INTRODUCTION.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
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.
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.