secretions. It was in the case of a large boa which swallowed her blanket. She was about to change her skin, and, as usual on such occasions, was partially blind, as also indifferent to food. The rabbits given to her dodged her grasp, and her appreciation of flavours was not sufficient to enable her to discriminate between blanket and rabbit fur; so, seizing a portion of the rug, she with natural instinct constricted this, and proceeded to swallow it. She was, however, made to disgorge it afterwards, when it was scarcely recognisable from the thick and abundant coating of mucous in which it was enveloped. Mr. F. Buckland described its appearance as that of a ‘long flannel sausage.’

These highly-developed salivary glands are beneficent provisions in the economy of the serpent race. The reptile cannot, as we said, tear flesh from bones, and discard the latter; nor separate the food from the enveloping feathers or fur; nor reject whatever unsavoury portions other animals might detach and leave uneaten. All must be swallowed by a snake, and all digested; and its digestion, sufficiently powerful, is aided by the excessive flow of saliva, or the insalivation of such food.

It is not difficult to make snakes disgorge their food. They often do so on their own account, when, after swallowing some bulky meal, they are alarmed or pursued, and escape is less easy with that load to carry. The illustration exhibiting the numerous ribs, which are all loosely articulated with the spinal column, enables us to comprehend the capacity for bulk, and the ease with which these fine ribs would expand to accommodate a body even broader than the snake itself. We comprehend, also, why it is that a creature swallowed alive need not be injured or wounded by the mere fact of being swallowed, but would die of suffocation after all. A frog has been known to turn round and escape from the body of the snake, if the latter indulge in a prolonged yawn; and yawning almost always does follow as soon as the prey is swallowed, because the snake has for the time breathed less regularly, and now requires to take in a fresh supply of air. In this act you see the two jaws extended to an enormous degree, almost, indeed, to form one straight line perpendicularly. In such condition the teeth are well out of the way, and the adjustable ribs, expansile covering, and loose head bones render them not insurmountable obstacles to an escape when the prey is uninjured.

One sometimes hears of the egg-stealing snakes, cobras, etc., when surprised and pursued, first relieving themselves of their plunder before they attempt to escape. Often it may be observed, when two snakes are in a cage together, and both get hold of the same frog or rat, that they each advance upon it till their heads meet, when either the stronger or the larger snake will gain the day, and finish his frog, and then proceed to swallow his friend; or else one will relinquish his hold, when, even in those few minutes, the half-swallowed prey will be completely disguised in the mucous saliva which has already enveloped it.

Some snakes, though not quarrelsome at other times, for some reason inexplicable to the looker-on, persistently set their heart on the same bird or frog, though many are presented for their choice. In a pair of Tropidonoti at the Gardens this occurs almost every week; and in such instances the keeper keeps a sharp watch over them; for as neither snake will relinquish its capture, the one that begins first comes in contact with the head of his comrade, who will assuredly be swallowed too, were not a little moral, or rather physical coercion in the shape of a good shaking administered. Sometimes both get their ears boxed, figuratively; yet the discipline has no more than a passing effect, and next week the same thing happens again.

Not many months ago a very valuable snake was thus rescued literally from the jaws of death. A South American rat snake (Geoptyas collaris) began to eat a rabbit that was put in the cage for a python, which also began to eat it. Collaris would not let it go, and so the python continued to advance upon it until he came to his comrade, and proceeded with this prolonged repast. Collaris is a rather large snake of some eight or ten feet long. When nearly the whole of him had vanished, the keeper—who, of course, had been occupied at each cage in turn—fortunately discovered about a foot of tail fast disappearing in the mouth of the python, the whole of Collaris, excepting this caudal portion, having been swallowed. Just in time to rescue the victim, the keeper, by his experienced manipulation, made the python open his mouth, while the assistant helped to pull at Collaris. At last they pulled back all the seven feet of snake, which sustained no further injury than a slight scratch or two against the python’s teeth; but he seemed none the worse, and was no sooner free than he seized a rat, constricted and ate it with a celerity which seemed to say he would make sure of a meal this time.

On the following Friday the very same thing was about to occur again. Collaris had begun to swallow the python’s rabbit, the latter having prior hold; but the keeper was on the watch, and administered a little practical reproof which made the rat snake loosen his hold. Matters were further complicated on this occasion by the python throwing some coils around his intended feast, so that to get a purchase and manage these two constrictors was less easy than on the previous occasion, though then the snake had been swallowed. In the same cage were also two other pythons, quite strong enough to strangle a person had they taken a fancy to hug him round the neck. Both were aroused and displeased at the commotion, and ready to ‘fly’ at the men, who, on the whole, had an exciting time with the four constrictors, all from eight to twelve feet long.

Cannibalism is very common in snakes, particularly among the Elapidæ, which have small and narrow heads, and can therefore more conveniently swallow a fellow-creature than a bird or a quadruped. The keeper told me that often a box arrives at the Gardens labelled ‘Ten cobras,’ or ‘twelve,’ as may be; when, on opening the box, the number falls short; suggesting that cannibalism has diminished the company. It is a curious fact, however, that snakes, as a rule, seize prey whose bulk far exceeds their own, even when a more manageable kind could be easily caught. It is as if they were aware of the accommodating nature of their multifold ribs; as a snake longer than themselves must be doubled up in their stomach, and those broader than themselves must, one would imagine, be a most uncomfortable meal to dispose of. Yet this is common. Mr. H. W. Bates found in a jarraraca an amphisbœna larger than itself, and in another snake a lizard whose bulk exceeded its own. My Brazilian correspondent, Dr. Arthur Stradling, wrote me of a similar circumstance. He received a little Elaps lemniscatus in Maceio, which presented a singularly bloated appearance. It no doubt felt itself in a condition not favourable to rapid escape; or captivity impaired its digestion, for ‘the next morning it disgorged an amphisbœna or small serpent (it was half digested) actually longer than itself, and weighing half as much again.’

Prodigious meals engender drowsiness, and thus the Ophidia habitually repose a long while after taking food.

This habit of gorging enormous prey being one of the most striking of ophidian characteristics, it has been introduced thus early in my work, as affording opportunity for a general glance at the anatomical structure. In the next chapter we will enumerate a few other peculiar features, ere proceeding to examine in detail some of the most important organs.

CHAPTER II.

SNAKES OF FICTION AND OF FACT.

IN a celebrated lecture on ‘Snakes,’ given by Mr. Ruskin at the London Institution in March 1880, he introduced his subject with the three considerations: ‘What has been thought about them?’ ‘What is truly known about them?’—extremely little, as he suggested;—and, ‘What is wisely asked about them, and what is desirable to know?’

The three questions exactly agree with the object of my work, this chapter especially; and I will invite my readers to seek in their own minds the answer to the first question, which will also furnish a solution to the second, and, I trust, incite some interest in the third.

The learned lecturer carried us through the realms of fancy, to conjure up all the grotesque creatures which, under the name of ‘serpents,’ have figured in heraldry and mythology. By these, and by the light of the poets of old, and in later times through the naturalists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, we learn what a ‘serpent’ was to them, and what it included. In remote antiquity it was an embodiment of the hideous and the terrible; and in spite of Aristotle (a comparatively recent authority), dragons and such-like chimærical creatures have pervaded the mind both of the erudite and the ignorant, in association with serpents, till within three hundred years, and are not even yet altogether discarded.

Nor am I inclined to believe that the terror-inspiring representations of classic days are so unreal as might be supposed. Palæontology is continually bringing to light new evidences of the presence of man on the earth in ages far remote; and we do not know for certain what strange forms of animal life were his contemporaries, or when the faculty of speech was so far developed in him as to enable him to learn about his predecessors, which were still more terrible. We do know that fossils of mammoth creatures, passing strange, are coeval with fossil human remains, and to those early types of humanity a knowledge of still stranger creatures of reptilian forms may have been handed down from mouth to mouth; for there is generally a germ of truth at the root of a myth. Fossil remains tell us of the gigantic forms of ancient reptiles, or compound reptile-fish or reptile-birds, and quadrupeds which have gradually diminished in size or become altogether extinct as our own period has been approached.

Said Professor Huxley, at the British Association in 1878, ‘Within the last twenty years we have an astonishing accumulation of evidence of the existence of man in ages antecedent to those of which we have any historical record. Beyond all question, man, and what is more to the purpose, intelligent man, existed at a time when the whole physical conformation of the country was totally different from that which now characterizes it.’

Did these intelligent beings know anything of the Dinotherium (dreadful beast), or the Dinornis (dreadful bird), or any other of those fearful forms which have furnished historic ages with a dragon?

Coming down to our own era, and the time when travel and education first induced the observation and study of animals with a view to learn their habits, and to arrange them under some system of classification, we begin to see the perplexities that presented themselves to naturalists, especially with regard to egg-producing creatures. To Topsell, a writer of the seventeenth century, every creeping or crawling thing was ‘a Serpente,’ and many insects were included in his category. To Lawson, on the contrary, every egg-producing creature, if not a bird, was an ‘Insect.’ In his History of Carolina, 1709, he describes, under ‘Insects of Carolina,’ all the snakes he saw, also the alligators, lizards, etc., and thus continues: ‘The Reptiles or smaller Insects are too numerous to relate here, the Country affording innumerable quantities thereof; as the Flying Stags with Horns, Beetles, Butterflies, Grasshoppers, Locusts, and several hundred of uncouth Shapes.’ Having thus gone through the ‘Insects,’ except the ‘Eel-snake’ (which turns out to be a ‘Loach’ or leech), he gets puzzled over a ‘Tortois, vulgarly called Turtle, which I have ranked among the Insects, because they lay Eggs, and I did not know well where to put them.’ And Lawson was not alone in not knowing ‘where to put’ a countless number of other creatures that go to form the endless links in the long chain of living organisms; even plants, which, to use Darwin’s words, ‘with animals, though most remote in the scale of nature, are bound together by a web of complex relations.’ You may place the dove at one end of the chain and the crocodile at the other, without one broken link. The earliest bird which palæontology has revealed had teeth in its bill, claws on the end of its wings, and a long tail with feathers growing out of it, like a pinnate leaf.

We see those strange forms reproduced in the gardens of the Crystal Palace. Lizards with the head of a bird and other combinations, the Pterosauria or winged-lizards, Ichthyosauria or fish-lizards, of which some representative types still exist in the African Lepidosiren and the Mexican Axolotl, which have puzzled modern physiologists as much as the Carolina tortoise puzzled Lawson; for whether to call them reptiles or fishes was long a disputed question. Dr. Carpenter, in his Zoology, reckons fifty-eight of such links among reptiles; as, for instance, the transition from turtles to crocodiles, from tortoises to lizards, in which latter we find the legs growing shorter, till they are gone altogether in the blindworms and amphisbænas. These again branch off to the cecilias, and the cecilias to worms on one side, and to frogs on the other, having the form of a snake, but the skin of the batrachian. There are the Ophiosaurians, snake-lizards, and Saurophidians, lizard-snakes; there are lizard-like frogs and frog-like lizards; some of them beginning life with gills, and becoming air-breathers afterwards, others of saurian aspect retaining their gills through life; and from these, again, is the transition between reptiles and fishes. There are diminutive snakes of worm-like aspect, and gigantic worms which might be mistaken for snakes; and among modern naturalists, that is to say within one hundred years, worms have been classed with reptiles when none such enormous species as those lately found in Africa were dreamed of.

There is in no branch of zoology so much confusion as in herpetology; and if the reader will, with a sweep of the imagination, embrace the innumerable forms that come under the class Reptilia, their various coverings, and their close gradations, he will not wonder at this. Let us glance at a few of the systems adopted by Linnæus and others of his time, who, we must remember, had to combat not only inherited ideas of ‘creeping things,’ but the difficulties presented by badly stuffed or bottled specimens; the latter often having been so long in alcohol that their colours had flown, or their covering changed in texture. The Atlantic was not crossed in a week in those days; and three months, instead of three weeks, barely sufficed to reach India, to say nothing of inland journeys when you got there. If foreign specimens came home after the manipulations of a taxidermist, he had done his very best to render them as hideous as tradition painted them. Sometimes a wooden head on a stuffed body; teeth that might furnish the jaws of the largest felines, and a tongue to match; while with external cleansings, scrapings, and polishings, it were hard to discover what manner of skin had originally clothed the creature.

Carefully chosen was Aristotle’s name for reptiles, ‘the terrestrial, oviparous, sanguineous animals;’ for those which we are considering, breathe by lungs, and are therefore red-blooded. Cuvier divided the egg-producing animals into oviparous quadrupeds (lizards, turtles, crocodiles, and frogs); bipeds, the birds; insects and serpents. Linnæus—who, by the way, preceded Cuvier—called all reptiles ‘amphibious animals,’ of which serpents were the second order, those ‘without limbs.’ He also divided them into orders, genera, and species; but in the Ophidia was guided too much by the scales, which has caused confusion ever since, as both poisonous and harmless snakes often present similar characters in this respect.

If the reader will turn to the illustration of scales (p. 193), he will see an example of the large scutæ or ventral plates that are possessed by the majority of the true Ophidia. The burrowing snakes, most of them small and allied to lizards in their structure, are protected by a cuirass of hard, close-set, polished scales, alike all round; or else with a thick, smooth skin arranged in rings. Some very poisonous serpents, notably the sea-snakes, have also the scales alike all round, because they do not require the hold which those large ventral scales afford to land serpents in progression; but it will at once be seen that on so slight a resemblance it would be unsuitable to arrange such widely-differing families in the same group. The majority of snakes have the scales under the tail different from those under the body; and a very large number, both of venomous and innocuous snakes, have broad ventral scales, as far as the termination of the body, and then a double row where the tail commences. The accompanying illustration is sufficient to convey a general idea of the arrangement of the scales before and after the anus.

Linnæus called all serpents with these two rows of sub-caudal scales, Colubers, including under this name many both large and small, land and water, poisonous and harmless snakes. In respect for the great talent and vast work accomplished by this eminent naturalist, as well as his then paramount and diffusive knowledge, his systems prevailed for a very long while. Cuvier, after Linnæus, became also a great authority for a time. He recognised distinctions in the fangs of venomous snakes, and would reform some previous errors regarding scales. ‘Boa comprenaient autrefois tous les serpens venimeux ou non, dont le dessous du corps et de la queue est garni de bandes d’une seul pièce.’[5] It was equally unsuitable to mingle those with the double rows, as it put a viper and a coluber together. Cuvier also made closer distinctions between the lizard-like snakes and the true Ophidia, ‘serpens proprement dit.’ The words herpetology (from the Greek), and serpents (from the Latin serpo), formerly embraced a much larger variety; the former may include all reptiles, while the more recently adopted one of ophiology comprises snakes only. And the history of the word tells of the history of the distinctions gradually adopted as above described, as the true snakes or serpents, without external limbs, were separated from the rest.

The various names for a snake—Anguis, Serpens, Coluber, etc.—having been made generic distinctions by some of the older naturalists, cause considerable puzzle to the student, who finds these words applied alike to many varying species in as many books, because a writer has often taken one author for his guide, instead of comparing a number. Many modern writers on ophiology give us a list of synonymes, which in time are found to unravel the above perplexities, but which are at first more puzzling than not, because a single snake is presented to you under so many different names. This will be apparent in the course of this work, wherein much that is merely suggestive in the present chapter will be treated more fully under various headings, without, I trust, offering a too wearisome repetition. Indeed, the whole study of the Ophidia presents so many exceptions that recapitulations may be acceptable rather than otherwise. An interlacing of subjects has not here been avoided so much as contrived, in the hope of presenting the whole more clearly to the mind of the student.

Ruskin favoured his audience with printed lists of the ‘names of the snake tribe in the great languages.’ And these I gladly reproduce for the benefit of my readers.

‘Names of the Snake Tribe in the Great Languages.’

1. Ophis (Greek), ‘the seeing’ (creature, understood). Meaning especially one that sees all round it.

2. Dracon (Greek), Drachen (German), ‘the beholding.’ Meaning one that looks well into a thing, or person.

3. Anguis (Latin), ‘the strangling.’

4. Serpens (Latin), ‘the winding.’

5. Coluber (Latin), Couleuvre (French), ‘the coiling.’

6. Adder (Saxon), ‘the grovelling.’

7. Snake (Saxon), Schlange (German), ‘the crawling’ (with sense of dragging, and of smoothness).

The first, and Ophidion, a small serpent, Ophiodes, etc., have given the name Ophiology to the science; the second was also a ‘serpente’ in days of yore. The third, Anguis, is now applied to some of the smooth, burrowing snakes; and the rest speak for themselves.

Before quite taking leave of obsolete teachings, a few lines from two very distinguished authors of the seventeenth century must be quoted, the influence of both having no doubt gone a great way towards diffusing beliefs. Lord Bacon—in his book, Of the Proficience and Aduancement of Learning, Diuine and Humane. To the King. 1605—writes, ‘It is not possible to join Serpentine Wisdom with the Columbine Innocency, except men know exactly all the conditions of the Serpent; his Baseness and going upon his Belly, his Volubility and Lubricity, his Envy and Sting; for without this, Virtue lyeth unfenced.’

What quality is to be understood by ‘Volubility,’ the reader must decide. Of the other five offences, all except that of crawling are simply imaginary. By ‘Lubricity,’ a supposed sliminess may be intended, or the old fable of ‘licking’ the prey; and the only reasonable interpretation of the ‘Sting’ is that the old Saxon word styng did imply a wound punctured or pierced with any fine, sharp instrument; and the venomous tooth is not so very unlike an insect’s sting after all.

The next is from Pepys’ Diary, vol. i. p. 322.—Feb. 4th, 1661:—‘Mr. Templer, an ingenious Man, discoursing of the Nature of Serpents, told us that some in the waste Places of Lincolnshire do grow to a Great Bigness, and do feed upon Larkes which they take thus:—They observe when the Larke is soared to the Highest, and do crawl till they come to be just underneath them, and there they place themselves with their mouth uppermost; and there, as it is conceived, they do eject Poyson upon the Bird; for the Bird do suddenly come down again in its course of a Circle, and falls directly into the Mouth of the Snake.’

This story, founded on fact, is related by a beholder who, to use the words of Dr. Andrew Wilson when discoursing on ‘Zoological Myths,’ made ‘an unscientific use of his imagination.’ Our largest English snake has no poison to ‘eject, as it was conceived.’ Quite possible that it might have looked up towards the singing lark, and with the swiftness of the bird in its descent, glided towards the spot, ready to pounce upon it. The absurdity of poison being ejected upwards through a needle-like fang,—had the snake possessed such an instrument,—and to such a height, is evident.

Having reduced a very large circle of anomalous reptiles, till the Ophidia only are in possession of the enclosure, let me endeavour to dispose of these according to the present accepted methods—not of classification, or this volume would be mere lists of names. In 1858, when Dr. Günther arranged and classified the collection in the British Museum, there were 3100 colubrine snakes (those with no viperine features); and when you think of these three thousand odd having, on an average, a dozen names each (the reason for which is deferred till the later chapters), my readers will cheerfully dispense with much in the way of classes and orders, especially as the present methods are reckoned very defective, and there is a loud cry for a new classification of the Reptilia. Already the reader can surmise some of the difficulties, and they will be more evident as we proceed.

The whole order of Ophidia may be divided into the venomous and the non-venomous, or into other two divisions, viz. those which approach the Saurians, having scales alike all round, vestiges of shoulder bones and hind limbs, and with ribs nearly encircling the body; and those which have the broad ventral plates, no rudimentary limbs, and a tongue far more extensible than the previous group.

It will not, I trust, be out of place to introduce a table as presented to us at some of the ‘Davis Lectures’ at the London Zoological Gardens; for I think I am safe in saying this arrangement is adopted by nearly all our living authorities. To go back to the days of our childhood and the game of ‘Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?’—the original three kingdoms of Nature,—the first heads our table: ANIMAL KINGDOM. Next comes the sub-kingdom, comprising five divisions, namely mammals, birds, reptiles, frogs, and fishes, each of which is divided into class, order, family, genus, species, with sometimes a sub-class or a sub-order. Professor St. George Mivart divides the whole of the reptiles into—(1) Chelonia, the tortoises; (2) Ophidia, the snakes; (3) Crocodilia, or Loricata, the crocodiles; (4) Sauria, the lizards. Batrachia, the frogs, he separates, because they begin life as a fish. Originally there were nine orders of reptiles; then for a long while we were taught that there were four,—Chelonians, Ophidians, Saurians, and Batrachians. Every one of the above so merges into the others that many herpetologists differ in drawing the lines between them.

If we were asked to define our little friend, the ring snake, that ate a frog while we were studying his anatomy, we would say that he belongs to the—

1. Animal Kingdom.
2. Sub-Kingdom, Vertebrata.
3. Class, Reptilia.
4. Order, Ophidia.
5. Family, Tropidonotus.
6. Genus, Coluber.
7. Species, Natrix.

He is most frequently known as Coluber natrix, though as both words mean simply a snake, the name is inadequate. In fact, our common English snake has been rather neglected in the way of titles, the only generic name which is at all descriptive being Tropidonotus, so called from the keel which characterizes the scales. So he is Tropidonotus natrix, and Natrix tropidonotus, and Natrix torquata of the different authors, the last-named specific presumably given on account of the collar which he wears, and which being often yellow, has gained for him the name of ‘ring snake.’ Coluber natrix, having so few synonymes, they are all given, in illustration of what has been already said of the perplexity of names assigned by different naturalists. And, by the way, this ‘ring’ or ‘collar’ is not an invariable mark. Sometimes the yellow is wanting altogether, and only a white collar is displayed. At the time of writing[6] there is one of these snakes at the Zoological Gardens with not the least tint of yellow on its neck; and I have before me in alcohol a very young and beautiful little specimen in which the white collar is very bright and large, and set off with deep black behind it, but there is not an approach to yellow or to a ring, the throat being pure white. His Latin specific is therefore more appropriate than his English one, the collar being always there, but not always the ring.

Dr. Günther divides the whole of the Ophidia into five groups, and in briefly describing these I shall hope to conduct my readers towards a consideration of those remarkable features which will be discussed under their various heads, and which will exhibit the class as unique in their marvellous organization and physical powers.

The five groups are—

1. Burrowing Snakes.
2. Ground Snakes.
3. Tree Snakes.
4. Fresh-water Snakes.
5. Sea Snakes.

(1) The Burrowing Snakes live chiefly underground, some of them working their way down like the worms; and to fit them for this life they are characterized by having short stiff bodies covered with hard, firm, close scales, to form an armour. Most of them have short and rather curious tails, as described in chap. xi.; but many that burrow and hide in the ground live a good deal on the surface as well. Our little native slow-worm (Anguis fragilis) is allied to these. Their heads are small and narrow, their muzzle smooth and strong to help them to work their way. Their jaws do not stretch apart, nor does their head get out of shape in eating, the bones being all more consolidated; and their food being chiefly insects, slugs, worms, etc., they seize upon these, and hold them, and then with quick snaps get them down their throats. Many of them have rudiments of a sternum, and pelvic bones—vestiges, perhaps, is a more correct term, as we shall find by and by, for their saurian ancestors had perfect limbs. The group is large, perfectly harmless, and has representatives in most countries where a snake or a lizard is to be found. None are of great size.

(2) The Ground Snakes include by far the greatest number and diversity, and though passing their time chiefly on the surface like our ‘ring-snake,’ can both climb trees and enjoy the water. Some of the most venomous as well as the harmless and gentle kinds, and some of the largest as well as the smallest, live habitually on the ground. To fit them for progression, they have the broad ventral scales described on p. 46, wide dilatable jaws like Coluber natrix, and scales of various patterns and colourings. Vipers, the cobras, the coronellas, the boas, moccasins, ‘carpet snakes,’ and other familiar names belong to this large group.

(3) Tree Snakes include both venomous and innocent genera. They are none of them large, many of them of a brilliant green, and some of them exquisitely beautiful. Slender and active, the harmless kinds skim among the branches, which scarcely bend beneath their weight. Many of them have small and peculiarly arranged ventral shields, not requiring to hold on in progression; many also have long prehensile tails, which wind and cling while the little acrobats swing to and fro, or hang down to take a young bird or an egg out of the nest. The poisonous kinds of tree snakes abound in India, have a thick body, broad head, and a dull, sluggish habit, but still are handsome as to colour, and mostly green. They hide in the trunks of trees, or in the hollow forks of the branches, and rarely venture upon the ground. Some, however, live only in bushy foliage lower down, while other arboreal species frequent the highest branches, where, moving with amazing celerity, they are as much at home as the feathered inhabitants.

(4) Fresh-Water Snakes are especially adapted for an aquatic existence, and have their nostrils on the top of the snout, to enable them to breathe easily when in the water. Some of them can hold on to weeds or other things by their tails. They swim and dive, and are as active as eels. None are very large, and all are harmless. But a good many of the second group that are poisonous, spend so much of their time in the water that they are known as ‘water vipers,’ ‘water moccasins,’ etc., though not truly water snakes.

(5) Sea Snakes.—All highly venomous. These, as also the fresh-water snakes, are treated fully in chapters xiii. and xiv. The five divisions assist the student towards grasping an idea of the principal groups, but the whole five pass into each other by intermediate forms and imperceptible degrees.

Some other general characteristics of the Ophidia are that all are carnivorous, catching their prey alive; all are oviparous; and in organization and intelligence they rank between birds and fishes,—higher than fishes in having lungs, and lower than birds, which are warm-blooded animals. Their heart is so formed as to send only a portion of blood to the lungs on each contraction of it; their temperature, therefore, is that of the surrounding atmosphere (see p. 142). Their normal condition, particularly that of the venomous species, is one of lethargic repose and indolence, with a disposition to retreat and hide, rather than to obtrude themselves. On this account, and also because so many of them are nocturnal in their habits, less has been truly known of serpents than of most other creatures, prejudice having added to a prevailing indifference regarding them. The duration of their lives is uncertain, or whether they have a stated period of growth. Some naturalists think they grow all their lives; but this must not be taken literally, or that if a small snake happened to escape dangers, and live a very long while, it would acquire the dimensions of a python. Some think that formerly the constrictors did attain more formidable proportions than those of the present day.

Snakes have small brains, slight intelligence, and slow sensations, amounting almost to insensibility to pain. They can live a long while without their brains and without their heart; while the latter, if taken from the body, will continue its pulsations for a considerable time. Also if the head be severed, the body will for a certain time continue to move, coil, and even spring, and the head will try to bite, and the tongue dart out as in life.

Persons who dislike snakes continually ask, ‘What is the use of them?’ That they are not without a use will, I hope, appear in the course of this work, were it necessary to preach that all things have their use. But in one habit that offended Lord Bacon, viz. of ‘going on their belly,’ lies one of their greatest uses, because that, together with their internal conformation and external covering, enables them to penetrate where no larger carnivorous animal could venture, into dense and noisome morasses, bogs, jungles, swamps, amid the tangled vegetation of the tropics, where swarms of the lesser reptiles, on which so many of them feed, would otherwise outbalance the harmony of nature, die, and produce pestilences. Wondrously and exquisitely constructed for their habitat, they are able to exist where the higher animals could not; and while they help to clear those inaccessible places of the lesser vermin, they themselves supply food for a number of the smaller mammalia, which, with many carnivorous birds, devour vast numbers of young snakes. The hedgehog, weasel, ichneumon, rat, peccary, badger, hog, goat, and an immense number of birds keep snakes within due limits, while the latter perform their part among the grain-devouring and herbivorous lesser creatures. Thus beautifully is the balance of nature maintained.

Dr. Kirtland, an eminent naturalist of Ohio, who lived at a time when that State was being very rapidly settled, namely, during the early and middle part of the present century, observed a great increase of certain snakes as game birds which fed on them decreased. The latter were, of course, in request for the market, and the snakes, the ‘black snake’ particularly, having fewer enemies to consume him, flourished accordingly. It would be worth while to ascertain whether the farmer in Ohio had reason to rejoice over this redundancy of rat and vermin consumers. At the present time, when so much of the land is under cultivation, snakes have decreased again through human agency.

CHAPTER III.

OPHIDIAN TASTE FOR BIRDS’ EGGS.

CAN we correctly say that snakes have a ‘taste’ for eggs? What flavour can there be in an egg-shell, and what pleasure or gratification can a snake derive from swallowing a hard, round, tasteless, apparently odourless, and inconvenient mass like a large egg?

That snakes do devour eggs and swallow them whole, though the fact is often questioned in zoological journals, is well known in countries where snakes abound. Therefore, we are led to consider by what extraordinary insight or perception a snake discovers that this uncompromising solid contains suitable food? Avoiding, as snakes do as a rule, all dead or even motionless food, it is the more surprising that eggs should prove an exception. And not merely the small and soft-shelled eggs of little birds, that can be got easily into the mouth and swallowed, but the eggs of poultry and the larger birds, which must in the first place be difficult to grasp, and in the second place to which the jaws so wonderfully adjust themselves that the egg passes down entire into the stomach.

Many snakes which do not habitually live in trees, will climb them in search of birds’ eggs; and many others, not so agile in climbing, consume vast numbers of eggs from the nests of birds which build upon the ground. In countries where snakes are numerous and population sparse, their depredations in the poultry-yards of secluded residences are of common occurrence. And it is a noteworthy fact that the crawling culprits possess an excellent memory for the localities of hens’ nests, so that when once the eggs have been missing, and the snake’s tracks discovered, the farm-hands well know that the offence will be repeated, and watch for the thief, to whom no mercy is shown. But between their virtues as mousers and their vices as egg-thieves, an American farmer does sometimes hesitate in destroying certain non-venomous snakes, and may occasionally feel disposed to save his crops, to the sacrifice of his wife’s poultry-yard.

A gentleman, long a resident in India, informed me that a cobra once got through a chink into his hen-house, and ate so many eggs from under a sitting hen, that it could not effect its exit through the same chink, and so remained half in and half out, where the next morning it was discovered in a very surfeited condition. It was immediately killed and cut open, when, as the eggs were found to be unbroken and still warm, the experiment was tried of replacing them under the mother, who in due time hatched the brood none the worse for this singular ‘departure’ in their process of incubation.

In another poultry-yard a cobra was found coiled in a hen’s nest, from which all the eggs were gone but two. In this case, also, the snake had swallowed more than it could conveniently manage, but either alarm, capture, or greediness so impaired its digestion that all the eggs were ejected entire!

A similar incident was recorded in the Field newspaper, in May 1867, the editor introducing the narrator as one of undoubted intelligence and veracity.

His gardener informed him that a cobra had attacked a guinea-fowl’s nest in the compound. He took his gun and repaired immediately to the spot, where he saw the cobra making off, followed by a host of screaming fowls. The gentleman shot the culprit through the head, and then observed a tumour-like swelling, as of an egg recently swallowed. The gardener cut the reptile open, and took out the egg safe and sound. The gentleman marked the egg, and set it with fourteen others under a guinea-fowl. In due time the young chick was hatched; and this he also marked, in order to observe whether it would grow up a healthy bird, which it did.

Several other well-authenticated instances of this nature might be related; but those who have friends or relatives in India are no doubt sufficiently familiar with such stories to dispense with them here.

Aware of a cobra’s penchant for eggs, the snake-catchers, or those who pack them for transportation to Europe, sometimes place a supply in the cages, as convenient food for the snakes during the voyage. The keeper of the Ophidarium[7] at the London Zoological Gardens frequently finds hens’ eggs unbroken on opening a case containing the newly-arrived cobras. How many eggs were originally in the box, and how many had been eaten and digested, or reproduced during the voyage, it would be interesting to ascertain if possible.

Snakes are fastidious feeders and long fasters during confinement. Those cobras may have fasted during the whole journey, or they may have swallowed and disgorged the eggs through terror, like their friends at home. Two things are clear, viz. that the eggs were deposited in the cage as a favourite delicacy, and that a hen’s egg is not a too cumbrous morsel for even the small-headed cobra to manage.

A gentleman, accustomed to snakes, on hearing of this, regarded the eggs found intact in the box as a proof against their egg-eating propensities, and pointed to the Ophiophagus which, for lack of his ordinary food one winter, had in vain been tempted with both pigeons’ and hens’ eggs. ‘He won’t eat them, he won’t notice them,’ was the keeper’s testimony; but, then, other snakes often decline food, even their habitual and favourite food, when in confinement; and so far as the Indian snakes are concerned, their egg-eating habits are confirmed by many writers, including Sir Joseph Fayrer, who affirms that ‘they will eat and swallow the eggs whole.’ ‘Snakes are all carnivorous, existing on animals and birds’ eggs,’ he again remarks.[8] ‘Cobras rob hen-roosts, and swallow the eggs whole.’[9]

And does not the very fact of the eggs being placed in the cages by the natives for their food during a journey, show that these latter knew what would be most likely to tempt them?

The Indian vernacular of the Ophiophagus is Sunkerchor, which means, as Fayrer tells us, ‘a breaker of shells.’ I have taken some pains to ascertain a more definite reason for this name being assigned to the Ophiophagus, or snake-eater, but without success. Is it because he is an exception to the rule of eggs being swallowed whole, he having for his size a particularly small mouth and swallow; and that he, like his relatives the cobras, being unwilling to relinquish the dainty, manages them clumsily, and breaks the shells? There must be some reason for his being known as the ‘shell-breaker.’

Being a tree snake, it may be that ‘Sunkerchor,’ the shell-breaker, attempts the smaller birds’ eggs, which are too tender to be swallowed without fracture.

The cobra-worshipping Hindûs on their festivals place eggs for their gods, that they also may partake of the feast.

But examples of egg-eating snakes are not confined to India. America, the Cape colonies, and all snake countries are prolific of them.

Mr. P. H. Gosse in Jamaica killed a yellow boa (Chilobothrus inornatus), inside of which he found seven unbroken hen’s eggs. It had been caught in a rat trap.

Catesby, the early American naturalist, in describing the corn-coloured snake, says ‘it is harmless except as a robber of hens’ roosts.’ Lawson, the still earlier traveller, in his quaint description of the ‘Racer,’ or ‘black snake’ (Coluber constrictor), says:—‘He is an excellent Egg Merchant, for he does not suck the Eggs, but swallows them whole. He will often swallow all the Eggs from under a Hen that sits, and coil himself under the Hen in the nest, where sometimes the Housewife finds him.’ Lawson, also, describes the ‘Egg and Chicken Snake’ (a doubtful vernacular), ‘so called because it is frequent about the Hen-Yard, and eats Eggs and Chickens.’ The early American settlers guarded their poultry-yards against snakes as vigilantly as against rats, foxes, and other such predators. As for the ‘black snake,’ though non-venomous, all rearers of poultry visit him with vengeance.

Often in our rambles through the woods in Virginia we saw these snakes, and the swiftness with which they would vanish through the grass like a flash of steel, proved how well they merited their name of ‘Racer.’ These are the ‘black snakes’ par excellence, in distinction to the black water-viper and several other kinds which have more or less black about them. Sometimes they lay basking in our path, probably after a meal, when they become sleepy and inactive. On one such occasion I had an excellent opportunity of examining one of them, and of measuring it. It was exactly six feet long, and in the largest part as thick as a man’s arm. Its scales were beautifully bright, like an armour of steel, the white throat and pale under tints completing the resemblance of polished metal. It was sleeping on a soft carpet of moss and grass which bordered our sandy path, and which showed the Racer to great advantage. My young companion, a Virginian boy to whom no sport came amiss, espied it with delight, and ran to pick up a stout stick. Knowing that it was harmless, and so excellent a mouser, I pleaded for its life; for in truth the nocturnal visitors in the shape of rats at our country dwelling were so noisy and numerous, that I regarded the Racer as a friend rather to be encouraged and domesticated than ruthlessly slain. Its couch now, in its spring green and freshness, was enamelled with the star-like partridge-berry (Mitchella repens), dotted here and there with twin coral berries that had lingered through the winter; the bright-leaved, white-flowered winter green (Chimaphila maculata); the Bluets (Oldenlandia purpurea), and other exquisite little flowers too lovely to be crushed and tainted; while a sunbeam glancing through the trees, and showing up the polished scales of the unconscious Racer, all seemed eloquent with mercy.

It was the first time I had been close enough to touch so large a snake; and the whole scene is vividly before me now. Culprit though it might be, it was splendid and beautiful; and I entreated Johnny to wait and wake it up, so that we might watch its actions.

‘All very fine!’ cried the boy, not yet in his teens, ‘and fourteen more eggs gone from the hen-house last night!’

So he pounced upon a fallen bough, which he rapidly trimmed to suit his purpose, then with one sharp blow across the poor thing’s back, disabled it. I think the snake was quite killed by the blows the boy subsequently dealt, for I do not remember that it moved at all.

‘Now you can look at it as much as you please,’ said the juvenile sportsman as he straightened the reptile out to its full length. Then I examined and measured it, and found it was more than two lengths of my long-handled parasol. Black creatures with two hands and two legs were far more likely to be the egg-stealers than that poor Racer far off in the woods.

This ‘black snake’ climbs trees with ease, and hangs from a branch to reach a nest below him. ‘He is the nimblest creature living,’ says an old writer on Virginia, for he not only has the credit of stealing hens’ eggs, but he ‘even swallows the eggs of small birds, without breaking them,’ which again is a proof of the remarkable control these creatures possess of regulating the pressure of their powerful jaws.

Many of the African snakes climb trees, and also suspend themselves from a branch while reaching into a bird’s nest lower down for the eggs it may contain. Both Livingstone and Dr. Andrew Smith[10] make particular mention of some of the egg-eating snakes of South Africa, the latter in his general description of ophidians stating that ‘many, perhaps all snakes, devour eggs when they have an opportunity. A few feed entirely on eggs,’ notably some of the small tree snakes, to which the name Oligodon (few teeth) has been given, this family having no teeth on the palate, like all other snakes. Their food, therefore, cannot be of a nature to require a very strong grasp, though we have no authority for stating that the Oligodons feed exclusively on eggs.

There is, however, one of the family with a dentition so remarkable that it has been considered a distinct type, and Dr. Andrew Smith, who was the first to observe its habits, gave it the generic name of Anodon (toothless), the jaws being merely roughened with the rudiments of teeth. This little snake, of about two feet in length, is exclusively an egg-feeder. ‘Its business,’ says Professor Owen in his Odontography, ‘is to restrain the undue increase of small birds by devouring their eggs.’ Its remarkable organization is favourable for the passage of these thin-shelled eggs unbroken until far back in the throat or gullet, when the egg comes in contact with certain ‘gular teeth,’ which then break the shell without any loss of the contents to the feeder. These gular teeth are a curious modification of some of the spinal processes, presenting a singular anomaly in the presence of points of enamel on the extremity of some of them.

Professor Owen has very fully described this remarkable development,[11] and as his works have been the text-books of many later physiologists, his words may here be quoted, even at the risk of repetition.

‘In the rough tree snake, Deirodon scaber, with 256 vertebræ, a hypapophysis—from ὑπὸ (Latin, sub), an offshoot from beneath—projects from the 32 anterior ones, which are directed backwards in the first ten, and incline forwards in the last ten, where they are unusually long, and tipped with a layer of hard cement (dentine). These perforate the dorsal parietes of the œsophagus, and serve as teeth.

‘Those who are acquainted with the habits and food of this species have shown how admirably this apparent defect—viz. the lack of teeth—is adapted to its well-being. Now, if the teeth had existed of the ordinary form and proportions in the maxillary and palatal regions, the egg must have been broken as soon as it was seized, and much of the nutritious contents would have escaped from the lipless mouth; but owing to the almost edentulous state of the jaws, the egg glides along the expanded mouth unbroken, and not until it has reached the gullet, and the closed mouth prevents the escape of any of the nutritious matter, is it exposed to the instruments adapted to its perforation. These instruments consist of the inferior spinous processes,’ etc., already described. ‘They may be readily seen even in very small subjects, in the interior of that tube in which their points are directed backwards. The shell being sawed open longitudinally by these vertebral teeth, the egg is crushed by the contractions of the gullet, and is carried to the stomach, where the shell is no doubt soon dissolved by the acid gastric juice.’

The two from Smith’s Zoology must be much magnified; the third, from the skeleton, being the true size, excepting that the ribs are broken short off, some entirely so. The minute processes extend two or more inches.

As the learned professor has described the Deirodon (neck-toothed) both under the head of teeth, and also of vertebrated animals, the two accounts are blended, but given verbatim as far as possible.

The colour of the Deirodon is of a brightish or yellowish brown, very minutely spotted with white. Such few true teeth as some individuals may possess are extremely small and conical, discovered only towards the angle of the mouth.

Dr. Andrew Smith first examined a specimen in 1829, when he found that the gular teeth commence exactly 2-1/4 inches behind the apex of the lower jaw, and penetrate the œsophagal canal through small holes in its tunics, and that each point is armed with enamel. He had observed that the living specimens which he had in captivity always, when feeding, retained the egg stationary about two inches from their head, and while there, used great efforts to crush it. Dissecting a specimen in order to investigate this strange action, he discovered the gular teeth just where the egg had stopped, and which, he felt satisfied, had assisted in fixing it there, and also in breaking the shell when subjected to the muscular action of the surrounding parts. The gular teeth are developed in very young Deirodons.

Dr. Smith saw that the broken shell was ejected, while the fluid contents were conveyed onwards; but this may have been an exceptional case, because by a snake in health egg-shells are easily digested. Probably those snakes watched by Dr. A. Smith being captives, and presumably not altogether as happy and healthy as in their sylvan homes, found the shells too much for them, and so ejected them; as the cobras above described disgorged the stolen eggs. This habit of disgorging food appears to be sometimes voluntary.

Snakes have been known to pass the egg through their body entire, but this also must be owing to an abnormal state of health or of habit, as the strong juices of the stomach, which can convert even bones and horn to nutriment, ordinarily dissolve an egg-shell.

Throughout nature we find that, whatever the habits of the creature may be, its structure and capacities are adapted to it. Every need is, as it were, anticipated in the process of development; and wherever, as in this harmless little tree snake, we find a departure from general rules, it is because some especial requirements are met, and in order that the creature may be the better prepared for the struggle for existence. In the present example we find a marvellous adaptation of spine bones to dental purposes; how many ages it has taken to develop them we cannot conjecture. All we know is that these spinal projections are just the sort of teeth that the egg-swallower requires, and that its natural teeth are gradually becoming obsolete from disuse.

A writer who was quoted at some length in the Zoologist for 1875, and in several other contemporary journals, stated that some snakes ‘suck out the contents of hen’s eggs by making a hole at the end.’[12]

We are not told with what instrument these evidently scientific serpents punctured the shell. Some skill is required, as schoolboys give us to understand, to prick an egg-shell without breaking it; and even when the hole is bored, additional care is required to suck out the contents. How a snake could first grasp firmly, and then puncture a fowl’s egg, is incomprehensible; how the sucking process is achieved is still more so. We can understand that a snake which discovered a broken egg might seem to lap some of the contents, because, as we shall by and by show, the tongue habitually investigates, and is immediately in requisition under all circumstances. But to lap up an egg would be a very slow process for so slender an instrument. One is reminded of the dinner which Sir Reynard invited his friend the Stork to partake with him.

While still marvelling over these South African egg-suckers, I watched some lizards with a broken egg in their cage. Their tongues were long, thin, blade-like, and bifid, much better adapted for the purpose of lapping than that of a snake, yet stupidly slow and inefficient was this ribbon-like tongue. The lizards threw it out, spatula-fashion, into the midst of the pool of egg which was spreading itself over the floor, and caught whatever of the fluid adhered to it. Had the lizards possessed lips adapted for such a purpose, and, in addition, intelligence enough to ‘suck,’ they might have drawn some of the cohesive mass into their throats, but they only obeyed their instinctive habit of lapping. Snakes would do the same. Their habit is to moisten the tongue in lapping; and I fear we must not place too much credence in the exceptional intelligence of that South African egg-sucker, but rather regret the loose account which conveys so erroneous an impression. I watched those lizards for many minutes, and decided that the egg would be dried up long before it could be consumed by lizard-lapping.

The tongue of a snake is undoubtedly an important and highly-developed organ. That its sensitiveness assists the smell, we have reason to believe, and possibly it possesses other faculties of which we are at present ignorant. In the case of an unbroken egg, for instance, the tongue has told the snake that there is something good inside it; and instinct immediately leads the reptile to get the awkward mouthful between its jaws, which expand just so far as to retain it safely, yet just so lightly that not one of those rows of long, sharp teeth shall penetrate the shell or fracture it in the slightest degree. How delicate must be the adjustment whereby those six jaws, all bristling with fine, needle-like teeth, grasp and yet not break the delicate shell! for, after all, an egg is a fragile substance in proportion to the size of the feeder and its muscular power.

Snakes have been known to get choked in attempting to swallow an egg, as they have also come to grief with other impediments, such as horns of cattle; but this we must attribute to their not being able to estimate their own swallowing capacities, or to some other untoward event.

The Messrs. Woodward’s scientific snake would not have crept into these pages had it not previously figured in the Zoologist, and thence copied in other prints, thereby misleading many readers. It also proved a subject worth discussing by thinking persons, and was alluded to very particularly by an ophiological friend and publisher in a letter to myself, which may be here usefully quoted. My friend, who has long stimulated me by his kind encouragement of my work, and by the assistance of his experience and judgment, was pleased to express much interest in a little paper on the Deirodon[13], which I had written for Aunt Judy’s Magazine, he having read it shortly before the appearance of the Messrs. Woodward’s statement in the Zoologist, April 1875:—

‘In this month’s Zoologist,’ wrote my friend, ‘a writer says that a certain snake makes havoc of the hen-house, by boring a hole in the egg and sucking its contents! Can this be true? To a letter of mine to Mr. Newman (the then editor of the Zoologist), on the subject, he replies, “With regard to snakes eating eggs, it has been repeated so often that I cannot help fearing Mr. Woodward may have imbibed the notion from American sources. It is so common in the United States to find snakes in holes in the bottoms of trees made by woodpeckers, that it seems almost impossible to resist the conviction that they enter these holes to get the birds themselves, or their young, or their eggs. It must be regretted that those witnesses who come into court with such evidence are not, generally speaking, the kind of close observers in whose dicta we can place implicit reliance.” This,’ continues my correspondent, ‘Mr. Newman writes after I had suggested that some families of snakes have triturating powers (learned from Aunt Judy) in the throat, independent altogether of palatal teeth. The subject seems to be as much steeped in the unknown, as are the ways of the beautiful creatures themselves.’

This from a well-known and highly-popular publisher, a man of education, culture, and scientific attainments, though snakes hitherto had not been his specialty, any more than that of the late editor of the Zoologist. The latter, however, admitting his doubts on the subject of ophidian egg-feeders, would have done well to have added a note to that effect to the account given by Mr. Woodward, which, simply from its appearance in a scientific journal, might be received as authority.

A few more well-known proofs of ophidian taste for eggs may conclude this chapter. Of our own green or ring snake (Coluber natrix), Mr. Bell says, ‘It feeds upon young birds, eggs, and mice, but prefers frogs.’ In Balfour’s India, on the subject of cobra-worship, mention is made of the snakes getting into larders for eggs and milk, and being protected as the good genius of the house on such occasions.

But the Hindû custom of placing eggs for snakes at their serpent festivals must be too familiar to most of my readers to need further comment.

CHAPTER IV.

DO SNAKES DRINK?

PERHAPS in no other branch of natural history has such a degree of interest been awakened during the last decade, and such an advance made as in ophiology. The result of a spirit of inquiry thus set afloat is that information is being continually elicited from travellers and observers. Those who now entertain predilections for this branch of science, will many of them admit that whatever interest they feel in the subject has been of a comparatively recent date; that since they have at all studied snake nature, they have repeatedly had to combat with preconceived notions. Again and again they have been ‘surprised to learn that so-and-so’—some now established fact, perhaps—is the case, when they had ‘always thought’—probably something quite the contrary.

This has been frequently verified in my own experience in my correspondence with really scholarly men, who have generously admitted as much. Not a few, during my ten years’ study of the Ophidia, have traced their interest in snakes to my own enthusiasm. Preconceived errors are not to be wondered at when we consider that, apart from scientific works, so much that has been related of serpents has been mingled with prejudice, fable, and tradition, clouding our intelligence at the very outset. Nor need we hesitate in admitting our misconceptions, when we find scientific men themselves devoting page after page to a mooted question, and after all, sometimes venturing to sum up a given subject with a modest doubt only. (Would that the less scientific writers were equally cautious in their statements!) Whether snakes drink, and what they drink, have been among these debated questions.

Those who possess a love for natural history are, of course, acquainted with the works of the eminent naturalist, Dr. Thomas Bell, on our native fauna; and those who admit their interest in the much-maligned snakes have included in their studies his British Reptiles.[14] In one portion of that work, where science is so charmingly blended with personal observations, we are carried on to the heaths and commons to watch our pretty little agile lizards skim across the grass, and flit away with legs too fleet for us to follow them.

We linger on the banks of a stream where a ring snake lies in wait for a frog; and then we are conducted into Mr. Bell’s study, where the same harmless creature, now tamed, is nestling in his sleeve, or lapping milk from his hand.

Most of my readers also, whether naturalists or not, are familiar with some of the numerous works on India, its creeds, customs, and superstitions, where mention is so frequently made of cobra-worship, and of the natives setting saucers of milk near its hole to conciliate and propitiate the serpent. Familiar to us all, too, is the picture of a little child with a bowl of milk on its lap, and a snake receiving a tap with the spoon to check the too greedy intrusion of its head into the bowl, but into which, according to the story, it had been accustomed and permitted to dip its tongue. Some persons place that story in Wales; others, and with better reason, trace it to New England. The child and its surroundings, the size of the snake, all justify this latter belief, and that the intruder is the notorious milk-stealer so common in the United States, the ‘black snake,’ or Racer (introduced p. 64).

In the face of these well-known facts, it may seem strange to propose the question, ‘Do snakes ever drink?’ and still stranger to affirm that this was lately a disputed point among some of our scientific writers. ‘On s’ignore,’ says Schlegel, ‘si les serpents boivent, et s’il est juste d’opiner pour la negative; toutefois on n’a jamais aperçu des fluides dans ceux dont on a examiné l’estomac.’[15]

Schlegel, when he wrote, had not the benefit of Mr. Bell’s experience, and as a foreigner, probably he had not read Jesse’s Gleanings nor White’s Selborne; nor, as a scientific student, had he time to bestow on promiscuous works on India, which, by the way, were not so numerous then as now. But there are several well-known milk-drinking snakes in America which had been described by writers prior to Schlegel. This learned author, however, puts down the milk-loving snakes among the ‘fables’ and ‘prejudices;’ and, as we have seen, dismissed the water-drinkers with a doubt.

Mr. Bell’s work has enjoyed upwards of thirty years’ popularity, and his milk-drinking pet has been quoted by scores of writers of both adult and juvenile books. Thomas Bell, F.L.S., F.G.S., was secretary to the Royal Society; Professor of Zoology of King’s College, London; and one of the Council of the Zoological Society of London. He was also a ‘corresponding member’ of the learned societies of Paris and Philadelphia, and of the Boston Society of Natural History.

As a gentleman of widely recognised learning and veracity, therefore, it may be considered that Mr. Bell, and with good reason, entertained no doubt whatever as to snakes drinking, and also drinking milk. Mr. Bell, moreover, had known of the celebrated python at Paris (see chap. xxiv.), which in 1841 evinced a thirstiness that has become historical in all zoological annals. The circumstance was fully recorded by M. Valenciennes at the time; when a no less distinguished ophiologist than M. Dumeril,[16] Professeur d’Erpétologie au Musée à Paris, was especially appointed to the management of the reptile department there. That very distinguished ophidian lady, the python, need be referred to here only as regards the drinking question, the rest of her history coming in its place in this book. It will be remembered that she laid eggs, and to the surprise of all, coiled herself upon them to hatch them. ‘Pendant tout le temps d’incubation la femelle n’a pas voulu manger’ (she began to incubate on the 6th May); ‘mais le 25^e de mai, après vingt jours de couvaison, son gardien, Vallée, homme très soigneux et très intelligent, la voyant plus inquiète que de coutume, remeuée la tête, et lui présenta de l’eau dans un petit basin; elle y plongea le bout de son museau, et l’animal en but avec avidité environs de deux verres. Elle a ensuite bu quatre fois pendant le reste du temps de sa couvaison: le 4 juin, 13, 19, 26.’ (Her eggs began to hatch early in July.)

The interesting invalid, ordinarily tame and gentle, had latterly displayed anger and irritability on being disturbed, pushing away the hand if touched; but in her present state the want of water was so great that she evinced uneasiness to her guardian, and permitted him to move and turn her head, so that she could dip the end of her muzzle into the basin. The narrator argued, from this remarkable demonstration, that the incubation (in which a rise of temperature was observable) produced a sort of feverishness which caused her to decline solid food, though her thirst was so great that she almost asked for drink.

When eight of the fifteen eggs were hatched, the little pythons ate nothing until after their first moult (which happened to them all within a fortnight), but during those early days of their existence they ‘drank several times, and also bathed themselves.’

This event perhaps established the fact beyond any doubt that snakes do drink, so far as modern and scientific ophiologists had ventured to decide; and M. Dumeril, from long observation, is able to tell us how.

Speaking of the tongue of a snake, this experienced naturalist informs us that ‘cette langue fort longue sert-elle comme on l’a observée quelquefois à faire pénétrer un peu de liquide dans la bouche, car nous avons vu nous-même des couleuvres laper ainsi l’eau, que nous avions placée auprès d’elles dans la cage, où nous les tenions renfermées pour les observer à loisir.’[17]

But, as he goes on to describe, ‘quelques serpents avalent de l’eau sans se servir de la langue pour laper. Alors ils tiennent la tête enfoncée sous l’eau au-dessous du niveau, ils écartent un peu les mâchoires, et font baisser le fond de la gorge, dans laquelle l’eau descend par son propres poids.’ You can then perceive the slight movements of swallowing, like a thirsty man gulping down a beverage (à la régalade).

What follows affords an explanation of M. Schlegel’s statement that he had never discovered water in a snake which he had dissected, this learned author not having gone so thoroughly into the matter. ‘Cette eau,’ says M. Dumeril, ‘sert à laver les intestines; car elle est rendue liquide avec les fèces, elle ne parait pas expulsée par les voies urinaires.’

M. Dumeril speaks very clearly on this point both in his introductory preface, and again in vol. vi., under the more detailed descriptions of each especial sense and organ.

Snakes rarely drink (that is, not every day, as most animals do), most of them living in dry regions or forests, where for long periods they are deprived of water. The live prey upon which they subsist supplies them with sufficient liquid. This may be known by the natural discharges, which are usually of a liquid nature. Nevertheless, a large number of serpents live close to water, and love to plunge and to swim. These truly drink,—lapping with the tongue, as above described; at other times with the head under water, and the neck still lower, so that the water falls into the mouth by its own weight, and is then swallowed. But this, he repeats, does not go into the blood, or very little of it, car ils rendent en grand partie, etc., as above, its function being principally to moisten the intestines.

Lenz, a German ophiologist of still earlier date than Schlegel, went very conscientiously into the subject of whether snakes drink or not,[18] having adopted various means in order to test them. His personal experience was, however, of a more limited range.

It is worth while to bear in mind the dates of some of these writings, both that we may watch the gradual advance of ophidian knowledge, and also that we may the better appreciate the vast amount of time, care, labour, and research by which we are finally put in possession of facts of natural history.

As a comparatively modern writer, Lenz, without doubt, made very valuable contributions to the science of ophiology, and at a time when fact was only beginning to be sifted from fable. It will be seen that, though writing several years before Schlegel, he had arrived at the same conclusions.

‘The numerous snakes and other animals which inhabit arid mountains, or plains destitute of water, can only quench their thirst with rain or dew. Snakes require but little water as long as they live in the open air. It is an established rule that no water is found in the maw, stomach, or entrails of snakes killed in the open air, even when destroyed by or in a piece of water. Snakes are never seen to go to drink in any part of the world.’

This last clause is, as we have now seen, a too positive assertion, and one not subsequently borne out by other equally conscientious and intelligent writers. Livingstone, who was a close observer of nature, informs us that he has known some of the African snakes come a long way to pools and rivers to drink. Dr. Theodore Cantor, who is one of the best authorities on the Indian sea snakes, and who was a member of the Zoological Society, tells us that he has seen snakes ‘both drink and also moisten the tongue; two distinct operations,’ he explains.[19] This conviction having been stated prior to Dumeril’s elaborate and much-prized work, is valuable testimony. The majority of snakes in India are partial to water, he tells us, with the exception of the arboreal species, which probably obtain sufficient moisture from the rain or dew upon the leaves; and as it is not in their nature to be on the ground, their organization doubtless renders them independent of water.

We of late so often see it said of any particular snakes in captivity that ‘they neither ate nor drank at first;’ or that ‘they drank, though they would not eat,’ that we almost wonder their bibulous propensities were ever doubted; especially as the majority of snakes are fond of water, and swim readily. We are surprised, therefore, that the second edition of Mr. Lenz’ really valuable work, published so lately as 1870, should still retain the assertion that snakes have never been seen to drink.

Mr. Frank Buckland saw his Coronella drink frequently, though she ate nothing; and as the discovery and captivity of this interesting lady and her brood, born in London in 1862,[20] formed the subject of many papers in the scientific journals at the time, one would suppose that they would have been heard of in Germany, where the species (C. lævis) is well known.

‘Though not to be tempted with food, they are very fond of water,’ says Mr. F. Buckland.

Lenz’ experiments are, however, well worth noticing, because subsequent observations have in many instances confirmed this author’s conclusions.

‘In confinement,’ he says, ‘snakes are more easily induced to lick up drops sprinkled on grass than to drink from a vessel.’ Naturally so. In their native haunts they are not accustomed to pans of water or saucers of milk, but they are accustomed to moisten their tongues on the blades of grass or the leaves of plants which hold the drops of rain or dew. Lenz then mentions some experiments which he himself made with snakes. He placed a ring snake and an adder in an empty box, and kept them there without food for a fortnight, at the end of which period he placed them in a tub containing half an inch of water, and left them there for half an hour. He then killed them both, and on dissection found no water inside of them. This led him to the conclusion that they had not drank at all; but, in the first place, had they occupied the whole half-hour in lapping with their thread-like tongue, it may be doubted whether any appreciable quantity could be imbibed during that time; and in the second place, the sudden transition and strange situation in which they found themselves would, through fright, entirely destroy whatever inclination they might have had to appease hunger or thirst.

It will be seen that snakes are exceedingly capricious in taking food; and that when in an abnormal or strange locality they rarely feed for a long while. Mr. Lenz himself is of opinion that, had he left them longer in the water, or placed them in a dry tub where liquid could be got at, they would or might have drunk. Thus, the experiments only go to corroborate what all keepers of snakes have observed, viz. that captivity or strange surroundings render them averse to feed.

M. Lenz placed his snakes among the cows in order to test the foolish belief that obtains in some countries that snakes will ‘suck’ the udders; but of course, and for similar reasons, even could such an achievement be possible, the snakes attempted no such thing.

His snakes were strict members of a temperance society also, for not even wine could tempt them to drink, though this and other liquids were placed within reach to entice their taste. Not so Pliny’s snakes, for he would have us believe that they show ‘a great liking for wine,’ whenever an opportunity presented itself for their tasting it!

But how came the idea to obtain that snakes suck cows,—a fact so frequently asserted by the older naturalists? One old writer goes so far as to state that a certain American snake ‘causes cows to give forth bloody milk.’ And yet, to the thinking or observing person, the origin of the belief may be easily accounted for. That snakes have partiality for milk no longer admits of a doubt; that they like warmth and shelter is an equally established fact. Therefore, they find their way into cattle-sheds, and hide in the straw or any snug corner, possibly even among the recumbent cattle; and, being there, their ever busy exploring tongues discover a savour of milk, and the snake is led by this intelligent tongue to the very fountain of their favourite drop. The irritated cow would then naturally stir or kick, and endeavour to shake off the strange intruder, who, in its turn alarmed or angered, would bite the udder, and fetch blood. This, in the dark ages of natural history, and during the period when the serpent was invested with all manner of cruel and revolting wilfulness, would suffice to give rise to the belief that has so long prevailed. The rat snake (Ptyas mucosus) and the Clothonia of India are ‘said’ to suck the teats of cows; so also are the ‘hoop snake’ and several other American species, which, with their climbing propensities, may sometimes twine themselves about the legs of cattle, and thus reach the udders, where persons have discovered them. It is just possible that the snakes may get the teat into their mouths, and advance upon it, with the intention of swallowing it, not knowing that it was only a teat, with a cow inconveniently attached to it, and not some small and more manageable prey.

Among the American milk-drinking snakes is Coluber eximius, known as the ‘milk snake,’ one of the dairy frequenters, which is said to seek milk with avidity. This snake is mentioned by De Kay,[21] Emmons,[22] and Holbrooke,[23] who all describe it as being very beautiful and ‘innocent’ (except in the eyes of the farmers’ wives). It is of a pale, pearly white, sometimes tinged with pink, and with rich chocolate spots on its back. The Racer, of egg-stealing notoriety, is also a sad milk thief, and, like our own little ring snake, has been known to retrace its way into dairies. Such depredations were more frequent formerly when the snakes were more numerous. Of the Racer, Lawson[24] says, ‘This Whipster haunts the Dairies of careless Housewives, and never misses to skim the Milk clear of the Cream.’

The same love of warmth which takes the reptiles among cattle, guides them into dwellings, particularly during the night; and in hot countries where nursing-women of the poorer classes lie exposed, snakes have been found upon their breasts, and absurd stories have been told of their sucking the teats of women. In India, Australia, and America, such stories are common.

After all, it does not seem surprising that snakes should like milk. Being carnivorous by nature, they would at once detect an animal flavour in the liquid by the agency of their sensitive tongue.

Now turning to India, we find that the love of snakes for milk is mentioned by numerous writers on the manners and customs of the Hindûs, as well as by travellers and naturalists. Balfour[25] tells us ‘when a snake discovers how to get at the eggs and milk in a larder, no native will on any account kill it, because it is regarded as the good genius of the house.’ And again, ‘that the cobra is fed with milk in some of the temples where it is worshipped.’

Dr. Shortt of Madras keeps a man to attend to his cobras, and finds they thrive excellently on sour milk, which is administered once in ten or twelve days.[26] ‘Snakes feed on eggs and milk,’ says Sir J. Fayrer.

When we read similar facts mentioned incidentally, and with no especial object, we may give them credence even more than if a prejudiced writer were endeavouring to prove such or such a thing. For instance, during the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to India, the exhibition of snakes and snake-charming formed a not unimportant item in the programme, and furnished many columns of cobra performances and cobra traditions to the papers. More than one of the journalists unintentionally corroborated what Balfour and other writers tell us about the ‘good luck’ of having a cobra in the chuppur of the hut, the fearlessness with which the children regard their ‘uncle,’ as they call it, and their care in placing milk and eggs for it each evening.

But I am reminded of a singular case which came to me through a personal acquaintance from India who was present at the time.