Snakes: Curiosities and Wonders of Serpent Life

by Catherine Cooper Hopley

Portion of slough of a rattlesnake (exact size).

Ventral scales of the same, and a section.

The whole cuticle or epidermis of a serpent is composed of these overlapping scales, of which the above illustrations are only fragments. Thus when we speak of their scales, we do not mean distinct and separable laminæ, like the scales of some fishes, each of which may be scraped or plucked off, and which overlie each other like the feathers of birds. The covering of a snake is one entire piece, loose-fitting, and so arranged as to lie in those scale-like folds which accommodate themselves to every movement of the body. The ventral or under scales are, in fact, a regular kilting, as may be seen by the section; and the upper ones correspond somewhat with what our lady friends call the shell or the leaf pattern in knitting work. The outer or exposed folds are stronger, thicker, and more hardened than the inner parts, just as the knitter ‘throws up’ her pattern with a coarser wool or larger needles, and knits the less conspicuous parts in a softer material. The naked space of thinner skin between these scales being very considerable, one can therefore easily understand how, when a snake would attempt to pass over a horse-hair rope, the sharp, prickly hairs, standing out chevaux-de-frise fashion, would insinuate themselves unpleasantly in those softer and more vulnerable interstices which become exposed by the sinuations of the body. Probably, if we knew it, or had an opportunity of observing, we should ascertain that snakes do not crawl over furze bushes, or thistles, or the prickly pear (opuntia), or any similar vegetation of tropical climates, and for the same reason. The close-scaled burrowing snakes, with their hard and strong cuirass all round them, might have nothing to fear from a furze bush; but this is mere speculation. That fine, sharp spines or prickles, and therefore a horse-hair rope, would incommode the tender intermediate epidermal folds of other snakes, we can well suppose. Had they sense enough to leap the obstacle, this they could easily do, after the manner of ‘leaping’ already described; but the ‘leap’ is only an instinctive action used in pursuit or escape; and it may be equally instinctive to turn aside from uncomfortable obstacles, whether prickly pears or horse-hair ropes.

Mr. Ruskin, in his highly-entertaining lecture on ‘Snakes,’ at the London Institution, March 1880 (a lecture which, by the way, was artistic, poetic, figurative, imaginative—‘Snakes’ from a Ruskin, but not a zoological, point of view), remarked ‘that no scientific book tells us why the reptile is a “serpent,” i.e. serpentine in its motions, and why it cannot go straight.’ Now, may not the fact that snakes have acquired these ever-varying sinuations arise from their sensitiveness to the slightest, and what would be to other creatures almost impalpable, obstructions in their path?—mere inequalities which in their lazy nature it is easier, they know not why, to circumvent than to surmount; because they can go straight, and do go straight when the way is plain.

Rymer Jones, in his Organization of the Animal Kingdom, thinks that their sense of touch from the nature of their integument must be extremely imperfect; they being ‘deprived of any limbs which can be regarded as tactile organs,’ p. 753. But close observation leads one to agree rather with a much older writer, Roget, who, in his Animal Physiology, intimates that the peculiar conformation of serpents must be exceedingly favourable to the acquisition of correct perceptions of touch, and that these perceptions which lead to a perfect acquaintance with the tangible properties of surrounding bodies must contribute much to the sagacity of snakes;—that their whole body is a hand, conferring some of the advantages of that instrument.

That this latter faculty is strictly and marvellously the case, we shall presently see, owing to the flexibility of the spine, and its capability of grasping and twining round objects of almost any shape, and of taking, as Roget says, ‘their exact measure.’ For this grasping power is not confined to the constricting snakes only. In all snakes a great flexibility is abundantly provided for in the construction of ‘these lithe and elegant beings,’ as Rymer Jones in unprejudiced language calls them (p. 724 of the book above quoted); ‘the spinal column admits the utmost pliancy of motion in any required direction.’

Though snakes have no limbs externally, ‘the work of hands, feet, and fins is performed by a modification of the vertebral column.’[64] ‘Except flying, there is no limit to their locomotion,’ said Professor Huxley in his lecture on ‘Snakes,’ a few weeks previously to that of Ruskin, and under the same roof. To both these lectures we shall again refer, as the reader will feel sure that all coming from such sources must add value to the present writer’s arguments.

As ‘flying,’ the swift motions of many snakes have been described by ancient writers, as, for example, the ‘flying serpents’ of Scripture, though these are by many supposed to be the Dracunculi, the earliest known of human parasites. The astonishing movements of serpents were, however, in superstitious ages ascribed to supernatural agency. Says Pliny: ‘The Jaculus darts from trees, flies through the air as if it were hurled from an engine.’ The ‘wisest of men’ admitted that the actions of serpents were beyond his comprehension; ‘the way of a serpent on a rock’ was ‘too wonderful’ for him.

Even in intermediate ages, when travellers and naturalists began to confront fiction with fact, even in the days of Buffon and Lacepède, a serpent was regarded as a living allegory rather than a zoological reality by many intelligent, albeit unscientific persons. Of such was Chateaubriand, whose contemplation of the serpent partook of religious awe. ‘Everything is mysterious, secret, astonishing in this incomprehensible reptile. His movements differ from those of all other animals. It is impossible to say where his locomotive principle lies, for he has neither fins, nor feet, nor wings; and yet he flits like a shadow, he vanishes as if by magic, he reappears, and is gone again like a light azure vapour on the gleams of a sabre in the dark. Now he curls himself into a circle, and projects a tongue of fire; now standing erect upon the extremity of his tail he moves as if by enchantment. He rolls himself into a ball, rises and falls like a spiral line, gives to his rings the undulations of a wave, twines round the branches of trees, glides under the grass of the meadow, or skims along the surface of the water,’ and so forth.[65]

Excepting the ‘tongue of fire,’ the whole of this poetic description is so far true and unexaggerated, that Chateaubriand has not attributed to the reptile one action of which it is not capable, and which, to the untutored mind, might well seem supernatural. Roget, Schlegel, Huxley, and others tell us the same things in the language of science. To quote them all is impossible; the reader will be content with one scientific assurance of ophidian capabilities, not less poetic than Chateaubriand’s.