MONGOOS.
When we consider that the snakes have neither legs, wings, nor fins, and are indeed deprived of all the usual means of locomotion, the rapidity of their progress is not a little surprising. On examining the anatomical structure of their body, however, it will be remarked that while we have only twelve pairs of ribs united in front by the breast-bone and cartilage, the snake has often more than three hundred, unconnected in front, and consequently much more free in their motions, a faculty which is still further increased by the great mobility of the spondyli of the backbone. Between the ribs and the broad transverse scales or plates which exist on the belly of all such serpents as move rapidly, we find numerous muscles connecting them one with another, and thus, amply provided with a whole system of strong pulleys and points of attachment, the reptile, bringing up the tail towards the head, by bending the body into one or more curves, and then again resting upon the tail and extending the body, glides swiftly along, not only upon even ground, but even sometimes from branch to branch, as the smallest hold suffices for its stretching out its body at a foot’s length into the air, and thus reaching another sallying point for further progress.
The anatomy of the serpent’s jaws is no less remarkable than the mechanism of its movements. In spite of their proverbial wisdom, snakes would not be able to exist unless they were able to swallow large animal masses at a time. For, however rapid their motions may be, those of their prey are in general still more active, and thus they are obliged to wait in ambush till a fortunate chance provides them with a copious meal. The victim is often much more bulky than the serpent itself, but still, without tearing it to pieces, it is able to engulph it in its swelling maw. For the two halves of its lower jaw do not coalesce like ours into one solid mass, but are merely connected in front by a loose ligament, so that each part can be moved separately. The bones of the upper jaw and palate are also loosely attached or articulated one with the other, and thus the whole mouth is capable of great distension. By this mechanism, aided by the numerous sharp teeth, which are so many little hooks with the point curved backwards, each side of the jaws and mouth being able to act as it were independently of the other, alternately hooks itself fast to the morsel, or advances to fasten itself farther on in a similar manner, and thus the reptile draws itself over its prey, somewhat in the same way as we draw a stocking over our leg, after having first, by breaking the bones, fashioned it into a convenient mass, and rendered its passage more easy by lubricating it with its saliva. Slowly the huge lump disappears behind the jaws, descends lower and lower beneath the scales, which seem ready to burst asunder with distension, and then the satisfied monster coils himself up once more to digest his meal in quiet. The time required for this purpose varies of course according to the size of the morsel; but often weeks or even months will pass before a boa awakens from the lethargic repose in which—the image of disgusting gluttony—he lies plunged after a superabundant meal.
The reptiles in the Zoological Gardens are offered food once a week, but even then their appetites are frequently not yet awakened, though great care is taken never to spoil their stomachs by excess.
This is the time for visiting the Reptile House, which otherwise offers but little amusement, as the great snakes have either retired from public life under their blankets, or lie coiled upon the branches of the trees in their dens. Three o’clock is the feeding-time, and the reptiles, which are on the look-out, seem to know full well the errand of the man who enters with the basket, against the side of which they hear the fluttering wings of the feathered victims, and the short stamp of the doomed rabbits. The keeper opens the door at the back of the den of the huge pythons, for these he need not fear, takes off their blanket and drops a rabbit, who hops from side to side, curious to inspect his new habitation, and probably finding it to his taste, sits on his haunches and leisurely begins to wash his face. Silently the python glides over the stones, uncurling his huge folds, looks for an instant upon his unconscious victim, and the next has seized him with his jaws. His contracting folds are twisted as swiftly as a whiplash round his shrieking prey, and for ten minutes the serpent lies still, maintaining his mortal knot until his prey is dead, when seizing it by the ears, he draws it through his vice-like grip, crushing every bone, and elongating the body preparatory to devouring it.
The arrangement for feeding the venomous kinds, is, of course, more cautious. The door opens at the top instead of at the side of the dens, and with good reason; for no sooner does the keeper remove with a crooked iron rod, the blanket from the cobra, than the reptile springs with inflated hood into an S-like attitude and darts laterally at his prey, whose sides have scarcely been pierced, when it is seized with tetanic spasms, and lies convulsed in a few seconds.
These instantaneous effects, almost as rapid as those of a mortal shot or of lightning itself, might at first sight seem to warrant the conclusion that the genius of evil had formed the venomous serpents to be his chosen agents of destruction; but at a nearer view, they afford but another proof of the beneficence of the Creator in providing weak, sober, and by no means cruel creatures, with a weapon which makes up to them for the want of speed, and at the same times abridges the torments of their victims.
Though generally the objects of abhorrence and fear, yet serpents sometimes render themselves useful or agreeable to man. Thus the rat-snake of Ceylon (Coryphodon Blumenbachii), in consideration of its services in destroying vermin, is often kept as a household pet, and so domesticated by the natives as to feed at their table.
The agility of this serpent in seizing its nimble-footed prey is truly wonderful. One day Sir Emerson Tennent had an opportunity of surprising a coryphodon which had just seized on a rat, and of covering it suddenly with a glass shade, before it had time to swallow its prey. The serpent, which appeared stunned with its own capture, allowed the rat to escape from its jaws, which cowered at one side of the glass in an agony of terror. On removing the shade, the rat, recovering its spirits, instantly bounded towards the nearest fence, but quick as lightning it was followed by its pursuer, which seized it before it could gain the hedge, through which the snake glided with its victim in its jaws.