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:—

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—

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—

And again much more elaborately worked out in Spenser’s “Visions of the World’s Vanity”—

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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:”—

We could not forbear quoting the opening lines, but the reference we seek occurs a few verses farther on, in allusion to those—

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—

This plant Milton represents as “shading the fount of life,” and with its blood-red flowers—

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.

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]

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.