one of the Orkneys. This was some fifty feet long, and every one, even
the fishermen themselves, declared that the sea serpent had turned up
at last. A naturalist, however, decided that it was only an unusually
fine specimen of the great basking shark; so we are as far off as
ever, after all, from an authentic monster, and seem in every case to
have only offered for our acceptance either outrageous hoaxes and
impositions, the imaginations of the credulous, or, at the very best,
cases of mistaken identity.
Amongst other serpent myths we may certainly place that most
uncomfortable creation of the fancy, the Adissechen, a serpent with a
thousand heads that, according to the Indian mythology, bears up the
universe; and the Iormungandur, the serpent that according to the
Scandinavian myth, encircles the whole earth, and binds it together in
its flight through space.
It was a very old belief that the serpent's egg was hatched by the
joint labour of several serpents, and was buoyed up into the air by
their hissing. Any one so intrepid as to catch it while thus suspended
'twixt earth and heaven bore away with him a talisman of mighty power,
giving him strength to prevail in every contest, and the favour of all
whose favour was worth the having. It could only be captured at the
gallop, and even then the risk of being stung to death was a peril
most imminent. Pliny tells us that he had himself seen one of these
notable proofs of prowess, and that it was about as large as a
moderately large apple.
The Fire-Drake was, according to mediæval fancy, a fiery serpent or
dragon, keeping guard over hidden treasure. The drake, of course, has
no affinity with the familiar ducks and drakes on the farmer's pool,
nor even with the ducks and drakes that people make of their money
when they burn their fingers in too rash speculation, but is clearly
suggested by the Latin word, _draco_, for a dragon. We find an
interesting reference in Shakespeare to the word in his "Henry VIII.,"
scene 3 of act v.--"There is a fellow somewhat near the door; he
should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the
dog-days now reign in his nose: all that stand about him are under the
line, they need no further penance. That fire-drake."
De Thaun in his "Bestiary" tells us of the Aspis, "a serpent cunning,
sly, and aware of evil. When it perceives people who make enchantment,
who want to enchant it, to take and snare it, it will stop very well
the ears it has. It will press one against the earth; in the other it
will stuff its tail firmly, so that it hears nothing. In this manner
do the rich people of the world: one ear they have on earth to obtain
riches, the other Sin stops up; yet they will see a day, the day of
Judgment. This is the signification of the Aspis without doubt." De
Thaun always endeavours to see a religious meaning in everything, and
where the moral declines to fit quite accurately to the facts, by a
simple process of reversal the facts are made to fit to the moral. The
creature that he had in his mind, and which would naturally occur to
him from his familiarity with the Bible, is no doubt identical with
the deaf adder that we are told in one of the Psalms stoppeth her ear,
and refuseth to hear the voice of the charmer. Though the old author
avowedly has no doubt as to the signification he assigns to the
creature's obstinate refusal to be charmed, one cannot but feel that
his explanation is rather halting. A man who would amass riches has at
least as much need of his eyes as of his ears, and his transition from
the ear stopped up by sin to the awakened eye at the great day of
account is also somewhat lame. The transition should have been not
arbitrarily from one faculty to another, but in the sharp contrast
between the sense first deliberately blunted and lost through sin, to
be then at last terribly restored by the trumpet peal of the dread day
of doom. Indeed, if it were not that we are all prepared instinctively
to place the worst possible construction upon anything a creature so
repellent to us may do, it is evident that the allegory might have
been equally developed from quite another point of view. Had the dove
shown a similar alacrity to bury one ear in the earth while it stuffed
its tail into the other, we should have heard nothing of this wilful
blunting of the senses to good counsel, but much, _au contraire_, of
its determined resistance to temptation and evil.
The ancients believed in a horrible little brute called the
Amphisbena, "a small kind of serpent which moveth backward or forward,
and hath two heads, one at either extreme." Galen, Pliny, Nicander,
and many other early writers gravely describe this especially
objectionable little reptile. Ælian, who was so far in advance of his
age as to call the Chimæra and Hydra fables, believed fully in the
amphisbena. Some few serpents really have the power of taking a mean
advantage of those they assault by springing at them from directions
not always "straight to your front," as the drill sergeants express
it,[29] but none, of course, have an equal facility for moving either
backward or forward; and certainly still more of course, no serpent at
present known to science, or likely to be, has a head "at either
extreme."
[29] Appendix R.
The Kraken is another notable example of the studies in unnatural
history of the ancients. Pliny gravely narrates that one of these
monsters--the "mountain fish" of the old Norsemen--haunted the ocean
off the coasts of Spain and North Africa, but, owing to its bulk, was
unable to penetrate through the Straits of Gibraltar into the
Mediterranean. According to some old writers the kraken, when floating
on the surface of the sea, stretched to a length of about a mile and a
half, and appeared like an island. It is a difficult problem to say
which would be the most embarrassing position--for a seaman to find
himself stranded on the creature's back on its sudden arrival at the
surface, or to be engulfed in the whirlpool that would arise from its
sinking again into the depths of ocean. One old writer tells us of a
party of sailors that, from the tangled sea-weed on the creature's
back, took the kraken for an island, and after fishing for some time
with some little success in the pools of water in the hollows of his
back, proceeded to light a fire to cook their take, and suddenly found
themselves engulfed in the sea when the heat became sufficiently
great to awaken their animated island from its nap. Alaus Magnus,
archbishop of Upsala, describes this colossus of the deep as the
kraken, but he stops short at the length of a mile; while Pontoppidan,
bishop of Bergen, adds that a whole regiment of soldiers could
manoeuvre on its back; while yet a third ecclesiastic, another bishop,
tells us that he did actually erect an altar on the creature's back
and celebrate mass. We are told that the kraken submitted to the
ceremony without flinching, but no sooner was it over than it plunged
into the depths of the sea, to the great astonishment and peril of the
divine. It may at first seem curious that so many of these stories
should spring from ecclesiastics, but it must be remembered that they
were in these early days the great repositories of truth, the laity
being steeped in ignorance and superstition.
It has been conjectured that the kraken myth has sprung from stories
of gigantic cuttle-fish or octopus, the devil fish described so
vividly by Victor Hugo in his "Toilers of the Sea;" but one can hardly
fall in quite readily with this notion, since the leading idea, so to
speak, in the kraken belief is that of a monstrous and quiescent mass,
suggestive more than anything else of an island rising from the sea,
while the dominant idea in our minds of the octopus is of a creature
armed with far-stretching and numerous arms that enwrap their hapless
victim in their pitiless embrace. The kraken would scarcely have been
described without any reference to these fearful feelers, armed with
double rows of suckers, if the myth had had the origin that has been
in several directions claimed for it. The belief in the kraken chiefly
springs, probably, from that delight in something tremendously big
that has also given us the roc carrying away elephants in its talons,
or the serpent that encompasses the world in its folds, so that we
need not then too anxiously strive to find any counterpart of it in
nature.
"They that sail on the sea tell of the dangers thereof, and when we
hear it with our ears we marvel thereat.
"For therein be strange and wondrous works, variety of all kinds of
beasts, and whales created."[30]
[30] Ecclesiasticus xliii. vers. 24, 25.
De Thaun describes something very kraken-like, but he bestows upon it
the title of Cetus. _Cetus_, we need scarcely remind our readers, is a
Latin word applied in a general sense to all kinds of large sea-fish,
and though the whale is strictly speaking a mammal and not a fish at
all, we find the word reappearing in modern use in the term cetaceous,
as applied to all creatures of the whale kind. The author of the
"Bestiary" tells us that "Cetus is a very great beast; it lives always
in the sea. It takes the sand of the sea, spreads it on its back,
raises itself up in the sea, and will be at tranquillity. The seafarer
sees it, and thinks that it is an island, and goes to arrive there to
prepare his meal. The Cetus feels the fire and the ship and the
people; then he will plunge if he can, and drown them. When he wants
to eat he begins to gape, and the gaping of his mouth sends forth a
smell so sweet, that the little fish will enter into his mouth, and
then he will kill them, thus will he swallow them." In a Jewish work
entitled "Bara Bathra" we read of a whale so large that a ship was
three days in sailing from its head to its tail. Of course this would
not be at Cunard liner pace; still it certainly does give one the idea
of a very considerable fish. But this monster of the deep sinks into
insignificance in its length of but a hundred miles or so when we
compare it with the fish Pheg (mentioned in an ancient Chinese book,
the Tsi-hiai), that churns up five hundred miles of blue ocean into
silvery foam when it starts its stupendous paddles in motion for a
cruise. This is indeed, to quote Polonius, "very like a whale." When
any one's credulity finds no difficulty in digesting such a tale as
that, their powers of absorption must be well nigh as striking as the
narration itself.
"The imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish
Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish."[31]
[31] "Cymbeline," Act iv. sc. 2.
According to Jewish tradition the Leviathan was a great fish; so
great, they taught, that one day it swallowed another fish nearly a
thousand miles long. Many of the Jewish legends in the Talmud and
elsewhere possess little or nothing of graceful fancy, but simply
endeavour to excite wonder by gross exaggeration. There were
originally two of these leviathans, a male and a female; but if their
numbers had increased beyond this, the world would have been soon
destroyed; so the female was killed, and laid up in salt for the great
feast to be held at the coming of the Messiah. Such is the Jewish
tradition. Leviathan is mentioned in the Bible in several places,
notably in the magnificent description that comprises the whole of the
forty-first chapter of the book of Job. It is curious that a very
similar legend to that we have just referred to was believed by the
Jews in connection with the Behemoth mentioned in the preceding
chapter of Job. Any one reading the fine description of the creature
there given will have little difficulty in agreeing with most
commentators that the hippopotamus is intended; but the Jews held that
behemoth is a huge animal which has subsisted alone since the
creation, and that it is reserved to be fattened for the great
rejoicings that are to be held in the days of the advent of the
promised Messiah. Every day they believe that he eats up the grass of
a thousand hills, and that at each draught, when he is thirsty, he
swallows up as much water as the Jordan yields in the course of six
months.
It would probably be found that nine out of ten people would at once
declare that their idea of the leviathan was that it was a large fish,
and the tenth person would have very little doubt either. We do not
mean that these typical folk would really believe in its existence as
a special monster, but they would be quite prepared to say in an
offhand way that the whale was intended under this name. Burton in his
"Miracles of Art and of Nature" (A.D. 1678) has a passage that clearly
shows this interchange of words, and the evident idea that the two
terms, whale and leviathan, are synonymous. He writes, under the
description of Norway--"The whales do so terrifie the shores, the Seas
being there so deep, and therefore a fit habitation for those great
leviathans." He, however, goes on to tell us that "the People of the
Sea-coast have found a remedy, which is by casting some water
intermixt with Oyle of Castor, the smell whereof forces them
immediately to retire, and without this help there were no Fishing on
the Coasts." The remedy for the boisterous presence of these great
monsters seems at first a feeble one, until we bear in mind how gladly
we too in our child-days would have immediately retired, if we could,
at the awful odour of the coming castor-oil. "One touch of nature
makes the whole world kin."
The beautiful description of the wonders of creation in the 104th
Psalm, the stretching firmament and the chariots of cloud, the fowls
of heaven, and the trees so full of sap and vigour, concludes with a
reference to the leviathan that has no doubt done much to associate
the name with the whale,[32] and which, in fact, could only apply to
some such great creature of the waters; so that we can only conclude
that the term was used somewhat vaguely by the different Old Testament
writers, as it is now tolerably unanimously held that the leviathan of
the book of Job is the crocodile.
[32] "This great and wide sea wherein are things creeping
innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships: there
is that leviathan, whom Thou hast made to play therein" (Ps. civ.
25, 26).
No creature of the whale tribe inhabits the Mediterranean; neither is
the whale clothed in coat-of-mail, nor is it fierce in disposition;
but if any one will carefully read the description given of the
crocodile in the book of Job they will find point after point of
appropriate detail, allowance being made partly for the wealth of
Oriental and poetic imagery, and partly for the wonderful difference
between assailing the crocodile in these later days with a rifle-ball
as against the old sling, spear, or arrow. What a modern sportsman
might lightly esteem would be a very different creature indeed to
attack when the world was in its youth.
"Who can strip off his outer garment?
Who can open the doors of his face?
Round about his teeth is terror.
His strong scales are his pride,
Shut up together as with a close seal.
They are joined one to another,
They stick together that they cannot be sundered.
In his neck abideth strength,
And terror danceth before him.
If one lay at him with the sword it cannot avail,
Nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft.
He counteth iron as straw,
And brass as rotten wood.
The arrow cannot make him flee:
Sling-stones are turned with him into stubble.
He laugheth at the rushing of the javelin.
Upon earth there is not his like,
That is made without fear."
The poetical ideas that clustered during classic times and the Middle
Ages round the Nautilus were, after all, as mythical as they were
poetic.
"The tender nautilus who steers his prow,
The sea-borne sailor of his shell canoe,
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea"[33]--
has, alas! no foundation in hard fact; and the lesson that Pope would
teach when he bids us--
"Learn of the little nautilus to sail,
Spread the thin oar and catch the rising gale"--
is equally impracticable. The sad fiction-dispelling truth is, that in
no case does the little argonaut use its arms as sails or as oars. It
rises, it is true, occasionally to the surface, as other cuttle-fish
forms do, but when there its only means of propulsion are the _jets
d'eau_ from its funnel, these jets consisting of the water which has
been used in respiration. In Pliny's "Natural History," as translated
by Philemon Holland, and published in London in 1601, we find that
"among the greatest wonders of nature is that fish which of some is
called nautilos, of others pompilos. This fish, for to come aloft upon
the water, turneth upon his backe, and raiseth or heaveth himselfe up
by little and little; and to the end he might swim with more ease as
disburdened of a sinke, he dischargeth all the water within him at a
pipe. After this, turning up his two foremost clawes or armes, hee
displaieth and stretcheth out betweene them a membrane or skin of a
wonderful thinnesse: this serveth him instead of a saile in the aire
above water. With the rest of his armes or clawes he roweth and
laboureth under water, and with his tail in the midst he directeth his
course, and steereth as it were with an helme. Thus holdeth he on and
maketh way in the sea, with a fair show of a galley under saile. Now
if he be afraide of anything by the way, hee makes no more adoe, but
draweth in water to baillise his bodie, and so plungeth himselfe downe
and sinketh to the bottome."
[33] Byron.
While the Dolphin, like the nautilus, has a veritable existence, and
may be duly found amongst the works of nature, it has also, like the
nautilus again, served as the foundation for a considerable amount of
mythical lore. Thus Pliny, in his so-called Natural History, from
which we have already drawn so many curious extracts, writes--"The
swiftest of all other living creatures whatsoever, and not of sea-fish
only, is the dolphin; quicker than the flying fowl, swifter than the
arrow shot out of a bow." The dolphin, so termed, of the mediæval
heralds is a purely conventional form, having no counterpart whatever
in Nature. "They are much deceived," wrote an authority on natural
history a little more than a hundred years ago, "who imagine Dolphins
to be of the Figure they are usually represented on Signs; that Error
being more owing to the unbridled License of Statuaries or Painters
than to any such Thing found in Fact." A much earlier writer, Gillius,
tells us that when he was "in a Ship where many Dolphins were taken,
he observed them so to deplore with Groans, Lamentations, and a Flood
of Tears their Condition, that he himself, out of Compassion, could
not forbear weeping, and so threw one that he observed to groan more
than ordinary (the Fisherman being asleep) into the Water again, as
choosing rather to damage the Fisherman than not to relieve the
Miserable. But this gave him but little Rest, for all the Others
increased their Groans, as seeming, by not obscure Signs, to beg the
same Deliverance." Another well-known belief in connection with the
dolphin is the imaginary brilliancy of its supposititiously changeful
colours when, having failed to find any one, like Gillius,
compassionate enough to throw it overboard, it presently succumbs to
its hard fate. The idea has been a favourite one with poets in all
ages, but one example from Byron's "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" will
suffice as an illustration:--
"Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away;
The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray."
According to some of the ancient writers, the eyes of the dolphin were
in those most unlikely and unserviceable places, their blade-bones;
they were also said to dig graves for their dead on the sandy shores
of the sea, and to follow them to their burial in mournful procession.
They were, too, an excellent means of travelling when other means of
locomotion were not available. Thus the fifty daughters of Nereus
travelled in safety on their backs, we are told in classic mythology
in the dry-as-dust style of such fountains of knowledge as are
available for reference ordinarily; but these statements help us but
little to realise the scene that struck the eyes or the imaginations
of the ancients when this bevy of charming girls, a good fifty strong,
rode hither and thither in happy _abandon_ in the brilliant summer
sunlight of the azure Mediterranean Sea, their steeds the willing
dolphins; a scene as unlike the frowsy omnibuses, the dreary chariots
of moody men and women, that loom through the murk of a London fog, or
that fill to suffocation with resentful fellow passengers, when the
prolonged drizzle becomes a heavy downpour, as one can possibly
imagine.
The dolphin's love of music, again, was a firm article of faith to the
ancients, and most of our readers are no doubt acquainted with the
story of the sweet singer, Arion, who, forced to leap into the sea to
escape the cruelty of the sailors, escaped to land on the back of a
dolphin--one of many that had long followed the ship in rapturous
appreciation of the sweet melodies of the singer; and how Arion--
"With harmonious strains
Requites his hearer for his friendly pains."
Another strange fish believed in by our forefathers was the Acipenser,
"a fish of an unnatural making and quality," as an old writer terms
him; and indeed he may very well do so, as we are told that "his
scales are all turned towards the head." We are not, therefore, much
surprised to learn that "he ever swimmeth against the stream," though
we might well be still more astonished if we ever found him swimming
at all.
The Remora. This was held to affix itself so firmly to a ship that
neither wind nor waves could dislodge it, while its presence (even
worse than that of the more prosaic barnacles and other sea
impedimenta that plague the modern shipowner by fouling the bottom of
his good ship, and so retarding her course) brought the voyage to an
abrupt conclusion. Pliny indeed only says that "there is a little
fish, keeping ordinarily about rockes, named Echeneis. It is thought
that if it settle and sticke to the keele of a ship under water, it
goeth the slower by that meanes," whereupon it is called the
stay-ship. But all these marvels have a wonderful way of growing more
and more marvellous, and subsequent writers, not content with merely
impeding the vessels in their increasingly wondrous stories, soon
accredited the remora with the much more striking power of altogether
arresting their progress. We see a relic and survival of this old
belief in the following lines of Ben Jonson--
"I say a remora,
For it will stay a ship that's under sail."
And again much more elaborately worked out in Spenser's "Visions of
the World's Vanity"--
"Looking far forth into the ocean wide,
A goodly ship, with banners bravely dight,
And flag in her top-gallant, I espied,
Through the main sea making her merry flight;
Fair blew the wind into her bosom right,
And th' heavens looked lovely all the while,
That she did seem to dance as in delight,
And at her own felicity did smile;
All suddenly there clove unto her keel
A little fish that men call Remora,
Which stopt her course, and held her by the heel,
That wind nor tide could move her thence away.
Strange thing me seemeth that so small a thing
Should able be so great an one to wring."
We have already seen how Leviathan, according to the Talmud, is to
form a feast for the Saints; and on turning to the Koran we find a
very similar belief, for the food of Mohammed's Paradise is to
consist, we are there told, of the flesh of the ox Balam and of the
fish Nun. To allay any apprehension on the part of the faithful that
these viands will not "go round," as a schoolboy would say, we are
reassured on reading that the liver alone of the fish Nun will supply
an adequate portion for seventy thousand hungry souls.
[Illustration: {THE SEA-LION}]
The vastness and mystery of the depths of the sea has naturally led to
their being peopled at all ages and amidst almost all peoples with
strange and monstrous forms like the Chilon, fish-like in body, but
having the head of a man; or the Dies, the creature of a day, whose
life's span ran its course in the hours between the rising and the
setting of the sun; or more rarely with forms of more poetic beauty,
like those sweet water-wagtails, the mermaidens we have already
alluded to. Our illustration is a representation of the sea lion as
believed in, or at least delineated, by the author of one of the
mediæval treatises on more or less natural history that has come under
our notice. Ælian describes fish having the heads of lions, rams, and
so forth; and it is, of course, sufficiently evident that when a man
has once got upon that train of ideas there is nothing to hinder his
turning the whole "Zoological Gardens" into the shadowy depths of
ocean, and evolving from his inner consciousness not only camel-fish
or gazelle-fish, but fifty other equally striking creations. Rondelet,
in a book published in the year 1554, gives sufficiently strange
illustrations of sea-bishops and sea-monks; and another mediæval
writer, Francisci Boussetti, represents in all good faith other forms
equally bizarre; but the greatest storehouse by far, so far as our own
experience of these old authors goes, is to be found in the "Historia
Monstrorum" of Aldrovandus, a book most copiously illustrated, and
full of the most extraordinary conglomerations of diverse creatures,
or of wild imaginings that find no counterpart in any way in Nature at
all. Of these we need give but one example, the very peculiar biped
here represented.
[Illustration: {THE HARPY}]
Most of us, even the veriest landsmen, must have heard of "Davy
Jones's Locker," though few could give it a "local habitation" as well
as "a name." Almost all superstitious people--and certainly sailors as
a body may be classed as such--have a great objection to telling their
beliefs to those whom they think will not receive their communications
in a sympathetic spirit; hence it is often exceedingly difficult in
most cases to arrive at all at a satisfactory conclusion, as, even
after an explanation has been given, we find that what we were told
was a mere putting off of the matter at issue, and their real belief
has all the time been concealed from us. The following explanation of
the seaman's phrase we give for what it is worth, which in our humble
opinion is not much. We are told that Jones is a corruption of Jonah
the prophet, while _deva_ or _duffa_ amongst the natives of the West
India islands is a spirit or ghost. The sailor's locker, we are all
aware, is the one place on board where his private possessions are
more or less safe, so that when we hear of an unfortunate having gone
to Davy Jones's Locker, we may conclude that he is believed to have
gone to some far-down place of safe-keeping in the Spirit-world, as
Jonah, by inference, did. It is, however, a decidedly weak point in
this explanation that Jonah, whatever may have been his experiences in
the depths of the sea, soon exchanged his temporary "locker" for dry
land again, and was no doubt ultimately gathered to his fathers in the
bosom of mother-earth. Smollett, in his "Peregrine Pickle," ignores
all reference to the faithless prophet, and, without seeking out the
why or the wherefore of the name, goes, we think, very much more
directly to the point when he writes--"This same Davy Jones, according
to the mythology of sailors, is the fiend that presides over all the
evil spirits of the deep, and is seen in various shapes, warning the
devoted wretch of death and woe." Like the Irish Church and many other
venerable institutions, Davy is now probably disestablished, or
shelved like some fine old admiral on the half-pay list, though it
would be interesting to hear the opinion of some navy chaplain on the
point, as these old superstitions die very hardly, and at times rather
clash with more orthodox theology.
The widespread worship of the serpent is a subject of the greatest
interest, though it would take us far away from our present subject if
we dwelt at length upon it. The place held by the serpent in ancient
mythologies has, however, caused the creature to pass far from the
region of commonplace zoological fact into the realm of myth.
One old belief more precise than nice was that the serpent first
vomits forth its venom before drinking, in order that it may not
poison itself by swallowing it; while another curious belief was, that
sleeping children whose ears were licked by serpents thereby received
the gift of foretelling future events. Cassandra was said thus,
amongst other less famous personages more or less believed in by the
ancients, to have received the gift of prophecy.
In Squier's "Serpent Worship in America" many legends are given that
admirably illustrate the feelings of the North American aborigines,
the Peruvians, Mexicans, and other dwellers on that continent with
regard to the great serpent that typifies to them, as to so many other
races, the great Evil Power.
One of these, an Ojibiway legend, we must venture on quoting, for,
somewhat lengthy as it is, it supplies an excellent illustration of
this belief in the malign power of the serpent, and incidentally gives
an echo of the widespread belief in a deluge, a belief extending from
the legends of the Far West to those of distant China.
The Indian legend runs as follows:--"One day, on returning to his
lodge in the wilderness after a long journey, Manabazho, the great
teacher, missed from it his young cousin: he called his name aloud,
but received no answer. He looked around on the sand for the tracks of
his feet, and he there for the first time discovered the trail of
Meshekenabek, the Great Serpent. He then knew that his cousin had been
seized by his great enemy. He armed himself and followed on his track:
he passed the great river and crossed mountains and valleys to the
shores of the deep and gloomy lake, now called Manitou Lake, Spirit
Lake, or the Lake of Devils. The trail of Meshekenabek led to the edge
of the water. At the bottom of this lake was the dwelling of the
serpent, and it was filled with evil spirits, his attendants and
companions. Their forms were monstrous and terrible, but most, like
their master, bore the semblance of serpents. In the centre of this
horrible assemblage was Meshekenabek himself, coiling his voluminous
folds round the cousin of Manabazho. His head was red as with blood,
and his eyes were fierce and glowed like fire: his body was all over
armed with hard and glistening scales of every shade and colour.
Manabazho looked down upon the writhing spirits of evil, and he vowed
deep revenge. He directed the clouds to disappear from the heavens,
the winds to be still, and the air to become stagnant over the lake of
the Manitous, and bade the sun shine on it with all its fierceness;
for thus he sought to drive his enemy forth to seek the cool shadows
of the trees that grew upon its banks, so that he might be able to
take vengeance upon him.
"Meanwhile Manabazho seized his bow and arrows, and placed himself
near the spot where he deemed the serpents would come to enjoy the
shade; he then transformed himself into the stump of a withered tree,
that his enemies might not discover his presence. The winds became
still, the air stagnant, the sun shone hot upon the lake of the evil
Manitous. By-and-by the waters became troubled, and bubbles rose to
the surface, for the rays of the hot sun penetrated to the horrible
brood within its depths. The commotion increased, and a serpent lifted
up its head high above the centre of the lake and gazed around the
shores. Directly another came to the surface, and they listened for
the footsteps of Manabazho; but they heard him nowhere on the face of
the earth, and they said one to another, 'Manabazho sleeps,' and then
they plunged again beneath the waters, which seemed to hiss as they
closed over them. It was not long before the Lake of Manitous became
more troubled than before; it boiled from its very depths, and the hot
waves dashed wildly against the rocks on its shores. The commotion
increased, and soon Meshekenabek, the Great Serpent, emerged slowly to
the surface and moved toward the shore. His blood-red crest glowed
with a deeper hue, and the reflection from his glancing scales was
like the blinding glitter of a snow-covered forest beneath the morning
sun of winter. He was followed by all the evil spirits, so great a
number that they covered the shores of the lake with their foul and
trailing carcases. They saw the broken, blasted stump into which
Manabazho had transformed himself, and suspecting it might be one of
his disguises, one of them approached and wound his tail around it,
and sought to drag it down, but Manabazho stood firm, though he could
hardly refrain from crying aloud.
"The Great Serpent wound his vast folds among the trees of the forest,
and the rest also sought the shade, while one was left to listen for
the steps of Manabazho. When they all slept Manabazho drew an arrow
from his quiver; he placed it in his bow, and aimed it where he saw
the heart beat against the sides of the Great Serpent. He launched it,
and with a howl that shook the mountains and startled the wild beasts
in their caves, the monster awoke, and, followed by its frightened
companions, uttering mingled sounds of rage and terror, plunged again
into the lake. When the Great Serpent knew that he was mortally
wounded, both he and the evil spirits around him were rendered tenfold
more terrible by their great wrath, and they arose to overwhelm
Manabazho. The water of the lake swelled upwards from its dark depths,
and with a sound like many thunders it rolled madly on his track,
bearing the rocks and trees before it with resistless fury. High on
the crest of the foremost wave, black as the midnight, rode the
writhing form of the wounded Meshekenabek, and red eyes glared around
him, and the hot breaths of the monstrous brood hissed fiercely after
the retreating Manabazho. Then thought Manabazho of his Indian
children, and he ran by their villages, and in a voice of alarm bade
them flee to the mountains, for the Great Serpent was deluging the
earth in his expiring wrath, sparing no living thing. The Indians
caught up their children, and wildly sought safety where he bade them.
"Manabazho continued his flight along the base of the western hills,
and finally took refuge on a high mountain beyond Lake Superior, far
to the North. There he found many men and animals who had fled from
the flood that already covered the valleys and plains, and even the
highest hills. Still the waters continued to rise, and soon all the
mountains were overwhelmed, save that on which stood Manabazho. Then
he gathered together timber and made a raft, upon which the men and
women and the animals that were with him all placed themselves. No
sooner had they done so than the rising floods closed over the
mountain, and they floated alone on the surface of the waters. And
thus they floated many days; and some died, and the rest became
sorrowful, and reproached Manabazho that he did not disperse the
waters and renew the earth, that they might live. But though he knew
that his great enemy was by this time dead, yet could he not renew the
world unless he had some earth in his hands wherewith to commence the
work. This he explained to those who were with him, and he said that
were it ever so little, even a few grains, then could he disperse the
waters and renew the world.
"The beaver then volunteered to go to the bottom of the deep and get
some earth, and they all applauded her design. She plunged in, and
they waited long: when she returned she was dead; they opened her
hands, but there was no earth in them. 'Then,' said the otter, 'will I
seek the earth,' and the bold swimmer dived from the raft. The otter
was gone still longer than the beaver, but when he returned to the
surface he too was dead, and there was no earth in his claws.
"'Who shall find the earth?' exclaimed all those on the raft, 'now
that the beaver and the otter are dead?' 'That will I,' said the
musk-rat, and he quickly disappeared between the logs of the raft. The
musk-rat was gone very much longer than the otter, and it was thought
that he would never return, when he suddenly rose close by, but he was
too weak to speak, and he swam slowly towards the raft. He had hardly
got upon it when he too died from his great exertion. They opened his
little hands, and there, closely clasped between the fingers, they
found a few grains of fresh earth. These Manabazho carefully collected
and dried in the sun, and then he rubbed them into fine powder in his
palms, and rising up he blew them abroad upon the waters. No sooner
was this done than the flood began to subside, and soon the trees on
the mountains were seen, and then the mountains and hills emerged from
the deep, and the plains and the valleys came into view, and the
waters disappeared from the land. Then it was found that the Great
Serpent, Meshekenabek, was dead, and that the evil Manitous, his
companions, had returned to the depths of the Lake of Spirits, from
which, for the fear of Manabazho, they never more dared to come
forth. In gratitude to the beaver, the otter, and the musk-rat, these
animals were ever after held sacred by the Indians, and they became
their brethren; and they were never killed nor molested until the
medicine-men of the stranger made them forget their relations and
turned their hearts to ingratitude."
As we propose to deal, in conclusion, with some few examples of the
fabledom that has grown around various plants, we may fitly usher in
this new section of our subject with some little account of the old
belief that the barnacle-shells of our shores, or, as some writers
held, a tree called the barnacle-tree, developed into Solan-geese,[34]
as the transition from the mythical animal kingdom to the fabulous
vegetable kingdom will thus be rendered less abrupt.
[34] "From the most refined of saints
As naturally grow miscreants,
As barnacles turn Solan-geese
In the islands of the Orcades."
--_Hudibras._
[Illustration: {THE BARNACLE TREE}]
This barnacle-goose tree was a great article of faith with our
ancestors in the Middle Ages. Gerarde, for example, in his History of
Plants gives an illustration of it in all good faith--a branch bearing
barnacles and by its side a barnacle goose. Following, however, the
plan we have adopted throughout of going directly to the
fountain-head, Gerarde shall give us his own description of this
wonder of Nature. We may, however, point out before doing so that the
error arose from a near resemblance of two distinct words suggesting
that there must be an identity of nature in the things so named. A
common kind of shell was in the Middle Ages called pernacula, while
the Solan-goose, in France called the barnache, was the bernacula.
Both words being popularly corrupted into barnacle, it was natural
that the two things should be considered as identical. Gerarde saves
this crowning wonder until the end of his book, and then discourses as
follows concerning it:--"Hauing trauelled from the grasses growing in
the bottom of the fenny waters, the woods, and mountaines, euen vnto
Libanus it selfe; and also the sea, and bowels of the same, wee are
arriued at the end of our Historie: thinking it not impertinent to the
conclusion of the same, to end with one of the maruells of this land
(we may say of the world). The historie whereof to set forth according
to the worthinesse and raritie thereof would not only require a large
and peculiar volume, but also a deeper search into the bowels of
nature than mine intended purpose wil suffer me to wade into, my
sufficience also considered; leauing the historie thereof rough hewen
unto some excellent men, learned in the secrets of nature, to be both
fined and refined: in the meantime take it as it falleth out, the
naked and bare truth, though vnpolished. There are found in the North
parts of Scotland and the Island adiacient, called Orchades, certain
trees whereon do grow certaine shells of a white colour tending to
russet, wherein are contained little liuing creatures, which shells in
time of maturitie do open, and out of them do grow those little liuing
things, which falling in the water do become fowles, which we call
Barnakles; in the North of England trant geese, and in Lancashire tree
geese; but the other that do fall vpon the land perish and come to
nothing. Thus much by the writings of others, and also from the mouths
of people of those parts, which may very well accord with truth.
"But what our eyes have seene and hands haue touched we shall declare.
There is a small Island in Lancashire called the pile of Foulders,
wherein are found the broken pieces of old and bruised ships, some
whereof have been cast thither by Shipwracke, and also the trunks and
bodies with the branches of old and rotten trees cast up there
likewise; whereon is found a certain spume or froth that in time
breedeth vnto certain shels in shape like those of the Muskle, but
sharper pointed and of a whitish colour, wherein is contained a thing
in forme like a lace of silke finely wouen as it were together, one
end thereof is fastened vnto the belly of a rude masse or lumpe, which
in time commeth to the shape and forme of a Birde. When it is
perfectly formed the shell gapeth open, and the first thing that
appeareth is the foresaid lace or string; next come the legs of the
bird hanging out, and as it groweth greater it openeth the shell by
degrees til at length it is all come forth and hangeth onely by the
bill; in short space after it commeth to full maturitie and falleth
into the sea, where it gathereth feathers and groweth to a fowle
bigger than a Mallard and lesser than a goose, hauing blacke legs, and
bill and beake, and feathers blacke and white spotted in such manner
as is our magpie, which the people of Lancashire call by no other name
than a tree goose: which place aforesaid and all those parts adjoining
do so much abound thereinth that one of the best is bought for three
pence. For the truth hereof, if any doubt, may it please them to
repaire unto me, and I shall satisfie them by the testimonie of good
witnesses.
"Moreover it would seeme that there is another sort hereof; the
historie of which is true and of mine owne knowledge: for trauelling
vpon the shore of our English coast betweene Douer and Rumney, I found
the trunke of an olde rotten tree, which (with some helpe that I
procured by fishermen's wives that were there attending their husbands
returne from the sea) we drew out of the water upon dry land: vpon
this rotten tree I found growing many thousands of long crimson
bladders, in shape like vnto puddings newly filled, which were very
clear and shining: at the nether end whereof did grow a shell fish
fashioned somewhat like a small Muskle, but much whiter, resembling a
shell fish that groweth vpon the rokes about Garnsey and Garsey,
called a lympit. Many of these shells I brought with me to London,
which after I had opened I found in them liuing things without form or
shape: in others which were nearer come to ripeness I found liuing
things that were very naked, shaped like a bird: in others the birds
couered with soft downe, the shell halfe open and the bird ready to
fall out, which no doubt were the fowles called Barnakles. I dare not
absolutely avouch euery circumstance of the first part of this history
concerning the tree that beareth those buds aforesaid, but will leave
it to a further consideration, howbeit that which I have seen with
mine eyes and handled with mine hands, I dare confidently avouch and
boldly put down for veritie.
"They spawn as it were in March and Aprille: the geese are formed in
May and June and come to fulnesse of feathers in the moneth after.
"And thus hauing through God's assistance discoursed somewhat at large
of Grasses, Herbes, Shrubs, Trees, and Mosses, and certain
Excrescences of the earth, with other things more incident to the
historie thereof, we conclude and end our present volume with this
wonder of England. For the which God's name be ever honored and
praised."
We extract the foregoing from the first edition of "Gerarde's Historie
of Plants," published in 1597. After his death Thomas Johnson,
"Citizen and Apothecarie of London," brought out another edition in
1633, and he adds the following note to Gerarde's statement:--"The
Barnakle, whose fabulous breed my Author here sets downe, and diuers
others haue also delieured, were found by some Hollanders to haue
another originall, and that by egges, as other birds haue; for they in
their third voyage to finde out the North-East passage to China and
the Moluccos about the eightieth degree and eleven minutes of
Northerly latitude, found two little islands, in the one of which they
found abundance of these geese sitting upon their egges, of which they
got one goose and tooke away sixty egges."
Parkinson, in his "Theater of Plants," published in 1640, gives a
picture of a barnacle-tree growing by the sea-shore, and several geese
swimming beneath it, at the end of the description of the 14th tribe
of plants, "Marsh Water, and Sea Plants, with Mosses and Mushromes."
Though the insertion of the woodcut, as our readers will see, would
give one at a casual glance the impression that he was a believer, his
comments are sufficiently indicative of his state of mind:--"To finish
this treatise of sea plants let me bring this admirable tale of
untruth to your consideration, that whatever hath formerly beene
related concerning the breeding of these Barnakles to be from shels
growing on trees, &c., is utterly erroneous, their breeding and
hatching being found out by the Dutch and others in their navigations
to the Northward, as that third of the Dutch in Anno 1536 doth
declare." As Gerarde's book was published after the Dutch narrative,
we can only conclude that he either had not seen it or that he is one
more illustration of the old saying that "A man convinced against his
will, remains the same opinion still."
[Illustration: {THE BARNACLE TREE}]
[Illustration: {THE BARNACLE TREE}]
In Munster's Cosmography, a book which was several times reprinted
between 1550 and 1570, we find an illustration of the wonderful
goose-yielding tree, which we here reproduce in facsimile. Munster
discourses as follows on the matter:--"In Scotland are found trees,
the fruit of which appears like a ball of leaves. This fruit, falling
at its proper time into the water below, becomes animated and turns to
a bird which they call the tree-goose. This tree also grows in the
island of Pomona, not far distant from Scotland towards the north."
Saxo Grammaticus, another old cosmographer, also mentions this tree.
Æneas Sylvius notices it too; he says--"We have heard that there was a
tree formerly in Scotland, which growing by the margin of a stream
produced fruit of the shape of ducks; that such fruit, when nearly
ripe, fell, some into the water and some on land. Such as fell on land
decayed, but such as fell into the water quickly became animated,
swimming below, and then flying into the air with feathers and wings.
When in Scotland, having made diligent enquiry concerning this matter
of King James, we found that the miracle always kept receding, as this
wonderful tree is not found in Scotland but in the Orcadian isles."
Æneas Sylvius, afterwards better known to the world as Pope Pius II.,
visited Scotland in the year 1448. His book is in the Latin tongue.
William Turner, one of the earliest writers on Ornithology, describes
the Bernacle goose as being produced from "something like a fungus
growing from old wood lying in the sea." He quotes Giraldus Cambrensis
as his authority for the statement, but says he, "As it seemed not
safe to popular report, and as, on account of the singularity of the
thing, I could not give entire credit to Giraldus, I, when thinking of
the subject of which I now write, asked a certain clergyman, named
Octavianus, by birth an Irishman, whom I knew to be worthy of credit,
if he thought the account of Giraldus was to be believed. He swearing
by the gospel, declared that what Giraldus had written about the
generation of this bird was most true; that he had himself seen and
handled the young unformed birds, and that if I should remain in
London a month or two he would bring me some of the brood." In Lobel
and Pena's "Stirpium Adversaria Nova," published in London in 1570,
there is a figure of the "Britannica Concha Anatifera" growing on a
stem from a rock, while beneath, in the water, ducks are swimming
about. In his description the writer refers to the accepted belief in
such a bird, but declines expressing an opinion of his own until he
shall have had an opportunity of visiting Scotland and judging for
himself. Ferrer de Valcebro, a Spanish writer who wrote a book on
birds in 1680, tells the story of the production from a tree of a bird
he calls the Barliata, and lectures his countrymen soundly at their
want of belief, and more than insinuates that it is not really so much
a want of faith as a contemptible jealousy because the wonder is not
found on Spanish soil.
A still more wonderful tree must be the Kalpa-Tarou mentioned in the
Hindu mythology, since from this can be gathered not only Solan-geese,
but what else may be desired. Whether so multitudinous an array of
articles as may be included in the idea of whatever any one and every
one, no matter how diverse their tastes may be, could desire, all hung
exposed to the view, like the varied display on a Christmas-tree, or
whether they sprang into existence as called for, we are unable to
say. In either case the tree would be a most valuable possession; the
housewife would no longer have to wait for the plums or raspberries to
ripen for jam-making, but could at once, even in midwinter, replenish
her waning stores with an abundant supply all ready-made; while the
connoisseur of choice old etchings, the collectors of rare coins, or
the schoolboy earnestly desiring a six-bladed knife could all equally
go away with their varied requirements met. The tree is also called
the tree of the imagination; and it might, we fear, be equally called
the imaginary tree, as all the resources of science are strained in
vain to tell us anything more definite about it.
Mohammed tells us in the Koran that a Lote-tree stands in the seventh
heaven on the right hand of the throne of Allah, an idea derived, no
doubt, from that Tree of Life that bloomed a while in earthly Eden,
and that shall be found again in the celestial Paradise of God. The
mystical tree that passes out of sight in the earliest chapters of the
Bible as the woe descends upon mankind, and reappears at its close, is
the welcome symbol that the weary ages of sin and sorrow are at an end
for ever, that all tears shall be wiped from off all faces, that there
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: for all the
bitter past is over, and the former things are now for ever passed
away.
The sacred tree of the Assyrians, so often seen in the sculptures from
Nineveh and Kyonjik, the idolatrous groves of the Israelites, the
Hindu tree worship, all point to a most interesting symbolism that
would be out of place in our present pages, but that will afford
matter of the deepest interest to those who care to work the subject
out.
Our readers will no doubt remember the reference in Homer's Odyssey to
the Lotophagi, the people who eat of the lotus-tree, and in so doing
forgot their friends and homes in their far-off land, losing all
desire to return to their native shores, and caring for nought but to
rest in ease in the benumbing pleasures of Lotus-land.
The immortal Amaranth, "a flower which once in Paradise, fast by the
tree of life, began to bloom, but soon for man's offence to Heaven
removed," must not be omitted from our pages. Clement of Alexandria
refers to it as the _Amarantus flos, symbolum immortalitatis_, and it
was thus received for centuries. The name is from the Greek word for
immortal, and was bestowed upon it from its never-withering flowers of
ruby red. Felicia Hemans, amongst others, refers to it in her fine
poem on "Elysium:"--
"Fair wert thou, in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers,
And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers!
Where, as they passed, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things."
We could not forbear quoting the opening lines, but the reference we
seek occurs a few verses farther on, in allusion to those--
"Who, called and severed from the countless dead,
Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell
And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale."
The passage in our New Testament translated "A crown of glory that
fadeth not away" is in the original Greek "The amaranthine crown of
glory." Milton is frequently found to use the word; it occurs several
times in the "Paradise Lost." The following fine passage from the
third book of that poem will sufficiently well illustrate his
application of it--
"The multitude of angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy. Heaven rang
With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled
The eternal regions. Lowly reverent
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration, down they cast
Their crowns inwove with amaranth and gold--
Immortal amaranth."
This plant Milton represents as "shading the fount of life," and with
its blood-red flowers--
"With these, that never fade, the spirits elect
Bind their resplendent locks."
The Egyptians wreathed their dead in chaplets of the sacred lotus to
prepare their spirits for entrance into the presence of the great
Osiris. Several other plants, however, were also employed, but whether
their employment was symbolic or not we have no means of ascertaining.
Amongst the various vegetable curiosities and treasures,--seeds,
gums, wood-sections, and the like--preserved in the large Museum at
Kew, will be found--though thousands tramp by them unknowingly--what
we may almost venture to call some of the most wonderful things in the
world. They are but chaplets, wreaths, and garlands of dried leaves
and flowers, until presently we realise that we are gazing on
memorials of the dead that were buried with them more than a thousand
years before the Christian era. The imagination is then awed as our
thoughts attempt to bridge over the interval of two thousand years
between these present days and that far-off morning in the childhood
of the world when the beautiful fresh flowers of the blue lotus of the
Nile were placed in the coffin of Rameses II. Almost all the history
of the world has been made since those fragile emblems of passing
beauty were laid in the tomb. Empires and monarchies have risen,
flourished, and decayed in the interval, and yet this very day, within
a mile of where we write these lines, remain, with all their solemn
teaching, these wreaths of flowers gathered in the sunshine of old
Egypt twenty centuries ago.
"The past is but a gorgeous dream,
And time glides by us like a stream,
While musing on thy story,
And sorrow prompts a deep alas!
That like a pageant thus should pass
To wreck all human glory."
Changeless in the midst of mighty changes, these delicate petals are
far more wonderful even than the great monuments of Egypt, its
pyramids, temples, and obelisks, wonderful as these are, for on those
Time has worked with its corroding tooth, while on these it has had
but little power. Changeless, again, in all their pristine and
God-given beauty, while all the fashions of earth have passed through
their kaleidoscope changes, "to one thing constant never," these
beautiful lilies of the Nile yet expand their petals every year at Kew
within a short distance of these dried flowers of the same species
that sprang into existence in the far-off river of Egypt in the dim
centuries of the mighty past.[35]
[35] Appendix S.
The Asphodel, referred to by Homer and many later poets, was a plant
having edible roots that were laid in the tombs of the dead to nourish
the departed spirit in its wanderings in the dim world of shadows.
Lucian has a very good illustrative passage that we may here quote.
The words are put into the mouth of Charon, and are as follows:--"Down
here with us there is nothing to be had but asphodel, and libations
and oblations, and that in the midst of mist and darkness; but up in
heaven it is all bright and clear, and plenty of ambrosia there, and
nectar without stint." The plant referred to by the classic poets was
supposed to be the narcissus, but in mediæval days the wild daffodil
was intended, at least by the poets, while the herbalists were all at
sea in the matter, and applied the name to several different plants.
Gerarde, in his "Historie of Plants," refers to Galen as an authority,
quoting from his "Faculties of Nourishments" in defence of the plant
he selects, but does not seem to have heard of the old belief in its
forming a food for the immortals, and can indeed give it no higher
effect in staying the ravages of time and decay than that "the ashes
of this Bulbe mixed with oile and hens grease cureth the falling of
the haire." Parkinson, in his "Theatrum Botanicum," brings the plant
down to a still lower level, and not only sees no poetry in it, but
rather more than hints at a fraud, for he says--"The countrey people
know no other name thereof or propertie appropriate unto it but
knavery, which, whether they named it so in knavery, or knew any use
of knavery in it, I neither can learn nor am much inquisitive
thereafter."
We may here remark parenthetically that the old herbals are full of
the most delightfully quaint reading, and are often freely illustrated
with pictures at least as curious, the frontispieces especially being
of the most elaborate and allegorical nature. The "Rariorum Plantarum
Historia" of Clusius is now before us as we write, and we learn from
its title-page that it was published at Antwerp in the year 1601. We
have Adam on one side, in the simplicity of costume of Eden's earliest
days, and on the other Solomon, with crown and royal robes and
sceptre, bearing in his hands a book. Adam is claimed by the mediæval
herbalists as not only a tiller of the ground, but also as a student
of botanical science, while Solomon, we all remember, wrote a treatise
that dealt with plants, from the lordly cedar to the lowly hyssop of
the wall. Above Adam, in a pot, is a Turk's-cap lily, and by his side
is the fritillary, while Solomon has associated with him the cyclamen
and the crown imperial. The illustrations in the body of the book are
very numerous and quaint, and, though the book, it will be remembered,
is a history of rare plants, include such common things as the marsh
marigold, the bindweed, and the yellow loosestrife. Clusius, or
Charles d'Ecluse, to give him his true name, was a Dutch botanist,
born 1526, died 1609. He was for some time the director of the
Botanical Garden at Vienna, and afterwards the Professor of Botany at
Leyden University, where he died.
The Herbal published by Matthiolus at Venice in the year 1633 is a
particularly fine book. The illustrations are very large, very
numerous, and very good. Another interesting book to see is that of
Dodoens, translated by Henry Lyte, "Armigeri, Somersetensis, Angli."
The title-page of our copy of the work runs as follows:--"A Nievve
Herball, or Historie of Plantes: vvherein is contayned the vvhole
discourse and perfect description of all sortes of Herbes and Plantes:
their diuers and sundry kindes: their straunge Figures, Fashions, and
Shapes: their Names, Natures, Operations, and Vertues: and that not
onely of those whiche are here growyng in this our Countrie of
Englande but of all others also of forrayne Realmes commonly vsed in
Physicke. First set foorth in the Doutche or Almaigne tongue, by that
learned D. Rembert Dodoens, Physition to the Emperour, and nowe first
translated out of French into English, by Henry Lyte, Esquyer. At
London by me Gerard Dewes, dwelling in Pawles Churchyarde at the signe
of the Swanne, 1578."
Still earlier in time is "The Vertuose Boke of Distyllacyon of the
waters of all maner of Herbes, first compyled by Jherom Bruynswyke,
and now newly translated out of Duyche, by Lawrence Andrew," the
edition before us being published in London in the year 1527.
In 1551 we find the first appearance of Turner's Herbal, a book that
was for a long time a standard authority. It is divided into three
sections--
(1.) "A New Herball, wherein are conteyned the names of Herbes in
Greke, Latin, Englysh, Duch, Frenche, and in the Potecaries and
Herbaries Latin, with the properties, degrees, and naturall places of
the same, gathered and made by Wylliam Turner, Physicion unto the Duke
of Somersettes Grace, imprinted at London, by Steven Mierdman, Anno
1551.
(2.) A Book of the natures and properties as well as of the bathes of
England as of other bathes in Germany and Italy, etc., by William
Turner, Doctor of Physik, imprinted at Collen, by Arnold Birckman, in
the year of our Lorde, MDLXII.
(3.) A most excellent and perfecte homish apothecarye, etc.,
translated out of the Almaine Speche into English, by John Hollybush,
imprinted at Collen by Arnold Birckman, MDLXI."
The latter part of this "homely physick booke for all the grefes and
diseases of the bodye" was really the work, so far at least as
translation went, of Miles Coverdale, the notable divine and
translator of the Bible, Hollybush being merely a pseudonym.
The only other quaint old tome that we need here refer to, though, of
course, it must be clearly understood that we have named but a few of
the delightful old books on plant-lore that have come down to us, is
the somewhat specialised work of Newton. Its title is as follows:--
"An Herbal for the Bible, containing a plaine and familiar exposition
of such Similitudes, Parables, and Metaphors, both in the Olde
Testament and the Newe, as are borrowed and taken from Herbs, Plants,
Trees, Fruits, and Simples, by observation of their vertues,
qualities, natures, properties, operations and effects: and by the
Holie Prophets, Sacred Writers, Christ Himselfe, and His blessed
Apostles usually alledged, and into their heauenly Oracles, for the
better beautifieng and plainer opening of the same, profitably
inserted. Drawen into English by Thomas Newton, imprinted at London by
Edmund Bollifant, 1587."
The Ambrosia often referred to by the old writers and by more modern
poets was originally the food of the gods, nectar being the drink. It
is in this sense referred to by Homer and Ovid, though afterwards the
two ingredients of the Olympian bill of fare became a good deal
confused together; thus in the beautiful fable of Cupid and Psyche, in
the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, we find Jupiter conferred on Psyche the
gift of immortality by giving her a cup of ambrosia to drink. The term
was also sometimes used as descriptive of anything delicious to the
taste, fragrant in perfume, or welcome to the eye, from the idea that
whatever was used by the immortals, associated with them as an
attribute, or that would be grateful in any way to them must be
surpassingly excellent. Thus we read in the Iliad of the "ambrosial
curls" of Zeus, a somewhat extreme case of departure from the
ordinarily limited sense in which the word was most commonly used.[36]
As the word ambrosia means literally "not mortal," it could evidently
in this more extended sense be applied by Homer with perfect propriety
to the curls or aught else that pertained to the ruler of Olympus.
[36] "He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows,
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate and sanction of the god:
High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the centre shook."
--_Iliad_, Book I. lines 683-87.
In the South Kensington Museum may be seen a picture by Francis Danby,
bearing the title of "The Upas-tree of the Island of Java." The whole
picture is exceedingly dark, but one can just discern in the centre of
it the form of a tree, and around this are human bodies and skeletons.
The myth of the upas has been created on the very smallest data, and
furnishes a striking example of how great a structure of error, not to
say gross and wilful exaggeration, can be reared on a basis of truth.
The neighbourhood of the tree is unhealthy, not on account of anything
in the tree itself, but because it grows in the hot and humid valleys
of Java, rank with malaria and fever. A Dutch physician, named
Foersch, published in 1783 a narrative of his visit to the island, and
amongst his wild statements we find that where the upas grows "not a
tree or blade of grass is to be found in the valley or the surrounding
mountains, not a bird, beast, reptile, or living thing lives in its
neighbourhood." He adds that "on one occasion 1600 refugees encamped
within fourteen miles of it, and all but 300 died within two months:"
this might easily arise from the malarial vapours, but his picture of
the tree standing in the midst of the desolation it had itself created
is utterly at variance with the facts. So entirely do the actual facts
belie the legend that nothing prospers in its neighbourhood, it is
found in the midst of the rich vegetation of the tropics, while the
birds perch in its ample branches, and the wild beasts prowl beneath
them. So far is it from being the case, to quote one of our own poets,
that "Fierce in dead silence on the blasted heath fell upas sits, the
hydra tree of death,"--the last relic of the marvellous is gone, when
we recall the fact that thousands of holiday-makers have passed
harmlessly through the hothouses at Kew, where a specimen of the plant
may be seen, and that the refugees from London more or less
permanently encamped within a mile or two of it have so far escaped
damage from its proximity. The Upas belongs to the same family as the
invaluable bread-fruit and cow-tree, but, instead of possessing their
beneficent properties, yields, when wounded, a thick milky fluid of a
very poisonous nature, and which is employed by the natives on their
arrows and spear-heads with deadly effect.
The first published account of the Upas-tree will be found in De Brys
"India Orientalis," but the scanty particulars of the earlier author
become considerably amplified in Sir Thomas Herbert's book of
travels, published in London in the year 1634, and entitled
"Relations of some yeares Travaile." A little later on, in 1688, we
find the tree again referred to in the "Description historique du
Royaume de Macaçar" of Father Gervaise. The author, who had really
resided in Macassar for several years, affirms that the mere touch or
smell of some of the poisons produced by the natives is sufficient to
produce death, and one of the most deadly of these was said by him to
be produced from the sap of the Upas. He tells us that arrows dipped
in this juice were as fatal in their effects twenty years afterwards
as at their first preparation. In Koempfer's book, published in the
year 1712, we have the plant again described; a large mixture of fable
is at once apparent, but much of this he gives on the authority of the
natives, and he takes occasion to express his strong doubts of their
veracity. According to him, or them, the collection of the sap is
attended with imminent peril, for not only must the seeker after the
tree penetrate far into places infested with wild beasts, but he must,
when he has found the object of his search, be careful to pierce it on
the side from whence the wind blows, or he would quickly be suffocated
by the noxious effluvia given forth when the tree is wounded.
"Lo! from one root, the envenomed soil below,
A thousand vegetative serpents grow;
In shining rays the scaly monster spreads
O'er ten square leagues his far-diverging heads;
Or in one trunk entwists his tangled form,
Looks o'er the clouds and hisses in the storm.
Steeped in fell poison, as his sharp teeth part,
A thousand tongues in quick vibration dart;
Snatch the proud eagle towering o'er the heath,
Or pounce the lion, as he stalks beneath;
Or strew, as marshall'd hosts contend in vain,
With human skeletons the whitened plain."
Apart from the evil influence exerted on Europeans by climatic and
miasmatic drawbacks, the mountain of mystery that has been reared
around the dread name of Upas has but little foundation in fact. Its
juice is very plentifully yielded, and is of a virulently poisonous
character, and even its smell is injurious. In clearing ground near
the Upas the natives dread to approach it on this account; but unless
the trunk is severely wounded or the tree felled the injurious effects
are in the imagination only, and the tree may be approached or
ascended with impunity. The Upas is one of the largest of the forest
trees of Java, and it is surrounded as other trees are with the usual
sturdy vegetation of the tropical wilderness.
The Rev. Dr. Parker, a well-known missionary in Madagascar, gives a
description of two trees that recall in their detail much that has
hitherto in an especial degree been ascribed to the Upas. In both
these species the leaf is spear-head shaped, dark green in colour,
very glossy in surface, and very hard and brittle to the touch, and
both exude a thick milky juice, while the fruit is like a long black
pod, the end being red. One species is a tree with large leaves and a
somewhat peculiar stem, as the bark hangs down in long flakes and
shows a fresh growth of bark forming beneath and preparing to take the
place of the old bark as it falls. The other species is a shrub, with
smaller leaves, and the bark not peeling off the stem. Both species
are said to possess the power of poisoning any living creatures that
approach them, the symptoms of poisoning being severe headache,
bloodshot eyes, and a delirium that is presently hushed in death.
These trees are natives of Zululand, and only a few persons are
believed to have the power of collecting the fruits of the Umdhlebi,
and these dare not approach the tree except from the windward side.
They also sacrifice a goat or sheep to the demon of the tree. The
fruit is collected for the purpose of being used as an antidote to the
poisonous effects of the tree from whence they fall, for only the
fallen fruit may be collected. As regards habitat, these trees grow on
all kinds of soil, but the tree-like species prefers barren and rocky
ground. In consequence of the fears of the natives the country around
one of these trees is always uninhabited, although in other respects
fertile and desirable.
In Persia, we are told, there is a plant, the Kerzereh flower, that
loads the air with deathly odour, and that if a man inhales the hot
south wind that passes over these flowers during June and July it
kills him. Moore, in his Poem of "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,"
alludes to this belief in the lines--
"With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale,
The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil
From whence these words, like south winds through a fence
Of Kerzrah flowers, came filled with pestilence."
The Mandrake, a plant belonging to the same natural order as the
deadly nightshade, henbane, and thorn-apple, had in the Middle Ages
many mystic properties assigned to it. The roots are often forked, and
when either by nature or art they could be supposed to roughly
resemble a man it was looked upon as a talisman securing good fortune
to its possessor. The belief in the narcotic and stupefying properties
of the plant is referred to in Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra,"
in the lines--
"Give me to drink mandragora
That I might sleep out this great gap of time
My Antony is away"--
and again in "Othello"--
"Not poppy, not mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep."
The victories of the Maid of Orleans over the English were ascribed to
her possession of a mandrake root. Gerarde, writing in the year 1633,
says that the root is long and thick, and divided into two or three
parts; but as to its resemblance to a man, "it is no otherwise than in
the roots of carrots, parsnips and such like forked or divided into
two or more parts, which nature taketh no account of. There hath been
many ridiculous tales brought up of this plant, whether of old wiues
or some runnagate Surgeons or physicke-mongers I know not, but sure
some one or more that sought to make themselves famous and skilful
aboue others were the first broachers of that error. They adde
further, that it is never or very seldome to be found growing
naturally but under a gallows.[37] They fable further and affirme that
he who would take vp a plant thereof must tie a dog there unto to pull
it up, which will giue a great shreeke at the digging vp, otherwise if
a man should do it he should surely die in short space after. All of
which dreames and old wiues fables you shall from henceforth cast out
from your books and memory, knowing this that they are all and euery
part of them false and most untrue, for I my selfe and my seruants
also have digged up, planted and replanted very many and yet could
neuer perceiue shape of man. But the idle drones that have little or
nothing to do but to eat and drink have bestowed some of their time
in carving the roots of Brionie, which falsifying practice had
confirmed the errour amongst the simple and unlearned people who haue
taken them upon their report to be the true Mandrakes."[38] Parkinson
in like manner, in his "Theater of Plants," published in 1640, writes,
after describing the plant:--"Those idle forms of the mandrakes which
have beene exposed to view publikely both in ours and other lands and
countries are utterly deceitful, being the work of cuning knaves,
onely to get money by their forgery: do not misdoubt of this relation
no more than you would of any other plant set downe in this booke, for
it is the plaine truth whereon everyone may relie." The cry of the
mandrake is several times referred to by Shakespeare and others of our
poets; thus in "Romeo and Juliet" we get the line--
"Shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth"--
and in the second part of "King Henry VI." Suffolk exclaims--
"Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan."
[37] "It is supposed to be a creature having life, engendered under
the earth of some dead person, put to death for murder."--Thomas
Newton, "Herball to the Bible."
[38] "Like a man made after supper of a cheese paring; when he was
naked he was for all the world like a forked radish, with a head
fantastically carved upon it with a knife."--Second part of "King
Henry IV.," Act iii. scene 2.
It was believed that a small dose of the mandrake made persons proud
of their beauty, but that a larger quantity deprived them of their
senses still more completely, and made them yet more effectually
idiots.
Dr. Browne, in his gallant crusade against popular errors, says that
the resemblance of the mandrake to the human form "is a conceit not to
be made out by ordinary inspection, or any other eyes than such as
regarding the clouds behold them in shapes conformable to
pre-apprehension;" and as to the danger of gathering the plant, he
justly holds it "a conceit not only injurious unto truth and
confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory to the
providence of God: That is, not only to impose so destructive a
quality on any plant, but conceive a vegetable whose parts are useful
unto many should in the only taking up prove mortall unto any. To
think he suffereth the poison of Nubia to be gathered, yet not this to
be moved! That he permitteth arsenick and minerall poisons to be
forced from the bowells of the earth, yet not this from the surface
thereof! This were to introduce a second forbidden fruit and inhance
the first malediction; making it not only mortal for Adam to taste the
one, but capitall unto his posterity to eradicate the other."
The orthodox way of plucking up the mandrake was to stand to the
windward of it and, after drawing three circles round it with a naked
sword to dig it up with one's face looking to the west; the shrieks
that would follow were in any case a trial to weak nerves, and at an
earlier period were held to be fatal to the hearer. Philip de Thaun
gives the following stratagem as the only available way of becoming
the possessor of it:--"The man who is to gather it must fly round
about it, must take great care that he does not touch it, then let him
take a dog and let it be tied to it, which has been close shut up, and
has fasted for three days, and let it be shewn bread and called from
afar. The dog will draw it to him, the root will break, it will send
forth a cry, and the dog will fall down dead at the cry which he will
hear. Such vertue this herb has that no one can hear it but he must
always die, and if the man heard it he would directly die. Therefore
he must stop his ears, and take care that he hear not the cry lest he
die, as the dog will do which shall hear it. When one has this root it
is of great value for medicine, for it cures of every infirmity except
only death, where there is no help." The office of the herbalist was
no sinecure when such a task could be expected of him, as great care
had to be exercised not to touch the plant. The tying-up of the dog to
it must have been particularly risky, and the consequences of the dog
making a premature rush for the bread before the man had time to stop
his ears were especially alarming. The writings of De Thaun are full
of interesting matter, but his great object was to see in nature
figures and symbols of religious truths, hence his narratives have
often a somewhat forced character. Thus he tells us that "in India
there is a tree of which the fruit is so sweet that the doves of the
earth go seeking it above all things, they eat the fruit of it, seat
themselves in the tree, they are in repose as long as they are
sheltered by it. There is a dragon in the earth which makes war on the
birds; the dragon fears so much the tree, that on no acconnt dare it
approach it or touch the shadow, but it goes round at a distance, and,
if it can, does them injury. If the shadow is to the right then it
goes to the left, if it is to the left the dragon goes to the right.
The doves have so much understanding which are above in the tree when
they see the dragon go all around, which goes watching them, but it
does them no harm, nor will they ever have any harm as long as they
are in the tree, but when they leave the tree and depart, and the
dragon shall come then, it will kill them. This is a great meaning,
have it in remembrance." This Indian tree stands not obscurely for the
Saviour of the world, while the doves are His faithful ones sheltered
in Him from the wiles of the Evil One. When we read story after story
all equally _apropos_, we cannot help feeling that a pious fraud has
now and then been indulged in, and the comely whole has been attained
by a little judicious pruning in one direction, and a little forcing
in another, and thus we lose faith in them, at least as examples of
the current beliefs of our forefathers.
The Arabs call the mandrake the devil's candle, from a belief that the
leaves give out at night a phosphorescent light; and Moore, with his
usual felicity, has introduced the idea in his poem of the
"Fire-Worshippers:"--
"How shall she dare to lift her head,
Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare
Not Yeman's boldest sons can bear?
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells,
As in those hellish fires that light
The Mandrake's charnel leaves at night."
Another old name for the plant was the Enchanter's nightshade, though
that very suggestive and rather awe-inspiring title has in these later
days become somehow transferred to a very insignificant weed that is
common enough in some old gardens and on waste ground, but which is
all too small to bear so formidable a title.
The Hebrew word _Dudaim_ has, in Genesis and in the Song of Solomon,
been translated in the Authorised English Version of the Bible as the
mandrake, but this would appear to be nothing more than a guess,
various commentators, Calmet, Hasselquist, and others who have written
on the subject, not being by any means unanimous. Some tell us that
the term is a general one for flowers, while others translate it as
lilies, violets, or jessamine, or as figs, mushrooms, bananas,
citrons, or melons. Whence we may fairly conclude that no one really
knows, and that the whole matter resolves itself into a guess,
fortified more or less by dogmatic assertion as a make-weight for the
missing knowledge.
One of the most interesting of the old books on our shelves is the
"Miracles of Art and Nature, or a Brief Description of the several
varieties of Birds, Beasts, Fishes, Plants and Fruits of other
Countreys, together with several other Remarkable Things in the World,
By R. B. Gent." The author's name thus modestly veiled is Burton, and
the date of the book is 1678. In his preface he says--"I think there
is not a chapter wherein thou wilt not find various and remarkable
things worth thy observation," and this observation of his is strictly
within the truth. He arranges his short chapters geographically, but
in the most arbitrary way--not alphabetically, not according to the
natural grouping together of the countries of which he treats, nor
indeed according to any settled method. In fact, he is sufficiently
conscious of this, for, to quote his preface again, he says--"'Tis
probable they are _not_ so Methodically disposed as some hands might
have done, yet for Variety and pleasure sake they are pleasingly
enough intermixed." We open the book at random and find "Chap. XX.,
Castile in Spain; XXI., Norway; XXII., Zisca of Bohemia; XXIII.,
Assiria; XXIV., Quivira in California." Adopting his own random and
haphazard way of going to work, we will pluck from his quaint pages
some few of his botanical facts and fancies. His opening chapter deals
with Egypt, and in his description of the palm-tree he refers to a
very old belief that we may allow him to set forth in his own
words:--"It is the nature of this tree though never so ponderous a
weight were put upon it not to yield to the burthen, but still to
resist the heaviness, and endeavour to raise itself the more upward.
For this cause planted in Churchyards in the Eastern Countrys as an
Emblem of the Resurrection." A little further on, in his description
of Sumatra, we read of "a tree whose Western part is said to be rank
poyson and the Eastern part an excellent preservative against it," and
of "a sort of Fruit that whosoever eateth of it, is for the space of
twelve hours out of his Wits." Travellers' tales have sometimes
proverbially been difficult of belief, and it must have been some such
as these that procured them their evil report, for we read too that in
this same island "there is a river plentifully stored with Fish, whose
Water is so hot that it scalds the skin," and that "the cocks have a
hole in their backs, wherein the Hen lays her Eggs and hatches her
young ones." A few pages further on we read of a tree in Peru, "the
North part whereof looking towards the Mountains, brings forth its
Fruits in the Summer only; the Southern part looking towards the Sea,
fruitful only in Winter." Our old author evidently delights in sharp
contrasts. It is curious, however, that the Coca-leaf, which has
within the last few years been highly commended for those who have
exhausting exercise, is in this book of over 200 years old fully
referred to:--"The leaves whereof being dried and formed into little
pellets are exceedingly useful in a Journey; for melting in the mouth
they satisfie both hunger and thirst and preserve a man in his
strength, and his Spirits in Vigour; and are generally esteemed of
such sovereign use, that it is thought no less than 100,000 Baskets
full of the leaves of this tree are sold yearly at the Mines of
Potosia only. Another plant they tell us of, though there is no name
found for it, which if put into the hands of a sick person will
instantly discover whether he be like to live or dye. For if on the
pressing it in his hand he look merry and cheerful it is an assured
sign of his recovery, as on the other side of Death, if sad and
troubled." A few pages further on we find ourselves at Sodom and the
Dead Sea:--"If but an Aple grow near it, it is by Nature such that it
speaks the Anger of God: for without 'tis beautiful and Red, but
within nothing but dusty Smoak and Cinders." This belief is a very
ancient one. We find it, for instance, in the writings of Tacitus, and
it has supplied moralists in all ages with an illustration. In "The
Merchant of Venice," for instance, we find the lines--
"A goodly apple rotten at the heart.
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!"--
and again in "Childe Harold"--
"Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, all ashes to the taste."
The apple has indeed entered largely into history and legend.
According to some writers the forbidden fruit of Eden was a kind of
apple, and the _pomum Adami_ in one's throat may be accepted as a
record of the old belief. "The fruit of that forbidden tree, whose
mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe." Our
readers, too, will recall the golden apple of discord that created
strife alike on high Olympus and amongst the sons of men, and that led
to the fall of Troy. On the other hand, we read of the apple of
perpetual youth in Scandinavian mythology, the food of the gods; and
in the "Arabian Nights" of the apples of Samarkand that would cure all
diseases. The apples of Istkahar were all sweetness on one side, all
bitterness on the other; while Sir John Mandeville tells us that the
pigmies were fed with the odour alone of the apples of Pyban. Amidst
this maze of fancy and legend it would perhaps be scarcely fair to
even mention the more historic apple that fell at Woolsthorpe at the
feet of Newton, and set his mind thinking on the problem of
gravitation.[39]
[39] We remember some time ago an interesting article by Dr. Adolf
Dux, entitled "La tombe du Savant" appearing in the "Pester Lloyd."
The savant was Bolyai, professor of mathematics and physics at
Maros-Vásárhely. No statue, no marble mausoleum with sides covered
with laudatory inscriptions, marks the place where he lies, but the
tomb, by its occupant's strict direction, is overshadowed by the
boughs of an apple-tree--"En souvenir des trois pommes qui out joué
un rôle si important dans l'histoire de l'humanité, et il désignait
ainsi la pomme d'Ève, et celle de Pâris qui réduisirent la terre à
l'esclavage, et la pomme de Newton, qui la replaça au rang des
astres." Strangely enough, when Dr. Dux visited the tomb there hung
on the tree just three apples--"ni plus ni moins."
At Crete our old author, Burton, finds a plant called Alimos, which it
is only necessary to chew to take away all sense of hunger for a whole
day; but this wonder pales before those of the flora of Nova Hispania,
the country we now call Mexico. "Amongst the Rarities of Nova
Hispania, though there be many Plants in it of Singuler Nature, is
mentioned that which they call Eagney or Meto, said to be one of the
principal: a Tree which they both Plant and Dress as we do our Vines;
it hath on it 40 kinds of leaves, fit for several uses; for when they
be tender they make of them Conserves, Paper, Flax, Mantles, Mats,
Shoes, Girdles and Cordage, upon them they grow divers prickles so
strong and sharp that the people use them instead of Staws." What
Staws may be we cannot say, so we must be content to know that Meto
thorns make a very efficient substitute, and are for all practical
purposes as good as having the real thing. "From the top of the Tree
cometh a Juice like Syrrup, which if you Seeth it will become Honey;
if purified, Sugar; the Bark of it maketh a good plaister and from the
highest of the Boughs comes a kind of Gum, a Soveraigne Antidote
against poysons." The tree furnishes at once costume and confection,
antidote and rope, and we can hardly wonder at the people of New Spain
setting considerable store by it.
It would be curious to see the forms of the forty leaves; we can well
imagine that a plant suggesting about equally by its foliage the rose,
palm, bullrush, buttercup, cactus, horse-chestnut, and thirty-four
other plants would give our botanists some little difficulty before it
got definitely assigned its just place.
Brazil, like Mexico, is a very large place, and a very long way off,
and two hundred years ago the Royal Mail Steam-Packet Company was a
thing of the far future; there was therefore abundant room for play of
the imagination; thus we read of a kind of corn "which is continually
growing and always ripe; nor never wholly ripe, because always
growing;" and of another plant that yields so sovereign a balm that
"the very beasts being bitten by venomous Serpents resort to it for
their cure." It is interesting, amongst the other strange wonders,
animal and vegetable, that are duly set forth, to come across a plant
that must be very familiar to most persons, the sensitive plant, the
_Mimosa sensitiva_ of Brazil, though in his description of it our
author cannot resist an added touch of the marvellous, imputing to it
a power of observation that later writers would hesitate to confirm,
for he says--"The herb Viva when roughly touched will close the
leaves, and not open them again until the man that had offended it had
got out of sight." We must not, however, devote more attention to
"R. B. Gent," great as the temptation to do so may be, for his book is
a perfect mine of the marvellous. Another curious old book to ponder
over awhile is the English Dictionary of Henry Cockeram, as he
certainly produces some extraordinary illustrations of unnatural
history. The book was published in the year 1655, and did not profess
to deal with scientific matters alone, but was, to use the author's
own language, "an interpreter of hard English words, enabling as well
ladies and gentlewomen, young scholars, clerks, merchants, as also
strangers of any nation, to the understanding of the more difficult
authors already printed in our language, and the more speedy attaining
of an elegant perfection of the English tongue." Amongst these hard
English words sadly needing an interpretation we will select but five
as a sample of the whole:--"Achemedis, an herb which being cast into
an army in time of battle causeth the soldiers to be in fear." This
probably would be some kind of runner. "Anacramseros, an herb, the
touch thereof causeth love to grow betwixt man and man." "Hippice, an
herb borne in one's mouth, keeps one from hunger and thirst."
"Ophyasta, an herb dangerous to look on, and being drunke it doth
terrifie the inside with a sight of dreadful serpents, that condemned
persons for fear thereof do kill themselves." "Gelotaphilois, an herb
drunk with wine and myrrh, causeth much laughter."
Amidst the mist of error some few men declined to believe quite all
that they were told, but exercised for themselves the right of
individual judgment. The book we have just referred to was published,
as we have seen, in the year 1655, and abounds in strange imaginings;
yet five years before this we find a still better-known book, "the
Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Enquiries into very many Received Tenants
and commonly Presumed Truths" of Dr. Browne. The list of commonly
presumed truths he ventures to dispute is a very long one, and
includes such items of faith as that a diamond is made soft if placed
in the blood of a goat, that a pailful of ashes will contain as much
water as it would without them, that the two legs on one side of a
badger are shorter than the two on the other side, and so on. As he
approaches the vegetable kingdom he prefaces his remarks as
follows:--"We omit to recite the many vertues and endlesse faculties
ascribed unto plants which sometimes occurre in grave and serious
authors, and we shall make a bad transaction for Truth to concede a
verity in half. Swarms of others there are, some whereof our future
endeavours may discover; common reason I hope will save us a labour in
many whose absurdities stand naked in every eye, errors not able to
deceive the Emblem of Justice and need no Argus to descry them. Herein
there surely wants expurgatory animadversions whereby we might strike
out great numbers of hidden qualities, and having once a serious and
conceded list we might with more encouragement and safety attempt
their Reasons." On turning to the list of "vertues" in any old Herbal,
we find, as Browne says, "endlesse faculties ascribed, and many of
them of a character that woulde we should have imagined have been,
during even the darkest ages, difficult or impossible of credence."
Thus in Gerarde's herbal published in 1633, we find amongst our
British plants one available "against the biting of the Sea-dragon,"
two more "a remedy against the poyson of the Sea-hare," one "against
vaine imaginations," another "an especial remedy against the
nightmare," and no less than thirty-eight preservatives "against the
bitings of serpents." We will, however, confine ourselves to three
illustrative instances of the way in which the author of these
inquiries into various received beliefs proceeds to demolish them. He
says, in the first place, that "many things are delivered and believed
of plants wherein at least we cannot but suspend. That there is a
property in Basil to propagate scorpions and that by the smell thereof
they are bred in the brains of men is a belief much advanced by
Hollerius, who found this insect in the brains of a man that delighted
much in this smell. Wherein besides that we finde no way to conjoin
the effect unto the cause assigned herein the moderns speak but
timorously, and some of the Ancients quite contrarily. For according
unto Oribasius, physitian unto Julian, the Africans, men best
experienced in poisons, affirm whosoever hath eaten Basil although he
be stung with a Scorpion shall feel no pain thereby; which is a very
different effect, and rather antidotally destroying than promoting its
production." Pliny and other ancient writers mention the old belief
that the bay-tree, the tree of Apollo, was a preservative against
thunder, or rather against lightning; hence Tiberius and some other of
the Roman Emperors wore a wreath of bay as an amulet; and in an old
English play we find the lines--
"Reach the bays,
I'll tie a garland here about his head,
'Twill keep my boy from lightning."
Browne discourses on the point as follows:--"That Bayes will protect
from the mischief of lightning and thunder is a quality ascribed
thereto, common with the fig tree, eagle and skin of a seale. Against
so famous a quality Vicomercatus produceth experiments of a Bay-tree
blasted in Italy, and therefore although Tiberius for this interest
did wear a Laurell about his temples yet did Augustus take a more
probable course, who fled under arches and hollow vaults for
protection." A most unimperial picture this, great Cæsar deserting his
throne and shutting himself up in his wine-cellar when he heard the
distant rumbling of the coming storm. "If we consider the three-fold
effect of Jupiter's Trisulk, to burn, discusse, and terebrate, and if
that be true which is commonly delivered, that it will melt the blade
yet passe the scabbard, dry up the wine yet leave the hog's head
entire, though it favour the amulet it may not spare us; it will be
unwise to rely on any preservative, 'tis no security to be dipped in
Styx or clad in the armour of Ceneus."[40]
[40] Appendix T.
There are many curious legends associated with plants in classic
mythology, such as the metamorphoses of various lucky or unlucky
persons who gained the favour or incurred the wrath of the gods, and
were in consequence punished or rewarded by finding themselves
laurel-bushes and the like; but all this is duly set forth in any
mythological dictionary, and may be there hunted up quite readily by
the curious.
Other legends are associated with religious symbolism, such as the
belief that the palm-tree cannot be bowed down to earth, but stands
erect, no matter how heavily weighted; but if we were once to enter
upon this most interesting subject, the preceding pages of our book
would be but a small fragment indeed of all that it would be possible
to introduce.
[Illustration: {THE PALM}]
A very good illustration of the symbolic use of the palm-tree may be
seen on the frontispiece of the "Eikon Basilike," published in the
year 1648. The "Royal Martyr" kneels before a table on which is placed
a Bible. In his hand he has taken a crown of thorns, marked "Gratia;"
at his feet is the royal crown of England, with the inscription
"Vanitas," while in the air above him is a starry crown marked
"Gloria." Outside the room we see a landscape. Conspicuous in the
foreground is a palm-tree standing erect with two heavy weights tied
to it, and the legend, "Crescit sub pondere virtus;" while beyond
this is a raging sea and a rock rising from its midst, with the
legend, "Immota triumphans." The sky is black with rolling clouds, and
on either side of the rock we see dark faces in the clouds blowing
vehemently against it. Beneath is the "Explanation of the Embleme" in
two columns, the one Latin and the other in the vulgar tongue. The
English is as follows:--
"Though clogged with weights of miseries
Palm-like depressed I higher rise.
And as th' immoved Rock outbraves
The boist'rous Windes and raging waves,
So triumph I. And shine more bright
In sad Affliction's Darksom night.
That Splendid, but yet toilsom Crown
Regardlessly I trample down.
With joie I take this Crown of Thorn,
Though sharp yet easie to be born.
That Heavenlie Crown, already mine,
I view with eies of Faith Divine.
I slight vain things and do embrace
Glorie, the just reward of Grace."
This belief in the impossibility of depriving the palm-tree of its
power of upward growth made it a rather popular emblem with those who
thought themselves rather "put upon" by fortune or the lack of
appreciation from their fellows. Mary Stuart, for example, selected as
one of her badges the palm-tree, with the motto, "Ponderibus virtus
innata resistit," and other illustrations of the old belief might
readily be brought forward.
As these plants, too, whether associated with mythology or religious
or other symbolism, are not in themselves fabulous, but are actual
laurels, palms, or the like, they need scarcely be dwelt upon at any
length in these pages, as our purpose has been rather to deal with
forms wholly mythical than to enter with any degree of fulness into
the mythical beliefs that have grown round forms in themselves
natural.
We cannot, in conclusion, do better, we are sure, than transfer bodily
to our book the appeal to the reader that appears on the title-page of
a quaint little black-letter treatise published in the year 1548--the
"Boke of Husbandry" by one Fitzherbert:--
"Go thou lytell boke, with due reuerence
And with an humble hert, recommend me
To all those, that of theyr beneuolence
Thys lytell treatyse doth rede heare or se
Wherewith I praye them contented to be,
And to amende it in place behouable
Where as I haue fauted or be culpable--
For herde it is, a man to attayne
To make a thynge perfyte at the first sighte
But whan it is red and well ouer seene
Fautes may be founde that neuer came to lyght
Though the maker do his diligence and might
Praying them to take it as I haue intended
And to forgiue me yf I haue offended."
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
APPENDIX.
A.
The life and death of St. George, as generally accepted, are so
different to the details given by Gibbon in his "History of the
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," that we give, as a foil, a
sketch of the latter as well. From Gibbon it would appear that George,
surnamed the Cappadocian, was born in Cilicia in a fuller's shop, that
he raised himself from this obscure origin by his talents as a
parasite, and that those whom he so shamelessly flattered and
assiduously fawned on repaid their worthless dependent by procuring
for him lucrative contracts to supply the army with bacon and other
stores. Herein he accumulated, as some other army contractors have
done since, a vast sum of money by the basest acts of fraud and
corruption, until matters became so bad and his shortcomings so
notorious that he absconded with his ill-gotten gains. After the
disgrace attached to this had in some measure subsided, we next find
him embracing, with real or affected zeal, the doctrines of Arianism,
and on the death of the Archbishop Athanasius the prevailing faction
promoted the ex-contractor to the vacant chair. He had scarcely been
established in this high and responsible office ere he sullied the
dignity of his position by acts of the greatest cruelty against those
who differed from him, and by the development anew of the keenest
avarice. He asserted for himself the right to various important
monopolies, and impoverished the State while he enriched himself by
alone supplying salt, paper, and various other necessaries. The people
at length rose in rebellion, and on the accession of Julian he lost
the high support that had hitherto, by aid of the civil and military
power of the State, maintained him in his position. He was
ignominiously dragged in chains to the public prison, and the mob,
impatient of the delays of the law, or apprehensive that he might use
his wealth and influence to stifle inquiry, presently forced open the
gates and tore him to pieces. The Church was at that time an arena of
fierce dissension between the Arians and Athanasians, and his
followers, conveniently ignoring the facts of his life, asserted that
the rival party in the Church had stirred up the strife against him.
He received the just reward of his tyranny, or possibly the saintly
crown of the martyr for his faith, in the year 361, and in 494 Pope
Gelasius formally and officially admitted his claim to a position
amongst the saints of the Church. We find him held in great reverence
in the sixth century in Palestine, Armenia, and Rome. His fame was
brought home from the East by the Crusaders, and his popularity in
England dates from that time. So much party feeling has clustered
around the matter, and so many learned authorities have been drawn up
on one side or the other, that we can only feel that no real verdict
one way or the other is now possible.
B.
As we have already in the body of the text given in full detail the
accepted prose version of the conflict of St. George with the dragon,
it seemed scarcely advisable to repeat these details in metrical form.
As we feel, at the same time, that such old ballads will probably
possess interest for some, at least, of our readers, we, instead of
banishing the story from our book entirely, dismiss it to the Appendix
merely, where it can be equally readily read or ignored in accordance
with individual tastes. The ballad, as given in Dr. Percy's
"Reliques," is based on ancient black-letter copies in the Pepys
Collection. In the original the poem is forty-four verses long, but we
content ourselves with those that relate to the combat with the
dragon, and leave out those that affect what may be termed the
politics of the court, the promise of the maiden to the hero, the
subsequent endeavours to evade the bargain, and the various
consequences to St. George and others that arose from this breach of
faith:--
"Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing,
And of the sack of stately Troy,
What griefs fair Hélena did bring,
Which was Sir Paris' only joy:
And by my pen I will recite
St. George's deeds, an English knight.
Against the Sarazens so rude
Fought he full well and many a day;
Where many gyants he subdued,
In honour of the Christian way:
And after many adventures past
To Egypt land he came at last.
Now as the story plain doth tell,
Within that countrey there did rest
A dreadful dragon fierce and fell,
Whereby they were full sore opprest,
Who by his poisonous breath each day,
Did many of the city slay.
The grief whereof did grow so great
Throughout the limits of the land,
That they their wise men did entreat
To show their cunning out of hand;
Which way they might this fiend destroy,
That did the country thus annoy.
The wise men all before the king
This answer framed incontinent;
The dragon none to death might bring
By any means they could invent:
His skin more hard than brass was found,
That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound.
When this the people understood,
They cryed out most piteouslye,
The dragon's breath infects their blood,
That every day in heaps they dye:
Among them such a plague it bred,
The living scarce could bury the dead.
No means there were, as they could hear,
For to appease the dragon's rage,
But to present some virgin dear,
Whose blood his fury might assuage;
Each day he would a maiden eat,
For to allay his hunger great.
This thing by art the wise men found,
Which truly must observed be;
Wherefore throughout the city round
A virgin pure of good degree
Was by the king's commission still
Taken up to serve the dragon's will.
Thus did the dragon every day
Untimely crop some virgin flower,
Till all the maids were worn away,
And none were left him to devour:
Saving the king's fair daughter bright,
Her father's only heart's delight.
Then came the officers to the king
That heavy message to declare,
Which did his heart with sorrow sting;
She is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir:
O let us all be poisoned here,
Ere she should die, that is my dear.
Then rose the people presently,
And to the king in rage they went;
They said his daughter deare should dye,
The dragon's fury to prevent:
Our daughters all are dead, quoth they,
And have been made the dragon's prey:
And by their blood we rescued were,
And thou hast saved thy life thereby;
And now in sooth it is but faire,
For us thy daughter so should die.
O save my daughter, said the king;
And let ME feel the dragon's sting.
Then fell fair Sabra on her knee,
And to her father dear did say,
O father strive not thus for me,
But let me be the dragon's prey;
It may be for my sake alone
This plague upon the land was thrown.
'Tis better I should dye, she said,
Than all your subjects perish quite;
Perhaps the dragon here was laid,
For my offence to work his spite:
And after he hath sucked my gore
Your land shall feel the grief no more.
What hast thou done, my daughter dear,
For to deserve this heavy scourge?
It is my fault, as may appear,
Which makes the gods our state to purge:
Then ought I die, to stint the strife,
And to preserve thy happy life.
Like madmen, all the people cried,
Thy death to us can do no good;
Our safety only doth abide
In making her the dragon's food.
Lo, here I am, I come, quoth she,
Therefore do what you will with me.
Nay stay, dear daughter, quoth the queen,
And as thou art a virgin bright,
Thou hast for vertue famous been,
So let me cloath thee all in white;
And crown thy head with flowers sweet,
An ornament for virgins meet.
And when she was attired so,
According to her mother's mind,
Unto the stake she then did go;
To which her tender limbs they bind:
And being bound to stake and thrall
She bade farewell unto them all.
Farewell, my father dear, quoth she,
And my sweet mother meek and mild;
Take you no thought nor weep for me,
For you may have another child:
Since for my country's good I dye,
Death I receive most willinglye.
The king and queen and all their train
With weeping eyes went then their way,
And let their daughter there remain,
To be the hungry dragon's prey;
But as she did there weeping lye,
Behold St. George came riding by.
And seeing there a lady bright
So rudely tyed unto a stake,
As well became a valiant knight,
He straight to her his way did take:
Tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he,
What caitiff thus abuseth thee?
And, lo, by Christ his cross I vow,
Which here is figured on my breast,
I will revenge it on his brow,
And break my lance upon his chest:
And speaking thus whereas he stood,
The dragon issued from the wood.
The lady that did first espy
The dreadful dragon coming so,
Unto St. George aloud did cry
And willed him away to go;
Here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she,
That soon will make an end of me.
St. George then looking round about,
The fiery dragon soon espied,
And like a knight of courage stout,
Against him did most fiercely ride;
And with such blows he did him greet,
He fell beneath his horse's feet.
For with his lance that was so strong,
As he came gaping in his face,
In at his mouth he thrust along,
For he could pierce no other place;
And thus within the lady's view
This mighty dragon straight he slew.
The favour of his poisoned breath
Could do this holy knight no harm;
Thus he the lady saved from death,
And home he led her by the arm:
Which when King Ptolemy did see,
There was great mirth and melody."
C.
In Hippeau's comments on the non-reliability of much of the natural
history of Guillaume he points out that not only was it difficult for
these early writers to ascertain the truth, but that the truth in its
lower sense was not really much striven after or valued. He
says--"N'oublions pas que les pères de l'Église se préoccupèrent
toujours beaucoup plus de la pureté des doctrines qu'ils avaient à
développer, que de l'exactitude scientifique des notions sur
lesquelles ils les appuyaient. L'object important pour nous, dit Saint
Augustin (Ps. cii., àpropos de l'aigle, qui disait-on, brise contre la
pierre l'éxtrémité de son bec devenue trop long) est de considérer la
signification d'un fait et non d'en discuter l'authenticité.
"Dans la vaste étendue des Cieux, au sien des mers profondes, sur tous
les points du globe terrestre, il n'est pas un phénomène, pas une
étoile, pas un quadrupède, pas un oiseau, pas une plante, pas une
pierre, qui n'éveille quelque souvenir biblique, qui ne fournisse la
matière d'un enseignement moral, qui ne donne lieu à quelqu' effusion
du coeur, qui n'ait à révéler quelque secret de Dieu."
D.
The palm was by old writers called the phoenix-tree, and in Greek the
same word is used to express both the bird and the tree.
"_Sebastian._ Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix
At this hour reigning there.
_Antonio._ I'll believe both;
And what does else want credit come to me,
And I'll be sworn 'tis true; travellers ne'er did lie,
Though fools at home condemn them."--_Tempest._
E.
"The story of Guy is so obscured with fable that it is difficult to
ascertain its authenticity. He was the hero of succeeding Earls of
Warwick. William Beauchamp called his eldest son after him. Thomas by
his last will bequeathed the sword and coat-of-mail of this worthy to
his son. Another christened a younger son after him, and dedicated to
him a noble tower, whose walls are ten feet thick, the circumference
126, and the height 113 feet from the bottom of the ditch. Another
left as an heirloom to his family a suit of arras wrought with his
story. His sword and armour, now to be seen in Warwick Castle, were by
patent, 1 Henry VIII., granted to William Hoggeson, yeoman of the
battery, with a fee of 2d. per day. In the porter's lodge at the
castle they still show his porridge-pot, flesh-fork, iron shield,
breastplate and sword, horse furniture, walking staff nine feet high,
and even a rib of the dun cow which he pretended to have killed on
Dunsmore Heath. In short, his fame and spirit seem to have inspired
his successors, for from the Conquest to the death of Ambrose Dudley
there was scarce a scene of action in which the Earls of Warwick did
not make a considerable figure."--_Camden's Britannia_, vol. ii.,
1806.
F.
Of the "Bestiary" of Philip de Thaun only one copy of the MS. is
known, that in the Cottonian Collection, though of another of his
quaint treatises, the "Livre des Créatures," there are seven copies
extant. Three of these are in the Vatican Library, and in England one
may be seen in the Sloane Library, and another in the Cottonian. The
author had as his great patron Adelaide of Louvain, the second queen
of King Henry I. He dedicates his "Bestiary" to her in the following
lines:--
"Philippe de Thaun into the French language
Has translated the Bestiary, a book of science,
For the honour of a jewel who is a very handsome woman,
Aliz is she named, a queen is she crowned,
Queen is she of England, may her soul never have trouble."
His poems are the earliest examples extant of the Anglo-Norman
language; we give herewith an illustration of it, the translation
being from the excellent reproduction of the book by Thomas Wright,
F.S.A.:--
"En un livre divin, que apelum Genesim,
Iloc lisant truvum quæ Dés fist par raisum
Le soleil e la lune, e esteile chescune.
Pur cel me plaist à dire d'ico est ma materie,
Que demusterai e à clers e à lai,
Chi grant busuin en unt, e pur mei perierunt.
Car unc ne fud loée escience celée;
Pur ço me plaist à dire, ore i seit li veir Sire!"
"In a divine book, which is called Genesis
There reading, we find that God made by reason
The sun and the moon, and every star.
On this account it pleases me to speak, of this is my matter,
Which I will show both to clerks and to laics,
Who have great need of it, and will perish without it.
For science hidden was never praised;
Therefore it pleases me to speak, now may the true Lord be with it."
G.
As the limited space at our disposal prevents anything like an
exhaustive account of the wonders narrated by Mandeville and others,
we give the titles of some few old works, in case the reader may care
to dive into them at greater length than is here at all possible. The
first we would mention is Richard Hackluyt's black-letter folio,
published in 1589. Its full title runs as follows:--"The Principal
Navigations; Voiages and Discoveries of the English Nation, made by
Sea or over Land to the most remote and farthest distant Quarters of
the earth at any time within the compasse of these 1500 yeeres."
Another is "Purchas his Pilgrimage, or Relations of the World, Asia,
Africa and America and the Ilands adiacent," published in London in
the year 1614; a very quaint and interesting old book. The "Ortus
Sanitatis" is another very curious old black-letter volume, dealing
with animals, plants, &c., and richly illustrated with very remarkable
woodcuts. To these we may add Marco Polo's travels in the thirteenth
century, detailing the observations of this early traveller on many
remarkable places and things seen or heard of by him, chiefly in the
East. Struy's "Perillous and most Unhappy Voyages through Moscovia,
Tartary, Italy, Greece, Persia, Japan," &c., is another interesting
old volume. It was published in the year 1638, and is illustrated by
divers curious plates. To this list we need only add the "Natvrall and
Morall Historie of the East and West Indies," by Joseph Acosta; 1604.
"Intreating of the Remarkable things of Heaven, of the Elements,
Mettalls, Plants, and Beasts which are proper to that Country." Where
we have given a date it is simply that of the copy that has come
under our own cognisance: many of these works were of sufficient
popularity to run through several editions, sometimes several years
apart; nevertheless the dates we give will give an approximate notion
that is decidedly better than nothing. This list might readily be
extended tenfold.
H.
The sphinx is described in Bacon's book, "The Wisdom of the Ancients,
Written in Latin by the Right Honourable Sir Francis Bacon Knt. Baron
of Verulam and Lord Chancellor of England, and done into English by
Sir Arthur Gorges Knt." After narrating the story, he expounds it as
follows:--"This Fable contains in it no less Wisdom than Elegancy, and
it seems to point at Science, especially that which is joyn'd with
Practice, for Science may not absurdly be call'd a Monster, as being
by the ignorant and rude Multitude always held in Admiration. It is
diverse in Shape and Figure by reason of the infinite Variety of
Subjects wherein it is conversant. A Maiden Face and Voice is
attributed unto it for its gracious Countenance and Volubility of
Tongue. Wings are added, because Sciences and their Inventions do pass
and fly from one to another, as it were in a Moment, seeing that the
Communication of Science is as the kindling of one Light at another.
Elegantly also it is feigned to have sharp and hooked Talons, because
the Axioms and Arguments of Science do fasten so upon the Mind, and so
strongly apprehend and hold it, as that it stir not nor evade, which
is noted also by the Divine Philosopher--The Words of the Wise are as
Goads and Nails driven far in.
Moreover, all Science seems to be placed in steep and high Mountains,
as being thought to be a lofty and high thing, looking down upon
Ignorance with a scornful Eye. It may be observed and seen also a
great Way, and far in compass, as things set on the Tops of Mountains.
Furthermore, Science may well be feigned to beset the High-way,
because which way soever we turn in this Progress and Pilgrimage of
Human Life we meet with some Matter or Occasion offered for
Contemplation. Sphynx is said to have received from the Muses divers
difficult Questions and Riddles, and to propound them unto Men, which
remaining with the Muses are free (it may be) from savage Cruelty;
for, so long as there is no other end of Study and Meditation than to
know, the Understanding is not racked and imprisoned, but enjoys
Freedom and Liberty, and even Doubts and Variety find a kind of
Pleasure and Delectation. But when once these Enigmas are delivered by
the Muses to Sphynx, that is, to Practice, so that it be sollicited
and urged by Action and Election and Determination, then they begin to
be troublesome and raging, and unless they be resolved and expedited
they do wonderfully torment and vex the Minds of Men, distracting, and
in a manner rending them into sundry Parts.
Moreover, there is always a twofold Condition propounded with Sphynx
her Enigmas. To him that doth not expound them, distraction of Mind,
and to him that doth, a Kingdom, for he that knows that which he
sought to know hath attain'd the end he aim'd at, and every Artificer
also commands over his Work.
Moreover it is added in the Fable, that the Body of Sphynx, when she
was overcome, was laid upon an Ass, which indeed is an elegant
Fiction, seeing there is nothing so acute and abstruse but, being well
understood and divulged, may be well apprehended by a slow Capacity.
Neither is it to be omitted that Sphynx was overcome by a Man lame in
his Feet; for when Men are too swift of Foot and too speedy of Pace in
hasting to Sphynx, her Enigmas, it comes to pass that, she getting the
upper Hand, their Wits and Minds are rather distracted by Disputations
than that ever they come to command by Works and Effects."
I.
The spaces in the frieze of the Parthenon, known architectively as the
metopes, were filled with sculptures illustrating the struggle between
the Lapithæ and the Centaurs. Thirty-nine of these slabs remain in
their original position in the temple, while seventeen are in the
British Museum and one in the Louvre. In their beauty and bold design
they are some of the grandest monuments of Greek art. Other very fine
examples may be seen in the fragments in our national collection from
the frieze of the temple of Apollo Epicurius, near Phigalia, and the
Theseum at Athens. There are also two very fine single statues of
centaurs in the Capitoline Museum.
J.
Centaury is so called from an old myth that Chiron, the centaur, cured
himself from a wound given by a poisoned arrow by using some plant
that Pliny, therefore, calls _Centaurium_; but whether it was this
plant, or a knapweed, or any plant at all, or whether there even
ever was a centaur named Chiron, or a centaur named anything else, are
points we must be content to leave. Linnæus called the plant the
_Chironia_; its modern generic name merely signifies red, as most of
the flowers in the genus have blossoms of some tint of red; but in the
specific name _Centaurium_ we recognise that the old myth still finds
commemoration. In some parts of England the rustics corrupt centaury
into sanctuary, and the Germans call it the _tausend-gulden-kraut_.
This strange name is built upon another corruption, some of the old
writers having twisted _Centaurea_ into _Centum aurei_, and the
Germans have lavishly multiplied by ten the hundred golden coins. The
centaury is said to be a good and cheap substitute for the medicinal
gentian, and, as a hair-dye, was for a long time held in repute for
the production of a rich golden yellow tint.