Epilogue: Combinations
and Conjunction

Harriet Ritvo

In a way it is odd that animals were ever considered either a new subject for historians or a peculiar one, although my own experience offers plentiful evidence that both understandings have been widely shared. After all, traditional archives are full of animals, as have been the societies that they—however imperfectly—reflect and preserve. But animals have tended to be segregated and subordinated in archives, often more so than they were in the flesh. For example, the Dewey Decimal System catalogues livestock under technology, along with other aspects of agriculture; alternatively, some archives silo such material in their economic or business history collections. Either way, cattle and sheep are isolated from other ungulates, as well as from any non-agricultural or economic contexts in which they may equally have figured. Institutions concerned with specific human-animal relationships have often preserved their own records, although not necessarily in a setting that is recognizably archival. Thus in the course of researching my first book, The Animal Estate, I consulted documents not only in libraries, but also at the desk of a vacationing dog club employee, in the office of a perambulating zoo director, and in a museum exhibit space amid a selection of other primates (my companions were stuffed). One consequence of the increasing recognition of the significance of animals as a topic of serious historical inquiry is that, since my first visits to them, each of these collections has been more conventionally housed and catalogued. Another, with broader implications, is that previously isolated sources and subjects are now (at least potentially) in conversation with each other. And as these rich archives have been recontextualized and repurposed, they have allowed historians to foreground the role that other animals have played even in histories that focus on humans, as they mostly do.

The most obvious effect of these changes (although it is also a cause) has been the development of animal history as a field or subfield or area of shared interest. The number and variety of contributions to this volume typify the way that our sense of possible subjects has expanded from a time when a study of animals in a given time and place could be considered a narrow topic, rather than a wildly ambitious one. In addition, the work collected here, which of course is only the tip of the iceberg, represents the culmination of a decades-long process of institutionalization, as evidenced by books and book series, journals and journal articles, conferences and conference panels, summer seminars, classes in course catalogues, and even graduate and undergraduate programs.1 Alongside this subdisciplinary consolidation—and perhaps a still more persuasive indication of the vigour and appeal of the historical study of animals—has been the increasing integration of animal-related topics into so-called mainstream history, following a trail previously blazed by gender history, labour history, and postcolonial history, among others.

Inevitably, as has been the case whenever historians have extended their disciplinary boundaries, novel perspectives and topics have led to the reinterpretation of existing archives and to the exploitation of new kinds of archives. Historical work on animals has also required that historians engage with other fields of scholarship, especially in the life sciences, and with the expertise of the varied practitioners whose work requires constant and knowledgeable interaction with members of other species. Since many of the animal-related issues that historians explore have clear resonances with matters of current concern and debate, this work can also bring historians into contact with a range of non-expert (or at least non-professional) stakeholders, as well as with a range of non-human ones.

The animal turn in historical study thus reflects distinctively current preoccupations and methods, but previous periods saw many similar intersections of intellectual approaches and pragmatic claims to turf. The establishment of boundaries between different (though often allied) kinds of animals, whether expressed in vernacular terms or in the language of formal zoological taxonomy, sparked debates that were reflected in practice as well as in theory. Like the lines between kinds of animals, lines between language and practice tended to blur. That is to say, labels and connotations might remain stable, while denotations evolved over time.

In Britain, the absence of a definitive definition of “game,” a category that has been chronologically volatile as well as socially contested, provides one example—although whatever its referents, the term “game” always connoted privilege. A 1717 edition of John Manwood’s Treatise of the Forest Laws, originally written in the late sixteenth century and republished and revised many times into the early nineteenth century, listed deer among the animals for whom a forest was a “privileged Place”—meaning that only certain people could kill them. Among these allegedly privileged creatures, he included beasts of the forest (hart, hind [probably male and female red deer], and hare), beasts of the chase or venery (buck, doe [probably male and female fallow deer], and fox), and beasts and fowls of warren (hare, cony [rabbit], pheasant, and partridge).2 (These categories recurred in most hunting guides, but, as is the case with the general category of “game,” the species they included tend to vary somewhat.)

By the time that the Handy Guide to the Game Laws was published in 1905, emphasis (at least legal emphasis) had shifted from mammals to birds. Hares, rabbits, and deer received only passing notice, while the pseudonymous author’s attention was more intensely focused on pheasant, partridge, grouse, woodcocks, snipe, quail, and bustards.3 “Game” also existed in implicit opposition to the category of “vermin.” Animals designated as “vermin” received no protection and could be killed by anyone licensed to shoot. This category also varied depending on time and circumstances. For example, an early nineteenth-century guide to field sports included foxes, which have often been heavily protected, along with badgers, martens, stoats, weasels, squirrels, wild cats, polecats, rats, mice, rooks, and sparrows under that rubric;4 half a century, later a similar guide omitted badgers, squirrels, rats, mice, and wild cats, but included moles and additional birds of prey.5 The Gun License Act of 1870 deployed the category without defining its contents, except to specify that rabbits were not vermin unless they were destroying crops.6

This trajectory suggests a shifting relationship between the economic significance of hunting (which primarily yields food) and its symbolic or aesthetic significance (which is concretized in other ways). Of course, both of these kinds of significance involve consumption, although of different kinds. Through all these vicissitudes, the deer—or, to be more specific, the stag (which usually meant the male of the red deer)—retained pride of place, at least in Britain. Landseer’s portrait of “The Monarch of the Glen,”7 distills the wild majesty attributed to these largest remaining representatives of the wild British fauna; it features a lone stag flaunting the twelve-point antlers that were characterized as “royal,” posed against a romantically misty and mountainous Highland background. One of his descendants may have acted in The Queen (2006), where the current Elizabeth (as represented by Helen Mirren) feels an instinctive admiration and sympathy for him as, like Landseer’s “Monarch,” he stands in noble isolation against the Highland landscape. But what follows this transcendent moment ironically undermines it—she hears the gunfire of sportsmen and thinks that she has shooed the stag away to safety, but she subsequently encounters his corpse suspended upside down, being prepared for a less symbolic and more substantial destiny (as an article in The Field advised, “Hanging venison is the only way to get a really gamey finish to the meat”8).

Of course, even in his ultimate disaggregated condition, the stag will retain his aristocratic aura. Because of its relative scarcity or inaccessibility, or, to put it another way, because of its association with class privilege—as well as the complicated cachet of wildness—game has traditionally outranked the flesh of conventionally domesticated livestock. It has been prized for attributes, especially its strong taste, that are disparaged in lesser meats—which may be an example (one among many) of the way that abstract assertions of difference can overshadow any assessment of the quality or content of that difference, when the goal is to establish or emphasize hierarchy. Thus, the connotation of the adjective “gamey,” whether considered in its literal or its figurative senses, can range from the most appreciative to the least, depending on the noun that it modifies. But with regard to the fruits of the hunt, it has invariably been positive. This has been the case even at the less majestic end of the game continuum—thus, hare was considered superior to rabbit, “being much more savory and of a higher flavour.”9 But the preference was most forcefully enunciated with respect to the most imposing animals. For example, a plainspoken Victorian cookbook divided lovers of venison into two categories: those who “like it a little gone, and others a good deal. This state of putrescency is called by gourmands haut gout, high tasted; we should rather say at once, stinking.”10

Although less impressive than the stag, whether in the field or in the kitchen, hares and rabbits similarly illustrated the way that characterizations of animals have been both synchronically contested and diachronically mutable. They did this jointly, in the form of leporides, which were alleged hybrids between the domesticated rabbit and the hare. Domesticated rabbits had existed in Britain for centuries (probably introduced by the Romans and then reintroduced from France during the medieval period—the long history of rabbit domestication remains controversial11), and in the nineteenth century they were widely appreciated both as pets and as food. They were not, however, a major focus of interest among either agriculturalists or pet owners. One indication of this relative insignificance is the small part they and their fellow lagomorphs (members of the mammalian order that includes rabbits and hares, as well as, more remotely, picas) played in Charles Darwin’s monumental two-volume survey, The Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication (1868). The first volume, which is devoted to a species-by-species survey of domesticated animals and plants, includes a rather brief chapter on rabbits (for comparison, domesticated pigeons received two chapters and many more pages), and in the second volume, which treats scientific issues associated with domestication thematically, references to them pop up from time to time.

Within this relatively restricted compass, there are two mentions—widely separated and somewhat inconsistent—of hybrids between the rabbit and the hare. In the overview of domesticated rabbits in the first volume, Darwin speculated about a possible hare contribution to their ancestry:

we may infer with safety that all the domestic breeds are the descendants of the common wild species [of rabbit]. But from what we hear of the marvellous success in France in rearing hybrids between the hare and the rabbit, it is possible, though not probable, from the great difficulty in making the first cross, that some of the larger races, which are coloured like the hare, may have been modified by crosses with this animal.12

This brief quotation alluded to several contentious issues faced by those concerned with the theory and practice of animal breeding in the nineteenth century, and although Darwin emphasized the difficulty of producing rabbit-hare hybrids, he did not express any explicit skepticism about their likely or even possible existence. That is, his use of “marvellous” was not ironic, although there is a certain carefulness or conditionality about the tone of the whole passage.

When he returned to rabbit-hare hybrids in the second volume, however, Darwin’s attitude seemed to have altered somewhat. In the course of a general discussion of the impact of captivity on the fertility of wild animals, he noted that “[t]he common hare when confined has, I believe, never bred in Europe; though, according to a recent statement, it has crossed with the rabbit.”13 In the note supporting his newly qualified understanding of reliability of such accounts, he cited critical responses to the same French report: “[a]lthough the existence of the Leporides, as described by Dr. Broca has been positively denied, yet Dr. Pigeaux affirms that the hare and the rabbit have produced hybrids.”

Many of Darwin’s contemporaries shared both his interest in these alleged hybrids and his ambivalence about the possibility of their existence. Debate about the veracity or plausibility of claims to have produced leporides (as they were confusingly called, since the term “leporid” refers to members of the family Leporidae that includes rabbits and hares) rumbled on for years in Britain and elsewhere, and it was not confined within the scientific community. The Cornhill Magazine had reported in 1860 that a “M. Rouy [sic], of Angouleme, . . . each year sends to market upwards of a thousand of his Leporides”;14 according to the Leeds Intelligencer, this feat was made more impressive by the fact that “the two are violent foes: the rabbits always destroy the hares.”15 Four years later, the Journal of the Royal Agricultural Society of England published an elaborate account of M. Roux’s [sic] techniques, along with reference to still less well documented accounts of rabbit-hare hybrids produced, also in France, as much as a century earlier.16 In 1871 the Church of England Magazine weighed in, citing not only the skepticism of some naturalists, who felt that when alleged hybrid offspring were examined it became increasingly evident that “the efforts of the [paternal] hare fell far short of what had been attributed to him” and who also claimed, applying an unusual taxonomic standard, that when eaten, an alleged hybrid “did not appear to differ from a simple rabbit.”17 (It should be emphasized that these possessors of discerning palates knew what both rabbits and hares tasted like.) There was apparently a persistent popular audience for learned opinions on this topic; thus in 1872 the Bath Chronicle reported that, according to the British Medical Journal, the offspring of Guyot’s “hybrids” bore a disappointing resemblance to ordinary rabbits.18

Although the Encyclopedia Britannica definitively announced in 1886 that the animals sold as leporides actually belonged to a large breed of rabbit often called “Belgian hares,”19 that was far from the last word on the subject. As late as 1925 William E. Castle, a Harvard zoology professor who initiated the use of Drosophila (the fruit fly) in genetics research and wrote a book devoted to The Genetics of Domestic Rabbits: A Manual for Students of Mammalian Genetics (1930), felt called upon to publicly debunk the leporides in the American Naturalist: “We may accordingly relegate the hare-rabbit to the limbo of zoological myths, along with the unicorn and the sea serpent.”20 Belgian hares, however, have continued to flourish. At present, rabbit-hare hybridization has become a niche concern, which nevertheless continues to inspire such spirited denunciations as “a breed known as the ‘Belgian Hare’ is repeatedly alleged on the Internet as a ‘hybrid between Old World rabbit and hare.’ However, no valid primary report of this cross seems to exist (though the literature discussing this topic is extensive).”21 Current Belgian hares remain taxonomically rabbits, but they have been increasingly bred to live up to their name in phenotype if not in genotype.22

In the middle of the nineteenth century, however, interest in the leporides clearly extended far beyond the ranks of pet rabbit fanciers or commercial rabbit breeders. Because (among other things) despite their obvious similarities, hybridization between hares and rabbits had proved challenging, reports of a possible breakthrough resonated with a range of other concerns about hybridity. That is to say, the reason that the leporides attracted such relatively widespread and sustained attention reflects their categorization—not as lagomorphs or leporids but as hybrids. And as hybrids in the news they were far from unique. The nineteenth-century British public flocked to admire hybrid superstars, such as the litters of lion-tiger cubs that had toured Britain in the 1820s and 1830s as part of Thomas Atkins’ menagerie, but even relatively humdrum hybrids were considered worthy of notice. Zoo-keepers routinely produced (that is to say, encouraged the production of) hybrids between different bovine and simian species, the particular pairings determined primarily by which likely cross-breeders happened to be living in their cages and paddocks. So pronounced was the public interest in such combinations, that Punch was moved to satirize it in 1870: “The rhinoceros in Mr. LYON’s menagerie last night presented the elephant with a fine foal. This is the first instance on record of a pachydermatous hybrid, which, should it fortunately survive, will doubtless prove no small attraction to zoologists.”23

Miscegenation is almost but not quite a synonym for hybridization. The online versions of both the Oxford English Dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus acknowledge the relationship of these words, but apply miscegenation primarily to humans and hybridization primarily to animals and plants. In consequence, despite their significant overlap in denotation, the connotation of miscegenation has normally been negative, while that of hybridization has ranged from neutral to positive. But one of the things that makes animal history illuminating is the often unacknowledged or unconscious overlap between ideas about people and ideas about others. Understandings that have become unacceptable or fringe (or just inexpressible) with regard to humans can continue to be recognized, reified and, in many cases, enthusiastically enforced with regard to animals. The unalloyed descent required for most pedigreed breeds offers the clearest reflection of this tendency, but similar standards have been increasingly applied outside the breed book and the show ring.

For example, having teetered on the brink of extinction in the late nineteenth century, the American bison has become one of the success stories of species preservation. Although their free-ranging populations remain far below their historical maximum (in the tens of thousands compared to estimates as high as fifty million or more),24 bison are now sufficiently numerous to be eaten undiluted as buffalo burgers or in hybridized form as beefalo (the name indicates hybrid descent from the American bison [Bison bison] and the domestic cow [Bos taurus]). But the relation of contemporary bison to the noble former inhabitants of the Great Plains is far from straightforward. The animals who end up in fast food restaurants and grocery stores come from domesticated stock, not from the wild herds that now roam many parks and preserves. But it appears that beneath their reassuring demographic success, even the apparently wild bison populations may be similarly compromised. That is, the impressive herds that wander around preserved and protected landscapes in the American West look and act like wild bison; they seem indistinguishable from the iconic beast who formerly adorned the American nickel. But many of those herds include individuals whose heritage also reflects contributions from domestic cattle; thus a 2013 article in the Sierra Club’s glossy magazine pointedly celebrated the 3,700 Yellowstone bison as “free of cattle genes . . . our last wild bison.”25

And although zoo caretakers once produced inter-species hybrids for the entertainment of the public, they are currently more likely to submit their charges to the machinery of pedigree. Studbooks have controlled the mating of zoo animals, especially if they belong to species that have become scarce outside of captivity, for more than half a century.26 Paradoxically, since human control of reproductive choice is one of the standard criteria of domestication, this practice can make even tigers seem less wild. The standard justification for it is to maintain genetic diversity and to avoid the inbreeding that might otherwise weaken small captive populations. But it has also frequently been used to reify the category of subspecies (that is, in effect, to maintain racial purity). Both agendas mean that zoo animals whose parentage is unknown are precluded from breeding, and zoo animals whose parentage is deemed inappropriate may be sacrificed to eugenics, as was the fate of the unfortunate giraffe Marius at the Copenhagen zoo.27

Thus hybridization within and across species has raised concerns that resonate with debates in human political, social, and intellectual arenas, and with concerns of historians dealing with animal subjects in a range of other contexts. But some problems that confront animal historians also resist the expertise of specialists within whose field they also, albeit differently, fall. For example, much recent work in animal history attempts to take the experience and interests of other creatures into account, along with those of people. Of course, this is easier said (although very frequently said) than done, especially for historians, since, challenging as this problem is with regard to the present, it is much more so with regard to the past. Most animals communicate without recourse to human language, and even people who know individual animals well can have trouble understanding them. (The insights of researchers like Irene Pepperberg and Penny Patterson, who have been privileged to work with animals who possessed some command of English, are not easily applied to most inter-species relationships.28) A great deal of the evidence about the nature and experience of historical animals comes from the testimony of the people who observed them, interacted with them, and exploited them, and most of the rest comes from bones, skins, and other physical remains. (There is also abundant testimony from people who mostly imagined them, but this, even more than other apparently animal-related evidence, primarily offers information about people.29) Attempts to make room for animals by displacing people must struggle with the distortion and diminution that inevitably accompanies such filtering.30 The stronger version of this agenda—the claim to give other animals a voice—is still more problematic, requiring a greater leap of both empathy and imagination.

Some of these difficulties are inherent in the term “animal” itself,31 which refers to a category without clear boundaries. Biologically, it includes corals and starfish as well as gorillas and leopards; the contributions to this volume explore the experiences and impacts of species as disparate as elephants and flies. These creatures seem so different that the use of the blanket term “animal” to cover them all brings the term itself into question. Thus the elimination of the boundary that separates humans from animals seems to require the establishment of another or others, although the location of replacement boundaries is equally problematic. If no obvious gap can be discerned between most kinds of animals and those kinds most similar to them, large gaps emerge when very dissimilar animals are juxtaposed.

A similar tension surrounds the term “anthropomorphic,” which eliminates the possibility of easy slippage between humans and members of other species. That is, calling something or someone anthropomorphic is seldom meant as a compliment, and this negative connotation assumes that the claim that humans and non-humans share perceptions, behaviours, and so forth, is inherently naive, sentimental or otherwise misguided. But like other assumptions, sometimes it is right and sometimes it is wrong. Representations like Edwin Landseer’s Wild Cattle of Chillingham,32 in which a stately bull looms protectively over a cow and calf, and The Noble Beast,33 which foregrounds a stag accompanied by a doe and fawn, clearly deserve this critique, as do the Akeley dioramas in the American Museum of Natural History,34 which present taxidermied rhinoceroses and giraffes in similarly improbable nuclear family groups. But it is hard to say the same of the many portraits and photographs that portray pets and children as part of the same social group. To describe that implied relationship as anthropomorphic is to erect or resurrect a barrier that may not have been perceived by any of the individuals involved. Thus, like “animal” or, even more, “the animal,” the term “anthropomorphism” inherently privileges the problematic human-animal binary.

These scholarly challenges have recently been complicated by politics, academic and otherwise. Like humans, members of other species are vulnerable—in many cases much more vulnerable—to the systemic threats posed by anthropogenic climate change, as well as to the caprices of environmental regulation and deregulation. Intense commercial exploitation of natural resources, as well as the intense commercial exploitation of domesticated animals, remains the focus of heated controversy. At the same time, a few species have benefited, at least potentially, from enhanced legal status, a shift somewhat less robustly reflected in the range of consideration required when different species are used as experimental subjects. All these issues engage the expertise of scientists along with that of other stakeholders. Analogously, historians who wish to incorporate the experiences of members of other species in their accounts must be prepared to use evidence from outside the humanities—from fields like zoology, archaeology, geography, and genomics. While such incorporation will enhance the analysis of particular situations, it may pose a challenge to the apparent unity of the field—that is, as individual creatures or kinds become more fully realized, the differences between kinds may loom larger. But even if “animal history” turns out to be a label subject to radical taxonomic revision, alternative packaging should not diminish the vigour and significance of the scholarship it now contains.

Notes

1 These have become too numerous to catalogue. For previous attempts to chronicle this development, see my “Among Animals,” Environment and History (2014): 491–98; “The Animal Turn in British Studies,” in Proceedings of Anglistentag 2007, ed. Klaus Stierstorfer (2008); and “Animal Planet,” Environmental History (2004): 204–20.

2 John Manwood, Treatise of the Forest Laws (London: E. Nutt, 1717), 144.

3 A Solicitor, Handy Guide to the Game Laws with Abridgment of the Acts Relating to Game (London: Horace Cox, 1905), 4–5.

4 William H. Scott, British Field Sports (London: Sherwood, Neely, and Jones, 1818), 444–57.

5 John Mayer, The Sportsman’s Directory; and Park and Gamekeeper’s Companion (London: Simpkin, Marshall, 1845), vii.

6 Handy Guide, 34–35.

7 The original hangs in the Scottish National Gallery. https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/159116/monarch-glen.

8 “Hanging venison. How long is best?” The Field, February 11, 2016, https://www.thefield.co.uk/country-house/country-queries/hanging-venison-how-long-is-best-31276.

9 Thomas Webster and Mrs. Parkes, An Encyclopedia of Domestic Economy (London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman, 1847), 377.

10 The Guide to Service:The Cook (Londin: Charles Knight, 1842), 230.

11 Evan K. Irving-Pease et al., “Rabbits and the Specious Origins of Domestication,” Trends in Ecology and Evolution (March 2018): 149–52.

12 Charles Darwin, The Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication (1868) (facs. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), vol. 1, 109.

13 Darwin, Variation, vol. 2, 135.

14 “Studies in Animal Life,” Cornhill Magazine, vol. 1, 1860, 604.

15 “Leporides,” Leeds Intelligencer, May 19, 1860, 2.

16 “The Leporide,” Journal of the Royal Agricultural Society of England 25 (1864): 265.

17 H. Whitehead, “Christianity and Its Scientific Opponents. No. IV. The Origin of Species,” Church of England Magazine, vol. 70, April 15, 1871, 253.

18 “The Fate of the Leporides,” Bath Chronicle, October 10, 1872, 7.

19 Encyclopedia Britannica (1886), s.v. “rabbit.”

20 W. E. Castle, “The Hare-Rabbit, A Study in Evolution by Hybridization,” American Naturalist, vol. 59, 1925, 282.

21 Eugene M. McCarthy, “Rabbits and Hares,” Macroevolution.net, accessed May 5, 2022, http://www.macroevolution.net/rabbit-hybrids.html.

22 For example, the Belgian Hare Society of the UK consistently refers to them as rabbits and makes no claim to hybrid ancestry (http://www.belgianhares.org.uk/history-of-belgian-hares.html). They also point out that the rabbits who originated the breed came from Holland, not Belgium, and that the current breed was developed in England.

23 “Ordinary Occurrences,” Punch, September 17, 1870, 123.

24 Bronx Zoo website: https://bronxzoo.com/things-to-do/exhibits/american-bison.

25 Philip W. Hedrick, “Cattle ancestry in bison: explanations for higher mtDNA than autosomal ancestry,” Molecular Ecology 19 (2010): 3328–2225; Sierra, November/December 2013, 28.

26 Peter J. S. Olney, “Studbook,” Encyclopedia of the World’s Zoos, R-Z, vol. 3, ed. Catharine E. Bell, (Detroit: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2001), 1180.

27 The killing of Marius sparked a great deal of controversy. See, for example, Lars Eriksen and Maev Kennedy, “Marius the giraffe killed at Copenhagen zoo despite worldwide protests,” The Guardian, February 9, 2014, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/feb/09/marius-giraffe-killed-copenhagen-zoo-protests.

28 Irene Pepperberg, Alex and Me: How a Scientist and a Parrot Discovered a Hidden World of Animal Intelligence—And Formed a Deep Bond in the Process (New York: MJF Books, 2008); Francine Patterson and Eugene Linden, The Education of Koko (New York: Henry Holt, 1988).

29 Harriet Ritvo, The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creature in the Victorian Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 232.

30 Thus Robert Delort, who highlighted this agenda in the title of his 1984 study Les animaux ont une histoire, produced a species-by-species account that did not fulfil his ambition: “to privilege the animal, and not the history,” in Les animaux ont une histoire (Paris: Ėditions du Seuil, 1984), 12. More recently (and successfully), Eric Baratay has similarly proposed “to detach history from an anthropocentric vision” (Le point de vue animal: Une autre version de l’histoire [Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2012], 12).

31 Humans, of course, are also animals; I have not used “other animals” in this paper in the interest of euphony.

32 Laing Art Gallery, Newcastle: https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/wild-cattle-of-chillingham-northumberland-37231.

33 http://www.wikigallery.org/wiki/painting_201281/Sir-Edwin-Henry-Landseer/The-Noble-Beast.

34 https://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/permanent/african-mammals.