I was visiting the Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park, one day in the summer of 1898, and was so struck with the look of yearning in the eyes of one of the lions, the desperate look of yearning to have just five minutes’ gambol on the sunny lawn outside, five minutes in which to stretch its poor, cramped-up limbs, and sniff, perhaps for the first time, the fine fresh air of freedom, that I could not refrain from mentioning what was passing in my mind to a white-haired old man and a plainly dressed young woman, who were standing near.
“Yes, sir,” the old man said. “It does seem hard on these huge animals to be confined within the limits of such a very small space and to have to pace up and down these little boxes, tantalised by the sight of other creatures enjoying the privileges that are denied to them. It is worse treatment than any meted out to criminals; in fact, the biggest ruffian in jail does not suffer in anything like the same degree as these animals. They have one thing to be thankful for, however—life cannot last for ever. Death will be their kindest friend. It is the rich man’s purgatory, but it is Paradise for all these creatures as well as for the poor man.”
“You believe in another world, then?” I remarked.
“Believe in another world?” he answered sharply, “why, of course I do. I have seen far too much of it to do otherwise, haven’t I, Minnie?”
“Yes, Grandad,” the girl said simply.
“We both have, Minnie and I,” the old man went on.
“Spirits?” I enquired.
“Yes, spirits. Ghosts, if you like,” he said.
“Tell me. I’m not one of the scoffers,” I pleaded.
He looked at me searchingly, and then said: “I used to be a keeper here many years ago. I was devoted to the animals, and when they died, I invariably saw their ghosts. So did some of the other keepers. Now don’t run away with the idea that the Gardens are haunted, sir. As far as I know, they are not. It was only to us who had so much to do with them when they were alive that the spirits of these animals appeared. I remember one instance in particular, about twelve years ago, just before I left the Zoo. A young lion came here from East Africa. It wouldn’t let any of the keepers go near it excepting myself, and it was generally regarded as having a very uncertain temper. But I never found it so. I knew that the reason of its restlessness was its hatred of confinement. I knew it hated its cage, and I used to do all I could to comfort it. There was a sort of mutual understanding between us. When it saw me looking a bit anxious and worried, for my wife was often ill, it used to come and rub its great head against me, as if to cheer me up, and when I saw it looking more than usually dejected, I used to stop and talk to it for a longer time than I talked to any one of the other animals. Well, one day it fell ill, caught a chill, so we thought, and evinced a strong dislike to its food. I discussed its case with the other keepers, and they agreed there was nothing to be alarmed about, as it was young and to all appearances healthy. We all thought it would be well again in a few days. I had gone home as usual one night, and was sitting in the kitchen reading the evening paper, when something came over me that I must go for a walk. I told Minnie, who was a little girl then, not more than nine or ten years of age, and she begged her mother to let her go with me. We started off with the intention of going to the Caledonian Road, as Minnie liked looking at the shops there, but we hadn’t gone far before Minnie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Grandad, let’s go to Regent’s Park.’ ‘Regent’s Park,’ I ejaculated; ‘whatever do you want to go there for at this time of night!’ ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but I feel I must.’ ‘Well now,’ I replied, ‘that’s odd, because the very same feeling has come over me.’