Natural history, lore and legend

Having in the preceding chapters dealt with some few of the abnormal forms of humanity, we propose now to give some little consideration to the ideas that have clustered round various animals, dealing first with the beasts, the royal lion, the elephant, and various others; then passing through the various stages of birds, fishes, and reptiles, to the conclusion of our labours.

The lion claims our first regard, since he has, by the naturalists, poets, moralists, fable-writers, been unanimously crowned the King of Beasts, and has been duly accredited with every royal virtue, such as magnanimity, courage, generosity; while in art he has always taken the same exalted position, crowning the gates of Mycenæ, flanking the entrances of the palaces of Nineveh, enhancing the dignity of the Pharaohs, guarding the steps of the throne of Solomon, typifying in the lion of Lucerne undaunted bravery, and around the column of Nelson in Trafalgar Square, or on the Royal Standard of England, symbolising all that Britons associate with the grandeur and might of their country.

The lion alone of all wild beasts, we are told, is gentle to those that humble themselves to him, and even when his wrath is awakened, and the pangs of hunger call for relief, his chivalrous nature is such that he will not attack a woman without the greatest provocation or necessity. Another interesting fact that the ancient writers ascertained is that the blood of the lion is black. That he is not in any derogatory sense black-hearted, is one of the most heartily accepted articles of belief since the magnanimity of the lion is the trait in his character that is most fully dwelt upon.

There have, nevertheless, arisen unbelievers in these latter days who have endeavoured to belittle the royal beast, and to make out that he is, after all, not much better than a sneaking coward, that his courage springs from a knowledge of his superior power, and that his forbearance and generosity are but indications that the creature at the time he displayed these estimable qualities had lately dined. Even in the following passage from an early writer we get some little hint of this feeling: “He despiseth the darts and defendeth himself by his terror only, and, as if bearing witness that he is forced to his own defence, he riseth up in fury, not as at last compelled by the peril, but is made angry by their folly. But this more noble display of courage is shown in that, however great may be the strength of hounds and hunters, while in the open plains, and where he may be seen, he retireth only by degrees, and with scorn; but when he hath got amongst the thickets and woods, then he hurrieth away, as if the place concealed his shame.” Perhaps, however, we should assign this strategic movement to the rear to the discretion that we are proverbially told is such an excellent supplement to mere valour, or a wise acquiescence in the dictum: “He that fights and runs away will live to fight another day.”⁠[34] The ideal lion, however, is a very noble beast indeed, and very few of the early writers do aught but sing his praises.

Aldrovandus in his book on animals—not the “Monstrorum Historia,” but the volume that treats of matter-of-fact creatures—deals very fully with his subject. The Lion stands first, and our readers will gather some notion of the fulness of the treatment when we state that the royal beast takes up sixty-three folio pages. The book is written wholly in Latin, and the various details are arranged in sections. Amongst these we find “Descriptio, Anatomica, Differentiæ, Locvs, Natvra, Mores, Magnanimitas, Vox, Sympathia et Antipathia, Historica, Mystica et allegorica, Hieroglyphica, Moralia, Nvmismata, Insignia Gentilitia et Militaria, Simvlacra statvæ, Fabvlosa, Proverbia, Vsvs in Medicina, Vsvs in Lvdis et Trivmphis, Vsvs in Venatione et in Bello.” Even this does not exhaust the exceedingly comprehensive treatment, though amply sufficient to illustrate it. The leopard, lynx, dog, and other beasts are in proportion as fully treated of, though the subjects of the sections of course vary; thus in the dog we find much information under the heading Fidelitas and Amor, sections that would be entirely out of place in the description of the wolf.

The Aldrovandus picture of the lion is rather a poor one, while the tiger is very fairly good, and the wolf is capital. It is rather curious too that the hippopotamus, the first living specimen of which, as far as we know, came to Europe over two hundred years after the publication of the book in question, is represented by very fair figures, by which it can readily be identified. There are three of these altogether, and one of them has seized a crocodile by the tail. Several of the beasts are also given in skeleton form, thus we have the osteology of the wolf, squirrel, mole, and many others carefully rendered. The effect is sometimes rather quaint, thus, for instance, the skeleton of the hare is given, and the creature in this osseous condition is represented as gnawing a plant. The mole is figured with very conspicuous eyes. Any plant that can be at all associated with an animal is always introduced, thus we have a very good drawing of the rabbit nibbling clover, and the legend appended “cuniculus cinereus cum trifolio pratensi, quo maxime delectatus,” a statement that many a luckless farmer would very heartily endorse; then we have the weasel standing by a plant of rue, and the legend “qua omnes mustelæ adversus serpentes se defendunt,” in allusion to the old belief that a weasel well fortified with rue was able to wage successful war against venomous serpents. Many kinds of dogs are shown, the greyhound, the water spaniel, the poodle with his collar, and so forth; one, to show his fidelity to his master, carries two keys in his mouth, while another is termed “canis bellicosus,” and certainly looks the character.

“The Lyon,” says Ferne, in his “Blazon of Gentrie, 1586,” “is the most worthiest of all beastes; yea, he standeth as the king, and is feared above all the beastes of the fielde. So that by the Lyon is signified principallitie, dominion, and rule. Fortitude and magnanimity is denoted in the Lyon.” Coats, another heraldic authority of somewhat later date, affirms that “the lion is the most magnanimous, the most generous, the most bold and fierce of all the four-footed race, and therefore he has been chosen to represent the greatest heroes. This noble creature represents also Command and Monarchical Dominion, as likewise the Magnanimity of Majesty, at once exercising Awe and Clemency, subduing those that resist, and sparing those that humble themselves.” In the “Indice Armorial” of Geliot, published in Paris in the year 1635, we read: “Si ca est auec raison que les anciens ont donné a l’aigle la qualité de Roy des oyseaux et au dauphin celuy des poissons, il y a plus de sujet de qualifier du nom de Roy le lyon, non seulement pour estre plus fort et le plus genereux des animaux terrestres, mais principalement à cause des qualitez royales qui sont en luy. Le lyon ne dort iamais, ou bien s’il dort c’est auec si peu de repos qu’il ne laisse pas d’auoir les yeux ouverts. C’est ce que l’on remarque de genereux au lyon que iamais il n’offence ceux qui s’humilient deuant luy, qu’il ne touche point aux petits enfants et porta qu’entre les hommes et les femmes il s’addresse plutost aux hommes, et entre ceux qui les prouoquent il choisira tousiours celuy qui l’aura blessé, comme mespriant les autres.” Guillim, in his “Display of Heraldry,” a most popular book, running through many editions, scarcely gives so exalted an idea of the king of beasts, since he tells us that “the lion, when he mindeth to assail his enemy, stirreth up himself by often beating of his back and sides with his tail, and thereby stirreth up his courage to the end to do nothing faintly or cowardly. The lion, when he is hunted, carefully provideth for his safety, labouring to frustrate the pursuit of the hunters by sweeping out his footsteps with his tail as he goeth, that no appearance of his track may be discovered. When he hunteth after his prey he roareth vehemently, whereat the beasts, being astonished, do make a stand, while he with his tail makes a circuit around them in the sand, which circle they dare not transgress, which done, out of them he maketh choice of prey at his leisure.” Thus the lion’s tail is at once a stimulus to valour, an aid to concealment when the valour has oozed away, and a ring-fence for the enclosure of his prey.

Gerard Legh, author of the “Accedens of Armorie,” a book originally published in 1562, and so popular that within half a century five editions were called for, tells us that when lions are born “they sleepe continually three long Egyptian daies. Whereat the Lyonesse, making such terrible roring as the erth trembleth therewith, raiseth them by force thereof out of that deadlie sleepe, ministering foode, which of sleepe before they could not take. Aristotle writeth that in his marching he setteth foorth his right pawe first, and beareth in himselfe a princelie port. When he pursueth aunie beast he rampeth on them, for then he is in most force. In nothing so much appeareth the princelie minde of the haughtie Lyon as in this, that where other beastes do herd and rowte together the Lyon will not do so, neither will hee haue any soueraigne, such is the haughtie courage of his high stomache that he accomteth himselfe without peere; when he is sicke he healeth himselfe with the bloud of an Ape.⁠[35] In age when his strength faileth him he becommeth enemie to man, and not before, but neuer to children. There is little marrow in his bones, for when they are smitten together fier flieth out of them as from a flint stone. Therefore in the olde time they made shields for horsemen of Lyon’s bones.” Another old writer tells us that “the lion is never sick but of loathing.” This we may presume is a kind of biliousness or sick headache, and a general disinclination for food. Whatever it may be, the Faculty are equal to the occasion, as the simple “way to cure him is to tie to him the apes, which with their wanton mocking drive him to madness, and then when he hath tasted their blood it acts as a remedy.” Legh’s remedy and this one do not quite agree, but this latter is clearly intended for the lion in a state of captivity, when his unnatural surroundings necessitate severer treatment.

When a lion is wounded we are told that he has a remarkable quickness of observation in detecting which amongst the hunters is to be held responsible for the injury, and, no matter what the size of the hunting party, he singles out this particular individual for his attack, but if a man has merely thrown a dart at him without wounding him it is sufficient punishment for his audacity to be struck down and well shaken. Lions, Pliny tells us, are destitute of craft and suspicion; “they never look aslant, and they love not to be looked at in that manner.” The lion was believed by the ancients to be afraid at the turning of a wheel, and more especially at the crowing of a cock. These ancient naturalists had excellent opportunities of studying the lion. For one thing he was found in Greece, Palestine, and many other districts where he is now never seen, and then, too, the sports and combats of the amphitheatre and the desire of the rulers to gain popularity by pleasing the multitude with various shows led to their free introduction. Thus we read that Pompey the Great caused six hundred lions to be exhibited together to the Roman people, while Cæsar the Dictator exhibited four hundred, and many others in authority had smaller collections gathered together for the gratification of the populace.

That there were maneless lions was a fact known to the ancient writers, as they are mentioned by Pliny, Aristotle, and others, but the reason they give for this peculiarity, that they had panthers as their sires, is erroneous.⁠[36] The lions found in Persia and Arabia are almost maneless, and the lions of Gujerat have simply on the middle line of the back of the neck some hairs that stand erect like the mane of a quagga. It would probably be one or both of these varieties that had come under the notice of the ancient authors. Amongst other mixed breeds that these writers believed in was the camelopardilis, the reputed offspring of the camel and the leopard or panther, and the hartebeest, springing from the union of the antelope and the buffalo.

In the “Livre des Creatures,” the quaint old MS. of Philip de Thaun, the lion is treated symbolically, and as this tone of thought greatly influenced the art and literature of the period we may very legitimately quote the passage. “The lion,” writes our old author, “in many ways rules over many beasts, therefore is the lion king. He has a frightful face, the neck great and hairy; he has the breast before square, hardy and pugnacious; his shape behind is slender, his tail of large fashion, and he has flat legs, and haired down to the feet; he has the feet large and cloven, the claws long and curved. When he is hungry or ill-disposed he devours animals without discrimination, as he does the ass which resists and brays. Now hear, without doubt, the significance of this. The lion signifies the Son of Mary. He is King of all people without any gainsay. He is powerful by nature over every creature, and fierce in appearance, and with fierce look He will appear to the Jews, when He shall judge them. The square breast shows strength of the Deity. The shape which he has behind, of very slender make, shows humanity, which He had with the Deity. By the foot, which is cloven, is demonstrance of God, who will clasp the world and hold it in His fist.” It is needless to follow De Thaun any further in his laboured mysticism; the passage quoted suffices to show the method adopted. The idea that the lion’s cubs were brought to life three days after their birth was a belief that very readily became transformed into a symbolism of the Resurrection of Christ from the sleep of death,⁠[37] while the notion that the lion always slept with its eyes open made it a symbol of watchfulness, and led to its introduction in the sculptures of early Christian churches, and especially those under Lombard influence, where it is not infrequently found as a sentinel at the doors, as the base to pillars, or at the foot of the pulpits.

According to Burton, in his “Miracles of Art and Nature,” in Barbary “’tis said they have Lyons so tame that they will gather up Bones in the Street like Dogs, without hurting any Body; and other Lyons that are of so cowardly a Nature that they will run away at the Voice of the least child.” Munster’s notion of the African lion, fig. 11, is impressive, though it is perhaps less nearly allied to the lion of real life than to the lion of the herald, of which fig. 12, from the effigy of Prince John of Eltham, brother of Edward III, in Westminster Abbey, may be taken as a characteristic example. Munster’s lion⁠[38] would satisfy even the country heraldic painter, who was so irate when shown a lion in a travelling menagerie. “What!” cried he, “tell me that’s a lion! Why I’ve painted lions rampant, lions passant, and all soils of lions these five-and-twenty years, and for sure I ought to know what a lion is like better than that!” This lion of Munster is a very different beast to the degenerate lions of Barbary that find a precarious sustenance in collecting discarded bones from the gutter, and slink away at the chiding-of some Arab brat who is inclined to break in upon their sordid repast.

Nature, when not interfered with by man, ever keeps the balance true: hence “the Leontophonos is only bred where lions are found,” and if the old writers may be trusted (and there is much virtue in an “if”), we have in this an excellent antidote to the bane that a plague of lions would undoubtedly be. The king of beasts, we are told, regards the leontophonos with deadly hatred and crushes the life out of it with its paw, as the smallest portion of its flesh is immediate death to him. To checkmate this decisive action of the lion, we learn from our ancient author that in districts that have a plague of lions the people of the place burn the leontophonos and sprinkle the ashes on other pieces of flesh, and these they lay about as a bait with fatal effect. By this happy arrangement they are free at once of Leo and Leontophonos.

One of the greatest enemies of the lion would appear to be the unicorn; for though the two appear to get on amicably enough as supporters of the royal arms, appearances, it is well known, are often deceptive, and they are really deadly foes. Gesner, in his “History of Animals,” gives the whole story in a nutshell, for he tells us that “the Unicorn and the Lion being enemies by nature, as soon as the lion sees the unicorn he betakes himself to a tree.” This strikes one as being a rather feeble performance on the part of the king of beasts—in fact, decidedly infra dig.; but the end is considered to justify the means, for “the unicorn in his fury, and with all the swiftness of his course, running at him, sticks his horn fast in the tree, and then the lion falls upon him and kills him.” The indiscreet valour of the unicorn seems distinctly a nobler thing than the calculating craft of the lion. Spenser, in the “Faerie Queene,” introduces the story as evidently a well-known fact in natural history:—

In “Timon of Athens” Shakespeare writes: “Wert thou the Unicorn pride and wrath would confound thee, and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury;” and in “Julius Cæsar” we find the line: “Unicorns may be betray’d with trees,” both passages evidently referring to this legend.

Most furious of all beasts was the Monoceros; or, as Ælian calls it, the Cartazonos, a creature still having literary and heraldic existence as the unicorn; though in some few points the beast, as described by Pliny and others, does not altogether resemble in form the creature of the heralds that is so well known to us as joint supporter with the lion of our national arms. The ancient monoceros had the body of a horse, the head of a stag, the feet of an elephant, and the tail of a boar, and from the middle of his forehead projected a single horn.

The Monoceros, Unicornu, or Einhorn is described in Jonston’s “Historia Naturalis,” published in 1657, and Munster, in his description of Asia,⁠[41] gives a picture of the unicorn, a beast in all respects like a horse, save that it has one tremendous horn. Barrow, in his “Travels in Southern Africa,” gives the figure of a head of a unicorn which he saw drawn on the side of a cavern, and appears to entertain no doubt that such an animal exists, while Burton tells us that in Æthiopia “some Kine there are which have Horns like Stags, others but one Horn only, and that in the Forehead, about a foot and a half long, but bending backwards,” a departure this from the recognized type.

Figures of the unicorn are found on the archaic cylinder seals of Assyria and Babylonia, and throughout the whole course of ancient and mediæval history we find belief in the creature as much a matter of course as belief in horse or elephant, and it would not be difficult to bring forward a score or more of authors who have written even in comparatively recent times on the existence of the unicorn.⁠[42]

In a curious old book on our shelf, the “Philosophical Grammar” of Benjamin Martin, published in 1753, the author raises the question as to whether such creatures as the phœnix, syrens, dragons, mermaids, fairies, and many others that he mentions really exist, and in the matter of the unicorn he evidently suspends judgment. “Most naturalists,” he says, “have affirmed that there have been such creatures and give descriptions of them; but the sight of the creatures or credible relations of them having been so rare, has occasioned many to believe there never were any such animals in nature; at least it has made the history of them very doubtful. In all such ambiguous pieces of history ’tis better not to be positive, and sometimes to suspend our belief rather than credulously embrace every current report.” In another book, however, published in 1786, and therefore not much more than a century ago, the unicorn is described in all sober seriousness as having equine body, a voice like the lowing of an ox, and his horn “as hard as iron and as rough as any file” to the touch.

Guillim declares that the unicorn cannot be taken alive, “the greatness of his mind is such that he chuseth rather to die,” while De Thaun gives full directions for its capture. It would appear that the animal is of a particularly impressionable nature, and is always prepared to pay homage to maiden beauty and innocence, hence fierce as it is the wily hunter by taking advantage of this amiable trait in its character effects its capture, for “when a man intends to hunt and ensnare it he goes to the forest where is its repair, and there places a virgin. Then it comes to the virgin, falls asleep on her lap, and so comes to its death. The man arrives immediately and kills it in its sleep, or takes it alive, and does as he will with it.” As this must be rather a trying experience for the young lady, “the Indian and Ethiopians,” says a later writer, “catch of these unicornes which be in their country after the following manner. They take a goodly-strong and beautifull young man, whom they clothe in the apparell of a woman, besetting him with divers flowers and odoriferous spices, setting him where the Unicornes use to come, and when they see this young man they come very lovingly and lay their heads down in his lap (for above all creatures they do great reverence to young maids), and then the hunters having notice given them, suddenly come, and finding him asleep, they will deal so with him, as that before he goeth he must leave his horn behind him” and fall a victim to his guileful foes. Spenser speaks of “the maiden Unicorne,” and Dallaway, too, refers to “their inviolable attachment to virginity,” and many other writers speak in the same sense, or shall we rather say lack of it!

The horn was in great demand as it was made into drinking vessels that were held to possess the invaluable gift of detecting poison. Thus in the “Speculum Mundi” we read of it that “it hath many soveraigne virtues, insomuch that, being put upon a table furnished with many junkets and banqueting dishes, it will quickly descrie whether there be any poyson or venime among them, for if there be, the horne is presently covered with a kinde of sweat or dew.” This belief in the efficacy of the horn of the unicorn as a test for poisons is seen by the frequent appearance of it in mediæval inventories. We gather from these no clue, no alternative name, for instance, to guide us, as to what the material so valued really was. In a book of travels by one Hentzner, a foreigner who visited England in the year 1598, mention is made of a horn of the unicorn that he was shown at Windsor Castle, and which he says was valued at over £1000, as indeed it very well might be, if Decker’s line, “the unicorn whose horn is worth a city,” written in 1609, gives anything like a fair estimate of its worth. In the “Comptes Royaux” of France for 1391 we find the entry: “Une manche d’or d’un essay de lincourne pour attoucher aux viandes de Monseigneur le Dauphin,” and in the year 1536 in the inventory of the treasures of Charles V., we have: “Une touche de licorne, garnie d’or, pour faire essay.” Many other examples of a similar nature might readily be brought forward. It seems strange that a belief in the efficacy of the horn of the unicorn to detect the presence of poisons should have endured for hundreds of years, when practical experiment would in half an hour have convicted the thing, whatever it was, of being a mockery, a delusion, and a snare.

Many curious beliefs have clustered around the elephant, his sagacity, great strength, and association with the wonderful countries of Africa and India giving occasion for much that is marvellous. One old writer tells that “the elephant is a beast of great strength, but greater wit, and greatest ambition; insomuch that some have written of them that if you praise them they will kill themselves with labour, and if you command another before them they will break their hearts with emulation. The beast is so proud of his strength that he never bows himself to any, and when he is once down (as it usually is with proud great ones) he cannot rise up again.” The female elephant was supposed to rear her young one in deep water, for fear lest the dragon should find and devour it. Physiologus says that when the bone of an elephant shall be burnt, or his hair singed, the smell of it shall drive away serpents and all poison. Isidore informs us that the elephant is beyond measure great, and that it has the form of a goat, a statement that leads us to imagine that he writes rather from hearsay than from personal knowledge. He further tells us that the creature cannot lie down, a statement that is entirely opposed to fact, as they may be seen rolling to and fro with the greatest ease when bathing, and after their ablutions recovering their feet with great readiness. This supposed inability to lie down necessitated the elephant’s leaning against a wall or tree while sleeping, and the people of the land, when they desired to capture one, had only to fell the tree or undermine the wall, while the elephant was in happy unconsciousness of the rude awakening that they were preparing for him.

They are provoked to madness at the sight of blood or of the juice of the mulberry tree. They eat both leaves and stones, but if by inadvertence they swallow a chameleon the result is fatal, unless they can immediately afterwards eat some olives. As no elephant, being a vegetarian, would eat a chameleon knowingly, we are reduced to the alternative that he must eat him unconsciously, and would therefore feel nothing of the need of a prompt administration of antidote until the olives came too late.

In the family feud which was held to exist between the elephant and the dragon the reptile endeavoured to twist himself round the ponderous beast’s feet and so bring him to the ground, but the sagacity of the elephant here stood him in good stead, and when he saw that his fall was inevitable, he also saw the great advantage of flattening the life out of his foe by falling with all his huge bulk upon him. The blood produced by these sanguinary combats soaked into the earth and thus yielded the cinnabar of commerce. Possibly some early observer may have seen a deadly struggle in the jungle between an elephant and some huge python or boa, and being content to view from some little distance, may have filled in the details from imagination and thus set the story afloat. When a tale of this nature once gained credence, one old writer after another inserted it in his work without further question. The elephant was said to be afraid of a mouse, though the ancient authors unfortunately fail to satisfy our very legitimate curiosity as to why this should be so; in an old romance, dealing with the wars of the great Alexander, the elephants of the enemy are put to rout by the squeaking of a herd of swine brought for the nonce on to the tented field.

The elephant was first used in war by Pyrrhus, who, B.C. 280, employed these animals in the war with Tarentum against the Romans. We learn also that the Carthaginians, in the time of Hannibal, B.C. 210, employed them in their wars; and we have modern illustrations of the like service amongst the various princes of India. When the Romans in Leucania first saw the elephants in the battle array of Pyrrhus, they called them Leucanian oxen. “Next the Poeni taught the horrible Leucanian oxen, with lowered body and snake-like head, to endure the wounds of war, and to throw into confusion the mighty ranks of Mars.” Later on the Romans introduced them into their own service, and in one of the triumphal entries of Cæsar into Rome his chariot was drawn by forty elephants.

A little later on we read of their appearance in the arena, dancing and wrestling with each other, walking on stretched ropes, four of them carrying a fifth on their shoulders reposing on a litter or couch, and generally going through those performances that from the earliest times to the travelling show of to-day have been received by the vulgar with such favour. Both Pliny and Plutarch tell us that if any one elephant in such a gathering for any reason fails to do what is required of him he will study by night, in what a workman would call “his own time,” to achieve success, and go through the performance of his own accord when the rest of the world is sleeping, until he has mastered it.

Sir John Maundevile, in his “Voiage and Travaile,” give’s an interesting mediæval reference to an Eastern potentate having “14,000 Olifauntz or mo. In cas that he had ony Werre agenst ony other Kynge aboute him than he makethe certyn men of Armes for to gon up in to the Castelles of Tree, made for the Werre, that craftily ben set uppe on the Olifauntes Bakkes, for to fryghten agen hire Enemyes.” How very craftily these are set up may be seen in our illustration, fig. 13, from an early edition of the book. As we may reasonably assume from the look of the Castelle of tree that it is built in two storeys, we may judge the bulk of the elephant from imagining the size that the men must be who are quartered in the upper storey. It will be noticed that there is no suggestion of any method of fastening the Castelle to the Olifaunte. Were we amongst the men of arms who were expected to take up a position in this fortress, we should regard this as a peculiarly weak point in the arrangements. In marked contrast with this massive beast Munster has a funny picture of a man ploughing with an elephant, the elephant being, in proportion to the man, of about the size of a Shetland pony.

The ancient writers believed, or taught, that the elephant indulged in moon-worship. Ælian, amongst others, states that at the increase of the moon these creatures gathered long branches of trees in the forest, and held them up in adoration, with uplifted trunks, to the queen of night. Pliny, too, writes that “they have withall religious reverence, with a kind of devotion; not only the starres and planets but the sunne and moone they also worship, and in very truth, writers there be who report thus much of them—that when the new moone beginneth to appeare fresh and bright,⁠[43] they come doune by whole herds to a certaine river named Amelus in the deserts and forests of Mauritania, where, after that they are washed and solemnlie purified by sprinkling and dashing themselves all over with the water, and have saluted and adored after their manner their planet, they returne againe unto the woods and chases, carrying before them their young calves that be wearied and tired”—a grand and pious pilgrimage of pachyderms.

Another strange idea of the ancients was that the elephant when pursued by the hunters beats its tusks against the trees until they drop off, as he has a shrewd suspicion that it is his ivory rather than himself that they want. The elephant, sagacious beast, would appear to have as good a notion of the value of his tusks to the hunter as his pursuer himself has. We are told that “when they chance to be environed and compassed round with hunters they set foremoste in the ranke to bee seene those of the heard that have the least teeth, to the end that their price might not be thought worth the hazard and venture in chace for them. But afterwards, when they see the hunters eager and themselves over-matched and wearie, they breake them with running against the hard trees, and, leaving them behind, escape by this ransome as it were, out of their hands.” Another curious fact is that “their skin is covered neither with haire nor bristle, no, not so much as in their taile, which might serve them in goode steade to driue away the busie and troublesome flie (for as vast and huge a beast as he is, the flie haunteth and stingeth him), but full their skinne is of crosse wrinckles lattiswise: and besides that, the smell thereof is able to draw and allure such vermine to it, and therefore when they are laid stretched along, and perceive the flies by whole swarmes settled on their skin, sodainly they draw those cranies and crevices together close, and so crush them all to death. This serues them instead of taile, maine and long haire,”—one striking instance the more of the wonderful compensatory powers of Nature!

It is by no means an incurious subject to trace the sources of information possessed by our ancestors of subjects of natural history that have now become so familiar as to create a surprise that fables respecting them should so long have been currently received. In regard to the elephant, the earliest notions the people of the Middle Ages had of it must have been from the narratives of pilgrims and other travellers from the East. The first instance, after classic times, of an elephant being brought to the West occurred in the year 807, when one was sent as a present from the famous Caliph Haroum al Raschid to the Emperor Charlemagne, and must have occasioned no small degree of astonishment. Matthew Prior mentions that the Soldan of Babylon, Malek el Kamel, sent an elephant as a choice present to the Emperor Frederic II. in the year 1229, but it was not till 1255 that the first specimen was seen in England: this was a present from the King of France to our Henry III. The chronicler, John of Oxenedes, gives full details of the arrival of this animal in London, and tells us of the enormous crowds that flocked together to behold it. The writ is still existing that was sent to the Sheriff of Kent, dated February 3rd, 1255, directing him to go in person to Dover, together with John Gouch, the king’s servant, to arrange in what manner the king’s present might most conveniently be brought over, and to find for the said John a ship and all things necessary; and if, by the advice of mariners and others, it could be brought by water, directing it to be so conveyed. It was, however, eventually landed at Sandwich, and walked thence to London. Another writ, dated the 26th of the same month, ordered the Sheriffs of London to cause to be built at the Tower a house for it, forty feet in length and twenty in breadth. The elephant itself was ten feet in height and ten years old. It only lived two years. Of this elephant Matthew Prior made a very good representation and his original drawing may still be seen amongst the Cottonian MSS. in the British Museum; this he expressly tells us was taken from the life ipso elephante exemplariter assistente. An equally good, but smaller, drawing occurs at the close of the chronicle of John de Walingeford, a monk in the Abbey of St. Albans. This also may be seen amongst the Cottonian collection. The historians of the time regarded the new arrival as a perfect prodigy, as they very well might do, when we remember how the British public, comparatively satiated with wild beasts, flocked in hundreds of thousands some few years ago to see the first hippopotamus. They gave long and detailed accounts of the habits of the elephant in a wild state, details which were eagerly read by the great multitude seeking for some information on this strange monster in their midst; these more or less trustworthy facts, though mingled with many obvious absurdities, would seem to show that a fair amount of knowledge of the creature had penetrated thus far. Some of the information was at least curious, as, for instance, that elephants will not enter a ship to cross the sea until an oath is taken before them by their conductor that they shall return, and that if they meet a man in the desert who has lost his bearings they will very courteously conduct him to the right path. Either of these indicate a high degree of sagacity, and a good knowledge of human speech. The latter proceeding was probably a delicate way of conveying to the wandering botanist or prospecting engineer that he was a trespasser on their domain, and a gentle hint to him that he would-be on the right path when he took his leave and left them in undisturbed possession.⁠[44]

There is no record in modern times of an African tribe endeavouring to domesticate the wild elephant, or to utilize it in warfare, but Marco Polo mentions that in the South-East of Africa the people are very warlike, and fight—having no horses—upon elephants and camels. Upon the backs of the former he tells us that they place castles capable of containing from fifteen to twenty armed men, and that, previous to the conflict, they give the elephants draughts of wine to make them more spirited and furious in the assault.⁠[45] “There is no creature,” saith the writer of the “Speculum Mundi,” “amongst all the beasts of the world which hath so great and ample demonstration of the power and wisdom of Almighty God as the Elephant, both from proportion of body and disposition of spirit; and it is admirable to behold the industrie of our ancient forefathers, and noble desire to benefit us their posteritie, by searching into the qualities of every beast, to discover what benefits and harms may come by them to mankinde; having never been afraid of the wildest, but they tamed them; and the greatest, but they also set upon them: witness this beast of which we now speak, being like a living mountaine in quantitie and outward appearance, yet by them so handled as no little dog could be made more serviceable, tame, and tractable.”

According to the belief of one mediæval writer, at least, the capture of the elephant is not a matter of much difficulty, though, having caught him, he seems to find no better use for him than to kill him as so much raw material for the dyer’s vat, instead of utilizing his gigantic strength and magnificent willingness for work⁠[46] in the service of man. Nowadays, the men do most of the elephant-catching, but “among the Ethiopians,” says one ancient authority on the subject, Bartholomew Anglicus, “in some countries elephants be hunted in this wise. There go in the desert two maidens, and one of them beareth a vessel and the other a sword. And these maidens begin to sing alone; and the beast hath liking when he heareth their song, and cometh to them, and falleth asleep anon for liking of the song,” an explanation of the drowsiness that would scarcely nowaday be held satisfactory at any concert or social function of the kind; “then the one maid sticketh him in the throat or in the side with a sword, and the other taketh his blood in a vessel. And with that blood the people of the country dye cloth, and done colour it therewith.” The writer prefaces his story by the assertion that it is “full wonderful;” and so it is, when regarded from our modern standpoint, but to anyone who could believe that unicorns could be captured in a very similar way, we should have thought that the narrative would have seemed most matter-of-fact and prosaic. The ladies of Ethiopia must have been of considerably stouter heart than some fair maidens of the present day, who dare not enter where the presence of mouse or cockroach is suspected.

Great good-natured beast as the elephant is, he has more than one most merciless and vindictive foe. “There ben Bestes,” or Maundevile is in error, “men clepen hem Loerancz, and thei han a blak Hed and thre longe Hornes trenchant in the Front, scharpe as a Sword, and the body is sclender. And he is a fulle felonous Best, and he chacethe and sleethe the Olifaunt.” What can have ever prompted and suggested the idea of such a very unpleasant tricorn it is impossible to say. In real life the elephant and the rhinoceros are sometimes at feud, but clearly the massive rhinoceros cannot be this very slender and objectionable three-horned beast. We have seen, too, that the dragon cannot let the elephant alone; he is to the full as “felonous” as the Loerancz. Pliny held that this constant unpleasantness on the part of the reptile was a “sport of nature.” In other words, that Nature,—personified, as the Romans personified the winds, the mountain streams, and so forth,—felt a real delight in seeing a downright fight between two such doughty antagonists. As the dragon was always the aggressor, while the elephant only wished to be let alone, and merely used his strength in self-defence when so wantonly attacked, one’s sympathies must necessarily be with the latter.