THE GREAT HERBIVORES 173 
characters of different individuals vary. They sometimes be- 
come quite tame. I remember a pair of full-grown hippo- 
potami which I saw in a circus in America, and which were 
as gentle and well behaved as could possibly be desired. 
The American circuses are in the habit of carrying out great 
parades through the streets, and on such occasions these two 
hippopotami used to walk quite loose by the side of their 
keeper, nor did any accident ever occur. 
The other species of the genus Hzppopotamus is the dwarf 
hippopotamus, which inhabits Liberia. In the sixties a young 
specimen of this animal, which weighed not quite thirty pounds, 
was taken to Dublin, but it survived only a few weeks. This 
was the only representative of the dwarf hippopotamus which 
has ever been brought to Europe. 
The last of the giant herbivores whose ways in captivity 
I have to describe is the giraffe. There is probably no 
animal which created such a stir when first brought to Europe 
as did the giraffe. Now that the beast is such a common 
inmate of Zoological Gardens that many town-bred lads are 
more familiar with it than they are with cows or pigs, it 
is difficult to realise the astonishment of the public when 
they first saw this grotesque creature, looking like Gulliver 
among the Lilliputians. It may readily be imagined that 
_ when these ungulates first arrived in Europe they caused no 
little embarrassment to their owners; for instance, if they 
-were not to be left out of doors at night some stable must 
be found in which to house them—but where and how it 
was difficult to see, for all the stables available were too small 
and too low. Even when this obstacle has been overcome, 
and stables high enough have been provided, the animals are 
still liable to a peculiar and painful kind of accident. The 
giraffe’s long neck is no doubt highly advantageous to the 
creature in the wild state—for, as is well known, it is thereby 
enabled to reach a plentiful supply of the leaves of trees upon 
which it feeds—but in captivity it is apt to prove a very 
awkward possession. One morning in the summer of 1876 
