reciting his poems to them. The power of Apollo and of Orpheus in taming
beasts depended on a far less surprising _modus operandi_; like the
greater part of myths, this one was not spun from the thin air of
imagination. Music has a real influence on animals; in spite of theories
to the contrary, it is probable that the sweet flute-playing of the
snake-charmer—his “sweet charming” in Biblical phrase—is no mere piece
of theatrical business, but a veritable aid in obtaining the desired
results. I myself could once attract fieldmice by playing on the violin,
and only lately, on the road near our house at Salò, I noticed that a
goat manifested signs of wishing to stop before a grind-organ; its
master pulled the string by which it was led, but it tugged at it so
persistently that, at last, he stopped, and the goat, turning round its
head, listened with evident attention. Independently of the pleasure
music may give to animals, it excites their curiosity, a faculty which
is extremely alive in them, as may be seen by the way in which small
birds are attracted by the pretty antics of the little Italian owl; they
cannot resist going near to have a better view, and so they rush to
their doom upon the limed sticks.
Legends have an inner and an outer meaning; the allegory of Apollo, Lord
of Harmony, would have been incomplete had it lacked the beautiful
incident of a Nature Peace—partial indeed, but still a fairer triumph to
the god than his Olympian honours. For nine years he watched the sheep
of Admetus, as Euripides described:—
“Pythean Apollo, master of the lyre,
Who deigned to be a herdsman and among
Thy flocks on hills his hymns celestial sung;
And his delightful melodies to hear
Would spotted lynx and lions fierce draw near;
They came from Othry’s immemorial shade,
By charm of music tame and harmless made;
And the swift, dappled fawns would there resort,
From the tall pine-woods and about him sport.”
When Apollo gave Orpheus his lyre, he gave him his gift “to soothe the
savage breast.” In the splendid Pompeian fresco showing a Nature Peace,
the bay-crowned, central figure is said to be Orpheus, though its
god-like proportions suggest the divinity himself. At any rate, nothing
can be finer as the conception of an inspired musician: the whole body
_sings_, not only the mouth. A lion and a tiger sit on either side;
below, a stag and a wild boar listen attentively, and a little hare
capers near the stream. In the upper section there are other wild beasts
sporting round an elephant, while oxen play with a tiger; an
anticipation of the ox and tiger in Rubens’ “Garden of Eden.”
The power of Orpheus to subdue wild beasts was the reason why the early
Christians took him as a type of Christ. Of all the prophecies which
were believed to refer to the Messiah none so captivated the popular
mind as those which could be interpreted as referring to His recognition
by animals. The four Gospels which became the canon of the Church threw
no light on the subject, but the gap was filled up by the uncanonical
books; one might think that they were written principally for the
purpose of dwelling on this theme, so frequently do they return to it.
In the first place, they bring upon the scene those dear objects of our
childhood’s affection, the ass and the ox of the stable of Bethlehem.
Surely many of us cherish the impression that ass and ox rest on most
orthodox testimony: an idea which is certainly general in Catholic
countries, though, the other day, I heard of a French priest who was
heartless enough to declare that they were purely imaginary. “Alas,” as
Voltaire said, “people run after truth!” As a matter of fact, it appears
evident that the ass and the ox were introduced to fulfil the prophecy
of Isaiah: “The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master’s manger,
but Israel knoweth Me not.” But there arose what was thought a
difficulty: the apocryphal Gospels, in harmony with the earliest
traditions, place the birth of Christ, not in a stable, but in the
grotto which is still shown to travellers. To reconcile this with the
legend of the ass and ox and also with the narrative of St. Luke, it was
supposed that the Holy Family moved from the grotto to a stable a few
days after the Child was born. This is a curious case of finding a
difficulty where there was none, for it is very likely that the caves
near the great Khan of Bethlehem were used as stables. In every
primitive country shepherds shelter themselves and their flocks in holes
in rocks; I remember the “uncanny” effect of a light flickering in the
depths of a Phœnician tomb near Cagliari; it was almost disappointing to
hear that it was only a shepherd’s fire.
Thomas, “the Israelite philosopher,” as he called himself, author of the
Pseudo-Thomas which is said to date from the second century, appears to
have been a Jewish convert belonging to one of the innumerable
“heretical” sects of the earliest times. It may be guessed, therefore,
that the Pseudo-Thomas was first written in Syriac, though the text we
possess is in Greek. It is considered the model on which all the other
Gospels of the Infancy were founded, but the Arabic variant contains so
much divergent matter as to make it probable that the writer drew on
some other early source which has not been preserved. Mohammed was
acquainted with this Arabian Gospel, and Mohammedans did not cease to
venerate the sycamore-tree at Matarea under which the Arabian evangelist
states that the Virgin and Child rested, till it died about a year ago.
The Pseudo-Thomas contains some vindictive stories, which were modified
or omitted in the other versions: probably they are all to be traced to
Elisha and his she-bears: a theory which I offer to those who cannot
imagine how they arose. A curious feature in these writings is the
scarcity of anything actually original; the most original story to be
found in them is that of the clay sparrows, which captivated the East
and penetrated into the folk-lore even of remote Iceland.
Notwithstanding the fulminations of Councils, the apocryphal Gospels
were never suppressed; they enjoyed an enormous popularity during the
Middle Ages, and many details derived solely from these condemned books
crept into the _Legenda Aurea_ and other strictly orthodox works.
The “Little Child” of Isaiah’s prophecy was the cause of troops of wild
beasts being convoked to attend the Infant Christ. Lions acted as guides
for the flight into Egypt, and it is mentioned that not only did they
respect the Holy Family, but also the asses and oxen which carried their
baggage. Besides, the lions, leopards, and other creatures “wagged their
tails with great reverence” (though all these animals are not of the dog
species, but of the cat, in which wagging the tail signifies the reverse
of content).
This is the subject of an old English ballad:—
“And when they came to Egypt’s land,
Amongst those fierce wild beasts,
Mary, she being weary,
Must needs sit down to rest.
‘Come, sit thee down,’ said Jesus,
‘Come, sit thee down by Me,
And thou shall see how these wild beasts
Do come and worship Me.’”
First to come was the “lovely lion,” king of all wild beasts, and for
our instruction the moral is added: “We’ll choose our virtuous princes
of birth and high degree.” Sad rhymes they are, nor, it will be said, is
the sense much better; yet, hundreds of years ago in English villages,
where, perhaps, only one man knew how to read, this doggerel served the
end of the highest poetry: it transported the mind into an ideal region;
it threw into the English landscape deserts, lions, a Heavenly Child; it
stirred the heart with the romance of the unknown; it whispered to the
soul—
“The Now is an atom of sand,
And the Near is a perishing clod;
But Afar is a Faëry Land,
And Beyond is the bosom of God.”
The pseudo-gospel of Matthew relates an incident which refers to a later
period in the Holy Childhood. According to this narrative, when Jesus
was eight years old He went into the den of a lioness which frightened
travellers on the road by the Jordan. The little cubs played round His
feet, while the older lions bowed their heads and fawned on Him. The
Jews, who saw it from a distance, said that Jesus or His parents must
have committed mortal sin for Him to go into the lion’s den. But coming
forth, He told them that these lions were better behaved than they; and
then He led the wild beasts across the Jordan and commanded them to go
their way, hurting no one, neither should any one hurt them till they
had returned to their own country. So they bade Him farewell with gentle
roars and gestures of respect.
These stories are innocent, and they are even pretty, for all stories of
great, strong animals and little children are pretty. But they fail to
reveal the slightest apprehension of the deeper significance of a peace
between all creatures. Turn from them to the wonderful lines of William
Blake:—
“And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries
And walking round the fold
Saying: Wrath by His meekness,
And by His health sickness,
Are driven away
From our mortal day.
And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep;
For, washed in life’s river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.”
No one but Blake would have written this, and few things that he wrote
are so characteristic of his genius. The eye of the painter seizes what
the mind of the mystic conceives, and the poet surcharges with emotion
words which, like the Vedic hymns, infuse thought rather than express
it.
A single passage in the New Testament connects Christ with wild animals;
in St. Mark’s Gospel we are told that after His baptism in the Jordan
Jesus was driven by the Spirit into the wilderness, where “He was with
the wild beasts, and the angels ministered unto Him.” In the East the
idea of the anchorite who leaves the haunts of men for the haunts of
beasts was already fabulously old. In the Western world of the Roman
Empire it was a new idea, and perhaps on that account, while it excited
the horror of those who were faithful to the former order of things, it
awoke an extraordinary enthusiasm among the more ardent votaries of the
new faith. It led to the discovery of the inebriation of solitude, the
powerful stimulus of a life with wild nature. Many tired brain-workers
have recourse to mountain ascents as a restorative, but these can rarely
be performed alone, and high mountains with their immense horizons tend
to overwhelm rather than to collect the mind. But to wander alone in a
forest, day after day, without particular aim, drinking in the pungent
odours of growing things, fording the ice-cold streams, meeting no one
but a bird or a hare—this will leave a memory as of another existence in
some enchanted sphere. We have tasted an ecstasy that cities cannot
give. We have tasted it, and we have come back into the crowded places,
and it may be well for us that we have come back, for not to all is it
given to walk in safety alone with their souls.
[Illustration:
_Photo:_ _Anderson._
ST. JEROME EXTRACTING A THORN FROM THE PAW OF A LION.
(_By Hubert van Eyck._)
Naples Museum.]
Of one of the earliest Christian anchorites in Egypt it is related that
for fifty years he spoke to no one; he roamed in a state of nature,
flying from the monks who attempted to approach him. At last he
consented to answer some questions put by a recluse whose extreme piety
caused him to be better received than the others. To the question of why
he avoided mankind, he replied that those who dwelt with men could not
be visited by angels. After saying this, he vanished again into the
desert. I have observed that the idea of renouncing the world was not a
Western idea, yet, at the point where it touches madness, it had already
penetrated into the West—we know where to find its tragic record:—
“Ego vitam agam sub altis Phrygiae columinibus,
Ubi cerva silvicultrix, ubi aper nemorivagus?”
The _point of madness_ would have been reached more often but for the
charity of the stag and the wild boar and the lion and the buffalo, who
felt a sort of compassion for the harmless, weak human creatures that
came among them, and who were ready to give that response which is the
sustaining ichor of life.
The same causes produce the same effects—man may offer surprises but
never men. Wherever there are solitaries there are friendships between
the recluse and the wild beast. All sorts of stories of lions and other
animals that were on friendly terms with the monks of the desert have
come down to us in the legends of the Saints. The well-known legend of
how St. Jerome relieved a lion of a thorn which was giving him great
pain, and how the lion became tame, was really told of another saint,
but Jerome, if he did not figure in a lion story, is the authority for
one: in his life of Paul the Hermit he relates that when that holy man
died, two lions came out of the desert to dig his grave; they uttered a
loud wail over his body and knelt down to crave a blessing from his
surviving companion—none other than the great St. Anthony. He also says
that Paul had subsisted for many years on food brought to him by birds,
and when he had a visitor the birds brought double rations.
As soon as the hermit appears in Europe his four-footed friends appear
with him. For instance, there was the holy Karileff who tamed a buffalo.
Karileff was a man of noble lineage who took up his abode with two
companions in a clearing in the woods on the Marne, where he was soon
surrounded by all sorts of wild things. Amongst these was a buffalo, one
of the most intractable of beasts in its wild state, but this buffalo
became perfectly tame, and it was a charming sight to see the aged saint
stroking it softly between its horns. Now it happened that the king, who
was Childebert, son of Clovis, came to know that there was a buffalo in
the neighbourhood, and forthwith he ordered a grand hunt. The buffalo,
seeing itself lost, fled to the hut of its holy protector, and when the
huntsmen approached they found the monk standing in front of the animal.
The king was furious, and swore that Karileff and his brethren should
leave the place for ever; then he turned to go, but his horse would not
move one step. This filled him with what was more likely panic fear than
compunction; he lost no time in asking the saint for his blessing, and
he presented him with the whole domain, in which an abbey was built and
ultimately a town, the present Saint-Calais. On another occasion the
same Childebert was hunting a hare, which took refuge under the habit of
St. Marculphe; the king’s huntsman rudely expostulated, and the monk
surrendered the hare, but, lo and behold! the dogs would not continue
the pursuit and the huntsman fell off his horse!
A vein of more subtle sensibility runs through the story of St. Columba,
who, not long before his death, ordered a stork to be picked up and
tended when it dropped exhausted on the Western shore of Iona. After
three days, he said, the stork would depart, “for she comes from the
land where I was born and thither would she return.” In fact, on the
third day, the stork, rested and refreshed, spread out its wings and
sailed away straight towards the saint’s beloved Ireland. When Columba
was really dying the old white horse of the convent came and laid its
head on his shoulder with an air of such profound melancholy that it
seemed nigh to weeping. A brother wished to drive it away, but the saint
said No; God had revealed to the horse what was hidden from man, and it
was come to bid him goodbye.
Evidently there is only a slight element of the marvellous in these
legends and none at all in others, such as the story of Walaric, who fed
little birds and told the monks not to approach or frighten his “little
friends” while they picked up the crumbs. To the same order belong
several well-authenticated stories of the Venerable Joseph of Anchieta,
apostle of Brazil. He protected the parrots that alighted on a ship by
which he was travelling from the merciless sailors who would have caught
and killed them. Whilst descending a river he would have saved a monkey
which some fishermen shot at with their arrows, but he was not in time;
the other monkeys gathered round their slain comrade with signs of
mourning: “Come near,” said the holy man, “and weep in peace for that
one of you who is no more.” Presently, fearing not to be able longer to
restrain the cruelty of the men, he bade them depart with God’s
blessing.
Here is no marvel; only sympathy which is sometimes the greatest of
marvels. It needed the mind of a Shakespeare to probe just this secret
recess of feeling for animals:—
“—— What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
—— At that I have killed, my Lord, a fly.
—— Out on thee, murderer, thou killest my heart;
Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny;
A deed of death done on the innocent,
Becomes not Titus’ brother; get thee gone,
I see thou art not for my company.
—— Alas! my Lord, I have but killed a fly.
—— But how if that fly had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buz lamented doings in the air?
Poor harmless fly!
That with his pretty buzzing melody
Came here to make us merry, and thou hast killed him.”
If St. Bernard saw a hare pursued by dogs or birds threatened by a hawk
he could not resist making the sign of the cross, and his benediction
always brought safety. It is to this saint that we owe the exquisite
saying, “If mercy were a sin I think I could not keep myself from
committing it.”
[Illustration:
_Photo:_ _Hanfslängl._
ST. EUSTACE AND THE STAG.
(_By Vittore Pisano._)
National Gallery.]
Apart from the rest, stands one saint who brought the wild to the
neighbourhood of a bustling, trafficking little Italian town of the
thirteenth century and peopled it with creatures which, whether of fancy
or of fact, will live for ever. How St. Francis tamed the “wolf of
Agobio” is the most famous if not altogether the most credible of the
animal stories related of him. That wolf was a quadruped without morals;
not only had he eaten kids but also men. All attempts to kill him
failed, and the townsfolk were afraid of venturing outside the walls
even in broad daylight. One day St. Francis, against the advice of all,
went out to have a serious talk with the wolf. He soon found him and,
“Brother Wolf,” he said, “you have eaten not only animals but men made
in the image of God, and certainly you deserve the gallows;
nevertheless, I wish to make peace between you and these people, brother
Wolf, so that you may offend them no more, and neither they nor their
dogs shall attack you.” The wolf seemed to agree, but the saint wished
to have a distinct proof of his solemn engagement to fulfil his part in
the peace, whereupon the wolf stood up on his hind legs and laid his paw
on the saint’s hand. Francis then promised that the wolf should be
properly fed for the rest of his days, “for well I know,” he said
kindly, “that all your evil deeds were caused by hunger”—upon which text
several sermons might be preached, for truly many a sinner may be
reformed by a good dinner and by nothing else. The contract was kept on
both sides, and the wolf lived happily for some years—“notricato
cortesemente dalla gente”—at the end of which he died of old age,
sincerely mourned by all the inhabitants.
If any one decline to believe in the wolf of Gubbio, why, he must be
left to his invincible ignorance. But there are other tales in the
_Fioretti_ and in the _Legenda Aurea_ which are nowise hard to believe.
What more likely than that Francis, on meeting a youth who had
wood-doves to sell, looked at the birds “con l’occhio pietoso,” and
begged the youth not to give them into the cruel hands that would kill
them? The young man, “inspired by God,” gave the doves to the saint, who
held them against his breast, saying, “Oh, my sisters, innocent doves,
why did you let yourselves be caught? Now will I save you from death and
make nests for you, so that you may increase and multiply according to
the commandment of our Creator.” Schopenhauer mentions, with emphatic
approval, the Indian merchant at the fair of Astrachan who, when he has
a turn of good luck, goes to the market-place and buys birds, which he
sets at liberty. The holy Francis not only set his doves free, but
thought about their future, a refinement of benevolence which might
“almost have persuaded” the humane though crusty old philosopher to put
on the Franciscan habit.
(At this point I chance to see from my window a kitten in the act of
annoying a rather large snake. It is a coiled-up snake; probably an
Itongo. It requires a good five minutes to induce the kitten to abandon
its quarry and to convey the snake to a safe place under the myrtles.
This being done, I resume my pen.)
I have remarked that in some respects the Saint of Assisi stands apart
from the other saints who took notice of animals. It was a common thing,
for instance, for saints to preach to creatures, but there is an
individual note in the sermon of Francis to the birds which is not found
elsewhere. The reason why St. Anthony preached to the fishes at Rimini
was that the “heretics” would not listen to him, and St. Martin
addressed the water-fowl who were diving after fish in the Loire
because, having compared them to the devil, seeking whom he may devour,
he thought it necessary to order them to depart from those waters—which
they immediately did, no doubt frightened to death by the apparition of
a gesticulating saint and the wild-looking multitude. The motive of
Francis was neither pique at not being listened to nor the temptation to
show miraculous skill as a bird-scarer; he was moved solely by an
effusion of tender sentiment. Birds in great quantities had alighted in
a neighbouring field: a beautiful sight which every dweller in the
country must have sometimes seen and asked himself, was it a parliament,
a garden party, a halt in a journey? “Wait a little for me here upon the
road,” said the saint to his companions; “I am going to preach to my
sisters the birds.” And so, “_having greeted them as creatures endowed
with reason_,” he went on to say: “Birds, my sisters, you ought to give
great praise to your Creator, who dressed you with feathers, who gave
you wings to fly with, who granted you all the domains of the air, whose
solicitude watches over you.” The birds stretched out their necks,
fluttered their wings, opened their beaks, and looked at the preacher
with attention. When he had done, he passed in the midst of them and
touched them with his habit, and not one of them stirred till he gave
them leave to fly away.
The saint lifted worms out of the path lest they should be crushed, and
during the winter frosts, for fear that the bees should die in the hive,
he brought honey to them and the best wines that he could find. Near his
cell at Portionuculo there was a fig-tree, and on the fig-tree lived a
cicada. One day the Servant of God stretched out his hand and said,
“Come to me, my sister Cicada”; and at once the insect flew upon his
hand. And he said to it, “Sing, my sister Cicada, and praise thy Lord.”
And having received his permission she sang her song. The biographies
that were written without the inquisition into facts which we demand,
gave a living idea of the man, not a photograph of his skeleton. What
mattered if romance were mixed with truth when the total was true? We
know St. Francis of Assisi as if he had been our next-door neighbour. It
would have needed unbounded genius to invent such a character, and there
was nothing to be gained by inventing it. The legends which represent
him as one who consistently treated animals as creatures endowed with
reason are in discord with orthodox teaching; they skirt dangerously
near to heresy. Giordano Bruno was accused of having said that men and
animals had the same origin; to hold such an opinion qualified you for
the stake. But the Church that canonised Buddha under the name of St.
Josephat has had accesses of toleration which must have made angels
rejoice.
Some think that Francis was at one time a troubadour, and troubadours
had many links with those Manichæan heretics whom Catholics charged with
believing in the transmigration of souls. This may interest the curious,
but the doctrine of metempsychosis has little to do with the vocation of
the Asiatic recluse as a beast-tamer, and St. Francis of Assisi was true
brother to that recluse. He was the Fakeer or Dervish of the West. When
the inherent mysticism in man’s nature brought the Dervishes into
existence soon after Mohammed’s death, in spite of the Prophet’s
well-known dislike for religious orders, they justified themselves by
quoting the text from the Koran, “Poverty is my pride.” It would serve
the Franciscan equally well. The begging friar was an anachronism in the
religion of Islam as he is an anachronism in modern society, but what
did that matter to him? He thought and he thinks that he will outlive
both.