Chapter IV: Part 4

In the first warm days of early spring they begin to collect materials for the bower. The twigs of a birch-broom are usually given them for the raw material, and these are soon arranged with astonishing skill into two short incurved hedges, the tops being pulled over to make the bower as nearly like a tunnel as the material admits. If they had a larger allowance of brooms no doubt the tunnel would be made longer. As it is, it is only a section of a gallery. When this is complete nothing makes the birds so happy as presents of bright-coloured objects to arrange round the sides of the playground. Unfortunately for the birds, the mice, which have no æsthetic perceptions, but are of a practical turn of mind, steal everything soft which is put in the bower, to make nests for their own young. All pieces of coloured paper, rags, and tinsel are carried off in the night, or even in the day, so that the birds can only rely for permanent ornament on things not only bright but hard. But their taste for colour may easily be tested by giving them shreds of paper of different hues. If it be merely a question of colour, not of texture, they usually prefer red, picking out the red strips first and trying the effect in different parts of the gallery. That their power of selection is highly developed may be judged from the following example. The writer was looking at the birds early in January, when they showed signs of a wish to build, and happened to have in his pocket some specimens of silk, which had been sent in order to make a selection of a pattern for neckties. The utmost variation from black allowed by the severe taste of London costume being some slight pattern of white, or grey spots, the difference in the “colouring” of these little bits of silk was so slight, as to be hardly appreciable by any but the highly specialized sense of adornment in the masculine mind, consisting as it did of more or less frequent repetitions of little groups of spots or other insignificant pattern. Eight or nine of these were thrown on the floor of the aviary, and the cock-bird at once flew out from the recess at the back, and proceeded to pick them up and scrutinize them one by one. Finally, after much consideration, it took to the bower, which was just begun, the piece of silk on which the pattern was closest and most obvious. Their liking for what is bright and shining in texture is even stronger than that for colour. Some ingenious friend, finding that the mice robbed the birds of their papers and silks, presented them with a number of small glass phials filled with coloured shreds, or with tin and brass filings. These were a source of great delight, and when the supply was further increased by a dozen pretty glass _solitaire_ balls, they spent a week in arranging and re-arranging their treasures.

It is obvious that the bower-birds are highly intelligent creatures, but these tastes appear in birds which are quite low in the scale of mental development, even among the hawks, which are among the least keen-witted of the birds. The kite, for instance, has a great liking for pretty things, or what it considers such. In two of the rare instances in which the kite’s nest has been recently found in this country, the cock-bird had carried home a long, trailing spray of woodbine in flower, and left it by the side of its mate. When kites were common in England, their habit of carrying off to their nests any strange objects which took their fancy was well known. “The white sheet bleaching on the hedge” has as great attractions for them as it had for Autolycus. Shakespeare makes the pedlar refer to this habit. “My traffic is sheets,” he says; “when the kite builds, look to lesser linen.” But the bird, though as much a “snapper-up of unconsidered trifles” as Autolycus himself, is only a fine-art and _bric-à-brac_ collector in its way, and is perhaps not more unscrupulous in annexing the specimens that take its fancy. In a kite’s nest found not long ago in this country, the “collection” was enriched by pieces of newspaper and leaves of “Bradshaw’s Railway Guide!”—and on the few estates in England where these birds are still protected, the keepers are said to be quite aware of their mania for collecting linen when laid out to dry, and carrying off socks and bright cotton handkerchiefs to the nest.

The sense of beauty naturally appears, in the rudest and most elementary form, in such uncouth robbers as the kites. In the far cleverer crows, ravens, magpies, and jays, it is a marked and hereditary passion. From the Jackdaw of Rheims to the old raven at the Tower of London, who amassed a unique and valuable collection at the bottom of one of the venerable cannon inside the Barbican, there can hardly have existed a tame member of the tribe which has not at times asserted its own right to a share in the enjoyment of what we remember to have seen described in the pompous advertisement of a modern art furnisher, as “those products of the minor arts which contribute to the dignity and refinement of domestic life.” They have a wide and catholic sense of feeling for what may contribute to their happiness in this way, and do not always distinguish between what is beautiful and what is merely curious. At the same time, they do often distinguish and keep apart what they collect or steal for _food_, and their art collections, which are hidden separately, and far more carefully concealed. The writer has seen this in the case of tame jays and jackdaws, and has known it practised by a raven and a magpie. The latter always hid the crusts, and especially the small squares of toast made ready for soup, which he stole or had given him in the kitchen, between the layers of household linen in the drying-room of a large house in Northumberland. But his “collections” were buried in the straw in a disused outhouse. The loss of several small cups and saucers out of a bright-coloured set belonging to the children led to the discovery of this hoard, as the bird was seen to enter the shed, and was there found pulling away the straw which covered the china.

So far, we have traced the development of this sense of beauty from the kites, which merely pick up and carry to their nests what they consider to be pretty and interesting, to the crow tribe, which have a separate hiding-place for keeping and enjoying their treasures. The conscious search for and application of ornament to the decoration of the fabric of the nest, even at the risk of its danger and discovery through the gratification of their feeling for beauty, is a further and most remarkable evidence of the pleasure which they derive from that sense; for one of the strongest impulses of the nesting bird is to subordinate the colour and texture of the outside of the nest to the tint of its natural surroundings, and none but a strong and tempting bias to the indulgence of a contrary instinct could compete with their natural solicitude for the safety of their young. Yet two undoubted instances of the addition of ornament by English birds to the _outside_ of a nest have come under the writer’s notice, where its use clearly entailed some danger from the enemy. The first was the nest of a chiff-chaff, found in a plantation near Rosamond’s Bower, on the Isis, near Godstow. It was a domed nest of the usual kind, made of dry, colourless grass, with an entrance in the side. But on the _outside_, and round the entrance to the chamber, were stuck several of the brilliant blue feathers of the kingfisher. The position of these bright patches of colour on the outside of the nest is strong evidence that beauty, not utility, was the object of their insertion. The other case was the nest of a goldfinch, which was built on a high branch of a sycamore, near the window of a house at Sidmouth in Devonshire. When the fabric of the nest was completed, the birds, or rather one bird, for the other was constantly employed in building, brought long pieces of the blue forget-me-not from the next garden, and so adjusted the sprays that the flowers hung all round the top of the nest. The sacrifice of safety to beauty did not cause any risk from below, as the nest was at a considerable height from the ground. Unfortunately it attracted the notice of a jackdaw passing overhead, and the black robber plundered the nest of the eggs on which the bird had been sitting for some days. It may be noticed that in both these cases, in each of which there was a large choice of flowers or feathers—for the feathers which lined the chiff-chaff’s nest were brought from a farmyard near—the irresistible colour was light-blue. This decorative instinct finds its final and complete expression in the bower-birds, and the still more interesting gardener-bird of New Guinea, both of which construct an “art gallery” for the reception of their treasures, and the better enjoyment of their sense of the beautiful. These bowers are in no sense nests, but “palaces of art” for the days of their honeymoon, and are quite apart from the later cares of the nest or nursery. The best of all are the galleries of the gardener-birds, which Count Rosenberg recently found in New Guinea.

“It was a piece of workmanship more lovely than the ingenuity of any animal has been known to construct,” writes the discoverer. “It was a temple in miniature, in the midst of a meadow studded with flowers.” The bird, which is not much larger than a thrush, chooses a level place round some shrub which has a straight stem about the thickness of a walking-stick. To this central pilaster it fastens the stems of a kind of orchid, and draws them outwards to the ground, like the cords of a bell-tent; but the leaves are left on the stems, and remain fresh for some time. The upper part is then fitted together, and the leaves and moss make a beautiful umbrella-shaped roof. In front of the central building, the birds clear a space about a yard in diameter, which they cover with moss, after removing all stones and weeds. On this moss carpet they arrange flowers and brilliant fruits in great variety, and of the brightest colours to be found. Showy fungi and elegantly coloured insects are distributed about the garden, and inside the tent, and when these lose their freshness, they are thrown away and replaced by others. The tent itself is about thirty-nine inches in diameter and eighteen inches high. The Papuans never disturb these bowers. They call the builder the “Master Bird,” or “Tukan Robin,” the “Gardener,” and say that it is wiser than mankind—and judged by the Papuan standard, this estimate is a true one. In the gallery of one of the bower-birds half a peck of decorations was found. Among these were a large white shell, four hundred shells of a bright-coloured snail, flints and agates, red seed-pods and seeds, and the bleached and shining bones of animals. If for shells we read mother-of-pearl; for snail-shells, nautilus cups; for flints and agates, agates and malachite; for seeds, beads; and for bones, ivory, where does the taste for beauty in the bird differ from our own?

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ÆSTHETICS AT THE ZOO.

SCENTS AND SOUNDS.

One of the oddest tales in the “Bestiaries,” or stories of Bible animals written by the monks, is the legend of the panther. “The panther,” so the homily runs, “is the most beautiful of all beasts. More than this, when it goes abroad it diffuses a marvellous sweet perfume. This odour is so sweet that all the other beasts and birds follow the panther wherever it goes. Wherefore the panther is a type of Virtue.” Perhaps the old monks who borrowed and embellished this story had heard and misunderstood the strong love of sweet scents which the panther and its relations, the lions and leopards, often show. The old theory of animal liking for scents denied them any share in such pleasures unless they suggested the presence of their food or prey. But such a reason can hardly be alleged for a lion’s liking for lavender-water! The writer, wishing to test for himself the reported fondness of many animals for perfumes, paid a series of visits to the Zoological Gardens, provided with bottles of scent and a packet of cotton-wool, and there tried some harmless experiments which apparently gave great satisfaction to many of the inhabitants. Lavender-water was the favourite scent, and most of the lions and leopards showed unqualified pleasure when the scent was poured on the wool and put into their cages. The first leopard to which it was offered stood over the ball of cotton, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and screwed up its nose, rather like the picture of the gentleman inhaling “Alkaram” in the advertisement. It then lay down and held it between its paws, rubbed its face over it, and finished by lying down upon it. Another leopard smelt it and sneezed; then caught the wool in its claws, played with it, then lay on its back and rubbed its head and neck over the scent. It then fetched another leopard which was asleep in the cage, and the two sniffed it for some time together; and the last-comer ended by taking the ball in its teeth, curling its lips well back, and inhaling the delightful perfume with half-shut eyes. The lion and lioness, when their turn came, tried to roll upon it at the same time. The lion then gave the lioness a cuff with his paw, which sent her off to the back of the cage, and having secured it for himself, laid his broad head on the morsel of scented cotton, and purred. These were all old inhabitants of the Gardens, civilized. But at the end of the building was the lovely young Sokoto lion, with the spots of “cubhood” still showing like a pattern in damask on his skin. If he too liked the scent, it could hardly be an acquired taste. His reception of the new impression was different from that of the others. He lay down inhaling the scent with a dreamy look in his eyes. Then he made faces and yawned, turned his back on the scent, and thought. He then inhaled the perfume again for some time, walked slowly off to his bed, and lay down to sleep.

TIGER AFTER SMELLING LAVENDER-WATER. From a
photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]

The smaller cats were in many cases as pleased with the scent as the leopards, the ocelot in particular on one occasion, after inhaling the perfume, _ate_ the small piece of paper on which it was poured. But the liking for lavender-water is by no means confined to the _felidæ_. The Cape ratels were delighted with the scent, and the racoon, when the bottle was presented to it corked, with great good sense pulled out the stopper; but this may have been due to curiosity, as it was at once thrown away. Other creatures, on the contrary, either cared nothing for the scent or found it disagreeable. An otter, in particular, gave a snort of disgust, dived into the water, and then ran to its mate, to whom it seemed to convey some of its impressions, for both otters carefully avoided the perfumed wool. No doubt there lies somewhere in our rivers, “under the glassy, cool translucent wave,” or on their flower-bordered banks, some odorous herb or water-weed which the otter also loves. That the pleasure felt by so many animals in the odour of “sweet lavender” is due to pure and simple enjoyment of a perfume, made intensely more delightful to them than to ourselves by the wonderful development of their sense of smell, seems clear, not only from the fact that so many species share this amiable fondness for the scent, but also because their liking for perfumes is by no means limited to that of lavender. A flask of rose-water will make as many friends among the leopards and their kin as will the former scent, and they also enjoy the sweet odour of pinks and lilac-blossom. The heavy scent of lilies and narcissi fails to please, perhaps on account of their strong narcotic qualities. It is not unlikely that the scent of these plants, with which the Furies were said to stupefy their victims, an odour which is often insupportable to men themselves, should be distasteful to their far more sensitive nostrils.

It could hardly be expected that, in the matter of sweet sound, animals, any more than men, should think alike. The scent of the rose gives pleasure from the Himalayas to the Hebrides; but the music that soothes the Highlander is to the Japanese as the howling of cats. Still, as to some men certain sounds are always musical, so to some animals these same sounds give pleasure. The taste finds perhaps its highest expression in those birds which actually learn to whistle the airs which they have heard from men, and its lowest in the snakes and reptiles, which seem to be fascinated by the Indian pipe. The writer has heard more than one parrot whistle part of a tune, and then strike the octave of the last note; and the piping crow at the Zoological Gardens, and a Persian bulbul, which was once an inmate of the same aviary, can whistle a tune perfectly. It is to be expected that birds which take such pleasure in each other’s songs should be most sensitive to sweet sounds new to them.

But the taste is not confined to birds. The old horses in the regimental riding-schools learn the meaning of the different bugle-calls; and though it is not possible to say whether they distinguish between different airs, it is well known that they trot or gallop better to some tunes than to others. This may be compared with a curious story told by Playford in his _Introduction to Music_. “When travelling some years since,” he writes, “I met on the road to Royston a herd of about twenty bucks following a bagpipe and a violin: while the music played they went forward; when it ceased they all stood still; and in this manner they were brought out of Yorkshire to Hampton Court.” Seals have long been known for their love of sweet sounds. Laing, in his account of a voyage to Spitzbergen, says that when a violin was played on board the vessel, a numerous audience of seals would often assemble and follow the vessel for miles. Sir Walter Scott mentions this taste in the lines,—

“Rude Heiskar’s seals, through surges dark,
Would oft pursue the minstrel’s bark;”

and it is said that when the bell of the church on the island of Hoy rang, the seals within hearing swam to the shore, and remained looking about them as long as it was tolled. In a less prosaic age, the seals of Hoy might have become an established myth of a successful “deep-sea mission” to the mermaids of the North. It would be interesting to make some musical experiments at the Zoological Gardens; but the first occasion on which the writer attempted this, led to such strong suspicion of his insanity among the visitors, that in the face of a caution addressed by an elderly nurse to her charges, “Don’t go near ’im—he ain’t right in his ’ead,” he had not the courage to continue his researches.

NOTE.—In a letter to the writer, the late Dr. John Rae, F.R.S.,
the discoverer of the fate of the Franklin Expedition, urged
that he should nevertheless make some trial of the effects of
music on the different animals at the Zoo. Dr. Rae spent the
days of his boyhood in the Orkney and Shetland Islands, and said
that both there and in the regions round the frozen rim of the
northern ocean, it was matter of common experience that the
seals would follow a boat in which music was played. The
following chapters give the interesting result of this
suggestion.

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ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.

THE FIRST VISIT.

IN making trial, with the aid of a skilled musician, of the effect of sweet sounds on animal ears, we knew that there was good reason to doubt whether Orpheus himself might not fail to charm within the precincts of the Zoo. For if, on the one hand, the creatures so far share the blessings of the golden age that they entertain a liking rather than a fear of man, and have no dread of a possible enemy behind the mask of music, many of them are no strangers to such forms of it as are produced by the harmony of a band which plays there weekly in summer evenings. To those creatures which have lived for years in that part of the Gardens near the band-stand, the sound of music is no new thing; and it was possible that they might be as indifferent to its strains as an organ-grinder’s monkey to the music of the street. On the other hand, there must be many to which, either from living at a distance from the musical centre of the band-stand, or in separate buildings, such sounds are new and unusual; and others which are but recent arrivals in the Gardens, fresh from tropical forests, or the wastes and deserts of an unmusical world. In any case, to listen to the distant strains of a brass-band is a different experience from that enjoyed in a chamber recital by your own violin-player, one who can draw from his instrument by sympathetic skill melodious chords, sounds soft and weird, grave and gay, strident or tremulous, harmonious or suddenly discordant, eye watching eye, and quick to change or repeat a note as he marks the varying expression of emotion roused by sound on animal faces, sometimes strangely expressive, or on others in which for minutes the eye alone gives token even of life. It was on some of these last, the snakes and creeping things, that we proposed first to make trial of the powers of sound,—partly because Eastern traditions of snake-charming are some of the oldest in the world; partly because, if they proved unresponsive, this would still leave room to hope that creatures of a higher organization and warmer blood might be more appreciative; and lastly, the day was dark, with thunder and rain, and Orpheus himself, in his sylvan concerts, might have failed to charm with wetted strings.

Before visiting the cobras and the pythons, we made our way to the Insect House, with some design of making trial of the tarantula spider, our violinist having a theory of his own that spiders had a liking for harmonious sound; partly, too, from a mixed feeling that the tarantula, whose bite makes others dance, should itself have a feeling for musical numbers. Apparently the tarantula’s powers are objective only, for it remained in its corner sulky and unmoved. But a nest of scorpions was less indifferent. After the piece of bark behind which these venomous creatures were lurking had been gently overturned, and they had settled down to their usual semi-slumbrous state, the violinist played chords, at first gentle and melodious, then rising to a high and sustained series of piercing notes. In a few moments, one after another, the creatures began to move, the mass became violently agitated, and the torpid scorpions awoke into a writhing tangle of legs and claws and stings. When the sounds ceased, they became still; when the loud, shrill notes were played again, they were again agitated. The talking mynah, which lives in the same room, sprang from end to end of its cage with ecstatic hops, and whistled and coughed, and gave evidence that it at least was a critical listener to the rival musician. The pretty dappled Axis deer, which live in a little paddock by the path, were our next audience; and as we passed them on our way to the snakes’ house, a few soft chords were played by way of trial. The deer were at once attracted, and drew near the railings, with ears pointed forward. While low, pathetic chords were played, they stood still, panting, but not unpleased. At a sudden discord they sprang back, and shook their heads. Loud, quick music followed; but this failed to please, they stood further off, stamped, and shook their heads again, looking excited and defiant. But we had not come to play to the deer that day. The snakes and pythons were our object, the more so as we could play to these without interruption from the interested visitors, whose inconvenient attention our enterprise was beginning to attract.

“Behind the scenes” in the new Reptile House lies a most interesting region; and Orpheus has a prescriptive right of entry to the arcana of the serpent-world. We explained the object of our visit,—

“Cessit immanis mihi blandienti
Janitor aulæ!”

and we were most kindly taken to the private side of snake-land at the Zoo. There, if we may not “breakfast on basilisks’ eggs,” as in the land of Cleopatra’s asp, we may at least see the creature that does breakfast on basilisks’ eggs, the great monitor lizard, which eats the eggs of the crocodile—or of hens at the Zoo, where crocodiles’ eggs are scarce. There too we may see young basilisks, or crocodiles, frisking in a homely watering-pot; young rats too, by the score, parti-coloured and piebald, the destined food of serpents, but meantime in high spirits and playfully squeaking. It was the very place for a chamber concert to the cobras, for the thick plate-glass before the cages shuts out the sound of the curious crowd in front, while in the back of each compartment is a small square iron door, like those through which food is passed in model prisons to the inmates of the cells. This door, in the case of the poisonous snakes, is set high above the ground, and is reached by a set of steps which travels on a rail. It is therefore possible to observe the creatures’ movements while the player of the music is out of sight below.

AXIS DEER LISTENING. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]

The “dweller on the threshold” of the snakes’ home is the monitor lizard, an active and formidable saurian some 5 ft. in length, whose watchful habits were said to give warning of the approach of the crocodile. It did not belie its reputation for watchfulness, for the instant that it heard the sounds of the violin through its opened door, it raised its head, and stood alert and listening. Then the forked tongue came out and played incessantly round its lips; soft, slow music followed, and the lizard became quite still, except for a gentle swaying of the head from side to side. Two groups of black snakes from the Robben Islands next claimed our attention, and gave some evidence of the way in which the physical conditions of the moment affect the sensibilities of these creatures. In the first cage, they remained absolutely torpid, looking exactly as if carved out in polished ebony. In the next, the heads were raised at once, the forked tongues played, and at a sudden discord each snake’s head started violently back. Nor was this quick repulsion caused by any sudden movement of the bow, for the player was invisible. In the next cages to these were some small boas, and Madame Paulus’s pythons, with which that lady used to perform in a tank at the Royal Aquarium. The pythons showed no signs of interest, except by a quickened respiration; but a boa was at once attracted by the music. As it worked along the rounded rim of its circular bath in the direction of the sounds, it gave a beautiful exhibition of that snake-movement for which we have no name—neither crawling nor creeping, but gently enveloping portions of the surface on which it lay with its lower scales, and advancing noiselessly and almost imperceptibly. Arrived at the side of the bath nearest to the door, it extended its head with a kind of tremulous motion until it obtained a view of the violin. It remained for some minutes motionless, with its eye fixed upon the instrument, until the music became loud and strident. Then, in sinuous folds, it dropped like some viscous fluid to the ground, and slowly advanced to the door, from which it was gently put back by its keeper.

But the cobra is the snake to which all tradition points as most susceptible to musical sounds, and we prepared to watch its attitude towards the violin with no little excitement and curiosity. The accounts of Indian residents mainly agree in saying that the snake-charmer does influence these serpents by the monotonous notes of his little bagpipes; that as soon as the sound is heard, the snake rises, spreads its hood, and often waves its head from side to side in some sort of time to the music; and that, under these conditions, these venomous serpents may be handled with impunity. The last claim of the snake-charmer is perhaps over-bold. The snakes appear generally to have their fangs drawn. But in any case, opinion agrees that the sound of the pipes does attract and interest the cobra. Wild cobras are also induced by the pipe-player to come out from the holes in old wells or ruins in which they have taken up their residence, the snake being noosed when its body is sufficiently clear of the hole to enable it to be jerked away by the snake-charmer’s partner.

The behaviour of the cobras at the Zoo more than justified the Indian stories. We selected for our serenade a large yellow Indian cobra, which was lying coiled up asleep on the gravel at the bottom of its cage. At the first note of the violin, the snake instantly raised its head, and fixed its bright yellow eye with a set gaze on the little door at the back. The music then gradually became louder, and the snake raised itself in the traditional attitude on its tail, and spread its hood, slowly oscillating from one side to the other as the violin played waltz-time. There was a most strangely “interested” look in the cobra’s eye and attitude at this time, and the slightest change in the volume or character of the music was met by an instantaneous change in the movements or poise of the snake. At the tremolo, it puffed its body out. A rattlesnake in the next cage was also listening intently at the same time, with its head drawn back, and slowly rising and falling. But it was less apparently sensitive than the cobra. The violin suddenly reproduced the sound of the bagpipes, which greatly excited the snake; and as the “drone” was put on to the tune of “The Keel Row,” its hood expanded to its utmost dimensions. Soft minor chords were then played, and a sudden sharp discord struck without warning. The snake flinched whenever this was done, as if it had been struck, and this, it may be worth noting, was subsequently found to be a general effect of discords on most animals of a higher organization. The results of these further experiments were naturally more easy to detect and record than in the case of the snakes; but it may be taken as established, that at the Zoo there are serpents that are not yet deaf to the voice of the charmer, even if he lack the training of Eastern magicians.

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ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.

THE SECOND VISIT.

THE result of the first experiments made upon animals with musical sounds, was such as to invite a second visit by the violin-player to the inmates of the Zoo. The sun was shining brightly, and most of the animals were just awaking from their morning sleep. Some were not yet awake. The two Polar bears were lying fast asleep in an affectionate embrace, their noses touching, and each with one paw laid on its companion’s side, while the other grasped its friend’s. Both were dreaming, like dogs on a hearth-rug, and gave slight starts and sounds from time to time and movements of their feet and paws. We seated ourselves on the balustrade of the bridge above, and serenaded the bears. The young one awoke at once, and slowly rolled over, stretched itself, and as the music increased in volume, came out into the main cage to listen. The violin was some ten feet above the level on which the bear was standing. In order to get nearer the sound, it stood up on its hind-legs, and listened intently. It then retired, and began to walk backwards and forwards, uttering some half-formed sound. But a fresh burst of music from the violin once more brought it to the front, where it stood up, and, spreading its arms wide on either side, pushed its muzzle between the bars. When the musician descended from the balcony and went close to the cage, the bear at once crossed to the place, and sat down to listen, occasionally putting its paws through the bars to try and reach the instrument. It was not until we had ceased to play for some time that the bear left its place against the bars, and sought refreshment in a morning tub. The two grizzly bears, at the first chord struck, assumed at once an air of the most comic and critical attention, each with its head on one side, and its paws clasping the bars. A sudden discord made both bears start back, and the lively tone of “The Keel Row” set them walking up and down the cage. In the Lion House, every head turned to the first sound of the violin; as the strains continued, the largest lion, to whom the music was more particularly addressed, began to wave the black tuft on its tail from side to side; and a lioness, which had been asleep in the inner cage, walked straight out towards the violin, and tried to push the lion from its “front seat.” But by this time so much public interest was awakened in our experiment that we were obliged to forego our concert to the lions, and seek an audience less subject to interruption. There is a German tale of a fiddler pursued by wolves who was saved by the accidental breaking of a string of his fiddle. The sound of the breaking string frightened the wolves for the moment, and afterwards, the legend adds, he kept them from pulling him from the roof of the hut on which he had taken refuge by playing continuously. The story of the breaking string frightening the wolves, so far agreed with our experience of the effect of sudden and sharp discords on various animals, that it was decided to make the experiment upon the wolves. The result went far to show that the old legend of their fear of music is based on fact. The common European wolf set up its back, and drew back its lips into a fixed and hideous sneer, showing all its teeth to the gums, with its tail between its legs. The Indian wolf showed signs of extreme and abject fear. It trembled violently, its fur was erected, and cowering down till its body almost touched the ground, it retreated to the furthest corner of the cage. When the music was played at the back of the cage, where the musician was invisible, its alarm was in no degree abated. It crept to the door to listen, and then sprang back and cowered against the bars in front of the cage, and so continued in alternate spasms of curiosity and fear. The jackals and some of the wilder foxes were only less alarmed than the wolves. The female jackals ran back to their inner den and hid themselves. The male erected its fur until it appeared as rough as an Esquimaux dog, and crept backwards and forwards, with its lips curled back, opening and shutting its mouth, growling whenever a strong discordant note was struck. The scene at this time was extremely amusing. The prairie wolves next door sat down to listen, the African jackals sat on a shelf and watched, and the performance was overlooked from a distance by a nervous but highly interested row of foxes of various sizes and colours, all sitting on the party-walls which divide their cages from the wolves and dingoes. It was like a picture from an illustrated edition of _Æsop’s Fables_. The foxes in the large cages came forward readily to listen to the music, though the usual experiment of striking a discord startled them greatly. But the rough fox from Demerara, in a small cage behind the building, was so violently alarmed that the keeper requested that the music might cease, for fear the creature should “have a fit,” to which ailment it appears that foxes and wolves are very subject. As might be expected, the sheep found pleasure in sounds which terrified the wolves. The _burrhel_, or wild sheep of the Himalayas, all came forward to listen, their ears pointed forward to catch the sounds. Some even stood up, and placing their fore-feet against the palings, stretched their necks in the direction of the music. Our violinist appropriately chose “The Shepherd’s Call” in _William Tell_, and this served to engage their intention more than “The Keel Row” or any more violent airs. Like almost all other creatures, they were startled at a discord. In the row of sheep-sheds, the music drew out all the inmates, the Markhor and the Cretan ibex coming forward to listen, and walking back to their food when the music stopped. The old Indian wild boar was an unexpected and appreciative convert to the charms of music. It was lying fast asleep in the sun, with its back towards the musician; but at the first chords it rose and faced round towards the player. After listening attentively, with ears forward, the boar began a series of complacent grunts, and advanced to the front of the pen, until disconcerted by a sharp discordant note, which drove it back several feet. The wild swine from Spain and Africa were also much interested in the music. For some unknown reason, the sounds which pleased the boars offended the African elephant. Setting up its huge, flapping ears, it flung up its trunk, snorted and whistled like a steam-engine, driving its head against the rails, and exhibiting every mark of anger and dislike. The Indian bison and the gayal both brought forward their broad ears to listen, and, resting their muzzles against the railings, seemed to enjoy the sounds; a sharp discord caused them to start back, and produced the same effect on the zebras and African wild ass, both of which listened to the harmonious chords with pleasure, and followed the musician from one side of their stall to another. But it was in the Monkey House that the music caused the greatest wonder and excitement. The large apes—two of which will never hear the violin again, for “Sally” and the young ourang-outang have both died since our visit—were more frightened than pleased. “Tim,” the silver gibbon, was much agitated, opening and shutting his mouth, and waving his long arms about, until two loud discordant notes were played, when he came flying down from his tree, and flung himself against the bars. The young ourang-outang turned his back at once, and made off to the top of his cage, from which not even a banana would tempt him. “Sally” listened gravely, with her hands crossed and a far-off look in her eyes, until a strong crescendo was played, when she made an audible and perfectly articulate remark, though we were unable to record its meaning. Outside the large monkey house, a large Tcheli monkey was sitting in a cage apart, thoughtfully chewing a stick. At the sound of the violin, it gave a violent start and frowned, which, however, is not a necessary sign of displeasure in monkey physiognomy. When sudden discords were played, it sprang forward and rattled the bars. The Capuchin monkeys, the species selected by Dr. Garnier for his experiments in monkey language, showed the strangest and most amusing excitement. These pretty little creatures have wonderfully expressive and intelligent pink faces, with bright-brown eyes and pink lips, and the play and mobility of their faces and bodies while listening to the music was extraordinarily rapid. The three in the first cage at first rushed up into their box, and then all peeped out chattering and excited. One by one they came down and listened to the music with intense curiosity, shrieking and making faces at a crescendo, shaking the wires at a discord, and putting their heads upside-down in efforts of acute criticism at low and musical passages. Every change of note was marked by some alteration of expression in the faces of the excited little monkeys, and a series of discordant notes roused them to a passion of rage. Most of the other monkeys came up to listen; the Malbrook monkey dropped the clay pipe he was making-believe to smoke, and the white-nosed monkey stole a lady’s veil and picked it thoughtfully to pieces. But a big baboon recently brought to the Gardens assumed a most comic look of disgust and surprise, and walked off to the utmost limits of its chain.

It is easier to give a record of such experiments than to speak with confidence of the feelings excited in our various listeners. Darwin, while giving many instances of the expression of anger, pain, and fear, gives few of the expression of pleasure, or the milder emotions of curiosity and contentment. It will not, however, be difficult to show that in many cases the animals at the Zoo did exhibit pleasure and curiosity in a very marked degree; while strange to say, in the case of others, anger or fear was shown in all the modes which Darwin has described. With the behaviour of the wolves we may compare his description of the characteristic expression of fear in carnivorous animals, by erecting the hair and uncovering the teeth and trembling. “Cattle and sheep,” says the great naturalist, “are remarkable for displaying their emotions in a very slight degree, except that of extreme pain.” But in the case of the wild sheep, and even of the wild cattle, the pleasure and curiosity aroused by the music was plainly shown, as we have described above, by their instant attention and their approach towards the sounds. At the sudden discords they instantly showed displeasure by stamping the feet and retiring. The African elephant gave unmistakable signs of anger; the wild boar and pigs, of pleasure and curiosity; and among others which shared these amiable emotions, were beyond doubt the zebras, wild asses, Polar and grizzly bears, and the ant-eater. No creature seemed wholly indifferent except the seals, and the sudden start and displeasure at a discord was almost universal, from the snakes to the African elephant. There are many men, perhaps many races of men, who could not detect a discord, and would be indifferent alike to harmony and its opposite. Must we not, then, infer that, owing to some greater sensitiveness of the organ, most animals have a musical ear, and that the stories of Orpheus and his lute have, at any rate, a basis in the facts of animal æsthetics?

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ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.

THE CHOICE OF INSTRUMENTS.

“Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial;
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.”

IN a former trial of the effects of sweet sounds on animals’ ears at the Zoo, our Orpheus was so far in character that he played but one instrument; and though the violin did duty for the classic lute, the audience was in many cases as responsive as in the groves of Thessaly, when music still was young. Our object so attained, curiosity went no further, though if a matter-of-fact and scientific age demands “results” as a natural sequence to experiments, however playful, we would sum up the conclusions then reached as follows:—All animals, except the cobras and the wolves, showed pleasure and curiosity when listening to soft and melancholy music; and all exhibited extreme dislike of loud, harsh, discordant sounds. Minor keys in all cases seemed most appreciated, and in some animals, such as the mountain sheep, the bears, and the wolves, they produced the strangest results—in the first two of pleasure, in the last of fear. But though the violin-player is master of many sounds, and can even imitate the drone of the bagpipe, which the cobras so much enjoyed, it still remained to make trial of our hearers with other sounds than those of the tuneful strings. Animals, like the Passions, might have their favourite instrument, if only it could be found, and Orpheus, with his lute, could be matched against the shepherd’s pipe, or could watch the emotion of his animal admirers while melancholy “poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul.” Respect for the peaceful early hours at the Zoo induced us to forego, for the time, the trial of instruments of brass. But it was thought that the contrasts of the violin, the flute, and the shrill and piping piccolo, might afford some guide to animals’ taste in instrumental music, without injury either to their own nerves, or to the comfort of visitors to the Gardens. The hour chosen was the earliest which the rules for securing the animals’ comfort allowed; for the tests to be made were far more delicate than those by which we had proved the general susceptibility of animals to musical sound, and demanded the undivided attention of our captive hearers. The general order of our experiments, based upon the supposition that animal nerves are not unlike our own, was so arranged that their attention should be first arrested by a low and gradually-increasing volume of sound, in those melodious minor keys which experience showed them to prefer. The piccolo was then to follow, in shrill and high-pitched contrast. And, lastly, the mellow wood-notes of the flute were to soothe away whatever ruffled feelings the less tuneful piccolo had aroused. In case the creatures showed any marked preference for the flute over the violin, then the flute was to take precedence.

There is a curious attraction in watching these half-human appeals to animal emotion, and marking the quick look of interest and surprise visible in most of their faces, as the sweet sounds gradually steal on their senses, and the growth of pleasure—or fear—as the creature springs to its feet, and either advances eagerly to listen, or with bristling hair retreats to the farthest corner of the den, until perhaps pleasure or curiosity overcomes their terror at the unusual sounds. Pleasure or dislike are often most strongly shown where least expected, and the result of our last experiment goes to show that the tiger has stronger dislikes, if not stronger preferences, in the musical scale than the most intellectual anthropoid apes.

Our first visit was paid to “Jack,” the young red ourang-outang, which, since the death of “Sally,” the chimpanzee, claims the highest place in animal organization among the inmates of the Zoo. He is a six-months-old baby, of extremely grave and deliberate manners, and perhaps the most irresistibly comical creature which has ever been seen in London. He is extremely well-behaved, not in the least shy, and as friendly with strangers as with his keeper. His arms are as strong as those of a man, while his legs and feet seem to be used less for walking than as a subsidiary pair of arms and hands. He is thus able, when much interested, to hold his face between two hands, and to rest his chin on the third, which gives him an air of pondering reflection beyond any power of human imitation. “He knows there’s something up,” remarked his keeper, as we entered the house, and the ape came to the bars and sat down to inspect his visitors. As the sounds of the violin began, he suspended himself against the bars, and then, with one hand above his head, dropped the other to his side, and listened with grave attention. As the sound increased in volume, he dropped to the ground, and all the hair on his body stood up with fear. He then crept away on all fours, looking back over his shoulder like a frightened baby; and taking up his piece of carpet, which does duty for a shawl, shook it out, and threw it completely over his head and body, and drew it tight round him. After a short time, as the music continued, he gained courage and put out his head, and at last threw away the cloak and came forward again. By this time his hair was lying flat, and his fear had given place to pleasure. He sat down, and, chewing a straw, sat gravely listening to the music. “He looks just like our manager when a new piece is on,” remarked the violinist, as he concluded his share of the serenade. The piccolo at first frightened the monkey, but he soon held out his hand for the instrument, which he was allowed to examine. The flute did not interest him, but the bagpipes—reproduced on the violin—achieved a triumph. He first flattened his nose against the bars, and then, scrambling to the centre of the cage, turned head over heels, and lastly, sitting down, chucked handfuls of straw in the air and over his head, “smiling,” as the keeper said, with delight and approval.

TIGER LISTENING TO SOFT MUSIC. From a photograph
by Gambier Bolton.
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