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.