His fertility of resources, his art and finesse,
how inimitable! His natural odour, how
exceeding all the gales of Araby the Blest!

Lord Bumbleby. That's very true.

The Fox thought it his duty, then, both to
his respected client, and to himself, to draw
this parallel, as it would place before the wise
and consistent British public the picture of
themselves crowding and trampling over each
other, after waiting half an hour outside a
closed door—in order to obtain admission to
an inner room, where they might behold—a
Fox!

[The Fox here made a profound bow to the
Court.]

Lord Bumbleby. But you are forgetting
your respected client.

The Fox begged to remind the noble and
learned Lord, that all he had said of himself
was merely in illustration of his client's case.
It must be evident to everybody that the in-
ference he would draw was this: if such
would be the fact of estimation, in an imaginary
case of rarity, such as his own, how much
more ought it to obtain when there was an
actual rarity in the case, such as his client!
A Tortoise of such a size—weighing five or
six hundredweight—and of the age of one
hundred and seventy-nine years, was surely
as great a rarity as the young Abyssinian
water-pig, whom, in deference to his Lordship,
he was ready to call the Hippopotamus.

With these words the Fox bowed all round,
and retired behind Mr. Foot, who chanced to
be seated near the side to which he had so
gracefully bowed himself.

Professor Owen here rose, and requested
his Lordship's permission to offer an observation.
He would be one of the last to interrupt
so important and interesting a
discussion; all he wished was that a right
understanding should exist in the minds of
the complainants with respect to their young
associate, who was the innocent cause of the
recent disturbance in the Gardens. He would
remind his quadrupedial friends—in short
his friends of any number of legs—that the
Hippopotamus had not presumptuously put
himself forward, or employed any means, open
or sinister, for obtaining public favour. Of
him, as of some other illustrious personages,
it might be truly said that he had not "sought
for honours," but that "honours had been
thrust upon him."

A gruff Voice. By whom?

Lord Bumbleby. Let the speaker come
forward.

The Black Bear, from the Bear's-pit, now
advanced on his hind-legs, and standing in
that bolt-upright attitude in which he excels
all other bears, remained steadily in this
position, to the great applause of the Court.

Lord Bumbleby. Order! Mr. Mitchell,
be so good as to repress this unseemly
demonstration. (To the Bear.) You asked by
whom had honours been thrust upon the
Hippopotamus?

The Bear said, that, if particular examples
were desired, he considered Lord Bumbleby
himself, and Professor Owen, had done this.
The Professor had led the way by his learned
account of the swimming swine; and his
Lordship had paid him a friendly visit the
very first morning after he arrived. Even in
his Lordship's last remark the feeling of
favouritism was manifested.

Lord Bumbleby. How do you show this?

The Bear said it was obvious. When he, the
Bear, "appeared"—as astronomers say of a
planet, and as actors say of themselves—when
he "appeared," and the Court greeted him with
a round of applause, his Lordship instantly
suppressed it as an unseemly demonstration!
Why was it unseemly? Simply because he
was a Bear, and not a water-pig. This bad
feeling towards the species he objected to, on
the part of his friends in the Pit, and no less
of his next door neighbour the Polar Bear, as
an injustice on the one side (giving his left
side a scraping scratch with one paw), and an
indignity—he did not care if he called it by
a stronger term—an exasperation, on the
other.

[The Bear here administered a good scrape
to his other side; dropped on all-
fours; and retired with an angry
look behind him.]

Professor Owen said he could not allow the
accusation of the last speaker to pass without
a word of reply. He had paid no attention
to the Hippopotamus that he was not ready
to pay to any other new-comer of importance.
As to leading the way to public admiration,
it was his duty to lead the way in scientific
description;—but as to the amount of interest
and admiration, that was entirely a matter of
public taste. He had bestowed the same
pains on many other creatures. And always
should do so. He had no favourites. He
beheld them all with equal eye, as creatures of
the same wonderful round of living things that
constantly appear on the earth's surface. He
even took the same interest in them when
dead, as when living. He had once nearly
lost his life in dissecting a celebrated
Elephant. Only a few months ago, when the
elder Rhinoceros died, he attended regularly
for a fortnight at his dissection in an open
shed in a windy season, standing in mud and
crimson slush, several hours daily. If his
elaborate account of this did not excite the
same interest as what he had said of the
Hippopotamus, it was simply because the latter
was more suited to the public taste. It was
not the Professor's fault. He endeavoured
to lead that taste on all subjects of natural
history. If the public followed, he rejoiced; if
not, he had learnt to be patient. He had never
pandered to a bad or idle taste of the public,
or he might have made himself excessively
popular. Only a short time ago the public
were mad to have a sea-serpent; but he had
refused to help them to one, and had directly
opposed himself to the popular feeling. He