As this view degraded Nature to the level of an emperor feasting his eyes on the sanguinary horrors of a gladiatorial show, or to that of a bull-baiter or other member of “the fancy,” it was not altogether acceptable to thinking men, as it must have been difficult to worship at the shrine of the Creator and Sustainer of all, and yet feel that one was in the grasp of a power so capricious, relentless, and unfair. Nor was the narration even fair to the dragon, as there was no suggestion in it that the attack was made for the legitimate purpose of obtaining food; the story as it stood pointed to a depth of sheer vindictiveness that even a dragon with any self-respect would resent the imputation of. The theory therefore was started that while during the great heats of the dry season the dragon’s blood was almost at boiling point the blood of the elephant was singularly and exceptionally cold, and thus made the creature a most welcome prey. The dragon, with parched throat and molten veins, therefore went as naturally for an elephant as the members of a picnic-party in July go for the iced lemonade or claret-cup.

Our ancestors had immense faith in blood-letting, but there is nothing new under the sun, and Pliny tells us that a hippopotamus, when good living has told upon him and he is suffering from plethora, goes ashore to where he has seen that the river reeds have been newly cut, and presses one of the sharp edges of a stem into his leg, and thus vigorously bleeds himself. When the process has given him the desired relief, and there is no immediate fear of gout or apoplexy, he smears the wound over with the Nile mud and quickly heals it. Munster’s idea of the hippopotamus, as shown in his book, from which we have made the facsimile fig. 14, is a much more genuine notion of a river-horse than the beast as we see him in the Zoological Gardens. The way he is dashing up the stream around him as he gallops through the water is a caution.

The panther was believed to have an especial power of fascination, a gift ascribed by some to the beauty of his coat and by others to his odour. The savour of the larger species of felidæ, as we find it in zoological collections, is malodorous rather than fascinating, though the creatures could doubtless plead in their own defence that they were placed under artificial circumstances. In one of Spenser’s sonnets we find the first theory upheld in the lines:—

In the eighth book of Pliny’s “Natural History,” the second theory is maintained. “It is said that all four-footed beasts are wonderfully delighted and enticed by the smell of panthers; but their hideous looke and crabbed countenance, which they bewray so soone as they show their heads, skareth them as much againe; and therefore their manner is to hide their heads, and when they have trained other beasts within their reach by their sweet savour, they flee upon them and worrie them.”⁠[47] In a MS. presented by Sir William Segar to King James I. and now No. 6085 in the Harleian collection, we come across a combination of the theories, the result being a fascination of the most killing description:—“The panther is admired of all beasts for the beauty of his skyn, being spotted with variable colours, and beloued and followed of them for the sweetnesse of his breath, that streameth forth of his nostrils and ears like smoke, which our paynters mistaking corruptlie, doe make fire.” This detail is given in the manuscript in explanation of one of the badges of King Henry VI.—a panther passant guardant argent, spotted of all colours, with vapour issuant from his mouth and ears.⁠[48]

Sir John Maundevile professed to see in the capital of far Cathay a palace with its halls “covered with red skins of animals called panthers, fair beasts and well-smelling; so that for the sweet odour of the skins no evil air may enter into the palace. The skins are as red as blood and shine so bright against the sun that a man may scarce look at them. And many people worship the beasts when they meet them first in a morning, for their great virtue and for the good smell that they have; and the skins they value more than if they were plates of fine gold.” This is very clearly not a statement springing from personal observation. Some old writers of imaginative turn of mind regarded the panther as the emblem of providence and foresight, the number of eye-like spots on his coat suggesting the idea that he was well able to look before, behind, and around him; while others declared that he bore on his shoulder one particular spot of the shape of the moon, and that this passed through the various phases of form from crescent to full circle simultaneously with the moon itself.

The tastes of the panther would appear to be considerably more refined than those of the other great carnivoræ—an idea that we base on the statement of the author of the “Speculum Mundi.” “Now, the reason why these beasts have such a sweet breath is in regard that they are so much delighted with the kinde of spices and daintie aromaticall trees; insomuch that (as some affirm) they will go many hundred miles in time of the yeare when these things are in season, and all for the love they bear to them. But above all, their chief delight is in the gumme of camphire, watching that tree very carefully, to the end they may preserve it for their owne use.” The notion of the panther prowling round and keeping his eye on the camphor the while is distinctly quaint.

Porta tells us that the hyæna and the panther are in continual enmity, and that even the skin of a dead hyæna makes the panther run away, though we should ourselves have thought that the live hyæna, skin and all, would have been no match for the panther. Nay, this feeling is so intense, that one old author tells us that even if one hangs up the two skins together the antipathy outlives death itself, and the panther’s skin will lose all the hair.

This notion of antipathy between various animals is a very strong point with old writers. “A lion’s skin wasteth and eating out the skins of other beasts; and so doth the wolves skin eat up the lambs skin. Likewise the feathers of other fowles, being put among eagles feathers do rot and consume of themselves. The beast Florus and the bird Ægithus are at such mortal enmity that when they are dead their blood cannot be mingled together.” Porta is very learned on this matter, and tells us that an elephant is afraid of a ram. This must clearly be from some invincible feeling of antipathy, for there is little doubt but that in fair fight the ram would be nowhere; yet we learn that, unmanageable as an elephant may be, “as soon as ever he seeth a ram he waxeth meek, and his fury ceaseth.” One can only wonder, over and over again, how it comes that such ideas should gain credence for centuries, when the whole matter could so readily be brought to the touchstone of experience.

The doctrine of sympathy and antipathy, and more especially the latter half of it, was of immense value in mediæval medicine. As an example of sympathy we may instance the affection that was held to exist between the goat and the partridge; hence for whatever one of them was a remedy the other became equally available. The prescriptions were interchangeable, and one used one or the other in full faith that either was equally valuable, as indeed might very possibly be the case. As examples of the antipathetic treatment, one may instance the following:—“The Ape of all things cannot abide a Snail; now the Ape is a drunken beast, for they are wont to take an Ape by making him drunk and a Snail well wash’d is a remedy against drunkenesse. The Wolf is afraid of the Urchin; thence if we wash our mouth and throat with Urchin’s blood it will make our voice shrill, though before it were hoarse and dull like a Wolves voice. The Hart and the Serpent are at continuall enemity; the Serpent as soon as he seeth the Hart gets him into his hole, but the Hart draws him out again with the breath of his nostrils and devours him; hence it is that the fat and the blood of Harts, and the stones that grow in their eyes, are ministered as fit remedies against the biting and stinging of Serpents. Likewise the breath of Elephants draws Serpents out of their dens, and therefore the members of Elephants burned, drive away Serpents. So also the crowing of a Cock affrights the Basilisk, and he fights with Serpents to defend his hens, hence the broth of a Cock is good remedy against the poison of Serpents. The Stellion, which is a beast like a Lyzard, is an enemy to the Scorpions, and therefore the Oyle of him being purified is good to anoint the place which is stricken by the Scorpion. A Swine eats up a Salamander without danger, and is good against the poison thereof.” All these and many other hints of like value may be found in the pages of Porta.

The edition of “Natural Magick,” by John Baptist Porta, from which we have made these extracts, is a somewhat late one,⁠[49] as the preface begins:—“Courteous Reader,—If this work made by me in my youth, when I was hardly fifteen years old, was so generally received, and with so great applause, that it was forthwith translated into many Languages, as Italian, French, Spanish, Arabick; and passed through the hands of incomparable men; I hope that now coming forth from me that am fifty years old, it shall be more dearly entertained. For when I saw the first fruits of my Labours received with so great Alacrity of mind, I was moved by these good Omens, and therefore have adventured to send it once more forth, but with an Equipage more Rich and Noble. From the first time it appeared it is now thirty-five years, and (without any derogation of my Modesty be it spoken) if ever any man laboured earnestly to disclose the secrets of Nature it was I.”⁠[50] After nearly forty years, therefore, of reflection, observation, and criticism he feels that his medical hints on this subject of antipathy have borne the test of time, and may well take their place amongst the other secrets of Nature divulged for the benefit of humanity.

The hyæna was held to possess the power of counterfeiting man’s speech, and of turning the gift to profitable account by going up at night to a shepherd’s or woodman’s hut and calling out the man’s name.⁠[51] Upon the man’s going forth to see who wanted him, he was promptly torn to pieces. The Manticora also, according to Juba, possessed this uncanny power of imitating human speech, and turned its conversational powers to the same treacherous use. It was also held that if a hyæna made a circuit three times round any animal its victim lost all power of escape, and could not stir a foot. According to some ancient writers the animal had a stone called hyænia in its eye, and this being placed under a man’s tongue imparted to him the gift of prophecy. Aristotle taught that the eyes of this creature could change colour a thousand times a day, and this is but a sample of many other curious and absurd stories concerning the beast. Sir Gardner Wilkinson mentions a strange fancy believed in by the Abyssinians that a race of people who inhabited their country had the power of changing their form at pleasure, being sometimes men and at others hyænas.

In the Middle Ages the wolf seems to have been in decidedly bad odour; he was probably too well-known to be respected, and in the long dreary nights of winter proved himself a terribly bad neighbour, and a very undesirable travelling companion for those who had to cross amidst the snows the almost trackless wastes. Amongst the Scandinavians the wolf held a conspicuous place in tradition and mythology. Eclipses of the sun and moon were held to be caused by two great wolves that were always pursuing them through the heavens.⁠[52] The wolf, too, was the companion of Odin, the god of war, and at his feet these creatures crouched while he fed them with the flesh of his enemies.

It was an accepted belief that if a man encountered a wolf, and the creature caught sight of him before he saw it, he became dumb. Scott refers to this old notion in his “Quentin Durward,” where, in the eighteenth chapter, Lady Hameline exclaims, “Our young companion has seen a wolf, and has lost his tongue in consequence.” “The ground or occasionall originall thereof,” Browne in his “Exposure of Vulgar Errors” would endeavour to persuade us, “was probably the amazement and sudden silence the unexpected appearance of wolves doe often put upon travellers, not by a supposed vapour or venomous emanation, but a vehement fear which naturally produceth obmutescence, and sometimes irrecoverable silence”; but it would appear to be a still simpler procedure, and one with a good deal to recommend it, to deny that there is an atom of truth in the story. In another old natural history before us, we read that “the wolf when he falls upon a hog or a goat, or such small beast, does not immediately kill them, but leads them by the ear, with all the speed he can, to a crew of ravenous wolves, who instantly tear them to pieces.” We should have thought that the reverse had been more probable, and that the wolves that had nothing would have come with all the speed they could upon their more successful comrade; but if the old writer’s story be true, it opens out a fine trait of hitherto unsuspected unselfishness in the character of the wolf.

John Leo, in his “History of Africa,” declares that the dragon is the progeny of the eagle and wolf. Perhaps this may be so, but probably the conception that most of our readers have of the dragon is that he was a considerably more formidable beast than such a parentage, fierce as it is, quite suggests.

An old heraldic author tells us “how that the wolfe procureth all other beasts to fight and contention. He seeketh to deuour the sheepe, that beaste which is of all others the most hurtlesse, simple, and void of guile, thirsting continually after their blood. Yea, Nature hath planted so inveterate an hatred atweene the wolfe and the sheepe, that being dead, yet in the secrete operation of nature appeareth there a sufficient trial of their discording natures, so that the enimity betweene them seemeth not to dye with their bodies; for if there be put vpon a harp or any such like instrument strings made of the intrailles of a sheepe, and amongst them but onely one made of the intraills of a wolfe, be the musician never so cuning in his skil, yet can he not reconcile them to an vnity and concorde of sounds, so discording alwayes is that string of the wolfe.” The inveterate enmity between the two creatures is scarcely in accordance with the facts, for the wolf, from its appreciation of mutton as an article of diet, is really partial to the sheep, and is always glad to make its acquaintance.

Another old herald tells us that “the wolfe loveth to plaie with a child, and will not hurt it till it be extreme hungrie, what time he will not spare to devour it.” He dwells also upon some of the animal’s prejudices, as that “he watcheth much, and feareth fier and stones to be wherled at him,” a feeling that one finds no difficulty in sympathizing with, and adds that “there is nothing that he hateth so much as the knocking togither of two flint stones, the which he feareth more than the hunters.” He also mentions the curious physiological fact that “the wolf may not bend his neck backward in no moneth of the yere but in May,” but gives us no inkling as to the reason for this.

The wearing of wolf-skin was held to be a valuable preservative against epilepsy, but those who were unable to procure this, found an equally serviceable remedy in wearing a small portion of an ass’s hoof in a ring. The wolf-skin coat also was in request as a preservative against hydrophobia, and there was nothing better in the good old times than a wolfs head under the pillow to secure a good night’s rest. Albertus Magnus, in his work “De Virtutibus Herbarum,” tells us that if we wrap the tooth of a wolf in a bay leaf and carry it about with us no one will have the power to vex or annoy us.

According to Porta—and he, we have seen, professes to have gone into the secrets of nature as deeply as most men who pose as authorities⁠[53]—the rook is killed by eating “the reliques of flesh the wolf hath fed on.” This would appear to be a discovery of Porta’s own: we do not find any suggestion of it, so far as we are aware, in any other author.

A creature called the stag-wolf, if we may credit these ancient authors (and there is much saving virtue in this if), had the curious peculiarity that if, while he was devouring his prey, he chanced to look backward, he straightway forgot that he was already provided with a dinner, and would at once start off for one with all the zeal that his supposititious famishing condition called for.

The bear has not escaped the observation of the lover of the marvellous, though we should have thought that our forefathers, with their bear-baiting proclivities, would have had a sufficient knowledge of the creature to protect them from falling into gross error. One of the most firmly accepted beliefs in ancient and mediæval days was that the cubs were born a merely shapeless mass, and owed what after-beauty of form they possessed to the assiduous care of their mother. Hence, an ancient scribe hath it, “At the firste they seeme to be a lumpe of white flesh without any forme, little bigger than rattons, without eyes, and wanting hair. This rude lumpe, with licking, they fashion by little and little into some shape.” Shakespeare it will be remembered compares Gloucester, in King Henry VI., to “an unlick’d bear-whelp,” while Dryden writes:—

The device of the great Venetian painter, Titian, was a she-bear licking her cubs into shape.⁠[54] Our readers will probably recall the lines in “Hudibras”:—

“Which opinion notwithstanding,” quoth Browne in his assault on the vulgar errors of his day, “is not only repugnant unto the sense of everyone that shall enquire into it, but of exact and deliberate experiment. It is, moreover, injurious unto reason, and much impugneth the course and providence of nature to conceive a birth should be ordained before there is a formation. Besides, what few take notice of, men do hereby in a high measure vilifie the works of God, imputing that unto the tongue of a Beast.” Browne’s ideas were, we have already seen, far in advance of his time, and he took the trouble to do what many who wrote on the subject before him failed to do, went to look at some young bears. Though the belief in the idea has died away, the remembrance of the superstition still survives in the notion of licking youngsters into shape at school by such appeals to body or mind as may seem most efficacious and persuasive.

It was held that the bear found no little nutriment in sucking his own paws, and in old books on natural history he may often be found thus figured. Beaumont and Fletcher embody the old belief in their “Bonduca,” where we read of those—

It has long been an accepted belief in rural England, that a child who has had a ride upon a bear will escape whooping cough, a belief that has had great pecuniary value to the Savoyards and others, who take a dancing bear through the villages, as the rustics gladly fee them for the privilege of a ride for their children, and the attendant immunity from one of the most infectious and distressing of the minor ailments of childhood.

We have long been familiar with the idea that bears attacked bee-hives, but we have accepted the notion that the bears did so from an appreciation of the honey that they found therein. It appears, however, that the bear does it really as a kind of stimulant, the stinging of the angry bees giving him just a welcome titillation, and arousing him from a certain torpidity that at times oppresses him, and which he rightly feels should be fought against. Others tell us that the outraged bees, justly angry at the overturning of their home and the pillage of their store, supply, by the energy of their attack and the keenness of their stings, just that pleasant piquant set-off to the epicurean bear that the over-richness and cloying sweetness of the honey seems to call for. Yet a third theory is that “they are many times subject to dimnesse of sight, for which cause especially they seeke after honeycombes, that the bees might settle upon them, and with their stings make them bleed about the head, and by that meanes discharge them of that heavinesse which troubleth their eyes.” Possibly three more equally reasonable theories might be forthcoming on searching for them in the various old tomes in which the wisdom of our forefathers is enshrined.

A considerable amount of folk-lore has gathered round the hare. It was held to be a favourable omen to meet certain beasts early in the morning, but it was especially unfortunate to meet a hare. “Sume Bestes han gode meetynge, that is to seye for to meete with him first at Morne; and sume Bestes wykked meetynge: and that thei han proved ofte tyne tat the Hare hathe fulle evylle meetynge, and Swyn, and many othere Bestes. The Sparhauke and other Foules of Raveyne whan thei fleen aftre here preye and take it before men of Armes, it is a gode Signe; and if he fayle of takynge his preye it is an evylle sygne, and also to such folke it is an eville meetynge of Ravennes.” Carew, in his “Survey of Cornwall,” mentions that “to talk of hares or such uncouth things” was regarded as omnious of coming ill by the fishermen; and at some places on the coast until quite recently—or possibly even till to-day, for such notions die out very slowly—if a fisherman going down to his boat were to see a hare cross his path, he would not that day go to sea.

This superstition arose from the belief that witches sometimes transformed themselves into hares. In Ellison’s “Trip to Benwell,” we find the following congratulatory lines:—

In Aubrey’s “Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme,” written in the year 1586, it is stated, as “found by Experience, that when one keepes a Hare alive and feedeth him till he have occasion to eat him, if he telles before he killes him that he will doe so the hare will thereupon be found dead, having killed himself.” One really scarcely sees what the creature gains by this proceeding.

Old writers tell us that when the hare is fainting with the heat, a state of things that one may hope does not often occur, it recruits its strength by munching up sowthistle. Topsell says that there is no leporine ailment that this plant will not cure, and that directly the hare feels a little unwell he seeks sowthistle and goes in for a course of diet. Askham goes so far as to say that “yf a hare eate of this herbe in somer when he is mad he shal be hole,” but as hares are proverbially held to be specially non compos mentis in March, the treatment seems to come a little late. All boys who have kept rabbits will recall how appreciatively they nibble up the succulent sowthistle leaves and stems, and probably it is just as welcome to the hares, not as a medicinal herb or a help to sanity, but as a toothsome item in the daily fare.

It will be remembered that in 1 Henry IV. i. 2, Shakespeare uses the expression “Melancholy as a hare,” and as it was believed in mediæval days that those who partook of the flesh of any animal thereby partook also of its nature, the flesh of the hare was supposed to generate melancholia, and was therefore avoided. Why the hare should be considered of a desponding temperament no one seemed to know.

It seems curious in face of such an expression as “Mad as a March Hare” and such an epithet as “hare-brained” applied to anything especially wild and foolhardy, to find the great Bacon in his “Natural History” recommending the brains of hares as invaluable for strengthening the memory⁠[56] and brightening up the faculties. Those who have “frekels,”⁠[57] and would like to get rid of them, should “take the bloude of an hare, anoynte them with it, and it will doe them awaye.” Another eccentric prescription is for the benefit of sufferers from rheumatism, and if it were only efficacious, its simplicity would be a great point in its favour, as it merely consists in the carrying in the pocket of the right fore-foot of a hare, the only caution to be exercised being that in the case of a man it must be the foot of a female hare, while a male hare must supply the remedy if the patient be a woman. Cogan, in his “Haven of Health,” declares “thus much will I say as to the commendation of the hare, and of the defense of hunters’ toyle, that no beast, be it never so great, is profitable to so many and so diverse uses in Physicke as the hare,” and he then proceeds to give numerous prescriptions in which it is the principal feature. “The knee-bone of an Hare taken out alive and worne abute the necke is excellent against Convulsion fitts,”⁠[58] we are told, and perhaps it may be so, but the point that more especially strikes us, and it impresses one over and over again in these mediæval recipes, is the cold-blooded cruelty and indifference to animal suffering that is shown in so many of them. Fried mice were considered a specific in small-pox, but it was necessary that they should be fried alive; while for cataract a fox should be captured, his tongue cut out, and the animal released; the member thus barbarously procured was placed in a bag of red cloth and hung round the man’s neck. For erysipelas a favourite old remedy was to cut off one-half of the ear of a cat and let the blood drop on the part affected, while for fits one popular recipe was to take a mole alive, cut the tip of his nose off, and let nine drops of the blood fall on to a lump of sugar: the swallowing of this was held to be a certain cure. It would be easy to multiply these illustrations of atrocious cruelty by the score, since one comes across such barbarities in abundance.

Edward Topsell, in his “Historic of Foure-footed Beastes,” published in the year 1607, discusses thus quaintly and pleasantly of the Hedgehog: “It is about the bignesse of a Cony, but more like to a Hogge, being beset and compassed all ouer with sharpe thorney haires, as well on the face as on the feete. When she is angred or gathereth her foode, she striketh them vp by an admirable instinct of nature, as sharp as pinnes or needles: these are haire at the beginning, but afterwards grow to be prickles, which is the lesse to be maruelled at, because there be Mise in Egypt which haue haire like Hedgehogs. His meate is Apples, Wormes, and Grapes. When he findeth Apples or Grapes on the earth he rowleth himselfe vppon them, vntill he haue filled all his prickles, and then carrieth them home to his den. And if it fortun that one of them fall off by the way, he likewise shaketh off all the residue and waloweth vpon them afresh vntill they all be settled vpon his backe againe, so foorthe he goeth, makyng a noyse like a cart wheele. And if there be any young ones in his nest they pull off his load wherewithall he is loaded, eating thereof what they please, and laying uppe the residue for the time to come.”

In the “Workes of Armorie” of Bossewell, published some thirty years or so before Topsell’s book, we find an account so similar that we may conclude that some one or other wrote a sketch of the hedgehog that was considered so satisfactory that it became the nucleus for anybody else who wanted to deal with the subject. “The little Hiricion, with his sharpe pykes, is almost the least of all other Beastes. And of vs Englishmen he is termed an Irchin or Urcheon, a beast so-called for the roughness and sharpnesse of his pykes, which nature hath giuen him in steade of haire. And such hys pykes couereth his skinne, as the haire doth the other beastes, and be his weapon or armour wherewith he pricketh and greeveth them that take or touch him. He is a beaste of witte and good puruciance, for he clymeth vpon a Vine or an Apple tree, and biteth of their branches and twiggs, and when they be fallen doune he waloweth on them, and so they sticke to his prickles, and he beareth them into a hollow tree, or some other hole, and keepeth them for meate for himselfe and his young ones. If after he is so charged there happe any to fal from his pricks, then for indignation he throweth from his backe all the other and eftsoones returneth to the tree to charge him againe of newe.”

These two old authors both refer, too, to the belief that the hedgehog had distinct gifts as a wind and weather prophet. Bossewell asserts that “the Urcheon is witty and wise in his knowledge of comming of Winds, North and South, for he changeth his Denne or hole, when he is ware that such windes come;” while Topsell has it that “when they hide themselves in their den they haue a naturall vnderstanding of the turning of the wind. They have two holes in their caue, the one North, the other South, obseruing to stop the mouth against the winde, as the skilful mariner to stiere and turn the rudder and sailes, for which some haue held opinion that they do naturally foreknow the change of weather.”

So at all events declares Chester in his “Love’s Martyr”; and Bodenham in the “Belvedere, or Garden of the Muses,” A.D. 1600, testifies to the same belief in the lines:—

The author of “Poor Robin’s Almanack,” at the much more recent date of 1733, takes what one may consider quite a professional interest in the hedgehog as a weather prophet, and exclaims:—

A remark that is certainly most true, though for the honour of the craft we should hardly have expected a calendar-maker to admit as much.

The medicinal virtues of the hedgehog were held to be very considerable in the days of faith, and some of the preparations were abominably nasty. “The flesh being stale,” says one of these old authorities, “giuen to a madde man cureth him.” Putrid hedgehog fetched out of a ditch and given as food or medicine to a man! The flesh salted, dried, beaten to a powder and then drank in vinegar was held in high repute as a remedy for dropsy, and for “Leprosie, the Crampe, and all sicknesse in the nerves,” and the fat beaten up with honey was deemed an excellent strengthener for a weak voice.

Topsell states that “the left eie of a Hedgehog being fried with oyle, yealdeth a liquor which causeth sleep, if it bee infused into the eares with a quill. Warts of al sorts are likewise taken away by the same. If the right eie be fryed with the oile of lineseed and put in a vessell of red brasse, and afterward anoint his eies therewith, as with an eie-salue, he shal see as well in the darke as in the light.” The distinction is often a very important one in these old recipes between left or right, hind leg or front, male or female, and the like, and an error in any of these details completely upsets all hope of any benefit being derived; thus we see in this last receipt that a man might fry the left eye for ever, and never get any nearer the gift of nocturnal vision. In the same way “tenne sprigs of Laurell, seauen graines of Pepper, and the skin of the ribs of an hedgehog dryed and beaten, cast into three cups of water and warmed, so being drunk of one that hath the Collicke, and let rest, he shall be in perfect health; but with this exception, that for a man it must bee the membrane of a male hedgehog, and for a woman a female.”

Porta declares that the ancients made their hair grow by using the ashes of a land-hedgehog. As no one ever heard of a water-hedgehog this stipulation seems almost needlessly precise. In another recipe we are told to “take the body of a hedgehog burnt to powder,⁠[59] and if you adde thereto Beares-grease it will restore unto a bald man his heade of haire againe, if the place be rubbed vntil it be ready to bleed.” Bear’s grease pure and simple has long had a reputation amongst hair-dressers, and if this be as potent as they would have us believe, the rest of the prescription can scarcely claim much of the credit. The writer adds that “some mingle red Snailes,” but this is clearly optional, and we should certainly avail ourselves of the option.

Epilepsy was to be cured by wearing a ring in which a portion of the hoof of a deer was enclosed. It may interest anyone with a partiality for venison to know that “Deer’s flesh that is catcht in Summer is poyson; because then they feed on Adders and serpents: these are venemous creatures, and by eating of them they grow thirsty; and this they know naturally, for if they drink before they have digested them they are killed by them; wherefore they will abstain from water, though they burn with thirst. Wherefore Stag’s flesh eaten at that time is venemous and very dangerous.” Shakespeare refers to the weeping of the deer, and tells how

It was an old belief that the deer wept every year for the loss of their horns, “a likeness of those who grieve for the loss of their worldly possessions. So, too, should a penitent and watchful sinner not cease to weep when he is overtaken.” This straining after a moral, as we have already seen, is a very marked feature amongst the old writers. Sometimes the moral sentiment flows fairly naturally, but more often it is terribly laboured. Thus, for example, we read that “the ferret is a bold and audacious beast (though little), and an enemie to all other, and when they take a prey their custome and manner is onely to suck the bloud as they bite it, and not to eat the flesh; and if at any time their prey shall be taken from them they fall a squeaking and crying. Such are the rich men of this world, who yell and crie out when they part with their riches, weeping and wailing for the losse of such things as they have hunted after with as much greedinesse as want of pitie.”

In like manner we learn that “when the Squirrell is hunted she cannot be driven to the ground, unlesse extremitie of faintnesse cause her to do so through an unwilling compulsion, for such is the stately mind of this little beast that while her limbes and strength lasteth she tarrieth and saveth herself in the tops of tall trees, disdaining to come down for every harm or hurt which she feeleth; knowing, indeed, her greatest danger to rest below amongst the dogs and busie hunters. From whence may be gathered a perfect pattern for us, to be secured from all the wiles and hungrie chasings of the treacherous devil: namely, that we keep above in the loftie palaces of heavenlie meditations, for there is small securitie in things on earth; and greatest ought to be our fear of danger, when we leave to look and think of heaven.”

The fabulists and moralists of ancient and mediæval days regarded animals as so much raw material to be modelled into whatever form best suited their ends. They were little, if at all, concerned in giving a true picture of animal life, but used the various creatures in such conventional and allegorical way as most readily adapted itself to the moral or political end in view in their writings. Art has often pursued much the same course, and instead of giving us the real animal nature has introduced an entirely foreign element, and represented the creatures as swayed by purely human considerations. Æsop and La Fontaine make the animals speak as though they were influenced by human feelings and motives, while Landseer, for example, in some of his noble pictures employs his dogs and other animals to simulate humanity, as in “Laying Down the Law,” “Alexander and Diogenes,” and other well-known works of the master. The result is quaint, grotesque, delicious, humorous; but these law-givers, philosophers, and so forth, are canine in form alone, and are but puppets acting a part that is a good-natured satire on humanity.

It was a very old belief that when the wild boar was hunted its tusks grew so hot in its rage and excitement as to actually burn the dogs if they came within the terrible sweep of them. Xenophon tells us in his description of the chase of the boar that hairs laid upon the tusks shrivel up even after the brute is slain. This belief has been handed down from generation to generation of writers on so-called natural history, and even in a book in our possession, published in London in 1786, we find the statement only very slightly qualified by a preliminary “it is said.” “It is said that when this creature is hunted down his tusks are so inflamed that they will burn and singe the hair of the dogs.” Shakespeare says that the “ireful boar” does not even fear the lion, and Guillim says that “he is counted the most absolute Champion amongst Beasts, for that he hath weapons to wound his foe, which are his strong and sharp Tusks, and also his Target to defend himself: for which he useth oft to rub his shoulders and sides against Trees, wherewith to harden them against the stroke of his Adversary.”

Herbert states in his book of travels that there are on the African coast, opposite Madagascar, vast herds of wild swine that are greatly esteemed by the natives of those parts, not only for their flesh, but more especially for a stone that is found often within them, which is “very soveraign against poison.” The Spaniards, he tells us, call it Pietro del Porco. The virtue of this stone is supposed to arise from their feeding upon certain medical herbs.

The ermine was believed to prefer death to defilement, and if placed within a wall or ring of mud, would kill itself rather than contaminate its spotless fur. It is on this account that ermine is selected as the robe of prince and judge—an emblem of unspotted purity. Beaumont and Fletcher, in their “Knight of Malta,” refer to this in the line:—

In a portrait of Queen Elizabeth at Hatfield, an ermine is represented as running up her arm, as a delicate compliment to the Virgin Queen.

It was reported that goats see as well by night as by day, hence those people who are unable to see after dark can be cured of their infirmity by eating the liver of a goat; while for those who suffered from insomnia no remedy was held in better repute than the horn of a goat: this placed beneath the head of the patient speedily brought refreshing sleep. Porta affirms that “goats, when their eyes are blood-shotten, let out the blood; the she-goat by the point of a bullrush, the he-goat by the pricking of a thorn.” Such examples of animal sagacity have a great attraction for this old author, and he gives many instances in support of his contention, that “living creatures, though they have no understanding, yet their senses are quicker than ours, and by their actions they teach us Physick, Husbandry, the art of Building, the disposing of Household Affairs, and almost all Arts and Sciences. The beasts that have no reason, do by their nature strangely shun the eyes of witches and hurtfull things; the Doves, for a preservative against inchantment, first gather some little Bay-tree boughs, and then lay them upon their nests to preserve their young; so do the Kites use brambles, the Turtles swordgrasse, the Crows withy, the Lapwings Venus-hair, the Ravens ivy, the Herns carrot, the Blackbirds myrtle, the Larkes grasse, for the same purpose. In lyke manner they have shewed us preservatives against poysons; the Elephant having by chance eaten a Chameleon, against the poyson thereof eats of the wilde Olive; the Tortoise, having eaten a Serpent, dispels the poyson by eating the herb Origan. There is a kind of Spider which destroyeth the Harts, except permitting they eat wilde Ivy; and whensoever they light upon any poysonous food they cure themselves with the artichoke; and against Serpents they prepare and arm themselves with wilde Parsneps.” We need not further pursue matters with our author. Suffice it to say, that he brings forward an enormous number of examples, and amply proves his case to his satisfaction, as indeed he should have no difficulty in doing, when it is once understood that facts are of secondary importance.

One strange notion of antiquity was that the blood of the goat would dissolve the diamond. The statement is found in Pliny, Solinus, Albertus, Cyprian, Isidore, and many other writers, right away down to comparatively recent days. Legh, for instance, states, without hesitation, “The Diamonde, which neither iron nor fier wil daunt, the bloud of the gote softneth to the breaking.” Maundevile, of course, receives it as an undoubted truth; while even Browne writes: “We hear it in every mouth, and in many good Authors reade it, that a Diamond, which is the hardest of stones, not yeelding unto Steele, Emery or any other thing, is yet made soft and broke by the bloud of a Goat.”

That things are not always what they seem must have been a mere truism in the Middle Ages. Thus Aubrey in his “Remains of Gentilisme and Judaism,” introduces the goat in an entirely new character. “A conceit there is that ye devil commonly appeareth with a cloven hoof, wherein though it seem excessively ridiculous there may be something of truth, and ye ground at first might be his frequent appearing in the shape of a goat, which answers that description. This was the opinion of ancient Xtians concerning ye apparition of Fauns and Satyrs. The devil most often appears in the shape of a goat, nor did he only assume this shape in olden times, but commonly in later times, especially in ye place of his worship, if there be any truth in the confession of witches. And therefore a goat is not improperly made an hieroglyphic of ye devil.”

The shrew-mouse, one of the most inoffensive of creatures, was by our ancestors held to be of terribly poisonous nature. Its bite was thought to be most venomous, and even contact with it in any way was accounted extremely dangerous. Cattle and horses seized with any malady that appeared to cause any numbness of the legs were at once reputed shrew-struck. “It is a ravening beast,” quoth Topsell, “feigning itself gentle and tame, but being touched it biteth deep and poysoneth deadly. It beareth a cruel minde, desiring to hunt anything, neither is there any creature that it loveth.” On whatever limb it crept was “cruel anguish,” often ending in paralysis. These calumnies have prevailed in many countries and for many ages, the Romans being as firmly convinced of the deadly nature of the shrew-mouse, as any British rustic of a century ago. The shrew-mouse, according to the author of the “Speculum Mundi,” “hath a long and sharp snout like a mole. In Latine it is called Mus araneus, because it containeth in it poison or venime like a spider, and if at any time it bite either man or beast the truth of this will be too apparent. But commonly it is called a Shrew-mouse, and from the venimous biting of this beast we have an English imprecation, I beshrew thee; in which words we do, indeed, wish some such evil. And again, because a curst scold or brawling wife is esteemed none of the least evils; we, therefore, call such a one a Shrew.” Hence Shakespeare, dealing with such a character, entitled one of his plays the Taming of the Shrew.

Happily there was a certain antidote against the evil wrought by this malevolent beast. A large ash-tree being chosen, a deep hole was made in its trunk, and after certain incantations were made a shrew-mouse was thrust alive into the opening, and the hole securely plugged. “A shrew-ash,” says Gilbert White in his “Natural History of Selborne,” “is an ash whose twigs or branches, when gently applied to the limbs of cattle, will immediately relieve the pain which a beast suffers from the running of a shrew-mouse over the part affected. Against this accident, to which they were continually liable, our provident forefathers always kept a shrew-ash at hand, which when once medicated would maintain its virtue for ever.” One of these shrew-ashes, now but a fragment of what was evidently once a massive stately tree, may still be seen near the Sheen Gate in Richmond Park, and there are those still living who can remember cattle and horses being brought to it for its healing virtues.

The horse does not seem to have so much unnatural history associated with him as we might have anticipated, such stories as that of the feeding of the horses of Diomed with human flesh, or of the milk-white steed, Al Borak, of Mohammed, each of whose strides was equal to the furthest range of human vision, being altogether fabulous and mythical. Diomed, the tyrant of Thrace, seems to have held out very little encouragement to immigrants or wandering tourists, if the legend be true that he utilized them as fodder.