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<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65720 ***</div>
<h1 class="pgx" title="">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Place of Animals in Human Thought, by
Contessa Evelyn Lilian Hazeldine Carrington Martinengo-Cesaresco</h1>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10">
  <tr>
    <td valign="top">
      Note:
    </td>
    <td>
      Images of the original pages are available through
      Internet Archive. See
      https://archive.org/details/cu31924028931629
    </td>
  </tr>
</table>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="pgx" />
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

<div  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div>
  <h1 class='c001'>THE PLACE OF ANIMALS IN<br />HUMAN THOUGHT</h1>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c002' />
</div>

<div id='frontis'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/frontis.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='sc'>The Emperor Akbar</span> personally directing the tying up of a wild Elephant.<br />Tempera painting by Abu’l Fazl. (1597-98.)<br /><span class='small'>Photographed for this work from the original in the India Museum</span>.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_I'>I</span><span class='c004'>THE PLACE OF ANIMALS</span></div>
    <div class='c003'><span class='c004'>IN HUMAN THOUGHT</span></div>
    <div class='c002'>BY</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c005'>THE COUNTESS EVELYN</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c005'>MARTINENGO CESARESCO</span></div>
    <div class='c002'>“On ne connait rien que par bribes.”—<span class='sc'>M. Berthelot</span></div>
    <div class='c002'>NEW YORK</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='c005'>CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>153-157 FIFTH AVENUE</div>
    <div class='c000'>1909</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div>“C’est l’éternel secret qui veut être gardé.”</div>
    <div class='c002'><span class='small'>(<i>All rights reserved.</i>)</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c002' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>
  <h2 class='c006'>PREFACE</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>AT the Congress held at Oxford in September,
1908, those who heard Count Goblet
d’Alviella’s address on the  “Method and Scope
of the History of Religions”  must have felt the
thrill which announces the stirring of new ideas,
when, in a memorable passage, the speaker asked
“whether the psychology of animals has not equally
some relation to the science of religions?” At any
rate, these words came to me as a confirmation of the
belief that the study which has engaged my attention
for several years, is rapidly advancing towards recognition
as a branch of the inquiry into what man is
himself. The following chapters on the different
answers given to this question when extended from
man to animals, were intended, from the first, to form
a whole, not complete, indeed, but perhaps fairly
comprehensive. I offer them now to the public with
my warmest acknowledgments to the scholars whose
published works and, in some cases, private hints
have made my task possible. I also wish to thank
the Editor of the <i>Contemporary Review</i> for his kindness
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>in allowing me to reprint the part of this book
which appeared first in that periodical.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some chapters refer rather to practice than to
psychology, and others to myths and fancies rather
than to conscious speculation, but all these subjects
are so closely connected that it would be difficult to
divide their treatment by a hard-and-fast line.</p>

<p class='c008'>With regard to the illustrations, I am glad to bear
grateful testimony to the facilities afforded me by
the Directors of the British Museum, the Victoria
and Albert Museum, the Hague Gallery, the
National Museum at Copenhagen, the Egypt Exploration
Fund, and by the Secretary of State for
India. H.E. Monsieur Camille Barrère, French
Ambassador at Rome, has allowed me to include
a photograph of his remarkably fine specimen of a
bronze cat; and I have obtained the sanction of
Monsieur Marcel Dieulafoy for the reproduction
of one of Madame Dieulafoy’s photographs which
appeared in his magnificent work on “L’Art
Antique de la Perse.” Messrs. Macmillan &amp; Co.,
Limited, and Messrs. Chapman and Hall, Limited,
have permitted photographs to be taken of two
plates in books published by them. Finally, Dr. C.
Waldstein and Mr. E. B. Havell have been most
kind in helping me to give the correct description
of some of the plates.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='sc'>Salò, Lago di Garda.</span></p>
<p class='c009'><i>February 15, 1909.</i></p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>
  <h2 class='c006'>CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'>&nbsp;</td>
    <td class='c011'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'>SOUL-WANDERING AS IT CONCERNS ANIMALS</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch01'>11</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>II</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE GREEK CONCEPTION OF ANIMALS</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch02'>22</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>III</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ANIMALS AT ROME</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch03'>44</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>IV</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>PLUTARCH THE HUMANE</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch04'>62</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>V</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>MAN AND HIS BROTHER</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch05'>84</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>VI</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE FAITH OF IRAN</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch06'>113</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>VII</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ZOROASTRIAN ZOOLOGY</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch07'>141</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>VIII</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>A RELIGION OF RUTH</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch08'>166</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>IX</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>LINES FROM THE ADI GRANTH</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch09'>201</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span></div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>X</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE HEBREW CONCEPTION OF ANIMALS</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch10'>205</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>XI</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>“A PEOPLE LIKE UNTO YOU”</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch11'>221</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>XII</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE FRIEND OF THE CREATURE</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch12'>245</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>XIII</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>VERSIPELLES</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch13'>265</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>XIV</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE HORSE AS HERO</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch14'>281</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>XV</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ANIMALS IN EASTERN FICTION</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch15'>306</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c003'>
    <div>XVI</div>
  </div>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='86%' />
<col width='13%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE GROWTH OF MODERN IDEAS ABOUT ANIMALS</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#ch16'>336</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>INDEX</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#idx'>367</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>
  <h2 class='c006'>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
</div>
<div class='std-table'>

<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='90%' />
<col width='9%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE EMPEROR AKBAR PERSONALLY DIRECTING THE TYING UP OF A WILD ELEPHANT. Tempera painting in the “Akbar Namah,” by Abu’l Fazl (1597-98). India Museum. <span class='c013'><i>Photographed for this work.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#frontis'><span class='c013'><i>Frontispiece</i></span></a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>DEER WORSHIPPING THE WHEEL OF THE LAW. Tope of Sanchi, drawn by Lieut.-Col. Maisey<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From Fergusson’s “Tree and Serpent Worship.” By permission of the India Office.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i011'>11</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE BUDDHISTIC TIGER<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From a painting on silk by Ko-Tō in the British Museum.  Photographed for this work.<br /> In Japanese Buddhism the Tiger is the type of Wisdom.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i021'>21</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ORPHEUS<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Fresco found at Pompeii.</i>  (<i>Sommer.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i032'>32</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>STELE WITH CAT AND BIRD<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Athens Museum.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i040'>40</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>CAPITOLINE SHE-WOLF<br />       <span class='c013'>(<i>Bruckmann.</i>)  Bronze statue. Early Etruscan style. The twins are modern.</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i044'>44</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>LION BEING LED FROM THE ARENA BY A SLAVE<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From the mosaic pavement of a Roman villa at Nennig.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i047'>47</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>BACCHUS RIDING ON A PANTHER<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Mosaic found at Pompeii.</i> (<i>Sommer.</i>) </span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i074'>74</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>BRONZE STATUE OF AN EGYPTIAN CAT<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From the Collection of H.E. Monsieur Camille Barrère, French Ambassador at Rome</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i082'>82</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>REINDEER BROWSING. OLDER STONE AGE<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Found in a cave at Thayngen in Switzerland.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i086a'>86</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>HORSE DRAWING DISC OF THE SUN. OLDER BRONZE AGE<br /> <span class='c013'><i>National Museum at Copenhagen.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i086b'>86</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>HATHOR COW<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Found in 1906 by Dr. Édouard Naville at Deir-el-bahari.  By permission of the Egypt Exploration Fund.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i102'>102</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>WILD GOATS AND YOUNG<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Assyrian Relief. British Museum.</i> (<i>Mansell.</i>) </span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i108'>108</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ASSYRIAN GOD CARRYING ANTELOPE AND WHEAT-EAR<br /> <span class='c013'><i>British Museum.</i>      (<i>Mansell.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i116'>116</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>COUNTING CATTLE<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Egyptian Fresco. British Museum.</i> (<i>Mansell.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i128'>128</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>KING FIGHTING GRIFFIN (“BAD ANIMAL”)<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Relief in Palace of Darius at Persepolis.  Photographed by Jane Dieulafoy. From “L’Art Antique de la Perse.”  By permission of M. Marcel Dieulafoy.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i142'>142</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE REAL DOG OF IRAN<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Bronze Statuette found at Susa. Louvre. From Perrot’s “History of Art in Ancient Persia.” By permission of Messrs. Chapman &amp; Hall, Ltd.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i152'>152</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>BUDDHA PACIFYING AN INTOXICATED ELEPHANT WHICH HAD BEEN SENT TO DESTROY HIM. THE ELEPHANT STOOPS IN ADORATION<br /> Græco-Buddhist sculpture from a ruined monastery at Takt-i-Bahi.  <span class='c013'><i>India Museum. Photographed for this work.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i188'>188</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>RECLINING BULL<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Ancient Southern Indian sculpture. From a photograph in the India Museum.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i192'>192</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>WILD BULLS AND TAMED BULLS<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Reliefs on two gold cups found in a tomb at Vapheio near Amyclae. Fifteenth century <span class='fss'>B.C.</span> (possibly earlier). From Schuckhardt’s “Schliemann’s Excavations.” By permission of Messrs. Macmillan &amp; Co., Ltd.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i201'>201</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE GARDEN OF EDEN<br /> <span class='c013'><i>By Rubens. Hague Gallery.</i> (<i>Bruckmann.</i></span>)</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i208'>208</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>GENESIS VIII.<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Loggie di Raffaello. In the Vatican. Drawn by N. Consoni.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i212'>212</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>DANIEL AND THE LIONS<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From an early Christian Sarcophagus in S. Vitale, Ravenna.</i> (<i>Alinari.</i></span>)</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i216'>216</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>“AN INDIAN ORPHEUS”<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Inlaid marble work panel originally surmounting a doorway in the Great Hall of Audience in the Mogul Palace at Delhi (about 1650). Photographed for this work from a painting by a native artist in the India Museum. Imitated from a painting by Raphael.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i222'>222</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>MOSLEM BEGGAR FEEDING DOGS AT CONSTANTINOPLE<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From life.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i226'>226</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ST. JEROME EXTRACTING A THORN FROM THE PAW OF A LION<br /> <span class='c013'><i>By Hubert van Eyck. Naples Museum.</i>   (<i>Anderson.</i></span>)</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i253'>253</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ST. EUSTACE (OR ST. HUBERT) AND THE STAG<br /> <span class='c013'><i>By Vittore Pisano. National Gallery.</i>  (<i>Hanfstängl.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i256'>256</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>“LE MENEUR DES LOUPS”<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Designed and drawn by Maurice Sand.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i276'>276</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE ASSYRIAN HORSE<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From a relief in the British Museum.</i>  (<i>Mansell.</i></span>)</td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i284'>284</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ARABIAN HORSE OF THE SAHARA<br /><span class='c013'><i>From life.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i288'>288</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>THE BANYAN DEER<br /> <span class='c013'><i>From “Stûpa of Bharhut.” By General Cunningham. By permission of the India Office.</i>   (<i>Griggs.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i328'>328</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>EGYPTIAN OFFICIAL, WITH HIS WIFE, ENGAGED IN FOWLING IN THE  PAPYRUS SWAMP. HIS HUNTING CAT HAS SEIZED THREE BIRDS.<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Mural painting in British Museum.</i> (<i>Mansell.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i330'>330</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>ASSYRIAN LION AND LIONESS IN PARADISE PARK<br /> <span class='c013'><i>British Museum.</i> (<i>Mansell.</i>)  The King’s reservations for big game were called “paradises.”</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i336'>336</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>LAMBS<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Relief on a fifth century tomb at Ravenna.</i>  (<i>Alinari.</i>)</span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i338'>338</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c012'>“IL BUON PASTORE”<br /> <span class='c013'><i>Mosaic in the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia at Ravenna.</i></span></td>
    <td class='c011'><a href='#i346'>346</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>

</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div id='i011'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i011.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'>LT COL. MAISEY DEL.      W. BRIGGS, LITH.</span><br />DEER WORSHIPPING THE WHEEL OF THE LAW.<br /><span class='small'>Tope of Sanchi.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c002' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span><span class='c014'>The Place of Animals in Human Thought</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='ch01' class='c006'>I<br /> <br />SOUL-WANDERING AS IT CONCERNS ANIMALS</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>IN one of these enigmatic sayings which launch
the mind on boundless seas, Cardinal Newman
remarked that we know less of animals than of
angels. A large part of the human race explains
the mystery by what is called transmigration,
metempsychosis, <i>Samsara</i>, <i>Seelenwanderung</i>; the last
a word so compact and picturesque that it is a pity
not to imitate it in English. The intelligibility of
ideas depends much on whether words touch the
spring of the picture-making wheel of the brain;
“Soul-wandering” does this.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ancient as the theory is, we ought to remember
what is commonly forgotten—that somewhere in the
distance we catch sight of a time when it was
unknown, at least in the sense of a procession of
the soul from death to life through animal forms.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>Traces of it are to be found in the Sutras and it is
thoroughly developed in the Upanishads, but if the
Sutras belong to the thirteenth century and the
Upanishads to about the year 700 before Christ, a
long road still remains to the Vedas with their
fabulous antiquity.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the Vedas it is stated that the soul may wander,
even during sleep, and that it will surely have a
further existence after death, but there is nothing to
show that in this further existence it will take the
form of an animal. Man will be substantially man,
able to feel the same pleasures as his prototype on
earth; but if he goes to a good place, exempt from
the same pains. What, then, was the Vedic opinion
of animals? On the whole, it is safe to assume that
the authors of the Vedic chants believed that animals,
like men, entered a soul-world in which they preserved
their identity. The idea of funeral sacrifices,
as exemplified in these earliest records, was that of
sending some one before. The horse and the goat
that were immolated at a Vedic funeral were intended
to go and announce the coming of the man’s soul.
Wherever victims were sacrificed at funerals, they
were originally meant to do something in the after-life;
hence they must have had souls. The origin
of the Suttee was the wish that the wife should
accompany her husband, and among primitive peoples
animals were sacrificed because the dead man might
have need of them. Not very long ago an old Irish
woman, on being remonstrated with for having killed
her dead husband’s horse, replied with the words,
“Do you think I would let my man go on foot in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>next world?” On visiting that wonderfully emotion-awakening
relic, the Viking ship at Christiania, I was
interested to see the bones of the Chief’s horses and
dogs as well as his own. Did the Norsemen, passionately
devoted to the sea as they were, suppose, that
not only the animals, but also the vessel in which
they buried their leader, would have a ghostly second
existence? I have no doubt that they did. Apart
from what hints may be gleaned from the Vedas,
there is an inherent probability against the early
Aryans, any more than the modern Hindu, believing
that the soul of man or beast comes suddenly to a
full stop. To destroy spirit seems to the Asiatic
mind as impossible as to destroy matter seems to
the biologist.</p>

<p class='c008'>Leaving the Vedas and coming down to the Sutras
and Upanishads, we discover the transmigration of
souls at first suggested and then clearly defined.
Whence came it? Was it the belief of those less
civilised nations whom the Aryans conquered, and
did they, in accepting it from them, give it a moral
complexion by investing it with the highly ethical
significance of an upward or downward progress
occasioned by the merits or demerits of the soul in a
previous state of being?</p>

<p class='c008'>A large portion of mankind finds it as difficult to
conceive a sudden beginning as a sudden end of
spirit. We forget difficulties which we are not in
the habit of facing; those who have tried to face this
one have generally stumbled over it. Even Dante
with his subtle psychophysiological reasoning hardly
persuades. The ramifications of a life before stretched
<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>far: “Whosoever believes in the fabled prior existence
of souls, let him be anathema,” thundered the
Council of Constantinople, <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> 543. Which shows
that many Christians shared Origen’s views on this
subject.</p>

<p class='c008'>From the moment that soul-wandering became,
in India, a well-established doctrine, some three
thousand years ago, the conception of the status of
animals was perfectly clear. “Wise people,” says
the Bhagavad Gita, “see the same soul (Atman) in
the Brahman, in worms and insects, in the outcasts,
in the dog and the elephant, in beasts, cows, gadflies,
and gnats.” Here we have the doctrine succinctly
expounded, and in spite of subtleties introduced by
later philosophers (such as that of the outstanding
self) the exposition holds good to this day as a statement
of the faith of India. It also described the
doctrine of Pythagoras, which ancient traditions
asserted that he brought from Egypt, where no such
doctrine ever existed. Pythagoras is still commonly
supposed to have borrowed from Egypt; but it is
strange that a single person should continue to hold
an opinion against which so much evidence has been
produced; especially as it is surely very easy to
explain the tradition by interpreting Egypt to have
stood for “the East” in common parlance, exactly
as in Europe a tribe of low caste Indians came to be
called gypsies or Egyptians. Pythagoras believed
that he had been one of the Trojan heroes, whose
shield he knew at a glance in the Temple of Juno
where it was hung up. After him, Empedocles
thought that he had passed through many forms,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>amongst others those of a bird and a fish. Pythagoras
and his fire-spent disciple belong to times which seem
almost near if judged by Indian computations: yet
they are nebulous figures; they seem to us, and
perhaps they seemed to men who lived soon after
them, more like mysterious, half Divine bearers of a
word than men of flesh and blood. But Plato, who
is real to us and who has influenced so profoundly
modern thought, Plato took their theory and displayed
it to the Western world as the most logical explanation
of the mystery of being.</p>

<p class='c008'>The theory of transmigration did not commend
itself to Roman thinkers, though it was admirably
stated by a Roman poet:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Omnia mutantur: nihil interit. Errat, et illinc</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Huc venit, hinc illuc, et quoslibet occupat artus</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Spiritus, eque feris, humana in corpora transit,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Inque feras noster, nec tempore deperit ullo.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Utque novis facilis signatur cera figuris,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Nec manet ut fuerat, nec formas servat easdem,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Sed tamen ipsa eadem est: animam sic semper eandem</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Esse.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>This description is as accurate as it is elegant; but
it remains a question whether Ovid had anything
deeper than a folk-lorist’s interest in transmigration
joined to a certain sympathy which it often inspires
in those who are fond of animals. The enthusiastic
folk-lorist finds himself believing in all sorts of things
at odd times. Lucian’s admirers at Rome doubtless
enjoyed his ridiculous story of a Pythagorean cock
which had been a man, a woman, a prince, a subject,
a fish, a horse and a frog, and which summed up its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>varied experience in the judgment that man was the
most wretched and deplorable of all creatures, all
others patiently grazing within the enclosures of
Nature while man alone breaks out and strays beyond
those safe limits. This story was retold with great
gusto by Erasmus. The Romans were a people with
inclusive prejudices, and they were not likely to
welcome a narrowing of the gulf between themselves
and the beasts of the field. Cicero’s dictum that,
while man looks before and after, analysing the past
and forecasting the future, animals have only the
perception of the present, does not go to the excess
of those later theorists who, like Descartes, reduced
animals to automata, but it goes farther than scientific
writers on the subject would now allow to be justified.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is worth while asking, what was it that so powerfully
attracted Plato in the theory of transmigration?
I think that Plato, who made a science of the moral
training of the mind, was attracted by soul-wandering
as a scheme of soul-evolution. Instead of looking
at it as a matter of fact which presupposed an ethical
root (which is the Indian view), he looked upon it as
an ethical root which presupposed a matter of fact.
He was influenced a little, no doubt, by the desire to
get rid of Hades, “an unpleasant place,” as he says,
“and not true,” for which he felt a peculiar antipathy,
but he was influenced far more by seeing in soul-wandering
a rational theory of the ascent of the soul,
a Darwinism of the spirit. “We are plants,” he said,
“not of earth but of heaven,” but it takes the plants
of heaven a long time to grow.</p>

<p class='c008'>We ought to admire the Indian mind, which first
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>seized the idea of time in relation to development
and soared out of the cage of history (veritable or
imaginary) into liberal æons to account for one perfect
soul, one plant that had accomplished its heavenly
destiny. But though the Indian seer argues with
Plato that virtue has its own reward (not so much an
outward reward of improved environment as an inward
reward of approximation to perfection), he disagrees
with the Greek philosopher with regard to the practical
result of all this as it affects any of us personally.
Plato found the theory of transmigration entirely
consoling; the Indian finds it entirely the reverse.
Can the reason be that Plato took the theory as a
beautiful symbol while the Indian takes it as a dire
reality?</p>

<p class='c008'>The Hindu is as much convinced that the soul is
re-born in different animals as we are that children
are born of women. He is convinced of it, but he
is not consoled by it. Let us reflect a little: does
not one life give us time to get somewhat tired of it;
how should we feel after fifteen hundred lives? The
wandering Jew has never been thought an object
of envy, but the wandering soul has a wearier lot;
it knows the sorrows of all creation.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“How many births are past I cannot tell,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>How many yet may be no man may say,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>But this alone I know and know full well,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That pain and grief embitter all the way.”<a id='r1' /><a href='#f1' class='c017'><sup>[1]</sup></a></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote c000' id='f1'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r1'>1</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“Folk-Songs of Southern India,” by Charles E. Gover, a
fascinating but little-known work.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'>Rather than this—death. How far deeper the
gloom revealed by these lines from the folk-songs of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>an obscure Dravidian tribe living in the Nilgiri Hills,
than any which cultured Western pessimism can
show! Compared with them, the despairing cry of
Baudelaire seems almost a hymn of joy:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“’Tis death that cheers and gives us strength to live,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>’Tis life’s chief aim, sole hope that can abide,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Our wine, elixir, glad restorative</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Whence we gain heart to walk till eventide.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>Through snow, through frost, through tempests it can give</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Light that pervades th’ horizon dark and wide;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The inn which makes secure when we arrive</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Our food and sleep, all labour laid aside.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>It is an Angel whose magnetic hand</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Gives quiet sleep and dreams of extasy,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And strews a bed for naked folk and poor.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>’Tis the god’s prize, the mystic granary,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The poor man’s purse and his old native land,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And of the unknown skies the opening door.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>Folk-songs are more valuable aids than the higher
literature of nations in an inquiry as to what they really
believe. The religion of the Dravidian mountaineers
is purely Aryan (though their race is not); their songs
may be taken, therefore, as Aryan documents. They
are particularly characteristic of the dual belief as to
a future state which is, to this day, widely diffused.
How firmly these people believe in transmigration
the quatrain quoted above bears witness; yet they
also believe that souls are liable to immediate judgment.
This contradiction is explained by the theory
that a long interval may elapse between death and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>re-incarnation and that during this interval the
soul meets with a reward or punishment. To say the
truth, the explanation sounds a rather lame one. Is
it not more likely that the idea of immediate judgment,
wherever it appears, is a relic of Vedic belief which
has to be reconciled, as best it can, with the later
idea of transmigration? The Dravidian songs are
remarkable for their strong inculcation of regard for
animals. In their impressive funeral dirge which
is a public confession of the dead man’s sins, it is
owned that he killed a snake, a lizard and a harmless
frog. And that not mere lifetaking was the point
condemned, is clearly proved by the further admission
that the delinquent put the young ox to the plough
before it was strong enough to work. In a Dravidian
vision of Heaven and Hell certain of the Blest are
perceived milking their happy kine, and it is explained
that these are they who, when they saw the lost kine
of neighbour or stranger in the hills, drove them
home nor left them to perish from tiger or wolf.
Surely in this, as in the Jewish command which it
so closely resembles, we may read mercy to beast as
well as to man.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is sometimes said that there is as much cruelty
to animals in India as anywhere. Some of this
cruelty (as it seems to us) is caused directly by
reluctance to take life; of the other sort, caused by
callousness, it can be only said that the human brute
grows under every sky. One great fact is admitted:
children are not cruel in India: Victor Hugo could
not have written his terrible poem about the tormented
toad in India. I think it a mistake to attribute the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>Indian sentiment towards animals wholly to transmigration;
nevertheless, it may be granted that such
a belief fosters such a sentiment. Indeed, if it were
allowable to look upon the religion of the many as
the morality of the one, it would seem natural to
suppose that the theory of transmigration was invented
by some creature-loving sage on purpose to give men
a fellow-feeling for their humbler relations. Even
so, many a bit of innocent folk-fable has served as
“protective colouration” to beast or bird: the legend
of the robin who covered up the Babes in the Wood;
the legend of the swallow who did some little service
to the crucified Saviour, and how many other such
tender fancies. Who invented them, and why?</p>

<p class='c008'>If Plato had wished simply to find a happy
substitute for Hades, he might have found it—had
he looked far enough—in the Vedic kingdom of the
sun, radiant and eternal, where sorrow is not, where
the crooked are made straight, ruled over by Yama
the first man to die and the first to live again, death’s
bright angel, lord of the holy departed—how far from
Pluto and the “Tartarean grey.” It would not have
provided a solution to the mystery of being, but it
might have made many converts, for after a happy
heaven all antiquity thirsted.</p>

<div id='i021'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i021.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>THE BUDDHISTIC TIGER.<br />British Museum.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>From a painting on silk by Ko-Tō.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>It is not sure if the scheme of existence mapped out
in soul-wandering is really more consoling for beast
than for man. It is a poor compliment to some dogs
to say that they have been some men. Then again,
it is recognised as easier for a dog to be good than for
a man to be good, but after a dog has passed his little
life in well-doing he dies with the prospect that his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>spirit, which by his merits becomes again a man, will
be sent down, by that man’s transgressions, to the
society of jackals. According to the doctrine of soul-wandering,
animals are, in brief, the Purgatory of
men. Just as prayers for the dead (which means,
prayers for the remission to them of a merited period
of probation) represent an important branch of
Catholic observances, so prayers for the remission
of a part of the time which souls would otherwise
spend in animal forms constitute the most vital and
essential feature in Brahmanical worship.</p>

<p class='c008'>Of course, this is also true of Buddhism, to which
many people think that the theory of soul-wandering
belongs exclusively, unmindful that the older faith has
it as well. The following hymn, used in Thibet,
shows how accurately the name of Purgatory applies
to the animal incarnations of the soul:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“If we [human beings] have amassed any merit</div>
      <div class='line in1'>In the three states,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>We rejoice in this good fortune when we consider</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The unfortunate lot of the poor [lower] animals,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Piteously engulphed in the ocean of misery;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>On their behalf, we now turn the Wheel of Religion.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>There are grounds for thinking that the purgatorial
view of animals was part of the religious beliefs of
the highly civilised native races of South America.
The Christianised Indians are very gentle in their
ways towards animals, while among the savage
tribes in Central Peru (which are probably degraded
off-shoots from the people of the Incas) the belief
still survives that good men become monkeys or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>jaguars, and bad men parrots or reptiles. For the
rest, soul-wandering has an enduring fascination for
the human mind.</p>

<p class='c008'>In January, 1907, Leandro Improta, a young man
well furnished with worldly goods, shot himself in a
café at Naples. His pocket was found to contain
a letter in which he said that the act was prompted by
a desire to study metempsychosis; much had been
written on the subject, but it pleased him better to
discover than to talk: “so I determined to die and see
whether I shall be re-born in the form of some animal.
It would be delightful to return to this world as a lion
or a rat.” It might not prove delightful after all!</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>
  <h2 id='ch02' class='c006'>II<br /> <br />THE GREEK CONCEPTION OF ANIMALS</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>“THE heralds brought a sacred hecatomb to the
gods through the city and the long-haired
Grecians were assembled under the shady grove of
far-darting Apollo, but when they had tasted the
upper flesh and had drawn it out, having divided
the shares, they made a delightful feast.” In this
description the poet of the Odyssey not only calls up
a wonderfully vivid picture of an ancient fête-day, but
also shows the habit of mind of the Homeric Greeks
in regard to animal food. They were voracious
eaters—although the frequent reference to feasts
ought not to make us suppose that meat was their
constant diet; rather the reverse, for then it would
not have been so highly rated. But when they had
the chance, they certainly did eat with unfastidious
copiousness and unashamed enjoyment. It is not
pleasant to read about, for it sets one thinking of
things by no means far away or old; for instance,
of the disappearance of half-cooked beef at some
Continental <i>tables d’hôte</i>. We find that Homer is
painfully near us. But in Homeric times the ghost
of a scruple had to be laid before the feast could be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>enjoyed. Animal food was still closely connected
with the idea of sacrifice. Sacrifice lends distinction
to subject as well as object; it was some atonement
to the animal to dedicate him to the gods. He was
covered with garlands and attended by long-robed
priests; his doom was his triumph. The devoted
heifer or firstling of the flock was glorified beyond
all its kind. Some late sceptic of the <i>Anthology</i>
asked what possible difference it could make to the
sheep whether it were devoured by a wolf or sacrificed
to Herakles so that he might protect the sheepfold
from wolves? But scepticism is a poor thing. From
immolation to apotheosis there is but a step; how
many human victims willingly bowed their heads
to the knife!</p>

<p class='c008'>The sacrificial aspect of the slaughter of domestic
animals took a strong hold of the popular imagination.
It is still suggested by the procession of garlanded
beasts which traverses the Italian village on the
approach of Easter: the only time of year when the
Italian peasant touches meat. In the tawdry travesty
of the <i>Bœuf gras</i>, though the origin is the same,
every shred of the old significance is lost, but among
simple folk south of the Alps, unformed thoughts
which know not whence they come still contribute a
sort of religious glamour to that last pageant. Far back,
indeed, stretches the procession of the victims, human
and animal—for wherever there was animal sacrifice,
at some remote epoch, “the goat without horns” was
also offered up.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Homeric Greeks had no butchers; they did
the slaying of beasts themselves or their priests did it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>for them. Agamemnon kills the boar sacrificed to
Zeus with his own hands, which are first uplifted in
prayer. The commonest meat was the flesh of swine,
as may be seen by the pig of Æsop which replied, on
being asked by the sheep why he cried out when
caught, “They take you for your wool or milk, but
me for my life.” In Homer, however, there is much
talk of fatted sheep, kids and oxen, and there is even
mention of killing a cow. The Athenians had qualms
about slaughtering the ox, the animal essential to
agriculture—though they did it—but the Homeric
Greek was not troubled by such thoughts. He was
not over nice about anything; he was his own cook,
and he did not lose his appetite while he roasted his
bit of meat on the spit. A Greek repast of that age
would have shocked the abstemious Indian as much
as the Hindu reformer, Keshub Chunder Sen, confessed
to have been shocked by the huge joints on
English sideboards.</p>

<p class='c008'>Putting aside his meat-eating proclivities, for which
we cannot throw stones at him, the Greek of the Iliad
and of the Odyssey is the friend of his beast. He
does not regard it as his long-lost brother, but he sees
in it a devoted servant; sometimes more than human
in love if less than human in wit. His point of view,
though detached, was appreciative. Practically it
was the point of view of the twentieth century.
Homer belongs to the Western world, and in a great
measure to the modern Western world. He had no
racial fellow-feeling with animals; yet he could feel
for the sparrow that flutters round its murdered young
ones and for the vulture that rends the air with cries
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>when the countryman takes its fledglings from the
nest. He could shed one immortal tear over the
faithful hound that recognises his master and dies.
“There lay the dog Argus, full of vermin.” If it had
not been a living creature, what sight could have
more repelled human eyes? But with dog as with
man, the miserable body is as naught beside—what
in the man we call the soul. “He fawned with his
tail and laid down both his ears, but he could no
more come nearer his master.” All the sense of
disgust is gone and there is something moist, perhaps,
in our eyes too, though it is not the ichor of immortality.</p>

<p class='c008'>Giving names to animals is the first instinctive
confession that they are not <i>things</i>. What sensible
man ever called his table Carlo or his inkpot Trilby?
Homer gives his horses the usual names of horses
in his day; this is shown by the fact that he calls
more than one horse by the same name. Hector’s
steeds were Xanthus, Æthon and noble Lampus;
often would Andromache mix wine for them even
before she attended to the wants of her husband,
or offer them the sweet barley with her own white
hands. Æthe is the name of Agamemnon’s graceful
and fleet-footed mare. Xanthus and Balius, offspring
of Podarges, are the horses which Achilles received
from his father. He bids them bring their charioteer
back in safety to the body of the Greeks—and then
follows the impressive incident of the warning given
to him of his impending fate. The horse Xanthus
bends low his head: his long mane, which is collected
in a ring, droops till it touches the ground. Hera
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>gives him power of speech and he tells how, though
the steeds of Achilles will do their part right well,
not all their swiftness, not all their faithful service
can save their master from the doom that even
now is drawing near. “The furies restrain the
voice”: the laws which govern the natural order
of things must not be violated. “O Xanthus,” cries
Achilles, “O Xanthus, why dost thou predict my
death?... Well do I know myself that it is
my fate to perish here, far away from my dear father
and mother!” It is the passionate cry of the Greek,
the lover of life as none has loved it, the lover of
the sweet air gladdened by the sun.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many a soldier may have spoken to his horse,
half in jest, as Achilles spoke to Xanthus and Balius:
“bring me safely out of the fray.” The supernatural
and terrible reply comes with the shock of the
unforeseen, like a clap of thunder on a calm day.
This incident is a departure from the usual Homeric
conventionality, for it takes us into the domain of
real magic. The belief that animals know things
that we know not, and see things that we see not,
is scattered over all the earth. Are there not still
good people who feel an “eerie” sensation when
a cat stares fixedly into vacancy in the twilight?
“Eerie” sensations count for much in early beliefs,
but what counts for more is the observation of actual
facts which are not and, perhaps, cannot be explained.
The uneasiness of animals before an earthquake,
or the refusal of some animals to go to sea
on ships which afterwards come to grief—to refer
to only two instances of a class of phenomena the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>existence of which cannot be gainsaid—would be
sufficient to convince any savage or any primitive
man that animals have foreknowledge. If they know
the future on one point, why should they not know
it on others? The primitive man generally starts
from something which he deems <i>certain</i>; he deals in
“certainties” far more than in hypotheses, and when
he has seized a “certainty” in his own fashion he
draws logical deductions from it. Savages and
children have a ruthless logic of their own.</p>

<p class='c008'>The prophetic power of animals has important
bearings on the subject of divination. In cases of
animal portents the later theory may have been
that the animal was the passive instrument or
medium of a superior power; but it is not likely
that this was the earliest theory. The goddess
did not use Xanthus as a mouthpiece: she simply
gave him the faculty of speech so that he could say
what he already knew. The second sight of animals
was believed to be communicable to man through
their flesh, and especially through their blood.
Porphyry says plainly that diviners fed on the hearts
of crows, vultures, and moles (the heart being the
fountain of the blood), because in this manner they
partook of the souls of these animals, and received
the influence of the gods who accompanied these
souls. The blood conveyed the qualities of the spirit.
In my opinion the Hebrew ordinance against partaking
of the blood was connected with this idea;
the soul was not to be meddled with. I do not know
if attention has been paid to the remarkable juxtaposition
of the blood prohibition with enchantment
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>in Leviticus xix. 26. The Institutes of Manu clearly
indicate that the blood was not to be swallowed
because, by doing so, could be procured an illicit
mixing up of personality: the most awful of sins,
more awful because so much more mysterious than
our mediæval “pact,” or selling the soul to the
devil. A knowledge of magic is essential to the
true comprehension of all sacred writings.</p>

<p class='c008'>That animals formerly talked with human voices
was the genuine belief of most early races, but there
are few traces of it in Greek literature. A hint of a
real folk-belief is to be found, perhaps, in the remark
of Clytemnestra, who says of Cassandra, when she
will not descend from the car that has brought her,
a prisoner, to Agamemnon’s palace:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“I wot—unless like swallows she doth use</div>
      <div class='line in1'><i>Some strange barbarian tongue from over sea</i>,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>My words must bring persuasion to her soul.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>But such hints are not frequent. The stories of
“talking beasts” which enjoyed an immense popularity
in Greece were founded on as conscious “make-believe”
as the Beast tales of the Middle Ages.
From the “Battle of the Frogs and Mice” to Æsop’s
fables, and from these to the comedies of Aristophanes,
the animals are meant to hold up human
follies to ridicule or human virtues to admiration.
The object was to instruct while amusing when it
was not to amuse without instructing. Æsop hardly
asks the most guileless to believe that his stories
are of the “all true” category—which is why children
rarely quite take them to their hearts. At the same
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>time, he shows a close study of the idiosyncrasies
of animals, so close that there is little to alter in
his characterisation. Out of the mass of stories in
the collection attributed to him, one or two only
seem to carry us back to a more ingenuous age.
The following beautiful little tale of the “Lion’s
Kingdom” is vaguely reminiscent of the world-tradition
of a “Peace in Nature.”</p>
<p class='c008'>“The beasts of the field and forest had a lion
as their king. He was neither wrathful, cruel, nor
tyrannical, but just and gentle as a king could
be. He made during his reign a proclamation for
a general assembly of all the birds and beasts, and
drew up conditions for an universal league in which
the Wolf and the Lamb, the Panther and the Kid,
the Tiger and the Stag, the Dog and the Hare,
should live together in perfect peace and amity.
The Hare said, ‘Oh, how I have longed to see
this day, in which the weak shall take their place
with impunity by the side of the strong.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>The temper of a people towards animals can be
judged from its sports. It has been well said, Who
could imagine Pericles presiding over a “Roman
holiday”? Wanton cruelty to animals seemed to
the Greeks an outrage to the gods. The Athenians
inflicted a fine on a vivisector of the name of Xenocrates
(he called himself a “philosopher”) who had
skinned a goat alive. In Greece, from Homeric
times downwards, the most favourite sport was the
chariot-race which, at first, possessed the importance
of a religious event, and always had a dignity above
that of a mere pastime. The horses received their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>full share of honour and glory; for many centuries
the graves of Cimon’s mares, with which he had
thrice conquered at the Olympian games, were pointed
out to the stranger, near his own tomb.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the ancient Greek as in the modern world,
while the majority held the views about animals
which I have briefly sketched, a small minority
held views of quite a different kind. It may be
that no outward agency is required to cause the
periodical appearance of men who are driven from
the common road by the nostalgia of a state in
which the human creature had not learnt to shed
blood. The earliest tradition agrees with the latest
science in testifying that man did not always eat
flesh. It seems as if sometimes, in every part of
the earth, an irresistible impulse takes hold of him to
resume his primal harmlessness. It is natural,
however, that students should have sought some
more definite explanation for the introduction of the
Orphic sect into Greece, where it can be traced
to about the time generally given to Buddha—the
sixth century <span class='fss'>B.C.</span> Some have conjectured that
dark-skinned, white-robed missionaries from India
penetrated into Europe as we know that they penetrated
into China, bringing with them the gospel
of the unity of all sentient things. Others agree with
what seems to have been thought by Herodotus:
that wandering pilgrims brought home treasured
secrets from the temple of Ammon or some other
of those Egyptian shrines with which the Greeks
constantly kept up certain <i>rapports</i>. It may be,
now, that these two theories will be abandoned in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>favour of a third which would refer the origin of
the Orphists to Ægean times and suppose them to
be the last followers of an earlier faith. When
they do come into history, it is as poor and ignorant
people—like the Doukhobors of to-day—whose
obscurity might well account for their having remained
long unobserved. But this is no reason for
concluding that their beginnings were obscure.</p>

<p class='c008'>What is best understood about them is that they
abstained rigorously from flesh except during the
rare performance of some rite of purification, in
which they tasted the blood of a bull which was
supposed to procure mystic union with the divine.
As happened with the performers of other cruel
or horrid rites, the transcendent significance they
ascribed to the act paralysed their power of recognising
its revolting nature. A diseased spiritualism
which ignores matter altogether is the real key to
such phenomena. It is too soon to say whether any
link can be established between the Orphic practices
and the so-called “bull-fights” of which traces
have been found in Crete. Despised and tabooed
though they were in historical Greece, the Orphists
are still held to have exercised some sure though
undefined influence on the development of the
greatest spiritual fact of Hellenic civilisation, the
Eleusinian Mysteries.</p>

<div id='i032'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i032.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'>(<i>Photo:</i>      <i>Sommer</i>)</span><br />ORPHEUS.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Fresco at Pompeii.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The popular description of Orpheus as founder
of the Orphists must be taken for what it is worth.
The sect may have either evolved or borrowed the
legend. Christianity itself appropriated the myth of
Orpheus, pictorially, at least, in those rude tracings in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>the Roman catacombs showing the Good Shepherd
in that character, which inspired Carlyle to write
one of the most impassioned passages in English
prose. The sweet lute-player who held entranced
lion and lamb till the one forgot his wrath and the
other his fear, was the natural symbol of the prototype
of a humane religion.</p>

<p class='c008'>Out of the nebulous patches of Greek enthusiasts
who cherished tender feelings towards animals,
emerges the intellectual sun of the Samian sage.
It is difficult not to connect Pythagoras in some
way with the Orphists, nor would such a connexion
make it the less probable that he journeyed to the
sacred East in search of fuller knowledge. Little,
indeed, do we know about this moulder of minds. He
passed across the world’s stage dark “with excess of
light”—an influence rather than a personality. Yet
he was as far as possible from being only a dreamer
of dreams; he was the Newton, the Galileo, perhaps
the Edison and Marconi of his epoch. And it was this
double character of moral teacher and man of science
which caused the extraordinary reverence with which
he was regarded. Science and religion were not
divorced then; the Prophet could present no credentials
so valid as an understanding of the laws which
govern the universe. Mathematics and astronomy
were revelations of divine truth. It was the scientific
insight of Pythagoras, the wonderful range and depth
of which is borne out more and more by modern
discoveries, that lent supreme importance to whatever
theories he was known to have held. The doctrine
of transmigration had not been treated seriously
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>while it was only preached by the Orphists, but
after it was adopted by Pythagoras it commanded
a wide attention, though it never won a large acceptance.
One expounder it had, who was too remarkable
an original thinker to be called a mere disciple—the
greatly-gifted Empedocles, who denounced
the eaters of flesh as no better than cannibals, which
was going further than Pythagoras himself had ever
gone.</p>

<p class='c008'>Even in antiquity, there were some who suspected
that at the bottom of the Pythagorean propaganda
was the wish to make men more humane. Without
taking that view, it may be granted that a strong
love of animals prepares the mind to think of them
as not so very different from men. A thing that
tends in the same direction is the unfavourable comparison
of some men with some beasts: the sort of
sentiment which made Madame de Staël say that
the more she knew of men the more she liked dogs.
Did not Darwin declare that he would as soon be
descended from that heroic little monkey who braved
his dreaded enemy to save the life of his keeper, or
from that old baboon who, descending from the
mountains, carried away in triumph his young comrade
from a crowd of astonished dogs, as from various
still extant races of mankind? Darwinism is really
the theory of Pythagoras with the supernatural
element left out. The homogeneity of living things
is one of the very old beliefs from which we strayed
and to which we are returning.</p>

<p class='c008'>Among the Greeks, sensitive and meditative minds
which did not place faith in the Pythagorean system
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>of life were attracted, nevertheless, by its speculative
possibilities which they bent to their own purposes.
Thus Socrates borrowed from Pythagoras when he
suggested that imperfect and earth-bound spirits
might be re-incorporated in animals whose conventionally
ascribed characteristics corresponded with
their own moral natures. Unjust, tyrannical, and
violent men would become wolves, hawks, and kites,
while good commonplace people—virtuous Philistines—would
take better forms, such as ants, bees, and
wasps, all of which live harmoniously in communities.
It is pleasant to find that Socrates did justice to
that intelligent insect, the undeservedly aspersed
wasp. Men who are good in all respects save the
highest, may re-assume human forms. Socrates does
not explain why it is that humanity progresses so
slowly if it is always being recruited from such good
material? He passes on from these righteous men
to the super-excellent man to whom alone he allots
translation into a divine and wholly immaterial
sphere; he it is who departs from this world completely
pure of earthly dross; who cannot be moved
by ill-fortune, poverty, disgrace; who has “overcome
the world” in the Pauline sense, who has died while
living, in the Indian sense. Though Socrates does
not say so, it is this super-excellent man who really
convinces him of the immortality of the soul according
to the meaning which we attach to these words.</p>

<p class='c008'>That the more tender and poetic aspects of Pythagorean
speculations had deeply impressed Socrates
can be seen by the fact that they recurred to his
mind in the most solemn hour of his life. From
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>these he drew the lovely parable with which he
gently reproved the friends who were come to take
leave of him for their surprise at finding him no wise
depressed. He asks if he appears to them inferior
in divination to the swans, who, when they perceive
that they must die, though given to song before, then
sing the most of all, delighted at the prospect of their
departure to the deity whose ministers they are.
Mankind has said falsely of the swans that they sing
through dread of death and from grief. Those who
say this do not reflect that no bird sings when it is
hungry or cold or afflicted with any other pain, not
even the nightingale or swallow or hoopoe, which are
said to sing a dirge-like strain, “but neither do they
appear to me to sing for grief nor do the swans, but
as pertaining to Apollo they are skilled in the
divining art, and having a foreknowledge of the bliss
in Hades, they express their joy in song on that day
rather than at any previous time. But I believe
myself to be a fellow-servant of the swans and consecrated
to the same divinity, and that I am no less
gifted by my master in the art of divination, nor am
I departing with less good grace than they.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Socrates would not have been “the wisest of men”
if he had dogmatised about the unknowable; to
insist, he says, that things were just as he described
them, would not become an intelligent being; he
only claimed an approximate approach to the truth.
In appearance Plato went nearer to dogmatic acceptance
of the theory of the transmigration of souls,
but probably it was in appearance only. Like his
master, he thought it reasonable to suppose that the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>human soul ascended if it had done well, and descended
if it had done ill, and of this ascent and descent
he took as symbol its attirement in higher or lower
corporeal forms till, freed from the corruptible, it
joined the incorruptible.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Greeks were the first people to have an insatiable
thirst for exact knowledge; they showed themselves
true precursors of the modern world by their researches
into scientific zoology, which were carried
on with zeal long before Aristotle took the subject
in hand. We cannot judge of these early researches
because they are nearly all lost; but Aristotle’s
“History of Animals,” even after the revival of
learning, was still consulted as a text-book, and
perhaps nothing that he wrote contributed more to
win for him the fame of</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“... maestro di color che sanno.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The story goes that this work was written by desire
of Alexander the Great or, as some say, Philip of
Macedon, and that the writer was given a sum which
sounds fabulous in order that he might obtain the
best available information. What interest most the
modern reader are the “sayings by the way” on
the moral qualities or the intelligence of animals.
“Man and the mule,” says Aristotle, “are always
tame”—a classification not very complimentary to
man. The ox is gentle, the wild boar is violent, crafty
the serpent, noble and generous the lion. Except
in the senses of touch and taste, man is far surpassed
by the other animals—a remark that was endorsed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>by St. Thomas Aquinas, who inferred from the limitation
of man’s senses that he would have made bad
use of them if they had been more acute. Aristotle
laid down the axiom that man alone can reason,
though other animals can remember and learn, but
he never pursued this theory as far as it was pushed
by Descartes, much less by Malebranche. He believed
that the soul of infants differed in no respect
from that of animals. All animals present traces of
their moral disposition, though these distinctions are
more marked in man. Animals understand signs
and sounds, and can be taught. The females are less
ready to help the males in distress than the males
are to help the females. Bears carry off their cubs
with them if they are pursued. The dolphin is
remarkable for the love of its young ones; two
dolphins were seen supporting a small dead dolphin
on their backs, that was about to sink, as if in pity
for it, to keep it from being devoured by wild
creatures. In herds of horses, if a mare dies, other
mares will bring up the foal, and mares without foals
have been known to entice foals to follow them and to
show much affection to them, though they die for
want of their natural sustenance.</p>
<p class='c008'>Aristotle says that music attracts some animals;
for instance, deer can be captured by singing and
playing on the pipe. Animals sometimes show fore-thought,
as the ichneumon, which does not attack the
asp till it has called others to help it—which reminds
one of the dog whose master took him to Exeter,
where he was badly treated by the yard-dog of the
inn; on this, he escaped and went to London, whence
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>he returned with a powerful dog-friend who gave
the yard-dog a lesson which he must have long remembered.
Hedgehogs are said by Aristotle and
other ancient authors to change the entrance of their
burrows according as the wind blows from north or
south; a man in Byzantium got no small fame as
a weather prophet by observing this habit. He
thinks that small animals are generally cleverer than
larger ones. A tame woodpecker placed an almond
in a crevice of wood so as to be able to break it,
which it succeeded in doing with three blows. Aristotle
does not mention the similar ingenuity of the
thrush which I have noticed myself; it brings snails
to a good flat stone on which it breaks the shell
by knocking it up and down. He admired the skill
of the swallow in making her nest. Although he
knew of the migrations of birds, and declared that
cranes go in winter to the sources of the Nile, “where
there is a race of pigmies—no fable, but a fact,”
he was not free from the erroneous idea (which is
to be found in modern folk-lore) that some birds
hybernate in caves, out of which they emerge, almost
featherless, in the spring. Of the nightingale, he says
that it sings ceaselessly for fifteen days and nights
when the mountains are thick with leaves.</p>

<p class='c008'>The spider’s art and graceful movements receive
due praise, as do the cleanly habits of bees, which
are said to sting people who use unguents because
they dislike bad smells. “Bright and shiny bees”
Aristotle asserts to be idle, “like women.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Of all animals his favourites are the lion and the
elephant. The lion is gentle when he is not hungry
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>and he is not jealous or suspicious. He is fond of
playing with animals that are brought up with him,
and he gets to have a real affection for them. If a
blow aimed at a lion fails, he only shakes and
frightens his attacker, and then leaves him without
hurting him. He never shows fear or turns
his back on a foe. But old lions that are unable
to hunt sometimes enter villages and attack mankind.
This is the first observation of the “man-eating”
lion or tiger, and the reason given for his
perverse conduct is still believed to be the right one.</p>

<p class='c008'>Aristotle assigned the palm of wisdom to the
elephant, a creature abounding in intellect, tame,
gentle, teachable, and one which can even learn how
to “worship the king”—which is what many of us
saw the elephants do at the Delhi Durbar.</p>

<div id='i040'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i040.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>STELE WITH CAT AND BIRD.<br />Athens Museum.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>In a later age, Apollonius of Tyana confirmed
from personal observation all Aristotle’s praise; he
watched with admiration the crossing of the Indus
by a herd of thirty elephants which were being pursued
by huntsmen; the light and small ones went
first, then the mothers, who held up their cubs with
tusk and trunk, and lastly the old and large elephants.
Pliny gave a similar account of the way in which
elephants cross rivers, and it is, I believe, still noticed
as a fact that the old ones send the young ones before
them. The officer whose duty it was to superintend
the embarcation of Indian elephants for Abyssinia
during the campaign of Sir Robert Napier told me
how a very fine old elephant, who perfectly understood
the business in hand, drove all the others on board,
but after performing this useful service, when it came
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>to be his turn, he refused resolutely to move an inch,
and had to be left behind. The sympathy with
animals for which Apollonius was remarkable made
him feel for these great beasts brought into subjection;
he declares that at night they mourn over their
lost liberty with peculiar piteous sounds unlike those
which they make usually; if a man approaches,
however, they cease their wailing out of respect for
him. He speaks of their attachment to their keeper,
how they eat bread from his hand like a dog and
caress him with their trunks. He saw an elephant
at Taxila which was said to have fought against
Alexander the Great three hundred and fifty years
before. Alexander named it Ajax, and it bore golden
bracelets on its trunk with the words: “Ajax. To
the Sun from Alexander son of Jove.” The people
decked it with garlands and anointed it with precious
salves. Several classical writers bore witness to the
pleasure which elephants took in music; they could
be made to dance to the pipe. It was also said that
they could write. Their crowning merit—that of
helping away wounded comrades, which is vouched
for by no less an authority than Mr. F. C. Selous—does
not seem to have been observed in ancient times.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Greek mythology the familiar animals of the
gods occupy a place half-way between legend and
natural history. Viewed by one school as totems,
as the earlier god of which the later is only an appendix,
to more conservative students they may appear
to be, in the main, the outgrowth of the same fondness
for coupling man and beast and fitting man with a
beast-companion suited to his character, which gave
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>St. Mark his lion and St. John his eagle. The
panther of Bacchus is the most attractive of the
divine <i>menagerie</i>, because Bacchus, in this connexion,
is generally shown as a child and the friendships of
beasts and children are always pleasing.</p>

<p class='c008'>The affection of Bacchus for panthers has been
attributed to the fact that he wore a panther-skin,
but there seems no motive for deciding that the one
tradition was earlier than the other; the rationale
of a myth is often evolved long after the myth itself.
Perhaps, after all, the stories of gods and animals
often originated in the simple belief that gods, like
men, had a weakness for pets!</p>

<p class='c008'>In the Pompeian collections at Naples there are
several designs of Bacchus and his panther; one
of them shows the panther and the ass of Silenus
lying down together; in another, a very fine
mosaic, the winged genius of Bacchus careers
along astride of his favourite beast; in a third, a
chubby little boy, with no signs of godhead about
him, clambers on to the back of a patient panther,
which has the long-suffering look of animals that are
accustomed to be teased by children. It may be
noticed that children and animals, both somewhat
neglected in the older art, attained the highest
popularity with the artists of the age of Pompeii.
Children were represented in all sorts of attitudes,
and all known animals, from the cat to the octopus
and the elephant to the grasshopper, were drawn not
only with general correctness but with a keen insight
into their humours and temperaments.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is said that a panther was once caught in Pamphylia
<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>which had a gold chain round its neck with
the inscription in Armenian letters: “Arsaces the
king to the Nysæan god.” Oriental nations called
Bacchus after Nysa, his supposed birthplace. It
was concluded that the king of Armenia had given
its freedom to this splendid specimen to do honour
to the god. The panther became very tame and
was fondled by every one, but when the spring came
it ran away, chain and all, to seek a mate in the
mountains and never more came back.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>
  <h2 id='ch03' class='c006'>III<br /> <br />ANIMALS AT ROME</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>ROME, the eternal, begins with a Beast-story.
However much deeper in the past the spade
may dig than the reputed date of the humanitarian
She-wolf, her descendant will not be expelled from
the grotto on the Capitol, nor will it cease to be
the belief of children (the only trustworthy authorities
when legends are concerned) that the grandeur
that was Rome would have never existed but for
the opportune intervention of a friendly beast!</p>

<p class='c008'>The fame of the She-wolf shows how eagerly
mankind seizes on some touch of nature, fact or
fable, that seems to make all creatures kin. Rome
was as proud of her She-wolf as she was of ruling
the world. It was the “luck” of Rome; even now,
something of the old sentiment exists, for I remember
that during King Edward’s visit old-fashioned
Romans were angry because this emblem was not
to be seen in the decorations.</p>

<div id='i044'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i044.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'>(<i>Photo: Bruckmann.</i>)</span><br />CAPITOLINE SHE-WOLF.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The story did not make such large demands on
credulity as sceptics pretend. The wolf is not so
much the natural enemy of man as the cat is of the
mouse: yet cats have been known to bring up families
of mice or rats which they treated with affection.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>In recent times a Russian bear was stated to have
carried away to the woods a little girl whom it fed
with nuts and fruits. The evidence seemed good,
though the story did sound a little as if it were suggested
by Victor Hugo’s “Épopée du Lion.” But in
India there are stories of the same sort—stories
actually of She-wolves—which appear to be impossible
to set aside. In a paper read before the Bombay
Natural History Society, the well-known Parsi scholar,
Jivanji Jamsedji Modi, described how he had seen one
such “wolf-boy” at the Secundra Orphanage: the boy
had remained with wolves up to six years old when he
was discovered and captured, not without vigorous
opposition from his vulpine protectors.</p>

<p class='c008'>The historical record of Rome as regards animals is
not a bright one. The cruelty of the arena does not
stain the first Roman annals; the earliest certified
instance of wild-beast baiting belongs to 186 <span class='fss'>B.C.</span>, and
after the practice was introduced it did not reach at
once the monstrous proportions of later times. Still,
one does not imagine that the Roman of republican
times was very tender-hearted towards animals. Cato
related, as if he took a pride in it, that when he was
Consul he left his war-horse in Spain to spare the
public the cost of its conveyance to Rome. “Whether
such things as these,” says Plutarch, who tells the story,
“are instances of greatness or littleness of soul, let the
reader judge for himself!” When the infatuation for
the shows in the arena was at its height, the Romans
felt an enormous interest in animals: indeed, there
were moments when they thought of nothing else. It
was an interest which went along with indifference to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>their sufferings; it may be said to have been worse
than no interest at all, but it existed and to ignore it,
as most writers have done, is to make the explicable
inexplicable. If the only attraction of these shows
had been their cruelty we should have to conclude that
the Romans were all afflicted with a rare though not
unknown form of insanity. Much the same was true
of the gladiatorial shows. Up to a certain point, what
led people to them was what leads people to a football
match or an assault-at-arms. Beyond that point—well,
beyond it there entered the element that makes
the tiger in man, but for the most part it was inconscient.</p>

<div id='i047'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i047.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>LION BEING LED FROM THE ARENA BY A SLAVE.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Nennig Mosaic.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>When we see Pola or Verona or Nîmes; when we
tread the crowded streets to the Roman Colosseum or
traverse the deserted high-road to Spanish Italica;
most of all, when we watch coming nearer and nearer
across the wilderness between Kairouan and El Djem
the magnificent pile that stands outlined against the
African sky—we all say the same thing: “What a
wonderful race the Romans were!” It is an exclamation
that forces itself to the lips of the most ignorant
as to those of the scholar or historical student. At
such moments, it may be true, that the less we think
of the games of the arena the better; the remembrance
of them forms a disturbing element in the majesty of
the scene. But they cannot be put out of mind entirely,
and if we do think of them, it is desirable that we
should think of them correctly. It so happens that it
is possible to reconstruct them into a lifelike picture.
There exists one, though, as far as I know, only one,
faithful, vivid, and complete contemporary representation
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>of the Roman Games. This is the superb mosaic
pavement which was discovered in the middle of the
last century by a peasant striking on the hard surface
with his spade, at the village of Nennig, not far from
the Imperial city of Treves. The observer of this
mosaic perceives at once that the games were of the
nature of a “variety” entertainment. There was the
music which picturesque-looking performers played on
a large horn and on a sort of organ. (The horn closely
resembles the pre-historic horns which are preserved in
the National Museum at Copenhagen, where they were
blown with inspiring effect before the members of the
Congress of Orientalists in 1908.) There was the
bloodless contest between a short and tall athlete, armed
differently with stick and whip. In the central division,
because the most important, is shown the mortal
earnest of the gladiatorial fight, strictly controlled
by the Games-master. In the sexagion above this is
a hardly less deadly struggle between a man and a
bear: the bear has got the man under him but is being
whipped off so that the “turn” may not end too quickly,
and, perhaps, also to give the more expensive victim
another chance. To the right hand, a gladiator who has
run his lance through the neck of a panther, holds up
his hand to boast the victory and claim applause:
the dying panther tries vainly to free itself from the
weapon. To the left is a fight between a leopard and
an unfortunate wild ass, which has already received a
terrible wound in its side and is now having its head
drawn down between the fore-paws of the leopard. I
hear that in beast-fights organised by Indian princes,
these unequal combatants are still pitted against each
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>other. Lastly, the Nennig Mosaic depicts a fat lion
that has also conquered a wild ass, of which the head
alone seems to remain: it has been inferred, though I
think rashly, that the lion has eaten up all the rest; at
any rate he now seems at peace with the world and is
being led back to his cage by a slave.</p>

<p class='c008'>Everything is quiet, orderly, and a model of good
management. The custodian of the little museum
told me that the (surprisingly few) visitors to Nennig
were in the habit of remarking of this representation
of the Roman Games that it made them understand
for the first time how the cultivated Romans could
endure such sights. Unhappily, conventional propriety
joined to the sanction of authority will make
the majority of mankind endure anything that causes
no danger or inconvenience to themselves.</p>

<p class='c008'>Except with a few, at whom their generation looks
askance, the sense of cruelty more than any other
moral sense is governed by habit, by convention.
It is even subject to latitude and longitude; in Spain
I was surprised to find that almost all the English
and American women whom I met had been to, at
least, one bull-fight. Insensibility spreads like a
pestilence; new or revived forms of cruelty should
be stopped at once or no one can say how far they
will reach or how difficult it will be to abolish them.
One might have supposed that the sublime self-sacrifice
of the monk who threw himself between two
combatants—which brought the tardy end of gladiatorial
exhibitions in Christian Rome—would have
saved the world for ever from that particular barbarity;
but in the fourteenth century we actually
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>find gladiatorial shows come to life again and in full
favour at Naples! This little-known fact is attested
in Petrarch’s letters. Writing to Cardinal Colonna
on December 1, 1343, the truly civilised poet
denounces with burning indignation an “infernal
spectacle” of which he had been the involuntary
witness. His gay friends (there has been always a
singular identity between fashion and barbarism)
seem to have entrapped him into going to a place
called Carbonaria, where he found the queen, the
boy-king, and a large audience assembled in a sort
of amphitheatre. Petrarch imagined that there was
to be some splendid entertainment, but he had hardly
got inside when a tall, handsome young man fell dead
just below where he was standing, while the audience
raised a shout of applause. He escaped from the
place as fast as he could, horror-struck by the
brutality of spectacle and spectators, and spurring
his horse, he turned his back on the “accursed spot”
with the determination to leave Naples as soon as
possible. How can we wonder, he asks, that there
are murders in the streets at night when in broad
daylight, in the presence of the king, wretched
parents see their sons stabbed and killed, and when
it is considered dishonourable to be unwilling to
present one’s throat to the knife just as if it were
a struggle for fatherland or for the joys of Heaven?</p>

<p class='c008'>Very curious was the action of the Vatican in this
matter; Pope John XXII. excommunicated every
one who took part in the games as actor or spectator,
but since nobody obeyed the prohibition, it was
rescinded by his successor, Benedict XII., to prevent
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>the scandal of a perpetual disregard of a Papal
ordinance. So they went on cutting each other’s
throats with the tacit permission of the Church until
King Charles of the Peace succeeded in abolishing
the “sport.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The action of the Church in respect to bull-fights
has been much the same; local opinion is generally
recognised as too strong for opposition. The French
bishops, however, did their best to prevent their
introduction into the South of France, but they failed
completely.</p>

<p class='c008'>I have strayed rather far from the Roman shows,
but the savagery of Christians in the fourteenth
century (and after) should make us wonder less at
Roman callousness. All our admiration is due to
the few finer spirits who were repelled by the
slaughter of man or beast to make a Roman’s
holiday. Cicero said that he could never see what
there was pleasurable in the spectacle of a noble
beast struck to the heart by its merciless hunter or
pitted against one of our weaker species! For a
single expression of censure such as this which has
come down to us, there must have been many of
which we have no record. Of out-spoken censure
there was doubtless little because violent condemnation
of the arena would have savoured of treason
to the State which patronised and supported the
games just as Queen Elizabeth’s ministers supported
bull-baiting.</p>

<p class='c008'>Rome must have been one vast zoological garden,
and viewing the strange animals was the first duty
of the tourist. Pausanias was deeply impressed by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>the “Ethiopian bulls which they call rhinoceroses”
and also by Indian camels in colour like leopards.
He saw an all-white deer, and very much surprised
he was to see it, but, to his subsequent regret, he
forgot to ask where it came from. He was reminded
of this white deer when he saw white blackbirds on
Mount Cyllene in Arcadia. I remember a white
blackbird which stayed in the garden of my old
English home for more than two years: a wretched
“sportsman” lay in wait for it when it wandered into
a neighbouring field and shot it.</p>

<p class='c008'>The feasibility of the transport of the hosts of
animals destined to the arena will always remain a
mystery. At the inauguration of the Colosseum,
five thousand wild beasts and six thousand tame
ones were butchered, nor was this the highest figure
on a single occasion. Probably a great portion of the
animals was sent by the Governors of distant provinces
who wished to stand well with the home
authorities. But large numbers were also brought
over by speculators who sold them to the highest or
the most influential bidder. One reason why Cassius
murdered Julius Cæsar was that Cæsar had secured
some lions which Cassius wished to present to the
public. Every one who aimed at political power or
even simply at being thought one of the “smart set”
(the odious word suits the case) spent king’s ransoms
on the public games. For vulgar ostentation the
wealthy Roman world eclipsed the exploits of the
modern millionaire. If any one deem this impossible,
let him read, in the <i>Satyricon</i> of Petronius, the account
of the fêtes to be given by a leader of fashion of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>name of Titus. Not merely gladiators, but a great
number of freedmen would take part in them: it would
be no wretched mock combat but a real carnage!
Titus was so rich that he could afford such liberality.
Contempt is poured upon the head of a certain
Nobarnus who offered a spectacle of gladiators hired
at a low price and so old and decrepit that a breath
threw them over. They all ended by wounding themselves
to stop the contest. You might as well have
witnessed a mere cock-fight!</p>

<p class='c008'>I should think that not more than one animal in
three survived the voyage. This would vastly increase
the total number. The survivors often arrived in such
a pitiable state that they could not be presented in the
arena, or that they had to be presented immediately
to prevent them from dying too soon. Symmachus,
last of the great nobles of Rome, who, blinded by
tradition, thought to revive the glories of his beloved
city by reviving its shame, graphically describes the
anxieties of the preparations for one of these colossal
shows on which he is said to have spent what would
be about £80,000 of our money. He began a year in
advance: horses, bears, lions, Scotch dogs, crocodiles,
chariot-drivers, hunters, actors, and the best gladiators
were recruited from all parts. But when the time
drew near, nothing were ready. Only a few of the
animals had come, and these were half dead of hunger
and fatigue. The bears had not arrived and there was
no news of the lions. At the eleventh hour the crocodiles
reached Rome, but they refused to eat and had
to be killed all at once in order that they might not
die of hunger. It was even worse with the gladiators,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>who were intended to provide, as in all these beast
shows, the crowning entertainment. Twenty-nine of
the Saxon captives whom Symmachus had chosen on
account of the well-known valour of their race,
strangled one another in prison rather than fight to
the death for the amusement of their conquerors.
And Symmachus, with all his real elevation of mind,
was moved to nothing but disgust by their sublime
choice! Rome in her greatest days had gloried in
these shows: how could a man be a patriot who set
his face against customs which followed the Roman
eagles round the world? How many times since then
has patriotism been held to require the extinction of
moral sense!</p>

<p class='c008'>Sometimes the humanity of beasts put to shame
the inhumanity of man. There was a lion, commemorated
by Statius, which had “unlearnt murder
and homicide,” and submitted of its own accord to
a master “who ought to have been under its feet.”
This lion went in and out of its cage and gently
laid down unhurt the prey which it caught: it even
allowed people to put their hands into its mouth. It
was killed by a fugitive slave. The Senate and people
of Rome were in despair, and Imperial Cæsar, who
witnessed impassible the death of thousands of animals
sent hither to perish from Africa, from Scythia, from
the banks of the Rhine, had tears in his eyes for a
single lion! In later Roman times a tame lion was
a favourite pet: their masters led them about wherever
they went, whether much to the gratification of the
friends on whom they called is not stated.</p>

<p class='c008'>Another instance of a gentle beast was that of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>tiger into whose cage a live doe had been placed
for him to eat. But the tiger was not feeling well
and, with the wisdom of sick animals, he was observing
a diet. So two or three days elapsed, during which
the tiger made great friends with the doe and when he
recovered his health and began to feel very hungry,
instead of devouring his fellow-lodger he beat with his
paws against the bars of the cage in sign that he
wanted food. These stories were, no doubt, true,
and there may have been truth also in the well-known
story of the lion which refused to attack a
man who had once succoured him. Animals have
good memories.</p>

<p class='c008'>One pleasanter feature of the circus was the exhibition
of performing beasts. Though the exhibitors of such
animals are now sometimes charged with cruelty, it
cannot be denied that the public who goes to look at
them is composed of just the people who are most
fond of animals. All children delight in them because,
to their minds, they seem a confirmation of the strong
instinctive though oftenest unexpressed belief, which
lurks in every child’s soul, that between man and animals
there is much less difference than is the correct,
“grown-up” opinion; this is a part of the secret lore of
childhood which has its origins in the childhood of the
world. The amiable taste for these exhibitions—in
appearance, at least, so harmless—strikes one as
incongruous in the same persons who revelled in
slaughter. Such a taste existed, however, and when
St. James said that there was not a single beast,
bird or reptile which had not been tamed, he may
have been thinking of the itinerant showmen’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>“learned” beasts which perambulated the Roman
empire.</p>

<p class='c008'>Horses and oxen were among the animals commonly
taught to do tricks. I find no mention of
monkeys as performing in the arena, though Apuleius
says that in the spring fêtes of Isis, the forerunners of
the Roman carnival, he saw a monkey with a straw hat
and a Phrygian tunic—we can hardly keep ourselves
from asking: <i>what had it done with the grind-organ?</i>
But in spite of this startlingly modern apparition,
monkeys do not seem to have been popular in
Rome; I imagine even, that there was some fixed
prejudice against them. The cleverest of all the
animal performers were, of course, the dogs, and one
showman had the ingenious idea of making a dog act
a part in a comedy. The effects of a drug were tried
on him, the plot turning on the suspicion that the drug
was poisonous, while, in fact, it was only a narcotic.
The dog took the piece of bread dipped in the liquid,
swallowed it, and began to reel and stagger till he
finally fell flat on the ground. He gave himself a
last stretch and then seemed to expire, making no
sign of life when his apparently dead body was
dragged about the stage. At the right moment, he
began to move very slightly as if waking out of a
deep sleep; then he raised his head, looked round,
jumped up and ran joyously to the proper person.
The piece was played at the theatre of Marcellus
in the reign of old Vespasian, and Cæsar himself
was delighted. I wonder that no manager of our
days has turned the incident to account; I never
yet saw an audience serious enough not to become
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>young again at the sight of four-footed comedians.
Even the high art-loving public at the Prince Regent’s
theatre at Munich cannot resist a murmur of discreet
merriment when the pack of beautiful stag-hounds led
upon the stage in the hunting scene in “Tannhäuser”
gravely wag their tails in time with the music!</p>

<p class='c008'>The pet lions were only one example of the aberrations
of pet-lovers in ancient Rome. Maltese lap-dogs
became a scourge: Lucian tells the lamentable tale of
a needy philosopher whom a fashionable lady cajoles
into acting as personal attendant to her incomparable
Mirrhina. The Maltese dog was an old fad; Theophrastus,
in the portrait of an insufferable <i>élégant</i>,
mentions that, when his pet dog dies, he inscribes
“pure Maltese” on its tombstone.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many were the birds that fell victims to the desire
to keep them in richly ornamented cages in which they
died of hunger, says Epictetus, sooner than be slaves.
The canary which takes more kindly to captivity was
unknown till it was brought to Italy in the sixteenth
century. Parrots there were, but Roman parrots were
not long-lived: they shared the common doom: “To
each his sufferings, all are <i>pets</i>.” The parrots of
Corinna and of Melior which ought to have lived to a
hundred or, at any rate, to have had the chance of
dying of grief at the loss of their possessors (as a
parrot did that I once knew), enjoyed fame and fortune
for as brief a span as Lesbia’s sparrow. Melior’s
parrot not only had brilliant green feathers but also
many accomplishments which are described by its
master’s friend, the poet Statius. On one occasion, it
sat up half the night at a banquet, hopping from one
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>guest to another and talking in a way that excited
great admiration; it even shared the good fare and on
the morrow it died—which was less than surprising.
I came across an old-fashioned criticism of this poem
in which Statius is scolded for showing so much
genuine feeling about ... a parrot! The critic
was right in one thing—the genuine feeling is there;
those who have known what a companion a bird may
be, will appreciate the little touch: “You never felt
alone, dear Melior, with its open cage beside you!”
Now the cage is empty; it is “<i>la cage sans oiseaux</i>”
which Victor Hugo prayed to be spared from seeing.
Some translator turned this into “a nest without birds,”
because he thought that a cage without birds sounded
unpoetical, but Victor Hugo took care of truth and
left poetry to take of itself. And whatever may be
the ethics of keeping cage birds, true it is that few
things are more dismal than the sight of the little
mute, tenantless dwelling which was yesterday alive
with fluttering love.</p>

<p class='c008'>We owe to Roman poets a good deal of information
about dogs, and especially the knowledge that
the British hound was esteemed superior to all others,
even to the famous breed of Epirus. This is
certified by Gratius Faliscus, a contemporary of Ovid.
He described these animals as remarkably ugly, but
incomparable for pluck. British bull-dogs were used
in the Colosseum, and in the third century Nemesianus
praised the British greyhound. Most of the
valuable dogs were brought from abroad; it is to be
inferred that the race degenerated in the climate of
Rome, as it does now. Concha, whose epitaph was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>written by Petronius, was born in Gaul. While
Martial’s too elaborate epitaph on “The Trusty
Lydia” is often quoted and translated, the more
sympathetic poem of Petronius has been overlooked.
He tells the perfections of Concha in a simple,
affectionate manner; like Lydia, she was a mighty
huntress and chased the wild boar fearlessly through
the dense forest. Never did chain hamper her liberty
and never a blow fell on her shapely, snow-white
form. She reposed softly, stretched on the breast of
her master or mistress, and at night a well-made bed
refreshed her tired limbs. If she lacked speech, she
could make herself understood better than any of her
kind—yet no one had reason to fear her bark. A
hapless mother, she died when her little ones saw the
light, and now a narrow marble slab covers the earth
where she rests.</p>

<p class='c008'>Cicero’s tribute to canine worth is well known:
“Dogs watch for us faithfully; they love and worship
their masters, they hate strangers, their powers of
tracking by scent is extraordinary; great is their
keenness in the chase: what can all this mean but
that they were made for man’s advantage?” It
was as natural to the Roman mind to regard man as
the lord of creation as to regard the Roman as the
lord of man. For the rest, his normal conception of
animals differed little from that of Aristotle. Cicero
says that the chief distinction between man and
animals, is that animals look only to the present,
paying little attention to the past and future, while
man looks before and after, weighs causes and effects,
draws analogies and views the whole path of life,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>preparing things needful for passing along it.
Expressed in the key of antique optimism instead of
in the key of modern pessimism, the judgment is the
same as that of Burns in his lines to the field-mouse:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The present only touches thee:</div>
      <div class='line in1'>But, och! I backward cast my e’e</div>
      <div class='line in1'>On prospects drear!</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And forward, tho’ I canna see,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>I guess and fear.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>And of Leopardi in the song of the Syrian shepherd
to his flock:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O flock that liest at rest, O blessed thou</div>
      <div class='line in1'>That knowest not thy fate, however hard,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>How utterly I envy thee!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Cicero’s more virile mind would have spurned
this craving to renounce the distinguishing human
privilege for the bliss of ignorance.</p>
<p class='c008'>Wherever we fix the limits of animal intelligence,
there is no question of man’s obligation to treat sentient
creatures with humanity. This was recognised
by Marcus Aurelius when he wrote the golden
precept: “As to animals which have no reason ...
do thou, since thou hast reason, and they have
none, make use of them with a generous and liberal
spirit.” Here we have the broadest application of the
narrowest assumption. From the time, at least, that
Rome was full of Greek teachers, there were always
some partisans of a different theory altogether. What
Seneca calls “the illustrious but unpopular school
of Pythagoras” had a little following which made up
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>by its sincere enthusiasm for the fewness of its
members. Seneca’s own master Sotio was of this
school, and his teaching made a deep impression
on the most illustrious of his pupils, who sums up
its chief points with his usual lucidity: Pythagoras
gave men a horror of crime and of parricide by telling
them that they might unawares kill or devour their
own fathers; all sentient beings are bound together
in a universal kinship and an endless transmutation
causes them to pass from one form to another; no
soul perishes or ceases its activity save in the moment
when it changes its envelope. Sotio took for granted
that the youths who attended his classes came to him
with minds unprepared to receive these doctrines, and
he aimed more at making them accept the consequences
of the theory than the theory itself. What if
they believed none of it? What if they did not
believe that souls passed through different bodies and
that the thing we call death is a transmigration?
That in the animal which crops the grass or which
peoples the sea, a soul resides which once was human?
That, like the heavenly bodies, every soul traverses
its appointed circle? That nothing in this world
perishes, but only changes scene and place? Let
them remember, nevertheless, that great men have
believed all this: “Suspend your judgment, and
in the meantime, respect whatever has life.” If the
doctrine be true, then to abstain from animal flesh
is to spare oneself the committal of crimes; if it be
false, such abstinence is commendable frugality; “all
you lose is the food of lions and vultures.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sotio himself was a thorough Pythagorean, but
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>there was another philosopher of the name of Sestius
who was an ardent advocate of abstinence from
animal food without believing in the transmigration
of souls. He founded a sort of brotherhood, the
members of which took the pledge to abide by this
rule. He argued that since plenty of other wholesome
food existed, what need was there for man to shed
blood? Cruelty must become habitual when people
devour flesh to indulge the palate: “let us reduce the
elements of sensuality.” Health would be also the
gainer by the adoption of a simpler and less various
diet. Sotio used these arguments of one whom he
might have called an unbeliever, to reinforce his own.</p>

<p class='c008'>Seneca does not say if many of his schoolfellows
were as much impressed as he was by this teaching.
For a year he abstained from flesh, and when he got
accustomed to it, he even found the new diet easy and
agreeable. His mind seemed to grow more active.
That he was allowed to eat what he liked without
encountering interference or ridicule shows the considerable
freedom in which the youth of Rome was
brought up: this made them men. But at the
beginning of the reign of Tiberius there went forth
an edict against foreign cults, and abstinence from
flesh was held to show a leaning towards religious
novelties. For this reason the elder Seneca advised
his son to give up vegetarianism. Seneca honestly
confesses that he went back to better fare without
much urging; yet he always remained frugal, and
he seems never to have felt quite sure that his youthful
experiment did not agree best with the counsels of
perfection.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>
  <h2 id='ch04' class='c006'>IV<br /> <br />PLUTARCH THE HUMANE</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>PLUTARCH was the Happy Philosopher—and
there were not many that were happy. A
life of travel, a life of teaching, an honoured old age
as the priest of Apollo in his native village in Bœotia:
what kinder fate than this? He was happy in the
very obscurity which seems to have surrounded his
life at Rome, for it saved him from spite and envy.
He was happy, if we may trust the traditional effigies,
even in that thing which likewise is a good gift of
the gods, a gracious outward presence exactly corresponding
with the soul within. A painter who wished
to draw a type of illimitable compassionateness would
choose the face attributed to Plutarch. Finally, this
gentle sage is happy still after eighteen hundred years
in doing more than any other writer of antiquity
to build up character by diffusing the radiance of
noble deeds. Nevertheless, were he to come back
to life he would have one disappointment, and that
would be to find how few people read his essays
on kindness to animals: they would stand a better
chance of being read if they were printed alone,
but to arrive at them you must dive in the formidable
depths of the <i>Moralia</i>: a very storehouse of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>interesting things, but hardly attractive to the general
in a hurried age. Some of its treasures have been
revealed by Dr. Oakesmith in his admirable monograph
on “The Religion of Plutarch.” The mine
of nobly humane sentiment remains, however, almost
unexplored.</p>

<p class='c008'>The essays devoted to animals are three in number,
with the titles: “Whether terrestrial or aquatic
animals are the more intelligent?” “That animals
have the use of Reason”; “On the habit of eating
flesh.” The two first are in the form of dialogues, and
the third is a familiar discourse, a <i>conférence</i>, such
as those which now form a popular feature of the
Roman season. Through these studies there runs
a vein of transparent sincerity: we feel that they were
composed not to show the author’s cleverness or to
startle by paradoxes, but with the real wish to make
the young men for whom they were intended a little
more humane. Plutarch did not take up the claims
of animals because good “copy” could be made
out of them. As his wish is to persuade, he does not
ask for the impossible. It is the voice of the highly
civilised Greek addressing the young barbarians of
Rome: for to the Greek’s inmost mind the Roman
must have always remained somewhat of a barbarian.
There is great restraint: though Plutarch must have
loathed the games of the arena, he speaks of them
with guarded deprecation. He makes one of his
characters say that the chase (which he did not himself
like) was useful in keeping people from worse things,
“such as the combats of gladiators.” He is genuinely
anxious by all means to persuade some, and for this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>reason he refrains from scaring away his hearers
or readers by extreme demands. Though he has
a strong personal repugnance to flesh-eating, he does
not insist on every one sharing it. Anyhow, he says,
Be as humane as you can; cause as little suffering
as is possible; no doubt it is not easy, all at once,
to eradicate a habit which has taken hold of our
sensual nature, but, at least, let us deprive it of its
worst features. Let us eat flesh if we must, but for
hunger, not for self-indulgence; let us kill animals
but still be compassionate—not heaping up outrages
and tortures “as, alas, is done every day.” He
mentions how swans were blinded and then fattened
with unnatural foods, which is only a little worse than
things that are done now. What is certain is, that
extreme and habitual luxury in food has spelt decadence
from the banquets of Babylon downwards.</p>

<p class='c008'>Plutarch goes on to ask whether it is impossible
to amuse ourselves without all these excesses? Shall
we expire on the spot, are the resources of men
totally exhausted, if the table be not supplied with
<i>pâtés de foies gras</i>? Is life not worth living without
slaughter to make a feast, slaughter to find a pastime;
cannot we exist without asking of certain animals that
they show courage, and fight in spite of themselves,
or that they massacre other animals which have not
the natural energy to defend themselves? Must we
for our sport tear the mother from the little ones
which she suckles or hatches? Plutarch implores
us not to imitate the children of whom Bion speaks,
who amused themselves by throwing stones at the
frogs, but the frogs were not at all amused—they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>simply died. “When we take our recreation, those
who help in the fun ought to share in it and be
amused as well.” Thus does the kind Greek
philosopher exhort us</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Never to blend our pleasure or our pride</div>
      <div class='line in1'>With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>Did Wordsworth know that his thought had been
expressed so long before? It matters little; the
counsels of mercy never grow old.</p>

<p class='c008'>With good sense and in that spirit of compromise
which is really the basis of morality, Plutarch argued
that cruelty to animals does not lie in the use but
in the abuse of them; it is not cruel to kill them
if they are incompatible with our own existence; it
is not cruel to tame and train to our service those
made by nature gentle and loving towards man which
become the companions of our toil according to their
natural aptitude. “Horse and ass are given to us,”
as Prometheus says, “to be submissive servants and
fellow-workers; dogs to be guardians and watchers,
goats and sheep to give us milk and wool.” (Cow’s
milk seems to have been rarely drunk, as is still
the case in the Mediterranean islands and in Greece.)</p>

<p class='c008'>“The Stoics,” says Plutarch, “made sensibility
towards animals a preparation to humanity and compassion
because the gradually formed habit of the
lesser affections is capable of leading men very far.”
In the “Lives” he insists on the same point:
“Kindness and beneficence should be extended to
creatures of every species, and these still flow from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>the breast of a well-natured man as streams that issue
from the living fountain. A good man will take care
of his horses and dogs not only when they are young,
but when old and past service.... We certainly
ought not to treat living creatures like shoes or
household goods, which, when worn out with use,
we throw away, and were it only to learn benevolence
to human kind, we should be merciful to other
creatures. For my own part I would not sell even
an old ox.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here I may say that Plutarch should have thanked
Fate which made him a philosopher and not a farmer.
For how, alas, can the farmer escape from becoming
the accomplice of that which the Italian poet apostrophizes
in the words—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Natura, illaudabil maraviglia,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Che per uccider partorisci e nutri!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>How can well-cared-for old age be the lot of more
than a very few of the animals that serve us so faithfully?
The exception must console us for the rule.
The beautiful story of one such exception is told by
both Plutarch and Pliny the Elder. When Pericles
was building the Parthenon a great number of mules
were employed in drawing the stones up the hill of
the Acropolis. Some of them became too old for the
work, and these were set at liberty to pasture at large.
But one old mule gravely walked every day to the
stone-yard and accompanied, or rather led, the procession
of mule-carts to and fro. The Athenians
were delighted with its devotion to duty, and decided
that it should be supported at the expense of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>State for the rest of its days. According to Pliny,
the mule of the Parthenon lived till it had attained
its eightieth year, a record that seems startling even
having regard to the proverbial longevity of pensioners.
Plutarch does not mention it, perhaps,
because he had some doubts about its accuracy. In
other respects the story may be accepted as literally
true; and does it not do us good to think of it, as we
look at the most glorious work of man’s hands bathed
in the golden afterglow? Does it not do us good to
think that at the zenith of her greatness Athens</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in22'>“... Mother of arts</div>
      <div class='line'>And eloquence, native to famous wits”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>stooped—nay, rose—to generous appreciation of the
willing service of an old mule?</p>
<p class='c008'>In dealing with animal psychology Plutarch makes
a strong point of the inherent improbability that,
while feeling and imagination are the common share
of all animated beings, reason should be apportioned
only to a single species. “How can you say such
things? Is not every one convinced that no being
can feel without also possessing understanding, that
there is not a single animal which has not a sort
of thought and reason just as he comes into the
world with senses and instinct?” Nature, which is
said to make all things from one cause and to one
end, has not given sensibility to animals simply in
order that they should be capable of sensations.
Since some things are good for them, and others bad,
they would not exist for a single instant if they did
not know how to seek the good and shun the bad.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>The animal learns by his senses what things are good
and what are bad for him, but when, in consequence
of these indications, of his senses, it is a question of
taking and seeking what is useful and of avoiding and
flying from what is harmful, these same animals
would have no means of action if Nature had not
made them up to a certain point capable of reason,
of judgment, of memory, and of attention. Because,
if you completely deprived them of the spirit of
conjecture, memory, foresight, preparation, hope, fear,
desire, grief, they would cease to derive the slightest
utility from the eyes or ears which they possess.
Plutarch might have added that a mindless animal
would resemble not a child or a savage, but an idiot.
He does point out that they would be better off with
no senses at all than with the power of feeling and no
power of acting upon it. But, he adds, could sensation
exist without intelligence? He quotes a line
from I do not know what poet:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The spirit only hears and sees—all else</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Is deaf and blind.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>If we look with our eyes at a page of writing without
seizing the meaning of a word of it, because our
thoughts are preoccupied, is it not the same as if we
had never seen it? But even were we to admit that
the senses suffice to their office, would that explain
the phenomena of memory and foresight? Would
the animal fear things, not present, which harm him,
or desire things, not present, which are to his advantage?
Would he prepare his retreat or shelter or
devise snares by which to catch other animals? Only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>one theory can be applied to mind in man and mind
in animals.</p>

<p class='c008'>It will be seen from this summary that Plutarch
traversed the whole field of speculation on animal
intelligence which has not really extended its
boundaries since the time when he wrote, though
it is possible that we are now on the verge, if not
of new discoveries, at least of the admission of a new
point of view. The study of the dual element in
man, the endeavour to establish a line of demarcation
between the conscious and subliminal self, may lead
to the inquiry, how far the conscious self corresponds
with what was meant, when speaking of animals,
by “reason,” and the subliminal self with what
was meant by “instinct”? But the use of a
new terminology would not alter the conclusion:
call it reason, consciousness, spirit; some of it the
“paragon of animals” shares with his poor relations.
The case is put in a homely way but not without
force by the heroine of a forgotten novel by Lamartine:
the speaker is an old servant who is in despair
at losing her goldfinch: “Ah! On dit que les bêtes
n’ont pas l’âme,” she says. “Je ne veux pas offenser
le bon Dieu, mais si mon pauvre oiseau n’avait pas
d’âme, avec quoi done n’aurait-il tant aimée? Avec
les plumes ou avec les pattes, peut-être?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Plutarch reviews—to reject—the “Automata”
argument, which had already some supporters. Certain
naturalists, he says, try to prove that animals
feel neither pleasure nor anger nor yet fear; that the
nightingale does not meditate his song, that the bee
has no memory, that the swallow makes no preparations,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>that the lion never grows angry, nor is the stag
subject to fear. Everything, according to these
theorists, is merely delusive appearance. They might
as well assert that animals cannot see or hear;
that they only appear to see or hear; that they have
no voice, only the semblance of a voice; in short, that
they are not alive but only seem to live.</p>

<p class='c008'>The moral aspects of any problem are those which
to a moralist seem the most important, and Plutarch
did not seek to deny the force of the objection: If
virtue be the true aim of reason, how can Nature
have bestowed reason on creatures which cannot
direct it to its true object? But he denied the
postulate that animals have no ethical potentialities.
If the love of men for their children is granted to be
the corner-stone of all human society, shall we say
that there is no merit in the affection of animals for
their offspring? He sums up the matter by remarking
that the limitation of a faculty does not show that
it does not exist. To pretend that every being not
endowed at birth with perfect reason is, by its nature,
incapable of reason of any kind, would be to ignore
the fact that although reason is a natural gift the
degree in which it is possessed by any individual
depends on his training and on his teachers. Perfect
reason is possessed by none because none has perfect
rectitude and moral excellence.</p>

<p class='c008'>Animals exhibit examples of sociability, courage,
resource, and again, of cowardice and viciousness.
Why do we not say of one tree that it is less
teachable than another, as we say that a sheep is
less teachable than a dog? It is, of course, because
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>plants cannot think, and where the faculty of thought
is wholly wanting, there cannot be more or less quickness
or slowness, more or less of good qualities or
of bad.</p>

<p class='c008'>Yet it must be allowed that man’s intelligence is
amazingly superior to that of animals. But what
does that prove? Do not some animals leave man
far behind in the keenness of their sight and the
sharpness of their hearing? Shall we say, therefore,
that man is blind or deaf? We have some strength
in our hands and in our bodies although we are not
elephants or camels. In the same way, we should be
careful not to infer that animals lack all reasoning
faculties from the fact that their intelligence is duller
and more defective than man’s. “Boatfuls” of true
stories can be cited to show the docility and special
aptitudes of the different children of creation. And
a very amusing occupation it is, says Plutarch, for
young people to collect such stories. In the course
of his work, he sets them a good example, for he
brings together a real “boatful” of anecdotes of
clever beasts, but at this point he contents himself
with observing that madness in dogs and other animals
would be alone sufficient to show that they had
some mind: otherwise, how could they go out of it?</p>

<p class='c008'>The stoics who taught the strictest humanity to
animals rejected, nevertheless, the supposition that
animals had reason, for how, they asked, can such a
theory be reconciled with the idea of eternal justice?
Would it not make abstinence from their flesh
imperative and entail consequences which would
make our life impracticable? If we were to give
<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>up using animals for our own purposes, we should
be reduced ourselves almost to the condition of
brutes. “What works would be left for us to do
by land or sea, what industries to cultivate, what
embellishments of our way of living, if we regarded
animals as reasonable beings and our fellow-creatures,
and hence adopted the rule (which, clearly, would be
only proper) to do them no harm and to study their
convenience.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Many a sensitive modern soul has pondered over
this crux without finding a satisfactory solution.
Plutarch says that Empedocles and Heraclites
admitted the injustice, and laid it to the door of
Nature which permits or ordains a state of war and
necessity, in which nothing is accomplished without
the weaker going to the wall. For himself, he would
propose to those “who, instead of disputing, gently
follow and learn” the better way out of the difficulty—which
was introduced by the Sages of Antiquity,
then long lost, and found again by Pythagoras. This
better way is to use animals as our helpers but to
refrain from taking life.</p>

<p class='c008'>Plutarch here evades a stumbling-block which he
does not remove. The dialogue, as it has come down
to us, breaks off suddenly after one final objection:
how can beings have reason which have no notion
of God? Some scholars imagine that Plutarch
hurried the dialogue to a close because this query
completely baffled him; others (and they are the
majority) attribute the abrupt finish to the loss of
the concluding part. Would Plutarch have contented
himself with citing the analogy of young children
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>who, although not without the elements of reason,
know very little of theology, or would not he rather
have contended with Celsus, that animals <i>do</i> possess
religious knowledge? If he took the last course, it
may well be that the disappearance of the end of the
dialogue was not accidental. At Ravenna there is a
terrible mosaic, alive with wrath and energy, which
shows a Christ we know not (for He looks like a
grand Inquisitor) thrusting into the flames heretical
books. As I looked at it, I thought how many
valuable classical works, vaguely suspected on the
score of faith or morals, must have shared the fate
of “unorthodox” polemics in the merry bonfires
which this mosaic holds up for imitation!</p>

<p class='c008'>The argument “that it sounds unnatural to ascribe
reason to creatures ignorant of God,” suggests familiarity
with a passage in Epictetus (Plutarch’s contemporary),
where he says that man alone was made
to have the understanding which recognises God—a
recognition which he elsewhere explains by the
hypothesis that every man has in him a small portion
of the divine. Having this intuitive sense, man is
bound, without ceasing, to praise his Creator, and,
since others are blind and neglect to do it, Epictetus
will do it on behalf of all: “for what else can I do,
a lame old man, than sing hymns to God? If I was
a nightingale, I should do the part of a nightingale;
if I were a swan, I would do like a swan; but now
I am a <i>rational creature</i>, and I ought to praise God:
this is my work; I do it, nor will I desert this post
so long as I am allowed to keep it, and I exhort
you to join in this song.”</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>The words are among the sweetest and most solemn
that ever issued from human lips; yet those who
care to pursue the subject farther may submit that
there was some one before Epictetus, who called
upon the beasts, the fishes and the fowls to join him
in blessing the name of the Lord, and there was
some one after him who commanded the birds of
the air to sing the praises of their Maker and
Preserver! It is strange that, despite the hard-and-fast
line which the moulders of the Catholic Faith
were at pains to trace between man and beast, if
we would find the most emphatic assertion of their
common privilege of praising God, we must leave
the Pagan world and take up the Bible and the
“Fioretti” of St. Francis!</p>

<div id='i074'  class='figcenter id003'>
<img src='images/i074.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'>(<i>Photo: Sommer.</i>)</span><br />BACCHUS RIDING ON A PANTHER.<br />Naples Museum.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Mosaic found at Pompeii.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Of the anecdotes with which Plutarch enlivens
his pages, he says himself that he puts on one side
fable and mythology, and limits his choice to the
“all true” category, and if he appears to be at times
a little credulous, one may well believe that he is
always candid. Just as in his “Lives” he tried to
ennoble his readers by making noble deeds interesting,
so in his writings on animals, he tried to make
people humane by making his dumb clients interesting.
He did not start with thinking the task an
easy one, for he was convinced that man is more
cruel than the most savage of wild beasts. But he
aims at pouring, if not a full draught of mercy, at
least some drops, into the heart that never felt a
pang, the mind that never gave a thought. Many
of his stories are taken straight from the common
street life of the Rome of his day, as that of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>elephant which passed every day along a certain
street where the schoolboys teased it by pricking
its trunk with their writing stylets (men may come
and go, but the small boy is a fixed quantity!). At
last, the elephant, losing patience, picked up one
of his tormentors and hoisted him in the air; a cry
of horror rose from the spectators, no one doubted
that in another moment the child would be dashed
to the ground. But the elephant set the offender
down very gently and walked away, thinking, no
doubt, that a good fright had been a sufficient punishment.
The Syrian elephant, of whom Plutarch tells
how he made his master understand that in his
absence he had been cheated of half his rations,
was not cleverer than some of his kind on service
in India, who would not begin to eat till all three
cakes which formed their rations were set before
each of them—a fact that was told me by the officer
whose duty it was to preside at their dinner.
Plutarch speaks of counting oxen that knew when
the number of turns was finished which constituted
their daily task at a saw-mill: they refused to perform
one more turn than the appointed figure. As
an instance of the discrimination of animals, he tells
how Alexander’s horse, Bucephalus, when unsaddled,
would allow the grooms to mount him, but when
he had on all his rich caparisons, no one on earth
could get on his back except his royal master.
There is no doubt that animals take notice of dress.
I have been told that when crinolines were worn,
all the dogs barked at any woman not provided
with one. Plutarch was among the earliest to observe
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>that animals discover sooner than man when
ice will not bear, which he thinks that they find
out by noticing if there is any sound of running
water. He says truly that to draw such an inference
presupposes not only sharp ears, but a real power
of weighing cause and effect. Plutarch mentions
foxes as particularly clever in this respect, but dogs
possess the same gift. The French Ambassador
at Rome—who, like all persons of superior intelligence,
is very fond of animals—told me the following
story. One winter day, when he was French
Minister at Munich, he went alone with his gun and
his dog to the banks of the Isar. Having shot a
snipe, he ordered the dog to go on to the ice to
fetch it, but, to his surprise, the animal, which
had never disobeyed him, refused. Annoyed at its
obstinacy, he went himself on to the ice, which immediately
gave way, and had he not been a good
swimmer he might not be now at the Palazzo Farnese.</p>

<p class='c008'>The two creatures that have been most praised
for their wisdom are the elephant and the ant, but
of the ant’s admirers from Solomon to Lord Avebury,
not one was ever so enthusiastic as Plutarch. Horace,
indeed, had discoursed of her foresight: “She carries
in her mouth whatever she is able, and piles up her
heap, by no means ignorant or careless of the future;
then, when Aquarius saddens the inverted year, never
does she creep abroad, wisely making use of the
stores which were provided beforehand.” But such
a tribute sounds cold beside Plutarch’s praise of her
as the tiny mirror in which the greatest marvels of
Nature are reflected, a drop of the purest water,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>containing every Virtue, and, above all, what Homer
calls “the sweetness of loving qualities.” Ants, he
declares, show the utmost solicitude for their comrades,
alive and dead. They exhibit their ingenuity
by biting off the ends of grains to prevent them
from sprouting and so spoiling the provender. He
speaks, though not from his own observation, of
the beautiful interior arrangements of ant-hills which
had been examined by naturalists who divided the
mount into sections, “A thing I cannot approve of!”
Tender-hearted philosopher, who had a scruple about
upsetting an ant-hill! Of other insects, he most
admires the skill of spiders and bees. It is said
that the bees of Crete, when rounding a certain
promontory, carried tiny stones as ballast to avoid
being blown away by the wind. I have seen more
than once a tiny stone hanging from the spider-threads
which crossed and re-crossed an avenue—it
seemed to me that these were designed to steady the
suspension bridge.</p>

<p class='c008'>Plutarch insists that animals teach themselves even
things outside the order of their natural habits, a
fact which will be confirmed by all who have observed
them closely. Just as no two animals have the same
disposition, so does each one, though in greatly varying
degree, display some little arts or accomplishments
peculiar to itself. Plutarch mentions a trained
elephant that was seen practising its steps when it
thought that no one was looking. But he allots
the palm of self-culture to an incomparable magpie
that belonged to a barber whose shop faced the
temple called the Agora of the Greeks. The bird
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>could imitate to perfection any sort of sound, cry or
tune; it was renowned in the whole quarter. Now
it happened one morning that the funeral of a wealthy
citizen went past, accompanied by a very fine band
of trumpeters which performed an elaborate piece
of music. After that day, to every one’s surprise,
the magpie grew mute! Had it become deaf or
dumb or both! Endless were the surmises, and
what was not the general amazement when, at last,
it broke its long silence by bursting forth with a flood
of brilliant notes the exact reproduction of the difficult
trills and cadences executed by the funeral band!
Evidently it had been practising it in its head all
that while, and only produced it when it had got it
quite perfect. Several Romans and several Greeks
witnessed the facts and could vouch for the truth
of the narrative.</p>

<p class='c008'>The swallow’s nest and the nightingale’s song
make Plutarch pause and wonder; he believes, with
Aristotle, that the old nightingales teach the young
ones, remarking that nightingales reared in captivity
never sing so well as those that have profited by
the parental lessons. He gives a word to the dove
of Deucalion which returned a first time to the ark
because the deluge continued, but disappeared when
it was set free again, the waters having subsided.
Plutarch confesses, however, that this is “mythical,”
and though he admits that birds deserved the name
by which Euripides calls them of “Messengers of
the gods,” he is inclined to attribute their warnings
to the direct intervention of an over-ruling deity of
whom they are the inconscient agents.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>It is a pleasure to find that Plutarch had a high
appreciation of the hedgehog—the charming “urchin”
which represents to many an English child an epitome
of wild nature, friendly yet untamed, familiar
yet mysterious. He does not say that it milks cows—a
calumny which is an article of faith with the
British ploughman—but he relates that when the
grapes are ripe, the mother urchin goes under the
vines and shakes the plants till some of the grapes
fall off; then, rolling herself over them, she attaches
a number of grapes to her spines and so marches
back to the hole where she keeps her nurslings.
“One day,” says Plutarch, “when we were all together,
we had the chance of seeing this with our
own eyes—it looked as if a bunch of grapes was
shuffling along the ground, so thickly covered was
the animal with its booty.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Dogs that threw themselves on their masters’ pyre,
dogs that caused the arrest of assassins or thieves,
dogs that remained with and protected the bodies
of their dead masters, clever dogs, devoted dogs,
magnanimous dogs—these will be all found in Plutarch’s
gallery. How high-minded, he says, it is in
the dog when, as Homer advises, you lay down your
stick, even an angry dog ceases to attack you. He
praises the affectionate regard which many have
shown in giving decent burial to the dogs they
cherished, and recalls how Xantippus of old, whose
dog swam by his galley to Salamis when the
Athenians were forced to abandon their city, buried
the faithful creature on a promontory which “to this
day” is known as the Dog’s Grave. Very desolate
<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>was the case of the other animals that ran up and
down distraught when their masters embarked, like
the poor cats and dogs which helped the English
soldiers in the block-houses to while away the weary
hours, and which, by superior orders, were left to
their fate, though their comrades in khaki were
anxious enough to carry them away. As a proof
of the affection of the Greeks for their dogs Plutarch
might have spoken of the not uncommon representation
of them on the <i>Stelæ</i> in the family group which
brings together all the dearest ties between life and
death.</p>

<p class='c008'>One animal is missing from Plutarch’s portrait
gallery—the cat, to which he only concedes the
ungracious allusion “that man had not the excuse
of hunger for eating flesh, like the weasel or
cat.” Can we make good the omission from other
sources?</p>

<p class='c008'>There is a general notion that cats “were almost unknown
to Greek and Roman antiquity”—these are the
words of so well-informed a writer as M. S. Reinach.
Yet instances exist of paintings of cats on Greek
vases of the fifth century, and I was interested to see
in the Museum at Athens a well-carved cat on a stele.
Aristotle, who, like Plutarch, mentions cats in connexion
with weasels (both, he says, catch birds),
reckons the time they live at six years, less than
half the life of an average modern cat; this may
indicate that though known, they were not then
acclimatised in Europe. Æsop has four fables of
cats: 1. A cat dressed as a physician offers his
services to an aviary of birds; they are declined.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>2. A cat seeks an excuse for eating a cock; he fails
to find the excuse, but eats the cock all the same.
3. A cat pretends to be dead so that mice may
come near her. 4. A cat falls in love with a handsome
young man and induces Venus to change her
into a lovely maiden. But on a mouse coming into
the room, she scampers after it. Venus, being displeased,
changes her back into a cat. This belongs
to a large circle of folk-tales, and probably all these
fables came from the East.</p>

<p class='c008'>Herodotus tells as a “very marvellous thing” that
cats are apt to rush back into a burning house, and
that the Egyptians try to save them, even at the risk
of their lives, but rarely succeed: hence great lamentation.
Also, that if a cat die in a house all the
dwellers in it shave their eyebrows; “the cats, when
they are dead, they carry for burial to the city of
Bubastis.” The Egyptian name for light (and for
cat) is <i>Mau</i>, and the inference is irresistible, that
the Egyptians supposed the cat to be constantly
apostrophizing the sacred light of which she was
the symbol. Nothing shows the strength of tradition
better than the existence of an endowment at
Cairo for the feeding and housing of homeless
cats.</p>

<p class='c008'>If the cat in Europe had been a rarity so great
as most people think, it would have been more highly
prized. It seems nearer the truth to say that it
was not admired. Its incomplete domestication which
attracts us, did not attract the ancient world. Tame
only so far as it suits their own purposes, cats
patronize man, looking down upon him from a higher
<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>plane, which, if only the house-top, they make a
golden bar.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in14'>“Chat mystérieux,</div>
      <div class='line'>Chat séraphique, chat étrange ...</div>
      <div class='line'>Peut-être est-il fée, est-il dieu?”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Greeks and Romans preferred a plain animal to this
half-elf, half-god.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Greek comic writer, Anaxandrides, said to
the Egyptians: “You weep if you see a cat ailing,
but I like to kill and skin it.” The fear lest cats
should be profanely treated in Europe led the
Egyptians to do all they could to prevent their
exportation; they even sent missions to the Mediterranean
to ransom the cats borne into slavery and
carry them back to Egypt. But these missions could
not have reached the cats that had been taken inland,
and as the animal increases rapidly, it may have been
fairly common from early times. There is no doubt,
however, that the number went up with a bound when
Egypt became Christian, and every monk who came
to Europe brought shoals of cats, the date corresponding
with that of the first invasion of the rat in
the trail of the Huns.</p>

<div id='i082'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i082.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>BRONZE STATUE OF AN EGYPTIAN CAT.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Collection of H.E. Monsieur Camille Barrère, French Ambassador at Rome.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Antiquity regarded the cat, before all things, as a
little beast of prey. Nearly every reference to it
gives it this character. In the stele at Athens the
cat is supposed to be looking at a bird-cage to which
the man is pointing; the man holds a bird in his left
hand, presumably the pet of the child who stands by
him. It seems as if the cat meditated if it had not
performed some fell deed. Seneca observed that
young chickens feel an instinctive fear of the cat but
<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>not of the dog. The fine mosaic at Pompeii shows
a tabby kitten in the act of catching a quail.</p>

<p class='c008'>Only one ancient poet, by a slight magician-like
touch, calls up a different vision: Theorcitus makes
the voluble Praxinœ say to her maid: “Eunœ, pick
up your work, and take care, lazy girl, how you
leave it lying about again; the cats find it just the
bed they like.” There—at last—is the cat we know!
But after all, it is an Egyptian cat: a cat sure
of her privileges, a cat who relies on her goddess
prototype, and has but a modicum of respect for the
chattering little Syracusan woman in whose house
she condescends to reside. Such were not cats of
ancient Greece and Rome, who, from being un-appreciated,
fell back to the morals of the simple
ravager.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>
  <h2 id='ch05' class='c006'>V<br /> <br />MAN AND HIS BROTHER</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>TRADITIONAL beliefs are like the <i>coco de mer</i>
which was found floating, here and there, on
the sea, or washed up on the shore, and which gave
birth to the strangest conjectures; it was supposed
to tell of undiscovered continents or to have dropped
from heaven itself. Then, one day, some one saw
this peculiar cocoanut quietly growing on a tall palm-tree
in an obscure islet of the Indian Ocean. All we
gather of primitive traditions is the fruit. Yet the
fruit did not grow in the air, it grew on branches and
the branches grew on a trunk and the trunk had a
root. To get to the root of even the slightest of our
own prejudices—let alone those of the savage—we
should have to travel back far into times when
history was not.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lucretius placed at the beginning of the ages of
mankind a berry-eating race, innocent of blood. The
second age belonged to the hunter who killed animals,
at first, and possibly for a long time, for their skins,
before he used their flesh as food. In the third age
animals were domesticated; first the sheep, because
that was gentle and easily tamed (which one may see
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>by the moufflons at Monte Carlo), then, by degrees,
the others.</p>

<p class='c008'>This classification was worthy of the most far-seeing
mind of antiquity. Had not human originally
meant humane we should not have been here to tell
the tale. The greater traditions of a bloodless age
are enshrined in sacred books; minor traditions of
it abound in the folk-lore of the world. Man was
home-sick of innocence; his conscience, which has
gone on getting more blunted, not more sensitive,
revolted at the “daily murder.” So mankind called
upon heaven to provide an excuse for slaughter.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Kirghis of Mongolia say that in the beginning
only four men and four animals were made: the camel,
the ox, the sheep, and the horse, and all were told
to live on grass. The animals grazed, but the men
pulled up the grass by the roots and stored it. The
animals complained to God that the men were pulling
up all the grass, and that soon there would be none
left. God said: “If I forbid men to eat grass, will
you allow them to eat you?” Fearing starvation, the
animals consented.</p>

<p class='c008'>From the first chapter of Genesis to the last of the
“Origin of Species” there is one long testimony to
our vegetarian ancestor, but beyond the fact that
he existed, what do we know about him? We may
well believe that he lived in a good climate and on
a plenteous earth. Adam and Eve or their representatives
could not have subsisted in Greenland.
I think that the killing of wild animals, and especially
the eating of them, began when man found himself
confronted by extremes of cold and length of winter
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>nights. The skins of animals gave him the only
possibility of keeping warm or even of living at all,
if he was to brave the outer air, while their flesh
may have been often the only food he could find.
He was obliged to eat them to keep alive, as
Arctic explorers have been obliged to eat their
sledge-dogs. Not preference, but hard necessity,
made him carnivorous.</p>

<p class='c008'>These speculations are confirmed by the doings
of the earliest man of whom we have any sure knowledge;
<i>not</i> the proto-man who must have developed,
as I have said, under very different climatic conditions.
Perhaps he sat under the palm-trees growing on the
banks of the Thames, but though the palm-trees have
left us their fruit, man, if he was there, left nothing
to speak of his harmless sojourn. By tens of thousands
of years the earliest man with whom we can
claim acquaintance is the reindeer hunter of Quartenary
times. He hunted and fed upon the reindeer,
but he had not tamed them. He wore reindeer skins,
but he could not profit by reindeer milk; no children
were brought up by hand, possibly to the advantage
of the children. It is likely, by the by, that the period
of human lactation was very long. The horse also
was killed for food at a time infinitely removed from
the date of his first service to man.</p>

<div id='i086a'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i086a.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>REINDEER BROWSING.<br />Older Stone Age.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div id='i086b'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i086b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>HORSE DRAWING DISC OF THE SUN.<br />Older Bronze Age.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The reindeer hunter was a most intelligent observer
of animals. He was an artist and a very good one.
The best of his scratchings on reindeer horn and
bone of horses and reindeer in different attitudes are
admirable for freedom, life, and that intuition of
character which makes the true animal painter. For
<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>a time which makes one dizzy to look down upon, no
such draughtsman appeared as the pre-historic cave
dweller. The men of the age of Polished Stone and
of the early ages of metals produced nothing similar
in the way of design. They understood beauty of
form and ornament or, rather, perhaps, they still
shared in that Nature’s own unerring touch; it took
millenniums of civilisation for man to make one
ugly pot or pan. But these men had not the gift
or even the idea of sitting down to copy a grazing
or running animal.</p>

<p class='c008'>We need not go far, however, to find a man who,
living under nearly the same conditions as the reindeer
hunter of Southern France, has developed the same
artistic aptitude. I shall always recall with pleasure
my visit to a Laplander’s hut; it was in the broad
daylight of Arctic midnight—no one slept in the hut,
except an extraordinarily small baby in a canoe-shaped
cradle. The floor was spread with handsome furs,
and its aspect was neither untidy nor comfortless. I
reflected that this was how the cave dweller arranged
his safe retreat. Much more strongly was he brought
to my mind by the domestic objects of every sort
made of reindeer horn and adorned with drawings.
As I write I have one of them before me, a large
horn knife, the sheath of which ends with the branching
points. It is beautifully decorated with <i>graffiti</i>,
showing the good and graceful creature without whom
the Laplander cannot live. The school of art is distinctly
Troglodite.</p>

<p class='c008'>A theory has been started that the man of the
Quartenary age drew his horses and his reindeer
<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>solely as a magical decoy from the idea that the
pictures “called” the game as whistling (<i>i.e.</i>, imitating
the sound of the wind) “calls” the wind. I do not
know that the Lapps, though practised in magic, have
any such purpose in view. It is said that it would be
absurd to attribute a motive of mere artistic pleasure
to the Troglodite. Why? Some races have as
natural a tendency to artistic effort as the bower-bird
has to decorate its nest. Conditions of climate
may have given the hunter periods of enforced idleness,
and art, in its earliest form, was, perhaps, always
an escape from <i>ennui</i>, a mode of passing the time.
That the early hunter dealt in magic is likely enough;
he is supposed, though not on altogether conclusive
grounds, to have been a fetich-worshipper, and fetich-worship
is akin to some kinds of magic. But it does
not follow that <i>all</i> his art had this connexion. How
animals appeared to his eyes we know; what he
thought about them he has not told us. The Eskimo,
the modern pre-historic man who is believed to be
a better-preserved type than even the Lapp, may be
asked to speak for him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Eskimo can say that he had a friendly feeling
towards all living things, notwithstanding that he fed
on flesh, and that wild beasts sometimes fed on him.
Not that he had ever talked of wild beasts, for he had
no tame ones. He had not a vocabulary of rude
terms about animals. He was inclined to credit every
species with many potential merits. The Eskimo is
afraid—very much afraid—of bears. Yet he is the
first to admit that the bear is capable of acting like
the finest of fine gentlemen. A woman was in a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>fright at seeing a bear and so gave him a partridge;
that bear never forgot the trifling service, but brought
her newly killed seals ever after. Another bear saved
the life of three men who wished to reward him. He
politely declined their offer, but if, in winter time, they
should see a bald-headed bear, will they induce their
companions to spare him? After so saying, he plunged
into the sea. Next winter a bear was sighted and
they were going to hunt him, when these men,
remembering what had happened, begged the hunters
to wait till they had had a look at him. Sure enough
it was “their own bear”! They told the others to
prepare a feast for him, and when he had refreshed
himself, he lay down to sleep and <i>the children played
around him</i>. Presently he awoke and ate a little
more, after which he went down to the sea, leapt in,
and was never seen again.</p>

<p class='c008'>Even such lovely imaginings, we may believe,
without an excessive stretch of fancy, gilded the
mental horizon of the Troglodite. He had long
left behind the stage of primal innocence, but no
supernatural chasm gaped between him and his
little brothers.</p>

<p class='c008'>The reindeer hunters were submerged by what is
more inexorable than man—Nature. The reindeer
vanished, and with him the hunter, doomed by the
changed conditions of climate. He vanished as the
Lapp is vanishing; the poignantly tragic scene which
was chronicled by two lines in the newspapers
during the early summer of 1906—the suicide of
a whole clan of Lapps whose reindeer were dead
and who had nothing to do but to follow them—may
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>have happened in what we call fair Provence.
Thousands of men paid with their lives for its
becoming a rose garden.</p>

<p class='c008'>The successors of the reindeer hunters, Turanian
like them, but far more progressive, were the lake
dwellers, the dolmen-builders, with their weaving
and spinning, their sowing and reaping, their pottery
and their baskets, their polished flints and their
domestic animals. Man’s greatest achievement, the
domestication of animals, had been reached in the
unrecorded ages that divide the rough and the
polished stone. Man, “excellent in art,” had
mastered the beast whose lair is in the wilds; “he
tames the horse of shaggy mane, he puts the yoke
upon its neck; he tames the tireless mountain bull.”
The great mind of Sophocles saw and saw truly
that these were the mighty works of man; the
works which made man, man. We know that when
the Neolithic meat-eater of what is now Denmark
threw away the bones after he had done his meal,
these bones were gnawed by house-dogs. A simple
thing, but it tells a wondrous tale. Did these dogs
come with their masters from Asia, or had they been
tamed in their Northern home? The answer
depends on whether the dog is descended from
jackal or wolf. In either case it is unlikely that
the most tremendous task of domestication was the
first.</p>

<p class='c008'>Not everywhere has man domesticated animals,
though we may be sure that he took them everywhere
with him after he had domesticated them.
If man walked on dry land across the Atlantic as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>some enthusiastic students of sub-oceanic geography
now believe that he did, he led no sheep, no horses,
no dogs. In America, when it was discovered,
there was only one domestic animal, and in Australia
there was none. Of native animals, the American
buffalo could have been easily tamed. It may be
said that in Australia there was no suitable animal,
but the dog’s ancestor could not have seemed a
suitable animal for a household protector; a jackal
is not a promising pupil, still less a wolf, unless there
was some more gentle kind of wolf than any which
now survives. Might not a good deal have been
made out of the kangaroo? Possibly the whole task
of domestication was the work of one patient, intelligent
and widely-spread race, kindred of the
Japanese, who in making forest trees into dwarfs
show the sort of qualities that would be needed to
make a wild animal not only unafraid (that is nothing),
but also a willing servant.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Neolithic man’s eschatology of animals and
of himself was identical. He contemplated for both
a future life which reproduced this one. “The
belief in the deathlessness of souls,” said Canon
Isaac Taylor, “was the great contribution of the
Turanian race to the religious thought of the
world.” This appears to claim almost too much.
Would any race have had the courage to start upon
its way had it conceived death as real?</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“It is a modest creed and yet</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Pleasant if one considers it,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>To own that death itself must be</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Like all the rest, a mockery.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>It is a creed which springs from the very instinct
of life. Two pelicans returning to their nest found
their two young ones dead from sunstroke. The
careful observer who was watching them has recorded
that they <i>did not seem to recognise</i> the inert, fluffy
heap as what <i>was</i> their fledglings; they hunted for
them for a long while, moving the twigs of the nest,
and at last threw one of the dead birds out of it.
So the primitive man in presence of the dead knows
that this is not <i>he</i> and he begins to ask: where is he?</p>
<p class='c008'>But if every race in turn has asked that question,
it was asked with more insistence by some peoples
than by others, and above all, it was answered by
some with more assurance. The Neolithic Turanians
had nothing misty in their vision of another world.
It was full of movement and variety: the chase,
the battle, the feast, sleep and awakening, night
and day—these were there as well as here. Animals
were essential to the picture, and it never struck
the Neolithic man that there was any more difficulty
about their living again than about his living again.
If he philosophised at all, it was probably after the
fashion of the Eskimo who holds the soul to be the
“owner” of the body: the body, the flesh, dies and
may be devoured, but he who kills the body does
not kill its “owner.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Vast numbers of bones have been found near the
dolmens in Southern France. The steed of the
dead man galloped with him into the Beyond. The
faithful dog trotted by the little child, comrade and
guardian. In the exquisite Hebrew idyll Tobias
has his dog as well as the angel to accompany him
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>on his adventurous earthly journey. The little
Neolithic boy had only the dog and his journey was
longer; but to some grieving fathers would it not
be a rare comfort to imagine their lost darlings
guarded by loving four-footed friends along the Path
of Souls?</p>

<p class='c008'>The Celtic conquerors of the dolmen-builders
took most of their religious ideas. When successful
aid in mundane matters was what was chiefly sought
in religion, a little thing might determine conversion
<i>en masse</i>. If the divinities of one set of people
seemed on some occasion powerless, it was natural
to try the divinities of somebody else. When success
crowned the experiment, the new worship was
formally adopted. This is exactly what happened
in the historic case of Clovis and “Clothilde’s God,”
and it doubtless happened frequently before the dawn
of history. Druidism is believed to have arisen in
this way in a grafting of the new on the old. The
Celts had the same views about the next world as
the dolmen-builders. They are thought to have
taken them from the conquered with the rest of
their religious system, but to me it seems unlikely
that they had not already similar views when they
arrived from Asia. In the early Vedas goats and
horses were sacrificed to go before and announce
the coming of the dead; Vedic animals kept their
forms, the renewed body was perfect and incorruptible,
but it was the real body. A celebrated
racehorse was deified after death. Such beliefs have
a strong affinity to the theory that animals (or slaves)
killed at the man’s funeral will be useful to him in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>the after-life. However derived, our European
ancestors embraced that theory to the full.</p>

<p class='c008'>Only a few years ago a second Viking ship was
found at Oseberg, in Norway, in which were the
remains of ten horses, four dogs, a young ox, and the
head of an old ox. Three more horses were found
outside. The dogs had on their own collars with
long chains. There were also sledges with elaborately
carved animals’ heads. It was a queen’s grave;
her distaff and spinning-wheel told of simple womanly
tasks amidst so much sepulchral splendour. In those
late times the law by which religious forms grow
more sumptuous as the faith behind them grows
less, may have come into operation. Lavish but
meaningless tributes may have taken the place of
a provision full of meaning for real wants.</p>

<p class='c008'>So the sacrifices to the gods may have been once
intended to stock the pastures of heaven. It cannot
be doubted that the victim was never <i>killed</i> in the
mind of the original sacrificer, it was merely transferred
to another sphere. The worser barbarity
comes in when the true significance of the act is
lost and when it is repeated from habit.</p>

<p class='c008'>After animals were domesticated they were not
killed at all for a long time—still less were they
eaten. Of this there can be no shadow of doubt.
The first domestic animals were far too valuable
possessions for any one to think of killing them. As
soon would a showman kill a performing bull which
had cost him a great deal of trouble to train.
Besides this, and more than this, the natural man,
who is much better than he is painted, has a natural
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>horror of slaying the creature that eats out of his
hand and gives him milk and wool and willing
service.</p>

<p class='c008'>There are pastoral tribes now in South Africa
which live on the milk, cheese and butter of their
sheep, but only kill them as the last necessity. In
East Africa the cow is never killed, and if one falls
ill, it is put into a sort of infirmary and carefully
tended. We all know the divinity which hedges
round the Hindu cow. The same compunction once
saved the labouring ox. When I was at Athens
for the Archæological Congress of 1905, Dr. R. C.
Bosanquet, at that time head of the British school,
told me that he had observed among the peasants
in Crete the most intense reluctance to kill the ox
of labour. In several places in Ancient Greece all
sorts of devices were resorted to in order that the
sacrificial knife might seem to kill the young bull
accidentally, and the knife—the guilty thing—was
afterwards thrown into the sea. This last custom
is important; it marks the moment when the slaughter
of domestic animals, <i>even</i> for sacrificial purposes,
still caused a scruple. The case stands thus: at first
they were not killed at all; then, for a long time,
they were killed only for sacrifice. Then they were
killed for food, but far and wide relics of the original
scruple may be detected as in the common invocation
of divine permission which every Moslem butcher
utters before killing an animal.</p>

<p class='c008'>Animal and human sacrifices are one phenomenon
of early manners, not two. The people who sacrificed
domestic animals to accompany their dead
<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>generally, if not always, also sacrificed slaves for
the same purpose, and the sacrifice of fair maidens
at the funerals of heroes was to give them these
as companions in another world.</p>

<p class='c008'>I am not aware that Gift Sacrifice ever led to
cannibalism nor, in its primitive forms, did it lead
to eating the flesh of the animal victim which was
buried or burnt with the body of the person whom
it was intended to honour. This is what was done
by the dolmen-builders. The earlier reindeer hunters
had no domestic animals to sacrifice, and it is unlikely
that they sacrificed men. At all events, they
were not cannibals.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the other hand, cannibalism is closely connected
with Pact Sacrifice, which there is a tendency
now to regard as antecedent to Gift Sacrifice, especially
among those scholars who think that the whole
human race has passed through a stage of Totemism.
Psychologically the Totemist’s sacrifice of a reserved
animal to which all the sanctity of human life is
ascribed, resembles the sacrifice by some African
tribes of a human victim—as in both cases not only
is a pact of brotherhood sealed, but also those who
partake of the flesh are supposed to acquire the
physical, moral, or supersensual qualities attributed
to the victim. Indeed, it would be possible to argue
that the Totem was a substitute for a human victim,
and a whole new theory of Totemism might be
evolved from that postulate, but it is wiser to observe
such affinities without trying to derive one thing
from another which commonly proves a snare and
a delusion. It is sufficient to note that among
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>fundamental human ideas is the belief that man
grows like what he feeds upon.</p>

<p class='c008'>The sacrifice of the Totem, though found scattered
wherever Totemism prevails, is not an invariable
or even a usual accompaniment of it. When
it does occur, the Totem is not supposed to
die, any more than the victim was supposed to die
in the primitive Gift Sacrifice. It changes houses
or goes to live with “our lost others,” or returns
to eternal life in the “lake of the dead.” The
death of the soul is the last thing that is thought of.
The majority of Totemists do not kill their Totems
under any circumstances, and when the Totem is
a wild beast they believe that it shows a like respect
for the members of its phratry. If one dies they
deplore its loss; in some parts of East Africa where
the Totem is a hyena not even the chief is mourned
for with equal ceremony.</p>

<p class='c008'>Totemism is the adoption of an animal (or plant)
as the visible badge of an invisible bond. The
word Totem is an American Indian word for
“badge,” and the word Taboo a Polynesian term
meaning an interdiction. The Totemist generally
says that he is descended from his Totem: hence
the men and the beasts of each Totem clan are
brothers. But the beast is something more than a
brother, he is the perpetual reincarnation of the race-spirit.
Numerical problems never trouble the natural
human mind; all the cats of Bubastis were equally
sacred, and all the crows of Australia are equally
sacred to the clans who have a crow for Totem. To
the mass of country folks every cow is <i>the</i> cow, every
<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>mouse is <i>the</i> mouse; the English villager is practically
as much convinced of this as the American Indian
or the Australian native is convinced that every
Totem is <i>the</i> Totem.</p>

<p class='c008'>Men and women of the same Totem are <i>taboo</i>:
they cannot intermarry. But I need not speak of
Totemism here as a social institution. My business
with it is limited to its place in the history of ideas
about animals.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Totemism we find represented not one idea,
but an aggregation of most of the fundamental ideas
of mankind. This is why the attempt to trace it
to one particular root has failed to dispose of the
question of its origin in a final and satisfactory
manner. For a time there seemed to be a general
disposition to accept what is called the “Nickname
theory” by which Totemism was attributed to the
custom of giving animal nicknames. We have a
peasant called Nedrott (in the Brescian dialect
“duck”); I myself never heard his real name—his
wife is “la Nedrott” and his children are “i
Nedrotti.” It is alleged that his father or grandfather
had flat feet. But I never heard of a confusion
between the Nedrotti and their nicknamesakes.
It may be said that this would be sure to happen
were they less civilised. How can we be sure
that it would be sure to happen? An eminent
scholar who objects to the nickname theory on the
ground that it assigns too much importance to “verbal
misunderstanding,” proposes as an alternative the
“impregnation theory.” A woman, on becoming aware
of approaching motherhood, mentally connects the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>future offspring with an animal or plant which
happens to catch her eye at that moment. This
is conceivable, given the peculiar notions of some
savages on generation, but if all Totemism sprang
from such a cause, is it not strange that in Australia
there are only two Totems, the eagle-hawk and crow?</p>

<p class='c008'>As a mere outward fact, the Totem is what its
name implies, a badge or sign; just as the wolf was
the badge of Rome, or as the lion is taken to represent
the British Empire. The convenience of
adopting a common badge or sign may have appeared
to men almost as soon as they settled into separate
clans or communities. Besides public Totems there
exist private and secret Totems, and this suggests
that the earliest communities may have consisted
of a sort of freemasonry, a league of mutual help
of the nature of a secret society. Around the outward
and so to speak heraldic fact of Totemism are
gathered the impressions and beliefs which make
it a rule of life, a morality and a religion.</p>

<p class='c008'>The time may come when the desire to give a
reason for an emotion will be recognised as one of
the greatest factors in myth-making. The Totemist
thinks that he spares his Totem because it is his
Totem. But man is glad to find an excuse for
sparing something. Altruism is as old as the day
when the first bird took a succulent berry to its mate
or young ones instead of eating it. Where men see
no difference between themselves and animals, what
more natural than that they should wish to spare
them? When it was found difficult or impossible
to spare all, it was a katharsis of the wider sentiment
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>to spare one, and Totemism gave a very good excuse.
It appealed to a universal instinct. This is not the
same as to say that it had its origin in keeping pets;
it would be nearer the truth to describe the love
of pets as a later birth of the same instinctive
tendency which the Totemist follows when he
cherishes and preserves his Totem.</p>

<p class='c008'>The primitive man is a child in the vast zoological
garden of Nature; a child with a heart full of love,
curiosity and respect, anxious to make friends with
the lion which looks so very kind and the white bear
who must want some one to comfort him. The whole
folk-lore of the world bears witness to this temper,
even leaving Totemism out of the question.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Bechuanas make excuses to the lion before
killing him, the Malays to the tiger, the Red Indians
to the bear—he says that his children are hungry
and need food—would the bear kindly not object to
be killed? Some writers see Totemism in all this,
and so it may be, but there is something in it deeper
than even Totemism—there is human nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>Take the robin—has any one said it was a Totem?
Yet Mrs. Somerville declared she would as soon eat
a child as a robin, a thoroughly Totemist sentiment.
A whole body of protective superstition has crystallised
around certain creatures which, because of their
confiding nature, their charming ways, their welcome
appearance at particular seasons, inspired man with
an unusually strong impulse to spare them. I was
interested to find the stork as sacred to the Arabs
in Tunis and Algeria as he is to his German friends
in the North. A Frenchman remarked that “sacred
<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>birds are never good to eat,” but he might have
remembered the goose and hen of the ancient
Bretons which Cæsar tells us were kept “for pleasure”
but never killed; not to speak of the pigeons of
Moscow and of Mecca.</p>

<p class='c008'>It should be observed how quickly the spared or
cherished bird or beast becomes “lucky.” In
Germany and Scandinavia it is lucky to have a
stork’s nest on the roof. The regimental goat is the
“luck of his company.”</p>

<p class='c008'>M. S. Reinach’s opinion that in Totemism is to
be found the secret of the domestication of animals
offers an attractive solution to that great problem,
but it has not been, nor do I think that it will ever
be, generally accepted. It, is however, plain, that
where population is sparse, and dogs and guns
undreamt of, wild animals would be far less wild
than in countries with all the advantages of civilisation;
the tameness of birds on lonely islands when
the explorer first makes his descent is a case in
point. No doubt, therefore, with the encouragement
they received, the animal Totems acquired a considerable
degree of tameness, but from that to
domestication there is a long step. Our household
“Totem,” the robin, is relatively tame; he will even
eat crumbs on the breakfast-table, but he flies away
in springtime and we see him no more.</p>

<p class='c008'>Besides being a social institution and a friendly
bond between man and beast, Totemism is an attempt
to explain the universe. Its spiritual vitality depends
on the widely rooted belief in archetypes; the things
seen are the mirror of the things unseen, the material
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>is unreal, the immaterial the only reality. We are
ourselves but cages of immortal birds. The real “I”
is somewhere else; it may be in a fish, as in the
Indian folk-tale, or it may be in a god. I do not
know, by the by, if it has been remarked that a man
can be a Totem: the incarnation of the indwelling
race-spirit. The Emperor of Japan corresponds
exactly to this description. The deified Cæsar was
a Totem. A god can be a Totem: among the
Hidery (islanders of the North Pacific whose interesting
legends were published by the Chicago Folk-lore
Association) the raven, which is their Totem, is
the manifestation of the god Ne-kilst-lass who created
the world. Here Totemism approaches till it touches
Egyptian zoomorphism. Was this form an earlier
or a later development than that in which the Totem
is merely an ancestor? Our inability to reply shows
our real want of certainty as to whether Totemism
is a body of belief in a state of becoming or <i>in a state
of dissolution</i>.</p>

<div id='i102'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i102.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Egypt Exploration Fund.</i></span><br />HATHOR COW.<br />Cairo Museum.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Found in 1906 by Dr. E. Naville at Deir-el-bahari.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>We do know that Egyptian zoomorphism is not
old, at least in the exaggerated shape it assumed
in the worship of the bull Apis. It is a cult which
owed its success to the animistic tendency of the
human mind, but its particular cause is to be looked
for in crystallised figurative language. The stupendous
marble tombs of the sacred bulls that seem
to overpower us in the semi-obscurity of the
Serapeum remind one of how easy it is to draw
false conclusions relative to the past if we possess
only half-lights upon it: had Egyptian hieroglyphics
never yielded up their secret we might have judged
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>the faith of Egypt to have been the most material,
instead of one of the most spiritual of religions.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Egyptian (as in Assyrian) cosmogony the visible
universe is the direct creation of God. “The god
who is immanent in all things is the creator of every
animal: under his name of Ram, of the sheep, Bull,
of the cows: he loves the scorpion in his hole, he
is the god of the crocodile who plunges in the water:
he is the god of those who rest in their graves.
Amon is an image, Atmee is an image, Ra is an
image: HE alone maketh himself in millions of
ways.” Amon Ra is described in another grand
hymn as the maker of the grass for the cattle, of
fruitful trees for men yet unborn; causing the fish
to live in the river, the birds to fill the air, giving
breath to those in the egg, giving food to the bird
that perches, to the creeping thing and to the flying
thing alike, providing food for the rats in their holes,
feeding the flying things in every tree. “Hail to
thee, say all creatures. Hail to thee for all these
things: the One, Alone with many hands, awake
while all men sleep, to seek out the good of
all creatures, “Amon Sustainer of all!” This is,
indeed, a majestic psalm of universal life.</p>

<p class='c008'>Contrary to what was long the impression, the
Wheel of Being was not an Egyptian doctrine, but
the dead, or rather some of them, were believed to
have the power of transforming themselves into
animals for limited periods. It was a valued
privilege of the virtuous dead: the form of a heron,
a hawk or a swallow was a convenient travelling
dress. Four-footed beasts were reserved to gods.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>There was no prejudice against sport if carried
on with due regard to vested sacred rights. The
first hunting-dog whose name we know was Behkaa,
who was buried with his master, his name being
inscribed over his picture on the tomb. The injury
of animals sacred to the gods was, of course, a grave
sin. Among the protests of innocence of a departing
soul we read: “I have not clipped the skins of the
sacred beasts; I have not hunted wild animals in their
pasturages; I have not netted the sacred birds; I
have not turned away the cattle of the gods; I have
not stood between a god and his manifestation.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The Egyptian mind, which was essentially religious,
saw the “god who is immanent in all things” yet
standing outside these things to sustain them with a
guiding providence; the highly trained Chinese mind,
with its philosophic trend, saw the divine indivisible
intelligence without volition illuminating all that lived:
“The mind of man and the mind of trees, birds and
beasts, is just the one mind of heaven and earth,
only brighter or duller by reflection: as light looks
brighter when it falls on a mirror than when it falls
on a dark surface, so divine reason is less bright
in cow or sheep than in man.” This fine definition
was given by Choo-Foo-Tsze, the great exponent of
Confucianism, who, when he was four years old, surprised
his father by asking, on being told that the sky
was heaven, “What is above it?” Choo-Foo-Tsze
in the thirteenth century anticipated some modern
conclusions of geology by remarking that since sea
shells were found on lofty mountains as if generated
in the middle of stones, it was plain “that what was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>below became lifted up, what was soft became
hard”; it was a deep subject, he said, and ought
to be investigated. Long before the Nolan, Confucius
had conceived the idea of the great Monad:
“one God who contains and comprehends the whole
world.” It was an idea entirely incomprehensible to
all but a few educated men in any age. Confucianism,
Buddhism and Taoism left the Chinese masses
what they found them—a people whose folk-lore
was their religion. Were they asked to believe in the
Wheel of Being? They made that folk-lore too. Dr.
Giles tells the folk-tale of a certain gentleman who,
having taken a very high degree, enjoyed the privilege
(which is admitted to be uncommon) of recollecting
what happened between his last death and birth.
After he died, he was cited before a Judge of
Purgatory and his attention was attracted by a
quantity of skins of sheep, dogs, oxen, horses, which
were hanging in a row. These were waiting for
the souls which might be condemned to wear them;
when one was wanted, it was taken down and the
man’s own skin was stripped off and the other put
on. This gentleman was condemned to be a sheep;
the attendant demons helped him on with his sheep-skin
when the Recording Officer suddenly mentioned
that he had once saved a man’s life. The Judge,
after looking at his books, ruled that such an act
balanced all his misdoings: then the demons set to
work to pull off the sheep-skin bit by bit, which
gave the poor gentleman dreadful pain, but at last
it was all got off except one little piece which was
still sticking to him when he was born again as a man.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>This story is amusing as showing what a mystical
doctrine may come to when it gets into the hands of
the thoroughgoing realist. For the Chinese peasant
the supernatural has no mystery. To him it is a mere
matter of ordinary knowledge that beasts, birds, fishes
and insects not only have ghosts but also ghosts
of ghosts—for the first ghost is liable to die. If
any of these creatures do not destroy life in three
existences, they may be born as men—a belief no
doubt due to the Buddhists, who in China seem to
have concentrated all their energies on humanitarian
propaganda and let metaphysics alone. Taoism has
been called an “organised animism.” Organised or
unorganised, animism is still the popular faith of
China. It is too convenient to lightly abandon, for
it explains everything. For instance, whatever is
odd, unexpected, very lucky, very unlucky, can be
made as plain as day by mentioning the word “fox.”
Any one may be a fox without your knowing it: the
fox is a jinnee, an elf who can work good or harm
to man; who can see the future, get possession of
things at a distance, and generally outmatch the
best spiritualist medium. In Chinese folk-lore the
fox has, as it were, made a monopoly of the world-wide
notion that animals have a more intimate knowledge
of the supernatural than men. Soothsayers are
thought to be foxes because they know what is going
to happen.</p>

<p class='c008'>Man’s speculations about himself and the universe
arrange themselves under three heads: those which
have not yet become a system, those which are a
system, those which are the remains of a system. It
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>is impossible that any set of ideas began by being
a system unless it were revealed by an angel from
heaven. But no sooner do ideas become systematic
than they pass into the stage of dogma which is
accepted not discussed. Everything is made to fit in
with them. Thus to find the free play of the human
mind one must seek it where there are the fewest
formulæ, written or unwritten, for tradition is as
binding as any creed or code. There are savage
races which, if they ever had Totemism, have preserved
few if any traces of it. To take them one by
one and inquire into their views on animals would
be well worth doing, but it is beyond my modest
scope. I will say this, however—show me a savage
who has not some humane and friendly ideas about
animals! The impulse to confess brotherhood with
man’s poor relations is everywhere the same: the
excuses or reasons given for it vary a little. The
animal to be kindly treated is the sanctuary of a god,
the incarnation of a tribe, or simply the shelter of a
poor wandering ghost.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Amazulu, one of the finest of savage races,
believe that <i>some</i> snakes are Amatongo—some, not
all. In fact, these snakes which are dead men are
rather rare. One kind is black and another green.
An Itongo does not come into the house by the door,
nor does it eat frogs or mice. It does not run away
like other snakes. Some say, “Let it be killed.”
Others interfere, “What, kill a man?” If a man
die who had a scar and you see a snake with a scar,
ten to one it is that man. Then, at night, the
village chief <i>dreams</i> and the dead man speaks to him.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>“Do you now wish to kill me? Do you already
forget me? I thought I would come and ask you
for food, and do you kill me?” Then he tells him
his name.</p>

<p class='c008'>Without any teaching, without any system, the
savage thinks that the appearances which stand
before him in sleep are real. If they are not real,
what are they? The savage may not be a reasonable
being, but he is a being who reasons.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the morning the village chief tells his dream and
orders a sin-offering to the Itongo (ghost) lest he be
angry and kill them. A bullock or a goat is sacrificed
and they eat the flesh. Afterwards they look everywhere
for the snake, but it has vanished.</p>

<p class='c008'>A snake that forces its way rapidly into a house is
known to be a liar and he is a liar still. Do they
turn him out of doors with a lecture on the beauty
of veracity? Far from that. “They sacrifice something
to such an Itongo.” A few men turn into
poisonous snakes, but this is by no means common.
If offended, the Amatongo cause misfortune, but even
if pleased they do not seem to confer many benefits;
perhaps they cannot, for surely it is easier to do evil
than good. Once, however, a snake which was really
the spirit of a chief, placed its mouth on a sore which
a child had; the mother was in a great fright, but
happily she did not interfere and the snake healed the
sore and went silently away.</p>

<div id='i108'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i108.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Mansell.</i></span><br />WILD GOATS AND YOUNG.<br />British Museum.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Assyrian Relief.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Other animals are sometimes human beings as well
as snakes. The lizard is often the Itongo of an old
woman. A boy killed some lizards in a cattle-pen
with stones. Then he went and told his grandmother,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>who said he had done very wrong—those lizards
were chiefs of the village and should have been
worshipped. I think the grandmother was a humane
old person; I even suspect that she said the lizards
were chiefs and not old women to make the admonition
more awful. The man who told this story to
Canon Callaway (from whose valuable work on the
Amazulu I take these notes) added that, looking back
to the incident, he doubted if the lizards were Amatongo
after all, because no harm came of their murder.
He thought that they must have been merely wild
animals which had become tame owing to people
mistakenly thinking that they were Amatongo.</p>

<p class='c008'>What can one say to boys who ill-treat lizards? I
own that I have threatened them with ghostly treatment
of the same sort. I even tried the supernatural
argument with a little Arab boy, otherwise a nice
intelligent child, who was throwing stones at a lizard
which was moving at the bottom of the deep Roman
well at El Djem: I did not know then that the
persecution of lizards in Moslem lands is supposed (I
hope erroneously) to have been ordered by Mohammed
“because the lizard mimics the attitude of the
Faithful at prayer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The lizard, one of the most winsome of God’s
creatures, has suffered generally from the prejudice
which made reptile a word of reproach. It is the
more worthy of remark, therefore, that in a place
where one would hardly expect it, protective superstition
has done its work of rescue: Sicilian children
catch lizards, but let them go unhurt to intercede for
them before the Lord, as the lizard is held to be “in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>the presence of the Lord in heaven.” One wonders
if this is some distant echo of the text about the
angels of the children (their archetypes) who always
see God.</p>

<p class='c008'>Not always were reptiles scorned, but, possibly,
they were always feared. Man’s first idea is to
worship what he fears; his second idea, which may
not come for many thousand years, is to throw a
stone at it. The stone, besides representing physical
fear, at a given moment also represents religious
reprobation of what had been an object of worship
in a forsaken faith. Primitive man took the interest
of a wondering child in the great Saurian tribe.
How did he know that they <i>flew</i>, that there were
“dragons” on the earth? How did he know that
the snake once had legs?—for if the snake of Eden
was ordered to go on its belly, the inference seems
to be that he was thought once to have moved in
another way. The snake has lost his legs and
the lizard his wings, and how the ancient popular
imagination of the world made such accurate guesses
about them must be left a riddle, unless we admit
that it was guided by the fossil remains of extinct
monsters.</p>

<p class='c008'>The serpent of the Biblical story was, says Dr.
H. P. Smith, “simply a jinnee—a fairy if you will—possessed
of more knowledge than the other animals,
but otherwise like them.” Here, again, we meet in
the most venerable form, the belief that animals know
more than men. Can we resist the conclusion that
to people constantly inclined towards magic like the
old-world Jews, it must have appeared that Eve was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>dabbling in magic—by every rule of ancient religion,
the sin of sins?</p>

<p class='c008'>The cult of the serpent in its many branches is the
greatest of animal cults, and it is the one in which we
see most clearly the process by which man from being
an impressionist became a symbolist, and from being
a symbolist became a votary. We have only to read
the Indian statistics of the number of persons annually
killed by snake-bite to be persuaded that fear must
have been the original feeling with which man
regarded the snake. Fear is a religious feeling in
primitive man, but other religious feelings were added
to it—admiration, for the snake, as all who have had
the good luck to observe it in its wild state must
agree, is a beautiful, graceful, and insinuating creature;
a sense of mystery, a sense of fascination which comes
from those keen eyes fixed fearlessly upon yours, the
simple secret, perhaps, of the much discussed power
of snakes to fascinate their prey. What wonder if
man under the influence of these combined impressions,
symbolised in the serpent a divine force which
could be made propitious by worship!</p>

<p class='c008'>In the forming of cults there has always been this
unconscious passage from impressions to symbols,
from symbols to “manifestations.” But there has
been also the conscious use of symbols by the priests
and sages of ancient religions, in imparting as much
of divine knowledge to the uninitiated as they thought
that the uninitiated could bear. The origin of
serpent worship has a probable relationship with
this conscious use of symbols as well as with their
unconscious growth.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>Besides the prejudice against reptiles, modern
popular superstition has placed several animals under
a ban, and especially the harmless bat and the useful
barn owl. Traditional reasons exist, no doubt, in
every case; but stronger than these are the associations
of such creatures with the dark in which the
sane man of a certain temperament becomes a partial
lunatic; a prey to unreal terrors which the flap of a
bat’s wing or the screech of an owl is enough to work
up to the point of frenzy. It is a most unfortunate
thing for an animal if it be the innocent cause of a
<i>frisson</i>, a feeling of uncanny dread. The little Italian
owl, notwithstanding that it too comes out at dusk,
has escaped prejudice. This was the owl of Pallas
Athene and of an earlier cult. As in the case of the
serpent, its wiles to fascinate its prey were the groundwork
of its reputation for wisdom. Of this there
cannot be, I think, any doubt, though the droll bobs
and curtesies which excite an irresistible and fatal
curiosity in small birds, have suggested in the mind
of the modern man a thing so exceedingly far from
wisdom as <i>civetteria</i>, which word is derived from
<i>civetta</i>—“the owl of Minerva” as Italian class-books
say. The descent from the goddess of wisdom to the
coquette is the cruellest decadence of all!</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>
  <h2 id='ch06' class='c006'>VI<br /> <br />THE FAITH OF IRAN</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>THE Zoroastrian theory of animals cannot be
severed from the religious scheme with which
it is bound up. It is not a side-issue, but an integral
part of the whole. It would be useless to attempt to
treat it without recalling the main features in the
development of the faith out of which it grew.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the first place, who were the people, occupying
what we call Persia, to whom the Sage, who was not
one of them, brought his interpretation of the knowledge
of good and evil? The early Iranians must
have broken off from the united body of the Aryans
at a time when they spoke a common language, which
though not Sanscrit, was very like it. The affinities
between Sanscrit and the dialect called with irremediable
inaccuracy “Zend” are of the strongest. From
this we conclude that, on their establishment in their
new home, the Iranians differed little from the race
of whose customs the Rig-Veda gives—not a full
picture—but a faithful outline. Pastoral folk, devoted
to their flocks and herds, but not unlearned in the
cultivation of the earth and the sowing of grain, they
had reached what may be called the highest stage
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>of primitive civilisation. Though milk, butter and
cooked corn formed their principal food, on feast days
they also ate meat, chiefly the flesh of oxen and
buffaloes, which they were careful to cook thoroughly.
The progressive Aryans, who called half-raw meat
by a term exactly corresponding to the too familiar
“rosbif saignant,” denounced the more savage peoples
who consumed it as “wild men” or “demons.” They
kept horses, asses and mules; horses were sacrificed
occasionally; for instance, kings sacrificed a horse to
obtain male issue. The wild boar was hunted, if not in
the earliest, at least in very early times. The dog was
prized for its fidelity as guardian of the house and
flocks, but there is no trace of its having been protected
by extraordinary regulations such as those
which later came into force in Iran. On the other
hand, the name of dog had never yet been used in
reproach. It seems to have been among Semitic
races that the contempt for man’s best friend arose,
but it is morally certain that it arose nowhere till
dogs became scavengers of cities. It was the homeless
pariah cur that gave the dog the bad name from
which have sprung so many ugly words registered
in modern vocabularies. Even now, when Jew or
Moslem uses “dog” in a bad sense, he means
“cur”; he knows quite well the other kind of dog—he
knows Tobit’s dog, which, bounding on before
the young man and the angel, told the glad tidings
of his master’s return; Tobit’s dog which was one
of the animals admitted by Mohammed into highest
heaven. But “pariah dog” became synonymous of
pariah, and notwithstanding the present tendency to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>attribute the opprobrium of the pig to original sanctity
(and consequent reservation), I am inclined to think
that the pig likewise came to be scorned because he
was a scavenger. In some Indian cities herds of wild
pigs still enter the gates just before they are closed at
dusk, to pass out of them as soon as they are opened
in the morning: during the night they do their work
excellently, and by day they take a well-earned sleep
in the jungle. They deserve gratitude, for they keep
the cities free from disease, but, like other public
servants, they scarcely get it.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Vedic times every home had its watch-dog,
whose warning bark was as unwelcome to lovers as
it was to robbers. The Rig-Veda preserves the
prayer of a young girl who asks that her father, her
mother, her grandfather, <i>and the watch-dog</i> may sleep
soundly while she meets her expected lover: a
charming glimpse of the chaste freedom of early
Aryan manners. The newly-wedded wife enters her
husband’s house as mistress, not as slave; the elders
say to the young couple: “You are master and
mistress of this house; though there be father-in-law
and mother-in-law, they are placed under you.” If
that was not quite what happened, yet the principle
was granted, and there is much in that. The bride
rode to her new home in a car drawn by four milk-white
oxen; when she alighted at the threshold, these
golden words were spoken to her: “Make thyself loved
for the sake of the children that will come to thee;
guard this house, be as one with thy husband; may
you grow old here together. Cast no evil looks, hate
not thy spouse, be gentle in thought and deed <i>even</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span><i>to the animals of this home</i>.” Bride and bridegroom
are exhorted to be of one heart, of one mind, “to
love each other as a cow loves her calf,” a simple and
true metaphor full of the country-side, full of the
youth of the world.</p>

<p class='c008'>If these were the customs and this was the life
which the Iranians may be supposed to have taken
with them, what was the religion? The early Aryans
had a Nature-cult more spiritualised under the form
of Varuna and more materialised under the form of
Indra. Some students of the Avesta have thought
that here could be found the elements of the Dualism
which formed the essential doctrine of Mazdaism.
But it is almost certain that no real Dualism existed
in oldest Iran. The Avesta once contrasts the worshippers
of God with the worshippers of Daevas, of
those who breed the cow and have the care of it with
those who ill-treat it and slaughter it at their sacrifices.
But Indra-worship has no connexion with devil-worship,
nor does this or similar texts prove that
devil-worship, properly so called, ever flourished in
Iran. Other religious reformers than Zoroaster have
named the devotees of former religions “devil-worshippers.”
For the rest, there is reason to think
that in the Avesta the term was applied to Turanian
raiders, not to true Iranians.</p>

<div id='i116'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i116.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Mansell.</i><br />ASSYRIAN GOD CARRYING ANTELOPE AND WHEAT-EAR.<br />British Museum.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>In an Assyrian inscription, Ahura Mazda is said
to have created joy for <i>all</i> creatures: a belief which
Mazdean Dualism impugns. So far as can be guessed,
the earliest Iranian faith was the worship of good
spirits—of a Good Spirit. Less pure extra-beliefs may,
or rather must, have existed contemporaneously, but
<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>they remained in the second rank. The cult of good
spirits was the home-cult of shepherd and herdsman
offered to the genii of their flocks and herds. While
these genii answered the purpose of the lares or little
saints everywhere dear to humble hearts, it is
probable that in character they already resembled
the Fravashis or archetypes that were to play so great
a part in Mazdean doctrine. The cult of the Good
Spirit, the national and kingly cult, was the worship
of one God whose most worthy symbol, before
Zoroaster as after, was the sun and whose sacrament
with men was fire. The early Iranian had no temple,
no altar: he went up into a high place and offered his
prayer and sacrifice without priest or pomp. If we
wish to trace his faith back to an Indian source,
instead of bringing on the scene Varuna and Indra,
it will be better to inquire whether there were
elements of the same faith underlying the unwieldy
fabric of Vedic religion. The answer is, that there
were. The grandest text in the Rig-Veda, the one
text recognised from farthest antiquity as of incalculable
value, is the old Persian religion contained in
a formula: “That Sun’s supremacy—God—let us
adore Which may well direct.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Enable with perpetual light,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The dulness of our blinded sight.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>So great a virtue was attributed to the Gayatri that
the mind which thought it was supposed to unite with
the object of thought: the eyes of the soul looked on
Truth, of which all else is but the shadow. This is
the spirit in which it is still repeated every day by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>every Hindu. The sacrosanct words were “Vishnu,
Brahma, and Shiva,” or, yet more often, they are
described as “the mother of the Vedas,” which, if it
means anything, means that they are older than the
Vedas. The point most to be noticed about the
Gayatri is that its importance cannot be set aside
by saying that this text is to be explained by
Henotheism: the habit of referring to each god
immediately addressed as supreme. Nor was the
text selected arbitrarily by Western monotheists: for
thousands of years before any European knew it,
the natives of India had singled it out as the most
solemn affirmation of man’s belief in the Unseen.</p>
<p class='c008'>It is open to argument, though not to proof, that
the Gayatri crystallises a creed which the Iranians
took with them in their migration. Peoples then
moved in clans, not in a motley crowd gathered on
an emigrant steamer. The clan or clans to which
the Iranians belonged may have clung to a primordial
faith, not yet overlaid by myths which
materialised symbols and mysteries which made
truth a secret.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such speculations are guess-work, but that the
primitive religion of Persia was essentially monotheistic
is an opinion which is likely to survive all
attacks upon it. On less sure grounds stands the
identification of that primitive religion with Zoroastrianism.
The great authorities of a former
generation, and amongst them my distinguished old
friend, Professor Jules Oppert, believed that Cyrus
was a Mazdean. But there is a good deal to support
the view that Zoroastrianism did not become the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>State religion till the time of the Sásánians, who,
as a new dynasty, grasped the political importance
of having under them a strong and organised priesthood.
Before that time the Magians seem to have
been rather a sort of Salvation Army or Society of
Jesus than the directors of a national Church.</p>

<p class='c008'>As late as the reign of Darius the Persians frequently
buried their dead, a practice utterly repugnant
to the Mazdean. Again, from Greek sources we
know that the Persian kings sacrificed hecatombs of
animals; thousands of oxen, asses, stags, &amp;c., were
immolated every day. Darius ordered one hundred
bullocks, two hundred rams, four hundred lambs to
be given to the Jews on the dedication of the new
Temple (as well as twelve he-goats as sin-offerings
for the twelve tribes) so that they might offer
“sacrifices of sweet savours unto the God of heaven
and pray for the life of the king and his sons.”
Evidently Darius considered profuse animal sacrifices
as a natural part of any great religious ceremony.
Can it be supposed that such slaughter would have
pleased a strict Zoroastrian? The Mazdeans retained
the sacrifice of flesh as food: a small piece of the
cooked meat eaten at table was included in the daily
offering with bread, grain, fruits and the Homa juice,
which was first drunk by the officiating priest, then
by the worshippers, and finally thrown on the sacred
fire. The small meat-offering was not animal sacrifice
or anything at all like it. The Parsis substitute milk
even for this small piece of meat, perhaps because
the meat was usually beef, which would have caused
offence to their Hindu fellow-citizens. I asked a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>Parsi High Priest who lunched with me at Basle
during the second Congress for the History of Religions,
what viands were eschewed by his community?
He replied that they avoided both beef and the flesh
of swine, but only out of respect for their neighbours’
rules: to them oil alone was forbidden—probably
because of its virtue as a light-giver. In the Zoroastrian
sacrifice it was never lost sight of that the
outward act was but one of piety and obedience;
the true sacrifice was of the heart: “I offer good
thoughts, good words, good deeds.” It is hardly
needful to say that the Mithraic taurobolium was in
sheer contradiction to Mazdean law. Heretical sects
were the bane of Zoroastrianism, and with one of
these sprang up the strange practices which the
Romans brought into Europe. Possibly its origin
should be sought in some infiltration from the West,
for it is more suggestive of Orphic rites than of
any form of Eastern ceremonies. A Christian writer
of the name of Socrates, who lived in the fifth century,
said that at Alexandria, in a cavern consecrated
to Mithra, human skulls and bones were found, the
inference being that human sacrifice was the real
rite, symbolised by the slaying of the bull. The
source of this information is suspect, but even if not
guilty of such excesses, the Mithra-worshippers of
Western Persia must have been rank corrupters of
the faith. In the Avesta, Mithra is the luminous
æther; sometimes he appears as an intercessor;
sometimes he dispenses the mercy or wields the
vengeance of God. But in reality he is an attribute,
about the nature of which members of the faith had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>less excuse for making mistakes than we have. It
is difficult for the Indian or Japanese not to make
analogous mistakes concerning some forms of worship
in Southern Europe.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Old Iran the Sacred Fire was kept perpetually
alight. Sweet perfumes were spread around the
place of prayer, for which a little eminence was
chosen, but there were no images and no temples.
Archæologists have failed to find traces of a building
set apart for religious worship among the splendid
ruins of Persepolis: the “forty towers” only tell
of the pleasure-palace of an Eastern king. Was it
that the profound spirituality of this people shrank
not only from carving a graven image of the deity,
but also from giving him a house made with hands?
What could the maker of the firmament want with
human fanes? Some such thought may have caused
the Iranians to suppress for so long a time the instinct
which impels man to build temples. In any
case, it seems as if Cyrus and after him Darius threw
themselves into the scheme for rebuilding the Hebrew
temple with all the more enthusiasm from the fact
that immemorial custom held them back from temple-building
at home. The cuneiform inscriptions bear
witness that these kings were monotheists: they
believed in one sole creator of heaven and earth,
by whose will kings reign and govern, and if they
invoked the aid of heavenly hierarchs they never
confused the creatures, however powerful, with the
creator. That Creator they called by the name of
Ahura Mazda, but they recognised that he was one,
whatever the name might be by which he was called.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>“Thus saith Cyrus, king of Persia: the Lord God
of Heaven hath given me all the kingdoms of the
earth, and He hath charged me to build Him a
house at Jerusalem, which is Judah.” In the uncanonical
Book of Esdras, it is said more significantly
that King Cyrus “commanded to have the house of
the Lord in Jerusalem built where they should
worship with eternal fire.” The recently deciphered
Babylonian inscriptions have been brought forward
to show that the Jews were mistaken in thinking
that Cyrus was a monotheist, because he honoured
Merodach in Babylon just as he had honoured
Jehovah at Jerusalem. He was, it is said, a “polytheist
at heart.” If he was, his honouring Merodach
does not prove it. To my mind it proves exactly
the reverse. Cyrus understood the monotheism which
was at the bottom of the Babylonian religious system
and which these very tablets have revealed to modern
scholarship. He understood that “however numerous
and diversified the nations of the earth may be,
the God who reigns over them all can never be
more than one.”<a id='r2' /><a href='#f2' class='c017'><sup>[2]</sup></a></p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r2'>2</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Words written by a Japanese reformer named Okubo about
fifty years ago.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'>He was governed by expediency in his respect
for the faiths of his subject peoples, but he was
governed also by something higher than expediency.
That Darius Hystaspis, who is allowed to have been
a monotheist, continued his policy, shows that it was
not thought to involve disloyalty to Ahura Mazda since
of such disloyalty Darius would have been incapable.</p>

<p class='c008'>If we grant that the Iranians were, in the main,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>monotheistic at a date when not more than a part
of the population professed Zoroastrianism, the question
follows, of what was the difference between the
reformed and the unreformed religion? To answer
this satisfactorily, we must remember that the paramount
object of Zoroaster was less change than
conservation. Like Moses whom an attractive if not
well-founded theory makes his contemporary, he saw
around a world full of idolatry, and he feared lest
the purer faith of Iran should be swamped by the
encroachments of polytheism and atheism (for,
strangely enough, the Avesta abounds in references
to sheer negation). The aim of every doctrine or
practice which he introduced was to revivify, to
render more comprehensible, more consistent, the
old monotheistic faith.</p>

<p class='c008'>With regard to practice, the most remarkable innovation
was that which concerned the disposal of
the dead. It cannot be explained as a relic of barbarism:
it was introduced with deliberation and with
the knowledge that it would shock human sensibility
then, just as much as it does now. The avowed
reason for giving the dead to vultures or animals
is that burial defiles the earth. It was recognised
that this argument was open to the objection that
birds or beasts were likely to drop portions of dead
bodies on the earth. The objection was met with
scholastic resourcefulness not to say casuistry: it was
declared that “accidents” do not count. Though so
strongly insisted on in the Avesta, the practice only
became general at a late period: even after Mazdeism
had made headway, bodies were often enveloped in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>wax to avoid defilement of the earth while evading
the prescribed rite. Cremation, the natural alternative
to burial, would have polluted the sacred
fire. It was observed, no doubt, that the consumption
of the dead by living animals was the
means employed by Nature for disposing of the
dead. Why do we so rarely see a dead bird or
hare or rabbit or squirrel? The fact is not
mysterious when we come to look into it. It may
have been thought that what Nature does must be
well done. The Parsis themselves seem to suppose
that this and other prescriptions of their religious
law were inspired by sanitary considerations, and
they attribute to them their comparative immunity
from plague during the recent epidemics at Bombay.
Defilement of water by throwing any impurity into
rivers is as severely forbidden as the defilement of
the earth. Possibly another reason against burial
was the desire to prevent anything like the material
cult of the dead and the association of the fortunes
of the immortal soul with those of the mortal body,
such as prevailed among the Egyptians, whose
practices doubtless were known to the Magi by
whom, rather than by any one man, the Mazdean
law was framed. Finally, the last rites provided a
recurrent object-lesson conducive to the mental habit
of separating the pure from the impure. They reminded
the Mazdean that life is pure because given
by Ormuzd; death impure because inflicted by
Ahriman. The rule of every religion is designed
largely, if not chiefly, as a moral discipline.<a id='r3' /><a href='#f3' class='c017'><sup>[3]</sup></a></p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r3'>3</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Among the Buddhists of Thibet the dead are given to dogs
and birds of prey as a last act of charity—to feed the hungry.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>The true originality of Zoroastrianism as a religious
system lies in the dualistic conception of creation
which is the nexus that connects all its parts. This
was seen at once, when the Avesta became known
in Europe, but the idea was so entirely misunderstood
and even travestied, that Zoroaster was represented
as a believer in two gods whose power was equal,
if, indeed, the power of the evil one were not the
greater. Recently among the manuscripts of Leopardi
were found these opening lines of an unfinished
“Hymn to Ahriman”:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Re delle cose, autor del mondo, arcana</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Malvagità, sommo potere e somma</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Intelligenza, eterno</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Dator de’ mali e regitor del moto....”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>They are fine lines, but if Anro-Mainyus might
fitly be called “arcana malvagità” and “dator de’
mali,” nothing could be farther removed from the
Zoroastrian idea than the rest of the description.
Ahriman possessed neither supreme power nor
supreme intelligence, nor was he author of the world,
but only of a small portion of it. To this day, however,
it has pleased pessimists to claim Zoroaster, the
most optimist of prophets, as one of their fraternity.</p>

<p class='c008'>The real Ahriman gains in tremendous force from
the vagueness of his personality. Sometimes he <i>acts</i>
as a person: as in the Temptation of Zoroaster when
he offers him the kingdoms of the world if he will but
serve him. But no artist would have dared to give him
human form. And surely no one in Iran would have
alluded to him by mild or good-humoured euphemisms.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>He shares this, however, with the mediæval devil,
that he works at an eternally pre-destined disadvantage.
He is fore-doomed to failure. Good is
stronger than Evil, and Good is lasting, Evil is
passing. In the end, Evil must cease to be.</p>

<p class='c008'>Though not immortal, Ahriman was primordial.
Unlike the fallen star of the morning, what he is,
that he was. He did not choose Evil: he <i>is</i> Evil
as Ormuzd <i>is</i> Good. He can create, but only things
like himself. The notion that both Ormuzd and
Ahriman proceeded from a prior entity, Boundless
Time, is a late legend. Ormuzd and Ahriman existed
always, the one in eternal light, the other in beginningless
darkness. An immense vacuum divided the
light from the darkness and Ahriman knew not
Ormuzd, Evil knew not Good, till Good was externalised
in the beneficent creation.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods and the echoing mountains,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Wandered bleating in valleys and warbled on blossoming branches.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The sight of created things gave Ahriman the will
to create corresponding things, evil instead of good.
He made sin, disease, death, the flood, the earthquake,
famine, slaughter, noxious animals. So the
pieces were set down on the chess-board of being,
and, as in all religions, man’s soul was the stake.</p>

<p class='c008'>The difference from other religions lay in the
determined effort to grapple with the problem of
the origin of evil. The tribe of divine students
among whom Mazdeism sprang up saw in that unsolved
<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>problem the great cause of unbelief, and they
set themselves to solve it by the theory which
J. S. Mill said was the only one which could reconcile
philosophy with religion—the theory of primal forces
at war. The Indian did not attempt to fathom it;
the Egyptian and Assyrian set it aside; we know
the offered Hebrew solution: “I form the light and
create darkness; I make peace and create evil, I,
the Lord, do all these things.” But this is a statement,
not a solution, because though it may be
believed, it cannot be thought. The attraction of
the dualistic conception is shown by nothing more
clearly than by the extraordinary vitality of Manichæism
in the face of every kind of persecution both
in the East and West, although Manichæism, with
its ascription of the creation of mankind to the Evil
Principle, its depreciation of woman, its out-and-out
asceticism which included abstinence from animal
food (a rule borrowed by Mani from the Buddhists
in his journey in India) contrasts unfavourably with
the faith that did not make a single demand on
human nature except to be good, even as its Creator
was good.</p>

<p class='c008'>The origin of the Magians was Semitic, or, as
some think, præ-Semitic and præ-Aryan. Travellers
brought tales of them to the ancient world which
listened with a fascinated interest, while it failed
to see the importance of the mighty religious phenomenon
of Israel. The “Wise men of the East”
had a charm for antiquity, as they were to have for
the Infant Church which never tired of depicting
them in its earliest art. Mention of the “Persarum
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>Magos” is frequent from Herodotus to Cicero, who
speaks of them under that name. According to
Herodotus the Magi sang the Theogony, and
Pausanias describes them as reading from a book
which was certainly the Avesta, though it must
not be overlooked that never but once does it
contain the smallest reference to them. This tribe
of divine students enjoyed a high reputation at the
Babylonian Court, which seems less unexpected by
the light of recent research than it did when the
Babylonians and Assyrians were thought to be
destitute of any trace of an esoteric religion tending
to monotheism. That the Magians were monotheists
cannot be disputed. Probably they were skilled in
astronomy and in medicine, the two sciences which
almost covered what was meant then by learning
in the East. Probably also they were astrologers
like other searchers of the heavens, but they were
not magic-workers, a calling that had a bad name.
The Magi in the Gospel story are supposed to have
been guided by astronomical calculations; whatever
these may have been, they could not have been
ignorant of the prophecy in their own Scriptures of
a Virgin who should give birth to the Saviour and
Judge of men. The ante-natal soul of this Virgin
had been venerated for centuries in Iran. An infiltration
of Messianic prophecies might induce them
to conclude that the Child would be “King of the
Jews.” It was not likely that they would take so
long a journey to do homage to any new-born
earthly king, but it was quite possible that they
might go in search of the promised Saviour.</p>

<div id='i128'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i128.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Mansell.</i></span><br />COUNTING CATTLE.<br />British Museum.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Egyptian Fresco.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>In Media we know that the people lived at one
time in tribes, without kings. In one form or
another, the tribal organisation existed and exists
everywhere in the East. What is caste but a
petrified tribal system? The first discovery which
a European makes on landing on the skirts of the
East, is that everything is done by tribes. The
Algerian conjurors who swallow fire, drive nails
into their heads and do other gruesome feats
are a semi-religious tribe which has thrived
from time immemorial on the exercise of the same
profession. The dwarfs of the late Bey of Tunis,
whom I saw at Bardo, belonged to a tribe which
does nothing but furnish dwarfs. Apply to a high
or worthy end this corporate pursuit of a given
object and it must produce remarkable results.</p>

<p class='c008'>The unanimous belief of the Greeks that Zoroaster
was founder of the Magians is held no longer, but
he is still thought to have been one of them. Moslem
tradition made him the servant of a Hebrew prophet,
and even serious Western students were inclined
to trace Mazdeism to the Jewish prisoners who were
brought into Media by the Assyrians. It is unnecessary
to say that at present the Jews are
regarded as the debtors.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is no figure of a religious teacher so elusive
as that of Zoroaster, and they are all elusive. But
in the case of Zoroaster it is not only the man that
eludes us—it is also his environment. Brahmanical
India of to-day reflects as in a glass the society
into which Sakya Muni cast his seed; in fact,
we understand the seed-sowing better than the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>harvest; Buddhism at its apogee seems of the
nature of an interlude in the history of the changeless
East. China still throws light on its passionless
sage, passionless in a sense so far deeper than the
Indian recluses, who, though they knew it not, did
but substitute for the passion of the flesh the more
inebriating passion of the spirit. From the splendid
treasury of præ-Islamic poetry, we know that the
Arab race had acquired its specialised type before
the Muezzin first called the faithful to prayer. The
moral petrifaction of the many and the religious and
patriotic ferment of the few which formed the
<i>milieu</i> of nascent Christianity, can be realised without
any stretch of the imagination. Buddha, Confucius,
and He that was greater than they, came into highly
civilised societies in organised states; Mohammed
came into an unorganised state which lacked political
and religious cohesion, but the unity of race was
already developed: the Emirs of the Soudan whose
star set at Omdurman were the living pictures of the
Arabs who first rallied to the Prophet’s banner. Of
the society of Old Iran to which Zoroaster spoke,
it is difficult to form a distinct idea and to judge how
far it had moved away from early Aryan simplicity.
We gather that it was still a society in which sheep-raising
and dairy-farming played a preponderant part.
Those modern expressions may serve us better than
to say “shepherds” and “herdsmen,” since fixity of
dwelling with the possession of what then was
considered wealth seems to have been a very
common case. Nomadic life lasted on, but it was
held in disrepute. There appears to have been
<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>nothing like a national or warlike spirit such as that
possessed by the Jews, though occasional Turanian
incursions had to be repelled. There were few towns
and many scattered villages and homesteads. We
are conscious that these impressions derived from
the Avesta may be partially erroneous. Teachers
of religion only take note of political or other circumstances
so far as it suits their purpose.</p>

<p class='c008'>Zoroaster (the Greek reading of Zarathustra,
which in modern Persian becomes Zardusht), was
born, as far as can be guessed, in Bactria, which
became the stronghold of Avestic religion and the
last refuge of the national monarchy on the Arab
invasion. There was a time when his existence was
denied, but no one doubts it now. Eight hundred
years before Christ is the date which most modern
scholars assign to him, though some place him much
farther back, while others think they discern reasons
for his having appeared after Buddha. The legend
of his life (not to be found in the Avesta) begins in
the invariable way: he was descended from kings;
as a young man he retired to a grotto in the desert,
where he lived an austere life of reflection for seven
years. Zoroaster never taught asceticism, but tradition
attributes to him the season of solitude and
self-collection without which perhaps, in fact as well
as in fable, the supreme power over other men’s
minds was never wielded by man.</p>

<p class='c008'>Various marvellous particulars are related: he was
suckled by two ewes; wild animals obeyed his voice;
when thrown under the feet of oxen and horses,
they avoided hurting him. In his seven years’
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>retirement he meditated on idol-worship, on false
gods and false prophets. The people of Iran, substantially
monotheist but prone to sliding into degrading
superstition, offered a field for his mission. He
took to him a few disciples and began to preach to
as many as would hear, but he met with great
difficulties. At last, he found favour with a king
by curing his favourite horse, and he might have
ended his days in peace but the spirit urged him to
continue his apostolate. Not to princes but to
peasants did he chiefly address himself; he did not
call them away from their work but exhorted them
to pursue it diligently. “He who cultivates the earth
will never lack, but he who does not, will stand idly
at the doors of others to beg food.” Labour is not
an evil, man who earns his bread by the sweat of his
brow is not under a curse: he is the fellow-worker
with God! This was the grandest thing that
Zoroaster taught. It is singular to note the affinity
between his teaching and the Virgilian conception
of the husbandman as half a priest. In the Middle
Ages the same thought arose where one would not
look for it: among those religious orders which had
the luminous inspiration that in work not in indolence
lay the means of salvation: “<i>Laborare est orare.</i>”</p>

<p class='c008'>The care of the God-created animals brought with
it a special blessing: it was actually a way to heaven.
If a friend gave us a cherished animal, should not we
treat it well for that friend’s sake as well as for its
own value? Would not it remind us of the giver?
Would not we be anxious that he should find it in
good health if by chance he came on a visit? This
<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>is how Zoroaster wished man to feel about the cow,
the sheep, the dog. Auguste Comte considered
domestic animals as a part of humanity. Zoroaster
considered them as a trust from God.</p>

<p class='c008'>Moslem traditions finish the story of the Mazdean
prophet by telling that he was beaten to death by
“devil-worshippers,” probably Turanian raiders.
Zoroastrian authorities are silent about his end,
which is thought to bear out the legend that it was
unfortunate.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Parsis hold that the whole Avesta was the
work of Zoroaster. Much of the original material
has disappeared, and although Western writers are
disposed to throw all the blame on the Moslem
invaders, the steady Persian tradition which accuses
“Alexander the Rûman” of having caused the
destruction of an important part of it, cannot be
well answered by saying that such barbarism was
not likely to be committed by the Macedonian
conqueror. When Persepolis was reduced to ruins
some of the sacred books “written with gold ink on
prepared cow-skins” may have been destroyed by
accident, but as it was certain that the Zoroastrian
priests would do all they could to foment resistance
to the hated idolater, we cannot be too sure that the
deed was not done on purpose. The way of disposing
of the dead set the Greeks against the
Zoroastrians, and they even thought or affected to
think that the dying as well as the dead were given
to dogs. The Arabs, no doubt, burnt what they
could lay their hands on of what was left, and it
tells much for the devotion of the faithful few, the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>persecuted remnant in Persia, and the band of exiles
who found a happier fate in India, that nevertheless
the Avesta has been preserved in a representative
though incomplete form, to take its place in among
the sacred literatures of the world. When the Parsis
return, as they hope to do, to a free Persia, they
may carry the Avesta proudly before them as the
Sikhs carried the Granth to the prophet-martyr’s
tomb at Delhi: they have done more than keep the
faith, they have <i>lived it</i>.</p>

<p class='c008'>The present Avesta consists of five books. The
Gâthâs or hymns alone really claim to have been
composed by Zoroaster himself, and this claim is
admitted by European scholars who disagree with
the Parsis in denying that the other four books are
by the same author. They are: the “Yasna,” a
ceremonial liturgy, the “Vispered,” a work resembling
the “Yasna,” but apparently less ancient; the “Vendîdâd,”
which contains the Mazdean religious law,
and the “Khordah Avesta,” a household prayer-book
for the laity. The original text was written in an
Aryan dialect related to Sanscrit; after a time, this
tongue was understood by no one but the priests
and not much by them; it was decided, therefore,
to make a translation, which was called the “Zend,”
or “interpretation,” or, as we should say, “the
authorised version.” At first Europeans thought
that “Zend” meant the original tongue in which
the work was written. Curiously enough, the language
into which the Scriptures were rendered was
not Iranian or Old Persian, but Pahlavi, a <i>lingua
franca</i> full of Semitic words, which had been coined
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>for convenience in communicating with the Assyrians
and Syrians when they were under one king.
Pahlavi was also used for official inscriptions, for
coinage, for commerce; it was a sort of Esperanto.
The text and the translation enjoyed equal authority,
but the former was called “the Avesta of Heaven”
and the latter “the Avesta of Earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The first fragment of the “Avesta” that reached
Europe was a copy of the “Yasna” brought to
Canterbury by an unknown Englishman in 1633.
Other scraps followed, but no real attempt to translate
it was made till the adventurous Anquetil
Duperron published in 1771 the version which he
had made with the assistance of Parsi priests and
which was rejected in unwise haste by Sir William
Jones as a <i>supercherie littéraire</i>, chiefly on the score
that its contents were for the most part pure nonsense,
and hence could not be the work of Zoroaster.
Germany at once was more just than England to
the man who, though he had not succeeded in making
a good translation, deserved the highest honour as
a pioneer.</p>

<p class='c008'>Even now that better translations are available,
the Avesta is apt to dishearten the reader on his
first acquaintance with it. Many passages have
remained obscure, and the desire to be literal in this
as in some other Oriental works has hindered the
translators from writing their own languages well. It
needs a Sir Richard Jebb to produce a translation
which is a classic and is yet microscopically accurate.
I once asked Professor F. C. Burkitt why the Septuagint
did not make more impression on the Hellenic
<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>and Roman students of Alexandria by mere force
of the literary power of the Bible? He replied that
he thought it was to be explained by the poor degree
of literary skill possessed by the Greek translators
or by most of them. Another reminiscence comes
to my mind here: I recollect that eminent scholar
and deeply religious-minded man, Albert Réville,
saying to me: “The Bible is so much more amusing
than the Koran!” I am afraid one must confess
that the Koran is so much “more amusing” than the
Avesta. It is a good rule, however, to approach
all religious books with patience and with reverence,
for they contain, even if concealed under a bushel,
the finest thoughts of man.</p>

<p class='c008'>When we have grown accustomed to the outward
frame of the Avesta, the inner sense becomes
clearer. It is like a piece of music by Tschaikowsky:
at first the modulations seem bizarre, the themes
incoherent; then, by degrees, a consecutive plan
unwinds itself and we know that what appeared
meaningless sound was divine harmony.</p>

<p class='c008'>The essential teaching of the Avesta is summed
up in the text: “Adore God with a pure mind and
a pure body, and honour Him in His works.” Force,
power, energy, waters and stagnant pools, springs,
running brooks, plants that shoot aloft, plants that
cover the ground, the earth, the heavens, stars, sun,
moon, the everlasting lights, the flocks, the kine,
the water-tribes, those that are of the sky, the flying,
the wild ones—“We honour all these, Thy holy
and pure creatures, O Ahura Mazda, divine artificer!”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The Voice said: Call My works thy friends.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'><span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>If the lyric note of great religious expression is
rarely reached (only, perhaps, in a few pieces, such
as the noble hymn to the sun-symbol), the sustained
exposition of life is so reasonable and yet so lofty
that to contemplate it after gazing at the extravagances
of pillar-saints and Indian Yogi, signals, as
it were, a return to sanity and health after the <i>nuit
blanche</i> of fever.</p>

<p class='c008'>The “Khordah Avesta” contains this counsel or
good wish: “Be cheerful; live thy life the whole
time which thou wilt live.” Man is not asked to
do the impossible or even the difficult: he is asked
to <i>enjoy</i>. To the extreme spirituality which shrank
from making even a mental image of God is joined
a “this worldliness” which saw in rational enjoyment
a religious duty. Instead of choosing poverty,
man was ordered to make good use of wealth; instead
of mortifying the flesh, he was to avoid calumny,
evil-speaking, quarrels, to give clothes to the poor,
to pray not only for himself but for others. If he
does wrong, let him repent honestly in his heart and
do some practical good work as a pledge of his
repentance. The soul which grieves for its wrongdoing
and sins no more comes back into the light
of “God the giver, Forgiver, rich in Love, who
always is, always was, always will be!” When it
was asked, “What is in the first place most acceptable
to this earth?” the answer came: “When a
holy man walks on it, O Zarathustra!” Good men
work <i>with</i> God, who, sure of ultimate triumph, is
yet Himself struggling now against the Power of
Darkness. There is no religion without a good
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>life: “All have not the Faith who do not hear
it; all hear it not who are unclean; all are unclean
who are sinners.” God did not send calamities to
His servants, but He compassionates them in their
trials: “The voice of him weeping, however low,
mounts up to the star-lights, comes round the whole
world.” It is no sin to desire riches: “Thy kingdom
come, O Ahura, when the virtuous poor shall inherit
the earth.” In spite of the sufferings of good people,
even on this fair earth there is more of pleasantness
for the good than for the wicked, and in the next
world there is bliss eternal. I do not think that
Robert Browning studied the Avesta, but to the
thoroughly Zoroastrian line quoted above I am
tempted to add this other which is not less so:—</p>

<p class='c020'>“Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would
triumph.”</p>

<p class='c019'>For the individual, as for the universe, Right must
triumph. If the prophet of optimism has a harder
task than the oracle of despair, it is, perhaps, a more
profitable task.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Parsi repeats daily, as his ancestors did before
him, the so-called Honover or “Ahuna-Vairya,” or
<i>logos</i> which brings God down to man as the Gayatri
lifts man up to God: “One Master and Lord, all
holy and supreme; one teacher of His Law, appointed
by God’s almighty will as shepherd to the weak.”
The Mazdean “law” was a thought-out system to
prevent idolatry and atheism, and to make men lead
good lives. There is no racial exclusiveness in it:
the Mazdeans had no shibboleth or peculiar sign;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>Zoroaster, himself a foreigner, did not appeal to a
chosen people or to a miraculously evolved caste: he
only knew of good men and bad. A really good man,
truthful and charitable in all his ways, had three
heavens open to him even though he “offered no
prayers and chanted no Gâthâs”; only the fourth
heaven, a little nearer the presence of God, was
reserved for those who had devoted their lives to
religion. Temperance was enjoined, as without temperance
there could not be health. The family was
sacred and marriage meritorious: children, the gift of
Ahura Mazda, were recruits for the great Salvation
Army of the future. Immorality was severely censured,
but the victims of it were befriended.
Stringent and most humane religious laws protected
the <i>fille-mère</i> from being driven “by her shame” to
destroy herself or her offspring. Girls were married
at sixteen: the address to young brides may be compared
with that in the Rig-Veda: “I speak these
words to you, maidens who wed. I say them unto
you—imprint them on your hearts. Learn to know
the world of the Holy Spirit according to the Law.
Even so, let one of you take the other as the Law
ordains, for it will be to you a source of perfect joy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At the time when Zoroastrianism was the State
religion, the Sásánian period, we find that the kings
frequently had harems. It is certain, however, that if
in this as in other things the priests were complacent,
they were untrue to orthodox Zoroastrian doctrine
and custom, which only permitted the taking of a
second wife in some rare cases, as when there was
no issue by the first.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>Even then, it does not seem to have been encouraged.
The blot on Avestic morality is the strange recommendation
of consanguineous marriages, which the
Parsis interpret as far as possible in a figurative sense,
but it must have been intended to be followed, though
it is plain that such unions were never popular. The
declared object was the hypothetical maximum purity
of race: exactly the same object as that contemplated
in the union of Siegemund and Siegelind in the
Nibelungenlied—a curious parallel. To my mind,
the desire to keep agricultural property together may
have had something to do with it. The present
moral ideas of the Parsis do not differ from those
of Europeans, and when they requested to be placed
under the English instead of the Hindu marriage
law, their wish was granted.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Avesta times the priests both married and
toiled like the rest of the people. When their prosperity
under the Sásánians tended to make them a class
apart, they seem to have become less faithful to
the ideals of their master, less stern in opposing
evil in high places. It is a common experience of
history. Originally they were true citizen-priests,
mixing with the people as being of them. There
was no life better or holier than the common life
of duty and work. Isolation of any kind was contrary
to the central Zoroastrian view of man as a
social being. Among the wicked souls in hell, each
one thinks itself utterly alone: it has no sight or
knowledge of the host around it. Nothing could
illustrate more powerfully than this the saying of a
great French writer: “<i>Seul a un synonyme: mort!</i>”
Solitude is the death of the soul.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>
  <h2 id='ch07' class='c006'>VII<br /> <br />ZOROASTRIAN ZOOLOGY</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>NO investigator of early Iran can afford to
neglect the <i>Shahnameh</i> of Firdusi, which
was as good history as he could make it; that is
to say, it was founded on extremely old legendary
lore collected by him with a real wish to revive the
memory of the past. Firdusi sang the glories of
the “fire-worshippers” with such enthusiasm that
one cannot be surprised if, when he died, the Sheikh
of Tús doubted whether he ought receive orthodox
Moslem burial: a doubt removed by an opportune
dream in which the Sheikh saw the poet in Paradise.
In Firdusi’s epic we are told that the earliest
Persian king (who seems to have been not very
far off the first man) lived in peace with all creation.
Wild animals came round and knew him for their
lord. He had a son who was killed by demons and
a grandson named Húsheng, who, as soon as he was
old enough, made war on the demons (Turanians?)
<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>to avenge his father’s murder. Every species of wild
and tame beast obeyed Húsheng:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The savage beasts, and those of gentler kind,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Alike reposed before him and appeared</div>
      <div class='line in1'>To do him homage.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>In his war on the demon’s brood, Húsheng was
helped by wolf, tiger, lion, and even by the fowls
of the air. All this while mankind had lived on
fruit and the leaves of trees. Húsheng taught his
people to bake bread. He was succeeded by his
son Taliumen, in whose reign panthers, hawks, and
falcons were tamed. The next king introduced
weaving and the use of armour. His successor was
remembered for having kept a herd of 1,000 cows
whose milk he gave to the poor. Then came Zorák,
who owned 10,000 horses. Zorák was seduced by
Iblís, the evil spirit, who, in order to accomplish it,
became his chief cook. Iblís was the real founder
of the culinary art; till then, people lived still almost
entirely on bread and fruit, but the king’s new <i>chef</i>
prepared the most savoury dishes, for which he
used the flesh of all kinds of birds and beasts.
Finally, he sent to table a partridge and a pheasant,
after which Zorák promised the devil to grant him
any request he might make.</p>

<div id='i142'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i142.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>J. Dieulafoy.</i></span><br />KING FIGHTING GRIFFIN WITH SCORPION’S TAIL.<br />Palace of Darius.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>By permission of M. Marcel Dieulafoy.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Here there are fugitive reminiscences of parallel
legends in the <i>Bundehesh</i>, a Parsi religious book
belonging to post-Avestic times. The first human
couple served God faithfully till, for some unexplained
reason, they were induced to ascribe creation and
supreme power to the daevas. This was the “unforgivable
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>sin,” the ascription of the miraculous power
of God to the devil. Ahriman rejoiced at their
treason, though it is not said that he was the cause
of it: man could choose between good and evil.
After their defection, the man and the woman clothed
themselves in leaves and took to hunting. Ahriman
put it into their heads to kill a goat and then to
light a fire by rubbing two sticks: they blew on
the fire to fan the flame and roasted a piece of the
goat. One bit they threw in the air as a sacrifice
to the Nature spirits, saying, “This for the Yazatas!”
A kite flew past and carried off the sacrifice. Afterwards,
the man and woman dressed in skins and
told innumerable lies. Going from bad to worse,
they engendered a large family whence sprang the
twenty-five races of mankind.</p>

<p class='c008'>How this story got into the <i>Bundehesh</i> I do not
know, but I am sure that Zoroaster would have
disowned it. He knew of no collective “fall of
man,” whether in connexion with partridges,
pheasants, or goat-flesh.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Avesta, in its sober cosmogony, is content
to speak of the proto-man, Gayo Marathan (mortal
life), and the proto-good-animal, Geus Urva, from
whom all human beings and all animals of the good
creation are derived. Nevertheless, Ahura Mazda
is described frequently as <i>creating</i> each animal; the
proto-creature was only the <i>modus operandi</i> of the
divine power. As in biology, divided sex was a
secondary development. From the bull, Geus Urva,
proceeded first his own species, and then sheep,
camels, horses, asses, birds, water-animals.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>The distinguishing qualification given him of <i>good
and laborious</i> is the most striking proof of the
originality of Magian ideas: instead of the strong
bulls of Basan roaring in their might, the bull we
have here is one with the ploughing ox:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“T’amo, o pio bove; e mite un sentimento</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Di vigore e di pace al cor m’infondi....”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>—the patient, the long-suffering, the gentle, though
strong-limbed helper of man in his daily toil, good
in his vigour, good in his mildness, but good most
of all in his labour, for Zoroaster called labour a holy
thing. The animal which did most to cultivate God’s
earth and make the desert flower like a rose, was
the paragon of creatures. It must not be thought
that to the Geus Urva or his kind was ever rendered
the homage due to their Creator. If there was one
thing more abhorrent, to the Zoroastrian mind than
idolatry it was zoolatry: when Cambyses killed a
new Apis with many of his followers in Egypt, he
had no reason to fear Mazdean criticism.</p>
<p class='c008'>The soul of the bull receives <i>dulia</i> not <i>latria</i>.
“We honour the soul of the bull ... and also
our own souls and our cattle’s souls who help to
preserve our life; the souls by which they exist and
which exist for them.” So runs one of the Gâthâs,
one of the hymns of Zoroaster himself. “We honour
the souls of the swift, wild animals; we honour the
souls of just men and women in whatever place they
are born, whose pure natures have overcome evil.
We honour saintly men and saintly women, living
immortal, always living, always increasing in glory—all
<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>man and woman souls faithful to the Spirit
of God.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In this song of praise we have brought before us
vividly a fundamental doctrine of the Avesta which
pervades every page of it: the belief in the Fravashi,
the soul-partner, the double or angel, which exists
before birth as during life and after death. This
belief has a great interest for us as it would seem
that it was only by chance that it did not pass into
the body of Christian dogma. The Jews of the
new school had held it for quite two hundred years
before Christ. Besides other allusions, are the three
distinct references to the soul-partner in the New
Testament. Christ Himself speaks of the angels of
the children who are always in the presence of God
and who complain to Him if the children are ill-treated.
Secondly, when Peter issued from prison,
those who saw him said, “It is his angel.” Thirdly,
it is stated that the Sadducees believed that there
was no resurrection, “neither angel nor Spirit,” but
that the Pharisees, of whom Paul was one, “confessed
both.” These three references become intelligible
for the first time after reading the Gâthâs. True it
is that he who knows only one religion, knows
none.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ahriman inflicted every sort of suffering on the
primal creature—this was the beginning of cruelty
to animals. At last, he caused its death. The soul
of the Bull dwells in the presence of God, and to it,
as intercessor, all suffering creatures lift their plaints.
Why were they made to suffer wrath, ill-usage,
hunger? Will no one lead them to sweet pastures?
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>The creature-soul carries the cry of the creatures
to God. Ahura Mazda promises the advent of
Zoroaster, redresser of all wrongs. But the Bull-soul
weeps and complains: how can the voice of
one weak man avail to help? It invokes stronger
and more effectual aid.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hymn is really a litany of suffering animals,
the grandeur of the thought flashing across obscurities
which make it almost impossible to translate. Very
mysterious is the expression of incredulity in the
efficacy of the help of Zoroaster, an expression which
stands quite alone, and in which some have seen
a proof that this hymn was not written by the
Prophet. But would any one else have dared to
question his power or to call him “one weak man”?
Can it be that Zoroaster was distressed to find his
efforts to prevent cruelty so unavailing, and that he
here covertly invokes the “strong arm of the law”
to do what he had failed in doing?</p>

<p class='c008'>In the pages of the Avesta everything is tried
to enforce humanity: hopes of reward, threats of
punishment, appeals to religious obedience, common
gratitude, self-interest. It cannot but appear singular
that among an Eastern pastoral and agricultural
people such reiterated admonitions should have been
needful. The cow and the horse, “animals manifestly
pure which bring with them words of blessing,”
inflict terrible anathemas on their tormentors:—</p>

<p class='c020'>The cow curses him who keeps her: “Mayest thou remain
without posterity, ever continuing of evil report, thou who dost
not distribute me food, and yet causest me to labour for thy wife,
thy children and thy own sustenance.”</p>

<p class='c020'><span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>The horse curses his owner: “Mayest thou not be he who
harnesses swift horses, not one of those who sit on swift horses,
not one who makes swift horses hasten away. Thou dost not
wish strength to me in the numerous assembly, in the circle of
many men.”</p>

<p class='c019'>The cow which is led astray by robbers calls to
Mithra “ever with unlifted hands, thinking of the
stall,” and Mithra, here figuring as the vengeance
of God, destroys the house, the clan, the confederacy,
the region, the rule of him who injured her. She
is the type of prosperity: “O thou who didst create
the cow, give us immortal life, safety, power, plenty.”
She is dear to her Creator: “Thou hast given the
earth as a sweet pasture for the cow.” She is praised
because she furnishes the offerings, flesh, milk, and
butter.</p>

<p class='c008'>This reminds us of the differences of point of view
between the Persian and the Indian humanitarian.
The Indian, in theory at least, simply forbade taking
animal life. He had the great advantage of the
argument of the straight line. The Zoroastrian was
handicapped by his moderation. It is easier far to
teach extraordinary than ordinary well-doing; every
moralist who has set out to improve mankind has
found that. Zoroaster had not the smallest doubt
about his contention that man has imperative duties
in regard to what used to be called “the brute creation.”
Man could not live as man at all without it:
we who have harnessed steam and trapped the electric
spark might entertain such a possibility, but to
Zoroaster the idea would have seemed absurd. As
we owe so much to animals, the least we can do
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>is to treat them well. Yet, though he included
wanton and useless slaughter in “ill-treatment,” he
allows the killing of animals for food. Herodotus
remarked that, unlike the Egyptians, the Magian
priests did not think it pollution to kill animals with
their own hands—except dogs and oxen.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is to be supposed that the framers of Zoroastrian
law believed that animal food was necessary for man’s
health and strength, perfect health being the state
most acceptable to the Creator. Believing this, they
could not forbid the temperate use of it. Gargantuan
feasts were not dreamt of; if they had been, they
would have received the condemnation given to all
excesses. We are apt to fall into the way of thinking
of sacred books which is that of their own adepts; we
think of them as written by unpremeditated impulse.
But commonly this was not the case. The Avesta,
especially, bears signs of conclusions reached by
patient reasoning. While, however, the Magians
permitted the slaughter of animals, they bowed to
the original scruple which has no race-limits, by
ordering that such slaughter should be accompanied
by an expiatory rite without the performance of which
it was unlawful. This was the offering of the head of
the animal to Homa: regarded, in this instance, as
the archetype of the “wine of life”—the sacred or
sacramental juice of the plant which has been identified
with the Indian Soma. The Homa juice was much
the most sacred thing that could be eaten or drunk;
if it is true that it contained alcohol, the little jet of
flame that would start upwards as it was thrown on
the sacrificial fire might seem actually to bear with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>it the spirit of the offering. Whatever was the exact
idea implied by the dedication of slaughtered animals
to Homa, the fact that they were killed for food did
not, of course, in any way affect their extra-mortal
destiny. The “souls of our cattle”—their archetypes—could
not suffer death.</p>

<p class='c008'>As a careful observer, which he is now allowed to
have been, Herodotus remarked that not only might
the priests take animal life, but that they thought it
highly meritorious to take the life of certain animals
such as ants, serpents, and some kinds of birds. It
required no profound knowledge of the East to notice
something unusual in this. Even the Jews, with their
classification of clean and unclean beasts, cast no
moral slur on the forbidden category, and if the serpent
of Eden was cursed, later snakes regained their
character and inspired no loathing; the snake-charmer
with his crawling pupils was a well known and popular
entertainer. Farther East, every holy man respected
the life of an ant as much as of an elephant. Zoroaster
alone banned the reptile and the major part of the
insect world. No penance was more salutary than
to kill ten thousand scorpions, snakes, mosquitoes, ants
that walk in single file, harvesting ants, wasps, or a
kind of fly which was the very death of cattle. The
innocent lizard suffered by reason of his relationship
with the crocodile; the harmless frog and tortoise
excited a wrath which they had done nothing to
merit. Among mammals, the mouse is singled out
for destruction: although the wolf is a legionary of
Ahriman, he is more often classed with the “wicked
two-legged one”—perverse man—than with the evil
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>creation properly so called. In one place Ahriman
is said to have created “devouring beasts,” but on
closer examination these devouring beasts proved to
be only the harvesting ants which were reckoned
deadly foes of the agriculturist. Any one who has
seen how much newly-sown grass seed these favourites
of Solomon will remove in a shining hour will understand
the prejudice, though he will not, I hope, share
it. Roughly speaking, the diligent, old-fashioned
gardener who puzzles his pious mind as to why “those
things” were ever created, is a born Zoroastrian. To
tell him with Paul that “every creature of God is
good” does not comfort him much. Zoroaster’s
answer is as philosophically complete as it is scientifically
weak. Certain creatures are noxious to man; a
good Creator would not have made creatures noxious
to men, ergo, such creatures were not made by a good
Creator. Besides the scientific objection to any hard-and-fast
line of division between animals, there is
another: the pity of it. I wonder that some velvet-coated
field-mouse, approaching softly on tip-toe as
Zoroaster lay in his grotto, did not inquire with its
appealing eyes: “Do you really think that I look as
if I were made by the Evil One?” In spite of the
numerous advantages of a theory which, in a literal
sense, makes a virtue of necessity (a sad necessity
to some of us), the theological ban of creatures for
no other reason than that they are inconvenient to
man detracts from the ideal beauty of Zoroastrian
faith.</p>

<p class='c008'>Darwin, in a letter to Asa Gray, the American
botanist, said that the sufferings of caterpillars and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>mice made him doubt the existence of “a beneficent
and omnipotent Creator.” How often does doubt
seem more religious than belief!</p>

<p class='c008'>The eschatology of the creatures deemed of darkness
is not clear, but I believe there is no mention
of their Fravashis: it is permissible to suppose, therefore,
that, all along, they are rather appearances than
realities: things that cannot feel, though Ahriman
feels defeat in their destruction. For the rest, though
Zoroaster treated wasps or mice much as Torquemada
treated heretics, he made it no merit to torment
them: he simply desired their extermination as every
fruit-grower or farmer desires it to this day.</p>

<p class='c008'>Students of Zoroastrianism have been mystified
by the seeming detachment of the dog from the
other “good” animals and the separate jurisdiction
designed for it. In my opinion this arose only from
the fact that the dog was not a food-providing animal.
Hence it could be made penal (by religious, not by
civil, law, it must be remembered) to kill a dog, and
it was natural that his body should be disposed of
in the same way as a man’s. What else could be
done with it? It was natural also that since his death
was inflicted by Ahriman (since it came of itself),
purification ceremonials should be performed to remove
the pollution. The religious scope of such
ceremonials was like that of reconsecrating a church
in which suicide or murder has been committed.
That the dog was highly appreciated, that he was
valued as an essential helper in the existing conditions
of life, is amply proved, but that he was “reverenced”
more than some other animals—<i>e.g.</i>, the cow—is open
<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>to doubt. The dog was recognised as more human
which made him more liable to err. It was the
celebrated chapter on the dog which convinced Sir
W. Jones that Anquetil Duperron’s translation was
a forgery. It should have struck him that this was
not how a European would have made Zoroaster
speak about the favoured animal. In the comparisons
of canine qualities with those of certain human beings,
there is more of satire than of panegyric. The whole
Fargard XIII. has been interpreted as purely mystical:
the dog symbolising the “will,” a meaning which,
according to this argument, fits the term “Dog” in
all passages of the scriptures of Iran. This is a hard
saying. More reasonable is the supposition that Fargard XIII.
formed part of a treatise on animals and
got into the Vendîdâd by chance. However that
may be, the “eight characters” of the dog show
observation though not reverence: he loves darkness
like a thief, and at times has been known to be one;
he fawns like a slave, he is a self-seeker like a
courtezan, he eats raw meat like a beast of prey.
The words relative to his “chasing about the well-born
cow” have been interpreted to mean that he
chased her back home when she had strayed, but I
seem to have seen dogs chasing about well-born cows
from no such benevolent motive. Some of the comparisons
are neither flattering nor critical but descriptive:
the dog loves sheep like a child, he runs here
and there in front, like a child; he dodges in and out
like a child.</p>

<div id='i152'  class='figcenter id003'>
<img src='images/i152.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>THE REAL DOG OF IRAN.<br /><span class='small'>Louvre.<br />(<i>By permission of Messrs. Chapman &amp; Hall, Ltd.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The <i>jeu d’esprit</i> of the “eight characters” is followed
by what appears to be a serious statement of how
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>to treat the dog which misconducts himself. There
is no capital punishment, nothing like the stoning of
the ox which gores a man or woman, in the Bible.
If a dog attacks man or cattle he is to lose an ear; if he
does it a third time his foot is to be cut off, or, as Bleeck
humanely suggests, he is to be rendered so far lame
that it is easy to escape from him. The “dumb dog”
of vicious disposition is to be tied up. If a dog is
no longer sane in his mind and has become dangerous
on that account, you are to try and cure him as you
would a man, but if this fails, you must chain him up
and muzzle him, using a sort of wooden pillory which
prevents him from biting. This passage is curious,
because, while it seems to allude plainly to hydrophobia,
it contains no hint of the worser consequences
to man than a simple bite.</p>

<p class='c008'>We find that there were four if not more breeds of
dogs, each of which was carefully trained for its work.
The house-dog, the personal dog (which may have
been a blood-hound), sheep and herd-dogs are all
mentioned, but there is no mention of sporting-dogs
or of sport in the Avesta. The dogs must have been
powerful, as they were required to be a match for the
wolf, “the growing, the flattering, the deadly wolf,”
which was the dread of every homestead in Iran.
There were also “wolves with claws” (tigers), but
they were comparatively few. The kinship of wolf
and dog was recognised, and there was an impression
that the most murderous wolf was the half-breed of
a wolf and a bitch. Perhaps the wolf of dog-descent
came more boldly to the dwelling of man, having no
instinctive fear of him. It is said, too, that the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>deadliest kind of dog was the dog that had a wolf-mother.
Possibly such cross-breeding was tried
experimentally in the hope of obtaining dogs which
could best resist the wolf.</p>

<p class='c008'>If the dog is never represented as a creature of
faultless perfection, it yet remains an established
truth that “dwellings would not stand fast on the
earth created by Ahura Mazda were there not dogs
which pertain to the cattle and to the village.”
It is the Lord of Creation who says: “The dog I
have made, O Zarathustra, with his own clothing and
his own shoes; with keen scent and sharp teeth,
faithful to men, as a protector to the folds. For I
have made the dog, I who am Ahura Mazda!” To
attack the dog was like an attack on the police.
Slitting the ear of the house or sheep-dog out of
malice, or cutting off his foot, or belabouring him
so that thieves got at the sheep, were not unfrequent
crimes and they are dealt with no more severely than
they deserve. Who killed a house-dog outright, or
a sheep-dog or personal dog or well-trained dog, was
warned that in the next world his soul would go
howling worse than a wolf in the depths of the forest;
shunned by all other souls, growled at by the dogs
that guard the bridge Chinvat. Eight hundred blows
with a horse-goad are adjudged to the wretch who so
injures a dog that it die. To strike or chase a bitch
with young brings a dreadful curse. Much is said
about the proper care of the mother and the puppies.
To give a dog too hot food or too hard bones is as
bad as turning apostate. His right food is milk and
fat and lean meat. “Of all known creatures that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>which ages soonest is the dog left foodless among
people who eat—who seeks here and there his food
and finds it not.”</p>

<p class='c008'>As a rule unnamed wild animals may be supposed
to have been protected. The fox was considered a
powerful daeva-scarer, which shows that not only in
China did the fox seem an “uncanny” beast. In Iran
his supernatural services made him highly esteemed.
There seem to have been no cats though so many
mice. The later Iran was destined to be a great
admirer of cats, witness the praise of them by Persian
poets, but it is not easy to fix the date when they
were introduced. Monkeys were known and were
attributed by a post-Avestic superstition to the union
of human women and daevas. Vultures were sacred
because they devoured good Mazdeans. On the
whole, not much attention was paid to wild nature,
with one striking exception: the extraordinary respect
for the water-dog, beaver or otter. Suddenly the
solid utilitarian basis of Zoroastrian zoology gives way
and we behold a fabric of dreams. We might understand
it better could we know the early animistic
beliefs of Iran, though the trend of the Avesta
apparently ran <i>counter</i> to old popular credences far
more than with them. It should be remembered
that water was only a little less sacred than fire
in the Zoroastrian system; the defilement of rivers
was strictly forbidden. The Udra, or beaver, became
the “luck” of the rivers: to destroy it would provoke
a drought. If it was found roaming on the land, the
Mazdean was bound to carry it to the nearest stream.
In later legend, the Udra, even more than the fox,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>was a daeva-foe. But by far its most important
characteristic is its mythical connexion with the dog.
To the question: “What becomes of the aged dog
when his strength fails him and he dies?” follows the
answer: “He goes to the dwelling in the water, where
he is met by two water-dogs.” These are his conductors
to the dogs’ paradise. A fair sward beneath
the waters, cool and fresh in the summer heat, is at
least a pleasant idea, but when the two water-dogs
are described as consisting of one thousand male and
one thousand female dogs, the myth seems to lose
its balance which no proper myth ought to do. Myths
have the habit of proceeding rationally enough in
their own orbit. Later commentators reject this
fantastic interpretation and suppose the verse to
mean that the dog-soul is received, not by two, but
by two thousand water-dogs, which in Oriental hyperbole
would mean merely “a great many.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Be this as it may, Udra-murder was a frightful sin,
and frightful were the penalties attached to it.
Besides undergoing the usual blows with a horse-goad
(to be self inflicted?) the murderer must kill ten
thousand each of some half-dozen insects and reptiles:
this, at least, is how it looks, but as a matter of fact
the long lists of penalties in the Vendîdâd must be
taken not as cumulative, but as alternative. This is
evident, though it is never stated, and it explains many
things. A large number of the alternative punishments
for beaver-killing take the form of offerings
to the priests. Arms, whips, grindstones, handmills,
house-matting, wine and food, a team of oxen, cattle
both small and large, <i>a suitable wife</i>—the young
<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>sister of the sinner—these are among the specified
offerings. The culprit may also build a bridge,
or breed fourteen dogs as an act of expiation; in
short, he may do any kind of meritorious deed,
but something he must do, or it will be the worse for
him in the world to come.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Vendîdâd was not a code of criminal law
enforced by the civil power, but an adjugation of
penances for the atonement of sin. This was not
understood at first, which caused the selection of
punishments to appear more extravagant than it really
is. For the most part the penances were active good
works or things which were reckoned as such.
Charity and alms-giving were always contemplated
among the means of grace, and if they were not dwelt
upon more continually, it was because there existed
nothing comparable to modern destitution. Moreover,
it was understood better than in other parts of the
East that not every beggar was a saint: too often he
was a lazy fellow who had shirked the common
obligation of labour. The repetition of certain prayers
was another practice recommended to the repentant
sinner. But no good work or pious exercise was
of any avail unless accompanied by sincere sorrow
for having done wrong. The Law opened the door
of grace, but to obtain it the heart must have become
changed. God forgives those who truly desire His
forgiveness. It is impossible to doubt that the
spurious Mazdeism which got into Europe, distorted
though it was, yet took with it the two great Mazdean
doctrines of repentance and the remission of sin.
Great ideas conquer, and it was by these two doctrines
<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>that Mithraism so nearly conquered the Western
world—not by its unlovely rites.</p>

<p class='c008'>On one or two points the human eschatology of
Zoroastrianism is associated with dogs. A dog is
brought into the presence of the dying man. This
has been explained by reference to the dogs of Yama,
the Vedic lord of death, and the European superstition
about the howling of a dog being a death-portent
is explained in the same way, but in both instances
the immediate cause seems nearer at hand. An
Indian officer once remarked to me that any one who
had heard the true “death-howl” of a dog would
never need any recondite reason for the uncomfortable
feeling which it arouses. As regards the Zoroastrian
dog, the immediate cause of the belief that he drives
away evil spirits lies in the fact that he drives away
thieves and prowlers in the night. Death being a
pollution as the work of Ahriman, evil spirits beset
the dying, but they flee at the sight of the dog,
created by Ahura Mazda to protect man. The dead
wander for three days near the tenantless body: then
they go to the bridge Chinvat, where the division
takes place between the good and the wicked. The
bridge is guarded by dogs, who drive away all things
evil from the path of the righteous, but do nothing
to prevent bad spirits from tripping up sinners so that
they fall into the pit.</p>

<p class='c008'>The good go into light, sinners into darkness, where
Ahriman, “whose religion is evil,” mocks them, saying:
“Why did you eat the bread of Ahura Mazda and do
my work? and thought not of your own Creator but
practised my will?” Nothing is told of the punishment
<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>of Ahriman—the doom of Evil is to be Evil—but
in the end he will be utterly extinguished.
Through time, <i>but not</i> through eternity the wicked
remain in his power. In the Khordah Avesta it
is said that God, after purifying all the obedient,
will purify the wicked out of hell. In the words
of a living Parsi writer: “The reign of terror, at the
end of the stipulated time, vanishes into oblivion, and
its chief factor, Ahriman, goes to meet his doom of
total extinction, whilst Ahura Mazda, the Omnipotent
Victor, remains the Great All in All.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The Zoroastrian was as free as Socrates himself
from the materialism which looks upon the body after
death as if it were still the being that tenanted it.
Some kind of renewed body the dead will have:
meanwhile, this is not they! The hope of immortality
was so firm that it was thought an actual sin to give
way to excessive mourning: the wailing and keening
of the Jews seem to be here condemned, though they
are not mentioned, there being no direct allusion
to the religions of other peoples in the Avesta.
There is a river of human tears which hinders souls
on their way to beatitude: the dead would fain that
the living check their tears which swell the river and
make it hard to cross over in safety. The same idea
is to be found in one of the most beautiful of Scandinavian
folk-songs.</p>

<p class='c008'>The small work known as the Book of Ardâ Vîrâf
is a document of priceless worth to the student of
Mazdean eschatology, and it is also of the greatest
interest in its relation to ideas about animals. If
printed in a convenient form, every humane person
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>would carry it in his pocket. Like the vision of
the Seer of Patmos this work is purely religious; it
attempts no criticism of life and man such as that embodied
in the “Divina Commedia,” but in spite of this
difference in aim, there is an astonishing resemblance
between its general plan and that of the poem of
Dante. Without going into this subject, I may say
that I cannot feel convinced that with the geographical,
astronomical, and other knowledge of the East which
is believed to have reached Dante by means of
conversations with merchants, pilgrims and perhaps
craftsmen (for that Italian artists worked in India at
an early date the Madonna-like groups in many a
remote Hindu temple bear almost certain testimony),
there did not come to him also some report of the
travels of the Persian visitant to the next world.</p>

<p class='c008'>The author of the Persian vision was a pious
Mazdean whose whole desire was to revive religious
feeling amid growing indifference. He is supposed
to have lived not earlier than 500, and not later than
700 <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> The former is the likelier date. Had the
assault of Islam begun, the book must have borne
traces of the struggle with invaders who threatened
to annihilate the faith. The author states that the
work was intended as an antidote in the first place to
atheism and in the second to “the religions of many
kinds” that were springing up. This probably contains
a reference to Christian sects, but it is not the
way that allusion would have been made to propagandists
with a sword in their hands. Christian sects
managed to recover from the first persecution in
344 <span class='fss'>A.D.</span>, after which they were more often than not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>tolerated, though the Zoroastrian priesthood feared
a Church that possessed an organisation so much like
their own. They were accused, moreover, as at
Rome, of being anti-national: everywhere the sentiment
against the Christians took a form closely
resembling the anti-Semiticism of our days. Such
accusations can hardly fail to create, to some extent,
the thing they predicate, and it is no great wonder if
in the end the Persian Christians received the
Moslem invaders with favour. Though the essence
of Mazdeism is peace to men of good-will, it is to be
feared that the Zoroastrian priests (like others) were
less tolerant than their creed, and that the harassing
of the Christians generally originated with them. They
are known to have counselled this policy to Homizd
IV., who gave them the memorable answer that his
royal throne could not stand on its front legs alone,
but needed the support of the Christians and other
sectaries as well as of the faithful. It was one of the
wisest sayings that ever fell from the lips of a king
and more Mazdean than all the bigotry of Zoroastrian
clericalism.</p>

<p class='c008'>The author of Ardâ Vîrâf tried the perfectly legitimate
means of persuasion in rallying his countrymen
to their own religion. He tells the story of
how, in an age of doubt, it was agreed that the best
thing would be to send some one into the next world
to see if Mazdeism were, indeed, the true religion.
Lots fell on a very virtuous man named Ardâ Vîrâf,
who was commissioned to make the journey in a
trance-state produced by the administration of a
narcotic. Even now, in India, children and others
<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>are given narcotics, sometimes of a dangerous sort,
in order to obtain knowledge which is supposed to
come to them whilst insensible. To a Mazdean the
ordeal would be particularly terrible, because sleep,
like death, was created by Ahriman. The calm
fortitude with which Ardâ Vîrâf submits, while his
family break into loud weeping, almost reminds one
of the bearing of Socrates on the eve of a similar
departure but one with no return. “It is the custom
that I should pray to the departed souls and make
a will,” he says; “when I have done that, give me
the narcotic.” His body was treated as though dead,
being kept at the proper distance from fire and other
sacred things, but priests stayed near it night and
day, praying and reading the Scriptures, that the
powers of ill might not prevail.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the end of seven days the wandering spirit of
Ardâ Vîrâf re-entered his inanimate form, and after
he had taken food and water and wine he called for
a ready writer, to whom he dictated the tale of what
he had seen. Guided by Srosh the Pious and Ataro
the Angel (Virgil and Beatrice) the traveller visited
heaven and hell. At the outset he saw the meeting
of a righteous soul and its Fravashi. This soul
crosses the Chinvat bridge in safety, and on the other
side passes into an atmosphere laden with an ineffably
sweet perfume which emanates from the direction of
the presence of God. Here it meets a damsel more
wondrously fair than aught it has beheld in the land
of the living. Enraptured at the sight, it asks her
name and receives the answer: “I am thine own
good actions.” Every good deed embellishes the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>human soul’s archetype, every evil deed mars and
stains it with the hideousness of sin. This poetic
and beautiful conception was not due to the author
of Ardâ Vîrâf: it is taken from the venerable pages
of the Avesta itself.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the abode of Punishment the most impressive
penalties are those undergone by the souls which
have tortured helpless infants or dumb animals. The
mother who feeds another’s child from greed and
starves her own, is seen digging into an iron hill
with her breasts while the cry of her child for food
comes ever from the other side of the hill, “but the
infant comes not to the mother nor the mother to
the infant.” Here the supreme anguish is mental:
it is caused by the awakening of that maternal instinct
which the woman stifled on earth. Has the <i>Inferno</i>
any thought so luminously subtle as this? The
woman-soul will never reach her child “till the renewal
of the world.” Till the renewal of the world!
Across the hell-fog penetrates the final hope!</p>

<p class='c008'>The unfaithful wife who destroys the fruit of her
illicit love suffers a horrible punishment. It is
strange that if we wish to find an analogy to these
severe judgments on offences against infancy, we
must go to a small tribe of Dravidian mountaineers
in the Nilgiri hills, among whose folk-songs is one
which describes a vision of heaven and hell. In
this a woman is shown who is condemned to see
her own child continually die, because she refused
help to a stranger’s child, saying: “It is not mine!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Those who treated their beasts cruelly, who overworked
them, overloaded them, gave them insufficient
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>food, continued to work them when they suffered
from sores caused by leanness instead of trying to
cure the sores, are seen by Ardâ Vîrâf hung up head
downwards while a ceaseless rain of stones falls on
their backs. Those who wantonly killed animals
have a knife driven ceaselessly into their hearts.
Those who muzzled the ox which ploughed the
furrows are dashed under the feet of cattle. The
same punishment falls to those who forget to give
water to the oxen in the heat of the day or who
worked them when hungry and thirsty. Demons
like dogs constantly tear the man who kept back
food from shepherds’-dogs and house-dogs or who
beat or killed them: he offers bread to the dogs,
but they eat it not and only tear the more.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ardâ Vîrâf tells a story which belongs to the cycle
of “Sultan Murad,” immortalised by Victor Hugo.
A certain lazy man named Davânôs, who never did
any other thing of good during all the years when
he governed many provinces, once cast a bundle of
grass with his right foot to within the reach of a
ploughing-ox. Hence his right foot is exempted
from torment while the rest of his body is gnawed
by noxious creatures.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is easy to imagine that the realistic picture of
heaven and hell by a poet of no little power produced
the deepest effect on the minds of people, who for
the most part took it to be literally true. No Oriental
work ever became more popular or was more widely
read and translated. People still living can remember
the time when it was the habit of the Parsis at
Bombay to have public readings of Ardâ Vîrâf, on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>which occasions the audience, especially the feminine
part of it, broke into violent sobbing from the excitement
caused by the description of the punishment
of the wicked. The Parsis have abandoned now the
theory that the book is other than a work of imagination,
but it may be hoped that they will not cease
to regard it as a cherished legacy from their fathers
and a precious bequest to their children.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>
  <h2 id='ch08' class='c006'>VIII<br /> <br />A RELIGION OF RUTH</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>AN Englishman who went to see a Hindu saint
was deterred from entering the cave where
the holy man lived by the spectacle of numerous rats.
The hermit, observing his hesitation, inquired what
was the matter? “Don’t you see them?” answered
his visitor. “Yes,” was the brief reply. “Why
don’t you kill them?” asked the Englishman.
“Why should I kill them?” said the native of the
land. Finding the whole onus of the discussion
thrown on his shoulders, the English traveller felt
that it would be difficult with his limited knowledge
of the language to express a European’s ideas about
rats. He thought to sum up the case in one sentence:
“We people kill them.” To which the saint
answered: “We people don’t kill them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In another country, but still among a race which
has inherited the habit of looking at questions between
man and animals not exclusively from the
man’s point of view, a learned professor proposed
to an old gardener at Yezd that they should dig up
an ant-hill to ascertain if the local prejudice were true
which insisted that inside each ant-hill there lodged
two scorpions. The old Persian declined to be a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>party to any such proceeding. “As long as the
scorpions stay inside,” he said with decision, “we
have no right to molest them and to do so would
bring ill-luck.”</p>

<p class='c008'>These anecdotes show, amusingly and convincingly,
the wall of demarcation between Eastern and Western
thought by which the son of the West is apt to find
his passage barred. They serve my purpose in quoting
them the better because they are not connected
with the religious sect whose precepts I am going
to sketch. They illustrate what I believe to be true,
namely, that this sect and Buddhism itself would not
have made their way in so wonderful a manner,
seemingly almost without effort, had they not found
the ground prepared by a racial tendency to fly to
the doctrine of <i>Ahimsa</i>, or “non-killing,” which forms
part of their systems.</p>

<p class='c008'>No religion prevails unless it appeals to some
chord, if not of the human heart everywhere, at least
of the particular human hearts to which it is directed.
In the West a religion based on Vegetarianism would
not have a chance. Not that there exists no trace
of the life-preserving instinct among Western peoples—far
from that. All nice children have it and all
saints of the type of him of Assisi. Other people
have it who are neither children, nor saints, nor yet
lunatics (“though by your smiling you seem to say
so”). I know an old hero of the Siege of Delhi
who to this day would stoop to lift a worm from
his path. But the sentiment, which in the West is
rather a secret thing, forming a sort of freemasonry
among those who feel it, asserts its sway in the East
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>in the broad light of day. No one there would mind
giving the fullest publicity to his opinion that the
scorpion has as good a right to live undisturbed in
his domestic ant-hill as you have in your suburban
villa.</p>

<p class='c008'>Long before the Jainas made <i>Ahimsa</i> a gateway
to perfection, innumerable Asiatics practised and even
preached the very same rule. It was the bond of
union between all the religious teachers and ascetics
who constituted a well-defined feature in Indian life
from remote if not from the earliest antiquity. The
founders of Jainism and of Buddhism, too, were
Gurus like the rest, only they possessed an intensified
magnetic influence and, at least in Buddha’s case, an
unique genius. Every Eastern religion has been
taught by a Guru, not excepting the most divine of
them all.<a id='r4' /><a href='#f4' class='c017'><sup>[4]</sup></a></p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r4'>4</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“It is stated of the Divine Founder of the Christian religion
that without a parable spoke He not to the people. Christ, in
fact, acted and taught as an <i>Oriental Guru</i>, a character which
none of the European writers of Christ’s life has invested Him
with” (Rev. J. Long: v. “Oriental Proverbs” in the Report
of the Proceedings of the Second Congress of Orientalists).</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'>In the occurrence of a new religious evolution
much depends on the individual, but much also on
the fulness of time. When Buddhism and Jainism
arose, the psychological moment was come for a
change or modification in the current faith. To
some degree, both were a revolt against Sacerdotalism.
Men were told that they could work out
their salvation without priestly aid or intervention.
The new teachers, though each springing from the
class of the feudal nobility, won to their side the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>surging wave of the only kind of democratic yearning
which, till now, Asia has known—the yearning for
religious equality. Professor Hermann Jacobi (the
foremost authority on Jainism, to whom all who study
the subject owe an unbounded debt) suggests that
there was a certain friction between the highly meritorious
of the noble and the priestly castes because
the priests were inclined to look down on the layman
saint. To this category belonged Sakya Muni, who
was the younger son of a prince, or, as we should
say, a feudal lord, and who renounced rank and riches
to become a recluse. The same family history is
told of Mahavira, whom the Jainas claim to be their
founder. For a long time Europeans believed the
two religions to have but one source, and Jainism
was dismissed as a Buddhist sect. The Jainas,
however, always strongly held that they had a founder
of their own, namely, Mahavira, and they even
declared that Buddha was not his master but his
disciple. After much research, Professor Jacobi decided
the case in their favour by assigning to them
a separate origin. Both Sakya Muni and Mahavira
are generally believed to have flourished in the sixth
century <span class='fss'>B.C.</span></p>

<p class='c008'>The confusion of the Jainas with the Buddhists
and even with the Brahmans has made it difficult
to reckon their present numbers: in the census of
1901 they are estimated at 1,334,138, chiefly living
in the Bombay Presidency, but this does not tell us
their real number. Jainas are to be found almost
everywhere in Upper India, in the West and South
and along the Ganges. They inhabit the towns
<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>more than the country. In treating ancient Indian
religions the living document is always round the
corner, ready to be called into the witness-box, and
the Jainas of to-day can give a good account of
themselves. Every one has a good word for them;
a friend of mine, than whom few know India better,
describes them thus: “A tall, fair, handsome, good
and humble lot they are and terribly bullied they are
by their more bellicose fellow-countrymen, who all
look on Jainas as made for them to pilfer, but the
Jainas never turn on their persecutors.” In spite
of their meekness, they are good men of business,
which is proved by their remarkable success in
commerce. Perhaps it is not such bad policy to be
peaceful, and helpful, and honest as a cynical century
supposes.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Jainas say of Mahavira that he was one of
a long line of holy ascetics twenty-four of whom are
venerated in their temples under the name of Tirthakaras
or Jinas, “Conquerors” in the sense of having
conquered the flesh. Needless to point out that the
founders of great religious systems invariably accept
this principle of evolution: they complete what others
began, and in due time a new manifestation will
arrive either in the form of a more perfect revelation
of themselves or in that of a fore-destined successor.
The Buddhists now await Matreya, or “the Buddha
of kindness.” The Jainas have not added to their
twenty-four glorified beings, but there is nothing to
prevent them from doing so. To these specimens
of perfected humanity they have raised some of the
most glorious temples ever lifted by the hand of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>man towards heaven. Tier on tier mount the exquisitely
beautiful towers of the Jaina cathedrals in
the most lonely part of the Muklagerri hills. They
seem like the Parsifal music turned into stone: an
allegory of the ascent of the soul from corruption
to incorruption, from change to permanency. The
desire to worship something finds a vent in the
reverence paid to the Tirthakaras, but the Jaina
religion admits neither relics nor the iteration of
prayers. The building of splendid shrines and of
refuges for man and beast are the particular means
of grace open to the Jaina who cannot comply in
all respects with the exacting demands of his scriptures,
which, were they literally fulfilled, would leave
no one on the world but ascetics. The wealthy
Jaina is only too glad to avail himself of the chance
of acquiring some merit, however far it must fall
short of the highest. Besides this, in moments of
religious fervour temple-building becomes a frenzy:
whole races are swept along by the blind impulse
to incarnate their spiritual cravings in spires or
pagodas or minarets pointing to the sky—the eternal
symbol. The greatest of Jaina temples mark the
epoch of some such wave of spiritual emotion.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Jaina scriptures, which were first collected from
aural report and written down by a learned man in
the sixth century <span class='fss'>A.D.</span>, are really a Rule of Discipline
for monks, and not a guide for the mass of mankind.
If we could imagine the only Christian Scripture
being the immortal book of Thomas à Kempis, we
should form the idea of a very similar state of things.
It is surprising not how little but how much of this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>rigid rule is followed by every Jaina to this day, be
he monk or layman. The vegetarian principle involved
in <i>Ahimsa</i> is observed rigorously by all—clearly
with no bad effect on health after a trial of
about twenty-four centuries, for the Jainas’ physique
is excellent, and they are less subject to disease than
the other communities. They strain and boil water
before drinking, and whatever may be said of the
motive, the practice must be highly commended.
They are also often to be seen wearing a mouth-cloth
to prevent them from swallowing flies, and they carry
little brooms with which they sweep insects out of
their path. The hospitals for sick animals begin to
be better managed than formerly, when they incurred
much censure as mere conglomerations of hopeless
suffering to relieve which practical means were not
taken. A folly adopted by the more fanatical Jainas
at the time of their origin was that of going “sky-clad,”
which makes it probable that they were the
gymnosophists known to the Greeks. They saw
well later to limit this practice to certain times and
occasions or to abandon it for the far more pleasant
one of wearing white garments. Buddha warned his
followers against the “sky-clad” aberration. He
disagreed with the Jainas on a more vital point in
the view he took of penance and self-inflicted torture.
It shows the high intellectuality of the man that
towards the end of his life he pronounced penance,
though he had gone through much of it himself, to
be vanity of vanities. The Jainas took the opposite
view: “Subdue the body just as fire consumes old
wood.” They hold that merit is bound up with a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>certain definite and tangible thing: the Buddhist,
more philosophically, makes it consist in intention.
This is the chief doctrinal difference between Jaina
and Buddhist, and though each is bound to charity
and the Jaina is particularly enjoined by his scriptures
not to turn other people’s religion into ridicule, it has
to be confessed that in their frequent disputes they
spare no pains and neglect no arts of Socratic reasoning
to reduce each other’s theories to an absurdity.
Irony is a weapon always used in Indian religious
discussion.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mahavira himself “fulfilled the law” by allowing
gnats, flies, and other things to bite him and crawl
over him for four months without ever once losing
his equanimity. It is told that he met all sorts of
pleasant or unpleasant events with an even mind
whether they arose from divine powers, men, or
animals. The Jainas did not deny that there were
divine powers: there might be any number of them,
and the influence they wielded for good or for ill
(I think especially for ill) was not inconsiderable.
Only they were not morally admirable like a man
victorious through suffering. The greater willingness
of the Jainas to admit gods into the wheel of being,
and even to allow some homage to be paid to them,
was one reason why they clashed less with the
Brahmans. After the subsidence of Buddhism the
Jainas managed to go on existing, somewhat despised
and annoyed, but tolerated.</p>

<p class='c008'>While both Buddhists and Jainas place the prohibition
to take life at the head of their law, its application
is infinitely more thoroughgoing among the Jainas,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>who also attach to it ideas which have no place in
Buddhist metaphysics. From the Jaina position, it
seems to imply a tendency to primitive animism,
though it is hard to say whether this comes from
a real process of retrogression or simply from the
Indo-Aryan desire for a synthesis—the more easily
attained the more you assume. It is startling to hear
that in the last census over eight millions were
returned as animists—it proves that the old credences
die hard. The Jainas took into their soul-world fire,
water, wind, shooting plants and germinating seeds.
The disciplinary results must have been inconvenient,
but a religion was never less popular because it put
its devotees to inconvenience. Those who still clung
to animistic beliefs were already prepared to see a
soul in the flickering fire, the rushing water, the growing
blade. We all have odds and ends of animism;
did not Coventry Patmore say: “There is something
human in a tree?” With more detail the Jaina
observes that trees and plants are born and grow
old; they distinguish the seasons, they turn towards
the sun, the seeds grow up: how, then, shall we deny
all knowledge to them? “The asoka buds and
blossoms when touched by a fair girl’s feet.” Can
we help recalling the familiar lines in the “Sensitive
Plant?”—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>I doubt not they felt the spirit that came</div>
      <div class='line in1'>From her glowing fingers thro’ all their frame.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Now, Science, which is on the way to becoming very
kind to man’s early beliefs, comes forward in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>person of Mr. Francis Darwin to tell us that plants
<i>have</i> “mind” and “intelligence,” especially the hop
and the bryony. All fairy-tales will come true if we
wait long enough.</p>
<p class='c008'>Once, and once only, in Jaina writings I have
noticed it given as a distinct reason for sparing plants
and trees, that they may contain the transmigrated
soul of a man. Even in the case of animals the
doctrine of transmigration is rarely adduced as the
reason for not killing them, though it is fully accepted
by Jainas in common with all the Indian sects sprung
from Brahmanism by which it was started. Coming
to the Indian views of animals from those which
antiquity represented as the preaching of Pythagoras,
we expect to see this argument put forward at every
turn, but it is not. In Jaina writings the incentive is
humanity: to do to others as we would be done by.
It is true that as an aid to this incentive, the cruel
are threatened with the most awful punishments. In
Indian sacred writings one is wearied by the nice
balance constantly drawn between every deed and its
consequences to the doer for a subsequent millennium.
In mediæval monkish legends we find exactly the
same device for keeping the adept in the paths of
virtue, but wherever we find it, we sigh for the
spontaneous emotion of pity of the Good Samaritan
who never reflected “If I do not get off my ass and
go to help that Jew, how very bad it will be for my
Karman!”</p>

<p class='c008'>We ought not to forget in this connexion that
rewards and punishments have not the same meaning
to the Indian as to us: they are not extraneous prizes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>or penalties, but the working out of a mathematical
problem which we both set and solve for ourselves.
It is utterly impossible to escape from the consequences
of our evil acts: they are debts which
must be paid, though we may set about performing
good acts which will make our future happiness
exceed our future misery in time and extent. The
highest good comes of itself, automatically, to him
who merits it, as is illustrated with great beauty in
the Jaina story of the White Lotus. This flower, the
symbol of perfection, bloomed in the centre of a pool
and was descried by many who made violent efforts to
reach it, but they were all set fast in the mud. Then
came a holy ascetic who stood motionless on the
bank. “O white Lotus, fly up!” he said, and the
White Lotus flew to his breast. Even among Indian
sects which all abound in this kind of composition the
Jainas are remarkable for their wealth of moral tales
and apothegms. As is well known, they possess a
parable called “The Three Merchants,” closely
resembling the parable of the Talents as told by
Matthew and Luke, and still more exactly agreeing
with the version given in the so-called “Gospel
according to the Hebrews.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The theory of Karman suggests several modern
scientific speculations such as the idea that the brain
retains an ineffaceable print of every impression
received by it, and again, the extreme view of
heredity which makes the individual the moral and
physical slave of former generations. It is a theory
which has the advantage of disposing of many
riddles. Different sects have slightly varying opinions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>about the nature of the Karman: the Jainas see in
this receptacle of good and evil deeds a material,
though supersensual, reality with a physical basis.
Each individual consists of five parts: the visible
body, the vital energy thought to consist of fire,
or, as we might say, of electricity, the Karman and
two subliminal selves which appear to be only latent
in most persons, but by which, when called into
activity, the individual can transform himself, travel
to distances and do other unusual things. That each
man is provided with a wraith or double is an old
and widely-spread belief; but in Western lore the
double does not seem to be commanded by its pair:
it rather moves like an unconscious, wandering photograph
of him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Jainas have the same word for the soul and
for life: <i>gîva</i>, and this name they bestow on the
whole range of things which they consider as living:
the elements, seeds, plants, animals, men, gods. One
would think that the sense of personal identity would
become vague in the contemplation of voyages over
so vast a sea of being, but, on the contrary, this
identity is the one thing about which the individual
seems perfectly sure. We have frequently such
utterances as: “My own self is the doer and the
undoer of misery and happiness; my own self is
friend and foe.” A sort of void seems spread round
the individual which even family affection, very strong
though it has always been in India, is powerless to
bridge. A lovely testimony to this affection, and at
the same time an avowal of its unavailingness, is
to be found in the one single exception to the Jaina
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>law that the wholly virtuous man must desire nothing,
not even Nirvana must he desire, much less earthly
love or friendship. But he may desire to take upon
him the painful illness of one of his dear kindred.
It is added sadly, however, that never has such a
desire been fulfilled, for one man cannot take upon
him the pains of another, neither can he feel what
another feels.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Man is born alone, he dies alone, he falls alone,
he rises alone. His passions, consciousness, intellect,
perceptions and impressions belong to him exclusively.
Another cannot save him or help him. He grows
old, his hair turns white, even this dear body he must
relinquish—none can stay the hour.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Again it is written:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Man! thou art thy own friend, why wishest thou
for a friend beyond thyself?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The isolation of the soul with its paramount importance
to its owner (that is to say, to itself) makes
it obligatory to pursue its interests even at the
expense of the most sacred affections. The Pagan,
the Jew, the Moslem could not have been brought
to yield assent to this doctrine, but it meets us continually
in Catholic hagiology; for instance, St.
François de Sales told Madame de Chantal that she
ought, if needful, to walk into the cloister over the
dead body of her son. So in a Jaina story, father,
mother, wife, child, sister, brother try in vain to
wrest a holy young man from his resolve to leave
them. In vain the old people say: “We will do
all the work if you will only come home; come, child!
We will pay your debts; you need not stay longer
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>than you like—only come home!” The quite admirable
young man (who sets one furiously wishing for
a stout birch rod) proceeds on his way unmoved.
But it is remarked, “At such appeals the weak break
down like old, worn-out oxen going up hill.” We
prefer the weak.</p>

<p class='c008'>Who was the first anchorite? Perhaps in very
early states of society a few individuals got lost in
the mountain or forest, where they lived on fruits and
nuts, and then, after a long time, some of them were
re-discovered, and, because they seemed so strange
and mysterious after their long seclusion, they were
credited with supernatural gifts. Animals do not go
away alone except in the rare case of being seized
with mania, or in the universal case of feeling the
approach of death. The origin of hermits cannot,
therefore, be explained by analogy with animals.</p>

<p class='c008'>One can conceive that a hermit’s life may have
great attractions, but scarcely that of a Jaina hermit,
who is expected to employ his leisure in the most
painful mortification of the flesh. Though other-worldly
advantages form the great object which
spurs men to choose such a lot we must not forget
that this sort of life is held to confer powers which
are, by no means, other-worldly. By it the Brahman
becomes superior to caste, being incapable of pollution:
if he wished he could drink after the most
miserable Western had touched the cup.</p>

<p class='c008'>The theory of asceticism is very much alike everywhere,
and the extraordinary faculties claimed by the
Jainas for their holy men are the portion, more or
less, of the Indian holy man in general. These
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>faculties may be briefly described as an abnormal
development of the subliminal self, but that is not
an adequate account of the vastness of their range.
One feels often inclined to ask—without granting
revelation or, indeed, the existence of an omniscient
being who could give it—<i>how</i> does the Buddhist or
Jaina acquire perfect certainty that he knows all about
his own and man’s destiny? The question of authority
is of primary importance in all religions: in what way
does Buddhist or Jaina solve it? It is evident that
scepticism based on this very ground does sometimes
harass the soul of the Jaina novice: “The weak,” we
are told, “when bitten by a snarling dog or annoyed
by flies and gnats, will begin to say: ‘<i>I have not seen
the next world, all may end with death.</i>’” It startles
one to hear from the mouth of the devil’s advocate
in an ancient Eastern homily a cry so modern, so
Western:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Death means heaven, he longs to receive it,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>But what shall I do if I don’t believe it?”<a id='r5' /><a href='#f5' class='c017'><sup>[5]</sup></a></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote c000' id='f5'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r5'>5</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“Verses written in India,” p. 13.</p>
</div>

</div>
<p class='c018'>Sir Alfred Lyall’s questioner found none to answer
him, but the Jaina has an answer which, if accepted,
must prove entirely satisfactory. The superlatively
virtuous individual possesses an effortless certainty
about the secrets of life. In a state superinduced by
means which, though arduous, are at the disposal of
all, the soul can view itself, read its history, past,
present and to come, know the souls of others,
remember what happened in former births, understand
the heavenly bodies and the universe. Here is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>nothing miraculous: a veil is lifted, and hidden things
become plain. It is as if a man who had cataract
in both eyes underwent a successful operation—after
which he sees.</p>
<p class='c008'>The supersensual perception of Jaina, or Joghi,
or Guru is much akin to the “infused knowledge”
ascribed to the saints of the Thebaid. He knows—because
he knows. By the devout, information derived
from these persons is accepted as readily as
we should accept information about radium from a
qualified scientific man. The most confident of all
that the information is true is he who gives it:
fraud must be dismissed finally as the key to any
such phenomena.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Indian mind has grasped a great idea in
referring what we call spirit to fixed laws no less
than what we call matter. But in spirit it sees
a force infinitely exceeding the force of matter.
“The holy monk,” say the Jaina scriptures, “might
reduce millions to ashes by the fire of his wrath.”
Besides such tremendous powers as these he has all
the minor accomplishments of the spiritualist or
hypnotist: thought-reading, levitation, clairvoyance,
&amp;c., and he can always tame wild beasts. He is
under strict obligations to use his powers with
discretion. It is not right to make profit out of them:
that man is anathema who lives by divination from
dreams, diagrams, sticks, bodily changes, the cries
of animals. The Jainas denounce magic not less
strongly than the other religious teachers of the
East. This is interesting because the reasons are
lacking which are commonly held to explain the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>world-wide prejudice against magic: the Jainas do not
attribute it to the agency of evil spirits, nor can their
dislike of it be attributed to the professional jealousy
of priests in regard to rival thaumaturgists. For the
Jaina the power of magic-working lies in every one,
and those who have developed their other spiritual
powers have also this one at their command, but
to avail themselves of it is an enormous sin. There
is a weird story showing what infamies a magic-working
“ascetic” may perpetrate. A monk carried
off, by magical arts, all the women he met, till the
king of that country trapped him in a hollow tree
and had him put to death. The women were set
free and returned to their husbands, except one, who
refused to go back because she had fallen desperately
in love with her seducer. A very wise man suggested
that the monk’s bones should be pounded and mixed
with milk, and then given to the woman to drink:
this was done and she was cured of her passion.</p>

<p class='c008'>Over the whole East, the report that some one
was working miracles, even the most beneficent,
raised both suspicion and jealousy. This was why
secrecy was recommended about all such acts.</p>

<p class='c008'>How far the belief in the extraordinary gifts of
the ascetic rests on hallucination, and how far men
in an artificially created abnormal condition can do
things of which hypnotic manifestations are but the
outer edge, it is not my purpose to inquire. The
Jaina monks are said sometimes to fast for four
days, and no doubt the stimulus of starvation
(especially when the brain has not been weakened by
long disease), produces an ecstatic state which men
<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>have everywhere supposed to indicate religious
perfection. This may be observed even in birds,
which from some difficulty in swallowing, die of
starvation: I had a canary that sang for days before
it died a sweet incessant song, the like of which I
never heard: it seemed not earthly.</p>

<p class='c008'>The best side in Eastern religions is not their
thaumaturgy but the steady ethical tendency which
pushes itself up out of the jungle of extravagance and
self-delusion. Though we may not have much
sympathy with the profession of a “houseless” saint,
it is impossible to deny the moral elevation of such a
picture of him as is drawn in the Jaina conversion
story of “The True Sacrifice.” A holy man, born in
the highest Brahmanical caste, but who had found
wisdom in Jaina vows, went on a long journey and
walked and walked till he came to Benares, where
he found a very learned Brahman who was deeply
versed in astronomy and in the Vedas. When the
“Houseless” arrived, the priest was about to offer up
sacrifice, and perhaps because he did not wish to be
disturbed at such a moment, he told him rudely to go
away—he would have no beggars there. The holy
man was not angry; he had not come to extort food
or water, but from the pure desire to save souls. He
quietly told the priest that he was ignorant of the
essence of the Vedas, of the true meaning of sacrifice,
of the government of the heavenly bodies. There
must have been a peculiar effluence of sanctity flowing
from the “Houseless” as the priest took his rebukes
with meekness, and merely asked for enlightenment.
Then the seer delivered his message. It is not the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>tonsure that makes the priest or repetition of the
sacred syllable <i>om</i> that makes the saint. It is not
by dwelling in woods or by wearing clothes of bark
or grass that salvation may be reached. Equanimity,
chastity, knowledge, and penance are the ways to
holiness. His actions alone colour a man’s soul: as
his works are, so is he. Persuaded of the truth, the
priest addressed the “Houseless” as the truest of
sacrificers, the most learned of all who know the
Vedas, the inspired exponent of Brahmanhood, and
begged him to accept his alms. But the mendicant
refused: he only conjured the priest out of pity for
his own soul to join the order of the “Houseless.”
After having been rightly schooled in Jaina precepts,
the Brahman followed his advice, and in due time
he became a very great saint like his instructor.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the Jaina scriptures are in effect a manual of
discipline for monks, it is natural that they should
be severe on womankind. Not that a woman’s soul
is worth less than a man’s or, rather, since spirit is
sexless, the distinction does not exist. A woman
may be as good a saint as a man; a nun may be as
meritorious as a monk. The identity of mysticism
independent of creed was never more apparent than
in the beautiful saying of a Jaina nun: “As a bird
dislikes the cage, so do I dislike the world,” which
might have been uttered by any of the self-consumed
spirits of the Latin Church from St. Teresa downwards.
I have never come across an allusion to
being born again as a woman as a punishment. But
though the fullest potentiality of merit is allowed to
woman in the abstract, the Eternal Feminine is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>looked upon in the concrete as man’s worst snare.
“Women are the greatest temptation in the world.”
The Jaina books are Counsels of Perfection and not
a Decalogue framed for common humanity: they
give one the idea of being intended for preternaturally
good people, and never more so than in the
manner in which they treat the dreadful snares and
temptations for which women are answerable: instead
of a Venusberg, we are shown—the domestic
hearth! The story in question might be called “The
Woes of the Model Husband!” A girl who vowed
that she would do anything rather than be parted
from the dear object of her affections, has no sooner
settled the matter once for all by marriage than she
begins to scold and trample on the poor man’s head.
Her spouse is sent on a thousand errands, not one
moment can he call his own. Countless are the
lady’s wants and her commands keep pace with
them: “Do look for the bodkin; go and get some
fruit; bring wood to cook the vegetables; why don’t
you come and rub my back instead of standing there
doing nothing? Are my clothes all right? Where
is the scent-bottle? I want the hair-dresser. Where
is my basket to put my things in? And my trinkets?
There, I want my shoes and my umbrella. Bring
me my comb and the ribbon to tie up my hair. Get
the looking-glass and a tooth-brush. I must have
a needle and thread. You really ought to look after
the stores, the rainy season will be here in no time.”
These and many more are the young wife’s behests,
the appalling list of which might well intimidate
those about to marry, but there is worse to come.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>When “the joy of their lives, the crown of their
wedded bliss” arrives in the shape of a baby, it
is the unfortunate husband who is set to mind it:
he has to get up in the night to sing lullabies to it
“just as if he were a nurserymaid,” and ashamed
though he is of such a humiliation, he is actually put
to wash the baby-linen! “All this has been done by
many men who for the sake of pleasure have stooped
so low; they become the equals of slaves, animals,
beasts of burden, <i>mere nobodies</i>.” Would not most
readers take this for a quotation from one of Ibsen’s
plays rather than from a sacred volume which was
composed a considerable time before the beginning
of our era?</p>

<p class='c008'>The Indian pessimist is withheld from suicide by
the dread of a worse existence beyond the pyre.
He is the coward of conscience to a much greater
extent than the weary Occidental, because his sense
of the unseen is so much stronger. In the Jaina
system, however, suicide is permitted under certain
circumstances. After twelve years of rigorous penance
a man is allowed the supreme favour of “a
religious death”—in other words, he may commit
suicide by starvation. This is called Itvara. The
civilised Indian does not seem to have the power
of dying when he pleases without the assistance of
starvation which is possessed by some of the higher
savage races.</p>

<p class='c008'>The soul may be re-born in any earthly form from
the lowest to the highest, but there are other possibilities
before it when it leaves its mortal coil. Those
who are very bad, too bad to disgrace the earth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>again—above all, the cruel—are consigned to an
<i>Inferno</i> more awful than Dante’s, though not without
points of striking resemblance to it. The very good
who abounded in charity and in truth, but who yet
lived in the world the life of the world, become gods,
glorified beings enjoying a great measure of happiness
and power, but not eternal. Far beyond the joys of
this heaven, which are still thinkable, is the unthinkable
bliss of the Perfect, of the Conquerors, of the
Changeless. The human mind could not adjust the
idea of evolution more scientifically to the soul’s
destiny.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is unnecessary to say that the number who
become even gods is very small. A great deal is
achieved if a man is simply born again as a man,
for though Jaina and Buddhist thinks that man’s lot
is wretched (or, at least that it ought to be when we
consider its inherent evils), yet it must be distinctly
remembered that he thinks the life of beasts far
more wretched. Leopardi’s “Song of the Nomadic
Shepherd in Asia,” in which he makes the world-weary
shepherd envy the fate of his sheep, is steeped
in Western not in Eastern pessimism: only in the
last lines, which really contradict the rest, we find
the true Eastern note:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Perchance in every form</div>
      <div class='line in3'>That Nature may on everything bestow</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The day of birth brings everlasting woe.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The Indian seems never to be struck by what to
us seems (perhaps in error, but I hope not) the
inconscient joy of creatures, nor yet that of children.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>He is constantly sure that all creation groaneth and
travaileth. Nothing is young in Asia, all is very
old. Every one is tired. In our minds thoughtless
joy is connected with innocency, and in these Indian
creeds there is no innocency as there is no effortless
All-Good. Perfection is the result of labour. No
other religious teacher spoke of little children as
Christ did—Christ, whose incomprehensible followers
were one day to consign the larger part of them,
as a favour, “to the easiest room in hell.” Ardently
as children are desired and lovingly as they are
treated in the East, something essential to the charm
of childhood eludes the Oriental perception of it.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the sacred books of those Indian communities
which concern themselves most about animals, they
are very rarely shown in an attractive light. The
horse, almost alone, is spoken of with genuine
admiration; for instance, there is this simile: “As
the trained Kambôga steed whom no noise frightens,
exceeds all other horses in speed, so a very learned
monk is superior to all others.” An elephant is
extolled for having knelt down before a holy recluse
though only newly tamed, and we hear that Mahavira’s
words were understood by all animals.
Folk-lore tells much that scriptures do not tell, and
if we had a collection of Jaina folk-lore we should
find, no doubt, records of charming friendships
between beasts and saints, but in the Jaina sacred
books pity, not love, is the feeling shown towards
animals.</p>

<div id='i188'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i188.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>BUDDHA PACIFYING AN INTOXICATED ELEPHANT.<br />India Museum.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>As a rule, Indian philosophical writers shirk the
question of how far the soul which was and may
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>be again a man’s retains its consciousness during
its residence in lower forms. Probably the answer,
were it given, would be: “Not very far,” but the
higher animals are credited with a fuller share of
reflection than in the West. Hence it is preferable
to assume the shape of one of the higher than of one
of the lower organisms, but still it is far better to be
re-born as the lowest of men than as the highest of
animals.</p>

<p class='c008'>If it is something to be re-born as a man at all,
it is a great deal to be re-born as a fortunate man,
healthy, wealthy, and surrounded by troops of
friends: at least, to the simple-minded such a prospect
must appear to hold out a very splendid hope.
It is remarkable what good care the framers of the
intensely ascetic Jaina faith took of people who
could not pretend to walk in the path of the elect.
The mere “householder” (so called to distinguish
him from the more admirable “Houseless”) has
the promise of an ample recompense if he is only
truthful, and humane, and liberal in alms-giving and
temple-building. He may win very great promotion
on earth or even a place in the Jaina heaven, the
abode of light, where happy beings live long and
enjoy great power and energy, and never grow old.
Such a state agrees with the logical evolution of a
virtuous but still this-worldly man. Could he aspire
sincerely to a more spiritual state, and can the soul
outsoar its own aspirations? The Jaina heaven is
not eternal, but does every one wish for eternity?
Most people wish for ten or fifteen years of tolerable
freedom from care on this side of the grave. If they
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>knew for certain that they were going to enjoy one
thousand years of heaven, they would not think
much of what would happen at the end of that time.</p>

<p class='c008'>There remain the pure and separated spirits who
in this present life have climbed beyond the plane
of mortality. They are in the world, not of it, and
they, indeed, “have a glimpse of incomprehensibles
and thoughts of things which thoughts but tenderly
touch.” For these, the Jaina, like the Buddhist,
keeps Nirvana.</p>

<p class='c008'>The extreme reticence of Buddha and even of
Buddhist commentators on the inner significance of
this word—meaning literally “liberation”—is not
observed by the Jainas, though it must not be inferred
that there was any doctrinal difference of it
in the view taken by the two sects. The Jainas show
a great anxiety to tell what Nirvana is; if they fail
it is because it baffles all description. They repudiate
the idea that it signified annihilation, but
admit that the subject oversteps the bounds of the
thinkable. “The liberated soul perceives and knows,
but there is no analogy by which to describe it—without
body, re-birth, sex, dimensions.” We think
of the wonderful lines in the <i>Helena</i> of Euripides:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“... the mind</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Of the dead lives not, but immortal sense</div>
      <div class='line in1'>When to immortal ether gone, possesses;”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>lines which, like not a few others in Euripides, seem
to reflect a light not cast from Grecian skies.</p>
<p class='c008'>Like every stage in the history of the life-soul
(<i>giva</i>) Nirvana is governed by an immutable law of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>evolution. When all the dross is eliminated only
pure spirit is left: a distilled essence not only indestructible,
for spirit is always indestructible, but
also changeless. All the rest dies, which means that
it changes, that it is re-born: this part can die
no more, and hence can be born no more. It has
gained the liberty of which the soul goes seeking
in the Dantesque sense. It has gained safety, rest,
peace.</p>

<p class='c008'>How familiar the words sound! Here am I in
Asia, and I could dream myself back under the roof
of the village church where generations of simple
folk had sought a rest-cure for their minds: where
I, too, first listened to those words <i>safety</i>, <i>rest</i>, <i>peace</i>,
with the strange home-sickness they awaken in
young children or in the very old who have preserved
their childhood’s faith. There are words
that, by collecting round them inarticulate longings
and indefinite associations, finally leave the order of
language and enter that of music; they evoke an
emotion, not an idea. The emotions which sway
the human heart are few, and they are very much
alike. The self-same word-music transports the
English child to the happy land, far, far away, and
the Indian mystic to Nirvana.</p>

<p class='c008'>Almost everything which the Jainas say of Nirvana
might have been said by any follower of any spiritual
religion who attempted to suggest a place of final
beatitude. “There is a safe place in view of all,
but hard to approach, where there is no old age, nor
death, nor pain, nor disease. This place which is in
view of all is called Nirvana or freedom from pain,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>or it is called perfection; it is the safe, happy, quiet
place. It is the eternal haven which is in view of
all, but is difficult to approach.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Nirvana is the getting-well of the soul. “He will
put away all the misery which always afflicts mankind;
as it were, <i>recovered from a long illness</i>, he
becomes infinitely happy and obtains the final aim.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We are told that the Buddhas that were and the
Buddhas that will be, have peace for their foundation,
even as all things have the earth for their foundation.
(The term Buddha, or “Enlightened,” is used by
Jainas as well as by Buddhists for super-excellent
beings.)</p>

<p class='c008'>Nirvana may or rather must be possessed before
the death of the visible body: it must be obtained
by the living if it is to be enjoyed by the dead.
Detachment from the world, self-denial, selflessness,
help the soul on its way, but the two moral qualities
which are absolutely essential are kindness and
veracity. Ruth and truth are written over the portals
of eternity. “He should cease to injure living things
whether they move or not, on high, below or on
earth, for this has been called Nirvana, which consists
in peace.” “A sage setting out for Nirvana should
not speak untruth: this rule comprises Nirvana and
the whole of carefulness.”</p>

<p class='c008'>If a novice does anything wrong, he should never
deny it: if he has not done it he should say, “I
have not done it.” A lie must never be told—“not
even in jest or in anger.” Were there nothing else
of good in Jaina discipline this devotion to truth
would place it high on mankind’s mountain.</p>

<div id='i192'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i192.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo in</i>      <i>India Museum.</i></span><br />COLOSSAL RECLINING BULL<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Southern India.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>The law of <i>Ahimsa</i>, “non-killing,” which stands
at the head of the precepts of both Buddhist and
Jaina, is not only far more rigidly observed by the
Jaina, but also invested by him with a greater positive
as well as relative value. One might say that with
the Buddhists it is more a philosophic deduction,
with the Jainas more a moral necessity. The
position of Buddhists in this matter of <i>Ahimsa</i> is
one of compromise. There never was a Buddhist
who did not think cruelty to animals an abominable
sin, there is no compromise on that point, but, in
respect to animal food, the usual Buddhist layman
is not really more strict than any very humane person
in the West; he abjures sport, he will not kill
animals himself, but he does not refuse to eat meat
if it is set before him. The Buddhists declare that
the Lord Buddha was prayed to forbid animal food
absolutely, but he would not. It is argued that in
the flesh itself, when the life is gone from it, there
is nothing particularly sacred: therefore it is permissible
to sustain life on it. Your servants may
buy meat ready for sale in the market: it would be
there just the same if you did not send to buy it,
but you ought not to tell them to give an order
for some sort of meat which is not on sale; still less
should you incite people to snare or shoot wild
animals for your table. The Buddhists of to-day
say with the opponents to vegetarianism in Europe,
that total abstention from the flesh of animals would
lead to the disappearance of the chief part of them;
though it might be answered that sheep would still
be wanted for their wool, goats and cows for their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>milk, oxen for ploughing. But a harder question is,
What would happen to these animals when they
grew old? The Jainas seek to settle this crux by
building hospitals for them, but the result has been
indifferently encouraging.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Siam even monks are allowed animal food within
certain limits, but as a rule what I have said of
the Buddhist view of <i>Ahimsa</i> does not apply to the
religious, who leans to the strictest Jaina principle
of having nothing to do with shedding blood on
any pretence. The Buddhist monks in China teach
the virtue of “fang sheng” (“life-saving”) by object-lessons
in the shape of tanks built near the convents
to which people bring tortoises, fishes and snakes
to save them from death, and the monks also keep
homes for starving or lost animals. Favoured
European visitors are invited to witness the custom
of feeding the wild birds before the morning meal
is served: the brothers sit silently at the refectory-table
with their bowls of rice and vegetables in
front of them, but none begins to eat till one brother
rises, after a sort of grace has been said, and goes
to the door with a little rice in his hands which he
places on a low stone pillar. All the birds are
waiting on the roofs and fly down delighted to
partake of their breakfast.</p>

<p class='c008'>Fra Odoric, the Venetian Franciscan who dictated
an account of his travels in 1330, describes a convent
scene which was shown to him as a most interesting
thing, so that when he went home he might say
that he had seen “this strange sight or novelty.”
To win the consent of the monks his native friend,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>who acted as cicerone, informed them that this Raban
Francus, this religious “Frenchman” (Europeans
were all “Frenchmen”) was going to the city of
Cambaleth to pray for the life of the great Can.
Thus recommended he was admitted, and the
“religious man” with whom they had spoken “took
two great basketsful of broken relics which remained
on the table and led me into a little walled park,
the door whereof he unlocked with his key, and
there appeared unto us a pleasant fair green plot,
into the which we entered. In the said green stands
a little mount in form of a steeple, replenished with
fragrant herbs and fine shady trees. And while we
stood there, he took a cymbal or bell and rang
therewith, as they use to ring to dinner or bevoir
in cloisters, at the sound thereof many creatures of
divers kinds came down from the mount, some like
apes, some like cats, some like monkeys, and some
having faces like men. And while I stood beholding
of them, they gathered themselves together about him,
to the number of 4,200 of these creatures, putting
themselves in good order, before whom he set a platter
and gave them the said fragments to eat. And when
they had eaten he rang upon his cymbal a second time
and they all returned to their former places. Then,
wondering greatly at the matter, I demanded what
kind of creatures those might be. They are (quoth he)
the souls of noble men which we do here feed for the
love of God who governeth the world, and as a man
was honourable or noble in this life, so his soul after
death entereth the body of some excellent beast or
other, but the souls of simple and rustical people
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>do possess the bodies of more vile and brutish
creatures.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Odoric’s informant was in error if he really said that
distinctions of rank influenced the soul’s destiny, as
this is no Buddhist doctrine. The charming description
of the “strange sight or novelty” was imitated
by Mandeville, who adds, with a sympathetic tolerance
which is very characteristic of him, that the
monks were “good religious men after their faith
and law.”</p>

<p class='c008'>That the stricter was also the more primitive
Buddhist rule seems probable, and it may be that
Buddha’s alleged defence of meat-eating was an
invention meant to cover later latitudinarianism.
Nevertheless, <i>Ahimsa</i> was, from the first, a more
integral part of the Jaina religion than of the
Buddhist. The true keynote of either faith can be
detected in their respective conversion stories. In
all outbursts of religious revivalism (of which nature
both Buddhism and Jainism largely partook) the
moment of conversion is the hinge on which everything
turns.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the Buddhist story, a young prince, born on the
steps of the throne, nursed in luxury and happily
wedded, sees consecutively a broken-down old man,
a man with a deadly disease, and a decomposing
corpse. These dreadful and common realities were
brought home to his mind with intolerable force.
We seem to hear the despairing cry of R. L. Stevenson:
“Who would find heart to begin to live if he
dallied with the consideration of death”? We live
because we drug ourselves with the waters of a new
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>Lethe which make us forget future as well as past.
Sakya Muni could not forget what he had seen or
the lesson which it taught: the rest of his life was
devoted to freeing himself and others from being
endlessly subject to a like doom.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now let us recall the Jaina conversion story. The
son of a powerful king was on his way to marry a
beautiful princess. At a certain place he saw a great
many animals in cages and enclosures looking frightened
and miserable. He asked his charioteer why
all those animals which desired to be free and happy
were penned up in cages and enclosures? The
charioteer replied that they were not to be pitied, they
were “lucky animals” which were to furnish a feast
for a great multitude at His Highness’s wedding.
(This is the very thing that an English poor man
would have said.) Full of compassion, the future
“saviour of the world” reflected: “If for my sake
all these living creatures are killed, how shall I obtain
happiness in another world?” Then and there he
renounces the pomps and vanities of human existence,
and he means it, too. The poor little bride, forsaken
in this life, and not much comforted by promised compensation
in the next, “not knowing what she could
do,” cuts off her pretty hair and goes to a nunnery.
In time she becomes a model of perfection, and many
of her kindred and servants are persuaded by her
to join the order.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this story the revulsion is caused by pity, not by
loathing. The instant he sees these poor animals, the
kind-hearted prince feels sorry for them; then comes
that unlucky word “lucky” which to the man of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>ignorance seems to be so particularly appropriate; it
jars on Mahavira’s nerves as it would on the nerves
of any sensitive or refined person. Nothing moves
men to tears or laughter so surely as the antithetical
shock of the incongruous. A rush of emotion
overpowers Mahavira: he will not be happy at the cost
of so much misery; he would become odious in his
own sight. So he renounces all for the eternity of
one moment of self-approving joy.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Jainas carefully exclude every excuse for
taking animal life: none is valid. Animals must not
be killed for offering up in sacrifice, not for their
skin, flesh, tail feathers, brush, horns, tusks, sinews,
bones. They must not be killed with a purpose
or without a purpose. If we have been wounded
by them, or fear to be wounded by them, or if they
eat our flesh or drink our blood, still we should not
only bear it, but also feel no anger. “This is the
quintessence of wisdom, not to kill anything
whatever: know this to be the legitimate conclusion from
the principle of reciprocity.”</p>

<p class='c008'>No one denies that the principle of reciprocity is
the basis of all morality, and by extending it from
men to sentient things, the Jainas have safeguarded
their doctrine of <i>Ahimsa</i> with a stronger wall of
defence than any built on the fantastic fear of
devouring one’s ancestors. Nor can it be said of the Jainas
that to a superstitious repugnance to taking life they
join indifference to causing suffering: inflicting
suffering is hardly distinguished from inflicting death.
“All breathing, existing, living, sentient creatures
should not be slain nor treated with violence, nor
<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>abused, nor tormented, nor driven away. This is the
pure unchangeable law.” “Indifferent to worldly
objects, a man should wander about treating all
the creatures in the world as he himself would be
treated.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Perhaps the most remarkable of Jaina stories is
a real masterpiece of wit and wisdom in which this
theory of reciprocity is enforced. For the whole
of it I must refer the reader to Professor Jacobi’s
translation; I can only give the leading points.
Once upon a time three hundred and sixty-three
philosophers, representing a similar number of
philosophical schools, and differing in character, opinions,
taste, undertakings and plans, stood round in a large
circle, each one in his place. They discussed their
various views, and at last one man took a vessel
full of red-hot coals which he held at a distance from
him with a pair of tongs. “Now, you philosophers,”
said he, “just take this for a moment and hold it
in your hands. No trickery, if you please; you are
<i>not</i> to hold it with the tongs or to put the fire out.
Fair and honest!”</p>

<p class='c008'>With extreme unanimity the three hundred and
sixty-two drew back their hands as fast as they could.
Then the speaker continued: “How is this, philosophers;
what <i>are</i> you doing with your hands?” “They
will be burnt,” said the others. “And what does
it matter if they are burnt?” “But it would hurt us
dreadfully.” “So you do not want to suffer pain?”
Well, this is the case with all animals. This maxim
applies to every creature, this principle, this religious
reflection, holds good of all living things. Therefore
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>those religious teachers who say that all sorts of living
things may be beaten or ill-treated, or tormented,
or deprived of life will, in time, suffer in the same
way themselves, and have to undergo the whole round
of the scale of earthly existence. They will be
whirled round, put in irons, see their mothers, fathers,
children die, have bad luck, poverty, the society
of people they detest, separation from those they love,
“they will again wander distraught in the beginningless
and endless wilderness.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Like a true orator the Jaina member of this early
Congress of Religions, who has drifted from irony
to fierce denunciation, does not leave his hearers with
these visions of terror, but with the consoling promise
to the merciful of everlasting beatitude.</p>

<div id='i201'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i201.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>WILD BULLS AND TAMED BULLS.<br />Reliefs on two gold cups found at Vapheio.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>From Schuckhardt’s “Schliemann’s Excavations.” By permission of Messrs. Macmillan &amp; Co., Ltd.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>
  <h2 id='ch09' class='c006'>IX<br /> <br />LINES FROM THE ADI GRANTH</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>THE Adi Granth, or sacred Book of the Sikhs of
the Punjab, was composed by the founder of
their religion and their nationality, Baba Nanak
(<i>b.</i> 1469), who abolished caste and idolatry, and
established a pure monotheism. A striking incident
at the Coronation Durbar was the arrival of the Sikh
mission in charge of the Adi Granth, which was
brought on a pilgrimage from its shrine in the
exquisitely beautiful golden temple at Amritsar to
the tomb of the disciple of Nanak, who, before suffering
martyrdom at Delhi during the Mogul Empire,
prophesied the advent of a fair race destined to sweep
the Mogul power to the winds. I take these few
sentences to show the essential continuity of Indian
thought about animals. In the faith of Nanak none
remains of the particular tenets of Buddhism or
Jainism or Hinduism, but the animal is still <i>inside</i>,
not <i>outside</i>, the pale of what may be called Pan-humanity:
the whole family of earth-born creatures.</p>
<h3 class='c021'>I.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Say not that this or that distasteful is,</div>
      <div class='line'>In all the dear Lord dwells,—they all are His</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>Grieve not the humblest heart; all hearts that are,</div>
      <div class='line'>Are priceless jewels, all are rubies rare.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah! If thou long’st for thy Beloved, restrain</div>
      <div class='line'>One angry word that gives thy brother pain.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c021'>II.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>All creatures, Lord, are Thine, and Thou art theirs,</div>
      <div class='line'>One bond Creator with created shares;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>To whom, O Maker! must they turn and weep</div>
      <div class='line'>If not to Thee their Lord, who dost all keep?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>All living creatures, Lord, were made by Thee,</div>
      <div class='line'>Where Thou hast fixed their station, there they be.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>For them Thou dost prepare their daily bread,</div>
      <div class='line'>Out of Thy loving-kindness they are fed;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>On each the bounties of Thy mercy fall,</div>
      <div class='line'>And Thy compassion reaches to them all.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c021'>III.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>One understanding to all flesh He gives,</div>
      <div class='line'>Without that understanding nothing lives;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>As is their understanding,—they are so;</div>
      <div class='line'>The reckoning is the same. They come and go.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The faithful watch-dog that does all he can,</div>
      <div class='line'>Is better far than the unprayerful man.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>Birds in their purse of silver have no store,</div>
      <div class='line'>But them the Almighty Father watches o’er.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>They say who kill, they do but what they may,</div>
      <div class='line'>Lawful they deem the bleating lamb to slay;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When God takes down the eternal Book of Fate,</div>
      <div class='line'>Oh, tell me what, what then will be their state?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>He who towards every living thing is kind,</div>
      <div class='line'>Ah! he, indeed, shall true religion find!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c021'>IV.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Great is the warrior who has killed within</div>
      <div class='line'>Self,—Self which still is root and branch of sin.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“I, I,” still cries the World, and gads about,</div>
      <div class='line'>Reft of the Word which Self has driven out.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c021'>V.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thou, Lord, the cage,—the parrot, see! ’Tis I!</div>
      <div class='line'>Yama the cat: he looks and passes by.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>By Yama bound my mind can never be,</div>
      <div class='line'>I call on Him who Yama made and me.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Lord eternal is: what should I fear?</div>
      <div class='line'>However low I fall, He still will hear.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>He tends his creatures as a mother mild</div>
      <div class='line'>Tends with untiring love her little child.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>
  <h3 class='c021'>VI.</h3>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I do not die: the world within me dies:</div>
      <div class='line'>Now, now, the Vivifier vivifies;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sweet is the world,—ah! very sweet it is,</div>
      <div class='line'>But through its sweets we lose the eternal bliss!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Perpetual joy, the inviolate mansion, where</div>
      <div class='line'>There is no grief, woe, error, sin, nor care;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Coming and going and death, enter not in;</div>
      <div class='line'>The changeless only there an entrance win.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Whosoe’er dieth, born again must be,</div>
      <div class='line'>Die thou whilst living, and thou wilt be free!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c021'>VII.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>He, the Supreme, no limit has nor end,</div>
      <div class='line'>And what <span class='fss'>HE</span> is how can <i>we</i> comprehend?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Once did a wise man say: “He only knows</div>
      <div class='line'>God’s nature to whom God His mercy shows.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>
  <h2 id='ch10' class='c006'>X<br /> <br />THE HEBREW CONCEPTION OF ANIMALS</h2>
</div>
<h3 class='c021'>I</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>... “About them frisking played</div>
      <div class='line'>All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase</div>
      <div class='line'>In wood or wilderness, forest or den;</div>
      <div class='line'>Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw</div>
      <div class='line'>Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,</div>
      <div class='line'>Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,</div>
      <div class='line'>To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed</div>
      <div class='line'>His lithe proboscis.”</div>
      <div class='c022'><i>Paradise Lost</i>, Book IV.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c016'>THE idea of a condition of existence in which
all creatures are happy and at peace implies
a protest against the most patent fact of life as we
see it. Western civilisation inherited from the
Roman Empire the hardness of heart towards
animals of which the popularity of beast-fights in
the Arena was the characteristic sign. It was,
however, a Roman poet who first pointed out in
philosophical language that the sufferings of animals
stand written in the great indictment against Nature
no less than the sufferings of men. Not only man
<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>is born to sorrow, said Lucretius; look at the cow
whose calf bleeds before some lovely temple, while
she wanders disconsolate over all the fields, lowing
piteously, uncomforted by the image of other calves,
because her own is not.</p>

<p class='c008'>Eighteen hundred years later Schopenhauer said
that by taking a very high standard it was possible
to justify the sufferings of man but not those of
animals. Darwin arrived at the same conclusion.
“It has been imagined,” he remarks, “that the sufferings
of man tend to his moral improvement, but the
number of men in the world is nothing compared with
the number of other sentient beings which suffer
greatly without moral improvement.” To him, the
man of the religious mind whom men lightly charged
with irreligion, it was “<i>an intolerable thought</i>” that
after long ages of toil all these sentient beings were
doomed to complete annihilation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Yes, and to the young conscience of mankind this
was also an intolerable thought. And since it was
intolerable the human conscience in the strength of its
youth shook it off, cast it aside, awoke from it as we
awake from a nightmare. Religion has been regarded
too exclusively as a submission to Nature. At times
it is a revolt against Nature, a repudiation of what
our senses report to us, an assertion that things seen
are illusions, and that things unseen are real.
Religion is born of Doubt. The incredibility of the
Known forced man to seek refuge in the Unknown.
From that far region he brought back solutions good
or bad, sublime or trivial, to the manifold problems
which beset man’s soul.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>A poet, doomed to early death, who looked into
Nature on a summer’s day and could discern nothing
but “an eternal fierce destruction,” wrote, in his
despair—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in15'>“Things cannot to the will</div>
      <div class='line'>Be settled, but they tease us out of thought.</div>
      <div class='line in22'>... It is a flaw</div>
      <div class='line'>In happiness to see beyond our bourn;</div>
      <div class='line'>It forces us in summer skies to mourn,</div>
      <div class='line'>It spoils the singing of the nightingale.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>But when the world was young things <i>could</i> be
settled to the will. We are, of course, constantly
regulating our impressions of phenomena by a
standard of higher probability. If we see a ship
upside down, we say, “This is not a ship, it is a
mirage.” When the primitive man found himself
face to face with seeming natural laws which offended
his sense of inherent probability, he rejected the
hypothesis that they were actual or permanent,
and supposed them to be either untrustworthy
appearances or deviations from a larger plan.</p>

<p class='c008'>Every basic religion gave a large share of thought
to animals. The merit, from a humane point of
view, of the explanation of the mystery offered by
the religious systems of India has been praised
even to excess. In contrast to this, it was often
repeated that the Hebrew religion ignored the
claims of animals altogether. I wish to show that
even if this charge were not open to other disproof,
no people can be called indifferent to those claims
which believes in a Nature Peace.</p>

<p class='c008'>Traces of such a belief spread from the Mediterranean
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>to the Pacific, from the Equator to the Pole.
But the Peace is not always complete; there are
reservations. In the glowing prediction of a Peace
in Nature in the Atharva-Veda, vultures and jackals
are excluded. Mazdeans would exclude the “bad”
animals. The Hebrew Scriptures, on the other
hand, declare that all species are good in the
sight of their Maker. Every beast enjoyed perfect
content according to the original scheme of the
Creator. But man fell, and all creation was involved
in the consequences of his fall.</p>

<p class='c008'>I remember seeing at the Hague an impressive
painting by a little-known Italian artist<a id='r6' /><a href='#f6' class='c017'><sup>[6]</sup></a> which
represents Adam about to take the apple from Eve
while at their feet a tiger tenderly licks the wool
of a lamb. Adam’s face shows that he is yielding—yielding
for no better reason than that he cannot
say “No”—to the beautiful woman at his side;
and there, unconscious and happy, lie the innocent
victims of his act: love to be turned to wrath,
peace to war. The Nature Peace has been
painted a hundred times, but never with such tragic
significance.</p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r6'>6</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Cignani. A singular sixteenth-century “Nature War” may
be observed in a <i>graffito</i> on the pavement of the Chapel of St.
Catherine in the church of St. Domenico, at Siena. A nude
youth, resembling Orpheus, sits on a rock in a leafy grove, in
the midst of various animals; with a disturbed air he looks into
a mirror at the back of which is an eye, a leopard shows his
teeth at him, while a vulture screams at a monkey, and another
bird snatches a surprised rabbit or squirrel; the other creatures,
unicorn, wolf, eagle, display signs of uneasiness. Endeavours
to read this fable have not proved satisfactory.</p>
</div>

</div>

<div id='i208'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i208.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Bruckmann.</i></span><br />THE GARDEN OF EDEN.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>By Rubens.</i>)</span><br />Hague Gallery.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>The Miltonic Adam sees in the mute signs of
Nature the forerunners of further change:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The bird of Jove, stooped from his airy tour,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Two birds of gayest plume before him drove;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Down from a hill the beast that reigns in woods,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>First hunter then, pursued a gentle brace,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Goodliest of all the forest, hart and hind.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>In an uncanonical version of Genesis which was
translated from an Armenian manuscript preserved
at Venice, by my dear and sadly missed friend,
Padre Giacomo Issaverdens, a still more dramatic
description is given of the manner in which the
Peace ended. When Adam and Eve were driven
from the Garden of Eden they met a lion, which
attacked Adam. “Why,” asked Adam, “do you
attack me when God ordered you and all the animals
to obey me?” “You disobeyed God,” replied the
lion, “and we are no longer bound to obey you.”
Saying which, the noble beast walked away without
harming Adam. But war was declared.</p>

<p class='c008'>War was declared, and yet the scheme of the
Creator could not be for ever defeated. Man who
had erred might hope—and how much more
must there be hope for those creatures that had
done no harm.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the Prophets spoke of a Peace in Nature
in connexion with that readjustment of the eternal
scales which was meant by the coming of the
Messiah, it cannot be doubted that they spoke of
what was already a widely accepted tradition. But
without their help we should have known nothing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>of it and we are grateful to them. Of all the
radiant dreams with which man has comforted his
heart, aching with realities, is there one to be
compared with this? It is of the earth earthly, and
that is the beauty of it. “The wolf shall dwell with
the lamb, and the leopard lie down with the kid;
and the calf and the young lion together; and a
little child shall lead them; the cow and the bear
shall feed; and their young ones lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.”</p>

<p class='c020'>“For behold I create new heavens and a new earth. They
shall not hurt nor destroy in all My holy mountain, saith
the Lord.”</p>

<p class='c019'>Is not this the best of promised lands, the kindest
of Elysiums, which leaves none out in the cold
of cruelty and hatred? The importunate questioner
may inquire, How can this primal and ultimate
happiness compensate for the intervening ages of
pain? About this, it may be observed that in
religious matters people ought not to want to know
too much. This is true of the faithful and even
of the unfaithful. Scientific researches in the great
storehouse which contains the religions of the world
are more aided by a certain reserve, a certain
reverence, than by the insatiable curiosity of the
scalpel. Religions sow abroad <i>idées mères</i>; they
tell some things, others they leave untold. They
take us up into an Alpine height whence we see
the broad configuration of the country and lose sight
of the woods and the tortuous ravines among which
we so often missed the track. Now, from the Alpine
<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>height of faith, the idea of an original and final
Nature Peace makes the intervening discord seem
of no account—a false note between two harmonies.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Nature Peace as the emblem of perfect moral
beauty became nearly the first Christian idea carried
out in art. I remarked a rude but striking instance
of it on one of the funereal monuments which have
been found lately at Carthage, belonging to a date
when Christian and pagan commemorated their dead
in the same manner, the former generally only adding
some slight symbolical indication of his faith. In this
stele Christ, carrying the lamb across His shoulders,
is attended by a panther and a lion. All such primitive
attempts to represent a Nature Peace are chiefly
interesting (and from this point of view their interest
is great) from the fact that in child-like, stammering
efforts they reveal the intrinsic idiosyncrasy of
Christian thought after the Church had parted from
the realities of proximity with its Founder, and had
not reached the realities of a body corporate striving
for supremacy. Christ the Divine Effluence was
the faith which made men willing to face the
lions.</p>

<p class='c008'>Doubtless many of those martyrs clung to the
sublime conception of a final Peace, the complement
of the first. That this was accepted as no allegory
by the later spiritualised Jews, and especially by the
Pharisees, seems to be a well-established fact. It is
difficult to interpret in any other way the solemn
statement of St. Paul, that the “whole creation
groaneth and travaileth in pain together <i>until now</i>,”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>waiting for redemption; or the beatific vision of
Josephus: “The whole Creation also will lift up a
perpetual hymn ... and shall praise Him that
made them together with the angels and spirits and
men, now freed from all bondage.” <i>Homines et
jumenta salvabis Domine.</i></p>
<h3 class='c021'>II.</h3>

<p class='c019'>What was the view taken of animals by the Jewish
people, apart from the fundamental ideas implied by
a primordial Peace in Nature?</p>

<p class='c008'>It was the habit of Hebrew writers to leave a good
deal to the imagination; in general, they only cared
to throw as much light on hidden subjects as was
needful to regulate conduct. They gave precepts
rather than speculations. There remain obscure
points in their conception of animals, but we know
how they did <i>not</i> conceive them: they did not look
upon them as “things”; they did not feel towards
them as towards automata.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the Deluge, there was established “the everlasting
covenant between God and every living
creature of all flesh that is upon the earth.” Evidently,
you cannot make a covenant with “things.”</p>

<div id='i212'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i212.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>N. Consoni.</i></span><br />GENESIS VIII.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Loggie di Raffaello.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>That the Jews supposed the intelligence of animals
to be not extremely different from the intelligence
of man is to be deduced from the story of Balaam,
for it is said that God opened the mouth—not the
mind—of the ass. The same story illustrates the
ancient belief that animals see apparitions which are
concealed from the eyes of man. The great interest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>to us, however, of the Scriptural narrative is its
significance as a lesson in humanity. When the
Lord opened the mouth of the ass, what did the
ass say? She asks her master why he had smitten
her three times? Balaam answers, with a frankness
which, at least, does him credit, because he was
enraged with the ass for turning aside and not
minding him, and he adds (still enraged, and, strange
to say, nowise surprised at the animal’s power of
speech) that he only wishes he had a sword in his
hand, as he would then kill her outright. How like
this is to the voice of modern brutality! The ass,
continuing the conversation, rejoins in words which
it would be a shame to disfigure by putting them
into the idiom of the twentieth century: “Am I not
thine ass upon which thou hast ridden ever since I
was thine unto this day? Was I ever wont to do
so unto thee?” Balaam, who has the merit, as I
have noticed, of being candid, replies, “No, you never
were.” Then, for the first time, the Prophet sees
the angel standing in the path with a drawn sword
in his hand—an awe-inspiring vision! And what
are the angel’s first words to the terrified prophet
who lies prostrate on his face? They are a reproof
for his inhumanity. “Wherefore hast thou smitten
thine ass these three times?” Then the angel tells
how the poor beast he has used thus has saved her
master from certain death, for had she not turned
from him, he would have slain Balaam and saved
her alive. “And Balaam said unto the angel of
the Lord, I have sinned.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Balaam was not a Jew; but the nationality of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>personages in the Bible and the origin or authorship
of its several parts are not questions which affect
the present inquiry. The point of importance is,
that the Jews believed these Scriptures to contain
Divine truth.</p>

<p class='c008'>With regard to animals having the gift of language,
it appears from a remark made by Josephus that the
Jews thought that all animals spoke before the Fall.
In Christian folk-lore there is a superstition that
animals can speak during the Christmas night: an
obvious reference to their return to an unfallen state.</p>

<p class='c008'>Solomon declares that the righteous man “regardeth
the life of his beast”; a saying which is
often misquoted, “merciful” being substituted for
“righteous,” by which the proverb loses half its force.
The Hebrew Scriptures contain two definite injunctions
of humanity to animals. One is the command
not to plough with the ox and the ass yoked together—in
Palestine I have seen even the ass and the
camel yoked together; their unequal steps cause inconvenience
to both yoke-fellows and especially to
the weakest. The other is the prohibition to muzzle
the ox which treads out the corn: a simple humanitarian
rule which it is truly surprising how any one,
even after an early education in casuistry, could have
interpreted as a metaphor. There are three other
commands of great interest because they show how
important it was thought to preserve even the mind
of man from growing callous. One is the order
not to kill a cow or she-goat or ewe and her young
both on the same day. The second is the analogous
order not to seethe the kid in its mother’s milk.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>The third refers to bird-nesting: if by chance you
find a bird’s nest on a tree or on the ground and
the mother bird is sitting on the eggs or on the
fledglings, you are on no account to capture her when
you take the eggs or the young birds (one would
like bird-nesting to have been forbidden altogether,
but I fear that the human boy in Syria had too much
of the old Adam in him for any such law to have
proved effectual!). Let the mother go, says the
sacred writer, and if you must take something, take
only the young ones. This command concludes in
a very solemn way, for it ends with the promise
(for what may seem a little act of unimportant sentiment)
of the blessing promised to man for honouring
his own father and mother—that it will be well with
him and that his days will be long in the land.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the law relative to the observance of the Seventh
Day, not only is no point insisted on more strongly
than the repose of the animals of labour, but in one
of the oldest versions of the fourth commandment
the repose of animals is spoken of as if it were the
chief object of the Sabbath: “Six days shalt thou do
thy work, and on the seventh day thou shalt rest: <i>that</i>
thine ox and thine ass may rest” (Exodus xxiii. 12).
Moreover, it is expressly stated of the Sabbath of
the Lord, the seventh year when no work was to
be done, that all which the land produces of itself
is to be left to the enjoyment of the beasts that are
in the land. The dominant idea was to give animals
a chance—to leave something for them—to afford
them some shelter, as in the creation of bird-sanctuaries
in the temples.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>In promises of love and protection to man, to the
Chosen People, animals are almost always included.
“The heavens shall tremble: the sun and moon shall
be dark, and the stars shall withdraw their shining”
(Joel ii. 10). “Be not afraid, ye beasts of the field:
for the pastures of the wilderness do spring, for the
tree beareth her fruit, the fig-tree and the vine do
yield their strength. Be glad, ye children of Zion,
and rejoice in the Lord your God” (Joel ii. 22, 23).</p>

<p class='c008'>The wisdom of animals is continually praised.
“Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways
and be wise: which having no guide, overseer, or
ruler, provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth
her food in the harvest.” So said the wisest of the
Jews. I am tempted to quote here a passage from
the writings of Giordano Bruno: “With what understanding
the ant gnaws her grain of wheat lest it
should sprout in her underground habitation. The
fool says this is instinct, but we say it is a species
of understanding.” If Solomon did not make the
same reflection, it was only because that wonderful
word “instinct” had not yet been invented.</p>

<div id='i216'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i216.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Alinari.</i></span><br />DANIEL AND THE LIONS.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Early Christian Sarcophagus at Ravenna.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>We have seen that the Jews supposed animals
to be given to men for use not for abuse, and the
whole of Scripture tends to the conclusion that the
Creator—who had called good all the creatures of
His hand—regarded none as unworthy of His providence.
This view is plainly endorsed by the saying
of Christ that not a sparrow falls to the ground
without the will of the Father (or “not one of them
is forgotten in the sight of God”), and by the saying
of Mohammed, who likewise believed himself the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>continuer of Jewish tradition: “There is no beast
that walks upon the earth but its provision is from
God.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But there is something more. Every one knows
that the Jews were allowed to kill and eat animals.
The Jewish religion makes studiously few demands
on human nature. “The ways of the Lord were
pleasant ways.” Since men craved for meat or, in
Biblical language, since they lusted after flesh, they
were at liberty to eat those animals which, in an
Eastern climate, could be eaten without danger to
health. But on one condition: the body they might
devour—what was the body? It was earth. The
soul they might not touch. The mysterious thing
called life must be rendered up to the Giver of it—to
God. The man who did not do this, when he
killed a lamb, was a murderer. “The blood shall
be imputed to him; he hath shed blood, and that
man shall be cut off from among his people.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The inclination must be resisted to dispose of
this mysterious ordinance as a mere sanitary measure.
It was a sanitary measure, but it was much besides.
The Jews believed that every animal had a soul, a
spirit, which was beyond human jurisdiction, with
which they had no right to tamper. When we ask,
however, what this soul, this spirit, was, we find ourselves
groping in the dark. Was it material, as the
soul was thought to be by the Egyptians and by
the earliest doctors of the Christian Church? Was
it an immaterial, impersonal, Divine essence? Was
its identity permanent, or temporary? We can give
no decisive answer; but we may assume with considerable
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>certainty that life, spirit, whatever it was,
appeared at least to the majority of the Jews to
possess one nature, whether in men or in animals.
When a Jew denied the immortality of the soul, he
denied it both for man and for beast. “I said in
my heart,” wrote the author of Ecclesiastes, “concerning
the estate of the sons of men that God might
manifest them, and that they might see that they
themselves are beasts. For that which befalleth the
sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth
them; as the one dieth so the other dieth; yea, they
have all one breath; so that a man hath no pre-eminence
above a beast.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The mist which surrounds the Hebrew idea of
the soul may proceed from the fact that they did
not know themselves what they meant by it, or from
the fact that they once knew what they meant by
it so well as to render elucidation superfluous. If
the teraphim represented the Lares or family
dead, then the archaic Jewish idea of the soul was
simple and definite. It is possible that in all later
times two diametrically opposed opinions existed contemporaneously,
as was the case with the Pharisees
and Sadducees. The Jewish people did not feel the
pressing need to dogmatise about the soul that other
peoples have felt; they had one living soul which was
immortal, and its name was Israel!</p>

<p class='c008'>Still, through all ages, from the earliest times till
now, the Jews have continued to hold sacred “the
blood which is the life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In Hindu religious books, where similar ordinances
are enforced, there are hints of a suspicion which, as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>I have said elsewhere, could not have been absent
from the minds of Hebrew legislators—the haunting
suspicion of a possible mixing-up of personality.
Here we tread on the skirts of magic: a subject
which belongs to starless nights.</p>

<p class='c008'>We come back into the light of day when we
glance at the relations which, according to Jewish
tradition, existed between animals and their Creator.
We see a beautiful interchange of gratitude on the
one side and watchful care on the other. As the
ass of Balaam recognised the angel, so do all animals—except
man—at all times recognise their God.
“But ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee;
and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee....
Who knoweth not of all these that the hand of the
Lord hath wrought this? In whose hand is the
soul of every living thing, and the breath of all
mankind.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I will only add to these words of Job a few verses
taken here and there from the Psalms, which form
a true anthem of our fellow-creatures of the earth
and air:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Beasts and all cattle, creeping things and flying fowl, let them praise the name of the Lord.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>He giveth to the beast his food and to the young ravens which cry.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>He sendeth the springs into the valleys which run among the hills;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>They give drink to every beast of the field, the wild asses quench their thirst.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>By them shall the fowls of heaven have their habitation which sing among the branches:</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The trees of the Lord are full of sap, the cedars of Lebanon which He hath planted,</div>
      <div class='line in1'><span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>Where the birds make their nests; as for the stork, the fir-trees are her house.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The great hills are a refuge for the wild goats and the rocks for the conies.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Thou makest darkness, and it is night, wherein all the beasts of the forest do creep forth;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The young lions roar after their prey, and seek their meat from God;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The sun ariseth, they gather themselves together and lay them down in their dens.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>... Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Even thine altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King and my God!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>
  <h2 id='ch11' class='c006'>XI<br /> <br />“A PEOPLE LIKE UNTO YOU”</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>A FRIEND who was spending the winter at
Tunis asked me if it were true that there was
any teaching of kindness to animals in the religion
of Islam? She had seen with pain the little humanity
practised by the lower class of Arabs, and she had
difficulty in believing that such conduct was contrary
to the law of the Prophet. I replied, that if men are
sometimes better than their creeds, at other times
they are very much worse. At the head of every
chapter of the Koran, it is written: “In the name
of the most merciful God.” If God be merciful, shall
man be unmerciful? Alas, that the answer should
have been so often “yes”!</p>

<p class='c008'>Inhumanity to animals is against the whole spirit
of the Koran, and also against that of Moslem
tradition. In the “Words of Mohammed,” of which
one thousand four hundred and sixty-five collections
exist, and which are looked upon as “the Moslem’s
dictionary of morals and manners,” the Apostle is
described as saying: “Fear God in these dumb
animals, and ride them when they are fit to be rode,
and get off them when they are tired.” Mohammed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>was asked by his disciples: “Verily, are there rewards
for our doing good to quadrupeds and giving them
water to drink? “He said: “There are rewards
for benefiting every animal having a moist liver”
(every sentient creature). He said again: “There
is no Moslem who planteth a tree or soweth a field,
and man, birds or beasts eat from them, but it is
a charity for him.” Like all other religious teachers,
he was made by legend the central figure of a Nature
Peace. He had miraculous authority over beasts as
well as over man, and beasts, more directly than
man, knew him to be from God. Once he was
standing in the midst of a crowd when a camel came
and prostrated itself before him. His companions
exclaimed, “O Apostle of God! Beasts and trees
worship thee, then it is meet for us to worship thee.”
Mohammed replied, “Worship God, and you may
honour your brother—that is, me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Those who know nothing else about Mohammed
know the story of how he cut away his sleeve rather
than awaken his cat, which was sleeping upon it.
He is reported to have told how a woman was once
punished for a cat: she tied it till it died of hunger—she
gave that cat nothing to eat, nor did she allow
it to go free, so that it might have eaten “the reptiles
of the ground.” (Cats do eat lizards and snakes too,
even when they have plenty of food—very bad for
them it is.) Mohammed’s fondness of cats has been
suggested as the reason why two or three of them
usually go with the Caravan which takes the Sacred
Carpet from Cairo to Mecca, but perhaps the origin
of that custom is far more remote.</p>

<div id='i222'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i222.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>“AN INDIAN ORPHEUS.”<br />Royal Palace at Delhi.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Imitated from a painting by Raphael.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>In the words of Mohammed there is this beautiful
version of the “Sultan Murad” cycle: an adulteress
was passing by a well when she saw a dog which
was holding out its tongue from the thirst which was
killing him. The woman drew off her shoe and tied
it to the end of her garment; then she drew up water
and gave the dog to drink. The dog fawned on
her and licked her hands. Now the Sultan was
passing that way, and he saw the woman and the
dog and inquired into the matter. When he had
heard all, he told the guards to undo her chain and
give her back her veil and lead her to her own
home.</p>

<p class='c008'>On one occasion the Prophet met a man who had
a nest of young doves, and the mother fluttered after
and even down about the head of him that held it.
The Prophet told him to put the nest back where
he found it, for this wondrous love comes from
God.</p>

<p class='c008'>The verse which gives the keynote to Moslem
ideas about animals occurs in the sixth chapter of
the Koran, and runs thus: “There is no beast on
earth nor bird which flieth with its wings but the same
is a people like unto you, we have not omitted anything
in the Book of our decrees; then unto their
Lord shall they return.” In other texts where the
word “creatures” is used there is a strong presumption
that animals, as well as men, genii and
angels, are included; as, for instance, “unto Him
do all creatures which are in heaven and earth make
petition,” and again, “all God’s creatures are His
family, and he is the most beloved of God who trieth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>to do the most good to God’s creatures”—which is
almost word for word—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“He prayeth best, who loveth best</div>
      <div class='line in1'>All things both great and small;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>For the dear God who loveth us,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>He made and loveth all.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The common grace after eating is “Praise be to
the Lord of all creatures!” Moslem hunters and
butchers have the custom, called the Hallal, of pronouncing
a formula of excuse (Bi’sm-illah!) before
slaying any animal. The author of “Malay Magic”
mentions, that if a Malay takes a tiger in a pitfall,
the Pawang, or medicine-man, has to explain to the
quarry that it was not he that laid the snare but
the Prophet Mohammed.</p>

<p class='c008'>By orthodox Moslem law hunting was allowed,
provided it was for some definite end or necessity.
It was legitimate to hunt for food, or for clothing,
as when the skin was the object. Dangerous wild
beasts, the incompatible neighbours of all but saints,
might be hunted to protect the more precious lives
of men. Beyond this, from an orthodox point of
view, hunting was regarded as indefensible. Such
was the rule, and there is no greater mistake than
to undervalue the moral standard because every one
does not attain to it. Perhaps few Moslems keep
this rule rigidly, but it is true now as it was when
Lane wrote on the subject, that a good Moslem who
hunts for amusement does not seek to prolong the
chase: he tries to take the game as quickly as he
can, and if it is not dead when taken, it is instantly
killed by having its throat cut. Such amusements
<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>as shooting pigeons, or the unspeakable abomination
of firing at wild birds from ships, which makes certain
tourist steamers a curse in the Arctic regions, would
inspire even the not too orthodox Moslem with profound disgust.</p>

<p class='c008'>There were some Moslems who went far beyond
the law—for whom taking life, when the fact of
doing so came rudely before them, was a thing
revolting in itself. Such sensibility was manifest in
the Persian poets, and it has been attributed to their
inherited Zoroastrian tendencies; but to think this
is to misunderstand the groundwork of Mazdean
humane teaching, which was not based on sensitiveness
about taking life. Such sensitiveness is
rarely found, except among Aryan races, and
Zoroastrianism, though it spread among an Aryan
people, was not an Aryan religion. It is more likely
to be true that the Persian peculiar tenderness for
animals was an atavistic revival of the old Aryan
temperament. Renan said that Sufism was a racial
Aryan reaction against <i>l’effroyable simplicité de
l’esprit sémitique</i>. Sensitiveness about animals was
a necessary ingredient, so to speak, of Sufism. Sadi,
the Sufic poet <i>par excellence</i>, poured blessings on the
departed spirit of Firdusi for the couplet which Sir
William Jones translated so well and loved so
much:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Ah, spare yon emmet, rich in hoarded grain;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>He lives with pleasure, and he dies with pain.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>That birds and many, if not all, animals have a
language by which they can interchange their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>thoughts is a belief shared by Moslems, both
learned and ignorant. The Koran says that the
language of birds was understood by Solomon, and
folk-lore gives many other persons credit for the
same accomplishment. A person believed to have
such powers could turn the belief, if not the powers,
to uses both good and bad. An Arabian tale relates
how a pleasure-loving Persian king summoned a
Maubadz, a head Magian, to tell him what two owls
were chattering about. The Maubadz told with considerable
detail the plan which the female owl was
unfolding to the male owl, of how each of their future
numerous offspring might be set up in life as sole
possessor of a forsaken village, if only the present
“fortunate king” lived long enough. The monarch
understood the rebuke, and resolved to mend his
ways, and to encourage tillage and agriculture, instead
of devoting himself to idle pastimes.</p>

<div id='i226'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i226.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>MOSLEM BEGGAR FEEDING DOGS AT CONSTANTINOPLE.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Bird-trills mean sentences or words, chiefly
religious. The pigeon cries continually, “Alláh!
Alláh!” The common dove executes this long
sentence: “Assert the unity of your Lord who
created you, so will He forgive you your sin.”
There was a parrot who could repeat the whole
Koran by heart and could never be put out so as
to make mistakes. I knew of an old priest who
repeated the <i>Divina Commedia</i> from the first line
to the last, and the knowledge of the whole of the
<i>Iliad</i> was common in ancient Athens, where people
were laughed at who gave themselves the airs of
scholars on the ground of such feats of memory.
But in the bird-world the Moslem parrot surely
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>stands alone, though we hear of a pious raven who
could say correctly the thirty-second chapter and
who always made the proper prostration when it
came to the words: “My body prostrateth itself
before Thee, and my heart confideth in Thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The chapter of the Koran entitled “the Ant” is
full of charming zoology. God bestowed knowledge
on David and Solomon, and Solomon, who was
“David’s heir,” said to the people: “O men, we
have been taught the speech of birds, and have
had all things bestowed on us: this is manifest
excellence.” The armies of Solomon consisted of
men and genii and birds: they were arrayed in
proper order on an immense carpet of green silk:
the men were placed to the right, the genii to the
left, and the birds flew overhead, making a canopy
of shade from the burning rays of the sun. Solomon
sat in the middle on his throne, and when it was
desired to move, the wind transported the carpet
with all on it from one place to another. This
account, however, is not in the Koran, and need
not be believed. But that the armies were of the
three species of beings we have the highest authority
for asserting. They arrived, one day, in the Valley
of Ants. A sentinel ant beheld the approaching
host and called to her companions to hasten into
their habitations for fear that Solomon and his
armies should crush them underfoot without perceiving
it. This made Solomon smile, but while
he laughed at her words, he yet remembered to
thank the Lord for the favour wherewith He had
favoured him: the privilege of knowing the language
<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>of beasts. After blessing God, and praying that
in the end He would take him into paradise among
His righteous servants, the king looked around at
his feathered army and lo! he missed the lapwing.
Some say that the reason why he noticed her
absence was because in that place water was lacking
for the ablution, and, as every one knows, the lapwing
is the water-finder. Be that as it may (it is not
stated in the Koran), he cried in displeasure:
“What is the reason I do not see the lapwing?
Is she absent? Verily I will chastise her with
a severe punishment, or I will put her to death
unless she bring me a just excuse.” Not long
did he have to wait before the lapwing appeared,
nor was the just excuse wanting. She had seen
a country which the king had not seen, and she
brought hence a remarkable piece of news. In
the land of Saba (Sheba) a woman reigned who
received all the honour due to a great prince.
She had a magnificent throne of gold and silver;
she and her people worshipped the Sun besides
God. Satan, added the lapwing, becoming controversial,
had turned them away from the truth lest
they should worship the true God, from whom
nothing is hid. And then this little bird of a story
like a fairy-tale ends her discourse with one of
those sharp, sudden, antithetical organ-blasts which
again and again lift the mind of the reader of
the Koran into the highest regions of poetry and
religion: “God! there is no God but He; the Lord
of the Magnificent Throne!” What wonderful art
there is in the repetition of the words which had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>been applied just before to earthly splendour! The
effect is the same as that of the words in Arabic
which we see carved at every turn in the splendid
halls of the Alhambra: “God only is conqueror.”
What is the splendour or the power of earthly
kings?</p>

<p class='c008'>The story resumes its course. Solomon tells the
lapwing that they will see, by and by, if she has
told the truth or is a liar. He writes a letter
(which tradition says was perfumed with musk and
sealed with the king’s signet), and he commands
the bird to take it to the land of Saba. Some say
that the lapwing delivered the letter by throwing
it into the queen’s bosom as she sat surrounded
by her army; others that she brought it to her
through an open window when she was sitting in
her chamber: at any rate, it reached its destination,
and the lapwing’s character was completely rehabilitated.
With regard to Queen Balkis, the
Bible, the Koran, and the Emperor Menelek may
be consulted.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the beasts most esteemed by Moslems,
one of those who, with Balaam’s ass, Jonah’s whale,
Abraham’s ram, Solomon’s ant, and several other
favourite animals, are known to have been admitted
into the highest heaven, is the dog in the Moslem
version of the “Seven Sleepers of Ephesus,” the
legend of the seven young men who hid in a cave
and slept safely through a long period of persecution.
The dog has a Divine command to say to the young
men, “I love those who are dear to God, and I
will guard you.” He lay stretched across the mouth
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>of the cave during the whole time that the persecution
lasted. Moslems say of a very avaricious man,
“He would not give a bone to the dog of the Seven
Sleepers.” The dog’s name was Katmîr (though
some said it was Al Rakîm), and people wrote it
as a talisman on important letters sent to a distance
or oversea, to make sure of their arriving safely: it
was like registration without the fee. He appears
to have slept, as did his masters, while he guarded
the entrance to the cave: the protection which he
afforded must be attributed to his supernatural gifts
as a devil-scarer rather than to the watch he kept.
Dogs were believed to see “things invisible to us”—<i>i.e.</i>,
demons. If a dog barks in the night the
Faithful ask God’s aid against Satan. The cock
is also a devil-scarer and sees angels as well as
demons: when he crows it is a sign that he has
just seen one.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sometimes genii take the form of certain animals
such as cats, dogs, and serpents (animals which are
not eaten). If a man would kill one of the animals in
which genii often appear, he must first warn the genii
to vacate its form. This means that there is a greater
prejudice against taking the life of such animals than
in the case of animals slaughtered for food, when it
is sufficient (though necessary) to say “If it pleases
God.” While non-mystical Moslems did not respect
life as such, nevertheless they realised the great
scientific truth that <i>life</i> is the supreme mystery.
“The idols ye invoke besides God,” says the Koran,
“can never create a single fly although they were
all assembled for that purpose, and if the fly snatch
<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>anything from them” (such as offerings of honey)
“they cannot recover the same from it.” Moslems
are fond of the legend from the Gospel of the
Infancy of how the Child Jesus, when He and other
children were playing at making clay sparrows,
breathed on the birds made by Him and they flew
away or hopped on His hands. The parents of the
other children forbade them to play any more with
the Holy Child, whom they thought to be a sorcerer.
That the Jews really imagined the unusual things
done by Christ to be magic-working, and that this
belief entered more into their wish to compass His
death than is commonly supposed, a knowledge of
Eastern ideas on magic inclines one to think.
Moslems readily admit the truth of the miracle of
the sparrows as of the other miracles of Jesus; they
add, however, that life came into the clay figures
“by permission of God.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Towards the end of the world, animals will speak
with human language. Before this happens will have
come to pass the reign of the “Rooh Allah,” the
Spirit of God, as all Moslems call Christ. It is
told that He will descend near the White Tower east
of Damascus and will remain on earth for forty (or
for twenty-four) years, during which period malice
and hatred will be laid aside and peace and plenty
will rejoice the hearts of men. While Jesus reigns,
lions and camels and bears and sheep will live in
amity and a child will play with serpents unhurt.</p>

<p class='c008'>A kind of perpetual local Nature Peace prevails at
Mecca; no animals are allowed to be slaughtered
within a certain distance of the sacred precinct. It
<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>should be noted also that pilgrims are severely prohibited
from hunting; the wording of the verse in
the Koran which establishes this rule seems to imply
the possibility that wild animals themselves are doing
the pilgrimage; hence they must be held sacred.</p>

<p class='c008'>The law forbidding Moslems to eat the flesh of
swine was copied from the Jewish ordinance, without
doubt from the conviction that it was unwholesome.
Those who were driven by extreme hunger to eat
of it were not branded as unclean. There is a curious
Indian folk-tale which gives an account of why swine-flesh
was forbidden. At the beginning Allah restrained
man from eating any animals but those which
died a natural death. As they did not die as quickly
as they wished, men began to hasten their deaths by
striking them and throwing stones at them. The
animals complained to Allah, who sent Gabriel to
order all the men and all the animals to assemble so
that He might decide the case. But the obstinate
pig did not come. So Allah said: “The pigs, the
lowest of animals, are disobedient; let no one eat
them or touch them.” There is no record whatever
of the pigs having signed a protest.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is by no means clear when the prejudice against
dogs took hold of the Moslem mind. At first their
presence was even tolerated inside the Mosque, and
the report that the Prophet ordered all the dogs at
Medina to be killed, especially those of a dark colour,
is certainly a fable. The Caliph Abu Djafar al
Mausur asked a learned man this very question:
why dogs were treated with scorn? The learned
man was so worthy of that description that he had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>the courage to say he did not know. “Tradition
said so.” The Caliph suggested that it might be
because dogs bark at guests and at beggars. There
is a modern saying that angels never go into a house
where there is a dog or an image. Still, the ordinary
kindness of the Turks to the pariah dogs at Constantinople,
where the beggar shares his last crust
with them, shows that the feeling belongs more to
philology than to nature. The pariah dog is the
type of the despised outcast, but when a European
throws poisoned bread to him the act is not admired
by the Moslem more than it deserves to be.</p>

<p class='c008'>Several <i>savants</i> have thought that the dog is
scorned by Moslems because he was revered by
Mazdeans; that he suffered indignity at the hands
of the new believers as a protest against the excess
of honour he had received from the old. This
theory, though ingenious, does not seem to be borne
out by facts. The comparisons of the qualities of
the good dervish and the dog, which is a sort of
vade mecum of dervishes everywhere, was almost
certainly suggested by the “Eight Characteristics”
of the dog in the Avesta. It is singular that the
dog gets far better treatment in the Moslem comparisons
than in the Mazdean. “The dog is always
hungry: so is it with the faithful; he sleeps but
little by night: so is it with those plunged in divine
Love; if he die, he leaves no heritage: so is it with
ascetics; he forsakes not his master even if driven
away: so is it with adepts; he is content with few
temporal goods: so is it with the pursuers of
temperance; if he is expelled from one place he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>seeks another: so is it with the humble; if he is
chastised and dismissed and then called back he
obeys: so is it with the modest; if he sees food he
remains standing afar: so is it with those who are
consecrated to poverty; if he go on a journey he
carries no refreshment for the way: so is it with
those who have renounced the world.” Some of
these “Characteristics” are flung back in irony at
the dervishes by those who bitterly deride them,
as the friars in the ages of Faith were derided in
Europe—without its making the least difference to
their popularity—but the homily itself is quite
serious and meant for edification. Hasan Basri,
who died in 728 <span class='fss'>A.D.</span>, was the author or adapter.
Its wide diffusion is due to the accuracy with
which it depicts the wandering mystic, whether
he be called a dervish or a Fakeer, or, in the
Western translation of Fakeer, a “Poverello” of St.
Francis.</p>

<p class='c008'>A certain rich man apologised to a Dervish because
his servants, without his knowledge, had often driven
him away: the holy man showed, he said, great
patience and humility in coming back after such ill-treatment.
The dervish replied that it was no
merit but only one of the “traits of the dog,” which
returns however often it is driven off. The worst
enemies to the dervish have ever been the Ulemas,
for whom he is a kind of dangerous lunatic strongly
tinged with heresy. Among his unconventional ideas
was sure to penetrate, more or less, the neoplatonist
or Sufic view of animals. Wherever transcendental
meditations on the union of the created with the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>Creator begin to prevail, men’s minds take the
direction of admitting a more intimate relation of
all living things with God. We might be sure that
the dervishes would follow this psychological law
even if we could not prove it. To prove it, however,
we need go no further than the great prayer,
one of the noblest of human prayers, which is used
by many of the Dervish orders. There we read:
“Thy science is everlasting and knows even the
numbers of the breaths of Thy creatures: Thou seest
and hearest the movements of all Thy creatures;
thou hearest even the footsteps of the ant when in
the dark night she walks on black stones; even the
birds of the air praise Thee in their nests; the wild
beasts of the desert adore Thee; the most secret as
well as the most exposed thoughts of Thy servants
Thou knowest....”</p>

<p class='c008'>In the same way, it was natural that the Dervishes
should be supposed to have the power attributed to
all holy (or harmless) men over the kings of the
desert and forest. It could not be otherwise.
Bishop Heber heard of two Indian Yogis who lived
in different parts of a jungle infested by tigers in
perfect safety; indeed, it was reported that one of
these ascetics had a nightly visit from a tiger, who
licked his hands and was fondled by him. This is a
Hindu jungle story, but it would be just as credible
if it were told of a Dervish. Of the credibility of
the first part of it, and probably of the last also,
there is not a single wandering ascetic of any sort
who would entertain a doubt. Some years ago a
Moslem recluse deliberately put his arm into the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>cage of Moti, the tiger in the Lahore Zoological
Gardens. The tiger lacerated the arm, and the poor
man died in the hospital after some days’ suffering,
during which he showed perfect serenity. He had made
a mistake; the tiger, brought up as a cub by British
officers and deprived of his liberty, was not endowed
with the power of discrimination possessed by a king
of the wild. This, I hope, the Fakeer reflected, but
it is more likely that he deemed that cruel clutch a
sign of his own unworthiness and accepted death
meekly, hoping not for reward but for pardon.</p>

<p class='c008'>One would like to know more of a book which
Mr. Charles M. Doughty found a certain reputed
saint “poring and half weeping over,” the argument
of which was “God’s creatures the beasts,” while its
purpose was to show that every beast yields life-worship
unto God. Even if this Damascus saint
was not very saintly (as the author of “Arabia
Deserta” hints), yet it is interesting to note that
this subject should have appeared to a would-be
new Messiah the most important he could choose
for his Gospel.</p>

<p class='c008'>A Persian poet, Azz’ Eddin Elmocadessi, advises
man to learn from the birds,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Virtues that may gild thy name;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And their faults if thou wouldst scan,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Know thy failings are the same.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The recognition in animals of most human qualities
in a distinct though it may be a limited form underlies
all Eastern animal-lore and gives it a force and a
reality even when it deals with extravagant fancies.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>There is a broad difference between the power of
feeling <i>for</i> animals and the power of feeling <i>with</i>
them. The same difference moulds the sentiments of
man to man: nine men in ten can feel for their fellow-humans,
but scarcely one man in ten can feel with them.
They even know it, and they say ungrammatically,
“I feel the greatest sympathy <i>for</i> so and so.” An
instance of true <i>mitempfindung</i>, of insight into the
very soul of a creature, exists in an Arabian poem by
Lebid, who was one of the most interesting figures
of the period in which the destinies of the Arab race
were cast. He was the glory of the Arabs, not only
on account of his faultless verse, but also because
of his noble character. It is told of him that whenever
an east wind blew, he provided a feast for the
poor. Himself a pre-Islamic theist, he hailed the
Prophet as the inspired enunciator of the creed he
had held imperfectly and in private. All his poems
were composed in the “Ignorance”; on being asked
for a poem after his conversion at ninety years of
age, he copied out a chapter of the Koran, and said,
“God has given me this in exchange for poesy.” I
do not think this meant that he despised the poet’s
art, but that now, when he could no longer exercise
it, he had what was still more precious.</p>

<p class='c008'>The passage in question is one of several which
show Lebid’s surprisingly close acquaintance with the
ways and thoughts of wild animals. It is one of
those elaborate similes which were the pride of
Arabian poets, who often preferred to take comparisons
already in use than to invent new ones. Wherever
literature became a living entertainment, something of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>this kind happened: witness the borrowings from the
Classics by the poets of the Renaissance; people
liked to recognise familiar ideas in a new dress.
Lebid’s similes have been turned and re-turned by
other poets, but none approached the art and truth
he infused into them. I am indebted to Sir Charles
Lyall for the following version, which is not included
in his volume of splendid translations of early Arabian
poetry. The subject of the passage is the grief
of a wild cow that has lost her calf:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Flat-nosed is she—she has lost her calf and ceases not to roam</div>
      <div class='line in4'>About the marge of the sand meadows and cry</div>
      <div class='line in1'>For her youngling, just weaned, white, whose limbs have been torn</div>
      <div class='line in4'>By the ash-grey hunting wolves who lack not for food.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>They came upon it while she knew not, and dealt her a deadly woe:</div>
      <div class='line in4'>—Verily, Death, when it shoots, misses not the mark!</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The night came upon her, as the dripping rain of the steady shower</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Poured on and its continuous flow soaked the leafage through and through.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>She took refuge in the hollow trunk of a tree with lofty branches standing apart</div>
      <div class='line in4'>On the skirts of the sandhills where the fine sand sloped her way.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The steady rain poured down, and the flood reached the ridge of her back,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>In a night when thick darkness hid away all the stars;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And she shone in the face of the mirk with a white, glimmering light</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Like a pearl born in a sea-shell, that has dropped from its string.</div>
      <div class='line in1'><span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>Until, when the darkness was folded away and morning dawned,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>She stood, her legs slipping in the muddy earth.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>She wandered distracted about all the pools of So’âid</div>
      <div class='line in4'>For seven nights twinned with seven whole long days,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Until she lost all hope, and her udders shrunk—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>The udders that had not failed in all the days of the suckling and weaning,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Then she heard the sound of men and it filled her heart with fear,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Of men from a hidden place; and men, she knew, were her bane.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>She rushed blindly along, now thinking the chase before,</div>
      <div class='line in6'>And now behind her: each was a place of dread.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Until, when the archers lost hope, they let loose on her</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Trained hounds with hanging ears, each with a stiff leather collar on its neck;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>They beset her and she turned to meet them with her horns</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Like to spears of Semhar in their sharpness and their length.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>To thrust them away: for she knew well, if she drove them not off,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>That the fated day of her death among the fates of beasts had come;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And among them, Kesâb was thrust through and slain and rolled in blood lay there,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And Sukhâm was left in the place where he made his     onset.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>There the description breaks off. In spite of the
haunting cry of the cow of Lucretius, in spite of
the immortal tears of Shakespeare’s “poor sequester’d
stag”—no vision of a desperate animal in all literature
seems to me so charged with every element of pathos
and dramatic intensity as this cow of Lebid. How
fine is the altogether unforeseen close, which leaves
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>us wondering, breathless: Will she escape? Will no
revengeful arrow reach her? Will the archers do as
Om Piet did to the wildebeest?—</p>

<p class='c020'>“A wildebeest cow and calf were pursued by Om Piet with
three hunting-dogs. The Boer hunter tells the tale: ‘The old
cow laid the first dog low; the calf is now tired. The second
dog comes up to seize it; the cow strikes him down. Now the
third dog tries to bite the little one, who can run no more, but
the cow treats him so that there’s nothing to be done but
to shoot him. Then Om Piet stands face to face with the
wildebeest, who snorts but does not fly. Now though I come to
shoot a wildebeest yet can I not kill a beast that has so
bravely fought and will not run away; so Om Piet takes off his
hat, and says, “Good-day to you, old wildebeest. You are a
good and strong old wildebeest.” And we dine off springbuck
that night at the farm.’”<a id='r7' /><a href='#f7' class='c017'><sup>[7]</sup></a></p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote c000' id='f7'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r7'>7</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“A Breath from the Veldt,” by Guille Millais, 2nd
edition, 1899.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'>I ought to explain that, like the “cow” of Om
Piet, Lebid’s “cow” is an antelope—the <i>Antilope
defassa</i>—of which a good specimen may be seen in
the Natural History Museum at South Kensington.
The old Boer’s hunting yarn brings an unexpected
confirmation of the Arabian poet’s testimony to its
courage and maternal love.</p>

<p class='c008'>Since the chase began, down to the blind brutality
of the battue (which wiped it out) chivalry has been
a trait of the genuine sportsman. In the golden
legend of hunter’s generosity should be inscribed for
ever the tale—the true tale as I believe it to be—of the
Moslem prince Sebectighin, who rose from slave-birth
to the greatest of Persian thrones—and more honour
to him, notwithstanding the slur which Firdusi, stung
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>by Mahmoud’s want of appreciation, cast, in a foolish
moment, on his father’s origin. Sebectighin was
a horseman in the service of the Sultan and as a
preparation for greater things he found a vent for his
pent-up energies in the chase. One day he remarked
a deer with her little fawn peacefully grazing in a
glade of the forest. He galloped to the spot, and in
less than a second he had seized the fawn, which,
after binding its legs, he placed across his saddle-bows.
Thus he started to go home, but looking back,
he saw the mother following, with every mark of
grief. Sebectighin’s heart was touched; he loosened
the fawn and restored it to its dam. And in the night
he had a vision in his dreams of One who said to
him, “The kindness and compassion which thou hast
this day shown to a distressed animal has been
approved of in the presence of God; therefore in the
records of Providence the kingdom of Ghusni is
marked as a reward against thy name. Let not
greatness destroy thy virtue, but continue thy benevolence
to man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Among the Afghan ballads collected by James
Darmesteter, of which it has been aptly said that
they give an admirable idea of Homer in a state of
becoming, there is one composed in a gentler mood
than the songs of war and carnage which has
a gazelle for heroine and the Prophet as <i>Deus ex
machina</i>. As there is no translation of it into
English I have attempted the following version:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The Son of Abu Jail he set a snare for a gazelle,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Without a thought along she sped, and in the snare she fell.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'><span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>‘O woe is me!’ she weeping cried, ‘that I to look forgot!</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Fain would I live for my dear babes, but hope, alas! is not.’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>Then to the Merciful she made this short and fervent prayer:</div>
      <div class='line in1'>‘I left two little fawns at home; Lord, keep them in Thy care!’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>The son of Abu Jail he came, in haste and glee he ran,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>‘Ah, now I’ve got you in my net, and who to save you can?’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>He grasped her by her tender throat, his fearsome sword did draw,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>When lo! the Lord held back his hand! The Prophet’s self he saw!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>‘The world was saved for love of thee, save for thy pity’s sake!’</div>
      <div class='line in1'>So breathed the trembling doe, and then the holy Prophet spake:</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>‘Abu, my friend, this doe let go, and hark to my appeal;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>She has two tender fawns at home who pangs of hunger feel,</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>‘Let her go back one hour to them, no longer will she stay,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And when she comes, O heartless man, then mayest thou have thy way!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>But if, by chance, she should not come, then by my faith will I</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Be unto thee a bonded slave until the day I die.’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>Then Abu the gazelle let go; to her dear young she went,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>‘Quick, children, take my breast,’ she said, ‘my life is almost spent;</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'><span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>‘The Master of the Universe for me a pledge I gave,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>But I must swift return and then no man my life can save.’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>Then said the little ones to her, ‘Mother, we dare not eat;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Go swiftly back, redeem the pledge, fast as can fly thy feet.’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>One hour had scarce run fully out when, panting, she was there;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Now, Abu, son of Abu, thou mayest take her life or spare!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>Said Abu, ‘In the Prophet’s name, depart, I set you free ...</div>
      <div class='line in1'>But thou, our Helper, at God’s throne, do thou remember me!’</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>So have I told, as long ago my father used to tell,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>How Pagan Abu Moslem turned and saved his soul from hell.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>This brief sketch will suffice to show that if the
Moslem is not humane to animals it is his own fault,
as I think it is his own fault if he is not humane to
man. Teaching humanity to animals must always
imply the teaching of humanity to men. This was
perfectly understood well by all these Oriental tellers
of beast-stories: they would all have endorsed the
saying of one of my Lombard peasant-women (dear,
good soul!), “Chi non è buono per le bestie, non
è buono per i Cristiani”; <i>Cristiano</i> meaning, in
Italian popular speech, a human being. Under the
most varied forms, in fiction which while the world
lasts, can never lose its freshness, the law of kindness
is brought home. Perhaps the most beautiful of
all humane legends is one preserved in a poem by
Abu Mohammed ben Yusuf, Sheikh Nizan-eddin,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>known to Europeans as Nizami. This Persian poet,
who died sixty-three years before Dante was born,
may have taken the legend from some collection
of Christ-lore, some uncanonical book impossible now
to trace; it is unlikely that he invented it. As Jesus
walks with His disciples through the market-place
at evening, He comes upon a crowd which is giving
vent to every expression of abhorrence at the sight
of a poor dead dog lying in the gutter. When they
have all had their say, and have pointed in disgust
to his blear eyes, foul ears, bare ribs, torn hide,
“which will not even yield a decent shoe-string,”
Jesus says, “How beautifully white his teeth are!”
No story of the Saviour outside the Gospels is so
worthy to have been in them.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>
  <h2 id='ch12' class='c006'>XII<br /> <br />THE FRIEND OF THE CREATURE</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>IN Hindu mythology Gunádhya attracts a whole
forestful of beasts by reciting his poems to them.
The power of Apollo and of Orpheus in taming
beasts depended on a far less surprising <i>modus operandi</i>;
like the greater part of myths, this one was
not spun from the thin air of imagination. Music
has a real influence on animals; in spite of theories
to the contrary, it is probable that the sweet flute-playing
of the snake-charmer—his “sweet charming”
in Biblical phrase—is no mere piece of theatrical
business, but a veritable aid in obtaining the desired
results. I myself could once attract fieldmice
by playing on the violin, and only lately, on
the road near our house at Salò, I noticed that a
goat manifested signs of wishing to stop before a
grind-organ; its master pulled the string by which
it was led, but it tugged at it so persistently that,
at last, he stopped, and the goat, turning round
its head, listened with evident attention. Independently
of the pleasure music may give to animals,
it excites their curiosity, a faculty which is extremely
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>alive in them, as may be seen by the way in which
small birds are attracted by the pretty antics of the
little Italian owl; they cannot resist going near to
have a better view, and so they rush to their doom
upon the limed sticks.</p>

<p class='c008'>Legends have an inner and an outer meaning; the
allegory of Apollo, Lord of Harmony, would have
been incomplete had it lacked the beautiful incident
of a Nature Peace—partial indeed, but still a fairer
triumph to the god than his Olympian honours.
For nine years he watched the sheep of Admetus, as
Euripides described:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Pythean Apollo, master of the lyre,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Who deigned to be a herdsman and among</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Thy flocks on hills his hymns celestial sung;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And his delightful melodies to hear</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Would spotted lynx and lions fierce draw near;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>They came from Othry’s immemorial shade,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>By charm of music tame and harmless made;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And the swift, dappled fawns would there resort,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>From the tall pine-woods and about him sport.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>When Apollo gave Orpheus his lyre, he gave
him his gift “to soothe the savage breast.” In the
splendid Pompeian fresco showing a Nature Peace,
the bay-crowned, central figure is said to be Orpheus,
though its god-like proportions suggest the divinity
himself. At any rate, nothing can be finer as the
conception of an inspired musician: the whole body
<i>sings</i>, not only the mouth. A lion and a tiger sit
on either side; below, a stag and a wild boar listen
attentively, and a little hare capers near the stream.
In the upper section there are other wild beasts
<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>sporting round an elephant, while oxen play with a
tiger; an anticipation of the ox and tiger in Rubens’
“Garden of Eden.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The power of Orpheus to subdue wild beasts was
the reason why the early Christians took him as a
type of Christ. Of all the prophecies which were
believed to refer to the Messiah none so captivated
the popular mind as those which could be interpreted
as referring to His recognition by animals. The
four Gospels which became the canon of the Church
threw no light on the subject, but the gap was filled
up by the uncanonical books; one might think that
they were written principally for the purpose of
dwelling on this theme, so frequently do they return
to it. In the first place, they bring upon the scene
those dear objects of our childhood’s affection, the
ass and the ox of the stable of Bethlehem. Surely
many of us cherish the impression that ass and
ox rest on most orthodox testimony: an idea which
is certainly general in Catholic countries, though,
the other day, I heard of a French priest who was
heartless enough to declare that they were purely
imaginary. “Alas,” as Voltaire said, “people run
after truth!” As a matter of fact, it appears evident
that the ass and the ox were introduced to fulfil
the prophecy of Isaiah: “The ox knoweth his owner
and the ass his master’s manger, but Israel knoweth
Me not.” But there arose what was thought a
difficulty: the apocryphal Gospels, in harmony with
the earliest traditions, place the birth of Christ, not
in a stable, but in the grotto which is still shown to
travellers. To reconcile this with the legend of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>the ass and ox and also with the narrative of St.
Luke, it was supposed that the Holy Family moved
from the grotto to a stable a few days after the
Child was born. This is a curious case of finding
a difficulty where there was none, for it is very likely
that the caves near the great Khan of Bethlehem
were used as stables. In every primitive country
shepherds shelter themselves and their flocks in
holes in rocks; I remember the “uncanny” effect
of a light flickering in the depths of a Phœnician
tomb near Cagliari; it was almost disappointing
to hear that it was only a shepherd’s fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas, “the Israelite philosopher,” as he called
himself, author of the Pseudo-Thomas which is said
to date from the second century, appears to have
been a Jewish convert belonging to one of the
innumerable “heretical” sects of the earliest times.
It may be guessed, therefore, that the Pseudo-Thomas
was first written in Syriac, though the
text we possess is in Greek. It is considered the
model on which all the other Gospels of the Infancy
were founded, but the Arabic variant contains so
much divergent matter as to make it probable that
the writer drew on some other early source which
has not been preserved. Mohammed was acquainted
with this Arabian Gospel, and Mohammedans did not
cease to venerate the sycamore-tree at Matarea under
which the Arabian evangelist states that the Virgin and
Child rested, till it died about a year ago. The Pseudo-Thomas
contains some vindictive stories, which were
modified or omitted in the other versions: probably
they are all to be traced to Elisha and his she-bears:
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>a theory which I offer to those who cannot imagine
how they arose. A curious feature in these writings
is the scarcity of anything actually original; the most
original story to be found in them is that of the
clay sparrows, which captivated the East and penetrated
into the folk-lore even of remote Iceland.
Notwithstanding the fulminations of Councils, the
apocryphal Gospels were never suppressed; they
enjoyed an enormous popularity during the Middle
Ages, and many details derived solely from these
condemned books crept into the <i>Legenda Aurea</i> and
other strictly orthodox works.</p>

<p class='c008'>The “Little Child” of Isaiah’s prophecy was
the cause of troops of wild beasts being convoked
to attend the Infant Christ. Lions acted as guides
for the flight into Egypt, and it is mentioned that
not only did they respect the Holy Family, but also
the asses and oxen which carried their baggage.
Besides, the lions, leopards, and other creatures
“wagged their tails with great reverence” (though
all these animals are not of the dog species, but
of the cat, in which wagging the tail signifies
the reverse of content).</p>

<p class='c008'>This is the subject of an old English ballad:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“And when they came to Egypt’s land,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Amongst those fierce wild beasts,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Mary, she being weary,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Must needs sit down to rest.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>‘Come, sit thee down,’ said Jesus,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>‘Come, sit thee down by Me,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And thou shall see how these wild beasts</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Do come and worship Me.’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'><span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>First to come was the “lovely lion,” king of all
wild beasts, and for our instruction the moral is
added: “We’ll choose our virtuous princes of birth
and high degree.” Sad rhymes they are, nor, it
will be said, is the sense much better; yet,
hundreds of years ago in English villages, where,
perhaps, only one man knew how to read, this
doggerel served the end of the highest poetry:
it transported the mind into an ideal region; it
threw into the English landscape deserts, lions, a
Heavenly Child; it stirred the heart with the
romance of the unknown; it whispered to the
soul—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The Now is an atom of sand,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And the Near is a perishing clod;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>But Afar is a Faëry Land,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And Beyond is the bosom of God.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The pseudo-gospel of Matthew relates an incident
which refers to a later period in the Holy Childhood.
According to this narrative, when Jesus was
eight years old He went into the den of a lioness
which frightened travellers on the road by the
Jordan. The little cubs played round His feet,
while the older lions bowed their heads and fawned
on Him. The Jews, who saw it from a distance,
said that Jesus or His parents must have committed
mortal sin for Him to go into the lion’s den. But
coming forth, He told them that these lions were
better behaved than they; and then He led the wild
beasts across the Jordan and commanded them to
go their way, hurting no one, neither should any one
hurt them till they had returned to their own
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>country. So they bade Him farewell with gentle
roars and gestures of respect.</p>

<p class='c008'>These stories are innocent, and they are even
pretty, for all stories of great, strong animals and
little children are pretty. But they fail to reveal
the slightest apprehension of the deeper significance
of a peace between all creatures. Turn from them
to the wonderful lines of William Blake:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“And there the lion’s ruddy eyes</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Shall flow with tears of gold,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And pitying the tender cries</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And walking round the fold</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Saying: Wrath by His meekness,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And by His health sickness,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Are driven away</div>
      <div class='line in2'>From our mortal day.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in1'>And now beside thee, bleating lamb,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I can lie down and sleep,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Or think on Him who bore thy name,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Graze after thee, and weep;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>For, washed in life’s river,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>My bright mane for ever</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Shall shine like the gold</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As I guard o’er the fold.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>No one but Blake would have written this, and
few things that he wrote are so characteristic of
his genius. The eye of the painter seizes what
the mind of the mystic conceives, and the poet
surcharges with emotion words which, like the Vedic
hymns, infuse thought rather than express it.</p>
<p class='c008'>A single passage in the New Testament connects
Christ with wild animals; in St. Mark’s Gospel we
<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>are told that after His baptism in the Jordan Jesus
was driven by the Spirit into the wilderness, where
“He was with the wild beasts, and the angels
ministered unto Him.” In the East the idea of
the anchorite who leaves the haunts of men for
the haunts of beasts was already fabulously old.
In the Western world of the Roman Empire it was
a new idea, and perhaps on that account, while it
excited the horror of those who were faithful to
the former order of things, it awoke an extraordinary
enthusiasm among the more ardent votaries of the
new faith. It led to the discovery of the inebriation
of solitude, the powerful stimulus of a life with wild
nature. Many tired brain-workers have recourse to
mountain ascents as a restorative, but these can rarely
be performed alone, and high mountains with their
immense horizons tend to overwhelm rather than
to collect the mind. But to wander alone in a
forest, day after day, without particular aim, drinking
in the pungent odours of growing things, fording
the ice-cold streams, meeting no one but a bird
or a hare—this will leave a memory as of another
existence in some enchanted sphere. We have
tasted an ecstasy that cities cannot give. We have
tasted it, and we have come back into the crowded
places, and it may be well for us that we have
come back, for not to all is it given to walk in
safety alone with their souls.</p>

<div id='i253'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i253.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Anderson.</i></span><br />ST. JEROME EXTRACTING A THORN FROM THE PAW OF A LION.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>By Hubert van Eyck.</i>)</span><br />Naples Museum.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Of one of the earliest Christian anchorites in
Egypt it is related that for fifty years he spoke
to no one; he roamed in a state of nature, flying
from the monks who attempted to approach him.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>At last he consented to answer some questions
put by a recluse whose extreme piety caused him
to be better received than the others. To the
question of why he avoided mankind, he replied
that those who dwelt with men could not be visited
by angels. After saying this, he vanished again
into the desert. I have observed that the idea of
renouncing the world was not a Western idea, yet,
at the point where it touches madness, it had
already penetrated into the West—we know where
to find its tragic record:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Ego vitam agam sub altis Phrygiae columinibus,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Ubi cerva silvicultrix, ubi aper nemorivagus?”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The <i>point of madness</i> would have been reached
more often but for the charity of the stag and the
wild boar and the lion and the buffalo, who felt
a sort of compassion for the harmless, weak human
creatures that came among them, and who were
ready to give that response which is the sustaining
ichor of life.</p>

<p class='c008'>The same causes produce the same effects—man
may offer surprises but never men. Wherever there
are solitaries there are friendships between the
recluse and the wild beast. All sorts of stories of
lions and other animals that were on friendly terms
with the monks of the desert have come down to us
in the legends of the Saints. The well-known legend
of how St. Jerome relieved a lion of a thorn which
was giving him great pain, and how the lion became
tame, was really told of another saint, but Jerome,
if he did not figure in a lion story, is the authority
<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>for one: in his life of Paul the Hermit he relates
that when that holy man died, two lions came out
of the desert to dig his grave; they uttered a loud
wail over his body and knelt down to crave a blessing
from his surviving companion—none other than the
great St. Anthony. He also says that Paul had
subsisted for many years on food brought to him by
birds, and when he had a visitor the birds brought
double rations.</p>

<p class='c008'>As soon as the hermit appears in Europe his four-footed
friends appear with him. For instance, there
was the holy Karileff who tamed a buffalo. Karileff
was a man of noble lineage who took up his abode
with two companions in a clearing in the woods on
the Marne, where he was soon surrounded by all
sorts of wild things. Amongst these was a buffalo,
one of the most intractable of beasts in its wild state,
but this buffalo became perfectly tame, and it was a
charming sight to see the aged saint stroking it softly
between its horns. Now it happened that the king,
who was Childebert, son of Clovis, came to know
that there was a buffalo in the neighbourhood, and
forthwith he ordered a grand hunt. The buffalo,
seeing itself lost, fled to the hut of its holy protector,
and when the huntsmen approached they found the
monk standing in front of the animal. The king
was furious, and swore that Karileff and his brethren
should leave the place for ever; then he turned to
go, but his horse would not move one step. This
filled him with what was more likely panic fear than
compunction; he lost no time in asking the saint
for his blessing, and he presented him with the whole
<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>domain, in which an abbey was built and ultimately
a town, the present Saint-Calais. On another occasion
the same Childebert was hunting a hare, which
took refuge under the habit of St. Marculphe; the
king’s huntsman rudely expostulated, and the monk
surrendered the hare, but, lo and behold! the dogs
would not continue the pursuit and the huntsman
fell off his horse!</p>

<p class='c008'>A vein of more subtle sensibility runs through the
story of St. Columba, who, not long before his death,
ordered a stork to be picked up and tended when
it dropped exhausted on the Western shore of Iona.
After three days, he said, the stork would depart,
“for she comes from the land where I was born
and thither would she return.” In fact, on the third
day, the stork, rested and refreshed, spread out its
wings and sailed away straight towards the saint’s
beloved Ireland. When Columba was really dying
the old white horse of the convent came and laid
its head on his shoulder with an air of such profound
melancholy that it seemed nigh to weeping. A
brother wished to drive it away, but the saint said
No; God had revealed to the horse what was hidden
from man, and it was come to bid him goodbye.</p>

<p class='c008'>Evidently there is only a slight element of the
marvellous in these legends and none at all in others,
such as the story of Walaric, who fed little birds
and told the monks not to approach or frighten his
“little friends” while they picked up the crumbs.
To the same order belong several well-authenticated
stories of the Venerable Joseph of Anchieta, apostle
of Brazil. He protected the parrots that alighted
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>on a ship by which he was travelling from the
merciless sailors who would have caught and killed
them. Whilst descending a river he would have
saved a monkey which some fishermen shot at with
their arrows, but he was not in time; the other
monkeys gathered round their slain comrade with
signs of mourning: “Come near,” said the holy
man, “and weep in peace for that one of you who
is no more.” Presently, fearing not to be able longer
to restrain the cruelty of the men, he bade them
depart with God’s blessing.</p>

<p class='c008'>Here is no marvel; only sympathy which is sometimes
the greatest of marvels. It needed the mind
of a Shakespeare to probe just this secret recess of
feeling for animals:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“—— What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?</div>
      <div class='line in1'>—— At that I have killed, my Lord, a fly.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>—— Out on thee, murderer, thou killest my heart;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>A deed of death done on the innocent,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Becomes not Titus’ brother; get thee gone,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>I see thou art not for my company.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>—— Alas! my Lord, I have but killed a fly.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>—— But how if that fly had a father and mother?</div>
      <div class='line in1'>How would he hang his slender gilded wings</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And buz lamented doings in the air?</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Poor harmless fly!</div>
      <div class='line in1'>That with his pretty buzzing melody</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Came here to make us merry, and thou hast killed him.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>If St. Bernard saw a hare pursued by dogs or birds
threatened by a hawk he could not resist making
the sign of the cross, and his benediction always
brought safety. It is to this saint that we owe the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>exquisite saying, “If mercy were a sin I think I
could not keep myself from committing it.”</p>

<div id='i256'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i256.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Hanfslängl.</i></span><br />ST. EUSTACE AND THE STAG.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>By Vittore Pisano.</i>)</span><br />National Gallery.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c008'>Apart from the rest, stands one saint who brought
the wild to the neighbourhood of a bustling, trafficking
little Italian town of the thirteenth century and
peopled it with creatures which, whether of fancy
or of fact, will live for ever. How St. Francis tamed
the “wolf of Agobio” is the most famous if not
altogether the most credible of the animal stories
related of him. That wolf was a quadruped without
morals; not only had he eaten kids but also men.
All attempts to kill him failed, and the townsfolk
were afraid of venturing outside the walls even in
broad daylight. One day St. Francis, against the
advice of all, went out to have a serious talk with
the wolf. He soon found him and, “Brother Wolf,”
he said, “you have eaten not only animals but men
made in the image of God, and certainly you deserve
the gallows; nevertheless, I wish to make peace
between you and these people, brother Wolf, so that
you may offend them no more, and neither they nor
their dogs shall attack you.” The wolf seemed to
agree, but the saint wished to have a distinct proof
of his solemn engagement to fulfil his part in the
peace, whereupon the wolf stood up on his hind legs
and laid his paw on the saint’s hand. Francis then
promised that the wolf should be properly fed for
the rest of his days, “for well I know,” he said
kindly, “that all your evil deeds were caused by
hunger”—upon which text several sermons might
be preached, for truly many a sinner may be reformed
by a good dinner and by nothing else. The contract
<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>was kept on both sides, and the wolf lived happily
for some years—“notricato cortesemente dalla gente”—at
the end of which he died of old age, sincerely
mourned by all the inhabitants.</p>

<p class='c008'>If any one decline to believe in the wolf of Gubbio,
why, he must be left to his invincible ignorance.
But there are other tales in the <i>Fioretti</i> and in the
<i>Legenda Aurea</i> which are nowise hard to believe.
What more likely than that Francis, on meeting a
youth who had wood-doves to sell, looked at the
birds “con l’occhio pietoso,” and begged the youth
not to give them into the cruel hands that would
kill them? The young man, “inspired by God,”
gave the doves to the saint, who held them against
his breast, saying, “Oh, my sisters, innocent doves,
why did you let yourselves be caught? Now will
I save you from death and make nests for you,
so that you may increase and multiply according to
the commandment of our Creator.” Schopenhauer
mentions, with emphatic approval, the Indian merchant
at the fair of Astrachan who, when he has a turn
of good luck, goes to the market-place and buys birds,
which he sets at liberty. The holy Francis not only
set his doves free, but thought about their future,
a refinement of benevolence which might “almost
have persuaded” the humane though crusty old
philosopher to put on the Franciscan habit.</p>

<p class='c008'>(At this point I chance to see from my window
a kitten in the act of annoying a rather large snake.
It is a coiled-up snake; probably an Itongo. It
requires a good five minutes to induce the kitten to
abandon its quarry and to convey the snake to a safe
<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>place under the myrtles. This being done, I resume
my pen.)</p>

<p class='c008'>I have remarked that in some respects the Saint
of Assisi stands apart from the other saints who took
notice of animals. It was a common thing, for
instance, for saints to preach to creatures, but there
is an individual note in the sermon of Francis to
the birds which is not found elsewhere. The reason
why St. Anthony preached to the fishes at Rimini
was that the “heretics” would not listen to him,
and St. Martin addressed the water-fowl who were
diving after fish in the Loire because, having compared
them to the devil, seeking whom he may
devour, he thought it necessary to order them to
depart from those waters—which they immediately
did, no doubt frightened to death by the apparition
of a gesticulating saint and the wild-looking multitude.
The motive of Francis was neither pique at not being
listened to nor the temptation to show miraculous
skill as a bird-scarer; he was moved solely by an
effusion of tender sentiment. Birds in great quantities
had alighted in a neighbouring field: a beautiful
sight which every dweller in the country must have
sometimes seen and asked himself, was it a parliament,
a garden party, a halt in a journey? “Wait
a little for me here upon the road,” said the saint
to his companions; “I am going to preach to my
sisters the birds.” And so, “<i>having greeted them
as creatures endowed with reason</i>,” he went on to say:
“Birds, my sisters, you ought to give great praise
to your Creator, who dressed you with feathers,
who gave you wings to fly with, who granted you
<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>all the domains of the air, whose solicitude watches
over you.” The birds stretched out their necks,
fluttered their wings, opened their beaks, and looked
at the preacher with attention. When he had done,
he passed in the midst of them and touched them with
his habit, and not one of them stirred till he gave
them leave to fly away.</p>

<p class='c008'>The saint lifted worms out of the path lest they
should be crushed, and during the winter frosts, for
fear that the bees should die in the hive, he brought
honey to them and the best wines that he could
find. Near his cell at Portionuculo there was a
fig-tree, and on the fig-tree lived a cicada. One
day the Servant of God stretched out his hand and
said, “Come to me, my sister Cicada”; and at
once the insect flew upon his hand. And he said
to it, “Sing, my sister Cicada, and praise thy
Lord.” And having received his permission she
sang her song. The biographies that were written
without the inquisition into facts which we demand,
gave a living idea of the man, not a photograph
of his skeleton. What mattered if romance were
mixed with truth when the total was true? We
know St. Francis of Assisi as if he had been our
next-door neighbour. It would have needed unbounded
genius to invent such a character, and
there was nothing to be gained by inventing it.
The legends which represent him as one who
consistently treated animals as creatures endowed
with reason are in discord with orthodox teaching;
they skirt dangerously near to heresy. Giordano
Bruno was accused of having said that men and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>animals had the same origin; to hold such an
opinion qualified you for the stake. But the Church
that canonised Buddha under the name of St.
Josephat has had accesses of toleration which must
have made angels rejoice.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some think that Francis was at one time a
troubadour, and troubadours had many links with
those Manichæan heretics whom Catholics charged
with believing in the transmigration of souls. This
may interest the curious, but the doctrine of metempsychosis
has little to do with the vocation of the
Asiatic recluse as a beast-tamer, and St. Francis of
Assisi was true brother to that recluse. He was
the Fakeer or Dervish of the West. When the
inherent mysticism in man’s nature brought the
Dervishes into existence soon after Mohammed’s
death, in spite of the Prophet’s well-known dislike for
religious orders, they justified themselves by quoting
the text from the Koran, “Poverty is my pride.”
It would serve the Franciscan equally well. The
begging friar was an anachronism in the religion of
Islam as he is an anachronism in modern society, but
what did that matter to him? He thought and he
thinks that he will outlive both.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Abdâl or pre-eminently holy Dervish who
lived in the desert with friendly beasts over whom
he exercised an extraordinary power, became the
centre of a legend, almost of a cult, like his Christian
counterpart. There were several Abdâls of high
repute during the reigns of the early Ottoman
Sultans. Perhaps there was more confidence in
their sanctity than in their sanity, for while the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>Catholic historian finds it inconvenient to admit the
hypothesis of madness as accounting for even the
strangest conduct of the saints of the desert or
their mediæval descendants, a devout Oriental sees
no irreverence in recognising the possible affinity
between sainthood and mental alienation. In India
the holy recluse who tames wild beasts is as much
alive to-day as in any former time. Whatever is
very old is still a part of the everyday life of the
Indian people. Accordingly the native newspapers
frequently report that some prince was attacked by
a savage beast while out hunting, when, at the nick
of time, a venerable saint appeared at whose first
word the beast politely relaxed his hold. Those who
know India best by no means think that all such
stories are invented. Why should they be? Cardinal
Massaia (who wore, by the by, the habit of Francis)
stated that the lions he met in the desert had very
good manners. A few years ago an old lady met a
large, well-grown lioness in the streets of Chatres;
mistaking it for a large dog, she patted it on the head
and it followed her for some time until it was observed
by others, when the whole town was seized with panic
and barred doors and windows. Even with the
provocation of such mistrust the lioness behaved
well, and allowed itself to be reconducted to the
menagerie from which it had escaped.</p>

<p class='c008'>Those who try to divest themselves of human
nature rarely succeed, and the reason nearest to the
surface why, over all the world, the lonely recluse
made friends with animals was doubtless his loneliness.
On their side, animals have only to be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>persuaded that men are harmless for them to
meet their advances half-way. If this is not always
true of wild beasts, it is because (as St. Francis apprehended)
unfortunately they are sometimes hungry;
but man is not the favourite prey of any wild
beast who is in his right mind. Prisoners who tamed
mice or sparrows followed the same impulse as saints
who tamed lions or buffaloes. How many a prisoner
who returned to the fellowship of men must
have regretted his mouse or his sparrow! Animals
can be such good company. Still, it follows that if
their society was sought as a substitute, they were,
in a certain sense, vicarious objects of affection.
We forget that even in inter-human affections
much is vicarious. The sister of charity gives
mankind the love which she would have given to
her children. The ascetic who will never hear
the pattering feet of his boy upon the stairs loves
the gazelle, the bird fallen from its nest, the lion
cub whose mother has been slain by the hunter.
And love, far more than charity (in the modern
sense), blesses him that gives as well as him that
takes.</p>

<p class='c008'>But human phenomena are complex, and this
explanation of the sympathy between saint and
beast does not cover the whole ground. Who can
doubt that these men, whose faculties were concentrated
on drawing nearer to the Eternal, vaguely
surmised that wild living creatures had unperceived
channels of communication with spirit, hidden
<i>rapports</i> with the Fountain of Life which man has
lost or has never possessed? Who can doubt that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>in the vast cathedral of Nature they were awed by
“the mystery which is in the face of brutes”?</p>

<p class='c008'>Beside the need to love and the need to wonder,
some of them knew the need to pity. Here the
ground widens, for the heart that feels the pang
of the meanest thing that lives does not beat
only in the hermit’s cell or under the sackcloth
of a saint.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>
  <h2 id='ch13' class='c006'>XIII<br /> <br />VERSIPELLES</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>THE snake and the tiger are grim realities of
Indian life. They mean a great deal—they
mean India with its horror and its splendour; above
all, with its primary attention given to things which
for most Europeans are <i>nil</i> or are kept for Sunday.
And Sunday, the day most calm, most bright, has
only a little portion of them, only the light not the
darkness of the Unknown.</p>

<p class='c008'>To the despair of the English official, the Hindu,
like his forefathers in remotest antiquity, respects
the life of tiger and snake. In doing so he is
not governed simply by the feeling that makes
him look on serenely whilst all sorts of winged and
fleet-footed creatures eat up his growing crops—another
tolerance which exasperates the Western
beholder: in that instance it is, in the main, the rule
of live and let live which dictates his forbearance,
the persuasion that it is wrong to monopolise the
increase of the earth to the uttermost farthing’s-worth.
His sentiment towards tiger and snake is of a more
profound nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Hindu will not kill a cobra if he can help it,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>and if one is killed he tries to expiate the offence
by honouring it with proper funeral rites. The tiger,
like the snake, gives birth to those ancient twins,
fear and admiration. The perception of the beautiful
is one of the oldest as it is one of the most mysterious
of psychological phenomena in man and beast. Why
should the sheen of the peacock’s tail attract the
peahen? Why should the bower-bird and the lyre-bird
construct a lovely pleasance where they may
dance? Man perceived the beautiful in fire and wind,
in the swift air, the circle of stars, the violent water,
the lights of heaven: “being delighted with the
beauty of these things, he took them to be gods”—as
was said by the writer of the Wisdom of Solomon
about two hundred years before Christ. He also
perceived the beautiful in the lithe movements of
the snake and in the tiger’s symmetry.</p>

<p class='c008'>As to the sense of fear, how is it that this fear
is unaccompanied by repulsion? To this question
the more general answer would seem to be that
Nature, if regarded as divine, cannot repel. But the
snake and tiger are in some special way divine, so
that they become still further removed from the range
of human criticism. They are manifestations of
divinity—a safer description of even the lowest forms
of zoolatry than the commoner one which asserts
that they are “gods.” Deity, if omnipresent, “must
be able to occupy the same space as another body
at the same time,” which was said in a different
connexion, but it is the true base of all beliefs
involving the union of spirit and matter from the
lowest to the highest.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>The animal which is a divine agent, ought to
behave like one. If it causes destruction, such
destruction should have the fortuitous appearance
of havoc wrought by natural causes. The snake
or tiger should not wound with malice prepense, but
only in a fine, casual way. This is just what, as a
rule, they are observed to do. I have seen many
snakes, but I never saw one run after a man, though
I have seen men run after snakes. Now and then the
Italian peasant is bitten by vipers because he walks
in the long grass with naked feet. He treads on the
snake or pushes against it, and it bites him. So it
is with the Indian peasant. It is much the same in
the case of the normal tiger; unless he is disturbed or
wounded, he most rarely attacks. But there are
abnormal tigers, abnormal beasts of every sort—there
is the criminal class of beast. What of him? It
might be supposed that primitive man would take
such a beast to be an angry or vindictive spirit. By
no means. He detects in him a fellow-human. The
Indian forestalled Lombroso; the man-eating tiger is
a degenerate, really not responsible for his actions,
and still less is the god behind him responsible for
them.</p>

<p class='c008'>Little need be said of the natural history of the
man-eating tiger; yet a few words may not be out
of place. To his abnormality every one who has
studied wild beasts bears witness. All agree that
the loss of life from tigers is almost exclusively
traceable to individuals of tiger-kind which prey
chiefly or only on man. The seven or eight hundred
persons killed annually by tigers in British India are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>victims of comparatively few animals. Not many
years ago a single man-eating tigress was certified
to have killed forty-eight persons. While the
ordinary tiger has to be sought out with difficulty
for the sport of those who wish to hunt him, the
man-eater night after night waylays the rural postman
or comes boldly into the villages in search of
his unnatural food. During great scarcity caused
by the destruction or disappearance of small game
in the forests, the carnivora are forced out of their
habits as the wolves in the Vosges are induced to
come down to the plains in periods of intense cold.
Such special causes do not affect the question of
the man-eater, which eats man’s flesh from choice,
not from necessity. Why he does so Europeans
have tried to explain in various ways. One is, that
the unfamiliar taste of human flesh creates an irresistible
craving. In South America they say that a
jaguar after tasting man’s flesh once becomes an incorrigible
man-eater for ever after. Others think
man-eating is a form of madness, a disease, and
they point to the fact that the man-eater is always
in bad condition; his skin is useless. But it is not
sure if this be cause or effect, since man’s flesh is
said to be unwholesome. A third and plausible
theory would attribute man-eating to the easy
capture of the prey: a tiger that has caught one
man will hunt no other fleeter game. Especially
in old age, a creature that has neither horns nor
tusks nor yet swift feet must appear an attractive
prey. This coincides with an observation made by
Apollonius of Tyana: he says that lions caught
<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>and ate monkeys for medicine when they were sick,
but that when they were old and unable to hunt the
stag and the wild boar, they caught them for food.
Aristotle said that lions were more disposed to enter
towns and attack man when they grew old, as old
age made their teeth defective, which was a hindrance
to them in hunting.</p>

<p class='c008'>Another possible clue may be deduced from a
belief which exists in Abyssinia about the man-eating
lion. In that country the people dislike to have
Europeans hunt the lion, not only because they
revere him as the king of beasts (though this is
one reason, and it shows how natural to man is the
friendly feeling towards beasts, and how it flourishes
along with any sort of religion, provided the religion
has been left Oriental and not Westernised), but
also because they are convinced that a lion whose
mate has been killed becomes ferocious and thirsts
for human blood. This belief is founded on accurate
observation of the capacity of wild beasts for affection.
The love of the lion for his mate is no
popular error. That noble hunter, Major Leveson,
told a pathetic story of how he witnessed in South
Africa a fight between two lions, while the lioness,
palm and prize, stood looking on. A bullet laid
her low, but the combatants were so hotly engaged
that neither of them perceived what had happened.
Then another bullet killed one of them: the survivor,
after the first moment of surprise as to why his foe
surrendered, turned round and for the first time saw
the hunters who were quite near. He seemed about
to spring on them, when he caught sight of the dead
<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>lioness: “With a peculiar whine of recognition,
utterly regardless of our presence, he strode towards
her, licked her face and neck with his great rough
tongue and patted her gently with his huge paw,
as if to awaken her. Finding that she did not respond
to his caresses, he sat upon his haunches like
a dog and howled most piteously....” Finally
the mourning lion fled at the cries of the Kaffirs
and the yelping of the dogs close at hand. He had
understood the great, intolerable fact of death.
Would any one blame him if he became an avenger
of blood?</p>

<p class='c008'>Supposing that this line of defence could be transferred
to the tiger, instead of being branded as lazy,
decrepit, mad, or bad, he might hope to appear before
the public with a largely rehabilitated character.</p>

<p class='c008'>The natives of the jungle resort to none of these
hypotheses to account for the man-eater: a different
bank of ideas can be drawn on by them to help them
out of puzzling problems. The free force of imagination
is far preferable, if admitted, as a solver of difficulties,
to all our patient and plodding researches.
The jungle natives tell many stories of the man-eater,
of which the following is a typical example.
It was told to a British officer, from whom I
had it.</p>

<p class='c008'>Once upon a time there was a man who had the
power of changing himself into a tiger whenever
he liked. But for him to change back into the shape
of a man it was necessary that some human being
should pronounce a certain formula. He had a
friend who knew the formula, and to him he went
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>when he wished to resume human shape. But the
friend died.</p>

<p class='c008'>The man was obliged, therefore, to find some one
else to pronounce the formula. At last he decided
to confide the secret to his wife; so, one day, he
said to her that he should be absent for a short
time and that when he came back it would be in
the form of a tiger; he charged her to pronounce
the proper formula when she should see him appear
in tiger-shape, and he assured her that he would
then, forthwith, become a man again.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a few days, after he had amused himself by
catching a few antelopes, he trotted up to his wife,
hoping all would be well. But the woman, in spite
of all that he had told her, was so dreadfully
frightened when she saw a large tiger running
towards her, that she began to scream. The tiger
jumped about and tried to make her understand by
dumb-show what she was to do, but the more he
jumped the more she screamed, and at last he
thought in his mind, “This is the most stupid
woman I ever knew,” and he was so angry that he
killed her. Directly afterwards he recollected that no
other human being knew the right formula—hence he
must remain for ever a tiger. This so affected his
spirits that he acquired a hatred for the whole human
race, and killed men whenever he saw them.</p>

<p class='c008'>This diverting folk-tale shows a root-belief in the
stage of becoming a branch-belief. In the present
case the root is the ease with which men are thought
to be able to transform themselves (or be transformed
by others) into animals. The branch is the presumption
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>that a very wicked animal must be human.
The corresponding inference that a very virtuous
animal must be human, throws its reflection upon
innumerable fairy-tales. I think it was the more
primitive of the two. Even the tiger is not everywhere
supposed to be the worse for human influence.
In the Sangor and Nerbrudda territories people say
that if a tiger has killed one man he will never kill
another, because the dead man’s spirit rides on his
head and guides him to more lawful prey. Entirely
primitive people do not take an evil view of human
nature—which is proved by their confidence in
strangers: the first white man who arrives among
them is well received. Misanthropy is soon learnt,
but it is not the earliest sentiment. The bad view
of the man-tiger prevails in the Niger delta, where
the negroes think that “some souls which turn into
wild beasts give people a great deal of trouble.”
Other African tribes hold that tailless tigers are
men—tigers which have lost their tails in fighting
or by disease or accident. I do not know if these
are credited with good or bad qualities.</p>

<p class='c008'>By the rigid Totemist all this is ascribed to
Totemism. Men called other tribesmen by the
names of their totems; then the totem was forgotten
and they mistook the tiger-totem-man for a
man-tiger <i>et sic de ceteris</i>. My Syrian guide on
Mount Carmel told me that the ravens which fed
Elijah were a tribe of Bedouins called “the Ravens,”
which still existed. If this essay in the Higher Criticism
was original it said much for his intelligence.
But because such confusions may happen, and no
<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>doubt do happen, are they to be taken as the final
explanation of the whole vast range of man and
animal mutations? What have they to do with such
a belief as that vouched for by St. Augustine—to
wit, that certain witch innkeepers gave their guests
drugs in cheese which turned them into animals?
These witches had a sharp eye to business, for they
utilised the oxen, asses, and horses thus procured,
for draught or burden, or let them out to their
customers, nor were they quite without a conscience,
as when they had done using them they turned them
back into men. Magic, the old rival of religion, lies
at the bottom of all this order of ideas. Magic may
be defined as the natural supernatural, since by it man
<i>unaided</i> commands the occult forces of nature. The
theory of demoniacal assistance is of later growth.</p>

<p class='c008'>A story rather different from the rest is told by
Pausanias, who records that, at the sacrifice of Zeus
on Mount Lycæus, a man was always turned into a
wolf, but if for nine years in wolf-shape he abstained
from eating human flesh, he would regain his human
form. This suggests a Buddhist source. The infiltration
of Buddhist folk-lore into Europe is a
subject on which we should like to know more.
Buddhism was the only missionary religion before
Christianity, and there is every probability that it
sent missionaries West as well as East.</p>

<p class='c008'>The early Irish took so favourable a view of
wolves that they were accustomed to pray for their
salvation, and chose them as godfathers for their
children. In Druidical times the wolf and other
animals were divine manifestations, and the Celts
<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>were so attached to their beast-gods that they did
not maledict what they had worshipped, but found
it a refuge somewhere. In the earliest Gallic sculpture
the dispossessed animals are introduced as
companions of the new Saints.</p>

<p class='c008'>It will be noticed that in the Indian folk-tale,
though the identification of the man with the man-eater
is clear, a very lenient view is taken of him: he was
not always so; even his excursions in tiger-skin were,
at first, purely innocent; he was a good husband and
a respectable citizen till his wife’s nerves made him
lose his temper.</p>

<p class='c008'>In early Christian times, the man-wolf might be
not only innocent but a victim. He might be a
particularly good man turned by a sorcerer into a
wolf, and in such cases he preserves his good tendencies.
In the seventh century such a man-wolf
defended the head of St. Edward the Martyr from
other wild beasts.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the other hand, there are stories of Christian
saints who turned evil-disposed persons into beasts
by means of the magical powers which, at first, <i>all</i>
baptized persons were thought to possess potentially
if not actively. St. Thomas Aquinas believed in
the possibility of doing this. In a Russian folk-tale
the apostles Peter and Paul turned a bad husband
and wife into bears.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Europe by degrees the harmless were-wolf
entirely disappeared but the evil one survived. The
superstition of lycanthropy concentrated round one
point (as superstitions often do): the self-transformation
of a perverse man or sorcerer into an animal
<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>for nefarious purposes. The object of the transformation
might be the opportunity for giving free
range to sanguinary appetites; but there was another
object lurking in the background, and this was the
acquirement of second sight, which some animals
(if not all) are supposed to be endowed with. Just
as Varro and Virgil believed in lycanthropy, so the
most highly educated Europeans in the time of
Louis XIV. and after, believed in were-wolves.
The choice of the animal was immaterial, but it fell
naturally on the most prominent and feared wild
animal which was locally extant. A fancy or exotic
animal would not do, which illustrates the link there
is between popular beliefs and <i>facts</i>; distorted facts,
it may be, but real and not imaginary things.
If a bear of bad morals appears in Norway, people
declare that it can be “no Christian bear”—it must
be a Lapp or a Finn, both these peoples, who are
much addicted to magic, being supposed to have
the power of changing into bears when they choose.
Instead of seeking the wild beast in man, people
sought the man in the wild beast.</p>

<p class='c008'>As in Asia so in Europe, it was noticed and
pondered that the normal wild beast is dangerous,
perhaps, but not from a human point of view perverse.
The normal wolf like the normal tiger does
not attack or destroy for the love of destruction.
Wolves attack in packs, but the instinct of the single
individual is to keep out of man’s way. He does
not kill even animals indiscriminately. In the
last times when there were wolves in the Italian
valleys of the Alps, the news spread that a wolf
<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>had killed a number of sheep. What had really
happened was this, which an old hunter told at
Edolo to a relative of mine. The wolf jumped down
into a sheepfold sunk in the ground. He killed a
sheep and ate some of it and then found, to his
dismay, that he could not get up the wall of the
sheepfold. Nothing daunted, however, he killed
a sufficient number of sheep to form a mound, up
which he climbed and so effected his escape. No
one thought such a clever wolf as this a <i>lupo manaro</i>.
But some wolves, like some dogs, are subject to fits
of mental alienation, in which they slay without rhyme
or reason. Sheep are found killed all over the
countryside, and men or children may be among
the victims. The question arises of who did it—a
wolf, a man, or both in one? The material fact
is there, and it is a fact calculated to excite terror,
surprise, curiosity. That the fact may remain always
a mystery recent experience shows. When the
were-wolf mania was rampant in France, honestly
conducted judicial inquiry succeeded in a few cases,
in tracing the outrages to a real wolf or to a real
man. At last, in 1603, a French court of law pronounced
the belief in were-wolves to be an insane
delusion, and from that date it slowly declined.
Heretics were suspected of being were-wolves. As
late as fifty years ago, a reminiscence of the <i>loup
garou</i> existed in most parts of France, in the shape
of the <i>meneux des loups</i>, who were supposed to charm
or tame whole packs of wolves which they led across
the waste lands on nights when the moon shone fitfully
through rifts in hurrying clouds. The village recluse,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>the poacher, the man who simply “knew more than
he should,” fell under the suspicion of being a “wolf-leader,”
and, of course, the usual “eye-witness” was
forthcoming to declare that he had <i>seen</i> the suspected
individual out upon his midnight rambles with his
wolves trotting after him. In some provinces all the
fiddlers or bag-pipers were thought to be “wolf-leaders.”</p>

<div id='i276'  class='figcenter id003'>
<img src='images/i276.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><i>Maurice Sand.</i><br />“LE MENEUR DES LOUPS.”</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>If the wolf turnskin died out sooner in England
than in France, it was because there were no
wolves to fasten it upon. Throughout the horrible
witch-mania British sorcerers were supposed to turn
into cats, weasels, or innocent hares! Italian witches
still turn into cats. I remember how graphically
C. G. Leland described to me a visit he had paid to a
Tuscan witch; her cottage contained three stools, on
one of which sat the witch, on the second her familiar
jet-black cat, and on the third my old friend, who,
I feel sure, had come to believe a good deal in
the “old religion,” and who, in his last years, might
have sat for a perfect portrait of a magician! The
connexion of the witch and the cat is a form of
turnskin-belief in which the feature of the acquirement
of second sight is prominent. No witch without
a cat! The essential <i>fact</i> in the superstition is
the fondness of poor, old friendless women for cats—their
last friends. A contributing fact lay in the
mysterious disappearances and reappearances of cats
and in their half-wild nature. The cat in Indian
folk-lore is the tiger’s aunt.</p>

<p class='c008'>The mode of effecting transformation into animals
is various, but always connected with fixed magical
<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>procedure. A root or food, or still oftener an ointment,
is resorted to: ointments played a great part in
superstition; it was by ointments that the unlucky
persons accused of being wizards were held to have
spread the plague of Milan. But the surest method
of transformation was a girdle made of the skin of
the animal whose form it was desired to take. This
is regarded as a makeshift for not being able to put
on the whole skin. An old French record tells of
a man who buried a black cat in a box where four
roads met, with enough bread soaked in holy water
and holy oil to keep it alive for three days. The
man intended to dig the cat up and, after killing it, to
make a girdle of its skin by which means he expected
to obtain the gift of second sight; but the burial-place
of the cat was discovered by some dogs that
were scratching the earth, before the three days
had elapsed. The man, put to the torture, confessed
all. In this case, it will be noticed that the spiritual
powers of the cat were to be obtained without
assuming its outward form. The turnskin who
wishes to go back into his human shape, has also
to follow fixed rules: a formula must be pronounced
by some one else, as in the jungle tiger story, or the
man-beast must eat some stated food as in Lucian’s
skit (if Lucian wrote it) of the man who, by using
the wrong salve, turned himself into a donkey instead
of into a bird as he had wished, and who could only
resume his own form by eating roses, which he did
not accomplish until he had undergone all sorts of
adventures.</p>

<p class='c008'>The belief that beasts were inhabited by depraved
<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>men has a certain affinity with the belief that depraved
men were inhabited by demons. Dante
maintains that some persons have actually gone to
their account while their bodies are still above-ground,
the lodgings of evil spirits.</p>

<p class='c008'>The history of the turnskin leads up to several
conclusions, of which the most important is, that superstitions
often grow uglier as they grow older. They
descend, they rarely ascend. This experience should
make us pause before we pronounce hideous beliefs
to be, in a true sense, primitive. The idea of transformation
is one of the oldest of human ideas, much
older than transmigration, but at the outset, far
from lending itself to such repulsive applications as
man-tigers and demon-men, it gave birth to some
of the fairest passages in the poetry of mankind
which he calls his religion. It is impossible to
imagine a more beautiful myth than the Vedic belief
in the swan-maidens, the Apsarases who, by putting
on skirts of swan feathers, could become swans.
Their swan-skirts stretch from the hot East to the
cold North, for they are the same that are worn
by the Valkyries. All these early legends of swans
bring into particularly clear light the moral identity
of the impressions received from things seen by
man at the bottom and at the top of the ladder of
intellectual progress. Natural objects, lovely or
terrible, raise archetypal images of things lovely or
terrible which in our minds remain shapeless but to
which the primitive man gives a local habitation and
a name. Swans, sailing on still waters or circling
above our heads, inspire us with indefinite longings
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>which took form in the myth of the Apsarases
and appear again in the Vedic story of the sage
who, by deep knowledge and holiness, became a
golden swan and flew away to the sun. To this
day, if the Hindu sees a flight of swans wending
its mysterious way across the sky, he repeats the
saying almost mechanically (as a Catholic crosses
himself if he pass a shrine): “The soul flies away,
and none can go with it.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>
  <h2 id='ch14' class='c006'>XIV<br /> <br />THE HORSE AS HERO</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>FIFTY years ago the knell of the horse was
rung, with due solemnity, by the American
statesman, Charles Sumner. The age of chivalry,
he said, was gone—an age of humanity had come;
“the horse, whose importance more than human,
gave the name to that period of gallantry and war,
now yields his foremost place to man.” As a
matter of fact, the horse is yielding his foremost
place to the motor-car, to the machine; and this
is the topsy-turvy way in which most of the
millennial hopes of the mid-nineteenth century are
being fulfilled by the twentieth; the big dream of
a diviner day ends in a reality out of which all
that is ideal is fading. But the reason why I quote
the passage is the service which it renders as a
reminder of the often forgotten meaning of the
word “chivalry.” The horse was connected with the
ideals no less than with the realities of the phase
in human history that was called after him; the
mental consequences of the partnership between man
and that noble beast were not less far reaching
than the physical. There are a hundred types of
human character, some of them of the highest, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>the making of which the horse counts for nothing;
but this type, this figure of the very perfect gentle
knight, cannot be imagined in a horseless world.
We hear of what man taught animals, but less of
what animals taught man. In the unity of emotion
between horse and rider something is exchanged.
Even the epithets which it is natural to apply to
the knightly hero, one and all fit his steed: defiant
and gentle, daring and devoted, trusty and tireless,
a scorner of obstacles, of a gay, brave spirit—the
list could be lengthened at will. And the qualities
and even the defects they had in common were
not so much the result of accident as the true fruit
of their mutual interdependence.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the aftermath of chivalry which produced the
song-writers and the splendid adventurers of the
Elizabethan age, horsemanship came again to the
fore as a passion rather than as a mere necessary
pursuit. We know that, not satisfied with what
England could provide, the fashionable young men
frequented the schools of skilled Italians, generally
of noble birth, such as Corte da Pavia, who was
Queen Elizabeth’s riding-master. The prevailing
taste is reflected in Shakespeare, who, though he
was for all time, was yet, essentially of his own;
his innumerable allusions to horses show, in the
first place, that he knew all about them, as he did
about most things, and in the second, that he knew
that these allusions would please his audience, which
no born dramatist ever treated as a negligible
quantity, and the least of all Shakespeare. Even
the performing or “thinking” horse does not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>escape his notice; “the dancing horse will tell
you,” in “Love’s Labour Lost,” refers to the
“Hans” or “Trixie” of the period who also attracted
the attention of Ben Jonson, Downe, Sir
Kenelm Digby, Sir Walter Raleigh, Hall, and John
Taylor, the water-poet. This animal’s name was
“Morocco” but he was often called “Bankes’ horse,”
from his master who taught him to tell the number
of pence in silver coins and the number of points
in throws of dice, and on one occasion made him
walk to the top of St. Paul’s. Alas, for the fate
of “Morocco” and his master, “Being beyond the
sea burnt for one witch,” as chronicled by Ben
Jonson! Like Esmeralda and her goat, they were
accused of magic, and the charge, first started at
Orleans, was followed by condemnation and death
in Rome. Greater tragedies of superstition hardly
come with such a shock as this stupid slaughter
of a poor showman and his clever beast.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Elizabethan society interest in horses was
directed chiefly to the turnings and windings, the
“shapes and tricks” of the riding-school, and this
lighter way of looking on them as affording man
his most splendid diversion is, in the main, Shakespeare’s
way—though he does not forget that, at
times, a horse may be worth a kingdom. Not to
him, however, or to any modern poet, do we go
for the unique, incomparable description of the
truly heroic horse, the uncowed charger of the
East, created to awe rather than to be awed by
man, whom no image of servility would fit. Here
is this specimen of the world’s greatest poetry, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>case any one be so unfortunate as not to know it
by heart:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his
strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men.
He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted; neither
turneth he back from the sword. The quiver rattleth
against him, the glittering spear and the shield.
He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage:
neither believeth he that it is the sound of the
trumpet. He saith among the trumpets, Ha! ha!
He smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of
the captains and the shouting.”</p>

<p class='c008'>How the portrait leaps out of the page into
life as Velasquez’s horse in the Prado leaps out of
his frame! We feel the pulse of a passion which
throbs through every vein from head to hoof. This
Triumph of the War-horse is one of the points of
affinity in the Book of Job with Arab rather than
with Hebrew civilisation. The text itself is nearer
Arabic than any other Biblical book, and the life
of the protagonist is very like the life of an
ancient Arabian chieftain. The Jews proper cared
little for horses; when they fell into their hands
they knew no better than to destroy them. They
were a pastoral people, at no time fond of sport,
which was hardly recognised as lawful by their
religious ordinances. They do not seem to have
ridden on horseback. Zechariah, indeed, speaks of
the war-horse, but only to represent him as the
beautiful image of peace, no more mixing in the fray,
but bearing on his bell (which was meant to affright
the foe) the inscription: “Holiness unto the Lord.”</p>

<div id='i284'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i284.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Mansell.</i></span><br />THE ASSYRIAN HORSE.<br />British Museum.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>On the other hand, the Arab, and, most of all,
the Nomadic Arab, has a dual existence with his
horse. He could not live without it; it is a part
of himself—of all that makes him himself and not
another. The same is true of the Todas and their
buffaloes, the Lapps and their reindeer. In summer
when the reindeer are in the hills, to save them from
what is there called the heat, a Lapp seems only
half a Lapp; but his thoughts are still of reindeer
and his fingers are busy with scratching its likeness
on his spoons, his milk-bowls, his implements of all
sorts, all of which are made of reindeer-horn. His
songs are still of reindeer: “While the reindeer lasts,
the Lapp will last; when the reindeer fails, the
Lapp will fail,” as ran the infinitely pathetic ditty
I heard sung by a Lapp woman who was shown
to me as the best singer of the tribe.</p>

<p class='c008'>With all these people the flesh of the beloved
animal is esteemed the greatest delicacy; a fact in
which there seems to lie suggestions of cannibalism
in its real psychological aspect—the eating of the
hero in order to acquire his attributes. Sometimes,
however, the reason may be simply that they were
for long periods in the impossibility of obtaining
other meat; since the natural man prefers food to
which he has grown familiar.</p>

<p class='c008'>In what is probably the oldest version of Boccaccio’s
Falcon story, the Emperor of Constantinople
sends to ask a very generous præ-Islamic Arab
Chief, by name Hatem Tai (celebrated as the type
of chivalry over all the Moslem world), to give
him a horse which Hatem is known to value
<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>beyond all his possessions. The object of the
demand was to put his reputation for generosity to
the test. The officer, who is the bearer of the
Emperor’s request, is regaled sumptuously on the
evening of his arrival; and, according to the laws
of Oriental courtesy, he puts off speaking of the
business in hand till next day. When he delivers
his message Hatem replies that he would have
complied gladly, but that the officer had eaten the
horse last night for supper! The horse was the
most costly and coveted food which the chief could
offer his guest, and the story becomes thus more
intelligible than when the victim is an uneatable
bird like a hawk.</p>

<p class='c008'>In Oriental poetry the camel “who asks but a
thorn from the bed of roses of the world” takes a
well-merited share of attention, but the animal which
is before all others the Eastern poets’ beast is, of
course, the horse: he might himself be called the
poet as well as the prince among beasts, for if any
living thing incarnates the poetry “of form, of
motion, of glad devotion,” it is surely the high-bred
Arab steed. Innumerable tributes credit him with
three parts human qualities:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The courser looks his love as plainly as if he could speak,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>He waves his mane, his paws, he curls his nostrils and his lips;</div>
      <div class='line in1'>He makes half-vocal sounds, uprears or droops his neck and hips,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>His deep and pensive eyes light up with lambent flame, then seem</div>
      <div class='line in1'>As if they swam in the desires of some mysterious dream.”<a id='r8' /><a href='#f8' class='c017'><sup>[8]</sup></a></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote c000' id='f8'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r8'>8</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Translated by W. R. Alger.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>Of the true Arab horse it is said that his foot
is so light that he could dance on a woman’s breast
without leaving a bruise. Some of the Arabian
ballads of horses are among the very few Oriental
poems which have acquired universal fame, as that
which tells of how the peerless Lahla picked up
his captured and bound master and carried him with
his teeth back to the tribe, on reaching which he
sinks dead, amidst the tears and lamentations of
all. Horses, the Koran expressly says, were created
for man’s use, but also “to be an ornament unto him”:
all the romance, the valour, the deep-seated aristocratic
instinct of the Arab, proudest of mankind,
is bound up with his horse. The splendid Arab
chief who stands aside motionless to let go by an
automobile carrying a party of tourists across the
Sahara reflects, as he draws his burnoose closer over
his mouth, “<i>This</i> is the ‘<i>ornament</i>’ of Western
man!” And, looking at his horse, which stands
motionless as he (for the Arab steed fears nothing
when his master is near), he adds to himself:
“These pass—we remain.” False it may be as a
prophecy, but he believes it <i>because convinced of his
superiority</i>.</p>

<p class='c008'>Still by the camp-fires in the desert they tell the
old story of a great chief who, in præ-Gallic times,
was taken prisoner by the Emir’s horsemen. He
escaped, but hardly had he reached his tent when
in the desert air, in which sounds are heard afar off, a
clattering of hoofs could be distinguished—the Sultan’s
men were coming! The chief sprang on his mare and
fled. When the men came up they knew that only
<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>one horse could overtake the mare, her beautiful
sister, not less swift than she. A soldier leapt from
his own horse intending to mount her, but the chiefs
son, yet a child, instantly shot her dead with a pistol.
And so the chief was saved.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Ulemas of Algeria say that when God wished
to create the mare He spoke to the wind: “I will
cause thee to bring forth a creature that shall bear
all My worshippers, that shall be loved by My slaves,
and that will cause the despair of all who will not
follow My laws.” And when He had created her
He said: “I have made thee without an equal: the
goods of this world shall be placed between thy
eyes; everywhere I will make thee happy and
preferred above all the beasts of the field, for
tenderness shall everywhere be in the heart of thy
master; good alike for the chase and retreat, thou
shalt fly though wingless, and I will only place on
thy back the men who know me, who will offer
<span class='fss'>ME</span> prayers and thanksgivings; men who shall
be My worshippers from one generation to another.”</p>

<p class='c008'>For the Arab the horse was not only the means
of performing great enterprises but the very object
of life, the thing in itself most precious, the care, the
preoccupation, and the prize. The Arab’s horse is
his kingdom.</p>

<div id='i288'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i288.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>ARABIAN HORSE OF THE SAHARA.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>I suppose that there is no doubt that the knightly
type was a flower transported from the East, though,
like many other Eastern flowers, it grew to its best
in European gardens. The Crusaders learnt more
than they taught. Coming down later, the national
hero of Spain, for all his pure Gothic blood, is an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>Eastern not a Western hero. He will be understood
far better when he is tried by this standard. If
we weigh him in Eastern rather than in Western
scales, a more lenient and above all a juster judgment
will be the result, and we shall see how the fine
qualities with which legend credits him were not
disproved by some acts which the modern Western
conscience condemns. On the whole it may be taken
for granted, in spite of all that has been said to
the contrary, that tradition which easily errs about
facts, is rarely wrong about character.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ruy Diaz de Bivar was a hero after the Arab’s
own heart:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Noble y leal, soldado y Caballero,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Señor te apellido la gente Mora,”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>as the lines run on his coffin in the town-hall at
Burgos. Nothing being sacred to a critic, it has
been contested that he was first called “Myo Cid,”
or “My Lord,” by the Moors, but tradition and
etymology agree too well for this to be reasonably
doubted. It is certain that both Moors and Christians
called him by his other title of Campeador in
Spanish and Al-kambeyator in the form the Arabic
writers gave it. It was derived from his gallantry
in single combats and did not mean, as some have
thought, “Champion of the Christians.”</p>
<p class='c008'>It is entirely in keeping with the Cid’s Arab
affinities that his horse should have attained a fame
almost as great as his own. From Bucephalus to
Copenhagen never was there a European horse
equal in renown to Bavieca. His glory, is it not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>writ in nearly every one of the hundred ballads of
the Cid? The choosing of Bavieca is one of the most
striking events in the Cid’s youth. The boy asked his
godfather, a fat, good-natured old priest, to give
him a colt. The priest took him to a field where
the mares and their colts were being exercised and
told him to take the best. They were driven past
him and he let all the handsomest go by; then a
mare came up with an ugly and miserable-looking
colt—“This,” he cried, “is the one for me!” His
godfather was angry and called him a simpleton, but
the lad only answered that the horse would turn out
well and that “Simpleton” (“Bavieca”) should be
his name.</p>

<p class='c008'>Horses which begin as ugly ducklings and end as
swans are an extensive breed. Count de Gubernatis,
in his valuable work on “Zoological Mythology,”
mentions Hatos, the magical horse of the Hungarians,
as belonging to this class. If as old as the oldest
legend, they are, in a sense, as new as the “outsider”
which carries off one of the greatest prizes
of the Turf. The choosing of Bavieca was in the
mind of Cervantes when he described in his inimitable
way the choosing of Rozinante (“ex-jade”),
who never became anything but a <i>rozin</i> in the most
present tense, except in the imagination of his
master, but who will live for ever in his company,
to bear witness to the indivisible oneness of the
knight and his horse.</p>

<p class='c008'>Completely Oriental in sentiment is the splendid
ballad which relates how the Cid offered Bavieca
to his king because it was not meet that a subject
<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>should have a horse so far more precious than any
possessed by his lord. There is in this not only
the act of homage but also the absorbing pride
which made the Arab who was overtaking a horse-stealer,
shout to him the secret sign at which his
stolen mare would go her best, preferring to lose
her than to vanquish her.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O king, the thing is shameful that any man beside</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring</div>
      <div class='line in1'>So good as he, and certes, the best befits the king.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The gorgeous simplicity of the original is missed
by Lockhart in the succeeding verses, in which the
Cid, before giving up the horse, mounts him to show
his worth, his ermine mantle hanging from his
shoulders. He will do, he says, in the presence of
the king what he has not done for long except in
battle with the Moor: he will touch Bavieca with his
spurs. Then comes the maddest, wildest, yet most
accomplished display of noble horsemanship that
ever witched the world. One rein breaks and the
beholders tremble for his life, but with ease and
grace he guides the foaming and panting horse
before the king and prepares to yield him up.
Then Alfonso cries, God forbid that he should take
him: he shall be accounted, indeed, as his, but
shameful would it be</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid</div>
      <div class='line in1'>By any mortal but Bivar—‘Mount, mount again, my Cid!’”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'><span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>There is a spot in Spain where we still seem to
breathe the very air of chivalrous romance: the royal
armoury at Madrid, in which the mail-clad knights
with their plumes, their housings, their lances, their
trophies, sit their fine horses as gallantly as if they
were riding straight into the lists. There, and there
alone, we can invoke the proper <i>mise en scène</i> for the
gestes and jousts described in the Spanish ballads.</p>

<p class='c008'>Historically, it seems certain that the Cid died at
Valencia in July, 1099, an access of grief that his
captains—who, owing to his ill-health, were obliged
to replace him—had failed to hold the Moors in
check. King Alfonso came to the assistance of his
noble widow, Jimena, but finally Valencia had to
be abandoned; all the Christians left the town and
the Cid’s body was borne to his distant Northern
home. Such is the historical outline, sufficiently
pathetic in itself but adorned with additions, not all
of them, perhaps, invented in the sublime legend of
the Last Ride. It is said that the Cid, knowing
that his last hour was near, refrained from any food
except certain draughts of rose-water in which were
dissolved the myrrh and balsam sent to him by the
great Sultan of Persia. He gave particular instructions
as to how his body was to be anointed with
the myrrh and balsam which remained in the golden
caskets, and how it was to be set upright on Bavieca,
fully saddled and armed, to be still a terror to the
Moors, who were to be kept in complete ignorance
of his death. All this was done and a great victory
was won over the Moors, who thought they saw their
dreaded enemy once more commanding in person.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>Then the victors started on the long journey to San
Pedro de Cardeña, near Burgos, the Cid riding his
horse by day, supported by an artful contrivance, and
by night placed on a dummy horse wrought by Gil
Diaz, his devoted servitor. Jimena, with all the Cid’s
men, followed in his train. On the way the procession
is joined by the Cid’s two daughters and by
a great mass of people who mourned in their hearts
for Spain’s greatest hero, but they wore rich and gay
apparel, for the Cid had forbidden the wearing of
mourning. So Cardeña was reached, and tenderly
and lovingly Ruy Diaz lifted the Cid’s body for the
last time from Bavieca’s back—never more to bear
a man. The glorious war-horse lived for two years,
led to water each day by Gil Diaz. On his death, at
more than forty years of age and leaving not unworthy
descendants behind him, he was buried, according to
the Cid’s express desire, in a deep and ample grave, “so
that no dog might disturb his bones,” near the gate of
the Convent, and two elms were planted to mark the
spot. When Gil Diaz died, full of years and richly
provided for by the Cid’s daughters, he was laid to
rest beside the horse he had loved and tended so
faithfully.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this narrative, condensed from the Chronicles,
the curious particular will have been noticed of
the gift by the “Great Sultan of Persia” to the
Christian warrior of those precious spices and
aromatic gums which seem to have been the secret
treasure of old Persia, forming a priceless offering
reserved for the very greatest personages. The
strangeness of bringing in the Sultan of Persia
<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>almost suggests that there was truth in the assertion
that he had sent presents to the Cid. Over the sea
and over the fruitful fields the radiance of noble deeds
travels, as Pinder said of old. A little after the
march of the Thousand, the Arabs of the desert
were heard discussing round their camp-fires the exploits
of Garibaldi. If the fame of the Cid reached
Persia, as it is very likely that it did, he would have
found fervent admirers among a people which was still
electrified by the epic poem of Firdusi, who died
within a year or two of the Cid’s birth. In that
epic is told the story of the Persian Campeador—the
Champion Rustem, who not only in his title but
in all we know of his general bearings has so great
a resemblance to the Cid that it is a wonder if no
historical “discoverer” has derived one from the
other, the more so since there have not been wanting
writers who denied the Cid’s existence. And
if Ruy Diaz de Bivar has his analogue in Rustem,
has not Bavieca a perfect counterpart in Rakush?</p>

<p class='c008'>It is the horse not his master that leads me into the
mazes of the <i>Shah Nameh</i>, but something of Rustem
must be told to make Rakush’s story intelligible.
Like Siegfried, Rustem was of extraordinary size and
strength: he looked a year old on the day of his
birth. When he was still a child a white elephant
broke loose and began trampling the people to death:
Rustem ran to the rescue and slew it. A little time
after this his father, whose name was Zal, called the
boy and showed him all his horses, desiring him to
choose that which pleased him best, but not one
was powerful enough or spirited enough to satisfy
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>him. Unlike the Cid, Rustem wanted a horse that
looked as perfect as he really was. After examining
them all and trying many, he noticed at a little
distance a mare followed by a marvellously beautiful
foal. Rustem got ready his noose to throw about
the foal’s neck, and while he did so, a stable-man
whispered to him that this foal was, indeed, worth
anything to secure; the dam, named Abresh, was
famous, while the sire had been no mortal creature
but a djinn. The foal’s name was Rakush (“Lightning”),
a name given to a dappled or piebald horse,
and his coat, that was as soft as silk, looked like
rose-leaves strewn on a saffron ground. Several
persons who had tried already to capture the foal
had been killed by the mare, who allowed no one
to go near it.</p>

<p class='c008'>In fact, no sooner has Rustem lassoed the foal
than its mother rushes towards him ready to seize
him with her white teeth, which glisten in the sun.
Rustem utters a loud cry which so startles the mare
that she pauses for an instant: then, with clenched
fist, he rains blow on blow on her head and neck till
she drops down to die. It was done in self-defence:
still, it is a barbaric prelude.</p>

<p class='c008'>Rustem continued to hold Rakush with his free
hand while he conquered the mare, but now the colt
drags him hither and thither like an inanimate object:
the dauntless youth has to strive long for the mastery,
but he does not rest till the end is achieved. The
horse is broken in at one breath, after the fashion of
American cow-boys. It should be noticed that
legendary heroes always break in their own horses—no
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>other influence has been ever brought to bear on
the horse but their own. Rakush has found a master
indeed, but a master worthy of him. He has recognised
that there is one—only one—fit to rule him.
Like all true heroes’ horses, he will suffer no other
mortal to mount him: if Barbary really allowed
Bolingbroke to ride him it was a sure sign that
his poor royal master was no hero. This same
characteristic belonged also to Julius Cæsar’s horse,
which was a remarkable animal in more ways than
one, as he was reported to have feet like a human
being. I have no doubt that Soloman’s white mare,
Koureen, followed the same rule as well as the angel
Gabriel’s reputed steed, Haziûm, though I have not
found record of the fact.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the colt is broken in, he stands before his
master perfect and without flaw. “Now I and my
horse are ready to join the fighting-men in the field,”
says Rustem as he places the saddle on his back, to
the boundless joy of Zal, whose old, withered heart
becomes as green as springtide with the thrill of
fatherly pride.</p>

<p class='c008'>So Rakush is richly caparisoned and Rustem
rides away on him, beardless youth though he is,
to command great armies, slay fearsome dragons,
defeat the wiles of sorcerers, and do all the other
feats with which the fresh fancy of a young nation
embroidered the story of its favourite hero—for,
it must be remembered, Firdusi did not invent
Rustem any more than Tennyson invented Lancelot.
I think there is every reason to believe that there
was a real Rustem just as there was a real Cid; and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>that the first, like the second, was a combination of
the <i>guerrillero</i>, the <i>condottiere</i>, the magnificent free-booter,
with the knight-errant or paladin—a stamp
which was impressed upon the other <i>rôle</i> by the
personal quality of noble-mindedness possessed by
the individual in each case. For years unnumbered
the exploits of Rustem have entertained the Persian
listener from prince to peasant, but the story will
ever remain young because it is of those which
reflect that which holds mankind spell-bound: the
magnetic power of human personality.</p>

<p class='c008'>One hears the clear, crisp clatter of the horse’s
hoofs as they gallop through the epic. Docile as
Rakush has become, his spirit is unbent; he is
eager to fight his own battles and his master’s too.
Like Baiardo, the horse in Ariosto, he uses his
hoofs with deadly effect, and on one occasion there
is a regular duel between him and another horse
while Rustem is fighting its rider. His rashness
inspires Rustem with much anxiety in their earlier
journeys together. Quite at the beginning, when
Rustem is on his way to liberate his captive king—his
first “labour”—he lies down to sleep in a
forest, leaving Rakush free to graze, and what is
not his surprise when he wakes to find a large lion
extended dead on the grass close by. Rakush killed
the savage beast with teeth and heels while his
master slept tranquilly. Rustem remonstrates with
his too venturesome steed: Why did he fight the
lion all alone? Why did he not neigh loudly and
call for assistance? Had he reflected how terribly
unfortunate it would be for Rustem if anything were
<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>to happen to him? Who would carry his heavy
battle-axe and all his other accoutrements? He
conjures Rakush to fight no more lions single-handed.
Then and at other times Rustem talks to Rakush,
but Rakush does not answer like the horse of
Achilles. The Persians of the eleventh century had
reached the stage of people who take their marvels
with discrimination; they accepted Simurghs, white
demons, phantom elks, giants, dragons, but they
might have hesitated about a talking horse. Another
of Rustem’s addresses to his horse was spoken after
one of his first victories when the enemy was in
full retreat: “My valued friend,” he said, “put
forth thine utmost speed and bear me after the
foe.” The noble animal certainly understood, for
he bounded over the plain snorting as he flew along
and tossing up his mane, and great was the booty
which fell into his master’s hands. Rustem once
said that with his arms and his trusty steed he
would not mind fighting thirty thousand men. As
a matter of fact, he never lacked followers, for he
was of those captains who have only to stamp on
the ground for there to spring up soldiers.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the nineteenth century a “legendary hero”
wandered with his horse over the plains of Uruguay
much as Rustem wandered with Rakush. “In my
nomad life in America,” writes Garibaldi, “after
a long march or a day’s fighting, I unsaddled my
poor tired horse and smoothed and dried his coat
... rarely could I offer him a handful of oats since
those illimitable fields provide so little grain that oats
are not often given to horses. Then, after leading
<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>him to water, I settled him for the night near my
own resting-place. Well, when all this was done,
which was no more than a duty to my faithful
companion of toil and peril, I felt content, and if
by chance he neighed, refreshed, or rolled on the
green turf—oh, then I tasted <i>la gentil voluttà d’esser
pio</i>!” Marvels are out of date, but feeling remains
unchanged, and the “sweets of kindness” were
known, surely, even to the earliest hero who made
a friend of his horse and found him, in the solitude
of the wild, no bad substitute for human friends.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the story of Sohrab, one of the finest episodes
in epic poetry, Rakush is introduced as the primary
cause of it all. Tired with hunting in the forest, and
perhaps inclined to sleep by a meal of roasted wild
ass, which seems to have been his favourite game,
Rustem lay down to rest under a tree, turning
Rakush free to graze as was his wont. When he
awoke the horse was nowhere to be seen! Rustem
looked for his prints, a way of recovering stolen
animals still practised with astonishing success in
India. He found the prints and guessed that his
favourite had been carried off by robbers, which was
what had actually happened: a band of Tartar
marauders lassoed the horse with their kamunds and
dragged him home. Rustem followed the track over
the border of the little state of Samengan, the king
of which, warned of the approach of the hero of the
age, went out to meet him on foot with great
deference. The hero, however, was in no mood for
compliments; full of wrath, he told the king that
his horse had been stolen and that he had traced
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>his footprints to Samengan. The king kept his
presence of mind better than might have been
expected; he made profuse excuses and declared
that no effort should be spared to recover the horse—meanwhile
he prayed Rustem to become his
honoured guest.</p>

<p class='c008'>Emissaries were sent in all directions in search of
Rakush and a grand entertainment was prepared
for his master. Pleased and placated, Rustem, who
had spared little time for luxury in his adventurous
life, finally lay down on a delightful and beautifully
adorned bed. How poetic was sleep when it was
associated, not with an erection on four legs, but
with a low couch spread with costly furs and rich
Eastern stuffs! So Rustem reposed, when his eyes
opened on a living dream, a maiden standing by
his side, her lovely features illuminated by a lamp
which a slave girl held. “I am the daughter of the
king,” says the fair vision; “no one man has ever
seen my face or even heard my voice. I have heard
of thy wondrous valour....” Rustem, still wondering
if he slept or woke, asked her what was her
will? She answered that she loved him for his fame
and glory, and that she had vowed to God she would
wed no other man. Behold, God has brought him
to her! She desires him to ask her hand to-morrow
of her father and so departs, lighted on her way
by the little slave.</p>

<p class='c008'>Was ever anything more chaste in its self-abandonment
than the avowal of this love, holy as Desdemona’s
and irresistible as Senta’s? Nowhere in
fiction can be found a more convincing illustration
<span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>of the truth that the essential spring of woman’s
love for man is hero-worship. On which truth, in
spite of the illusions it covers, what is best in human
evolution is largely built.</p>

<p class='c008'>The king gave glad assent to the marriage, which
was celebrated according to the rites of that country.
Rustem tarried but one night with his bride: in the
morning with weeping eyes she watched him galloping
away on the recovered Rakush. Long she
grieved, and only when a son was born was her
sad heart comforted. The grandfather gave the boy
the name of Sohrab. Rustem had left an amulet
to be placed in the hair if God gave her a daughter
but bound round the arm if a son were born.</p>

<p class='c008'>In due course Rustem sent a gift of costly jewels
to his wife Tahmineh, with inquiries whether the
birth of a child had blessed the marriage? And
now the mother of Sohrab made the fatal mistake
of a deception which led to all the evil that followed;
she sent word that a girl had been born because she
was afraid that if Rustem knew that he had a son,
he would take him from her. Rustem, disappointed
in his hopes, thought no more about Samengan.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is no hint that Tahmineh’s fibbing, which,
like very many other “white lies,” ended in dire
disaster, was in the slightest degree the moral as
well as the actual cause of the fatality. Herodotus
said that every Persian child was taught to ride and
to speak the truth; by Firdusi’s time the second part
of the instruction seems to have been neglected, for
in the <i>Shah Nameh</i> he makes everybody give full
rein to his powers of invention without the slightest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>scruple. The bad consequences are attributed to
blind fate, not to seeing Nemesis.</p>

<p class='c008'>What is so agonising in the doom of Sohrab is
precisely the lack of moral cause such as exists in
the Greek tragedies. Though we do not accept
as a reality the Greek theory of retribution, we do
accept it as a point of view, and it helps us, as it
helped them, to endure the unspeakable horror of
the Ædipus story.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sohrab goes forth, with a boy’s enthusiasm, to
conquer Persia as a present to his unknown father.
The two meet, and are incited to engage in single
combat, each not knowing the other. After a Titanic
contest, Sohrab falls fatally wounded, and only then
does Rustem discover his identity. Matthew Arnold’s
poem has familiarised English readers with this
wonderful scene, and though the “atmosphere” with
which he surrounded it, is rather classical than
Eastern, his “Sohrab and Rustum” remains the
finest rendering of an Eastern story in English
poetry. Some blind guide blamed him for “plagiarising”
Firdusi: in a few points he might have done
wisely to follow his original still more closely; at
least, it is a pity that he did not enshrine in his
own beautiful poem Sohrab’s touching words of
comfort to his distracted father: “None is immortal—why
this grief?” Brave, spotless, kind, Firdusi’s
hero-victim who “came as the lightning and went
as the wind” will always rank with the highest in
the House of the Youthful Dead.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sohrab had a horse as well as Rustem. This sort
of repetition or variation which is often met with
<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>in Eastern literature pleases children, who like an
incident much the better if they are already
acquainted with it, but to the mature sense of the
West it seems a fault in art. No doubt for this
reason Matthew Arnold does not mention Sohrab’s
horse, while doing full justice to Rakush. But
connected with the young man’s charger there is
a scene of the deepest human interest and pathos,
when it is led back to his mourning, sonless mother
who had watched him ride forth on it, rejoicing in
its strength and in his own. It was chosen by him
and saddled by him for the first time in his glad
boyhood; now it is led back alone, with his arms
and trappings hanging from the saddle-bows. In an
agony of grief Tahmineh presses its hoofs to her
breast and kisses head and face, covering them with
her tears.</p>

<p class='c008'>The mother dies after a year of ceaseless heartbreak;
the father and slayer grieves with a strong
man’s mighty grief, but he lives to struggle and fight.
He and his Rakush have many more wondrous
adventures, passing through enchantments and disenchantments
and undergoing wounds and marvellous
cures both of men and beast, till their hour too
comes. Rustem had a base-born half-brother, named
Shughad, who was carefully brought up and wedded
to a king’s daughter, though the astrologers had
foretold that he would bring ruin to his house. This
evil genius invites his invincible kinsman to a day’s
hunting, having secretly prepared hidden pits bristling
with swords. The wise Rakush stops short at the
brink of the first pit, refusing to advance; Rustem
<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>is stirred to anger and strikes his favourite, who,
urged thus, falls into the pit, but with superhuman
energy, though cruelly cut about, emerges from it
with his rider safely on his back. It is in vain,
for another and another pit awaits them—seven times
they come up, hacked about with wounds, but on
rising out of the seventh pit they both sink dying
at the edge. Faintness clouds Rustem’s brain; then,
for a little space, it grows clear and cool and he
utters the accusing cry, “<i>Thou, my brother!</i>” The
wretch’s answer is no defence of him—there can exist
none—but strangely, unexpectedly, in spite of the
impure lips that speak it, it gives the justification of
God’s ways. “God has willed Rustem’s end for all
the blood he has shed.” From his own stern faith
with its Semitic roots, Firdusi took this great, solemn
conception of blood-guiltiness which allowed no compromise.
“Thou hast shed blood abundantly and
hast made great wars.” One thinks, too, of the wail
of one who was of modern men, the most like the
old Hebrew type: “All I have done,” said Bismarck
in his old age, “is to cause many tears to flow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The king, who is the father-in-law of Shughad,
offers to send for a magic balm to cure Rustem’s
wounds, but the hero will have none of it. He is
now quite collected, though his life-blood is ebbing
away. In a quiet voice he asks Shughad to do him
the kindness of stringing his bow and placing it in
his hands, so that when dead he may be a scarecrow
to keep away wolves and wild beasts from
devouring his body. With a hateful smile of triumph
Shughad complies; Rustem grasps the bow, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>taking unerring aim lets go the arrow, which nails
the traitor to the tree, whither he rushed to hide
himself. So Rustem dies, thanking the Almighty
for giving him the power to avenge his murder.</p>

<p class='c008'>There are few better instances of the long survival
of a traditional sentiment than the fact of the king’s
(or the chief’s) stable being regarded in modern
Persia as an inviolable sanctuary. This must have
originated in the veneration once felt for the horse.
The misfortunes which befell the grandson of Nadir
Shah were attributed to his having put to death a
man who took refuge in his stable. No horse will
carry to victory a master who profanes his stable
with bloodshed. Even political offenders or pretenders
to the throne were safe if they could reach
the stable for as long as they remained in it.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>
  <h2 id='ch15' class='c006'>XV<br /> <br />ANIMALS IN EASTERN FICTION</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>I&nbsp;WAS looking idly at the motley Damascus crowd
behind whose outward strangeness to my eyes
I knew there lay a deeper strangeness of ideas, when
in the middle of a clearing I saw a monkey in a red
fez which began to go through its familiar tricks. I
thought to myself, “How very near that monkey
seems to me!” It was like the well-known figure
of an old friend. So it is with the animal-lore of
Eastern fiction; it seems very near to us; its heroes
are our familiar friends. Perhaps we would lose
everything in the treasure-house of Oriental tales
sooner than the stories of beasts. If those stories
had a hidden meaning which escapes us we are not
troubled by their hidden meaning. In their obvious
sense they appeal to us directly, without any effort
to call up conditions of life and mind far removed
from our own. We take them to our hearts and keep
them there.</p>

<p class='c008'>Indeed, the West liked the Eastern stories of beasts
so well that it borrowed not a few without any acknowledgment.
We all know that the Welsh dog, Gellert,
whose grave is shown to this day, had a near relative
in the mungoose of a Chinese Buddhist story which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>exists in a collection dating from the fifth century.
The same motive reappears in the <i>Panchatantra</i>, a
Sanscrit collection to which is assigned a slightly
later date. These are the earliest traces of it that
have come to light, but its subsequent wanderings
are endless. The theme does not vary much; a
faithful animal saves a child from imminent peril:
it is seen with marks of blood or signs of a struggle
upon it, and on the supposition that it has killed
or hurt the child, it is killed before the truth is discovered.
The animal varies according to the locality,
and amongst the other points of interest in this world-legend
is that of reminding us of the universal diffusion
of pet animals. We learn, too, which was the
characteristically household animal with the people
who re-tell the story: in Syria, Greece, Spain, as
in Wales, and also (rather to our surprise) among
the Jews, we hear of a dog. The weasel tribe prevails
in India and China, the cat in Persia. Probably
in India and in China dogs were not often admitted
inside the houses; in a Chinese analogous tale, of
which I shall speak presently, there is a dog, but
the incidents take place on the highway. The
mungoose was the traditional pet of India because
its enmity to snakes must have gained for it admittance
into dwelling-places from very early times,
and wherever man lives in domesticity with any
animal that he does not look upon as food, he
cannot save himself from becoming attached to it
only a little less than he is attached to the human
members of his household. To this rule there are
no exceptions.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>In the matter of folk-tales, even when we seem to
have a clue to their origin, it is rash to be dogmatic.
It has been remarked that the origin of this story
was probably Buddhist, because it is unquestionable
that Buddhist monks purposely taught humanity to
animals. Supposing that the story was diffused with
a fixed purpose over the vast area covered at one
time or another by Buddhism, it would have started
with a wide base whence to spread. Moreover, as I
mentioned, we find it first in a Buddhist collection
of stories. But I am far from sure that the story did
not exist—nay, that the fact may not have happened—long
before Gautama preached his humane morality.
Why should not the fact have happened over and
over again? It is one of those stories that are more
true than truth. I can tell a perfectly true tale which,
though not quite the same as “Gellert’s hound,”
deserves no less to go round the world. A few years
ago a man went out in a boat on a French river to
drown his dog. In mid stream he threw the dog
into the water and began to row away. The dog
followed and tried to clamber up into the boat. The
man gave it some severe blows about the head with
the oar, but the dog still followed the boat. Then
the man lost his temper and lost his balance: just as
he aimed what he thought would be the final blow
he tumbled into the water, and as he did not know
how to swim he was on the point of being drowned.
Then the dog played his part: he grasped the man’s
clothes with his teeth and held him up till assistance
came. That dog was never drowned!</p>

<p class='c008'>Things are soon forgotten now, but if this had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>only happened on a Chinese canal three thousand
years ago we might still have been hearing about it.
More folk-tales arose in such a way than an unbelieving
world suspects.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the Chinese Buddhist version of Gellert we
are told that a very poor Brahman who had to beg
his bread possessed a pet mungoose, which, as he
had no children, became as fondly loved as if it had
been his son. How true is this touch which shows
the love of animals as the <i>katharsis</i> of the heart-ache
or heartbreak of the childless! But, by and by, to the
great joy of the Brahman, his wife bore him a son;
after this happy event he cherished the mungoose
even more than ever, for he said to himself that it was
the fact of his having treated it as if it had been his
child which had brought him the unhoped-for good
luck of having a real child of his own. One day
the Brahman went out to beg, but before he went
out he told his wife to be sure and take good care
of the child and carry it with her if she left the house
even for a minute. The woman fed the child with
cream and then remembered that she had to grind
some rice; she went into the garden to grind it and
forgot to take the little boy with her. After she was
gone, a snake, attracted by the smell of the cream,
crept quite close to where the child lay and was going
to bite it, when the mungoose perceived what was
going on and reflected: “My father has gone out
and my mother too and now this poisonous snake
wishes to kill my little brother.” So the mungoose
attacked the poisonous snake and tore it into seven
pieces. Then it thought that, since it had killed the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>snake and saved the child, it ought to acquaint its
father and mother of what had happened and rejoice
their hearts. Therefore it went to the door and
waited for them to return, its mouth still covered with
blood. Just then the Brahman came home and he
was not pleased to see his wife without the child in
the out-house, where the mill was. Thus, though this
is left for the hearer to infer, he was already vexed and
anxious, when he met the mungoose waiting by the
door with blood on its mouth. The thought rushed
into his mind, “This creature, being hungry, has
slain and eaten the child! “He took up a stick
and beat the mungoose to death. (Such a little
thing, it is so easily killed!) After that he went
into the house, where he found the baby sitting up
in his cradle playing merrily with his fingers, while
the seven pieces of the dead snake lay beside him!
Sorrow filled the Brahman now; alas, for his folly!
The faithful creature had saved his child and he,
thoughtless wretch that he was, had killed it!</p>

<p class='c008'>Only in this version are we informed of just what
the devoted animal thought; which may be a sign
of its Buddhist origin. In the modern Indian
variant, the mungoose, tied by a string, does not
succeed in getting free till after the child has been
bitten by the snake with which he had been playing,
thinking it a new toy. The cobra took the
play in good part till the child accidentally hurt it;
then, angry with the pain, it bit him in the neck.
When the mungoose got loose the deed was done
and the cobra had slunk back into its hole. Off ran
the mungoose into the jungle to find the antidote
<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>which the Indian natives believe that this creature
always uses when it is itself bitten by snakes. The
mother comes in at the moment when the mungoose
is returning with the antidote: she sees the child
lying motionless, and thinking that the mungoose
has killed it she seizes it and dashes it to the
ground. It quivers for a few seconds, then it dies.
Only when it is dead, does the mother notice the
snake-root which it still holds tightly in its mouth.
She guesses the whole truth and quickly administers
the antidote to the child, who recovers consciousness.
The mungoose “had been a great pet with all the
children and was greatly mourned for.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In the Sanscrit version preserved in the <i>Panchatantra</i>
collection the mother has brought up an
ichneumon with her only child, as if it had been
his brother; nevertheless, a sort of fear has always
haunted her that the animal might hurt the child
sooner or later. I must interrupt the story to remark
how often the inglorious Shakespeare of these poor
little folk-tales traces with no mean art the psychological
process which leads up to the tragic crisis.
What more true to life than the observation of the
two opposing feelings balancing each other in the
same mind till some accident causes one of them
to gain uncontrollable mastery?</p>

<p class='c008'>When the woman has killed her innocent little
favourite she is bitterly unhappy, but instead of
blaming her own hastiness, she says it was all
her husband’s fault: what business had he to go
out begging, “through a greedy desire of profit,”
instead of minding the baby as she had told him
<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>to do, while she went to the well to fetch water?
And now the reprobate has caused the death of the
ichneumon, the darling of the house!</p>

<p class='c008'>The touching trait of the creature, which runs to
its master or mistress after saving the child, with
the charming confidence and pride which any animal
shows when it knows that it deserves praise, appears
in nearly all the versions. Prince Llewellyn’s
greyhound goes out to meet him “all bloody and
<i>wagging his tail</i>.” The ichneumon ran joyously
to meet its mistress, and the cat, in the Persian
version, came up to its master “rubbing against
his legs.” In the Persian tale the child’s mother
dies at its birth, and it is stated that she was very
fond of the cat, which made the man even more
grieved that he had killed it.</p>

<p class='c008'>In German folk-lore the story of the dog “Sultan”
sounds as if it were invented by some happy-souled
humorist who had the Llewellyn motive in his
mind, but who wanted to tell a merry tale instead of
a sad one. “Sultan” is so old that his master
wishes to kill him, though much against the advice
of his wife. So “Sultan” consults a wolf of his
acquaintance, who proposes the stratagem of pretending
that he is going to eat the good people’s
child, while “Sultan” pretends to come up just at
the nick of time to save it. The plan is carried
out with complete success, and “Sultan” lives out
his days surrounded by respect and gratitude.</p>

<p class='c008'>There are several Eastern tales which are of the
same family as Llewellyn’s hound, but in which the
animal, instead of saving a child, confers some other
<span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>benefit on its possessor. In a Persian fable a king
kills his falcon because it spilled a cup of water
which he is about to drink: of course, the water
was really poisoned. A current folk-tale of Bengal
makes a horse the victim of its devotion in preventing
its master from drinking poisonous water.</p>

<p class='c008'>Rather different is the following Chinese tale,
which is to be found, told at more length, in Dr.
Herbert H. Giles’s delightful book, “Strange Stories
from a Chinese Studio”:—</p>

<p class='c008'>There was a man of Lu-ngan who had scraped
together enough money to release his father from
prison, where he was like to die of all the untold
miseries of Chinese durance. He got on a mule
and set out for the town where his father was
languishing, taking the silver with him. When he
was well on his way, he was much annoyed to
see that a black dog which belonged to the family
was following him; he tried in vain to make it go
back. After riding on for some time, he got off
the mule to rest and he took the opportunity for
throwing a large stone at the dog, which ran away,
but as soon as he was on the road again the dog
trotted up and took hold of the mule’s tail, as if
trying to stop it. The man beat it off with the
whip, but it only ran round in front of the mule,
and barked frantically so as to impede its progress.
The man now reflected, “This is a very bad omen,”
and he got fairly into a rage and beat the dog off
with such violence that it did not come back. So
he continued his journey without further incidents,
but when he reached the city in the dark of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>evening, what was not his despair on finding about
half his money gone! He did not doubt that he
must have dropped it on the way, and after passing
a night of terrible distress he remembered, towards
dawn, the strange way in which the dog behaved,
and he began to think that there might be some
connexion between this and the loss of his money.
Directly the gates were open he retraced his steps
along the road, though he hardly hoped to find any
clue to his loss, as the route was traversed by many
travellers. But at the spot where, on the previous
day he dismounted from his mule to rest, he saw
the dog stretched dead on the ground, its hair
still moist with perspiration, and when he lifted up
the body by one of its ears, he found his lost silver
safely concealed underneath it! His gratitude was
great, and he bought a coffin, in which he placed the
dog and then buried it. The place is known as
“the Grave of the Faithful Dog.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It is not true that every one in China eats dogs,
but some do, and the trade in such animals is a
recognised business. There are several cat and
dog restaurants at Canton. This unenviable habit
gives rise to the story of a merchant who had made
a good stroke of business at Wu-hu and was going
home in a canal boat, when he noticed on the bank
a butcher who was tying up a dog previous to
killing it. It is not stated if the merchant had
always a tender heart or if his good fortune in
the town made him wish to do a good turn to some
living thing; anyhow, he proposed to buy the dog.
The butcher was no fool; he guessed that the trader
<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>would never leave the dog to its fate after thinking
about rescuing it—what dreadful sleepless nights
such a proceeding would cost any of us! So he
boldly asked a great deal more than the dog was
worth, which was paid down, and the animal was
untied and put on the boat with his new master.
Now it so happened that the boatman had been a
brigand, and, though partially reformed, the feeling
that he had on board a traveller with a large sum
of money was too strong a temptation for him. So
he stopped the boat by running it among the rushes
and drew out a long knife, with which he prepared
to murder his passenger. The merchant begged
the brigand not to mutilate him or cut off his
head, because such treatment causes the victim to
appear in the next world as no one would like
to. Brigands are generally religious, and this one
was no exception; he was willing to oblige the
merchant and tied him up, quite whole, in a carpet,
which he threw into the river. The dog, which
had been looking on, was in the water in a moment,
hugging and tugging at the bundle till he got it
to a shallow place. Then he barked and barked
till people came to see what was the matter, and
they undid the carpet and found the trader still alive.
The first thought of the rescued man was to track
the thief, for which purpose he started at once to
go back to Wu-hu. At the time of starting, much
to his distress, he missed the dog. On arriving
at Wu-hu he hunted among the endless boats and
shipping for the boat by which he had travelled,
but unfortunately he could see nothing of it, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>at last he gave up the search and was going home
with a friend when what should he see but his lost
dog, which barked in a curious way as if to invite
him to follow it. The merchant did so, and the
dog led him to a boat that was lying close to the
quay. Into this boat the dog jumped and seized
hold of one of the boatmen by the leg. In spite
of blows the animal would not let go, and then the
merchant, on looking hard at the boatman, recognised
him as the very man who tried to murder
him, though he had a nice new suit of clothes and
a new boat. The thief was arrested and the money
found at the bottom of the boat. “To think,” says
the story-teller, “that a dog could show gratitude like
that!” To which Dr. Giles adds that dogs in China
are usually “ill-fed, barking curs” which, if valued as
guardians of house and chattels, are still despised.
But beautiful moral qualities have the power to
conquer loathing, and even in those countries where
the dog is regarded generally with aversion it is
still the chosen type of sublime fidelity and love.</p>

<p class='c008'>I can never think of Chinese dogs without remembering
a story told by my cousin, Lord Napier
of Magdala, of an incident which, he said, gave
him more pain than anything that had ever happened
to him in his life. When he was in China he chanced
to admire a dog, which was immediately offered to
him as a gift. He could not accept the offer, and
next day he heard that the owner of the dog with
all his family, five persons, had drowned himself
in a well. Probably they imagined that he was
offended by their offering him a mere dog.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>In India, to return to that home of legend, the
two most sublime Beast Stories are to be found
in the Great Epic of the Hindu race, the <i>Mahabharata</i>.
They are both stories of the faithfulness
of man to beast, and they afford consolation for the
sorry figure presented by the human actor in the
martyred mungoose tale. The first of these stories
is the legend of the Hawk and the Pigeon. A
pigeon pursued by a hawk flies for protection to
the precinct of sacrifice, where a very pious king is
about to make his offering. It clings to the king’s
breast, motionless with fright. Then up comes the
hawk, which, perching on a near vantage-ground,
begins to argue the case. All the princes of the
earth declare the king to be a magnanimous chief;
why, therefore, should he fly in the face of natural
laws? Why keep its destined food from the hawk,
which feels very hungry? The king answers that
the pigeon came flying to him, overcome by fear
and seeking to save its life. How can he possibly
give it up? A trembling bird which enters his
presence begging for its life? How ignoble it
would be to abandon it! Surely it would be a
mortal sin! In fact, that is exactly what the Law
calls it!</p>

<p class='c008'>The hawk retorts that all creatures must eat to
live. You can sustain life on very little, but how
are you going to live on nothing at all? If the
hawk has nothing to eat, his vital breath will depart
this very day “on the road where nothing more
affrights.” If he dies, his wife and children will
die too for want of their protector. Such an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>eventuality cannot be contemplated by the Law:
a law which contradicts itself is a very bad law
and cannot be in accordance with eternal truth.
In theological difficulties one has to consider
what seems just and reasonable and interpret the
point in that sense.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There is a great deal to be said for what you
say, best of fowls,” replies the king, who is impressed
by the hawk’s forensic skill and begins to think
him a person not to be trifled with; “you are very
well informed; in fact, I am inclined to think that
you know everything. How <i>can</i> you suppose, then,
that it would be a decent thing to give up a creature
that seeks refuge? Of course, I understand that
with you it is a question of a dinner, but something
much more substantial than this pigeon can be
prepared for you immediately; for instance, a wild
boar, or a gazelle or a buffalo—anything that you
like.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The hawk answers that he never, by any chance,
touches meat of that sort: why does the king talk
to him about such unsuitable diet? By an immutable
rule hawks feed on pigeons, and this pigeon
is the very thing he wants and to which he has a
perfect right. In a delicate metaphor he hints that
the king had better leave off talking nonsense.</p>

<p class='c008'>The king, who sees that arguments are no good,
now declares that anything and everything he will
give the hawk by way of compensation, but that as to
the pigeon, he will not give it up, so it is no good
going on discussing the matter.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hawk says, in return, that if the king is so
<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>tenderly solicitous on the pigeon’s account, the best
thing he can do is to cut out a piece of his own
flesh and weigh it in the scales with the pigeon—when
the balance is equal, then and then only will
the hawk be satisfied. “As you ask that as a
favour,” says the king, “you shall have what you
wish”—a consent which seems to contain a polite
hint that the hawk might have been a little less
arrogant, for in the hawk’s demand there was no
mention of favours.</p>

<p class='c008'>The king himself cuts out the piece of his flesh
(no one else would have dared do it). But, alas!
when it is weighed with the pigeon, the pigeon
weighs the most! The king went on cutting pieces
of his flesh and throwing them into the scales, but
the pigeon was still the heaviest. At last, all
lacerated as he was, he threw himself into the scales.
Then, with a blast of revelation, the esoteric sense
of the story is made plain. There is something
grand in the sudden antithesis.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hawk said: “I am Indra, O prince, thou
that knowest the Law! And this pigeon is Agni!
Since thou hast torn thy flesh from thy limbs, O
thou Prince of Men, thy glory shall shine throughout
all worlds. As long as there be men on earth
they will remember thee, O king. As long as the
eternal realms endure thy fame shall not grow dim.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So the gods returned to heaven, to which the pious
Wusinara likewise ascended with his renovated body,
luminously bright. He needs not to complete his
sacrifice—himself has he offered up.</p>

<p class='c008'>The listeners (Eastern stories are for listeners,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>not for readers) are exhorted to raise their eyes and
behold with the mind’s vision that pure and holy
abode where the righteous dwell with the gods in
glory ineffable.</p>

<p class='c008'>This beautiful fable belongs to the general class
of the ancient stories of Divine visitants, but it has
a more direct affinity with the lovely legends of
the Middle Ages, in which pious people who give
their beds to lepers or others suffering from loathsome
disease find that it was Christ they harboured.
Though the story of the Hawk and the Pigeon may
be used simply as a fairy tale, the moral of it is what
forms the essential kernel of other-worldly religions.
Through the mazes of Indian thought emerges the
constant conviction—like a Divine sign-post—that
martyrdom is redemption. The gods themselves are
less than the man who resigns everything for what
his conscience tells him to be right. Indra bows
before Wusinara and seeks to learn the Law from
him. India’s gods are Nature-gods, and Nature
teaches no such lesson:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“There is no effort on <i>my</i> brow—</div>
      <div class='line in1'>I do not strive, I do not weep,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>I rush with the swift spheres and glow</div>
      <div class='line in1'>For joy, and when I will, I sleep.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>Higher religions are a criticism of Nature: they
“occupy the sphere that rational interpretation seeks
to occupy and fails, and fails the more the more
it seeks,” and if they change with the change of
moral aspirations they are still the passionate endeavour
of the soul to satisfy them.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>The Buddhists took the story of the Hawk and the
Pigeon and adapted it to their own teaching. Indra,
chief of the gods, feels that his god-life is waning—for
the gods of India labour, too, under the sense
of that mysterious fatality of doom which haunted
Olympus and Walhalla. Indra, knowing his twilight
to be near, desired to consult a Buddha, but there
was not one at that time upon the earth. There
was, however, a virtuous king of the name of Sivi,
and Indra decides to put him to the ordeal, which
forms the subject of the other story, because, if he
comes out scathless, he will be qualified to become
a full Buddha. King Sivi had a severe struggle
with himself, but he conquered his weakness, and
when he feels the scale sink under him he is filled
with indescribable joy and heaven and earth shake,
which always happens when a Buddha is coming
into existence. A crowd of gods descended and
rested on the air: the sight of Sivi’s endurance
caused them to weep tears that fell like rain mingled
with divine flowers, which the gods threw down on
the voluntary victim.</p>

<p class='c008'>Indra puts off the form of a dove and resumes his
god-like shape. What, he asks, does the king desire?
Would he be universal monarch? Would he be king
of the Genii? <i>Would he be Indra?</i> There is a fine touch
in this offer from the god of his godship to the heroic
man, and, like most Buddhist amplifications of older
legends, it might be justified from Brahmanical
sources, as by incredible self-denial it was always
held to be possible to dethrone a god and put oneself
in his place. But Sivi replies that the only state
<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>he craves is that of a Buddha. Indra inquires if
no shade of regret crosses the king’s mind when he
feels the anguish reaching to his bones? The king
replies, “I regret nothing.” “How can I believe
it,” says Indra, “when thy body trembles and shivers
so that thou canst hardly speak?” Sivi repeats that
from beginning to end he has felt no shadow of
regret; all has happened as he wished. In proof
that he speaks truth, may his body be as whole
as before! He had scarcely spoken when the miracle
was effected, and in the same instant King Sivi
became a Buddha.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is a Russian folk-tale which seems to belong
to this cycle. A horse which was ill-treated and
half-starved saves the child of one of his masters
from a bear. He has a friend, a cat, who is also
half-starved. After he has saved the child he is
better fed and he gives the cat part of his food.
The masters notice this and again ill-treat him.
He resolves to kill himself so that the cat may eat
him, but the cat will not eat her friend and resolves
to die likewise.</p>

<p class='c008'>The second great story of man and beast contained
in the <i>Mahabharata</i> is that of Yudishtira and
his dog. Accompanied by his wife and by his
brethren, the saintly king started upon a pilgrimage
of unheard-of difficulty which he alone was able to
complete, as, on account of some slight imperfections
that rendered them insufficiently meritorious to reach
the goal, the others died upon the way. Only a
dog, which followed Yudishtira from his house,
remains with him still. At the final stage he is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>met by Indra, who invites him to mount his car and
ascend to heaven in the flesh. The king asks if
his brethren and the “tender king’s daughter,” his
wife, are to be left lying miserably upon the road?
Indra points out that the souls of these have already
left their mortal coil and are even now in heaven,
where Yudishtira will find them when he reaches
it in his corporeal form. Then the king says, “And
the dog, O lord of what Is and Is to be—the dog
which has been faithful to the end, may I bring him?
It is not my nature to be hard.” Indra says that
since the king has this day obtained the rank of a
god together with immortality and unbounded happiness,
he had better not waste thoughts on a dog.
Yudishtira answers that it would be an abominably
unworthy act to forsake a faithful servant in order
to obtain felicity and fortune. Indra objects that
no dogs are allowed in heaven; what is a dog? A
rough, ill-mannered brute which often runs away with
the sacrifices offered in the temples. Let Yudishtira
only reflect what wretched creatures dogs are, and
he will give up all idea of taking his dog to heaven.
Yudishtira still asserts that the abandonment of
a servant is an enormous sin; it is as bad as
murdering a Brahman. He is not going to forsake
his dog whatever the god may say. Besides, it is
not violent at all, but a gentle and devoted creature,
and now that it is so weak and thin from all it has
undergone on the journey and yet so eager to live,
he would not leave it, even if it cost him his life.
That is his final resolve.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arguing in rather a feminine way, Indra returns
<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>to the charge that dogs are rough, rude brutes and
quite ignores the good personal character given to
this dog by its master. He goes on to twit
Yudishtira with having abandoned his beloved
Draupadi and his brothers on the road down there,
while he makes all this stand about a dog. He
winds up with saying, “You must be quite mad
to-day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Repelling the disingenuous charge of abandoning
his wife and brethren, Yudishtira remarks with
dignity that he left not them but their dead bodies
on the road: he could not bring them to life again.
He might have said that Indra himself had pointed
out to him this very fact. The refusal of asylum,
the murder of a woman, the act of kidnapping a
sleeping Brahman, the act of deceiving a friend—there
is nothing, says Yudishtira, to choose between
these four things and the abandonment of a faithful
servant.</p>

<p class='c008'>The trial is over and the god admits his defeat.
“Since thou hast refused the divine chariot with the
words, ‘This dog is devoted,’ it is clear, O Prince
of Men, that there is no one in heaven equal to
thee.” Yudishtira, alone among mortals, ascends
to bliss in his own body. And the dog—what
of the dog? One is sorry to hear that the dog
vanished and in his place stood Yama, King of
Death.</p>

<p class='c008'>To us, far away from the glamour of Eastern skies,
the god-out-of-the-machine or out of the beast-skin
is not always a welcome apparition. We cannot
help being glad when, sometimes, the animals just
<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>remain what they are, as in the charming Indian
fable of the Lion and the Vulture. A lion who lived
in a forest became great friends with a monkey.
One day the monkey asked the lion to look after
its two little ones while it was away. But the lion
happened to go to sleep and a vulture that was
hovering overhead seized both the young monkeys
and took them up into a tree. When the lion awoke
he saw that his charges were gone, and gazing about
he perceived the vulture holding them tight on the
top branches of the nearest tree. In great distress
of mind the lion said, “The monkey placed its two
children under my care, but I was not watchful
enough and now you have carried them off. In
this way I have missed keeping my word. I do
beg you to give them back; I am the king of beasts,
you are the chief of birds: our nobility and our
power are equal. It would be only fair to let me
have them.” Alas! compliments, though they will
go very far, do little to persuade an empty stomach.
“You are totally unacquainted with the circumstances
of the case,” replied the vulture; “I am
simply dying of hunger: what is the equality or
difference of rank to me?” Then the lion with
his claws tore out some of his own flesh to satisfy
the vulture’s appetite and so ransomed the little
monkeys.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this fable we have the Hawk and the Pigeon
motive with the miraculous kept in but the mythological
left out.</p>

<p class='c008'>Like a great part of the Buddhist stories of
which the Lion and the Vulture is one, we owe its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>preservation to the industrious Chinese translator.
In the same work that contains it, the <i>Tatchi-lou-lun</i>,
we are told how, when a bird laid her eggs on the
head of the first Buddha which she mistook for the
branch of a tree, he plunged himself into a trance so
as not to move till the eggs were hatched and the
young birds had flown. The Buddha’s humanity
is yet again shown by the story of how he saved
the forest animals that were fleeing from a conflagration.
The jungle caught fire and the flames
spread to the forest, which burnt fiercely on three
sides; one side was safe, but it was bounded by a
great river. The Buddha saw the animals huddling
in terror by the water’s edge. Full of pity, he took
the form of a gigantic stag and placing his fore-feet
on the further bank and his hind-feet on the other,
he made a bridge over which the creatures could
pass. His skin and flesh were cruelly wounded by
their feet, but love helped him to bear the pain.
When all the other animals had passed over, and
when the stag’s powers were all but gone, up came
a panting hare. The stag made one more supreme
effort; the hare was saved, but hardly had it crossed,
when the stag’s backbone broke and it fell into the
water and died. The author of the fable may not
have known that hares swim very well, so that the
sacrifice was not necessary, unless, indeed, this hare
was too exhausted to take to the water.</p>

<p class='c008'>We can picture the first Buddhist missionaries
telling such stories over the vast Chinese empire
to a race which had not instinctively that tender
feeling for animals which existed from the most
<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>remote times in the Indian peninsula. A good
authority attributes the present Chinese sensitiveness
about animals wholly to those early teachers.</p>

<p class='c008'>A Sanscrit story akin to the preceding ones tells
how a saint in the first stage of Buddhahood was
walking in the mountains with his disciple when
he saw in a cavern in the rock a tigress and her
newly-born little ones. She was thin and starving
and exhausted by suffering, and she cast unnatural
glances on her children as they pressed close to
her, confident in her love and heedless of her cruel
growls. Notwithstanding his usual self-control, the
saint trembled with emotion at the sight. Turning
to his disciple, he cried, “My son, my son, here
is a tigress, which, in spite of maternal instinct, is
being driven by hunger to devour her little ones.
Oh! dreadful cruelty of self-love, which makes a
mother feed upon her children!”</p>

<p class='c008'>He bids the young man fly in search of food, but
while he is gone he reflects that it may be too late
when he returns, and to save the mother from the
dreadful crime of killing her children, and the little
ones from the teeth of their famished mother, he
flings himself down the precipice. Hearing the
noise, and curious as to what it might mean, the
tigress is turned from the thought of killing her
young ones, and on looking round she sees the
body of the saint and devours it.</p>

<p class='c008'>The most remarkable of all the many Buddhist
animal stories is that of the Banyan Deer, which
is in the rich collection of old-world lore known
as the <i>Jātaka Book</i>. The collection is not so much
<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>an original Buddhist work as the Buddhist redaction
of much older tales. It was made in about the
third century <span class='fss'>B.C.</span> The Banyan Deer story had the
additional interest that illustrations of it were discovered
among the bas-reliefs of the stupa of
Bharhut. I condense the story from the version of
it given in Professor T. W. Rhys Davids’ “Buddhist
India.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In the king’s park there were two herds of deer,
and every day either the king or his cook hunted
them for venison. So every day a great many
were harassed and wounded for one that was killed.
Then the golden-hued Banyan Deer, who was the
monarch of one herd, went to the Branch Deer,
who was king of the other herd, and proposed an
arrangement by which lots were to be cast daily,
and one deer on whom the lot fell should go and
offer himself to the cook, voluntarily laying his head
on the block. In this way there would be no unnecessary
suffering and slaughter.</p>

<div id='i328'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i328.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Griggs.</i></span><br />THE BANYAN DEER.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>From “Stûpa of Bharhut,” by General Cunningham.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The somewhat lugubrious proposition met with
assent, and all seems to have gone well till one
day the lot fell to a doe of the Branch king’s herd,
who was expecting soon to become a mother. She
begged her king to relieve her of the duty, as it
would mean that two at once should suffer, which could
never have been intended. But with harsh words
the Branch king bade her be off to the block. Then
the little doe went piteously to the Banyan king
as a last hope. No sooner had he heard her tale
than he said he would look to the matter, and what
he did was to go straight to the block himself and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>lay his royal head upon it. But as the king of the
country had ordered that the monarchs of both herds
should be spared, the cook was astonished to see
King Banyan with his head on the block, and went
off in a hurry to tell his lord. Mounted in a chariot
with all his men around him, the sovereign rode
straight to the place. Then he asked his friend,
the king of the deer, why had he come there? Had
he not granted him his life? The Banyan Deer
told him all. The heart of the king of men was
touched, and he commanded the deer to rise up and
go on his way, for he gave him his life and hers also
to the doe. But the Banyan Deer asked how it
would be with all the others: were two to be saved
and the rest left to their peril? The king of men
said that they too should be respected. Even then
the Banyan Deer had more to ask: he pleaded for
the safety of all living, feeling things, and the king
of men granted his prayer. (What will not a man
grant when his heart is touched by some act of pure
abnegation?)</p>

<p class='c008'>There is a curious epilogue to the story. The
doe gave birth to a most beautiful fawn, which went
playing with the herd of the Branch Deer. To it the
mother said:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Follow rather the Banyan Deer,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Cultivate not the Branch!</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Death with the Banyan were better far</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Than with the Branch long life.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>The verse is haunting in its vagueness, as a music
which reaches us from far away. “Follow rather
<span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>the Banyan Deer!” ... follow the ideal, follow the
merciful, he who loses his life shall find it.</p>
<p class='c008'>The Indian hermit of whatsoever sect has always
been, and is still, good friends with animals, and when
he can, he gives asylum to as many as he is able,
around his hermitage. This fact, which is familiar to
all, becomes the groundwork of many stories. One
of the best is the elaborate Chinese Buddhist tale of
Sama, an incarnation of Buddha, who chose to be
born as a son to two old, blind, childless folks, in
order to take care of their forlornness. When the
child was ten years old he begged his parents respectfully
to go with him into the solitary mountains where
they might practise the life of religious persons who
have forsaken the world. His parents agreed; they
had been thinking about becoming hermits before
his birth, but that happy event made them put the
thought away. Now they were quite willing to go
with him. So they gave their worldly goods to the
poor and followed where he led.</p>

<div id='i330'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i330.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Mansell.</i></span><br />EGYPTIAN FOWLING SCENE.<br />British Museum.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Mural painting.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>There is a beautiful description of the life in the
mountains. Sama made a shelter of leaves and
branches, and brought his old parents sweet fruits
and cool water—all that they needed. The birds
and beasts of the forest, showing no fear, delighted
the blind couple with their song and friendship,
and all the creatures came at Sama’s call and followed
him about. Herds of deer and feathered fowl drank
by the river’s bank while he drew water. Unhappily
one day the king of Kasi was out hunting in those
wilds and he saw the birds and the deer, but Sama he
did not see and an arrow he aimed at the herd pierced
<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>the boy’s body. The wounded boy said to the king,
“They kill an elephant for its ivory teeth, a
rhinoceros for its horn, a kingfisher for its feathers,
a deer for its skin, but why should I be killed?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The king dismounted, and asked him who he was—consorting
with the wild herds of the forest. Sama
told him that he was only a hermit boy, living an
innocent life with his blind parents. No tiger or
wolf had harmed them, and now the arrow of his
king laid him low.</p>

<p class='c008'>The forest wailed; the wild beasts and birds, the
lions, tigers, and wolves uttered dismal cries. “Hark,
how the beasts of the forest cry!” Said the old couple
to one another, “Never before have we heard it
so. How long our son has been gone!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Meanwhile, the king, overcome by sorrow and
remorse, tried in vain to draw the arrow from the
boy’s breast. The birds flew round and round
screaming wildly; the king trembled with fear. Sama
said, “Your Majesty is not to blame; I must have
done ill in a former life, and now suffer justly for
it: I do not grieve for myself but for my blind parents
... what will they do? May heavenly guardians
protect them!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Then the king said, “May I undergo the torments
of hell for a hundred æons, but O! may this youth
live!” It was not to be; Sama expired, while all
the wood birds flocking together tried tenderly to
staunch the blood flowing from his breast.</p>

<p class='c008'>I cannot tell the whole story, which has a strong
suggestion of some poetic fancy of Maeterlinck. In
the end Sama is brought back to life, and the eyes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>of his parents are opened. The king is admonished
to return to his dominions and no longer take life
in the chase.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a Jaina hermit story a king goes hunting with
a great attendance of horses, elephants, chariots, and
men on foot. He pursues the deer on horseback,
and, keen on his sport, he does not notice, as he
aims the arrow, that the frightened creature is fleeing
to a holy ascetic who is wise in the study of sacred
things. Of a sudden, he beholds the dead deer and
the holy man standing by it. A dreadful fear seizes
the king: he might have killed the monk! He gets
off his horse, bows low, and prays to be forgiven.
The venerable saint was plunged in thought and
made no answer; the king grew more and more
alarmed at his silence. “Answer me, I pray, Reverend
Sir,” he said. “Be without fear, O king,” replied
the monk, “but grant safety to others also. In this
transient world of living things, why are you prone
to cruelty?” Why should the king cling to kingly
power, since one day he must part with everything?
Life and beauty pass, wife and children, friends and
kindred—they will follow no man in death: what
do follow him are his deeds, good or evil. When
he heard that, the king renounced his kingdom and
became an ascetic. “A certain nobleman who had
turned monk said to him, ‘As you look so happy,
you must have peace of mind.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>It may be a wrong conception of life that makes
men seek rest on this side of the grave, but one can
well believe that the finding of it brings a happiness
beyond our common ken. For one thing, he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>who lives with Nature surely never knows <i>ennui</i>.
The most marvellous of dramatic poems unfolds
its pages before his eyes. Nor does he know loneliness;
even one little creature in a prisoner’s cell gives
a sense of companionship, and the recluse in the
wild has the society of all the furred and feathered
hosts. The greatest poet of the later literature of
India, Kálidása, draws an exquisite picture of the
surroundings of an Indian heritage:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“See under yon trees the hallowed grains which
have been scattered on the ground, while the tender
female parrots were feeding their unfledged young
ones in their pendant nests.... Look at the young
fawns, which, having acquired confidence in man, and
accustomed themselves to the sound of his voice,
frisk at pleasure, without varying their course. See,
too, where the young roes graze, without apprehension
from our approach, on the lawn before
yonder garden, where the tops of the sacrificial grass,
cut for some religious rite, are sprinkled round.”<a id='r9' /><a href='#f9' class='c017'><sup>[9]</sup></a></p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r9'>9</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>Sir William Jones’s translation.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'>In the play of <i>Sacontala</i>—which filled Goethe with
a delight crystallised in his immortal quatrain—no
scene is so impressed by genuine feeling and none
so artistic in its admirable simplicity as that in which
the heroine takes leave of her childhood’s pet.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hermit, who has been the foster-father of
Sacontala, is dismissing her upon her journey to the
exalted bridegroom who awaits her.  At the last
moment she says to him: “My father, see you there
my pet deer, grazing close to the hermitage? She
expects soon to fawn, and even now the weight of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>the little ones she carries hinders her movements.
Do not forget to send me word when she becomes
a mother.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The hermit, Canna, promises that it shall be done;
then as Sacontala moves away, she feels herself
drawn back, and turning round, she says, “What
can this be fastened to my dress?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Canna answers:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“My daughter,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>It is the little fawn, thy foster child.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Poor helpless orphan! It remembers well</div>
      <div class='line in1'>How with a mother’s tenderness and love</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Thou didst protect it, and with grains of rice</div>
      <div class='line in1'>From thine own hand didst daily nourish it,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And ever and anon when some sharp thorn</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Had pierced its mouth, how gently thou didst tend</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The bleeding wound and pour in healing balm.</div>
      <div class='line in1'>The grateful nursling clings to its protectress,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>Mutely imploring leave to follow her.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>Sacontala replies, weeping, “My poor little fawn,
dost thou ask to follow an unhappy wretch who
hesitates not to desert her companions? When thy
mother died, soon after thy birth, I supplied her place
and reared thee with my own hands, and now that
thy second mother is about to leave thee, who will
care for thee? My father, be thou a mother to her.
My child, go back and be a daughter to my father!”</p>

<hr class='c023' />

<p class='c008'>It is the fatality of the dramatist that he cannot
stamp with truth sentiments which are not sure
of a response from his audience: he must strike
the keyboard of his race. We can imagine how
<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>thoroughly an Indian audience would enter into the
sentiment of this charming scene. To the little
Indian girl, who was still only a child of thirteen
or fourteen, the favourite animal did not appear as
a toy, or even as a simple playmate. It was the
object of grave and thoughtful care, and it received
the first outpouring of what would one day be
maternal love.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>
  <h2 id='ch16' class='c006'>XVI<br /> <br />THE GROWTH OF MODERN IDEAS ON ANIMALS</h2>
</div>
<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c007'>THE last age of antiquity was an age of yeast.
Ideas were in fermentation; religious questions
came to be regarded as “interesting”—just as they
are now. The spirit of inquiry took the place of
placid acceptance on the one hand, and placid indifference
on the other. It was natural that there
should be a rebound from the effort of Augustus to
re-order religion on an Imperial, conventional, and unemotional
basis. Then, too, Rome, which had never
been really Italian except in the sublime previsions
of Virgil, grew every day more cosmopolitan: the
denizens of the discovered world found their way
thither on business, for pleasure, as slaves—the influence
of these last not being the least important
factor, though its extent and character are not easy
to define. Everything tended to foment a religious
unrest which took the form of one of those “returns
to the East” that are ever destined to recur: the spiritual
sense of the Western world became Orientalised.
The worship of Isis and Serapis and much more of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>Mithra proved to be more exciting than the worship
of the Greek and Roman gods which represented
Nature and law, while the new cults proposed to
raise the veil on what transcends natural perception.
No doubt the atmosphere of the East itself favoured
their rapid development; the traveller in North
Africa must be struck by the extraordinary frequency
with which the symbols of Mithraism recur in the
sculpture and mosaics of that once great Roman dependency.
Evidently the birthland of St. Augustine
bred in the matter-of-fact Roman colonist the same
nostalgia for the Unknowable which even now a
lonely night under the stars of the Sahara awakes in
the dullest European soul. Personal immortality as
a paramount doctrine; a further life more real than
this one; ritual purification, redemption by sacrifice,
mystical union with deity; these were among the
un-Roman and even anti-Roman conceptions which
lay behind the new, strange propaganda, and prepared
the way for the diffusion of Christianity. With
the Italian peasants who clung to the unmixed older
faith no progress was made till persecution could be
called in as an auxiliary.</p>

<div id='i336'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i336.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Mansell.</i></span><br />ASSYRIAN LION AND LIONESS IN PARADISE PARK.<br />British Museum.</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>In such a time it was a psychological certainty
that among the other Eastern ideas which were
coming to the fore, would be those ideas about
animals which are roughly classed under the head
of Pythagoreanism. The apostles of Christ in their
journeys East or West might have met a singular
individual who was carrying on an apostolate of his
own, the one clear and unyielding point of which
was the abolition of animal sacrifices. This was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>Apollonius, of Tyana, our knowledge of whom is
derived from the biography, in part perhaps fanciful,
written by Philostratus in the third century to please
the Empress Julia Domna, who was interested in
occult matters. Apollonius worked wonders as well
attested as those, for instance, of the Russian Father
John, but he seems to have considered his power
the naturally produced result of an austere life and
abstinence from flesh and wine which is a thoroughly
Buddhist or Jaina theory. He was a theosophist
who refrained from attacking the outward forms and
observances of established religion when they did
not seem to him either to be cruel or else incongruous
to the degree of preventing a reverential
spirit. He did not entirely understand that this
degree is movable, any more than do those persons
who want to substitute Gregorian chants for opera
airs in rural Italian churches. He did not mind the
Greek statues which appealed to the imagination by
suggestions of beauty, but he blamed the Egyptians
for representing deity as a dog or an ibis; if they
disliked images of stone why not have a temple
where there were no images of any kind—where all
was left to the inner vision of the worshipper? In
which question, almost accidentally, Apollonius throws
out a hint of the highest form of spiritual worship.</p>

<div id='i338'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i338.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p><span class='small'><i>Photo:</i>     <i>Alinari.</i></span><br />LAMBS.<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Relief on fifth century tomb at Ravenna.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The keenly intellectual thinkers whom we call the
Fathers of the Church saw that the majority of the
ideas then agitating men’s minds might find a quietus
in Christian dogma which suited them a great deal
better than the vague and often grotesque shape
they had worn hitherto. But there was a residuum
<span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>of which they felt an instinctive fear, and peculiar
notions about animals had the ill-luck of being placed
at the head of these. It could not have been a
fortunate coincidence that two of the most prominent
men who held them in the early centuries were declared
foes of the new faith—Celsus and Porphyry.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the Church triumphed, the treatise written
by Celsus would have been no doubt entirely destroyed
like other works of the same sort, had not
Origen made a great number of quotations from it
for the purpose of confutation. Celsus was no <i>borné</i>
disputant after the fashion of the Octavius of Minucius,
but a man of almost encyclopædic learning; if
he was a less fair critic than he held himself to be,
it was less from want of information than from want
of that sympathy which is needful for true comprehension.
The inner feeling of such a man towards
the Christian Sectaries was not near so much that
of a Torquemada in regard to heretics as that of an
old-fashioned Tory upholder of throne and altar
towards dissent fifty years ago. It was a feeling of
social aloofness.</p>

<p class='c008'>Yet Celsus wished to be fair, and he had studied
religions to enough purpose not to condemn as
delusion or untruth everything that a superficial
adversary would have rejected at once; for instance,
he was ready to allow that the appearances of Christ
to His disciples after the Crucifixion might be
explained as psychical phenomena. Possibly he
believed that truth, not falsehood, was the ultimate
basis of all religions as was the belief of Apollonius
before him. In some respects Celsus was more
<span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>unprejudiced than Apollonius; this can be observed
in his remarks on Egyptian zoomorphism; it causes
surprise, he says, when you go inside one of the
splendid Egyptian temples to find for divinity a cat,
a monkey or a crocodile, but to the initiated they
are symbols which under an allegorical veil turn
people to honour imperishable ideas, not perishable
animals as the vulgar suppose.</p>

<p class='c008'>It may have been his recondite researches which
led Celsus to take up the question of the intelligence
of animals and the conclusions to be drawn from it.
He only touches lightly on the subject of their origin;
he seems to lean towards the theory that the soul,
life, mind, only, is made by God, the corruptible and
passing body being a natural growth or perhaps the
handiwork of inferior spirits. He denied that reason
belonged to man alone, and still more strongly that
God created the universe for man rather than for the
other animals. Only absurd pride, he says, can engender
such a thought. He knew very well that
this, far from being a new idea, was the normal view
of the ancient world from Aristotle to Cicero; the
distinguished men who disagreed with it had never
won more than a small minority over to their opinion.
Celsus takes Euripides to task for saying—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The sun and moon are made to serve mankind.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c016'>Why mankind? he asks; why not ants and flies?
Night serves them also for rest and day for seeing
and working. If it be said that we are the king of
animals because we hunt and catch them or because
<span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>we eat them, why not say that we are made for them
because they hunt and catch us? Indeed, they are
better provided than we, for while we need arms and
nets to take them and the help of several men and
dogs, Nature furnishes them with the arms they
require, and we are, as it were, made dependent on
them. You want to make out that God gave you
the power to take and kill wild animals, but at the
time when there were no towns or civilisation or
society or arms or nets, animals probably caught and
devoured men while men never caught animals. In
this way, it looks more as if God subjected man to
animals than <i>vice versâ</i>. If men seem different from
animals because they build cities, make laws, obey
magistrates and rulers, you ought to note that this
amounts to nothing at all, since ants and bees do just
the same. Bees have their “kings”; some command,
others obey; they make war, win battles, take
prisoner the vanquished; they have their towns
and quarters; their work is regulated by fixed
periods, they punish the lazy and cowardly—at least
they expel the drones. As to ants, they practise
the science of social economy just as well as we do;
they have granaries which they fill with provisions
for the winter; they help their comrades if they see
them bending under the weight of a burden; they
carry their dead to places which become family
tombs; they address each other when they meet:
whence it follows that they never lose their way. We
must conclude, therefore, that they have complete
reasoning powers and common notions of certain
general truths, and that they have a language and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>know how to express fortuitous events. If some
one, then, looked down from the height of heaven
on to the earth, what difference would he see between
our actions and those of ants and bees? If
man is proud of knowing magical secrets, serpents
and eagles know a great deal more, for they use
many preservatives against poisons and diseases, and
are acquainted with the virtues of certain stones with
which they cure the ailments of their young ones,
while if men find out such a cure they think
they have hit on the greatest wonder in the
world. Finally, if man imagines that he is superior
to animals because he possesses notion of God, let
him know that it is the same with many of them;
what is there more divine, in fact, than to foresee
and to foretell the future? Now for that purpose
men have recourse to animals, especially to birds,
and all our soothsayers do is to understand the
indications given by these. If, therefore, birds
and other prophetic animals show us by signs the
future as it is revealed to them by God, it proves
that they have closer relations with the deity than
we; that they are wiser and more loved by God.
Very enlightened men have thought that they understood
the language of certain animals, and in proof
of this they have been known to predict that birds
would do something or go somewhere, and this was
observed to come true. No one keeps an oath
more religiously or is more faithful to God than the
elephant, which shows that he knows Him.</p>
<p class='c008'>Hence, concludes Celsus, the universe has <i>not</i>
been made for man any more than for the eagle or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>the dolphin. Everything was created not in the
interest of something else, but to contribute to the
harmony of the whole in order that the world might
be absolutely perfect. God takes care of the universe;
it is that which His providence never forsakes,
that which never falls into disorder. God no
more gets angry with men than with rats or monkeys:
everything keeps its appointed place.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this passage Celsus rises to a higher level than in
any other of the excerpts preserved for us by Origen.
The tone of irony which usually characterises him
disappears in this dignified affirmation of supreme
wisdom justified of itself not by the little standards
of men—or ants. It must be recognised as a lofty
conception, commanding the respect of those who
differ from it, and reconciling all apparent difficulties
and contradictions forced upon us by the contemplation
of men and Nature. But it brings no water
from the cool spring to souls dying of thirst; it expounds
in the clearest way and even in the noblest
way the very thought which drove men into the
Christian fold far more surely than the learned
apologies of controversialists like Origen; the
thought of the crushing unimportance of the individual.</p>

<p class='c008'>The least attentive reader must be struck by the
real knowledge of natural history shown by Celsus:
his ants are nearly as conscientiously observed as
Lord Avebury’s. Yet a certain suspicion of conscious
exaggeration detracts from the seriousness of
his arguments; he strikes one as more sincere in
disbelieving than in believing. A modern writer
<span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>has remarked that Celsus in the second half of the
second century forestalled Darwin in the second half
of the nineteenth by denying human ascendancy and
contending that man may be a little lower than the
brute. But it scarcely seems certain whether he was
convinced by his own reasoning or was not rather
replying by paradoxes to what he considered the
still greater paradoxes of Christian theology.</p>

<p class='c008'>The shadow of no such doubt falls on the pages
of the neoplatonists Plotinus and Porphyry. To
them the destiny of animals was not an academic
problem but an obsession. The questions which
Heine’s young man asked of the waves: “What
signifies man? Whence does he come? Whither
does he go?” were asked by them with passionate
earnestness in their application to all sentient things.
Plotinus reasoned, with great force, that intelligent
beast-souls must be like the soul of man since in
itself the essence of the soul could not be different.
Porphyry (born at Tyre, <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> 233), accepting this
postulate that animals possess an intelligent soul like
ours, went on to declare that it was therefore unlawful
to kill or feed on them under any circumstances. If
justice is due to rational beings, how is it possible to
evade the conclusion that we are also bound to act
justly towards the races below us? He who loves
all animated nature will not single out one tribe of
innocent beings for hatred; if he loves the whole
he will love every part, and, above all, that part
which is most closely allied to ourselves. Porphyry
was quite ready to admit that animals in their own
way made use of words, and he mentions Melampus
<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>and Apollonius as among the philosophers who
understood their language. He quoted with approval
the laws supposed to have been framed by
Triptolemus in the reign of Pandion, fifth king of
Athens: “Honour your parents; make oblations of
your fruits to the gods; hurt not any living creature.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Neoplatonism penetrated into the early Church,
but divested of its views on animal destiny; even
the Catholic neoplatonist Boëthius, though he was
sensitively fond of animals (witness his lines about
caged birds), yet took the extreme view of the hard-and-fast
line of separation, as may be seen by his
poem on the “downward head,” which he interpreted
to indicate the earth-bound nature of all flesh save
man. Birds, by the by, and even fishes, not to speak
of camel-leopards, can hardly be said to have a
“downward head.” Meanwhile, the other manner
of feeling, if not of thinking, reasserted its power
as it always will, for it belongs to the primal things.
Excluded from the broad road, it came in by the
narrow way—the way that leads to heaven. In the
wake of the Christian Guru came a whole troop of
charming beasts, little less saintly and miraculous
than their holy protectors, and thus preachers of the
religion of love were spared the reproach of showing
an all-unloving face towards creatures that could
return love for love as well as most and better than
many of the human kind. The saint saved the
situation, and the Church wisely left him alone to
discourse to his brother fishes or his sister turtle-doves,
without inquiring about the strict orthodoxy
of the proceeding.</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>Unhappily the more direct inheritors of neoplatonist
dreams were not left alone. A trend of tendency
towards Pythagoreanism runs through their different
developments from Philo to the Gnostics, from the
Gnostics, through the Paulicians to the Albigenses.
It passes out of our sight when these were suppressed
in the thirteenth century by the most sanguinary
persecution that the world has seen, but before long
it was to reappear in one shape or another, and
we may be sure that the thread was never wholly
lost.</p>

<div id='i346'  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i346.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic002'>
<p>“IL BUON PASTORE.”<br /><span class='small'>(<i>Mosaic at Ravenna.</i>)</span></p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>An effort has been made to prove that the official
as well as the unofficial Church always favoured
humanity to animals. The result of this effort has
been wholly good; not only has it produced a delightful
volume,<a id='r10' /><a href='#f10' class='c017'><sup>[10]</sup></a> but, indirectly, it was the cause of
Pope Pius X. pronouncing a blessing on every one
who is working for the prevention of cruelty to
animals throughout the world. <i>Roma locuta est.</i> To
me this appears to be a landmark in ethics of first-class
importance. Nevertheless, historically speaking,
it is difficult to resist the conclusion that the diametrically
opposite view expressed by Father Rickaby
in a manual intended for use in the Jesuit College at
Stonyhurst,<a id='r11' /><a href='#f11' class='c017'><sup>[11]</sup></a> more correctly gives the measure of what
had been the practical teaching of the Church in all
these ages. Even now, authoritative Catholics, when
enjoining humanity to animals, are careful to add
that man has “no duties” towards them, though
<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>they may modify this by saying with Cardinal
Manning (the most kind-hearted of men) that he
owes “a sevenfold obligation” to their Creator to
treat them well. Was it surprising that the Neapolitan
peasant who heard from his priest that he
had no duties to his ass went home, not to excogitate
the sevenfold obligation but to belabour the poor
beast soundly? Though the distinction is capable
of philosophical defence, granted the premises, to
plain people it looks like a juggling with words.
When St. Philip Neri said to a monk who put his
foot on a lizard, “What has the poor creature done
to you?” he implied a duty to the animal, the duty
of reciprocity. He spoke with the voice of Nature
and forgot, for the moment, that animals were not
“moral persons” nor “endowed with reason,” and
that hence they could have “no rights.”</p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r10'>10</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“L’Église et la Pitié envers les animaux,” Paris, 1903. An
English edition has been published by Messrs. Burns and Oates.</p>
</div>

</div>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r11'>11</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>“Moral Philosophy,” p. 250.</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'>At an early date, in the heart of official Catholicism,
an inconsistency appeared which is less easily explained
than homilies composed for fishes or hymns
for birds; namely, the strange business of animal
prosecutions. Without inquiring exactly what an
animal is, it is easy to bestow upon it either blessings
or curses. The beautiful rite of the blessing of the
beasts which is still performed once a year in many
places involves no doctrinal crux. In Corsica the
priest goes up to the high mountain <i>plateaux</i> where
the animals pasture in the summer, and after saying
Mass in presence of all the four-footed family, he
solemnly blesses them and exhorts them to prosper
and multiply. It is a delightful scene, but it does
not affect the conception of the moral status of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>animals, nor would that conception be affected by
a right-down malediction or order to quit. What,
however, can be thought of a regular trial of inconvenient
or offending animals in which great care
is taken, to keep up the appearance of fair-play to
the defendants? Our first impression is, that it
must be an elaborate comedy; but a study of the
facts makes it impossible to accept this theory.</p>

<p class='c008'>The earliest allusions to such trials that seem to
exist belong to the ninth century, which does not
prove that they were the first of the kind. One trial
took place in 824 <span class='fss'>A.D.</span> The Council of Worms decided
in 866 that if a man has been killed by bees
they ought to suffer death, “but,” added the judgment,
“it will be permissible to eat their honey.”
A relic of the same order of ideas lingers in the
habit some people have of shooting a horse which
has caused a fatal accident, often the direct consequence
of bad riding or bad driving. The earlier
beast trials of which we have knowledge were conducted
by laymen, the latter by ecclesiastics, which
suggests their origin in a folk-practice. A good,
characteristic instance began on September 5, 1370.
The young son of a Burgundian swineherd had been
killed by three sows which seemed to have feared
an attack on one of their young ones. All members
of the herd were arrested as accomplices, which was
a serious matter to their owners, the inmates of a
neighbouring convent, as the animals, if convicted,
would be burnt and their ashes buried. The prior
pointed out that three sows alone were guilty; surely
the rest of the pigs ought to be acquitted. Justice
<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>did not move quickly in those times; it was on
September 12, 1379, that the Duke of Burgundy
delivered judgment; only the three guilty sows and
one young pig (what had <i>it</i> done?) were to be executed;
the others were set at liberty “notwithstanding
that they had seen the death of the boy without
defending him.” Were the original ones all alive
after nine years? If so, would so long a respite
have been granted them had no legal proceedings
been instituted?</p>

<p class='c008'>An important trial took place in Savoy in the year
1587. The accused was a certain fly. Two suitable
advocates were assigned to the insects, who argued
on their behalf that these creatures were created
before man, and had been blessed by God, who gave
them the right to feed on grass, and for all these and
other good reasons the flies were in their right when
they occupied the vineyards of the Commune; they
simply availed themselves of a legitimate privilege
conformable to Divine and natural law. The plaintiffs’
advocate retorted that the Bible and common
sense showed animals to be created for the utility of
man; hence they could not have the right to cause
him loss, to which the counsel for the insects replied
that man had the right to command animals, no
doubt, but not to persecute, excommunicate and
interdict them when they were merely conforming
to natural law “which is eternal and immutable like
the Divine.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The judges were so deeply impressed by this
pleading that to cut the case short, which seemed
to be going against him, the Mayor of St. Julien
<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>hastened to propose a compromise; he offered a
piece of land where the flies might find a safe retreat
and live out their days in peace and plenty.
The offer was accepted. On June 29, 1587, the
citizens of St. Julien were bidden to the market
square by ringing the church bells, and after a short
discussion they ratified the agreement which handed
over a large piece of land to the exclusive use of
the insects. Hope was expressed that they would
be entirely satisfied with the bargain. A right of
way across the land was, indeed, reserved to the
public, but no harm whatever was to be done to
the flies on their own territory. It was stated in
the formal contract that the reservation was ceded
to the insects in perpetuity.</p>

<p class='c008'>All was going well, when it transpired that, in
the meantime, the flies’ advocates had paid a visit
to that much-vaunted piece of land, and when they
returned, they raised the strongest objection to it
on the score that it was arid, sterile, and produced
nothing. The mayor’s counsel disputed this; the
land, he said, produced no end of nice small trees
and bushes, the very things for the nutrition of insects.
The judges intervened by ordering a survey
to find out the real truth, which survey cost three
florins. There, alas! the story ends, for the winding
up of the affair is not to be found in the archives
of St. Julien.</p>

<p class='c008'>Records of 144 such trials have come to light.
Of the two I have described, it will be remarked
that one belongs, as it were, to criminal and the
other to civil law. The last class is the most
<span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>curious. No doubt the trial of flies or locusts
was resorted to when other means of getting rid of
them had failed; it was hoped, somehow, that the
elaborate appearance of fair-play would bring about
a result not to be obtained by violence. We can
hardly resist the inference that they involved some
sort of recognition or intuition of animals’ rights
and even of animal intelligence.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the dawn of modern literature animals played
a large, though artificial, part which must not be
quite ignored on account of its artificiality, because
in the Bestiaries as in the Æsopic and Oriental fables
from which they were mainly derived, there was an
inextricable tangle of observations of the real creature
and arbitrary ascription to him of human
qualities and adventures. At last they became a
mere method for attacking political or ecclesiastical
abuses, but their great popularity was as much due
to their outer as to their inner sense. There is not
any doubt that at the same time floods of Eastern
fairy-tales were migrating to Europe, and in these
the most highly appreciated hero was always the
friendly beast. In a romance of the thirteenth century
called “Guillaume de Palerme” all previous
marvels of this kind were outdone by the story of
a Sicilian prince who was befriended by a were-wolf!</p>

<p class='c008'>It is not generally remembered that the Indian
or Buddhist view of animals must have been pretty
well known in Europe at least as early as the fourteenth
century. The account of the monastery
“where many strange beasts of divers kinds do live
upon a hill,” which Fra Odoric, of Pordenone,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>dictated in 1330, is a description, both accurate and
charming, of a Buddhist animal refuge, and in the
version given of it in Mandeville’s “Travels,” if
not in the original, it must have been read by nearly
every one who could read, for no book ever had so
vast a diffusion as the “Travels” of the elusive
Knight of St. Albans.</p>

<p class='c008'>With the Italian Renaissance came the full modern
æsthetic enjoyment of animals; the admiration of
their beauty and perfection which had been appreciated,
of course, long before, but not quite in the
same spirit. The all-round gifted Leo Battista
Alberti in the fifteenth century took the same
critical delight in the points of a fine animal that
a modern expert would take. He was a splendid
rider, but his interest was not confined to horses;
his love for his dog is shown by his having pronounced
a funeral oration over him. We feel that
with such men humanity towards animals was a part
of good manners. “We owe justice to men,” said
the intensely civilised Montaigne, “and grace and
benignity to other creatures that are capable of it;
there is a natural commerce and mutual obligation
between them and us.” Sir Arthur Helps, speaking
of this, called it “using courtesy to animals,” and when
one comes to think of it, is not such “courtesy” the
particular mark and sign of a man of good breeding
in all ages?</p>

<p class='c008'>The Renaissance brought with it something deeper
than a wonderful quickening of the æsthetic sense
in all directions; it also brought that spiritual quickening
which is the co-efficient of every really upward
<span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>movement of the human mind. Leonardo da Vinci,
greatest of artist-humanists, inveighed against cruelty
in words that might have been written by Plutarch
or Porphyry. His sympathies were with the vegetarian.
Meanwhile, Northern Churchmen who went
to Rome were scandalised to hear it said in high
ecclesiastical society that there was no difference
between the souls of men and beasts. An attempt
was made to convert Erasmus to this doctrine by
means of certain extracts from Pliny. Roman
society, at that time, was so little serious that one
cannot believe it to have been serious even in its
heterodoxy. But speculations more or less of the
same sort were taken up by men of a very different
stamp; it was to be foreseen that animals would have
their portion of attention in the ponderings of the
god-intoxicated musers who have been called the
Sceptics of the Renaissance. For the proof that
they did receive it we have only to turn to the pages
of Giordano Bruno. “Every part of creation has
its share in being and cognition.” “There is a
difference, not in quality, but in quantity, between
the soul of man, the animal and the plant.” “Among
horses, elephants and dogs there are single individuals
which appear to have almost the understanding
of men.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Bruno’s prophetic guess that instinct is inherited
habit might have saved Descartes (who was much
indebted to the Nolan) from giving his name an
unenviable immortality in connexion with the theory
which is nearly all that the ignorant know now of
Cartesian philosophy. This was the theory that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>animals are automata, a sophism that may be said
to have swept Europe, though it was not long
before it provoked a reaction. Descartes got this
idea from the very place where it was likely to
originate, from Spain. A certain Gomez Pereira
advanced it before Descartes made it his own,
which even led to a charge of plagiarism. “Because
a clock marks time and a bee makes honey, we
are to consider the clock and the bee to be machines.
Because they do one thing better than man and no
other thing so well as man, we are to conclude that
they have no mind, but that Nature acts within
them, holding their organs at her disposal.” “Nor
are we to think, as the ancients do, that animals
speak, though we do not know their language, for,
if that were so, they, having several organs related
to ours, might as easily communicate with us as
with each other.”</p>

<p class='c008'>About this, Huxley showed that an almost imperceptible
imperfection of the vocal chord may prevent
articulated sounds. Moreover, the click of the bushmen,
which is almost their only language, is exceedingly
like the sounds made by monkeys.</p>

<p class='c008'>Language, as defined by an eminent Italian man
of science, Professor Broca, is the faculty of making
things known, or expressing them by signs or sounds.
Much the same definition was given by Mivart,
and if there be a better one, we have still to wait
for it. Human language is evolved; at one time man
had it not. The babe in the cradle is without it; the
deaf mute, in his untaught state, is without it; <i>ergo</i>
the babe and the deaf mute cannot feel. Poor babes
<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>and poor deaf mutes should the scientific Loyolas
of the future adopt this view!</p>

<p class='c008'>I do not know if any one has remarked that rural
and primitive folk can never bring themselves to
believe of any foreign tongue that it is real human
language like their own. To them it seems a
jargon of meaningless and uncouth sounds.</p>

<p class='c008'>Chanet, a follower of Descartes, said that he
would believe that beasts thought when a beast
told him so. By what cries of pain, by what looks
of love, have not beasts told men that they thought!
Man himself does not think in words in moments
of profound emotion, whether of grief or joy. <i>He
cries out</i> or he <i>acts</i>. Thought in its absolutely
elementary form is <i>action</i>. The mother thinks in
the kiss she gives her child. The musician thinks in
music. Perhaps God thinks in constellations. I
asked a man who had saved many lives by jumping
into the sea, “What did you think of at the moment
of doing it?” He replied: “You do not think, or
you might not do it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The whole trend of philosophic speculation worthy
of the name lies towards unity, but the Cartesian
theory would arbitrarily divide even man’s physical
and sensational nature from that of the other animals.
To remedy this, Descartes admitted that man was
just as much an automatic machine as other creatures.
By what right, then, does he complain when he
happens to have a toothache? Because, says Descartes
triumphantly, man has an immortal soul!
The child thinks in his mother’s womb, but the
dog, which after scenting two roads takes the third
<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>without demur, sure that his master must have gone
that way, this dog is acting “by springs” and
neither thinks nor feels at all.</p>

<p class='c008'>The misuse of the ill-treated word “Nature”
cannot hide the fact that the beginning, middle, and
end of Descartes’ argument rests on a perpetually
recurrent miracle. Descartes confessed as much
when he said that God <i>could</i> make animals as
machines, so why should it be impossible that He
<i>had</i> made them as machines? Voltaire’s clear reason
revolted at this logic; he declared it to be absurd to
imagine that God had given animals organs of feeling
in order that they might <i>not</i> feel. He would have
endorsed Professor Romanes’ saying that “the theory
of animal automatism which is usually attributed to
Descartes can never be accepted by common sense.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On the other hand, while Descartes was being
persecuted by the Church for opinions which he
did <i>not</i> hold, this particular opinion of his was seized
upon by Catholic divines as a vindication of creation.
Pascal so regarded it. The miraculous element
in it did not disturb him. Malebranche said though
opposed by reason it was approved by faith.</p>

<p class='c008'>Descartes said that the idea that animals think
and feel is a relic of childhood. The idea that they
do <i>not</i> think and feel might be more truly called a
relic of that darkest side of perverse childhood,
the existence of which we are all fain to forget.
Whoever has seen a little child throwing stones at
a toad on the highway—and sad because his hands
are too small to take up the bigger stones to throw—will
understand what I mean. I do not wish to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>allude more than slightly to a point which is of too
much importance to pass over in silence. Descartes
was a vivisector: so were the pious people at Port
Royal who embraced his teaching with enthusiasm,
and liked to hear the howls of the dogs they
vivisected. M. Émile Ferrière, in his work “L’âme
est la fonction du cerveau,” sees in the “souls”
of beasts exactly the same nature as in the “soul”
of man; the difference, he maintains, is one of
degree; though generally inferior, it is sometimes
superior to “souls” of certain human groups. Here
is a candid materialist who deserves respect. But
there is a school of physiologists nowadays which
carries on an unflagging campaign in favour of belief
in unconscious animal machines which work by
springs, while denying that there is a God to wind
up the springs, and in conscious human machines,
while denying that there is a soul, independent
of matter, which might account for the difference.
“The wish is father to the thought.” <i>Non ragionam
di lor ma guarda e passa.</i></p>

<p class='c008'>The strongest of all reasons for dismissing the
machine theory of animals is their variety of idiosyncrasy.
It is said that to the shepherd no two sheep
look alike; it is certain that no two animals of any
kind have the same characters. Some are selfish,
some are unselfish, some are gentle, some irretrievably
ill-tempered both to each other and to
man. Some animals do not show much regret
at the loss of their offspring, with others it is
manifestly the reverse. Édouard Quinet described
how on one occasion, when visiting the lions’ cage
<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>in the Jardin des Plantes, he observed the lion
gently place his large paw on the forehead of the
lioness, and so they remained, grave and still, all the
time he was there. He asked Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire,
who was with him, what it meant. “Their lion
cub,” was the answer, “died this morning.” “Pity,
benevolence, sympathy, could be read on those
rugged faces.” That these qualities are often absent
in sentient beings what man can doubt? But they
are not to be found in the best mechanical animals
in all Nuremberg!</p>

<p class='c008'>Nor do machines commonly act as did the dog
in the following true story which relates to something
that happened during the earthquake of Ash
Wednesday, 1887. At a place called Ceriana on the
Italian Riviera a poor man who earned his living as
a milk-carrier was supposed to have gone on his
ordinary rounds, on which he was used to start at
four o’clock in the morning. No one, therefore,
thought of inquiring about him, but the fact was,
that having taken a glass or two of wine in honour
of the last night of the Carnival, he had overslept
himself, and was still asleep when his cottage fell
down upon him. He had a large dog which drew
the little cart bearing the milk up the mountain paths,
and the dog by chance was outside and safe. He
found out where his master lay and succeeded
in clearing the masonry so as to uncover his head,
which was bleeding. He then set to work to lick the
wounds; but, seeing that they went on bleeding, and
also that he could not liberate the rest of the body, he
started in search of help, running up and down among
<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>the surrounding ruins till he met some one, whom he
caught hold of by the clothes. The man, however,
thought that the dog was mad and fled for his life.
Luckily, another man guessed the truth and allowed
himself to be guided to the spot. History repeats
itself, at least the history of devoted dogs. The
same thing happened after the greater earthquake at
Messina, when a man, one of the last to be saved,
was discovered through the insistence of his little dog,
who approached a group of searchers and whined
piteously till he persuaded them to follow him to the
ruins which concealed his master.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nor, again, do machines act like a cockatoo I heard
of from a witness of the scene. A lady was visiting
the zoological gardens in a German town with her
daughter, when the little girl was seized with the wish
to possess a pretty moulted feather which was lying on
the ground in the parrots’ cage. She made several
attempts to reach it, but in vain. Seeing which, an
old cockatoo hopped solemnly from the back of the
cage and taking up the feather in his beak, handed
it to the child with an air of the greatest politeness.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the first upholders of the idea of legislative
protection of animals was Jeremy Bentham, who
asked why the law should refuse its protection to
any sensitive being? Most people forget the degree
of opposition which was encountered by the earlier
combatants of cruel practices and pastimes in
England. Cobbett made a furious attack on a
clergyman who (to his honour) was agitating for
the suppression of bull-baiting, “the poor man’s
sport,” as Cobbett called it. That it demoralised
<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>the poor man as well as tormented the bull never
entered into the head of the inimitable wielder of
English prose, pure and undefiled, who took it
under his (happily) ineffectual protection. “The
common law fully sanctions the baiting of bulls,”
he wrote, “and, I believe, that to sell the flesh of
a bull which has <i>not</i> been baited is an offence which
is punishable by that very law to which you appeal”
(“<i>Political Register</i>,” June, 1802).</p>

<p class='c008'>Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
had, in their day, to undergo almost as much criticism
and ridicule in England as they now meet with in
some parts of the Continent. Even the establishment
of the Dogs’ Home in London raised a storm
of disapproval, as may be seen by any one who
turns over the files of the <i>Times</i> for October, 1860.
If the friends of humanity persevere, the change of
sentiment which has become an accomplished fact
in England will, in the end, triumph elsewhere.</p>

<p class='c008'>Unfortunately, humane sentiment and humane
practice do not progress on a level line. As long
ago as 1782 an English writer named Soame Jenyns
protested against the wickedness of shooting a bear
on an inaccessible island of ice, or an eagle on the
mountain’s top. “We are unable to give life and
therefore ought not to take it away from the meanest
insect without sufficient reason.” What would he
say if he came back to earth to find whole species
of beautiful winged creatures being destroyed to
afford a barbarous ornament for women’s heads?</p>

<p class='c008'>The “discovery” of Indian literature brought
prominently forward in the West the Indian ideas
<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>of animals of which the old travellers had given
the earliest news. The effect of familiarity with
those ideas may be traced in many writers, but
nowhere to such an extent as in the works of
Schopenhauer, for whom, as for many more obscure
students, they formed the most attractive and interesting
part of Oriental lore. Schopenhauer cannot
speak about animals without using a tone of
passionate vehemence which was, without doubt,
genuine. He felt the intense enjoyment in observing
them which the lonely soul has ever felt, whether
it belonged to saint or sinner. All his pessimism
disappears when he leaves the haunts of man for
the retreats of beasts. What a pleasure it is, he
says, to watch a wild animal going about undisturbed!
It shows us our own nature in a simpler
and more sincere form. “There is only one mendacious
being in the world, and that is man. Every
other is true and sincere.” It strikes me that total
sincerity did not shine on the face of a dog which
I once saw trotting innocently away, after burying
a rabbit he had caught in a ploughed field near a
tree in the hedge—the only tree there was—which
would make it easy for him to identify the spot.
But about that I will say no more. The German
“Friend of the Creature” was indignant at “the
unpardonable forgetfulness in which the lower animals
have hitherto been left by the moralists of Europe.”
The duty of protecting them, neglected by religion,
falls to the police. Mankind are the devils of the
earth and animals the souls they torment.</p>

<p class='c008'>Full of these sentiments, Schopenhauer was prepared
<span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>to welcome unconditionally the Indian conception
of the Wheel of Being and to close his
eyes to its defects. Strauss, too, hailed it as a
doctrine which “unites the whole of Nature in one
sacred and mysterious bond”—a bond in which, he
goes on to say, a breach has been made by the
Judaism and dualism of Christianity. He might
have observed that the Church derived her notions
on the subject rather from Aristotle than from
Semitic sources.</p>

<p class='c008'>Schopenhauer came to the conclusion that the
ill-treatment of animals arose directly from the denial
to them of immortality, while it was ascribed to men.
There is and there is not truth in this. When all is
said, the well-conditioned man always was and always
will be humane; “the righteous man regardeth the life
of his beast.” And since people reason to fit their
acts rather than act to fit their reasoning, he will
even find a motive for his humanity where others
find an excuse for the lack of it. Humphry Primatt
wrote in 1776: “Cruelty to a brute is an injury
irreparable because there is no future life to be a
compensation for present afflictions.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr. Lecky, in his “History of European Morals,”
tells of a Cardinal who let himself be bitten by gnats
because “<i>we</i> have heaven, but these poor creatures
only present enjoyment!” Could Jaina do more?</p>

<p class='c008'>Strauss thought that the rising tide of popular
sentiment about animals was the direct result of
the abandonment by science of the spiritualistic
isolation of man from Nature. I suspect that those
who have worked hardest for animals in the last
<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>half-century cared little about the origin of species,
while it is certain that some professed evolutionists
have been their worst foes. The fact remains,
however, that by every rule of logic the theory
of evolution <i>ought</i> to produce the effect which Strauss
thought that it had produced. The discovery which
gives its name to the nineteenth century revolutionises
the whole philosophic conception of the place of
animals in the Universe.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lamarck, whom Cuvier so cruelly attacked, was
the first to discern the principle of evolution. At
one time he held the Chair of Zoology at the
University of Paris; but the opposition which his
ideas met with crushed him in body, though not in
soul, and he died blind and in want in 1829, only
consoled by the care of an admirable daughter. His
last words are said to have been that it is easier
to discover a truth than to convince others of it.</p>

<p class='c008'>An Italian named Carlo Lessona was one of the
first to be convinced. He wrote a work containing
the phrase, “The intelligence of animals”—which
work, by the rule then in force, had to be presented
to the ecclesiastical Censor at Turin to receive his
permit before publication. The canon who examined
the book fell upon the words above mentioned, and
remarked: “This expression, ‘intelligence of animals,’
will never do!” “But,” said Lessona, “it is commonly
used in natural history books.” “Oh!” replied the
canon, “natural history has much need of revision.”<a id='r12' /><a href='#f12' class='c017'><sup>[12]</sup></a></p>

<div class='fn'>

<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
<p class='c018'><span class='label'><a href='#r12'>12</a>.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>See Dr. F. Franzolini’s interesting monograph on animal
psychology from the point of view of science (“Intelligenza delle
Bestie,” Udine, 1899).</p>
</div>

</div>

<p class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>The great and cautious Darwin said that the
senses, intuitions, emotions, and faculties, such as
love, memory, attention, curiosity, imitation, reason,
of which man boasts, may be found in an incipient,
or even, sometimes, in a well-developed condition
in the lower animals. “Man, with all his noble
qualities, his God-like intellect, still bears in his
bodily frame the indelible stamp of his lowly origin.
Our brethren fly in the air, haunt the bushes, and
swim in the sea.” Darwin agreed with Agassiz in
recognising in the dog something very like the
human conscience.</p>

<p class='c008'>Dr. Arnold said that the whole subject of the
brute creature was such a painful mystery that he
dared not approach it. Michelet called animal life
a “sombre mystery,” and shuddered at the “daily
murder,” hoping that in another globe “these base
and cruel fatalities may be spared to us.” It is
strange to find how many men of very different
types have wandered without a guide in these
dark alleys of speculation. A few of them arrived
at, or thought they had arrived at, a solution.
Lord Chesterfield wrote that “animals preying on
each other is a law of Nature which we did not
make, and which we cannot undo, for if I do not
eat chickens my cat will eat mice.” But the
appeal to Nature will not satisfy every one; our
whole human conscience is a protest against Nature,
while our moral actions are an attempt to effect
a compromise. Paley pointed out that the law
was not good, since we could live without animal
food and wild beasts could not. He offered
<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>another justification, the permission of Scripture.
This was satisfactory to him, but he must have
been aware that it waives the question without
answering it.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some humane people have taken refuge in the
automata argument, which is like taking a sleeping-draught
to cure a broken leg. Others, again, look
for justice to animals in the one and only hope
that man possesses of justice to himself; in compensation
after death for unmerited suffering in this
life. Leibnitz said that Eternal Justice <i>ought</i> to
compensate animals for their misfortunes on earth.
Bishop Butler would not deny a future life to
animals.</p>

<p class='c008'>Speaking of her approaching death, Mrs. Somerville
said: “I shall regret the sky, the sea, with all the
changes of their beautiful colouring; the earth with
its verdure and flowers: but far more shall I grieve
to leave animals who have followed our steps affectionately
for years, without knowing for certainty
their ultimate fate, though I firmly believe that the
living principle is never extinguished. Since the
atoms of matter are indestructible, as far as we know,
it is difficult to believe that the spark which gives to
their union life, memory, affection, intelligence, and
fidelity, is evanescent.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, seven
or eight small works, written in Latin in support of
this thesis, were published in Germany and Sweden.
Probably in all the world a number, unsuspectedly
large, of sensitive minds has endorsed the belief
expressed so well in the lines which Southey wrote
<span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>on coming home to find that a favourite old dog
had been “destroyed” during his absence:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>... “Mine is no narrow creed;</div>
      <div class='line'>And He who gave thee being did not frame</div>
      <div class='line'>The mystery of life to be the sport</div>
      <div class='line'>Of merciless man! There is another world</div>
      <div class='line'>For all that live and move—a better one!</div>
      <div class='line'>Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine</div>
      <div class='line'>Infinite Goodness to the little bounds</div>
      <div class='line'>Of their own charity, may envy thee!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c019'>The holders of this “no narrow creed” start with
all the advantages from the mere point of view of
dialectics. They can boast that they have placed the
immortality of the soul on a scientific basis. For truly,
it is more reasonable to suppose that the soul is
natural than supernatural, a word invented to clothe
our ignorance; and, if natural, why not universal?</p>

<p class='c008'>They have the right to say, moreover, that they
and they alone have “justified the ways of God.”
They alone have admitted all creation that groaneth
and travaileth to the ultimate guerdon of the “Love
which moves the sun and other stars.”</p>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003' />
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>
  <h2 id='idx' class='c006'>INDEX</h2>
</div>
<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c002' />
</div>
<ul class='index c002'>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>Abdâls, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a>-<a href='#Page_262'>262</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Abu Djafar al Mausur, Caliph, <a href='#Page_232'>232</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Abu Jail, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a>-<a href='#Page_243'>243</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Achilles, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a>-<a href='#Page_27'>27</a>, <a href='#Page_298'>298</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Adi Granth, <a href='#Page_201'>201</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Æsop’s fables</i>, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a>, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a>-<a href='#Page_30'>30</a>, <a href='#Page_80'>80</a>-<a href='#Page_81'>81</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Aethe, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Aethon, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Afghan ballad, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a>-<a href='#Page_243'>243</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>African pastoral tribes, <a href='#Page_95'>95</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Agamemnon, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a>-<a href='#Page_26'>26</a>, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Agassiz, <a href='#Page_364'>364</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Agora Temple, <a href='#Page_77'>77</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Ahimsa'></a><i>Ahimsa</i>, <a href='#Page_166'>166</a>-<a href='#Page_167'>167</a>, <a href='#Page_172'>172</a>, <a href='#Page_193'>193</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ahriman, <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>-<a href='#Page_126'>126</a>, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>-<a href='#Page_146'>146</a>, <a href='#Page_149'>149</a>-<a href='#Page_151'>151</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>-<a href='#Page_159'>159</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ahriman, hymn to, <a href='#Page_125'>125</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ahuna-Vairya, <a href='#Page_138'>138</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ahura Mazda, <a href='#Page_116'>116</a>, <a href='#Page_121'>121</a>-<a href='#Page_122'>122</a>, <a href='#Page_136'>136</a>, <a href='#Page_138'>138</a>-<a href='#Page_139'>139</a>, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>, <a href='#Page_154'>154</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>-<a href='#Page_159'>159</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Alberti, Leo Battista, <a href='#Page_154'>154</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>-<a href='#Page_159'>159</a>, <a href='#Page_352'>352</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Albigenses, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Alexander the Great, <a href='#Page_75'>75</a>, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Alfonso, King of Spain, <a href='#Page_291'>291</a>-<a href='#Page_292'>292</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Alger, W. R., <a href='#Page_286'>286</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Alhambra, <a href='#Page_229'>229</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Al Rakîm, <a href='#Page_230'>230</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Amatongo, <a href='#Page_107'>107</a>-<a href='#Page_109'>109</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Amazulu, <a href='#Page_107'>107</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>L’âme est la fonction du cerveau</i>, <a href='#Page_357'>357</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ammon, Temple of, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Amon Ra, <a href='#Page_103'>103</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Amritsar, <a href='#Page_201'>201</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>Anaxandrides, <a href='#Page_82'>82</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Anchorites'></a>Anchorites, <a href='#Page_179'>179</a>, <a href='#Page_252'>252</a>-<a href='#Page_254'>254</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Andromache, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Animals, treatment of, in India,  <a href='#Page_19'>19</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>the purgatory of men,  <a href='#Page_21'>21</a>;</li>
      <li>slaying of, by Greeks, <a href='#Page_24'>24</a>-<a href='#Page_25'>25</a>;</li>
      <li>naming of,  <a href='#Page_26'>26</a>;</li>
      <li>prophetic powers of, <a href='#Page_27'>27</a>-<a href='#Page_28'>28</a>;</li>
      <li>talking,  <a href='#Page_29'>29</a>;</li>
      <li>Roman treatment of, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a>-<a href='#Page_46'>46</a>;</li>
      <li>butchery of, at Colosseum,  <a href='#Page_51'>51</a>;</li>
      <li>imported for arena, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a>-<a href='#Page_52'>52</a>;</li>
      <li>humanity of, <a href='#Page_53'>53</a>-<a href='#Page_54'>54</a>;</li>
      <li>performing, <a href='#Page_54'>54</a>-<a href='#Page_55'>55</a>;</li>
      <li>Plutarch on kindness to, <a href='#Page_64'>64</a>-<a href='#Page_71'>71</a>;</li>
      <li>Plutarch on animal intelligence, <a href='#Page_67'>67</a>-<a href='#Page_71'>71</a>;</li>
      <li>instances of discrimination of, <a href='#Page_75'>75</a>-<a href='#Page_76'>76</a>;</li>
      <li>domestication of, <a href='#Page_90'>90</a>-<a href='#Page_91'>91</a>;</li>
      <li>value of, <a href='#Page_94'>94</a>-<a href='#Page_95'>95</a>;</li>
      <li>excuses for killing,  <a href='#Page_100'>100</a>;</li>
      <li>attitude of savages to, <a href='#Page_107'>107</a>-<a href='#Page_108'>108</a>;</li>
      <li>killing of, by priests, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>-<a href='#Page_150'>150</a>;</li>
      <li>Zoroastrian treatment of, <a href='#Page_147'>147</a>-<a href='#Page_157'>157</a>;</li>
      <li>in sacred books,  <a href='#Page_188'>188</a>;</li>
      <li>Hebrew treatment of, <a href='#Page_212'>212</a>-<a href='#Page_220'>220</a>;</li>
      <li>hunting of, by Moslems, <a href='#Page_224'>224</a>-<a href='#Page_225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page_232'>232</a>, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a>-<a href='#Page_243'>243</a>;</li>
      <li>musical instinct in, <a href='#Page_245'>245</a>-<a href='#Page_246'>246</a>;</li>
      <li>and the Messiah, <a href='#Page_247'>247</a>-<a href='#Page_252'>252</a>;</li>
      <li>and saints,  <a href='#Page_259'>259</a>;</li>
      <li>stories of, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a>-<a href='#Page_316'>316</a>;</li>
      <li>theory of Celsus as to intelligence of, <a href='#Page_340'>340</a>-<a href='#Page_344'>344</a>;</li>
      <li>theory of Porphyry,  <a href='#Page_344'>344</a>;</li>
      <li>the Church and humanity,  <a href='#Page_346'>346</a>;</li>
      <li>animal prosecutions, <a href='#Page_347'>347</a>-<a href='#Page_351'>351</a>;</li>
      <li>Renaissance admiration of, <a href='#Page_352'>352</a>-<a href='#Page_353'>353</a>;</li>
      <li>animals and thought,  <a href='#Page_355'>355</a>;</li>
      <li>automata</li>
      <li><span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>theory, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a>-<a href='#Page_359'>359</a>,  <a href='#Page_365'>365</a>;</li>
      <li>societies to protect, <a href='#Page_359'>359</a>-<a href='#Page_360'>360</a>;</li>
      <li>ill-treatment and immortality,  <a href='#Page_362'>362</a>;</li>
      <li>principle of evolution, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Antelope, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ants, wisdom of, <a href='#Page_76'>76</a>-<a href='#Page_77'>77</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>killing of, <a href='#Page_149'>149</a>-<a href='#Page_150'>150</a>;</li>
      <li>Hebrew proverb,  <a href='#Page_216'>216</a>;</li>
      <li>in the Koran,  <a href='#Page_227'>227</a>;</li>
      <li>social economy of, <a href='#Page_341'>341</a>-<a href='#Page_342'>342</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Apis, <a href='#Page_102'>102</a>, <a href='#Page_144'>144</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Apollo, <a href='#Page_246'>246</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Apollonius of Tyana, <a href='#Page_268'>268</a>-<a href='#Page_269'>269</a>; <a href='#Page_337'>337</a>-<a href='#Page_340'>340</a>; <a href='#Page_345'>345</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Apsarases'></a>Apsarases, the, <a href='#Page_279'>279</a>-<a href='#Page_280'>280</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Apuleius, <a href='#Page_55'>55</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Archæological Congress, <a href='#Page_95'>95</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Archetypes (<i>see</i> <a href='#Fravashi'>Fravashi</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Ardâ Vîrâf, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a>-<a href='#Page_165'>165</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Arena, cruelties of the, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a>-<a href='#Page_46'>46</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ariosto, <a href='#Page_297'>297</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Aristophanes, <a href='#Page_28'>28</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Aristotle, <a href='#Page_58'>58</a>, <a href='#Page_78'>78</a>, <a href='#Page_80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page_269'>269</a>, <a href='#Page_340'>340</a>, <a href='#Page_362'>362</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Arnold, Dr., <a href='#Page_364'>364</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Arnold, Sir Matthew, <a href='#Page_302'>302</a>-<a href='#Page_303'>303</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Aryans, <a href='#Page_13'>13</a>, <a href='#Page_18'>18</a>, <a href='#Page_113'>113</a>-<a href='#Page_115'>115</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Asceticism, <a href='#Page_179'>179</a>-<a href='#Page_183'>183</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Astrachan, <a href='#Page_258'>258</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ataro, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Atharva-Veda, <a href='#Page_208'>208</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Atman, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Augustus, <a href='#Page_336'>336</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Automata theory, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a>-<a href='#Page_359'>359</a>, <a href='#Page_365'>365</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Avebury, Lord, <a href='#Page_343'>343</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Avesta'></a>Avesta, <a href='#Page_113'>113</a>, <a href='#Page_116'>116</a>, <a href='#Page_120'>120</a>, <a href='#Page_123'>123</a>, <a href='#Page_125'>125</a>, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a>, <a href='#Page_131'>131</a>, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a>-<a href='#Page_140'>140</a>, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>-<a href='#Page_148'>148</a>, <a href='#Page_153'>153</a>, <a href='#Page_155'>155</a>, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a>, <a href='#Page_163'>163</a>, <a href='#Page_233'>233</a>-<a href='#Page_234'>234</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Bactria, <a href='#Page_131'>131</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Baiardo, <a href='#Page_297'>297</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Balaam’s ass, <a href='#Page_212'>212</a>-<a href='#Page_213'>213</a>, <a href='#Page_219'>219</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Balius, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a>-<a href='#Page_27'>27</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Balkis, Queen, <a href='#Page_229'>229</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bankes’ horse, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Banyandeer'></a>Banyan deer, <a href='#Page_327'>327</a>-<a href='#Page_230'>230</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Barbary, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>Basan, Bulls of, <a href='#Page_144'>144</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Basri, Hasan, <a href='#Page_234'>234</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Battle of the frogs and mice</i>, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Baudelaire, <a href='#Page_18'>18</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bavieca, <a href='#Page_289'>289</a>-<a href='#Page_294'>294</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bears, legends of, <a href='#Page_88'>88</a>-<a href='#Page_89'>89</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Beast tales, <a href='#Page_28'>28</a>, <a href='#Page_317'>317</a>, <a href='#Page_351'>351</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Beaver (<i>see</i> <a href='#Udra'>Udra</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Bedouins, <a href='#Page_272'>272</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Behkaa, <a href='#Page_104'>104</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Benares, <a href='#Page_183'>183</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Benedict XII., <a href='#Page_49'>49</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bentham, Jeremy, <a href='#Page_359'>359</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bhagavad, Gita, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bion, <a href='#Page_64'>64</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Birds, in captivity, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a>-<a href='#Page_57'>57</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>Plutarch’s views on,  <a href='#Page_78'>78</a>;</li>
      <li>language of, <a href='#Page_226'>226</a>-<a href='#Page_227'>227</a>;</li>
      <li>and St. Francis, <a href='#Page_259'>259</a>-<a href='#Page_260'>260</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Bismarck, <a href='#Page_304'>304</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bi’sm-illah, custom of saying, <a href='#Page_224'>224</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bivar, Ruy Diaz de, <a href='#Page_289'>289</a>-<a href='#Page_294'>294</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Blackbird, White, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Blake, Wm., <a href='#Page_251'>251</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bleeck, <a href='#Page_153'>153</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Blessing the beast, rite of, <a href='#Page_347'>347</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Boccaccio’s falcon, <a href='#Page_285'>285</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bœotia, <a href='#Page_62'>62</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Boëthius, <a href='#Page_345'>345</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bolingbroke, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bosanquet, Dr. R. C., <a href='#Page_95'>95</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Brahmans, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a>, <a href='#Page_21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page_169'>169</a>, <a href='#Page_175'>175</a>, <a href='#Page_183'>183</a>, <a href='#Page_309'>309</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Breath from the veldt, A</i>, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>British school at Athens, <a href='#Page_95'>95</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Broca, Professor, <a href='#Page_354'>354</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Browning, Robert, <a href='#Page_138'>138</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bruno, Giordano, <a href='#Page_216'>216</a>, <a href='#Page_260'>260</a>-<a href='#Page_261'>261</a>, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bubastis, <a href='#Page_81'>81</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bucephalus, <a href='#Page_75'>75</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Buddhism, <a href='#Page_21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page_105'>105</a>-<a href='#Page_106'>106</a>, <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page_130'>130</a>, <a href='#Page_167'>167</a>-<a href='#Page_173'>173</a>, <a href='#Page_187'>187</a>, <a href='#Page_190'>190</a>-<a href='#Page_196'>196</a>, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a>, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a>, <a href='#Page_308'>308</a>, <a href='#Page_321'>321</a>-<a href='#Page_328'>328</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Buddhist India</i>, <a href='#Page_328'>328</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Buffalo of Karileff, <a href='#Page_254'>254</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bull-baiting, <a href='#Page_50'>50</a>, <a href='#Page_359'>359</a>-<a href='#Page_360'>360</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>Bull-fights, <a href='#Page_32'>32</a>, <a href='#Page_47'>47</a>-<a href='#Page_50'>50</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Bulls, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>-<a href='#Page_146'>146</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Bundehesh</i>, <a href='#Page_142'>142</a>-<a href='#Page_143'>143</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Burgundy, Duke of, <a href='#Page_349'>349</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Burial, methods of, <a href='#Page_123'>123</a>-<a href='#Page_124'>124</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Burkitt, Prof. F. C., <a href='#Page_135'>135</a>-<a href='#Page_136'>136</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Burns and Oates, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Burns, Robert, <a href='#Page_59'>59</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Cæsar, Julius, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a>, <a href='#Page_53'>53</a>, <a href='#Page_55'>55</a>, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cagliari, <a href='#Page_248'>248</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Callaway, Canon, <a href='#Page_109'>109</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cambaleth, <a href='#Page_195'>195</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cambyses, <a href='#Page_144'>144</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Camels, <a href='#Page_286'>286</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Canna, <a href='#Page_333'>333</a>-<a href='#Page_334'>334</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Carbonaria, <a href='#Page_49'>49</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Carlyle, Thos., <a href='#Page_33'>33</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cartesian philosophy, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a>-<a href='#Page_355'>355</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Carthage, <a href='#Page_211'>211</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cassandra, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cato, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cats, <a href='#Page_80'>80</a>-<a href='#Page_83'>83</a>, <a href='#Page_155'>155</a>, <a href='#Page_222'>222</a>, <a href='#Page_258'>258</a>, <a href='#Page_278'>278</a>, <a href='#Page_314'>314</a>, <a href='#Page_322'>322</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Celsus, <a href='#Page_73'>73</a>, <a href='#Page_339'>339</a>-<a href='#Page_344'>344</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Celts, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a>-<a href='#Page_274'>274</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ceriana, <a href='#Page_358'>358</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cervantes, <a href='#Page_290'>290</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Chanet, <a href='#Page_355'>355</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Chantal, Mdme. de, <a href='#Page_178'>178</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Chariot-racing, <a href='#Page_30'>30</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Charles, King (the Peace), <a href='#Page_50'>50</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Chesterfield, Lord, <a href='#Page_364'>364</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Childebert, <a href='#Page_254'>254</a>-<a href='#Page_255'>255</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>China, religion of</i>, <a href='#Page_327'>327</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Chinese, belief and folk-lore, <a href='#Page_104'>104</a>-<a href='#Page_106'>106</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>saving of animal life,  <a href='#Page_194'>194</a>;</li>
      <li>folk-lore stories, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a>-<a href='#Page_308'>308</a>, <a href='#Page_313'>313</a>-<a href='#Page_316'>316</a>, <a href='#Page_326'>326</a>-<a href='#Page_330'>330</a>.</li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Chinvat, <a href='#Page_154'>154</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Choo-Foo-Tsze, <a href='#Page_104'>104</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Christianity, approach of, <a href='#Page_337'>337</a>-<a href='#Page_338'>338</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cicada, <a href='#Page_260'>260</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cicero, <a href='#Page_16'>16</a>, <a href='#Page_50'>50</a>, <a href='#Page_58'>58</a>-<a href='#Page_59'>59</a>, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a>, <a href='#Page_340'>340</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cignani, <a href='#Page_208'>208</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>Cimon, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Circuses, <a href='#Page_54'>54</a>-<a href='#Page_55'>55</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Clothilde’s God</i>, <a href='#Page_93'>93</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Clovis, <a href='#Page_93'>93</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Clytemnestra, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cobbett, <a href='#Page_359'>359</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cockatoo, Story of a, <a href='#Page_359'>359</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Colonna, Cardinal, <a href='#Page_49'>49</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Colosseum, Butchery at inauguration of, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Comte, Auguste, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Concha, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a>-<a href='#Page_58'>58</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Confucianism, <a href='#Page_104'>104</a>-<a href='#Page_105'>105</a>, <a href='#Page_130'>130</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Constantinople, <a href='#Page_233'>233</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Constantinople, Council at, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Contemporary Review</i>, <a href='#Page_6'>6</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Copenhagen National Museum, <a href='#Page_47'>47</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Corinna, Parrot of, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Corsica, <a href='#Page_347'>347</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Crete, <a href='#Page_32'>32</a>, <a href='#Page_77'>77</a>, <a href='#Page_95'>95</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cuvier, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Cyrus, <a href='#Page_118'>118</a>, <a href='#Page_121'>121</a>-<a href='#Page_122'>122</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Daevas, <a href='#Page_116'>116</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>d’Alviella, Count Goblet, <a href='#Page_5'>5</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Damascus, <a href='#Page_231'>231</a>, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Dante, <a href='#Page_13'>13</a>, <a href='#Page_160'>160</a>, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a>-<a href='#Page_163'>163</a>, <a href='#Page_187'>187</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Darmesteter, James, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Darius, <a href='#Page_119'>119</a>, <a href='#Page_121'>121</a>-<a href='#Page_122'>122</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Darwin, Charles, <a href='#Page_150'>150</a>-<a href='#Page_151'>151</a>, <a href='#Page_206'>206</a>, <a href='#Page_344'>344</a>, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a>-<a href='#Page_364'>364</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Darwin, Francis, <a href='#Page_175'>175</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Davids, Professor T. W. Rhys, <a href='#Page_328'>328</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Deathlessness of souls, <a href='#Page_91'>91</a>-<a href='#Page_92'>92</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Deer (<i>see</i> <a href='#Banyandeer'>Banyan deer</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Dervishes, <a href='#Page_234'>234</a>-<a href='#Page_235'>235</a>, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Descartes, <a href='#Page_16'>16</a>, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a>-<a href='#Page_357'>357</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Deucalion, dove of, <a href='#Page_78'>78</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Diaz, Gil, <a href='#Page_293'>293</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Digby, Sir Kenelm, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Dog, grave of a faithful, <a href='#Page_314'>314</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Dogs, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a>-<a href='#Page_59'>59</a>, <a href='#Page_79'>79</a>-<a href='#Page_80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page_114'>114</a>-<a href='#Page_115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page_151'>151</a>-<a href='#Page_153'>153</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>, <a href='#Page_229'>229</a>-<a href='#Page_233'>233</a>, <a href='#Page_244'>244</a>, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a>-<a href='#Page_308'>308</a>, <a href='#Page_312'>312</a>, <a href='#Page_314'>314</a>-<a href='#Page_316'>316</a>, <a href='#Page_322'>322</a>-<a href='#Page_324'>324</a>, <a href='#Page_358'>358</a>-<a href='#Page_359'>359</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Dog’s Grave, the, <a href='#Page_79'>79</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>Dolmen-builders, <a href='#Page_92'>92</a>-<a href='#Page_93'>93</a>, <a href='#Page_96'>96</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Domestication of animals, <a href='#Page_90'>90</a>-<a href='#Page_91'>91</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Doughty, Charles M., <a href='#Page_236'>236</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Doukhobors, <a href='#Page_32'>32</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Downe, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Draupadi, story of, <a href='#Page_322'>322</a>-<a href='#Page_324'>324</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Dravidians, <a href='#Page_18'>18</a>-<a href='#Page_19'>19</a>, <a href='#Page_163'>163</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Duperron, Anquetil, <a href='#Page_135'>135</a>, <a href='#Page_152'>152</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Eden, Garden of, <a href='#Page_208'>208</a>-<a href='#Page_209'>209</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Eden, Garden of (picture by Rubens), <a href='#Page_247'>247</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Edkins, Joseph, D.D., <a href='#Page_327'>327</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>l’Église et la Pitié envers les Animaux</i>, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Egyptian cosmogony, <a href='#Page_103'>103</a>-<a href='#Page_104'>104</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>El Djem, well at, <a href='#Page_109'>109</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Elephants, legend of, <a href='#Page_74'>74</a>-<a href='#Page_75'>75</a>,  <a href='#Page_77'>77</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>in Oriental books,  <a href='#Page_188'>188</a>;</li>
      <li>white elephant killed by Rustem, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Eleusinian mysteries, <a href='#Page_32'>32</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Elisha and the she-bears, <a href='#Page_248'>248</a>-<a href='#Page_249'>249</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Elmocadessi, Azz’Eddin, <a href='#Page_236'>236</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Empedocles, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a>-<a href='#Page_15'>15</a>, <a href='#Page_34'>34</a>, <a href='#Page_72'>72</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Epictetus, <a href='#Page_73'>73</a>-<a href='#Page_74'>74</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Epirus, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Erasmus, <a href='#Page_16'>16</a>, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Eskimo, the, <a href='#Page_88'>88</a>-<a href='#Page_89'>89</a>, <a href='#Page_92'>92</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Euripides, <a href='#Page_78'>78</a>, <a href='#Page_190'>190</a>, <a href='#Page_246'>246</a>, <a href='#Page_340'>340</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Evolution, theory of, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a>-<a href='#Page_365'>365</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Falcon, Persian fable of a, <a href='#Page_313'>313</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Faliscus, Gratius, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Fargard XIII., <a href='#Page_152'>152</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ferrière, Émile, <a href='#Page_357'>357</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Fioretti</i>, <a href='#Page_74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page_258'>258</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Firdusi, <a href='#Page_141'>141</a>, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a>, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a>, <a href='#Page_301'>301</a>-<a href='#Page_304'>304</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Flesh-eating, <a href='#Page_24'>24</a>-<a href='#Page_25'>25</a>, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a>-<a href='#Page_32'>32</a>, <a href='#Page_61'>61</a>-<a href='#Page_64'>64</a>, <a href='#Page_71'>71</a>, <a href='#Page_85'>85</a>-<a href='#Page_86'>86</a>, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>, <a href='#Page_193'>193</a>-<a href='#Page_194'>194</a>, <a href='#Page_217'>217</a>-<a href='#Page_218'>218</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Folk-lore Association of Chicago, <a href='#Page_102'>102</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Folk-Songs of Southern India</i>, <a href='#Page_17'>17</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Foxes, <a href='#Page_106'>106</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Franzolini, Dr. F., <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Fravashi'></a>Fravashi, <a href='#Page_117'>117</a>, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a></li>
  <li class='c003'><span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>Games, Roman, <a href='#Page_47'>47</a>-<a href='#Page_48'>48</a>, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a>-<a href='#Page_52'>52</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gargantuan feasts, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Garibaldi, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>, <a href='#Page_298'>298</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gâthâs, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a>, <a href='#Page_139'>139</a>, <a href='#Page_144'>144</a>-<a href='#Page_145'>145</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gautama, <a href='#Page_308'>308</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gayatri, <a href='#Page_117'>117</a>-<a href='#Page_118'>118</a>, <a href='#Page_138'>138</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gayo Marathan, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gellert, Beth, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a>-<a href='#Page_307'>307</a>, <a href='#Page_309'>309</a>, <a href='#Page_312'>312</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Geus Urva, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>-<a href='#Page_144'>144</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ghusni, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Giles, Dr., <a href='#Page_105'>105</a>, <a href='#Page_313'>313</a>, <a href='#Page_316'>316</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gladiators, importation of, <a href='#Page_52'>52</a>-<a href='#Page_53'>53</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gnostics, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Goat, Story of a, <a href='#Page_245'>245</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Goethe, <a href='#Page_333'>333</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gover, Charles E., <a href='#Page_17'>17</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gray, Asa, <a href='#Page_150'>150</a>-<a href='#Page_151'>151</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gubernatis, Count de, <a href='#Page_290'>290</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Guillaume de Palerme</i>, <a href='#Page_351'>351</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gunádhya, <a href='#Page_245'>245</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Guru, <a href='#Page_168'>168</a>, <a href='#Page_181'>181</a>, <a href='#Page_345'>345</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Gymnosophists, <a href='#Page_172'>172</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Hall, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hallal, custom of the, <a href='#Page_224'>224</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hatem, Tai, <a href='#Page_285'>285</a>-<a href='#Page_286'>286</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hatos, <a href='#Page_290'>290</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hawk and the pigeon, legend of, <a href='#Page_317'>317</a>-<a href='#Page_321'>321</a>, <a href='#Page_325'>325</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Haziûm, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Heber, Bishop, <a href='#Page_231'>231</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Hebrews'></a>Hebrews, the, <a href='#Page_114'>114</a>, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>, <a href='#Page_149'>149</a>, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a>, <a href='#Page_161'>161</a>, <a href='#Page_207'>207</a>-<a href='#Page_208'>208</a>, <a href='#Page_212'>212</a>-<a href='#Page_220'>220</a>, <a href='#Page_284'>284</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hector, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hedgehog, appreciation of the, <a href='#Page_79'>79</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Heine, <a href='#Page_344'>344</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Helena</i>, <a href='#Page_190'>190</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Helps, Sir Arthur, <a href='#Page_352'>352</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Henotheism, <a href='#Page_118'>118</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hera, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a>-<a href='#Page_27'>27</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Heraclites, <a href='#Page_72'>72</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Herakles, <a href='#Page_24'>24</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hermits (<i>see</i> <a href='#Anchorites'>Anchorites</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Herodotus, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a>, <a href='#Page_81'>81</a>, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a>, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>-<a href='#Page_149'>149</a>, <a href='#Page_301'>301</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>Hero-worship, <a href='#Page_299'>299</a>-<a href='#Page_300'>300</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hidery, <a href='#Page_102'>102</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Hinduism, <a href='#Page_13'>13</a>, <a href='#Page_17'>17</a>, <a href='#Page_218'>218</a>-<a href='#Page_219'>219</a>, <a href='#Page_265'>265</a>-<a href='#Page_266'>266</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>History of European Morals</i>, <a href='#Page_362'>362</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Homa, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>-<a href='#Page_149'>149</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Homer, <a href='#Page_23'>23</a>-<a href='#Page_26'>26</a>, <a href='#Page_77'>77</a>, <a href='#Page_79'>79</a>, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Homizd IV., <a href='#Page_161'>161</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Honover, <a href='#Page_138'>138</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Horace, <a href='#Page_76'>76</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Horses, famous, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a>-<a href='#Page_27'>27</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>sacrifice of,  <a href='#Page_114'>114</a>;</li>
      <li>in Oriental books,  <a href='#Page_188'>188</a>;</li>
      <li>St. Columba’s horse,  <a href='#Page_255'>255</a>;</li>
      <li>in chivalrous age, <a href='#Page_281'>281</a>-<a href='#Page_282'>282</a>;</li>
      <li>thinking,  <a href='#Page_283'>283</a>;</li>
      <li>Arab and his horse, <a href='#Page_285'>285</a>-<a href='#Page_288'>288</a>;</li>
      <li>Hatem’s horse, <a href='#Page_285'>285</a>-<a href='#Page_286'>286</a>;</li>
      <li>the Cid’s horse, <a href='#Page_289'>289</a>-<a href='#Page_294'>294</a>;</li>
      <li>horse of Rustem,  <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>;</li>
      <li>talking,  <a href='#Page_298'>298</a>;</li>
      <li>Bengal fable,  <a href='#Page_313'>313</a>;</li>
      <li>Russian folk-lore tale, <a href='#Page_322'>322</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Hugo, Victor, <a href='#Page_19'>19</a>, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a>, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a>, <a href='#Page_164'>164</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Humanitarianism, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>-<a href='#Page_147'>147</a>, <a href='#Page_175'>175</a>, <a href='#Page_198'>198</a>-<a href='#Page_200'>200</a>, <a href='#Page_243'>243</a>, <a href='#Page_308'>308</a>, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Húsheng, <a href='#Page_141'>141</a>-<a href='#Page_142'>142</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Huxley, Professor, <a href='#Page_354'>354</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Iblís, <a href='#Page_142'>142</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ibsen, <a href='#Page_186'>186</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ichneumon, <a href='#Page_311'>311</a>-<a href='#Page_312'>312</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>“Iliad,” <a href='#Page_25'>25</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Immortality, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a>, <a href='#Page_362'>362</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Improta, Leandro, <a href='#Page_22'>22</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Indian doctrine of transmigration, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a>-<a href='#Page_17'>17</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Indra, <a href='#Page_116'>116</a>-<a href='#Page_117'>117</a>, <a href='#Page_319'>319</a>-<a href='#Page_323'>323</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Insects, killing of, <a href='#Page_149'>149</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Intelligenza delle Bestie</i>, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Iranians, <a href='#Page_113'>113</a>-<a href='#Page_134'>134</a>, <a href='#Page_155'>155</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Isaiah, <a href='#Page_249'>249</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Isis, <a href='#Page_336'>336</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Islam, <a href='#Page_160'>160</a>, <a href='#Page_221'>221</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Issaverdens, Padre Giacomo, <a href='#Page_209'>209</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Itongo, <a href='#Page_107'>107</a>, <a href='#Page_259'>259</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Itvara, <a href='#Page_186'>186</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Jacobi, Professor Hermann, <a href='#Page_169'>169</a>, <a href='#Page_199'>199</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>Jaina hermit’s story, <a href='#Page_332'>332</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jainism, <a href='#Page_168'>168</a>-<a href='#Page_193'>193</a>, <a href='#Page_196'>196</a>-<a href='#Page_200'>200</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Jātaka Book</i>, <a href='#Page_328'>328</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jebb, Sir Richard, <a href='#Page_135'>135</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jenyns, Soame, <a href='#Page_360'>360</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jesus Christ, <a href='#Page_130'>130</a>, <a href='#Page_145'>145</a>, <a href='#Page_188'>188</a>, <a href='#Page_216'>216</a>, <a href='#Page_231'>231</a>, <a href='#Page_244'>244</a>, <a href='#Page_249'>249</a>-<a href='#Page_252'>252</a>, <a href='#Page_320'>320</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jews (<i>see</i> <a href='#Hebrews'>Hebrews</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Jinas, <a href='#Page_170'>170</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Joghi, <a href='#Page_181'>181</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>John, Father, <a href='#Page_338'>338</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>John XXII., Pope, <a href='#Page_49'>49</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jones, Sir William, <a href='#Page_135'>135</a>, <a href='#Page_152'>152</a>, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page_333'>333</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Jonson, Ben, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Joseph of Anchieta, <a href='#Page_255'>255</a>-<a href='#Page_256'>256</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Josephus, <a href='#Page_24'>24</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Julia Domna, Empress, <a href='#Page_338'>338</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Kálidása, <a href='#Page_333'>333</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Kambôga, <a href='#Page_188'>188</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Karileff, <a href='#Page_254'>254</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Karman, <a href='#Page_175'>175</a>-<a href='#Page_177'>177</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Kasi, King of, <a href='#Page_330'>330</a>-<a href='#Page_331'>331</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Katmir, <a href='#Page_230'>230</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Keats, John, <a href='#Page_207'>207</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Kempis, Thomas à, <a href='#Page_171'>171</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Keshub Chunder Sen, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Khordah Avesta, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a>, <a href='#Page_137'>137</a>, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Kirghis, the, <a href='#Page_85'>85</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Koran, <a href='#Page_136'>136</a>, <a href='#Page_221'>221</a>-<a href='#Page_223'>223</a>, <a href='#Page_226'>226</a>-<a href='#Page_230'>230</a>, <a href='#Page_237'>237</a>, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a>, <a href='#Page_287'>287</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Koureen, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Lahore Zoological Gardens, <a href='#Page_236'>236</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lake dwellers, <a href='#Page_90'>90</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lamarck, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lamartine, <a href='#Page_69'>69</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lampus, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lancelot, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lane, <a href='#Page_224'>224</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Language, definition of, <a href='#Page_354'>354</a>-<a href='#Page_355'>355</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Laplander, the, <a href='#Page_87'>87</a>-<a href='#Page_90'>90</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lapwing, Solomon and the, <a href='#Page_228'>228</a>-<a href='#Page_229'>229</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>Lebid, <a href='#Page_237'>237</a>-<a href='#Page_239'>239</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lecky, <a href='#Page_362'>362</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Legenda Aurea</i>, <a href='#Page_249'>249</a>, <a href='#Page_258'>258</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Leibnitz, <a href='#Page_365'>365</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Leland, C. G., <a href='#Page_277'>277</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Leopardi, <a href='#Page_59'>59</a>, <a href='#Page_125'>125</a>, <a href='#Page_187'>187</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lesbia’s sparrow, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lessona, Carlo, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Leveson, Major, <a href='#Page_269'>269</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lion, legend of a humane,  <a href='#Page_53'>53</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>Christ in the lions’ den, <a href='#Page_250'>250</a>-<a href='#Page_251'>251</a>;</li>
      <li>St. Jerome and the,  <a href='#Page_253'>253</a>;</li>
      <li>lioness at Chartres,  <a href='#Page_262'>262</a>;</li>
      <li>eating of monkeys and men by, <a href='#Page_268'>268</a>-<a href='#Page_269'>269</a>;</li>
      <li>love for his mate, <a href='#Page_269'>269</a>-<a href='#Page_270'>270</a>;</li>
      <li>legend of vulture and,  <a href='#Page_325'>325</a>;</li>
      <li>sympathy of, <a href='#Page_358'>358</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Lion’s Kingdom</i>, <a href='#Page_30'>30</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Lives</i>, Plutarch’s, <a href='#Page_65'>65</a>, <a href='#Page_74'>74</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lizard, sacredness of, <a href='#Page_108'>108</a>-<a href='#Page_110'>110</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lockhart, <a href='#Page_291'>291</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lombroso, <a href='#Page_267'>267</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Long, Rev. J., <a href='#Page_168'>168</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lotus-flower, white, <a href='#Page_176'>176</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lucian, <a href='#Page_15'>15</a>, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a>, <a href='#Page_278'>278</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lucretius, <a href='#Page_84'>84</a>, <a href='#Page_206'>206</a>, <a href='#Page_239'>239</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lyall, Sir Alfred, <a href='#Page_180'>180</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lyall, Sir Chas., <a href='#Page_238'>238</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lycæus, Mount, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Lycanthropy, <a href='#Page_274'>274</a>-<a href='#Page_275'>275</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Maeterlinck, <a href='#Page_331'>331</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Magians, the, <a href='#Page_119'>119</a>, <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page_127'>127</a>-<a href='#Page_129'>129</a>, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>, <a href='#Page_226'>226</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Magic'></a>Magic, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a>-<a href='#Page_280'>280</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Magpie, legend of a, <a href='#Page_77'>77</a>-<a href='#Page_78'>78</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Mahabharata</i>, <a href='#Page_317'>317</a>, <a href='#Page_322'>322</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mahavira, <a href='#Page_169'>169</a>-<a href='#Page_173'>173</a>, <a href='#Page_197'>197</a>-<a href='#Page_198'>198</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mahmoud, <a href='#Page_241'>241</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Malay Magic</i>, <a href='#Page_224'>224</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Malebranche, <a href='#Page_356'>356</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Man, ages of, <a href='#Page_84'>84</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mandeville, <a href='#Page_196'>196</a>, <a href='#Page_352'>352</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Man-eating animals, <a href='#Page_268'>268</a>, <a href='#Page_270'>270</a>-<a href='#Page_272'>272</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Manichæism, <a href='#Page_127'>127</a>, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>Manning, Cardinal, <a href='#Page_347'>347</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Manu, Institutes of, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Marcellus, Theatre of, <a href='#Page_55'>55</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Marcus Aurelius, <a href='#Page_59'>59</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mare, story of the creation of, <a href='#Page_288'>288</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Marne, <a href='#Page_254'>254</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Marriage in the East, <a href='#Page_139'>139</a>-<a href='#Page_140'>140</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Martial, <a href='#Page_58'>58</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Massaia, Cardinal, <a href='#Page_262'>262</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Matreya, <a href='#Page_170'>170</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mazdaism, <a href='#Page_116'>116</a>-<a href='#Page_119'>119</a>, <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a>, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a>-<a href='#Page_139'>139</a>, <a href='#Page_155'>155</a>, <a href='#Page_157'>157</a>-<a href='#Page_158'>158</a>, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a>, <a href='#Page_160'>160</a>-<a href='#Page_161'>161</a>, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a>, <a href='#Page_233'>233</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mecca, <a href='#Page_231'>231</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Media, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Medina, <a href='#Page_232'>232</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Melampus, <a href='#Page_344'>344</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Melior, parrot of, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a>-<a href='#Page_57'>57</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Menelek, Emperor, <a href='#Page_229'>229</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Merodach, <a href='#Page_122'>122</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Metempsychosis (<i>see</i> <a href='#Transmigration'>Transmigration</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Michelet, <a href='#Page_364'>364</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mill, J. S., <a href='#Page_127'>127</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Millais, Guille, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Milton, John, <a href='#Page_205'>205</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Minotaur legend, <a href='#Page_30'>30</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mithra, <a href='#Page_120'>120</a>, <a href='#Page_147'>147</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>, <a href='#Page_336'>336</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mivart, <a href='#Page_354'>354</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Modi, Jivanji Jamsedji, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mohammedanism, <a href='#Page_109'>109</a>, <a href='#Page_130'>130</a>, <a href='#Page_216'>216</a>-<a href='#Page_217'>217</a>, <a href='#Page_221'>221</a>-<a href='#Page_222'>222</a>, <a href='#Page_248'>248</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Monkeys, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Monotheism, <a href='#Page_118'>118</a>-<a href='#Page_123'>123</a>, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Montaigne, <a href='#Page_352'>352</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Moral Philosophy</i>, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>“Morocco,” <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Moslemism, <a href='#Page_221'>221</a>-<a href='#Page_236'>236</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Moti (tiger at Lahore), <a href='#Page_236'>236</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Moufflons, <a href='#Page_85'>85</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Muklagerri Hills, <a href='#Page_171'>171</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mule of the Parthenon, <a href='#Page_66'>66</a>-<a href='#Page_67'>67</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Mungoose stories, <a href='#Page_306'>306</a>-<a href='#Page_307'>307</a>, <a href='#Page_309'>309</a>-<a href='#Page_311'>311</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Murad, Sultan, <a href='#Page_223'>223</a></li>
  <li class='c003'><span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>Nanak, Baba, <a href='#Page_201'>201</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Napier, Lord, of Magdala, <a href='#Page_316'>316</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Naples, gladiatorial shows at, <a href='#Page_49'>49</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Natural History Museum, S. Kensington, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Natural History Society, Bombay, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Nedrotti, the, <a href='#Page_98'>98</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ne-kilst-lass, <a href='#Page_102'>102</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Nemesianus, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Nennig, mosaic at, <a href='#Page_47'>47</a>-<a href='#Page_48'>48</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Neolithic Age, <a href='#Page_91'>91</a>-<a href='#Page_92'>92</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Neoplatonism, <a href='#Page_344'>344</a>-<a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Newman, Cardinal, <a href='#Page_11'>11</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Nibelungenlied</i>, <a href='#Page_140'>140</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Nirvana, <a href='#Page_178'>178</a>, <a href='#Page_190'>190</a>-<a href='#Page_192'>192</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Nizami, <a href='#Page_243'>243</a>-<a href='#Page_244'>244</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Nobarnus, <a href='#Page_52'>52</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Non-killing (<i>see</i> <i><a href='#Ahimsa'>Ahimsa</a></i>)</li>
  <li class='c003'>Oakesmith, Dr., <a href='#Page_63'>63</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Octavius, <a href='#Page_339'>339</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Odoric, Fra, <a href='#Page_194'>194</a>-<a href='#Page_196'>196</a>, <a href='#Page_351'>351</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Odyssey</i>, <a href='#Page_23'>23</a>, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Okubo, <a href='#Page_122'>122</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Oppert, Prof. Jules, <a href='#Page_118'>118</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Oriental Proverbs</i>, <a href='#Page_168'>168</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Orientalists, Congress of</i>, <a href='#Page_47'>47</a>, <a href='#Page_168'>168</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Origen, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a>, <a href='#Page_339'>339</a>, <a href='#Page_343'>343</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Origin of man and animals, <a href='#Page_84'>84</a>-<a href='#Page_86'>86</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Origin of Species</i>, <a href='#Page_85'>85</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ormuzd, <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>, <a href='#Page_126'>126</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Orpheus, <a href='#Page_32'>32</a>, <a href='#Page_246'>246</a>-<a href='#Page_247'>247</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Orphic sect, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Oseberg, <a href='#Page_94'>94</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ovid, <a href='#Page_15'>15</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Owls, <a href='#Page_112'>112</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Pahlavi, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a>-<a href='#Page_135'>135</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Paley, <a href='#Page_364'>364</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pallas Athene, <a href='#Page_112'>112</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Panchatantra</i>, the, <a href='#Page_307'>307</a>, <a href='#Page_311'>311</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pandion, King of Athens, <a href='#Page_345'>345</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Paradise Lost</i>, <a href='#Page_205'>205</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>Paris, University of, <a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Parrots, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a>-<a href='#Page_57'>57</a>, <a href='#Page_359'>359</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Parsis, food of the, <a href='#Page_119'>119</a>-<a href='#Page_120'>120</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>burial customs of,  <a href='#Page_124'>124</a>;</li>
      <li>and the Avesta, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a>-<a href='#Page_135'>135</a>;</li>
      <li>and the Ardâ Vîrâf, <a href='#Page_164'>164</a>-<a href='#Page_165'>165</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Parthenon, the, <a href='#Page_66'>66</a>-<a href='#Page_67'>67</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pascal, <a href='#Page_356'>356</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Patmore, Coventry, <a href='#Page_174'>174</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Patmos, Seer of, <a href='#Page_160'>160</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Paul the Hermit, <a href='#Page_254'>254</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Paulicians, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pausanias, <a href='#Page_50'>50</a>-<a href='#Page_51'>51</a>, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a>, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pavia, Corte da, <a href='#Page_282'>282</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Peace in Nature, <a href='#Page_210'>210</a>-<a href='#Page_212'>212</a>, <a href='#Page_231'>231</a>-<a href='#Page_232'>232</a>, <a href='#Page_332'>332</a>-<a href='#Page_333'>333</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pelicans, legend of, <a href='#Page_92'>92</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pereira, Gomez, <a href='#Page_354'>354</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pericles, <a href='#Page_30'>30</a>, <a href='#Page_66'>66</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Persepolis, <a href='#Page_121'>121</a>, <a href='#Page_133'>133</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Persians of the eleventh century, <a href='#Page_298'>298</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Petrarch, <a href='#Page_49'>49</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Petronius, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a>, <a href='#Page_58'>58</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Philo, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Philostratus, <a href='#Page_338'>338</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Piet, Om, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pigs, <a href='#Page_115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page_232'>232</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pinder, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pius X., <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Plato, <a href='#Page_15'>15</a>-<a href='#Page_16'>16</a>, <a href='#Page_20'>20</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pliny, <a href='#Page_66'>66</a>-<a href='#Page_67'>67</a>, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Plotinus, <a href='#Page_344'>344</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Plutarch, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a>, <a href='#Page_62'>62</a>-<a href='#Page_69'>69</a>, <a href='#Page_74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pluto, <a href='#Page_20'>20</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Podarges, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Political Register</i> (1802), <a href='#Page_360'>360</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pompeii, mosaic at, <a href='#Page_83'>83</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Porphyry, <a href='#Page_28'>28</a>, <a href='#Page_339'>339</a>, <a href='#Page_344'>344</a>, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Portionuculo, <a href='#Page_260'>260</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Primatt, Humphry, <a href='#Page_362'>362</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Prometheus, <a href='#Page_65'>65</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Prosecution of animals, <a href='#Page_347'>347</a>-<a href='#Page_351'>351</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Provence, <a href='#Page_90'>90</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Psalms, quotation from, <a href='#Page_219'>219</a>-<a href='#Page_220'>220</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>Punishment in the Ardâ Vîrâf, <a href='#Page_163'>163</a>-<a href='#Page_164'>164</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Purgatory and animal incarnation, <a href='#Page_21'>21</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Pythagoreanism, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a>-<a href='#Page_15'>15</a>, <a href='#Page_33'>33</a>-<a href='#Page_34'>34</a>, <a href='#Page_59'>59</a>-<a href='#Page_60'>60</a>, <a href='#Page_72'>72</a>, <a href='#Page_175'>175</a>, <a href='#Page_337'>337</a>, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Quartenary Age, <a href='#Page_86'>86</a>-<a href='#Page_88'>88</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Quinet, Édouard, <a href='#Page_357'>357</a>-<a href='#Page_358'>358</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Rakush, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>-<a href='#Page_300'>300</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Raleigh, Sir Walter, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ravenna, mosaic at, <a href='#Page_73'>73</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ravens, <a href='#Page_272'>272</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Reasoning power of animals, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>-<a href='#Page_159'>159</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>Plutarch’s views on, <a href='#Page_67'>67</a>-<a href='#Page_69'>69</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Reinach, M. S., <a href='#Page_80'>80</a>, <a href='#Page_101'>101</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Reindeer hunters, <a href='#Page_86'>86</a>-<a href='#Page_89'>89</a>,  <a href='#Page_96'>96</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>and the Lapps, <a href='#Page_285'>285</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Religion of Plutarch</i>, <a href='#Page_63'>63</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Religions, Congress for History of, <a href='#Page_120'>120</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Religious knowledge in animals, <a href='#Page_72'>72</a>-<a href='#Page_74'>74</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>early religions, <a href='#Page_93'>93</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Renan, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Reptiles, killing of, <a href='#Page_149'>149</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Réville, Albert, <a href='#Page_136'>136</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Rhinoceroses, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Rickaby, Father, <a href='#Page_346'>346</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Rig-Veda, <a href='#Page_113'>113</a>-<a href='#Page_115'>115</a>, <a href='#Page_117'>117</a>, <a href='#Page_139'>139</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Romanes, Professor, <a href='#Page_356'>356</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>“Rooh Allah,” <a href='#Page_231'>231</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Rozinante, <a href='#Page_290'>290</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Rustem, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>-<a href='#Page_305'>305</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Sacerdotalism, <a href='#Page_168'>168</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sacontala, <a href='#Page_233'>233</a>-<a href='#Page_234'>234</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sacred birds, animals, and reptiles, <a href='#Page_100'>100</a>-<a href='#Page_101'>101</a>, <a href='#Page_104'>104</a>-<a href='#Page_110'>110</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sacred carpet, <a href='#Page_222'>222</a>, <a href='#Page_227'>227</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sacrifices, funeral, <a href='#Page_12'>12</a>-<a href='#Page_13'>13</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>Greek, <a href='#Page_24'>24</a>-<a href='#Page_25'>25</a>;</li>
      <li>bloodless,  <a href='#Page_31'>31</a>;</li>
      <li>belief in,  <a href='#Page_94'>94</a>;</li>
      <li>of domestic animals, <a href='#Page_95'>95</a>-<a href='#Page_96'>96</a>;</li>
      <li>Gift and Pact,  <a href='#Page_96'>96</a>;</li>
      <li>Totemism, <a href='#Page_97'>97</a>-<a href='#Page_98'>98</a>;</li>
      <li>of Persians,  <a href='#Page_119'>119</a>;</li>
      <li>in the <i>Bundehesh</i>,  <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>;</li>
      <li>to Homa, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>-<a href='#Page_149'>149</a>;</li>
      <li><span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>for Udra-killing,  <a href='#Page_156'>156</a>;</li>
      <li>the “True Sacrifice” legend, <a href='#Page_183'>183</a>-<a href='#Page_184'>184</a>;</li>
      <li>apostolate for abolition of animal, <a href='#Page_337'>337</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Sadi, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Anthony, <a href='#Page_254'>254</a>, <a href='#Page_259'>259</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Augustine, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a>, <a href='#Page_337'>337</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Bernard, <a href='#Page_256'>256</a>-<a href='#Page_257'>257</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Columba, <a href='#Page_255'>255</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Edward the Martyr, <a href='#Page_274'>274</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Francis, <a href='#Page_74'>74</a>, <a href='#Page_167'>167</a>, <a href='#Page_234'>234</a>, <a href='#Page_257'>257</a>-<a href='#Page_263'>263</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. François de Sale, <a href='#Page_178'>178</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. James, <a href='#Page_54'>54</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Jerome, <a href='#Page_253'>253</a>-<a href='#Page_254'>254</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Josephat, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Julien, town of, <a href='#Page_349'>349</a>-<a href='#Page_350'>350</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Marculphe, <a href='#Page_255'>255</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Martin, <a href='#Page_259'>259</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Paul, <a href='#Page_211'>211</a>-<a href='#Page_212'>212</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Philip Neri, <a href='#Page_347'>347</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Teresa, <a href='#Page_184'>184</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>St. Thomas Aquinas, <a href='#Page_275'>275</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Saint-Calais, <a href='#Page_255'>255</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Saint-Hilaire, Geoffroy, <a href='#Page_358'>358</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sakya Muni, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a>, <a href='#Page_169'>169</a>, <a href='#Page_197'>197</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sama, Legend of, <a href='#Page_330'>330</a>-<a href='#Page_332'>332</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Samengan, <a href='#Page_299'>299</a>-<a href='#Page_301'>301</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sásánians, <a href='#Page_119'>119</a>, <a href='#Page_139'>139</a>-<a href='#Page_140'>140</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Satyricon</i>, <a href='#Page_51'>51</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Schopenhauer, <a href='#Page_206'>206</a>, <a href='#Page_258'>258</a>, <a href='#Page_361'>361</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sebectighin, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a>-<a href='#Page_241'>241</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Secundra Orphanage, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Semites (<i>see</i> <a href='#Hebrews'>Hebrews</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Seneca, <a href='#Page_59'>59</a>-<a href='#Page_61'>61</a>, <a href='#Page_82'>82</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Sensitive Plant, The</i>, <a href='#Page_174'>174</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Serapeum, <a href='#Page_102'>102</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Serapis, <a href='#Page_336'>336</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Serpent, the, <a href='#Page_110'>110</a>-<a href='#Page_111'>111</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sestius, <a href='#Page_61'>61</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Seven Sleepers of Ephesus</i>, <a href='#Page_229'>229</a>-<a href='#Page_230'>230</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Shah Nameh</i>, <a href='#Page_141'>141</a>, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>, <a href='#Page_301'>301</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Shakespeare, William, <a href='#Page_256'>256</a>, <a href='#Page_282'>282</a>-<a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>She-wolves of Rome, <a href='#Page_44'>44</a>-<a href='#Page_45'>45</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sheba, <a href='#Page_228'>228</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sheikh of Tús, <a href='#Page_141'>141</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>Shughdad, <a href='#Page_303'>303</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Siam, <a href='#Page_194'>194</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Siegemund and Siegelind, <a href='#Page_140'>140</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Siegfried, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Siena, <a href='#Page_208'>208</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sikhs, <a href='#Page_201'>201</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Simurghs, <a href='#Page_298'>298</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sivi, King, <a href='#Page_321'>321</a>-<a href='#Page_322'>322</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Smith, Dr. H. P., <a href='#Page_110'>110</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Snakes, in India, <a href='#Page_265'>265</a>-<a href='#Page_266'>266</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>and the mungoose, <a href='#Page_309'>309</a>-<a href='#Page_311'>311</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Societies to protect animals, <a href='#Page_356'>356</a>-<a href='#Page_360'>360</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Socrates, <a href='#Page_156'>156</a>, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sohrab, <a href='#Page_299'>299</a>-<a href='#Page_305'>305</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Solomon in the Valley of Ants, <a href='#Page_227'>227</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Soma, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Somerville, Mrs., <a href='#Page_100'>100</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sophocles, <a href='#Page_90'>90</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sotio, <a href='#Page_60'>60</a>-<a href='#Page_61'>61</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Southey, Robert, <a href='#Page_365'>365</a>-<a href='#Page_366'>366</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Srosh, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Stable, a sanctuary, <a href='#Page_305'>305</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Stag, fable of a, <a href='#Page_326'>326</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Statius, <a href='#Page_53'>53</a>, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a>-<a href='#Page_57'>57</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Stelæ</i>, <a href='#Page_80'>80</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Stevenson, R. L., <a href='#Page_196'>196</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Stoics, the, <a href='#Page_65'>65</a>, <a href='#Page_71'>71</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Stork, legend of a, <a href='#Page_255'>255</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio</i>, <a href='#Page_313'>313</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Strauss, <a href='#Page_362'>362</a>-<a href='#Page_363'>363</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sufism, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Suicide in India, <a href='#Page_186'>186</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>“Sultan,” <a href='#Page_312'>312</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sumner, Charles, <a href='#Page_281'>281</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sutras, <a href='#Page_11'>11</a>-<a href='#Page_12'>12</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Suttees, <a href='#Page_12'>12</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Swan-maidens (<i>see</i> <a href='#Apsarases'>Apsarases</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Swine-flesh, forbidding of, <a href='#Page_232'>232</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Sycamore-tree at Matarea, <a href='#Page_248'>248</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Symmachus, <a href='#Page_52'>52</a>-<a href='#Page_53'>53</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Tahmineh, <a href='#Page_301'>301</a>, <a href='#Page_303'>303</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Taliumen, <a href='#Page_142'>142</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>Taoism, <a href='#Page_105'>105</a>-<a href='#Page_106'>106</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Tatchi-lou-lun</i>, <a href='#Page_326'>326</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Taylor, John, <a href='#Page_283'>283</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Taylor, Canon Isaac, <a href='#Page_91'>91</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Temple, building, <a href='#Page_121'>121</a>-<a href='#Page_122'>122</a>;
    <ul>
      <li>Jaina temples, <a href='#Page_171'>171</a></li>
    </ul>
  </li>
  <li class='c024'>Tennyson, <a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Thaumaturgy, <a href='#Page_181'>181</a>-<a href='#Page_183'>183</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Thebaid, <a href='#Page_181'>181</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Theogony, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Theophrastus, <a href='#Page_56'>56</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Theocritus, <a href='#Page_83'>83</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Thomas, Pseudo-, <a href='#Page_248'>248</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Three Merchants, Parable of the</i>, <a href='#Page_176'>176</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tiberius, <a href='#Page_61'>61</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tigers in India, <a href='#Page_265'>265</a>-<a href='#Page_268'>268</a>, <a href='#Page_270'>270</a>-<a href='#Page_272'>272</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tigress, fable of the, <a href='#Page_327'>327</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Times, The</i>, <a href='#Page_360'>360</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tirthakaras, <a href='#Page_170'>170</a>-<a href='#Page_171'>171</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Titus, <a href='#Page_52'>52</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tobias, <a href='#Page_92'>92</a>-<a href='#Page_93'>93</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tobit’s dog, <a href='#Page_114'>114</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Todas, <a href='#Page_285'>285</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Torquemada, <a href='#Page_151'>151</a>, <a href='#Page_339'>339</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Totemism, <a href='#Page_96'>96</a>-<a href='#Page_102'>102</a>, <a href='#Page_107'>107</a>, <a href='#Page_272'>272</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Transformation, <a href='#Page_270'>270</a>-<a href='#Page_280'>280</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Transmigration'></a>Transmigration, <a href='#Page_11'>11</a>-<a href='#Page_21'>21</a>, <a href='#Page_186'>186</a>-<a href='#Page_189'>189</a>, <a href='#Page_261'>261</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Tribal system, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Triptolemus, <a href='#Page_345'>345</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Troglodite Age, <a href='#Page_88'>88</a>-<a href='#Page_89'>89</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Trusty Lydia</i>, <a href='#Page_58'>58</a></li>
  <li class='c003'><a id='Udra'></a>Udra, the <a href='#Page_155'>155</a>-<a href='#Page_156'>156</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Ulemas, <a href='#Page_234'>234</a>, <a href='#Page_288'>288</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Upanishads, <a href='#Page_12'>12</a>-<a href='#Page_13'>13</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Uruguay, <a href='#Page_298'>298</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Valencia, <a href='#Page_292'>292</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Varro, <a href='#Page_275'>275</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Varuna, <a href='#Page_116'>116</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Vedas, <a href='#Page_13'>13</a>-<a href='#Page_14'>14</a>, <a href='#Page_20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page_93'>93</a>, <a href='#Page_117'>117</a>-<a href='#Page_178'>178</a>, <a href='#Page_183'>183</a>, <a href='#Page_279'>279</a>-<a href='#Page_280'>280</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Vegetarianism, <a href='#Page_167'>167</a>, <a href='#Page_172'>172</a>, <a href='#Page_193'>193</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Velasquez’s horse, <a href='#Page_284'>284</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><span class='pageno' id='Page_386'>386</span>Venidâd, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a>, <a href='#Page_152'>152</a>, <a href='#Page_156'>156</a>-<a href='#Page_157'>157</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Vespasian, <a href='#Page_55'>55</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Viking ship, <a href='#Page_13'>13</a>, <a href='#Page_94'>94</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Vinci, Leonardo da, <a href='#Page_353'>353</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Virgil, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a>, <a href='#Page_275'>275</a>, <a href='#Page_336'>336</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Vispered, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Vivisection, <a href='#Page_29'>29</a>, <a href='#Page_357'>357</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Voltaire, <a href='#Page_247'>247</a>, <a href='#Page_356'>356</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Walaric, <a href='#Page_255'>255</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Were-wolves, <a href='#Page_274'>274</a>-<a href='#Page_277'>277</a>, <a href='#Page_351'>351</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Wildebeest and Om Piet, <a href='#Page_240'>240</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Witchcraft (<i>see</i> <a href='#Magic'>Magic</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Wolf, the, <a href='#Page_149'>149</a>, <a href='#Page_268'>268</a>, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a>-<a href='#Page_277'>277</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Wolf of Agobio, <a href='#Page_257'>257</a>-<a href='#Page_258'>258</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Women and Jainism, <a href='#Page_184'>184</a>-<a href='#Page_186'>186</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Wordsworth, William, <a href='#Page_65'>65</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Worms, Council of, <a href='#Page_348'>348</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Wu-hu, <a href='#Page_314'>314</a>-<a href='#Page_315'>315</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Wusinara, <a href='#Page_317'>317</a>-<a href='#Page_319'>319</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Xanthus, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a>-<a href='#Page_28'>28</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Xantippus, <a href='#Page_79'>79</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Xenocrates, <a href='#Page_30'>30</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Yama, <a href='#Page_20'>20</a>, <a href='#Page_158'>158</a>, <a href='#Page_203'>203</a>, <a href='#Page_324'>324</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Yasna, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a>-<a href='#Page_135'>135</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Yogis, legend of two, <a href='#Page_235'>235</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Yudishthira, story of, <a href='#Page_322'>322</a>-<a href='#Page_324'>324</a></li>
  <li class='c003'>Zal, <a href='#Page_294'>294</a>-<a href='#Page_296'>296</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Zarathustra (<i>see</i> <a href='#Zoroaster'>Zoroaster</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Zechariah’s war-horse, <a href='#Page_284'>284</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Zend (<i>see</i> <a href='#Avesta'>Avesta</a>)</li>
  <li class='c024'>Zoolatry, <a href='#Page_144'>144</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><i>Zoological Mythology</i>, <a href='#Page_290'>290</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Zoomorphism in Egypt, <a href='#Page_102'>102</a>, <a href='#Page_340'>340</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Zorák, <a href='#Page_142'>142</a></li>
  <li class='c024'>Zeus, <a href='#Page_25'>25</a>, <a href='#Page_273'>273</a></li>
  <li class='c024'><a id='Zoroaster'></a>Zoroaster, teaching of, <a href='#Page_113'>113</a>, <a href='#Page_118'>118</a>-<a href='#Page_125'>125</a>, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a>-<a href='#Page_165'>165</a>, <a href='#Page_225'>225</a></li>
</ul>

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        <li>Typographical errors were silently corrected.
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        <li>Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant 
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<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65720 ***</div>
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