Part 21

Since then the beavers have been supplied with a fine new house of concrete, which will probably keep out their enemies the rats which invaded the old house, though it will leave less inducements to the animals to go on with their interesting building feats. Yet as soon as the new house was completed they at once set to work to scratch out a “canal” in the run, and managed to fill it partly with muddy water.

If the beaver is to be saved from extermination, some means for its artificial preservation must be found, though, from the failure of the attempts made in Prussia and elsewhere in Central Europe to save the species—so late as 1725 an edict was published in Berlin prohibiting the destruction of the beavers of the Elbe—Mr. Martin is not hopeful of success, even in Canada. Lord Bute’s colony in the island from which he takes his title appear to have been less fortunate than was at first supposed. In 1883, when it was desired to send specimens to the Fisheries Exhibition, it was found that their numbers, as estimated by the work done, had been much exaggerated, and the enclosure was completely ransacked before a couple could be secured. One hundred and eighty-seven large trees were cut down by the beavers between 1874 and 1878. In that time they dammed a pool seventy-eight yards long, and constructed seven dykes, one having an embankment of one hundred and five feet. But in spite of the difficulties which their engineering industry presents to their would-be preservers, proposals for a “beaver-ranch” are still being discussed in Canada; and though experience forbids the hope that they can be kept for profit, sentiment may yet succeed in preserving the creature which has been adopted as the “totem” of the pale-faces’ colony by the great Lakes.

THE TEMPER OF ANIMALS.

THE old theory that animal good-temper might be accounted for on the ground that animals are sensible of pleasure and pain, but not of advantage and disadvantage, was only a half-truth, for animals are subject to jealousy, and jealousy is the direct result of a feeling of personal disadvantage. But it draws attention to the fact that occasions for disagreement in the case of most animals are rare and unusual. Questions of domicile are almost the sole ground of discord in the animal world, with the exception of the fierce dissensions raised at pairing-time, and even in the last case combat is only general in the case of polygamous animals. Deer fight more fiercely than wolves, and wild sheep than lions; and though there is, or was, an eagle in the Zoo which was caught locked in the talons of another eagle when fighting in the spring, the fiercest birds are usually friendly with their own species, and while ruffs and black-game fight like gladiators for their wives, the eagles and the peregrines as a rule mate in peace. Proximity, the severest trial to human temper, seldom ruffles the animal mind, and different species live in harmony together, each seeming, as in the case of the owls and the prairie-dogs, or rooks and starlings, rather to prefer than shun the society of the other. The choicest spots for homes are naturally the source of warfare among birds, and other animals frequently fight for the possession of some favourite breeding-place. Badgers and foxes which have shared the same earth during winter often fight for sole possession in the spring, when the fox invariably wins, a result which would hardly be expected from the relative physique of the two animals. But such quarrels are only for the sake of rearing their young, not for selfish reasons; and even apprehended pressure of the food-supply rarely excites ill-will, except in the case of the largest carnivorous birds and animals, which require a wider range for hunting, and drive their young to other districts. The rodents and ruminants are less jealous; and that strong social and gregarious instinct which the existence of ill-temper as a permanent characteristic would inevitably destroy, keeps them together in peace and harmony. They love society, and not the least marked difference between the temperament of animals and men, is that animals do not by mere contact irritate each other,—a positive and not unimportant compensation for the absence of the gift of speech.

Since occasions of difference are so few, nothing but the assumption of an ancient and inbred malignity in animal minds, such as the author of _Three Men in a Boat_ supposes in the case of fox-terriers to have been due to a double dose of original sin, could justify the view so generally held that animals are, as a rule, ferocious and ill-tempered, a notion summed up in Mr. Burnand’s conclusion in _Happy Thoughts_, that most of the creatures with which he came in contact in the country were, “when not dangerous, always very uncertain.” The exact contrary would be nearer the truth. Animal temper is naturally pacific, equable, and mild. Bad temper is the privilege of more highly organized natures; and the mild resentment of the placable tiger finds its development in the apoplectic fury of the mandrill and the measured malice of mankind. Horace’s suggestion, that Prometheus added to the ill-temper of man the strength of a mad lion, must be taken literally. The general law of good-nature in the animal world makes the exceptions all the more remarkable. Quarrelsome species appear among a friendly tribe, just as an ill-tempered individual does in a kindly species. The ruminants are a most peaceful race, yet deer are savage, and so is that handsome Indian antelope the nilgai. A tame stag is a very dangerous pet, and even the beautiful roebuck has been known to kill a boy in a wild fit of rage. But the fiercest and most vindictive of all, with the exception of the Cape buffalo, is the South African gnu, which never loses its ill-temper when tamed, and always remains among the few dangerous animals which the keepers at the Zoo have to deal with. Hardly less ill-tempered are the zebras and the wild asses, which suggests that human mismanagement is not entirely to blame for the occasional ill-temper and obstinacy of mules and donkeys. To the ill-tempered species we may add the buffalo and the two-horned black rhinoceros. The last is really ferocious, charging down on any creature, man or beast, without provocation, and capable of inflicting mortal wounds even on the lion, the elephant, or its own kind.

But among all the larger creatures of the animal kingdom, it is difficult to find more than a dozen species which are, as a class, ill-tempered, unless we include all those carnivorous animals which exhibit a certain ferocity in the capture of their prey. But it will be found that, apart from this law of their being, such animals are not, as a rule, either ill-tempered or malicious. On the contrary, their natural bias is towards good-nature, and it may be inferred that the fierceness exhibited by them when actually striking their prey, is rather a gradual development from a particular necessity than an essential part of their nature. The good-humour of the lions and other _felidæ_ was well illustrated by a scene at the Zoo a few weeks ago. The young lion from Sokoto was much intent on breaking in the iron shutter which separates the house it now occupies from its former quarters next door. Apart from the very proper wish to assert a right to its former domicile, it had the irritating stimulus supplied by an ill-tempered and decrepit old leopard, which was growling on the other side of the shutter, and even went so far as to insert one of its longest teeth into the crack between the shutter and the wall, as a reminder to the lion of what was waiting for it on the other side. The lion was striking constant heavy blows on the door, and was so intent on its occupation as to disregard the call of its keeper. The keeper quietly attracted its attention by pulling its tail!—and the lion at once desisted, rubbed its face against the keeper’s hand, and lay down to be stroked, patted, and have its mane caressed.

That good-tempered races contain very ill-natured individuals, raises the difficult question of temperament. A good authority on horses, Mr. Mayhew, endeavours to show that ill-temper among them is accidental, not innate. In his work, “jibbing” is shown to be due to brain-disease, shying to defective vision, and temper to the mismanagement of man. There is much truth, but also much error here. Those best acquainted with the nature of domesticated animals know how greatly the temperaments of individuals differ. Take, for instance, the case of three highly-bred young Jersey heifers, of which the writer has watched the up-bringing from their earliest days. They have never been frightened or struck; they have not even heard a rough word from their earliest days, even when they jumped the garden-fence and browsed on an apricot-tree. One is as gentle and domesticated as a well-bred cow can be, the others are ready with their horns at any or no provocation. The same is true of horses: some are so ill-tempered that they will kick or bite at any living thing that comes near them. It is as impossible to trace these dislikes to any known cause as it is to find a reason for the antipathy which cows have for hares. However great our liking for horses, we cannot deny that some of the best thoroughbreds are revengeful, quarrelsome, and liable to frightfully sudden fits of rage. No doubt this evil temper is often accompanied by splendid qualities of endurance. Chestnut horses, which have generally the most uncertain tempers, are perhaps the most high-couraged. But courage and temper are not always allied; and temper and human management are not necessarily connected. “Bendigo” and “Surefoot” were both trained in the “Seven Barrows” stable by the late Mr. Jousiffe, who always avoided any severity of treatment, and never ran his horses “light.” Each as a three-year-old won a great race, “Bendigo” the Cambridgeshire, “Surefoot” the Two Thousand Guineas. Both carried off the Eclipse Stakes at Sandown, worth £10,000, later in their career. Yet “Bendigo” had a perfect temper, while “Surefoot’s” is well known to be ferocious. “Bendigo” would train himself, and however well he ran in trials on the White Horse Hill, his trainer knew that he would do still better on the race-course. In his last race, when he was just beaten when carrying a crushing weight, Watts gave him one stroke of the whip. But the horse was doing all he could, and the jockey did not touch him again. In the stable, the big brown horse was almost as friendly with strangers as he was with his devoted attendant, “Bendigo Pat,” and the writer has seen no prettier sight than that of his trainer’s little daughter hugging “dear old ‘Bendy’s’” nose. The horse had the courage and gentleness of a knight of romance. “Surefoot,” on the other hand, under identical treatment, was dangerous in the stable, and savage even when running. In the actual race for the Derby, he tried to bite the jockeys on the horses in front of him, and when being put into the horse-box for the journey, gave more trouble than a Murcian bull. Yet this savage temper was not accompanied by unusual courage and endurance, and in severe races the even-tempered “Bendigo” was his undoubted superior. “Peter,” another race-horse noted for his stubborn obstinacy, once gave an interesting object-lesson in temper as between man and horse at Ascot. The horse fought with his jockey (Archer) for twenty minutes at the post, but the indomitable good-humour of the jockey won. When the flag fell, the horse went off with a rush, but stopped in the middle of the race to kick. Archer neither moved nor struck him, and “Peter” then went on like the wind, and won! But horses of this temperament are the exception, not the rule; and the success with which we have developed power and courage, without producing animals like “Cruiser” or the celebrated “General Chassé,” of whom his owner, Mr. Kirby, the dealer, who sold largely in Russia, used to say that “the Emperor Paul was nothing to him,” is one of the triumphs of domestication. The union of reckless courage and habitual ferocity is rare in the animal world, and the general law of good-nature remains absolute and unquestioned.

CRIMINAL ANIMALS.

“Mr. Gladstone narrowly escaped a serious accident when taking exercise in Hawarden Park. A cow, which had escaped from its owner when being driven to market, had taken refuge in the park, and attacked Mr. Gladstone when passing. Fortunately, though knocked down, Mr. Gladstone escaped unhurt.”—_Daily Paper._

THE general view of good or bad in animal disposition is, no doubt, mainly determined by their behaviour to ourselves. That is the fixed opinion of the moral relation of animals to man. But there is every reason to believe that there are a few individuals among the many in all species which have some pronounced and inborn bias towards mischief and ferocity, which almost entitles them to a place in the “criminal classes” of animal society. No excuse, for instance, can be found for the cow which so nearly ended the hopes of Home-rule by knocking down the greatest of all Home-rulers, after spending a week or more in the hospitable security afforded to her by the park at Hawarden, after she had broken loose from her owners on the way to market. She was, in fact, a heifer, not a cow; and so had no calf hidden in the fern whose protection might have been urged as an excuse for her ferocity; and her conduct must be ascribed to some such ancient and inbred malignity as possessed the “dun cow of Warwick.” No doubt the last animal, if legend be true, was possessed by a deeper and darker instinct of hatred to the human race; for she used to mingle with the herds and entice the milkmaids to perform their kindly office by all kinds of endearments known to her race, and then most cruelly kill them, until the renowned Guy of Warwick rid the country of the monster, avenged the milkmaids, and earned himself a place in story. But the cow of Hawarden may in time win its way to the marvellous, and have a place in the great Gladstone myth by the side of “Joe”—or “Io”— once the friend, now the foe of the hero, whose legend is in after-ages to be identified with the rationalistic record of the promise of “three acres and a cow.” The danger to which Mr. Gladstone was exposed, which was a very real one, suggests the question whether there is not some ground for supposing that, apart from questions or our own convenience, there are not some desperately wicked animals which are not only wicked _per se_, but quite conscious that they are doing actions which place them outside the pale both of human and animal consideration? We believe that there is not the least doubt of it, any more than there is a doubt whether certain so-called “criminal lunatics” richly deserve hanging. If animals had no power of self-control, it would be nonsense to speak of them as either good or bad. But they have the power of self-control when domesticated. That we know. It is only the knowledge that they have such power that induces a man to trust himself in a dog-cart behind a young horse, or to ride in a howdah on an elephant. But they must always have the same power when wild. If they had not, they could not be gregarious—a condition which could only be maintained by submission to a law of “live and let live,” which is perhaps better understood by wholly wild animals than by semi-civilized man. Gregarious animals not only exhibit self-control to the extent of not showing temper towards each other, but even obey the command of their leader, when obedience to the command must be extremely irksome—witness Major Skinner’s account of the elephant leader posting live videttes around the tank, at which the herd was then, and not till then, allowed to drink. The “rogue” elephant, which exhibits such unusual and malignant ferocity towards men as well as his own kind, may be, and often is, an animal driven from the herd by a stronger rival; sometimes he is merely suffering from excitement, which passes away after a certain period. But this, though affording a reason for some of the abnormal conditions found in the actions of the “rogue” elephant, does not account satisfactorily for the strange reluctance of its own species ever to re-admit it to their society.

The “rogue” elephant, even when driven from one herd, is never admitted to another; and though Saunderson found them occasionally in company with another solitary of their own species, Sir J. Tennant records that, even when driven into the keddah, a “rogue” elephant was never allowed to enter the herd of captives with which he was enclosed. Good-temper is the fundamental condition of animal society, and it is probably to the lack of this, and the growing conviction that the “rogue” is an unclubable, unsociable fellow, that his exclusion is due. When separated from the wholesome discipline of society, his temper goes from bad to worse, and he joins the ranks of criminal animals. The wanton ferocity then developed is, perhaps, best shown by Colonel Saunderson’s description of the state of things on the main road between Mysore and Uznand, caused by a creature called the “rogue of Kakankote.” Policemen were planted at the entrance of the jungle to warn travellers to proceed only in parties, and even then the wretched Kurrabas who lived in the forest were from time to time caught, and pulled to pieces limb by limb, to gratify the ill-temper of the elephant. When mastered, the naturally ferocious elephant has been known to die of sheer fury. A noosed “rogue” in the keddah lay down and died, though those suffering from the excitement of “must” are often reclaimed. The ferocity of the “rogue” buffalo and “rogue” hippopotamus must probably be accounted for in the same way. They are individuals which have become intolerable to their own species, and, being outlawed from society, revenge themselves by the indulgence of their criminal bent.

Instances of this homicidal mania among the animals at the Zoo are by no means common. The tact and good management which prevails in all the dealings of the keepers with their charges is largely responsible for this. But one unquestionable example of this type of animal aberration occurred some years ago, which might have had very serious consequences. The temper of all the wild asses is very uncertain, or rather very unreliable. This natural surliness took the form of absolute ferocity in the case of a very fine male zebra. The object of its especial dislike was not so much the occasional visitors to its stable, as the keeper whose duty was to feed it and arrange its stable. The viciousness was such that it would endeavour to climb the railings of its loose box in order to attack them. There was absolutely no ground for this animosity, for it had met with the same kind treatment and attention as the other creatures in the stalls. It was clearly a case of the “criminal instinct” prevailing. One Sunday morning, a Frenchman who had some work to do in the Zebra House accidentally left open the door which led into the box of this striped savage, and when another keeper advanced to drive it back it rushed at him open-mouthed, knocked him down, knelt on him, and would most probably have killed or maimed him if it had not been driven off by some of his fellow _employés_ who most fortunately came to the rescue.

Among domesticated animals, the consciousness of evil-doing is far more clearly existent than among their wild relations, where it can only be matter for probable conjecture and surmise. Perhaps the most convincing instances of the gratification of a consciously criminal instinct are to be found in the cases in which dogs, especially sheep-dogs, have been detected in the habit of going away to considerable distances at night and worrying the sheep in other folds, returning before daybreak to their own flock. In one case, a collie was seen by a shepherd to slip away from the fold early in the morning, and plunge into a stream, where he swam for a short time, came out, shook himself, and then galloped off in the direction of another farm, to which, on inquiry, the dog was found to belong. In the fold which it had just left, several sheep were found dying and dead, and it was surmised that the dog’s bath had for its object the removal of the traces of its sanguinary amusement. In another case, two dogs were found to have been in the habit of slipping away at night, and returning quietly to their kennel after killing sheep at a distance of ten or twelve miles. In both instances, the flock of which they were the natural guardians was uninjured.

The secret gratification of the criminal instinct is not confined to sheep-dogs. In one case, a mastiff ran wild, and lived among the Cheviot Hills, killing sheep at night, and retiring to the roughest and most difficult ground during the day. Though more than once hunted by a pack of foxhounds, he always prevailed on them to spare him, lying down on his back and putting up his feet, as a puppy will when a big dog approaches him.

It is more difficult to account for the extreme viciousness of certain horses, creatures which have no hereditary tendency to cruelty, like the dog, whose ancestor, the wild hunting dog, is perhaps the most ferocious creature in the world. What, for instance, are we to say of an animal like “General Chassé,” which commenced the day, when being led to York, by kneeling on his groom and trying to tear him to pieces, until a squad of labourers charged him, armed with sticks and forks? Or of “Merlin,” who was obliged to be double chained to the rack in the painting-room when his portrait was taken by Mr. Herring, and afterwards made use of his liberty by killing his groom? Another horse could only be groomed during several seasons by a series of well-timed dashes with a birch-broom.

“King Pippin,” a celebrated Irish horse, which ran early in the century, had a habit of rushing at and worrying any person who came within reach as he was being saddled, and if he had a chance would get his head round, seize his rider by the leg, and pull him off his back. When brought to the Curragh to run, no one would put a bridle on his head. A countryman volunteered to do so, when the horse caught him by the chest, shaking him as a dog does a rat. “Fortunately for the poor fellow,” wrote an eye-witness of the scene, “his body was very thickly covered with clothes, as an Irishman on great occasions is fond of displaying the resources of his wardrobe, and if he has three coats will put them all on.”

The celebrated “Whisperer,” an old man named Sullivan, who had a strange power of taming vicious horses, was sent for. He remained shut up with the horse all night, and next day exhibited him on the course as quiet as a sheep. He won his race, and for three years remained docile. Then he suddenly gave way to his criminal instincts, and killed a man, for which he was shot.