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admitting our misconceptions, when we find scientific men
themselves devoting page after page to a mooted question, and after
all, sometimes venturing to sum up a given subject with a modest
doubt only. (Would that the less scientific writers were equally
cautious in their statements!) Whether snakes drink, and what they
drink, have been among these debated questions.
Those who possess a love for natural history are, of course,
acquainted with the works of the eminent naturalist, Dr. Thomas Bell,
on our native fauna; and those who admit their interest in the much-
maligned snakes have included in their studies his British Reptiles.[14]
In one portion of that work, where science is so charmingly blended
with personal observations, we are carried on to the heaths and
commons to watch our pretty little agile lizards skim across the grass,
and flit away with legs too fleet for us to follow them.
We linger on the banks of a stream where a ring snake lies in wait
for a frog; and then we are conducted into Mr. Bell’s study, where the
same harmless creature, now tamed, is nestling in his sleeve, or
lapping milk from his hand.
Most of my readers also, whether naturalists or not, are familiar
with some of the numerous works on India, its creeds, customs, and
superstitions, where mention is so frequently made of cobra-worship,
and of the natives setting saucers of milk near its hole to conciliate
and propitiate the serpent. Familiar to us all, too, is the picture of a
little child with a bowl of milk on its lap, and a snake receiving a tap
with the spoon to check the too greedy intrusion of its head into the
bowl, but into which, according to the story, it had been accustomed
and permitted to dip its tongue. Some persons place that story in
Wales; others, and with better reason, trace it to New England. The
child and its surroundings, the size of the snake, all justify this latter
belief, and that the intruder is the notorious milk-stealer so common
in the United States, the ‘black snake,’ or Racer (introduced p. 64).
In the face of these well-known facts, it may seem strange to
propose the question, ‘Do snakes ever drink?’ and still stranger to
affirm that this was lately a disputed point among some of our
scientific writers. ‘On s’ignore,’ says Schlegel, ‘si les serpents boivent,
et s’il est juste d’opiner pour la negative; toutefois on n’a jamais
aperçu des fluides dans ceux dont on a examiné l’estomac.’[15]
Schlegel, when he wrote, had not the benefit of Mr. Bell’s
experience, and as a foreigner, probably he had not read Jesse’s
Gleanings nor White’s Selborne; nor, as a scientific student, had he
time to bestow on promiscuous works on India, which, by the way,
were not so numerous then as now. But there are several well-known
milk-drinking snakes in America which had been described by writers
prior to Schlegel. This learned author, however, puts down the milk-
loving snakes among the ‘fables’ and ‘prejudices;’ and, as we have
seen, dismissed the water-drinkers with a doubt.
Mr. Bell’s work has enjoyed upwards of thirty years’ popularity,
and his milk-drinking pet has been quoted by scores of writers of
both adult and juvenile books. Thomas Bell, F.L.S., F.G.S., was
secretary to the Royal Society; Professor of Zoology of King’s College,
London; and one of the Council of the Zoological Society of London.
He was also a ‘corresponding member’ of the learned societies of
Paris and Philadelphia, and of the Boston Society of Natural History.
As a gentleman of widely recognised learning and veracity,
therefore, it may be considered that Mr. Bell, and with good reason,
entertained no doubt whatever as to snakes drinking, and also
drinking milk. Mr. Bell, moreover, had known of the celebrated python
at Paris (see chap. xxiv.), which in 1841 evinced a thirstiness that has
become historical in all zoological annals. The circumstance was fully
recorded by M. Valenciennes at the time; when a no less
distinguished ophiologist than M. Dumeril,[16] Professeur
d’Erpétologie au Musée à Paris, was especially appointed to the
management of the reptile department there. That very distinguished
ophidian lady, the python, need be referred to here only as regards
the drinking question, the rest of her history coming in its place in
this book. It will be remembered that she laid eggs, and to the
surprise of all, coiled herself upon them to hatch them. ‘Pendant tout
le temps d’incubation la femelle n’a pas voulu manger’ (she began to
incubate on the 6th May); ‘mais le 25e de mai, après vingt jours de
couvaison, son gardien, Vallée, homme très soigneux et très
intelligent, la voyant plus inquiète que de coutume, remeuée la tête,
et lui présenta de l’eau dans un petit basin; elle y plongea le bout de
son museau, et l’animal en but avec avidité environs de deux verres.
Elle a ensuite bu quatre fois pendant le reste du temps de sa
couvaison: le 4 juin, 13, 19, 26.’ (Her eggs began to hatch early in
July.)
The interesting invalid, ordinarily tame and gentle, had latterly
displayed anger and irritability on being disturbed, pushing away the
hand if touched; but in her present state the want of water was so
great that she evinced uneasiness to her guardian, and permitted
him to move and turn her head, so that she could dip the end of her
muzzle into the basin. The narrator argued, from this remarkable
demonstration, that the incubation (in which a rise of temperature
was observable) produced a sort of feverishness which caused her to
decline solid food, though her thirst was so great that she almost
asked for drink.
When eight of the fifteen eggs were hatched, the little pythons
ate nothing until after their first moult (which happened to them all
within a fortnight), but during those early days of their existence they
‘drank several times, and also bathed themselves.’
This event perhaps established the fact beyond any doubt that
snakes do drink, so far as modern and scientific ophiologists had
ventured to decide; and M. Dumeril, from long observation, is able to
tell us how.
Speaking of the tongue of a snake, this experienced naturalist
informs us that ‘cette langue fort longue sert-elle comme on l’a
observée quelquefois à faire pénétrer un peu de liquide dans la
bouche, car nous avons vu nous-même des couleuvres laper ainsi
l’eau, que nous avions placée auprès d’elles dans la cage, où nous les
tenions renfermées pour les observer à loisir.’[17]
But, as he goes on to describe, ‘quelques serpents avalent de
l’eau sans se servir de la langue pour laper. Alors ils tiennent la tête
enfoncée sous l’eau au-dessous du niveau, ils écartent un peu les
mâchoires, et font baisser le fond de la gorge, dans laquelle l’eau
descend par son propres poids.’ You can then perceive the slight
movements of swallowing, like a thirsty man gulping down a
beverage (à la régalade).
What follows affords an explanation of M. Schlegel’s statement
that he had never discovered water in a snake which he had
dissected, this learned author not having gone so thoroughly into the
matter. ‘Cette eau,’ says M. Dumeril, ‘sert à laver les intestines; car
elle est rendue liquide avec les fèces, elle ne parait pas expulsée par
les voies urinaires.’
M. Dumeril speaks very clearly on this point both in his
introductory preface, and again in vol. vi., under the more detailed
descriptions of each especial sense and organ.
Snakes rarely drink (that is, not every day, as most animals do),
most of them living in dry regions or forests, where for long periods
they are deprived of water. The live prey upon which they subsist
supplies them with sufficient liquid. This may be known by the
natural discharges, which are usually of a liquid nature. Nevertheless,
a large number of serpents live close to water, and love to plunge
and to swim. These truly drink,—lapping with the tongue, as above
described; at other times with the head under water, and the neck
still lower, so that the water falls into the mouth by its own weight,
and is then swallowed. But this, he repeats, does not go into the
blood, or very little of it, car ils rendent en grand partie, etc., as
above, its function being principally to moisten the intestines.
Lenz, a German ophiologist of still earlier date than Schlegel, went
very conscientiously into the subject of whether snakes drink or not,
[18] having adopted various means in order to test them. His personal
experience was, however, of a more limited range.
It is worth while to bear in mind the dates of some of these
writings, both that we may watch the gradual advance of ophidian
knowledge, and also that we may the better appreciate the vast
amount of time, care, labour, and research by which we are finally
put in possession of facts of natural history.
As a comparatively modern writer, Lenz, without doubt, made
very valuable contributions to the science of ophiology, and at a time
when fact was only beginning to be sifted from fable. It will be seen
that, though writing several years before Schlegel, he had arrived at
the same conclusions.
‘The numerous snakes and other animals which inhabit arid
mountains, or plains destitute of water, can only quench their thirst
with rain or dew. Snakes require but little water as long as they live
in the open air. It is an established rule that no water is found in the
maw, stomach, or entrails of snakes killed in the open air, even when
destroyed by or in a piece of water. Snakes are never seen to go to
drink in any part of the world.’
This last clause is, as we have now seen, a too positive assertion,
and one not subsequently borne out by other equally conscientious
and intelligent writers. Livingstone, who was a close observer of
nature, informs us that he has known some of the African snakes
come a long way to pools and rivers to drink. Dr. Theodore Cantor,
who is one of the best authorities on the Indian sea snakes, and who
was a member of the Zoological Society, tells us that he has seen
snakes ‘both drink and also moisten the tongue; two distinct
operations,’ he explains.[19] This conviction having been stated prior
to Dumeril’s elaborate and much-prized work, is valuable testimony.
The majority of snakes in India are partial to water, he tells us, with
the exception of the arboreal species, which probably obtain
sufficient moisture from the rain or dew upon the leaves; and as it is
not in their nature to be on the ground, their organization doubtless
renders them independent of water.
We of late so often see it said of any particular snakes in captivity
that ‘they neither ate nor drank at first;’ or that ‘they drank, though
they would not eat,’ that we almost wonder their bibulous
propensities were ever doubted; especially as the majority of snakes
are fond of water, and swim readily. We are surprised, therefore, that
the second edition of Mr. Lenz’ really valuable work, published so
lately as 1870, should still retain the assertion that snakes have never
been seen to drink.
Mr. Frank Buckland saw his Coronella drink frequently, though she
ate nothing; and as the discovery and captivity of this interesting lady
and her brood, born in London in 1862,[20] formed the subject of
many papers in the scientific journals at the time, one would suppose
that they would have been heard of in Germany, where the species
(C. lævis) is well known.
‘Though not to be tempted with food, they are very fond of water,’
says Mr. F. Buckland.
Lenz’ experiments are, however, well worth noticing, because
subsequent observations have in many instances confirmed this
author’s conclusions.
‘In confinement,’ he says, ‘snakes are more easily induced to lick
up drops sprinkled on grass than to drink from a vessel.’ Naturally so.
In their native haunts they are not accustomed to pans of water or
saucers of milk, but they are accustomed to moisten their tongues on
the blades of grass or the leaves of plants which hold the drops of
rain or dew. Lenz then mentions some experiments which he himself
made with snakes. He placed a ring snake and an adder in an empty
box, and kept them there without food for a fortnight, at the end of
which period he placed them in a tub containing half an inch of
water, and left them there for half an hour. He then killed them both,
and on dissection found no water inside of them. This led him to the
conclusion that they had not drank at all; but, in the first place, had
they occupied the whole half-hour in lapping with their thread-like
tongue, it may be doubted whether any appreciable quantity could be
imbibed during that time; and in the second place, the sudden
transition and strange situation in which they found themselves
would, through fright, entirely destroy whatever inclination they
might have had to appease hunger or thirst.
It will be seen that snakes are exceedingly capricious in taking
food; and that when in an abnormal or strange locality they rarely
feed for a long while. Mr. Lenz himself is of opinion that, had he left
them longer in the water, or placed them in a dry tub where liquid
could be got at, they would or might have drunk. Thus, the
experiments only go to corroborate what all keepers of snakes have
observed, viz. that captivity or strange surroundings render them
averse to feed.
 M. Lenz placed his snakes among the cows in order to test the
foolish belief that obtains in some countries that snakes will ‘suck’ the
udders; but of course, and for similar reasons, even could such an
achievement be possible, the snakes attempted no such thing.
His snakes were strict members of a temperance society also, for
not even wine could tempt them to drink, though this and other
liquids were placed within reach to entice their taste. Not so Pliny’s
snakes, for he would have us believe that they show ‘a great liking
for wine,’ whenever an opportunity presented itself for their tasting it!
But how came the idea to obtain that snakes suck cows,—a fact
so frequently asserted by the older naturalists? One old writer goes
so far as to state that a certain American snake ‘causes cows to give
forth bloody milk.’ And yet, to the thinking or observing person, the
origin of the belief may be easily accounted for. That snakes have
partiality for milk no longer admits of a doubt; that they like warmth
and shelter is an equally established fact. Therefore, they find their
way into cattle-sheds, and hide in the straw or any snug corner,
possibly even among the recumbent cattle; and, being there, their
ever busy exploring tongues discover a savour of milk, and the snake
is led by this intelligent tongue to the very fountain of their favourite
drop. The irritated cow would then naturally stir or kick, and
endeavour to shake off the strange intruder, who, in its turn alarmed
or angered, would bite the udder, and fetch blood. This, in the dark
ages of natural history, and during the period when the serpent was
invested with all manner of cruel and revolting wilfulness, would
suffice to give rise to the belief that has so long prevailed. The rat
snake (Ptyas mucosus) and the Clothonia of India are ‘said’ to suck
the teats of cows; so also are the ‘hoop snake’ and several other
American species, which, with their climbing propensities, may
sometimes twine themselves about the legs of cattle, and thus reach
the udders, where persons have discovered them. It is just possible
that the snakes may get the teat into their mouths, and advance
upon it, with the intention of swallowing it, not knowing that it was
only a teat, with a cow inconveniently attached to it, and not some
small and more manageable prey.
 Among the American milk-drinking snakes is Coluber eximius,
known as the ‘milk snake,’ one of the dairy frequenters, which is said
to seek milk with avidity. This snake is mentioned by De Kay,[21]
Emmons,[22] and Holbrooke,[23] who all describe it as being very
beautiful and ‘innocent’ (except in the eyes of the farmers’ wives). It
is of a pale, pearly white, sometimes tinged with pink, and with rich
chocolate spots on its back. The Racer, of egg-stealing notoriety, is
also a sad milk thief, and, like our own little ring snake, has been
known to retrace its way into dairies. Such depredations were more
frequent formerly when the snakes were more numerous. Of the
Racer, Lawson[24] says, ‘This Whipster haunts the Dairies of careless
Housewives, and never misses to skim the Milk clear of the Cream.’
The same love of warmth which takes the reptiles among cattle,
guides them into dwellings, particularly during the night; and in hot
countries where nursing-women of the poorer classes lie exposed,
snakes have been found upon their breasts, and absurd stories have
been told of their sucking the teats of women. In India, Australia,
and America, such stories are common.
After all, it does not seem surprising that snakes should like milk.
Being carnivorous by nature, they would at once detect an animal
flavour in the liquid by the agency of their sensitive tongue.
Now turning to India, we find that the love of snakes for milk is
mentioned by numerous writers on the manners and customs of the
Hindûs, as well as by travellers and naturalists. Balfour[25] tells us
‘when a snake discovers how to get at the eggs and milk in a larder,
no native will on any account kill it, because it is regarded as the
good genius of the house.’ And again, ‘that the cobra is fed with milk
in some of the temples where it is worshipped.’
Dr. Shortt of Madras keeps a man to attend to his cobras, and
finds they thrive excellently on sour milk, which is administered once
in ten or twelve days.[26] ‘Snakes feed on eggs and milk,’ says Sir J.
Fayrer.
When we read similar facts mentioned incidentally, and with no
especial object, we may give them credence even more than if a
prejudiced writer were endeavouring to prove such or such a thing.
For instance, during the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales to India,
the exhibition of snakes and snake-charming formed a not
unimportant item in the programme, and furnished many columns of
cobra performances and cobra traditions to the papers. More than
one of the journalists unintentionally corroborated what Balfour and
other writers tell us about the ‘good luck’ of having a cobra in the
chuppur of the hut, the fearlessness with which the children regard
their ‘uncle,’ as they call it, and their care in placing milk and eggs for
it each evening.
But I am reminded of a singular case which came to me through
a personal acquaintance from India who was present at the time.
Four officers sitting in a bungalow in India were deep in a game
of whist. Suddenly one of them, turning deadly pale, made signs that
no one should move or speak. In a hushed voice he exclaimed, ‘Keep
still, for God’s sake! I feel a cobra crawling about my legs!’ He knew
that timidity was one of the strongest characteristics of this snake,
and that if not disturbed or alarmed, it would in due time depart of
its own accord. All present were accustomed to the stealthy
intruders, and did not, happily, lose their presence of mind. They very
noiselessly bent down so as to take a survey beneath the table,
when, sure enough, there was the unwelcome visitor, a full-sized
cobra, twining and gliding about the legs of their hapless friend.
Literally death was at his feet! A movement, a noise, even an
agitated tremble might have been fatal.
Luckily one of the four was acquainted with the milk-loving habit
of the cobra, and rising from his seat with quiet and cautious
movements, not daring to hasten, yet dreading delay, he managed to
steal from the room, while he signed the rest to remain motionless.
Quickly he crept back with a saucer of milk in his hand, and still with
noiseless movements set the saucer under the table as close to the
terrible reptile as it was safe to venture.
That fearful strain on their nerves was happily of not long
duration, for presently they were relieved by seeing the creature
gradually untwine itself and go to the milk.
 Never before or since did that officer leap from his seat as he did
then, the moment he felt himself free from the coils of the cobra, and
read in the faces of his comrades that he was saved. Short thrift,
however, had Mr. Cobra, for sticks and whip-handles were freely
administered, even before the saucer was reached.
The enemy got rid of, the game was resumed; and it is worth the
while of those in India to bear this narrow escape in mind, and bring
milk to the rescue in case of similar danger.
That snakes drink, and occasionally drink milk, is sufficiently
established. Modern authorities now affirm it decidedly. Says Dr.
Günther in his great work, published by the Ray Society,[27] ‘All
snakes drink, and die when deprived of water.’ Dr. Edward Nicholson,
another of our practical ophiologists, speaking of one of his pet
snakes, a Tropidonotus, says ‘the offer of a drink of water will at once
gain its heart.’ In watching snakes drinking, he has frequently
counted one hundred gulps before the drinker is satisfied.[28] If
Anguis fragilis, the common blindworm, from its snake-like form, may
be cited here, I may mention one of my own, which, after being shut
up in a box for safety during my absence from home for some days,
drank for such a long while when first released from captivity, that I
was really tired of waiting to watch her. She almost immediately went
to a flower-pot saucer of water, with which she was familiar, and
which I placed near her. For some time I watched the tongue thrown
out and withdrawn, till I began to wonder how much longer she
would remain dipping that little bifid organ. I then began to count,
and she dipped it seventy-five times more, after drinking at least as
long as that previously. Then she moved away, and explored among
the books on the table, but soon returned to the saucer and dipped
her tongue again upwards of seventy times. How much more I
cannot affirm, as I could not remain any longer waiting for her, and
left her still drinking. (‘Lizzie,’ thus named from her lizard nature,
must claim a chapter to herself in this book, for she greatly
distinguished herself in lacertine doings.)
While puzzling over this drinking question, I find a favourite
author, P. H. Gosse, affirm, ‘Snakes drink by suction, not by lapping,’
and that ‘serpents are said to lap up fluids with their forked tongue,
which, however, seems to be ill suited to such an operation.’[29]
Then one naturally turns to the encyclopedias, where we grow
still more perplexed, for no two agree precisely on all points.
‘The use of the tongue in serpents is not exactly known.’[30] And
again, ‘It is believed that serpents never drink.’[31] It is true that the
compiler of the article Reptilia quotes Schlegel a good deal; but
unfortunately that is the very point on which Schlegel speaks
doubtfully. Nor do we presume to include the learned Schlegel as one
of the inaccurately informed individuals, though he does discredit the
milk-drinkers. Of him Dumeril thus writes, or of his work rather, which
he pronounced to be ‘le plus detaillé et le plus complet qui ait paru
jusqu’ici (1844), et auquel nous serons sans cesse obligé d’avoir
recours.’ Schlegel is also quoted by Cantor, 1841; by Dr. J. E. Gray,
1849; by Dr. A. Günther, 1864; and, in fact, by most scientific
ophiologists. Natural history is an ever-advancing science, more so,
perhaps, than any other. Linnæus and Cuvier were great in their day,
but their systems obtain no longer.
Unfortunately, a dozen book-makers and a thousand journalists
seek no farther than encyclopedias when they are ‘reading up’ a
subject; and not until too late, if at all, or after long searchings and a
realization of the importance of dates, do these wide spreaders of
information discover the error. Compilers of articles for encyclopedias
are always limited as to space, and often as to time; and life would
not be long enough to wade through Zoological Records covering fifty
years, or Annales des sciences naturelles which date from 1824 to
the present time. Only, the compilers of articles on the Reptilia should
surely have known of Mr. Bell’s Coluber natrix, and of the Paris
python, and of the Amphisbæna of the Zoological Gardens, all
ophidian celebrities in their day.
The mention of the Zoological Gardens reminds me of my promise
to conduct my readers thither as an agreeable change from the book-
shelves. Therefore, without further wearying them with the
conflicting statements of fifty writers, let us repair thither, and see
what Holland, the keeper, tells us about his thirsty snakes.
 First, we observe that most of the cages are furnished with a tank
or a pan of water, and this not for the watersnakes only. Many of the
others, also, are lying in their bath, coiled up in apparent enjoyment.
Questioning the intelligent keeper, he tells us that when fresh
ophidian inmates arrive, they almost invariably go to the water, and
though for a time they refuse food, they always drink. On several
occasions some have drunk so eagerly that the water has visibly sunk
in the tank. These were the larger snakes, of course. He does ‘not
believe they would live without water.’ He then tells us the story of
the Amphisbæna over again, the snake that lived for six months on
milk only, and which was chronicled in the zoological magazines of
the day, and has figured in books ever since.
Mr. Mann confirmed all these facts in his own ophidian pets, and
going to see these interesting individuals, we felt no doubt about it
when a saucer of water was in the way.
But I do feel inclined to doubt whether the use of the tongue in
‘lapping,’ as it has been called, is not rather to moisten that organ
than to quench the thirst. We shall see in the following chapter what
it does for its owner, and we shall see the necessity for this delicate
organ to be well lubricated. Both it and its sheath require to be
constantly moistened; how else could it glide in and out with that
wonderful activity? how in a dry and parched condition could it retain
its exceeding flexibility and delicacy of perception?
Unfortunately, the position of the tanks in the cages at the
London Zoological Gardens, and the stone ledge in front of them,
prevent the visitors from watching the actions of the snakes in the
water, either when swimming or drinking. Occasionally one of the
inmates of the larger cages may be seen in a pan of water, though
their motions are necessarily restricted there. One day, however, the
yellow Jamaica boa, when drinking from the pan, afforded an
excellent opportunity for observation. And he was a long time
imbibing. There was no perceptible action of the lips, which were
barely parted. The snake kept its mouth just below the level of the
water, and the only action or movement seen was at the back of the
head, or on each side of the neck, like a pulsation, as the water
passed down in short gulps. This is the ‘suction’ which writers
describe, a drawing in of the liquid; but the lips do not take part in
the act. When, therefore, we read that snakes drink both by lapping
and also by suction, we may surmise that the former is for the
benefit of the tongue, the latter of the body; and a large quantity of
liquid is often drawn in by this sort of suction, very distinct from
‘sucking,’ the reputed way of enjoying milk from the living fountain,
and a process impossible to creatures that have not soft lips and a
broad tongue. The Jamaica boa drew in those perceptible gulps for a
long time, then raised his head, and rested awhile, and presently
drank again, and this several times while we were watching. It was
what Dumeril described à la régalade.
Mr. Sam Lockwood of New Jersey, writing in the American
Naturalist, vol. ix. 1875, describes the pine snake drinking. ‘It lays its
head flat upon the water, letting the lower jaw just sink a little below
the surface, when with a very uniform movement the water is drawn
up into the mouth and passed into the throat. It is true drinking, like
that of a horse.’ One that he watched drank five minutes by the clock
without taking breath. Then it paused, looked about for three
minutes, and then drank again for five minutes more. ‘In all, it drank
a little over a gill. Previously it has been without water for four
weeks.’
In size this pine snake differs not much from the Jamaica boa
(Chilobothrus inornatus), that we watched at the Gardens, and the
manner and time were very similar. True, we did not time him by a
watch, nor could we tell exactly how much he drank, nor how long
previously he had been without drinking; but, at a guess, he could
not have been much less than five minutes without taking breath.
Anguis fragilis, that lapped seventy times, and stopped, and lapped
again, must also have been some minutes without breathing,
because hers was the most leisurely lapping I ever saw.
 CHAPTER V.

THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE.

PART I.—WHAT IT IS NOT.

G
OSSIP from the Zoological Gardens to confirm what has been so
often said, namely, that nine out of every ten of the visitors to
the Ophidarium will point to the tongue of a snake and exclaim,
‘Look at its sting!’ seems too trivial and too defiantly
challenging the credulity of my readers, to introduce here.
Nevertheless, that it is necessary emphatically to state not only that
the tongue of a snake is not its sting, but that a snake has no sting at
all, you will admit the very next time you go there. You will hear not
only the Monday, but the Sunday visitors—well dressed, and
apparently well educated persons—say to each other when watching
a snake, ‘That’s its sting!’ I must be permitted, therefore, to ‘gossip’ a
moment in confirmation.
One Friday, in April 1881, just before the time when the public
were excluded at feeding hours, we were watching the movements of
a pretty little harmless snake, the rapid quivering of whose tongue
denoted excitement of some kind. Probably it was anticipating the
frog in store for it, as this was feeding day. Its tongue was unusually
active, and was exserted to its extreme length, its motions being
almost invisible in their rapidity.
Two gentlemen drew near, and also stopped before this cage. One
of them, a tall, dark man, looked like a foreigner; but he was talking
pure English to his friend, and had been talking a good deal about the
snakes, as if he were familiar with their habits. ‘From the Tropics,’
observed my companion, sotto voce, and looking as if we might hear
something worth knowing from this large, loud-voiced visitor.
‘See that?’ he presently exclaimed to his friend. ‘Look there!’
‘That thing it keeps putting out of its mouth?’
‘Yes. That’s its sting. One touch of that, just one little touch, and
you’re a dead man. There’s no cure for it!’
No less than four different parties made similar remarks in our
hearing during our short visit to the reptile house that day, and these
not of the common crowd either.
First, two lads who looked as if they ought to have known better.
Next, a party of several persons, of whom the one more particularly
addressed when his friend informed him, ‘That’s the sting that it jerks
out so,’ replied, ‘Ah, but they extract it!’ Thirdly, a young gentleman
remarked to his lady companion, ‘See how it keeps darting out its
sting!’ to whom she ejaculated, ‘Oh, the fearful creature!’ Fourthly, the
tall man. And all this of poor little innocent Tropidonotus (our
common ring snake), with not even a fang to injure you!
Like many other of the zoological myths not yet extinct, this
‘stinging tongue’ has its origin in mystery. Long before a deadly
serpent was examined by an intelligent reasoner, and the nature of its
fatal stroke comprehended, the mysterious ‘dart’ was seen to play;
this, to the ignorant, being the only visible and possible instrument of
such fatality. But that the fable should still obtain is amazing. Even
some learned men of the present century, if they do not happen to
have included natural history in their studies, assist in disseminating
the error. Can they, however, be acquainted with classical writers?
Pliny, to whom many of the old-time errors in natural history have
been traced, must be acquitted as regards the poisonous tongue; for
though he speaks of the ‘sting’ of a serpent, I do not recall that he
once attributed the injury to the tongue. Aristotle, whose reputation
as a naturalist ranks far higher, distinctly and frequently speaks of the
bite, and the degrees of injury inflicted by the various kinds of
serpent bites. It is possible that some classical writers may have
supposed the tongue to be an instrument of death, as it is certain
that some of the sacred writers did. But our inherited faith in Bible
history has, until recently, checked all doubt and even inquiry. Now,
however, that a new version of Holy Writ has been deemed essential,
it is to be hoped that an efficient naturalist is included in the Council.
In justification of the above criticism I may be permitted to quote
just one of the many unquestioning writers. The author of the History
of Egypt, W. Holt Yates, M.R.C.P. of London, President of the Royal
Medical Society of Edinburgh, Physician to the General Dispensary,
etc., says in a footnote (vol. i. p. 322), ‘It is a mistake to suppose that
snakes hurt only with their teeth. Some have no teeth, but only hard
gums. Others only attack with their tongue—the same end is attained
in either case by the insertion of the poison.’
Now were you to ask that writer, as I have several times asked
persons who were under the same impression, ‘What reason have
you to suppose that the snake’s tongue is poisonous?’ he would very
likely reply, ‘Oh! well—it is venomous. I always thought so.’ Then,
reflectively, he might add, ‘Poisonous-tongued?—“whose tongue
outvenoms”—“with deadlier tongue than thine, thou serpent”’—or
some such familiar words, proving that his idea was poetical,
imaginative, and acquired he can scarcely explain how.
What very little he knew about snakes, then, was learned from
Shakspeare—we say Shakspeare, for what other author has been
read and re-read, and committed to memory, and quoted during the
last three centuries like the Bard of Avon? The bard, genius though he
was, and wide his field of information, was certainly not a naturalist.
Nor did he make any pretensions to be one. He was as unconscious
of the errors in natural history which he was handing down to
posterity, as he was unconscious of his own enduring fame; or that he
would be ‘the immortal bard’ three hundred years later, with every
probability of ever living in the human mind as such.
 His idea of the poisonous tongue of a snake was the prevalent one
of his day. It was an inherited prejudice, which he had never stopped
to question, any more than nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every
thousand of his readers have ever stopped to question the fact of an
adder’s tongue being poisonous, Shakspeare having affirmed that it is
so.
People do not read Shakspeare to learn natural history, you say.
True; but his poetry, his similes, take hold of the mind, fix themselves
in the memory, and take root; and an assertion, as in the case of the
gentle little ‘blindworm,’ takes very deep root, as it seems, and thrives
for three hundred years; or naturalists of the present day would not
feel called upon to explain that it is neither ‘blind,’ nor ‘deaf,’ nor
‘venomous.’
Still you reject the idea that Shakspeare through his immense and
universal popularity is responsible for a ridiculous error. Not
Shakspeare alone, then, or culpably so. But since the idea has
prevailed for thousands of years, even to the present time, and since
persons are more likely to quote Shakspeare on the subject than any
other author, let us glance at the literature of Shakspeare’s time, and
endeavour to account for his fixed impression as to a serpent’s
tongue being poisonous. Let us also try to recall from any one of the
writers of the same era, or those who wrote in English previously, any
single line on the present subject that has become so engrafted on
the mind, so incorporated with our education, as those, for example,
above quoted. There was a host of other play-writers in Shakspeare’s
time, but very few naturalists.
Poetry, plays, and Protestantism characterized the literature of the
period. But familiar to us by name as are his contemporaries, it will be
as easy to find one educated person who has read the whole of their
works, as it would be to find one educated person who has not read
Shakspeare.
There were travels and histories written, the great maritime
discoveries of the age giving birth to this new class of literature.
Hakluyt’s voyages were printed when Shakspeare was only twenty-
five years of age, and even if he read them he would not have
learned much about serpents there. Nor in Sir Walter Raleigh’s
histories either, which were written chiefly during his prison life, he
being liberated the same year that saw the death of Shakspeare,
1616.
Many other well-known authors will occur to the reader, to say
nothing of the writers of the previous eras, the great divines and
scholars who wrote in Latin, and the many English ballad-writers
more likely to be perused by ‘the Bard.’
As for natural history, it found no place on those shelves, for as a
science it did not as yet exist in England. Lord Bacon, Shakspeare’s
celebrated contemporary, did make some pretensions to be a
naturalist; but his Novum Organum was written in Latin, and we are
not led to believe that the poet enjoyed any very great educational
and classical advantages, having had
‘Small Latin and less Greek,’

according to his friend and eulogist, Ben Jonson.

And even if Shakspeare did read what was then the Book of the
period, Lord Bacon unfortunately fell into some of the popular errors,
or made very hazardous conjectures, so far as natural history was
understood; and of him Dr. Carpenter says, ‘So far from contributing
to our knowledge of natural history, he often gave additional force to
error by the weight of his authority.’
In recalling some lines from Shakspeare, the reader will find how
very familiar to the mind are the serpent similes. Some of them prove
that the poet was cognizant of a tooth being also a source of evil; but
it is evident that he thought the tongue was so also, especially the
tongue of the ‘blindworm.’
For a few out of the many in which Shakspeare’s plays abound,
vide Timon of Athens, Act iv. Scene 3: ‘The gilded newt and eyeless
venomed worm.’
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act iii. Scene 2. When Hermia thinks
that Demetrius has killed Lysander while sleeping, she scathingly
ejaculates: ‘O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder do so much?
An adder did it; for with deadlier tongue than thine, thou serpent,
never adder stung!’
In Cymbeline, Act iii. Scene 2, Pisanio says: ‘What false Italian, as
poisonous tongued as handed, hath prevailed on thy too ready
hearing?’ Again, in Scene 4 of the same Act, Pisanio would not hear
evil of his mistress, and cries: ‘No, ‘tis slander; whose edge is sharper
than the sword, whose tongue outvenoms all the worms.’
Henry VI., Act ii. Scene 2, Clifford says to the King: ‘Who ‘scapes
the lurking serpent’s mortal sting!’ Act iii. Scene 2: ‘Their touch
affrights me as a serpent’s sting.... What! art thou like the adder
waxen deaf? Be poisonous too!’
Much Ado about Nothing, Act v. Scene 1, Antonio says: ‘As I dare
take a serpent by the tongue.’
And in King John, Act ii. Scene 1, Randolph says to King Philip,
‘France, thou may’st hold a serpent by the tongue!’
Not snakes only, but toads, lizards, spiders, and other ‘creeping
things,’ were thought venomous in Shakspeare’s time.
Song in Midsummer Night’s Dream: ‘You spotted snakes, with
double tongue.’ Then, in appeal to the ‘serpents’ not to injure the
Fairy Queen: ‘Newts and blindworms, do no wrong.’
The nearest approach to a scientific work on natural history
written in English at that time was a curious volume published in
1608, in whose folio pages may be seen most astonishing ‘Serpentes,’
combinations of worms and feathered fowls, saurian, ophidian, and
batrachian, wonderfully adorned with horns, gills, wings, spear-
shaped or forked tongues, and arrow-shaped tails. The zoological
illustrations of that work give us some idea of what a snake was
supposed to be. Among them is one with a human head, and another
with a crown, because he is ‘the King of Serpentes for his Magnitude
or Greatnesse.’ There is also a ‘Dragon’ with horns, wings, scales,
claws, two rows of robust teeth, and an arrow-headed tongue.
Mingled fable and fancy with some few facts, these anomalies are
solemnly described as ‘The Naturall Historie of Serpentes,’ the said
serpents including bees, wasps, ‘frogges,’ toads, earthworms, lizards,
spiders, etc., and a ‘cockatrice.’
 The author, E. Topsell, addresses the ‘gentle and pious Reader’ on
the ‘publishing of this Treatise of Venomous Beasts,’ and more
particularly of ‘Serpentes, Divine, Morall, and Naturell, their Poyson
and Bitings, since the gentle and pious Reader will see how that the
Historie of Serpentes begineth at the Creation.’
Thus we see that the ideal snake was a
religious principle, carried out in illustrations and
architectural embellishments, where ‘that old
serpent the devil’ was depicted as a creature as
Fabulous tongues.
terrible as imagination could conceive it; and of
course with a highly-developed tongue in the form of a dart or a
spear, more or less alarming.
Far in advance of Topsell, and far in advance of England, were the
naturalists of Southern Europe. Gesner, professor of philosophy at
Zurich, published his Historia Animalium in 1551; and Aldrovanus,
professor of philosophy and physic at Bologna, wrote thirteen folio
volumes of natural history, four only of which were published during
his lifetime, and the rest after his death, which was in 1605. These
two authors, though out of date at the present day, have left their
names perpetuated in plants and animals examined by them.
As one of the objects of this work is to trace the origin of some of
the many errors that have obtained regarding the serpent race, and
to note the gradual enlightenment observable in successive writers, it
is a part of our duty to quote the Bible; and this we do with
reverence, emboldened by the fact that the present state of
knowledge has demanded a new translation to satisfy the intellect of
the age.
Shakspeare himself might have had the Bible devoutly in his mind
when he talked of the adder’s ‘sting.’
Among the many commentators and exponents of Holy Writ,
Cruden (A.D. 1794) says, ‘Some place the venom of the serpent in its
gall, others in its tongue, and others in its teeth.’ David seems to
place it in its tongue:—Ps. cxl. 3, ‘They have sharpened their tongues
like a serpent.’ So also Job, xx. 16, ‘The viper’s tongue shall slay him.’
 The sacred writers, however, quite understood that serpents did
bite as well as ‘sting.’ Solomon made the same distinction that is
observable in Shakspeare, ‘biteth like a serpent, stingeth like an
adder.’
In fact, the tongue of an adder, whether in allusion to ‘the worm
of the Nile,’ or to our own pretty little ‘deaf-adder,’ seems still to bear
the evil character which it has borne from time immemorial.
Superstition, prejudice, and ignorance are still rampant whenever
a snake is thought of. Inherited and educated antipathies regarding
them are still so strong that some persons will not even allow
themselves to unlearn their misconceptions; others by
misrepresentations do their best to prevent a true comprehension of
their habits from being better understood; and, again, there are those
who know better, and who are even engaged in instructing others by
their pen, but who fall into the habit of encouraging horror and
hatred, instead of reason, truth, and a tolerance towards a creature
wisely produced to fulfil its part and to perform its duties in the great
balance of organized beings.
Some journalists religiously keep up the delusion about the tongue
of a snake, by using a prejudicial prefix. From a pile of newspaper
cuttings and other printed matter relative to snakes, I transcribe a
few sentences at random, to illustrate what is meant:—‘Its horrid
forked tongue.’ ‘Its slithering tongue.’ ‘Its villanous poisonous tongue,’
etc. And if sensationalism seem to demand still more forcible
language, as, for instance, in describing an injury or an escape, our
journalist tells us of the ‘forked tongue darting defiance.’ ‘The wicked-
looking serpent tongue protruded with lightning-like swiftness.’ ‘To
see the reptile run its devilish tongue out at you.’ ‘Its horrid
lancinating tongue protruded,’ etc. These are only a few of such
sentences copied verbatim, but they are unfortunately too common,
even with the better-informed writers.
The idea of a snake being sufficiently intelligent, reasoning, and
reflective to deliberately ‘run its tongue out at you,’ as if conscious of
its own moral power and your moral weakness, is too ludicrous. If the
snake could truly inflict injury with those soft, flexible, delicate
filaments,—if it could, with one rapid touch, insert poison, as the tall
talker at the Zoological Gardens affirmed, the threatening quiver
could only be in friendly warning. Let the poor reptile at least be
thanked for that.
Our lamented friend, Frank Buckland, fell into the same error (or
inadvertency, since he quite understood that the tongue could do no
harm) when he wrote thus of the tongue in his Curiosities of Natural
History:—‘The tongue is generally protruded in order to intimidate the
bystanders;’ and, ‘The tongue acts as a sort of intimidation to its
aggressors;’ thus giving the snake the credit of a waggish sort of
intelligence, far more complimentary to the reptile than to the
bystander. In imagination we behold a solemn Convention of snakes,
held in ages long ago, and a resolution to this effect passed
unanimously:—‘Now these poor ignorant mortals think we can kill
them with our soft and tender tongues. Though so tall, and powerful,
and terrible to us, they look dreadfully frightened whenever we use
our tongues in our own service. Therefore, whenever any of these
two-legged creatures come near us, we will put out our tongues at
them, and frighten them off,’—a resolution which has answered
admirably well down to the present time. ‘Down to the present time’
is written and repeated in all seriousness.
Let me be pardoned for introducing a little more gossip here, as it
is the fashion to relate what is seen and heard at the Zoological
Gardens. And so much is related, and has been related, and even
printed, to mislead the public, that, in the earnest hope and aspiration
of assisting in correcting false impressions, I claim to repeat what was
heard as well as the rest. Besides, when persons talk as loudly as if
they were delivering a lecture, and apparently with the benevolent
intention of instructing the public generally, one feels justified in
quoting them.
Eight years ago, when first contemplating this work, and anxiously
seeking to ascertain precisely what could be learned, and what was
already understood about snakes, so far as the reptile house at the
Zoological Gardens was a means of instruction, I made very careful
notes of what I saw there, and occasionally of what I heard there.
 In the summer of 1874 some well-dressed children, accompanied
by their parents, were watching the pythons in the largest cage, when
one of the little ones asked, ‘Papa, what is that thing that the snake
keeps putting out of its mouth?’ ‘Oh, that is its poisonous sting,’
replied the father. The eldest girl (in her teens), with an affected
shudder, cried ‘Ugh!’ and a boy exclaimed, ‘I am glad it can’t put it
through the glass at us!’
August 3, 1877.—A gentleman, to all appearance well-bred and
intelligent, told his two boys, ‘That’s the sting,’ as they were watching
the play of a snake’s tongue in one of the cages. The boys looked
wonderingly at the terrible instrument, and were evidently anxious to
know more about it, and turned to ask their father. But he had passed
on, and was then calling to them to look at something else.
July 1880.—A lady, apparently the governess of two girls of about
twelve and fourteen, and of a boy of about eight, who were with her,
was conscientiously endeavouring to blend instruction with
amusement, and was telling them some strange and hitherto
unheard-of facts about the snakes; as, for instance, that the
rattlesnake was now going to ‘crush a guinea-pig by winding itself
round it;’ for it was feeding-day, and the keeper had just put poor
piggy into the cage. But the children got tired of waiting to see what
did not occur; the rattlesnake was merely investigating matters by
means of its useful tongue. ‘Now, watch it!’ cried the lady eagerly,
‘and you’ll see it lick the guinea-pig with its poisonous tongue.’
Neither was this feat performed by the Crotalus, and as the
children got tired of waiting, and were impatient to ‘see something
else,’ the party moved on.
But the reader will be weary of hearing what the tongue of a
snake is not, and be desirous of knowing what it is; and to this
purpose we will devote another chapter.
 CHAPTER VI.

THE TONGUE OF A SNAKE.

PART II.—WHAT IT IS.

I
F only by the law of compensation, another chapter must be
devoted to the innocent tongue of a snake. It has been an
object of hatred and aversion for untold ages, and the
misrepresentation of it, and the abuse of it, would fill many
chapters. Were it endowed with speech, and the words of St. James
applied to it,—‘the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity,’—no stronger
animosity could be displayed.
Happily, this animosity is by degrees dying away; but only by
degrees, as we have seen, some writers during the last twenty years
having been undergoing a sort of transition state with regard to the
use of the tongue, inasmuch as, while they have arrived at the
conviction that it does not ‘sting,’ they are not yet quite clear as to
what it does do. Some few have even clung to the lubrication theory.
Popular writers, to speak more correctly, not scientific ones. Still, it is
the popular writers who most influence the casual reader. To satisfy
a passing interest, we turn to these, to the books they quote, and
next to encyclopedias, and not to scientific text-books, where we are
beset by technicalities which are in themselves a study to be first
mastered. Otherwise, from scientific works a good deal might have
been learned long ago about this exceedingly wonderful organ, the
tongue of a snake.
It is evident, however, that a good many of our drawing-room
naturalists have not thought it necessary to first devote themselves
to the scientific study of a snake’s tongue before they ventured to
write about it; therefore they remained only partially enlightened. To
such an extent has the supposed ‘lubrication’ prevailed, that
ophiologists of the day have not thought it too trivial to speak of and
to refute. The same visitors to the Zoological Gardens who tell their
friends or children to look at the snake’s ‘sting,’ also wait to ‘see the
snake lick the rabbit all over before it begins to swallow it.’
Were a painter to set to work to paint a house, or a mason to
whitewash the ceiling, with a camel’s-hair pencil, it would not be a
more tedious and impossible process than that of a snake ‘licking all
over with its tongue’ the body of the animal it is about to devour.
Illustrations, in order to be as startling as possible, and to feed the
educated horror of snakes, often represent a boa or an anaconda
coiled round a bull or some other equally large and rough-coated
animal, which, as the writer informs us, ‘it was seen to lick all over
and cover with its mucus.’
Let the reader reflect a moment, and he will perceive what supply
of moisture this degree of lubrication would demand. Even were the
snake’s whole body furnished with salivary glands, and were it
provided with a broad, flat tongue to work with, what must the rate
of secretion be to enable the snake to go through such a task, and
to enable it to perform it in a period of time in which a spectator
(supposing he had sufficient powers of endurance) could stand by
and watch the process!
Snakes are, it is true, supplied very abundantly with a mucous
saliva. Describing the mode of swallowing, Dr. Günther says: ‘But for
the quantity of saliva discharged over the body of the prey,
deglutition would be slow.’ Slow in comparison with the feeding of
other animals it is, under any circumstances, and it would be
painfully tedious, almost impossible, for the unfortunate reptile to
feed at all, were its difficulties not relieved by this ‘abundant supply’
of saliva. But this is not saying that the tongue performs any office in
systematic lubrication. It simply means that the mouth of the hungry
snake ‘waters’ over its food, and waters far more freely than is the
usual case with other animals. We ourselves know something of this
stimulation of the salivary glands at the sight or smell of food when
we are hungry; but snakes are beneficently provided with the
salivary apparatus (described in the first chapter), and the mouth
waters over its prey, as much when the tongue is in its sheath as
when the tongue is engaged in its own peculiar and distinct
functions. What the spectator does see is this tongue fulfilling its
office of feeling, examining, exploring, investigating, ascertaining
whether the prey is thoroughly dead, and the best way of setting to
work on the great task of swallowing the huge, rough mass. All this
work the tongue does for its owner; and we shall, as I hope, see
before we have done with it, that so far from exciting our hatred and
disgust, there is perhaps no other feature or organ belonging to the
helpless snake so important to it, so worthy of our own observation
and admiration, as this much-abused tongue.
We have an admirable opportunity for study in our visits to the
Zoological Gardens, and there the lover of nature can decide for
himself. Hours and hours has one watched, and I admit (in the early
days of my studies) waited, to see this lubrication which, as the
books told me, was performed by the tongue. Often and often one
has heard visitors say to each other when they have seen the prey
about to be devoured, ‘Now we shall see, or you will see’ (as the
case might be) ‘the snake lick it all over before he swallows it.’
An observation to this effect was once made in our hearing while
I was on the point of asking the keeper if he had ever observed
anything of the kind, and was telling him how often it had been so
stated in print.
‘Snakes never did, and never will, lick their prey, ma’am,’ returned
Holland emphatically; ‘but I have seen the saliva flow, it is so
plentiful.’ And so have I, and so may you, patient reader, if you are
sufficiently interested in the subject. You will soon become convinced
that such a process as ‘licking’ is impossible, and you will soon
decide that if the reptile did this instinctively, its tongue would have
developed into something more like that of a cat, strong and rough
with tiny spines, or some organ better adapted to the performance
than a thin pencil or fork of tender flesh.
It is much to be regretted that a number of anecdotes which
describe this ‘lubrication’ have been retained and quoted over and
over again in books on snakes. Writers who are conscientiously
instructing us, and who are even telling us ‘snakes do not lick their
prey,’ quote the anecdotes which tell us that they do, and thus
appear to favour the assumed mistake.
Space will not permit of the numerous examples which might be
here introduced in proof of this. Nor is it necessary to name more
than two or three of these misleading anecdotes; the reader will at
once recognise them, for they appear everywhere.
First comes the M’Leod narrative, which has found favour with
popular writers for no less than sixty-three years! The first edition of
the Voyage of the Alceste, by Dr. M’Leod, the surgeon on board, was
published in London in 1817, a second edition in 1818, and a third
(so popular was the work) in 1819. His account of feeding the boa
constrictor was not the least popular part of the little book; for in
those days there were few who knew what to believe where a snake
was concerned. The account of a goat being swallowed fills several
pages, written in a style to exaggerate horrors, and apparently deny
to the reptile any right to obey nature’s laws. ‘The python fixed a
deadly and malignant eye on the goat:’ ... ‘first operation was to dart
out its forked tongue:’ ... ‘continued to grasp with its fangs:’ ...
‘began to prepare for swallowing:’ and ‘commenced by lubricating
with its saliva:’ ... ‘commission of this murder,’ etc.
Maunder, in his Treasury of Natural History, quotes this, having
previously stated (under the head Boa Constrictor): ‘The prey is then
prepared for being swallowed, which the creature accomplished by
pushing the limbs into the most convenient position, and then
covering the surface with a glutinous saliva.’ Though not positively
asserted that the tongue is the agent in this ‘covering,’ the reader
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