The journey from far-off lands
A Victorian bird under glass often looks as if, in its perfection, it has never been anywhere, as it sits on its branch in a London shop window or in a Scottish drawing room, but of course many of the birds, animals, and shells that ended up in Victorian homes began their lives in a forest or on a shore thousands of miles away, and the journey of these treasures being sent back to Britain by sea and land was always slow and risky, with many people involved along the way.
Initially, hunters, local guides, sailors, and paid collectors found and killed the animals and birds to order. They were the anonymous people in the chain.
Alfred Russel Wallace
Wallace is remembered as the great collector of the Malay Archipelago, but he did not work alone. Between 1854 and 1862, he gathered 125,660 specimens, mostly insects. Over thirty men worked for him as full-time, paid collectors, and more than a hundred others, including guides, porters, cooks, and boat crews, supported his expeditions.
One of them was Ali, a Malay man whom Wallace hired in Sarawak in 1854 as a cook and servant. Ali became his most trusted assistant and collected and prepared around 5,000 birds. Many of the bird skins that ended up in Victorian collections owed something to hands like his.
Samuel Stevens
Wallace then sold many of his specimens to pay for his travels. He did so through an agent in London named Samuel Stevens, who advertised them, arranged sales to museums and private collectors, and took a 20 per cent commission on sales, plus a further 5 per cent for shipping and sending the money back. If that sounds a lot, remember that the agent carried the risk of selling goods he had never seen, many of which arrived damaged. Stevens also showed new finds to the learned societies, which helped their value. We will meet Stevens’ family firm again in another article.
The hazards of these journeys
The journey could end in disaster, of course, and in July 1852 Wallace sailed from Brazil for home on the brig Helen, carrying the collections from his last two years in South America. About twenty-five days out, the cargo caught fire, and the crew abandoned ship. They lost everything except a few notes and pencil sketches. Wallace and the crew spent ten days in an open boat before another ship, the Jordeson, picked them up. They reached London on 1 October 1852, three months later. Stevens, the agent, had already seen the sense to insure the collection for £200, and as a result Wallace lived on that money for about eighteen months.
Wallace was lucky to survive, and losing a ship meant losing a lifetime’s labour, which is why a good specimen that arrived whole was always worth paying for.
The dealer on the Ratcliff Highway
Not all animals coming back to Britain were already dead, of course. Living animals travelled too.
Charles Jamrach (born in 1815, died in 1891) ran an animal dealership on the Ratcliff Highway in London’s East End. He bought from ships arriving in London and other British ports, then sold the specimens to zoos, travelling menageries and circuses, and private buyers.
Among his customers was George Wombwell, the menagerie owner, who bought a tiger from him. A famous story says that in 1857 a tiger escaped from its box at Jamrach’s shop and carried off a boy, and that Jamrach forced it to let go; the boy was said to have received £300 in damages. The tale was told and retold in the nineteenth century, so let’s enjoy it, but let’s not treat every detail as fact….
The connection between this trade and taxidermy is simple. Animals that died on the voyage, or in the menagerie, could always be sold to a taxidermist, and animals that arrived alive did not always live long. Menageries and zoos were a steady source of exotic subjects for the naturalist preserver.
Skin first, mount later.
Most birds did not travel ready-stuffed. A collector skinned the bird in the field, treated the skin with a preservative, dried it and packed it flat. The skin was then shipped home and mounted by a taxidermist in London or elsewhere, which is one reason that a Victorian case may hold a bird that its maker never saw alive. Only after it crossed the world did it take the “lifelike” pose we know today.
The realities of a beautiful case
When you look at a case and see a beautiful scene with exotic birds or animals, ask how the specimens got there.
If you see a label with a far-away place name, such as Borneo, Brazil, or Congo, that tells you someone, probably unnamed, skinned it in the field.
A London maker’s label tells you who gave it its pose, and between the two there was always an agent, a ship, and a good deal of luck.
Read more: Boucard, Burton and the feather trade that consumed itself · The wonder and wounds of the Belgian Congo · Wombwell’s Menagerie · Polito’s Menagerie · Darwin, Wallace and Buffon.
Sources
This article is part of the Victorian Natural History Mania section. Explore more research here →
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