Visiting the hippopotamus

Text 1: The Island That Rose, by Agnes Mortlake

An original journal written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.

To the Zoological Gardens this afternoon with Papa and the boys, to see the hippopotamus, of whom all London has been talking since the spring. The crowd about his enclosure was ten deep, and very warm, and smelt strongly of oranges and wet umbrellas, and we waited the better part of an hour before we could reach the rail.

He was asleep. That, at least, was our impression, for all we could see was a broad grey back rising out of the water of his tank like a small island, perfectly motionless, with two little ears upon it and a pair of nostrils that opened and closed, very slowly, like the valves of some engine. The boys were bitterly disappointed. A gentleman behind us said loudly that he had paid a shilling to see a rock.

And then the keeper came with a bucket, and the island rose. It rose and rose, streaming water from every fold, until there stood before us a creature larger than a cart, as round as a barrel and as grey as a wet slate roof, upon four short legs like the stumps of trees. Then it opened its mouth. I had not imagined that any mouth could open so wide. It was pink inside, as pink as a rose, and furnished with tusks like yellow ivory pegs, and the keeper tipped the whole bucket of greens into it as easily as a man posts a letter.

The crowd shrieked and laughed and pressed forward. A lady fainted, or pretended to. Little Harry, who had been so disappointed, climbed upon Papa’s shoulders and roared with delight.

When we left, the hippopotamus had sunk back into his tank and become an island once more. I looked back from the gate and saw only the two small ears and the slow nostrils, opening and closing, quite indifferent to London and all its admiration.

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