The Strand Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 9/Wild Animal Training
Wild Animal Training.
HE taming of large large wild animals, and their training to jump through hoops and submit to similar ignominies, is a thing which everybody regards with some amount of interest. The triumph of human skill, courage, and will over the immense, lawless brute force which lies in the muscles and sinews of half a dozen full-grown tigers and lions is a fine thing to witness, and has the fascination which all fine things have.
The Romans, among a great many other things, were great animal tamers. But animal training among them never rose to large proportions until, ripe and rotten, the Empire was nearing its fall. Then the public became luxuriously blasé, and no longer cared to stare all day at a constant succession of bloody combats in the arena. They were no whit less barbarous in their tastes than their fathers, but they wanted variety and new sensations. Now an old Roman Emperor was always popular so long as he gave his people good shows in the arena, and nothing disrespectful was ever said of a sovereign who provided plenty of fights, of novel features, no matter what else he might do. So that when fights, and nothing but fights, began to wax dull, the people of Rome were treated to performances of trained wild beasts, and, it would seem, to very great performances. The profession of animal tamer became a large one, and of some consideration. Horoscopes exist which were cast in the third and fourth centuries of the Christian era in which prediction is made that the "native" shall become a trainer of tigers and elephants.
"An elephant that could write Greek."
The existence of tame lions and tigers was a circumstance which Roman extravagance soon took advantage of. Mark Antony rode about Rome in a chariot drawn by a pair of lions. Domitian had a lion that accompanied the hunt, and acted as a retriever—a lion that would gambol with hares, and allow the little animals to chase it. Martial wrote a poem in praise of this gentle lion; but an ungentle lion, who hadn't the same educational advantages, broke the front of the cage one day in the arena, and left the Emperor's pet dead. Berenice, Queen of Egypt, too, had a tame lion, which sat at table with her and licked her cheeks: let us hope Her Majesty liked it. But the ladies in those days preferred, as a rule, tame birds to lions; and Pliny tells us that a trained nightingale cost as much as a human slave. But when we read a little more, and find that Mucianus talks of an elephant that could write Greek, we feel a certain want of confidence in these ancients and their stories.
In our own times and in this country wild animal taming has been practised with very considerable success. In the second decade of the present century popular attention was directed to the matter by a performance of certain animals bred by one Atkins. These were hybrid cubs, the offspring of a lion and a tigress, and the exhibition of the happy family at Ducrow's circus was a very paying novelty. The trainer would lie in the cage between the lion and the tigress, while the cubs strolled about over him, and romped among themselves. Then the man would lie on the lion and the tigress on the man.
A little after this Wombwell announced a great attraction in a dog and lion fight. Such a thing would soon be interfered with legally nowadays, but then, although it made a great stir, nobody thought it particularly barbarous. The lion "Nero" was confronted by six bull-dogs. But Nero was apathetic and peaceful, and the dogs were very frightened, and the "fight" was a fiasco. Whereupon on another evening another lion, "Wallace," was produced, with six more bull-dogs. This time the lion was in a worse temper, and the dogs a little more aggressive; soon all the half-dozen were killed or maimed, and Wallace was stalking about the cage with the last in his mouth, just as a cat carries a rat. Wombwell's trainer at this time was "Manchester Jack," a great celebrity in his way, and a man of unusual daring.
Fiction.Fact.
No more lion and dog fights took place after "Wallace" had made the experiment so expensive in the matter of dogs, but various "combats" of a more or less bogus description were leading features for a long time in wild animal performances. A sensational "man and tiger fight" went about the country, and drew much money at fairs until it became whispered that the "tiger" was a big dog sewn up in a false skin.
"Macomo, the African Lion King" (who was really a black sailor engaged in an emergency), had a "lion-hunt" at Manders's menagerie, in which he chevied the animals around the cage. He was a bold man, and upon one occasion entered a cage in which two large strange tigers were fighting desperately, and although himself attacked and badly wounded, succeeded in beating them into submission with his whip.
It was in imitating Macomo's "lion-hunt" that his successor at Manders's, Macarthy—an Irishman who called himself Massarti—met his death. Unfortunately, it seems only too certain that Macarthy, in this, his last appearance, which was at Bolton, was not quite so sober as he should have been, and that, if he had been a little more sober, it might not have been his last appearance. Macarthy laboured under what would seem to be the fatal disadvantage of having only one arm; nevertheless, he had great command over his animals, although there seems little doubt that fear of his violence was at the bottom of their obedience, and that they took a signal vengeance at the first opportunity. He lost his arm in a tiger’s mouth, and the public believed that it was in course of his training operations. But those who were behind the scenes knew very well that when the accident occurred Macarthy had no business near the animals at all; being, in fact, the night watchman, and having surreptitiously introduced certain friends to the cages after the show was shut.
Crockett was another famous tamer. He had been one of Sanger's bandsmen, but took to lion-taming at Astley's. One night all the lions got loose and had a glorious celebration all to themselves in the theatre, wandering over the auditorium, and breaking whatever it seemed desirable to break, beside killing an unfortunate keeper. Crockett was sent for in all haste, came, and entered the theatre armed with—a switch! With this he coolly proceeded to drive all the animals back into their proper quarters, shut them all up, and went home again to bed without a scratch.
When the lion-king fever was at its height, it occurred to the proprietor of Hilton's menagerie that the next sensation ought to be a lion-queen, and accordingly his niece became the first. She was followed by others, but the taste for female performers received a check in 1850, when Miss Blight was killed by a tiger at Wombwell's. Nevertheless, among those whose depraved taste leads them to witness wild-beast performances merely to gloat over the tamer's danger, lion-queens have since been popular.
But among the famous lion-tamers of this century Van Amburgh and John Cooper hold the highest places. Van Amburgh was a Dutchman, with a fine, well-built figure, who came to London just before the beginning of the present reign. Sir Edwin Landseer (who was only Mr. Landseer at the time) painted a picture representing Van Amburgh in the midst of his animals, and this was exhibited at the Royal Academy. A better advertisement for the tamer could hardly be conceived, and soon Van Amburgh's performances became more fashionable than any animal performances before. The great Duke of Wellington once asked Van Amburgh if he had ever experienced a fear of his lions, to which the tamer answered that he never had, and, further, that if ever he did, or if he suspected that the animals had ceased to fear him, he would give up the business at once. Van Amburgh made a moderate fortune, and died peacefully in his bed, although more than one newspaper paragraph had reported his death by claws and teeth, at intervals during his professional career. But a premature obituary notice in a local paper short of copy is a sort of thing which a lion-tamer must expect now and again.
John Cooper, the lion-tamer.
Mr. John Cooper divides with Van Amburgh the honour of king of lion-kings—indeed one would be doing little injustice to the memory of the brave Dutchman in placing Cooper alone quite at the top of the tree, the Royal Academy picture being Van Amburgh's great claim to remembrance. Mr. Cooper has not been killed by his animals, of whom he has trained his thousands, neither has he died peacefully in his bed. He is alive and well at this moment, fifty-one years of age, although he scarcely looks it, and capable, one would imagine, of living quite fifty-one years more. We have had the advantage of some personal acquaintance with Mr. Cooper, and purpose to set forth some incidents of his extraordinary career, and some of his own opinions and impressions in the matter of his profession.
He is a man of about the middle height, stout and powerful of limb, kindly and intelligent of face, and, it may seem strangely, remarkably gentle and quiet of manner. He loves his animals, and although he has retired upon a competence, cannot rest inactive, and still, from time to time as the inclination seizes him, goes among the tigers and lions again—for amusement.
As may be assumed in the case of any person attaining such eminence in a particular calling, Mr. Cooper has an inborn genius and aptitude for his profession. From his very birth animals have been his passion, and he was promoted from white mice and rabbits to larger game at a very early age, actually becoming a lion-tamer at twelve! At ten years of age, having lost both parents, little John Cooper ran away from Birmingham, his native town, with Batty's Circus. Now one of the Battys was proprietor of a menagerie, and the lad's strong inclination towards everything to do with animals soon led to his being transferred to this service from the circus, and being apprenticed to the business of an animal showman.
"The little boy walked calmly up to the big lion."
The first occasion of the many on which he distinguished himself—after losing the top of a finger at the bars of a wolf-cage—took place when he was twelve. The show possessed an awkward piece of stock in the person of a very large and very savage lion. Nobody could approach this animal, and as he made a regular amusement of breaking through the sides and back of his cage, he was always secured by a strong collar and chain, which was let down through the roof. At Leeds, one day, he managed to get loose from this collar, and at once began high festival by breaking up first the fittings, and then the side of his residence. All the attendants stood helplessly by, unable to do anything. But young Cooper—who, of course, at his age, was never allowed in any cage, let alone this one—without a word to anybody, quietly went round behind, and was next seen inside the bars. The lookers-on were terrified, and Mrs. Batty fainted outright. But the little boy calmly walked up to the big lion, and fixed on his collar again, coming out unscratched. When Mr. Batty arrived upon the scene—he had been out on business—his first impulse was to spank his apprentice for foolhardiness, and this impulse he acted upon. But, on consideration, and when it became known that the lad really could handle the animals well and fearlessly, the proprietor's attitude changed, and at once all Batty's bills announced, in the most uproariously large letters possible, the appearance, nightly, of "John Cooper, aged 12, the youngest lion-tamer in the world."
With Batty's Mr. Cooper stayed till of age, and, after three years with Mrs. Edmonds's menagerie, began a long Continental career by accepting an offer of Herr Renz, a well-known German showman. For seventeen years he wandered about the Continent, with one menagerie and another, until he knew Europe all over as well as his native Birmingham. His reputation on the Continent was, and still is, immense—indeed, perhaps greater than that in his own country. In the first place, the best part of his professional life has been spent in Continental countries, and in the second, wild beast performances, for some unexplained reason or another, are, and always have been, more popular in those countries than in England. The English lion-tamer was everywhere treated like a prince, and in the course of his travels made the personal acquaintance of all the "crowned heads"—in a much more intimate sense than falls to the lot of most showmen. Victor Emmanuel struck up quite a personal friendship with Cooper, and the tamer always speaks of that fine old King with the very highest admiration and respect. The King was a great lover of animals, and had a very fine private collection of his own. Cooper's animals were generally his own property, and, a fine litter of lion cubs being born while he was showing at Florence, he presented the newcomers to the King, who was delighted at the acquisition, and invited Mr. Cooper to inspect his own collection. These animals were of course in a perfectly wild state; and when the tamer expressed his willingness to go among them at once, and, if he pleased, perform with them, the King's astonishment was great. Go among them, however, Cooper did, and handled them as they had never been handled before. At the conclusion of the performance, the King shook the tamer most heartily by the hand, and having heard that he was a smoker, presented him with a handsome pipe from his own mouth. This pipe is now Mr. Cooper's most treasured possession. After this he became quite an honoured visitor at the Royal palaces.
"Victor Emmanuel presented him with a handsome pipe from his own mouth."
Not long after his departure from Florence, while working northward, the tamer experienced a run of ill-luck in the loss by death, in quick succession, of several of his most valued lions, and this loss was repaired, as soon as it came to the ears of Victor Emmanuel, by a present of four of the finest and largest lions from the King's collection. Nor did Victor Emmanuel's generosity end here: camels, a bear, and two elephants following as occasional presents in after years. These proofs of the regard of il Re Galantuomo Mr. Cooper values higher than any that he has received, although they are not the only Royal gifts which came to his share. Among other things, there is a very splendid gold lion in the form of a brooch, studded with diamonds, the present, accompanied by an autograph letter, of the Queen of Holland. The old German Emperor William took great personal interest in the performances at Berlin, and witnessed them again and again, as also did Prince Bismarck.
At the time of the Court performances at St. Petersburg, which were especially encouraged by the present Czar, then the Czarewitch, an awkward accident occurred. The performance had been given, and Cooper had shut the cages and retired, when an officer of high rank, a member of the suite of the Czarewitch, approached the cage, and induced the attendant—with something from his pocket—to let him slip aside the shutters. His silly vanity, however, quickly met its reward, for no sooner had he come within sufficient distance of the bars than a lioness reached forth her paw, and so mauled and tore his arm that it had to be amputated. In such a country as Russia an accident of this sort was like to prove an unpleasant thing for the innocent tamer, and, while an inquiry was being held, Cooper had to leave the province. The wounded officer, however, was so obviously to blame for his own misfortune, that the matter was soon cleared up; and a very severe Royal rebuke was administered him, after which the tamer carried on his performances as usual. The officer was some years afterwards sent to Siberia, being found to be connected with a Nihilist organisation.
In England, while performing at the Crystal Palace, Mr. Cooper became acquainted with the late Prince Imperial, who was completely fascinated by the wonderful command the tamer exhibited over animals which no other man dare approach, and who badly wanted to be allowed to enter the cage himself. "I wouldn't allow you to go into that cage, sir," said Cooper, "for all France itself!"
The lions whose claws ended the career of Macarthy at Bolton afterwards killed another trainer, named Lucas, in Paris. They had been bought by an Englishman, a banker in Madrid, who financed and ran a menagerie. Lucas was the trainer, and this unfortunate man was mauled to death while showing in Paris. It is characteristic of the man that, never having seen these dangerous animals before, Mr. John Cooper put them through a long and severe performance a day or two after Lucas's death, on the occasion of a benefit arranged for the dead man's widow and family. Cooper's opinion is that poor Lucas never had the animals fully under control—at all events never acquired that complete mastery of them which a lion-tamer must have.
It must not be supposed that Mr. Cooper has come through all these years of daily and hourly peril unscathed; and it is instructive to observe that even in so exceptional a case as his, where animals seem to have no will but that of their master, numberless claws and teeth have left their marks on the trainer's body from head to foot. His hands alone are an index to his profession—here a scar and there a scar, there a finger bitten short, and here a nail gone. The third finger of his left hand is shortened by half the top joint, and the nail grows, not up from the back of the finger as usual, but over the top, and, if allowed to keep growing, lengthens down in front of the finger, towards the palm. This mishap occurred in practice one morning in Italy, with a lion who had an especial distaste to having his mouth opened to admit the head of Mr. Cooper. The trainer took a jaw in each hand to "persuade" them open, when the lion, with no vicious intent, finding his teeth an inch or so apart, snapped them together again, with the finger between them. Felis leo was surprised and disgusted, perhaps pained, at the disaster, and promptly spat the finger-end out, while blood flowed freely from the shortened digit over his face till he turned his head from under it. Several medical students had been admitted to watch the practice, and they promptly cauterised the wound with a hot iron, and the day's business proceeded as usual. Cooper only mentions this incident as contradicting the notion often expressed that the taste of blood infuriates an animal and rouses his passion for more. As an accident, among so many others, it is scarcely worth speaking of—in the trainer's opinion.
His most serious mishap occurred at Brussels, while Myers's Circus was performing there. It was winter, and Cooper's lions were dying fast from the effects of the severe weather. On the day of the accident two new lions, perfectly wild, had arrived from Hamburg. Now, it was always one of Cooper's boasts that all his training went on openly before the eyes of the public, and that he could go among untrained animals equally well before the public or in private. So the new beasts were turned in among the others in the evening, and Cooper went into the cage. The theatre was full to overflowing, and the audience certainly witnessed a sensational performance. Scarcely had the tamer entered, than one of the new lions and one of the old ones began a desperate fight. Cooper took his whip and started to quell the disturbance. In striking at the old lion, however, he managed to give the new one a smart cut, and the savage beast immediately flew upon him, and, planting its claws on his left shoulder, tore down all the flesh from the shoulder and breast. Raising his right arm to drive the lion off, the hand and arm were seized by the brute's teeth, and the bone laid bare from elbow to wrist. The other animals, as of course is their wont, were not slow to take advantage of the position of affairs, and soon the tamer's leg was bitten through and other injuries inflicted. It seems scarcely credible that during all this the man never for an instant lost his presence of mind, and, with all his fearful injuries, continued to whip the brutes into subjection, and actually succeeded in doing so, before making good his exit from the cage.
From this terrible adventure some idea may possibly be gained, not only of Cooper's extraordinary courage and coolness, but also of his immense bodily strength and vitality—lion-like in itself. All hope of saving the injured arm was at first given up—indeed, the mutilations might have killed a weaker man—but an eminent surgeon from Paris was called in, and in three months from his lively evening's work in Brussels, John Cooper was actually in the cage again, performing as well as ever. The lion which first attacked him, he is fond of relating, by way of vindication of the brute's disposition, turned out afterwards one of the most intelligent and faithful animals he had ever had to do with, if not quite the most so.
First steps in training.
Ask Mr. Cooper to tell you all about the "taming secrets" which have been talked of from time to time, and he will smile pleasantly. The only secrets he ever had, he will say, are confidence, coolness, and common sense. Many trainers make first acquaintance with an animal by approaching it from outside the bars and feeding it. Mr. Cooper simply walks into the cage at once. Animals are of all sorts and varieties of temper and disposition, just as human beings are. As a rule, lions are more trustworthy and even-tempered than tigers, or such things as hyenas; but then there are ill-tempered lions and good-tempered tigers. Again, every good-tempered animal has its fits of ill-temper, and the ill-tempered beasts are sometimes in a good humour. Now this, of course, makes the taming and handling of the animals a more uncertain and dangerous thing than ever, and it is here that the genius of a man like Mr. Cooper shows itself. For there is not an animal which you might put before him, whether a stranger or an old friend, that he cannot label, classify, and tell you all about at a glance. He will say at once: "This lion is a good-tempered fellow, but he is in a bad humour just for a time," or, "That tiger is a dangerous beast, but quite safe just at present." He is a sort of animal physiognomist, and knows what passes through a brute's brain almost as well as the brute itself. He seems to know what an animal will allow and what it will object to, by instinct. Most lions like stroking and fondling, as does an ordinary cat; but then some do not. Each animal has its natural aptitude, or the reverse, for particular tricks, and part of the trainer's art is to discover these peculiarities and keep each animal in its own "line." Going among strange, untrained animals for the first time, Mr. Cooper, after friendly overtures, stroking, fondling, and so forth, will set them running about, leaping, and playing, as the fancy may strike them. With unfailing discrimination he thus judges each creature's proper "line," and encourages its efforts in that direction; this lion is kept going at leaping, that tiger at rearing upon its hind legs and placing its paws on the tamer's shoulders, and so forth.
Whatever may be said to the contrary, there is no shadow of doubt that the tamer who is master of his profession, rules his charge by fear, but—and this is an immense "but," worthy of very large capitals—it is not the sort of fear which is engendered by brutal whipping and driving. When a man first calmly enters a cage of wild animals they have an instinctive fear of him, and one main object of the trainer's art is to keep alive this wholesome feeling through all his dealings with them. But the influence which this fear gives him must be exercised rather through the medium of dignified threat than actual violence. A cut of the whip is a necessary thing on proper occasion, but it needs a forbearing discrimination to tell when the proper occasion arrives. The whip-cut loses its terror if it becomes an every-minute affair. Of course it must be remembered that with a wise trainer, who loves his animals, the animals soon learn to return the affection, and this gives colour to the "all done by kindness" theory. It is all done by kindness—of a wise and severe sort. For it must be remembered that with all their affection the brutes still remain dangerous and treacherous in their nature, and variable in their moods. Their love is to a large extent a love born of fear, but that there is real affection in it is doubtless. If Mr. Cooper visits a menagerie nowadays where any of his old animals are exhibited, they will crowd toward the bars of their cages with every expression of recognition and welcome.
His performances have always been of the "quiet and superior" order—really a more difficult thing than the showy, sensational, tear-and-fury sort of thing which goes down with many vulgar sightseers. It has been a maxim with trainers who favour the latter sort of performance that the man should never take his eyes from the animals, and should avoid any position but the erect, as involving an almost certain attack, and for ordinary trainers the rule is doubtless a good one. But Cooper, in his perfect control of his charge, was able to disregard it most completely. He would lie at full length in the middle of a cage containing seven lions, and close his eyes as if asleep, whereupon his great lion "Victor Emmanuel," without any word of command, would walk up to his master, and, gently lifting his head with a paw, would lie down beneath it, so as to form a soft pillow. Cooper would then, still as if asleep, move his hand within reach of the lion's mouth, and the faithful brute would continue licking it until the tamer arose. Now this was a quiet, unostentatious performance compared with the sham "lion-hunts," and "terrible struggles with a tiger" which one is familiar with, but, as an exhibition of perfect training and confidence in its result, it beats them all.
Another secret of Mr. Cooper's success is, perhaps, that he is almost a teetotaler, never drinking anything stronger than light dinner wine. He has a strong opinion, which he often expresses, that nearly all the fatal accidents to performers with wild animals have been due to intemperance, often combined with, or leading to, brutality. Again and again men have entered cages in a muddled condition, lashed about recklessly among the animals, until a slight slip or stagger has been the signal for a fearful death. The deaths of John Carter and Macarthy may not unjustly be cited as cases in point.
One thing—in itself requiring perfect sobriety—is very essential in all performances in which lions, and tigers, and leopards leap about in proximity to the tamer, and that is that the man must remain perfectly still. A movement of an inch may cause an animal to miscalculate its jump, and, brushing roughly against the tamer, knock him down. Then he is as good as done for—the whole cage full will tear him. The mere running to and fro of the great clawed beasts across the prostrate body will tear life from a man in almost no time. Cooper often taught a leopard to jump from a shelf to his head and shoulders and back again. The slightest movement or "give" to the weight of the animal would, of course, have called out the long claws to save a fall, with a result that may be easily imagined. At times, in leaping past, an animal will make a dab, half playful, half vicious, or perhaps even all playful, with its claw at the tamer. A young lioness did this two or three years ago to Mr. Cooper, and laid his left arm bare of flesh for nearly a foot. This was after the tamer's nominal retirement, at a performance—in France—such as he gives now and again, because he likes it. It was only a single tap of this kind from a tiger which killed poor Miss Blight, at Chatham, and the wound which caused her death was only a scratch; but that scratch was in the neck, and severed the jugular vein.
"He dances to music."
Mr. Cooper has tamed and trained not very many under two thousand animals of the feline tribe alone. In elephants his experience has been large. He was the first tamer to give a performance with a whole troop of elephants at once. Nobody had ever performed with more than two elephants before, and this even was generally considered one too many. So that when Cooper clubbed with Mr. Myers and bought six, with the intention of training them to perform altogether, other experienced tamers laughed at the idea. Nevertheless, in six weeks the performance took place with perfect success. The training of an elephant is a thing involving heavy manual labour—it is no light task to push and haul an elephant about till he dances to music or rides a tricycle. And then, although when properly used the animals become, as a rule, very tractable, it impossible to predict when an elephant may take a fit of savagery; when he does, with his enormous stamping feet, his active trunk and his sharp tusks, he is a very unpleasant companion. One of the Wombwells was killed at Coventry by an elephant's tusk, just a year before Miss Blight's death at Chatham. Mr. Cooper's favourite elephant was "Blind Billy," the largest beast ever tamed, and, though totally blind, the cleverest in the troop of eight with which, in 1876, Mr. Cooper used to perform. Billy would pick Mr. Cooper up by the waist and place him astride his forehead and the root of his trunk; he would also stand patiently still while his master's entire head and shoulders were inserted in his mouth, and when not busy himself was useful in keeping the others in order. The extraordinary gambols of these others—dancing on their forelegs with their hind feet in the air, walking on rolling barrels, and so forth, had to be seen to be properly appreciated. Green stuff is, of course, an elephant's chief food, and that is measured to him by the hundredweight. Still, an elephant is never particular. In 1876, during the Crystal Palace performances, one of Mr. Cooper's grooms missed a suit of clothes, a pocketful of small change, an ounce of tobacco, and a cigar-holder. He complained of the theft, and mentioned his suspicions of more than one person. It was discovered, however, that the big elephant Betsy, rummaging about one day in search of a snack, had swallowed the lot.
"Betsy swallowed the lot."
A great deal of interest is often taken by the public in the money values of wild beasts, and consequently figures are often published for the public information. But these figures never represent a fixed value. An animal may cost £100 one week and £500 the next. The reason is that they are not things for which the sale is at all regular, and a little rise in demand causes an immediate leap in prices. Of course a trained animal is much more valuable than a wild one. Mr. Cooper has bought £800 worth of elephants, fairly young, trained them, and sold them for £12,000. At times, however, with no demand, an animal becomes such a "drug in the market" that, trained, it will fetch even less than the high price paid for it wild. Hagenbeck, of Hamburg, is one of the greatest dealers in wild animals, and also owns various travelling menageries. The recent show of animals at the Crystal Palace under Herr Mehrmann is his, and a very interesting show it is, although the animals are all very young. Jamrach, of London, and Cross, of Liverpool, are names familiar to everyone.
Through all his training, Mr. Cooper has never forgotten that the example of one animal is a good thing for another, and takes care that, as far as possible, his pets teach each other. It is a very usual thing to bring up a lion or tiger with a boarhound, and the affection which springs up between the pair is often marvellous. A tiger and a boarhound which Mr. Cooper possessed lived together in great amity until the boarhound died, whereat the tiger moped and was inconsolable. Another boarhound was not procurable at the moment, so a great sheep dog was found and placed in an adjoining cage, with bars between, for a day or two. The tiger took no notice. But when, by way of carrying the acquaintanceship a little further, the bars were withdrawn, the bereaved tiger sprang forward and killed the new dog with a blow of his paw.
Mr. Cooper has been "retiring" since 1883, but hasn't quite succeeded in tearing himself away from the animals yet. With his own beasts he never performed for less than £50 a week, his usual fee being much higher, £50 and more a night often being paid him for starring engagements. But Mr. Cooper is a man of a thousand, and we trust that the printing of these figures will not persuade many ambitious people to invest all their capital in elephants and tigers. A menagerie is an expensive thing to keep up, the animals die off, and fresh accessions of strength are always being wanted.
When Mr. Cooper will finally shut himself in his pleasant house at Smethwick, and leave his tigers for ever, it is impossible to say. But it will be long ere the British public will have the opportunity of seeing such another master of the brute creation. Even Mr. Cooper, however, has his weak points, and there is one animal which he has never tamed, or attempted to tame, common as the experiment is. Mr. Cooper has never been married.
Lion and tiger taming is not always so difficult a thing now as it was in Mr. Cooper's earlier days, and in those of Van Amburgh, John Carter, and Macomo. The animals are often bred from those already in captivity, and what with this and the continual breeding in and in of tame stock, they are almost born tame, besides which the training begins in the cub-period. Indeed, many widely advertised shows are now entirely carried through with very young animals. Still the game is often risky enough, and new, large animals are being continually imported. Let us trust that no unfortunate John Carter or Ellen Blight is marked in the book of destiny to die under their claws.
