the beauty

Folk-lore of Shakespeare

2009-07-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER VIII.

PLANTS.

That Shakespeare possessed an extensive knowledge of the history and superstitions associated with flowers is evident, from even only a slight perusal of his plays. Apart from the extensive use which he has made of these lovely objects of nature for the purpose of embellishing, or adding pathos to, passages here and there; he has also, with a master hand, interwoven many a little legend or superstition, thereby infusing an additional force into his writings. Thus we know with what effect he has made use of the willow in "Othello," in that touching passage where Desdemona (iv. 3), anticipating her death, relates how her mother had a maid called Barbara—

"She was in love, and he she lov’d, prov’d mad,
And did forsake her; she had a song of willow,
An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song, to-night,
Will not go from my mind."

In a similar manner, Shakespeare has frequently introduced the notice of flowers with a wonderful aptness, as in the case of poor Ophelia. Those, however, desirous of gaining a good insight into Shakespeare's knowledge of flowers, as illustrated by his plays, would do well to consult Mr Ellacombe's exhaustive work on the "Plant-Lore of Shakespeare," a book to which we are much indebted in the following pages, as also to Mr Biesly's "Shakspere's Garden."

Aconite. 1—This plant from the deadly virulence of its juice, which, Mr Turner says, "is of all poysones the most hastie

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poysone," is compared by Shakespeare to gunpowder, as in "2 Henry IV." (iv. 4)—

"The united vessel of their blood
Mingled with venom of suggestion
As, force perforce, the age will pour it in,
Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
As aconitum or rash gunpowder."

It is probably, too, alluded to in the following passage in "Romeo and Juliet" (v. 1), were Romeo says—

"Let me have
A dram of poison, such soon speeding geer
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker may fall dead
And that the trunk may be discharged of breath
As violently as hasty powder fired
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb."

According to Ovid, it derived its name from growing upon rock (Metam. vii. 419)—

"Quæ, quia nascuntur dura vivacia caute,
Agrestes aconita vocant."

It is probably derived from the Greek ἀκόνιτον, without a struggle, in allusion to the intensity of its poisonous qualities. Virgil 1 speaks of it, and tells us "how the aconite deceives the wretched gatherers, because often mistaken for some harmless plant. 2 The ancients fabled it as the invention of Hecate, 3 who caused the plant to spring from the foam of Cerberus, when Hercules dragged him from the gloomy regions of Pluto. Ovid pictures the stepdame as preparing a deadly potion of aconite, (Metam. i. I47)—

"Lurida terribiles miscent aconita novercœ."

In hunting the ancients poisoned their arrows with this venomous plant, as "also when following their mortal brutal trade of slaughtering their fellow creatures. 4* Numerous instances are on record of the fatal results through persons eating this

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plant. In the "Philosophical Transactions" (1732, vol. 38), we read of a man who was poisoned in that year, by eating some of it in a salad, instead of celery. Dr Turner mentions the case of some Frenchmen at Antwerp, who eating the shoots of this plant for masterwort, all died, with the exception of two, in forty-eight hours. The aconitum is equally pernicious to animals.

Anemone.—This favourite flower of early spring is probably alluded to in the following passage of "Venus and Adonis"—

"By this, the boy that by her side lay killed
Was melted like a vapour from her sight;
And in the blood that on the ground lay spill’d,
A purple flower sprung up chequer’d with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood."

According to Bion, it is said to have sprung from the tears that Venus wept over the body of Adonis—

"Alas, the Paphian! fair Adonis slain!
Tears plenteous as his blood she pours amain,
But gentle flowers are born, and bloom around,
From every drop that falls upon the ground
Where streams his blood, there blushing springs the rose,
And where a tear has dropp’d a wind-flower blows."

Other classical writers make the anemone to be the flower of Adonis. Mr Ellacombe, 1 says that although Shakespeare does not actually name the anemone, yet the evidence is in favour of this plant. The "purple colour," he adds, is no objection, for purple in Shakespeare's time had a very wide signification, meaning almost any bright colour, just as "purpureus" had in Latin. 2

Apple.—Although Shakespeare has so frequently introduced the apple into his Plays, yet he has abstained from alluding to the extensive folk-lore associated with this favourite fruit.

Indeed, beyond mentioning some of the popular nicknames by which the apple was known in his day, little is said about it. The term apple was not originally confined to the fruit now so called, but was a generic name applied to any fruit, as

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we still speak of the love-apple, pine-apple, &c." 1 So when Shakespeare ("Sonnet" xciii.), makes mention of Eve's apple, he simply means that it was some fruit that grew in Eden—

"How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show."

(a.) The "Apple-john," called in France deux-années or deux-ans, because it will keep two years, and considered to be in perfection when shrivelled and withered, 2 is evidently spoken of in "1 Henry IV." (iii. 3) where Falstaff says—"My skin hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-john." In "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4) there is a further. allusion—"1st Drawer. What the devil hast thou brought there? apple-johns? thou knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john. 2nd Drawer. Mass, thou sayest true. The prince once set a dish of apple johns before him, and told him there were five more Sir Johns, and, putting off his hat, said, 'I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.'" This apple, too, is well described by Phillips ("Cider," B. i.)—

"Nor John Apple, whose wither’d rind, entrench’d
By many a furrow, aptly represents
Decrepid age."

In Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair" (i. 1) where Little-wit encourages Quarlus to kiss his wife, he says, "she may call you an apple-john if you use this." "Here apple-john 3 evidently means a procuring John, besides the allusion to the fruit so called. 4

(b.) The "Bitter-sweet or sweeting" to which Mercutio alludes in "Romeo and Juliet" (ii. 4)—"Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce;" was apparently a

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favourite apple, which furnished many allusions to poets. Gower in his "Confessio Amantis" (1554, fol. 174) speaks of it—

"For all such time of love is lore
And like unto the bitter swete,
For though it thinke a man first swete,
He shall well felen atte laste,
That it is sower, and maie not laste."

The name is "now given to an apple of no great value as a table fruit, but good as a cider apple, and for use in silk dyeing." 1

(c.) The "Crab" roasted before the fire and put into ale was a very favourite indulgence, especially at Christmas, in days gone by, and is referred to in the song of winter in "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2)—

"When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl
Then nightly sings the staring owl."

The beverage thus formed was called "Lambs-wool," and generally consisted of ale, nutmeg, sugar, toast, and roasted crabs, or apples. It formed the ingredient of the wassail-bowl; 2 and also of the gossip's bowl 3 alluded to in "Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 1) where Puck says—

"And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob
And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale."

In Peele's "Old Wives' Tale," it is said—

"Lay a crab in the fire to roast for lamb's wool." 4

And in Herrick's "Poems"—

"Now crowne the bowle
With gentle lamb's wooll,
Add sugar, and nutmegs, and ginger."

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(d.) The "Codling," spoken of by Malvolio in "Twelfth Night," (i. 5), "Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy, as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple,"—is not the variety now so-called, but was the popular term for an immature apple, such as would require cooking to be eaten, being derived from "coddle," to stew or boil lightly,—hence it denoted a boiling apple, an apple for coddling or boiling. 1 Mr Gifford 2 says that codling was used by our old writers for that early state of vegetation when the fruit, after shaking off the blossom, began to assume a globular and determinate form.

(e). The "Leather Coat" was the apple generally known as "the golden russeting." 3 Davy, in "2 Henry IV," (v. 3), says:—"There's a dish of leather coats for you."

(f.) The "Pippin" was formerly a common term for an apple, to which reference is made in "Hudibras Redivivus," (1705),—

"A goldsmith telling o’er his cash,
A pipping-monger selling trash."

In Taylor's Workes 4 (1630), we read:—

"Lord, who would take him for a pippin squire,
That's so bedaub’d with lace and rich attire?"

Mr Ellacombe 5 says the word "pippin" denoted an apple raised from pips and not from grafts, and "is now, and probably was in Shakespeare's time, confined to the bright-coloured long-keeping apples of which the golden pippin is the type." Justice Shallow, in "2 Henry IV," (v. 3), says:—"Nay, you shall see my orchard, where in an arbour we will eat a last year's pippin of my own graffing."

(g.) The "Pomewater" was a species of apple evidently of a juicy nature, and hence of high esteem in Shakespeare's time, for in "Love's Labour's Lost," (iv. 2), Holofernes says:—"The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of

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cœlo,—the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra,—the soil, the land, the earth."

Parkinson 1 tells us the "Pomewater is an excellent, good, and great whiteish apple, full of sap or moisture, somewhat pleasant sharp, but a little bitter withal; it will not last long, the winter's frost soon causing it to rot and perish.

It appears that apples and carraways were formerly always eaten together; and it is said that they are still served up on. particular days at Trinity College, Cambridge. This practice is probably alluded to by Justice Shallow in the much disputed passage in "2 Henry IV.," (iii. 5), when he speaks of eating "a last year's pippin, with a dish of caraways." The phrase, too, seems further explained by the following quotations from Cogan's "Haven of Health," (1599). After stating the virtues of the seed, and some of its uses, he says:—"For the same purpose careway seeds are used to be made in comfits, and to be eaten with apples, and surely very good for that purpose, for all such things as breed wind would be eaten with other things that break wind." Again, in his chapter on apples, he says:—"Howbeit wee are wont to eat carrawaies or biskets, or some other kind of comfits, or seeds together with apples, thereby to breake winde ingendred by them, and surely this is a verie good way for students." Mr Ellacombe, 2 however, considers that in "the dish of carraways" mentioned by Justice Shallow, neither caraway seeds, nor cakes made of caraways, are meant; but the carraway or carraway-russet apple. Most of the commentators are in favour of one of the former explanations. Mr Dyce 3 reads caraways in the sense of comfits or confections made with caraway-seeds, and quotes from Shadwell's "Woman-Captain" the following:—"The fruit, crab-apples, sweetings, and horse-plumbs; and for confections, a few carraways in a small sawcer, as if his worship's house had been a lousie inn."

Apricot. This word, which is spelt by Shakespeare "Apricock,"

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occurs in "Richard II.," (iii. 4), where the gardener says:—

"Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight."

And in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. i), Titania gives directions:—

"Be kind and courteous to this gentleman,
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries."

The spelling "Apricock," 1 is derived from the Latin præcox, or præcoquus; and it was called "the precocious tree" because it flowered and fruited earlier than the peach. The term "Apricock" is still in use in Northamptonshire.

Aspen,—According to a mediæval legend, the perpetual motion of this tree dates from its having supplied the wood of the Cross, and that its leaves have trembled ever since at the recollection of their guilt. De Quincey in his essay on "Modern Superstition" says, that this belief is co-extensive with Christendom. The following verses, 2 after telling how other trees were passed by in the choice of wood for the Cross, describe the hewing down of the aspen, and the dragging of it from the forest to Calvary—

"On the morrow stood she, trembling
At the awful weight she bore,
When the sun in midnight blackness
Darkened on Judea's shore.

Still when not a breeze is stirring,
When the mist sleeps on the hill,
And all other trees are moveless
Stands the aspen trembling still."

The Germans, says Mr Henderson, have a theory of their own, embodied in a little poem, which may be thus translated:—

"Once, as our Saviour walked with men below,
His path of mercy through a forest lay;
And mark how all the drooping branches show,
What homage best a silent tree may pay.

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Only the aspen stands erect and free,
Scorning to join that voiceless worship pure;
But see! He casts one look upon the tree,
Struck to the heart she trembles evermore!"

Another legend tells us 1 that the aspen was said to have been the tree on which Judas hanged himself after the betrayal of his Master, and ever since its leaves have trembled with shame. Shakespeare twice alludes to the trembling of the aspen. In "Titus Andronicus" (ii. 4), Marcus exclaims:—

"O, had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble, like aspen leaves, upon the lute?"

And in "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4), the hostess says:—"Feel, masters, how I shake. Yea, in very truth, do I, an ’twere an aspen leaf."

Bachelor's Buttons.—This was a name given to several flowers, and perhaps in Shakespeare's time was more loosely applied to any flower in bud. It is now usually understood to be a double variety of ranunculus; according to others, the Lychnis Sylvestris; and in some counties it is applied to the Scabiosa Succisa. 2 According to Gerarde, this plant was so called from the similitude of its flowers "to the jagged cloathe buttons, anciently worne in this kingdome." It was formerly supposed by country people to have some magical effect upon the fortunes of lovers. Hence, it was customary for young people to carry its flowers in their pockets, judging of their good or bad success, in proportion as these retained or lost their freshness. It is to this sort of divination that Shakespeare probably refers in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (iii. 2) where he makes the hostess say:—"What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May; he will carry ’t, he will carry ’t; ’tis in his buttons; he will carry ’t." Mr Warter, in one of his notes in Southey's "Common-Place Book" (1851, 4th series 244) says that this

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practice was common in his time, in Shropshire and Staffordshire. The term "to wear bachelor's buttons," seems to have grown into a phrase for being unmarried. 1

Balm.—From very early times, the balm or balsam has been valued for its curative properties, and, as such, is alluded to in "Troilus and Cressida" (i. 1)—

"But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,
Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it."

In "3 Henry VI." (iv. 8) King Henry says 2—

"My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds."

Alcibiades, in "Timon of Athens" (iii. 5), says—

"Is this the balsam, that the usuring senate
Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment?"

Macbeth, too, in the well-known passage (ii. 2), introduces it—

"Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."

As the oil of consecration, 3 it is spoken of by Richard ("Richard II.," iii. 2)—

"Not all the water in the rough, rude sea
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king."

And again, in "3 Henry VI." (iii. 1), King Henry, when in disguise, speaks thus—

"Thy place is filled, thy sceptre wrung from thee,
Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed.
No bending knee will call thee Cæsar now."

The origin of balsam, says Mr Ellacombe 4 "was for a long time a secret, but it is now known to have been the produce of

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several gum-bearing trees, especially the pistacia lentiscus and the balsamodendron gileadense, and now, as then, the name is not strictly confined to the produce of any one plant."

Barley.—The barley broth, of which the Constable in "Henry V." (iii. 5) spoke so contemptuously as the food of English soldiers, was probably beer, 1 which long before the time of Henry was so celebrated that it gave its name to the plant (barley being simply the beer-plant)—

"Can sodden water,
A drench for surrein’d jades, their barley broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat."

Bay-tree.—The withering and death of this tree were reckoned a prognostic of evil, both in ancient and modern times, a notion 2 to which Shakespeare refers in "Richard II." (ii. 4)—

"’Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d"

—having obtained it probably from Holinshed, who says—"In this yeare, in a manner throughout all the realme of Englande, old baie trees withered." Lupton, in his "Syxt Booke of Notable Things," mentions this as a bad omen—"Neyther falling-sickness, neyther devyll, wyll infest or hurt one in that place whereas a bay-tree is. The Romaynes call it the plant of the good angel." 3

Camomile.—It was formerly imagined that this plant grew the more luxuriantly for being frequently trodden or pressed down; a notion alluded to in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 4), by Falstaff—"For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the sooner it wears." Nares 4 considers that the above was evidently written in ridicule of the following passage, in a book very fashionable in Shakespeare's day, Lyly's "Euphues," of which it is a parody—"Though the camomile, the more it is trodden and pressed down, the more it spreadeth; yet the violet, the

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oftener it is handled and touched, the sooner it withereth and decayeth," &c.

Clover.—According to Johnson, the "honey-stalks" in the following passage ("Titus Andronicus," iv. 4), are "clover-flowers, which contain a sweet juice." It is not uncommon for cattle to overcharge themselves with clover and die, hence the allusion by Tamora—

"I will enchant the old Andronicus
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep."

Columbine.—This was anciently termed "a thankless flower," and was also emblematical of forsaken lovers. It is somewhat doubtful to what Ophelia alludes in "Hamlet" (iv. 5), where she seems to address the king—

"There's fennel for you, and columbines."

Perhaps she regarded it as symbolical of ingratitude:

Crow-flowers.—This name, which in Shakespeare's time was applied to the "ragged robin," is now used for the buttercup. It was one of the flowers that poor Ophelia wove into her garland ("Hamlet" iv. 7)—

"There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples."

Cuckoo-buds.—Commentators are uncertain as to what flower Shakespeare refers in "Love's Labour's Lost," (v. 2):—

"When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight."

Mr Miller, in his "Gardener's Dictionary," says that the flower here alluded to is the "Ranunculus Bulbosus"; but Mr Beisly, in his "Shakspere's Garden," considers it to be the "Ranunculus Ficaria," (lesser celandine), or pile-wort, as this flower appears earlier in spring, and is in bloom at the same time as the other flowers named in the song. Mr Swinfen Jervis, however, in his "Dictionary of the Language of Shakespeare" (1868), decides in favour of cowslips 1; and

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[paragraph continues] Dr Prior suggests the buds of the crowfoot. At the present day the nickname cuckoo-bud is assigned to the meadow cress (cardamine pratensis).

Cuckoo-Flowers.—By this flower, Mr Beisly 1 says, the ragged robin is meant, a well-known meadow and marsh plant, with rose-coloured flowers and deeply-cut narrow segments. It blossoms at the time the cuckoo comes, hence one of its names. In "King Lear," (iv. 4), Cordelia narrates how:—

"He was met even now
As mad as the vex’d sea—singing aloud;
Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds,
With burdocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In our sustaining corn."

Cypress.—From the earliest times the cypress has had a mournful history, being associated with funerals and churchyards, and as such is styled by Spenser "cypress funereal."

In Quarles's "Argalus and Parthenia," (1726, bk. iii.), a knight is introduced whose

"Horse was black as jet, His furniture was round about beset
With branches slipt from the sad cypress tree."

Formerly coffins were frequently made of cypress wood, a practice to which Shakespeare probably alludes in "Twelfth Night," (ii. 4), where the clown says:—"In sad cypress let me be laid. Some, however, prefer 2 understanding cypress to mean "a shroud of cyprus or cypress,"—a fine transparent stuff, similar to crape, either white or black, but more commonly the latter. 3 Douce 4 thinks that the expression "laid"

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seems more applicable to a coffin than to a shroud, and also adds that the shroud is afterwards expressly mentioned by itself.

Daffodil.—The daffodil of Shakespeare is the wild daffodil which grows so abundantly in many parts of England. Perdita, in "Winter's Tale," (iv. 4), mentions a little piece of weather-lore, and tells us how—

"Daffodils
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

And Autolycus in the same play (iv. 3), sings thus:—

"When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year."

Darnel.—This plant, like the cockle, was used in Shakespeare's day to denote any hurtful weed. Newton, 1 in his "Herbal to the Bible," says that "under the name of cockle and darnel is comprehended all vicious, noisome, and unprofitable graine, encombring and hindering good corne." Thus Cordelia, in "King Lear," (iv. 4), says:—

"Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In our sustaining corn."

According to Gerarde, "darnel hurteth the eyes, and maketh them dim, if it happen either in corne for breade, or drinke." Hence, it is said, originated the old proverb, "lolio victitare,"—applied to such as were dim-sighted. Steevens considers that Pucelle in the following passage from "1 Henry VI.," (iii. 2), alludes to this property of the darnel—meaning to intimate that the corn she carried with her had produced the same effect on the guards of Rouen; otherwise they would have seen through her disguise, and defeated her stratagem:—

"Good morrow, gallants! want ye corn for bread?
I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast
Before he'll buy again at such a rate:
’Twas full of darnel: do you like the taste?"

Date.—This fruit of the palm-tree was once a common

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ingredient in all kinds of pastry, and some other dishes, and often supplied a pun for comedy, as for example, in "All's Well that End's Well" (i. 1), where Parolles says:—"Your date is better in your pie and your porridge, than in your cheek." And in "Troilus and Cressida" (i. 2):—"Ay, a minced man; and then to be baked with no date in the pye; for then the man's date's out."

Ebony.—The wood of this tree was regarded as the typical emblem of darkness—the tree itself, however, was unknown in this country in Shakespeare's time. It is mentioned in "Love's Labour's Lost" (iv. 3)—

"King By heaven thy love is black as ebony,
Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine!
A wife of such wood were felicity."

In the same play we read of "the ebon-coloured ink" (i. 1), and in "Venus and Adonis" (948), of "Death's Ebon Dart."

Elder.—This plant whilst surrounded by an extensive folklore, has from time immemorial possessed an evil reputation, and been regarded as one of bad omen. According to a popular tradition "Judas was hanged on an elder,"—a superstition mentioned by Biron in "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2); and also by Ben Jonson in "Every Man Out of Humour" (iv. 4)—"He shall be your Judas, and you shall be his elder-tree to hang on." In "Piers Plowman's Vision" (1. 593–6), we are told how—

"Judas, he japed
With jewen silver,
And sithen on an eller
Hanged hymselve."

So firmly rooted was this belief in days gone by that Sir John Mandeville tells us in his travels, which he wrote in 1364, that he was actually shown the identical tree at Jerusalem, "And faste by is zit, the tree of Elder that Judas henge himself upon, for despeyr that he hadde when he solde and betrayed oure Lord." This tradition no doubt, in a great measure, helped to give it its bad fame; causing it to be spoken of as "the stinking elder." Shakespeare makes

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it an emblem of grief. In "Cymbeline" (iv. 2) Arviragus says—

"Grow, patience!
And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine
His perishing root with the increasing vine."

The Dwarf Elder 1 (Sambucus Ebulus) is said only to grow where blood has been shed either in battle or in murder. The Welsh call it "Llysan gward gwyr," or "plant of the blood of man." Shakespeare perhaps had this piece of folklore in mind when he represents Bassianus, in "Titus and Andronicus" (ii. 4), as killed at a pit beneath an elder tree—"This is the pit and this the elder tree."

Eryngoes.—These were formerly said to be strong pro-vocatives, and as such are mentioned by Falstaff in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (v. 5). "Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves, hail kissing comfits, and snow eryngoes." Mr Ellacombe 2 thinks that in this passage the Globe Artichoke is meant, "which is a near ally of the Eryngium, and was a favourite dish in Shakespeare's time."

Fennel.—This was generally considered as an inflammatory herb; and to eat "conger and fennel" was "to eat two high and hot things together," which was an act of libertinism. 3* Thus in "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4) Falstaff says of Poins he "eats conger and fennel." Mr Beisly states 4 that fennel was used as a sauce with fish hard of digestion, being aromatic, and as the old writers term it, "hot in the third degree." One of the herbs distributed by poor Ophelia in her distraction is fennel which she offers either as a cordial or as an emblem of flattery—"There's fennel for you, and columbine."

Mr Staunton, however, considers that fennel here signifies lust, while Mr Beisly thinks its reputed property of clearing the sight is alluded to. It is more probable that it denotes

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flattery; especially, as in Shakespeare's time, it was regarded emblematical of flattery. In this sense it is often quoted by old writers. In Greene's "Quip for an Upstart Courtier," we read—"Fennell I meane for flatterers." In "Phyala Lachrymarum" 1 we find—

"Nor fennel-finkle bring for flattery,
Begot of his, and famed courtesie."

Fern.—According to a curious notion fern-seed was supposed to possess the power of rendering persons invisible. Hence it was a most important object of superstition, being gathered mystically, especially on Midsummer Eve. It was believed at one time to have neither flower nor seed; the seed, which lay on the back of the leaf, being so small as to escape the detection of the. hasty observer. On this account, probably, proceeding on the fantastic doctrine of signatures, our ancestors derived the notion that those who could obtain and wear this invisible seed would be themselves invisible; a belief which is referred to in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 1)—

"Gadshill. We have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible.
"Chamberlain. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible."

This superstition is mentioned by many old writers; a proof of its popularity in times past. It is alluded to in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Fair Maid of the Inn" (i. 1)—

"Did you think that you had Gyges’ ring?
Or the herb that gives invisibility?"

Again, in Ben Jonson's "New Inn" (i. 1)—

"I had
No medicine, sir, to go invisible,
No fern-seed in my pocket."

As recently as Addison's day, we are told in the "Tatler" (No. 240), that "it was impossible to walk the streets without having an advertisement thrust into your hand of a doctor

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who had arrived at the knowledge of the green and red dragon, and had discovered the female fern-seed." 1

Fig—Formerly the term fig served as a common expression of contempt, and was used to denote a thing of the least importance. Hence the popular phrase, "not to care a fig for one;" a sense in which it is sometimes used by Shakespeare, who makes Pistol say, in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (i. 3), "a fico for the phrase;" and in "Henry V." (iii. 6), Pistol exclaims, "figo for thy friendship." In "Othello" (i. 3), Iago says, "Virtue! a fig."

The term, "to give or make the fig," as an expression of insult, has for many ages been very prevalent among the nations of Europe, and according to Douce 2 was known to the Romans. It consists in thrusting the thumb between two of the closed fingers, or into the mouth, a practice, as some say, 3 in allusion to a contemptuous punishment inflicted on the Milanese, by the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa in 1162, when he took their city. This, however, is altogether improbable, the real origin no doubt being a coarse w representation of a disease, to which the name of ficus or fig has always been given. 4

The "fig of Spain" spoken of in "Henry V." (iii. 6), may either allude to the poisoned fig employed in Spain as a secret way of destroying an obnoxious person, as in Webster's "White Devil" 5—

"I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian salad, daily,"

And in Shirley's "Brothers" 6—

"I must poison him; One fig sends him to Erebus."

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It may, as Mr Dyce remarks, 1 simply denote contempt or insult in the sense already mentioned.

Flower-de-luce.—The common purple iris which adorns our gardens is now generally agreed upon as the fleur-de-luce, a corruption of fleur de Louis—being spelt either fleur-de-lys or fleur-de-lis. It derives its name from Louis VII., King of France, who chose this flower as his heraldic emblem when setting forth on his crusade to the Holy Land. It had already been used by the other French kings, and by the emperors of Constantinople; but it is still a matter of dispute among antiquarians as to what it was originally intended to represent. Some say a flower, some a toad, some a halbert-head. It is uncertain as to what plant is referred to by Shakespeare when he alludes to the fleur-de-luce in the following passage 2 in "2 Henry VI." (v. 1) where the Duke of York says—

"A sceptre shall it have, hive I a soul,
On which I'll toss the flower-de-luce of France."

In "1 Henry VI." (i. 2), Pucelle declares—

"I am prepared; here is my keen edged sword,
Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side."

Some think the lily is meant, others the iris. For the lily theory, says Mr Ellacombe, 3 "there are the facts that Shakespeare calls it one of the lilies, and that the other way of spelling is fleur-de-lys."

Chaucer seems to connect it with the lily (C. T. Prol, 238)—

"Her nekke was white as the flour-de-lis."

On the other hand, Spenser separates the lilies from the flower-de-lutes in his "Shepherd's Calendar;" and Ben Jonson mentions "rich carnations, flower-de-luces, lilies."

The fleur-de-lis was not always confined to royalty as a badge. Thus in the square of La Pucelle, in Rouen, there is

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a statue of Jeanne D’Arc with fleur-de-lys sculptured upon it, and an inscription as follows:—

"The maiden's sword protects the royal crown;
Beneath the maiden's sword the lilies safely blow."

St Louis conferred upon the Chateaubriands the device of a fleur-de-lis, and the motto, "Mon sang teint les bannièrs de France." When Edward III. claimed the crown of France, in the year 1340, he quartered the ancient shield of France with the lions of England. It disappeared, however, from the English shield in the first year of the present century.

Gillifower.—This was the old name for the whole class of carnations, pinks, and sweet-williams, from the French girofle, which is itself corrupted from the Latin cariophyllum. 1 The streaked gillyflowers, says Mr Beisly, 2 noticed by Perdita in "Winter's Tale" (iv. 4)—

"The fairest flowers o’ the season
Are our carnations and streak’d gillyvors,
Which some call nature's bastards"

"are produced by the flowers of one kind being impregnated by the pollen of another kind, and this art (or law) in nature Shakspere alludes to in the delicate language used by Perdita, as well as to the practice of increasing the plants by slips." Tusser, in his "Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry," says—

"The gilloflower also the skilful doe know,
Doth look to be covered in frost and in snow."

Harebell.—This flower, mentioned in "Cymbeline" (iv. 2), is no doubt another name for the wild hyacinth.

Arviragus says of Imogen—

"Thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azured harebell, like thy veins."

Hemlock.—In consequence of its bad and poisonous character, this plant was considered an appropriate ingredient for

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witches’ broth. In "Macbeth," (iv. 1), we read of "root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark." Its scientific name, conium, is from the Greek word meaning cone or top, whose whirling motion resembles the giddiness produced on the constitution by its poisonous juice. It is by most persons supposed to be the death-drink of the Greeks, and the one by which Socrates was put to death.

Herb of Grace or Herb Grace.—A popular name in days gone by for rue. The origin of the term is uncertain. Most probably it arose from the extreme bitterness of the plant, which, as it had always borne the name rue (to be sorry for anything), was not unnaturally associated with repentance. It was, therefore, the herb of repentance, 1" and this was soon changed into 'herb of grace,' repentance being the chief sign of grace." The expression is several times used by Shakespeare. In "Richard II." (iii. 4), the gardener narrates—

"Here did she fall a tear; here in this place
I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace:
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen."

In "Hamlet" (iv. 5), Ophelia, when addressing the queen, says, "There's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o’ Sundays: O, you must wear your rue with a difference." 2

Malone observes that there is no ground for supposing that rue was called "herb of grace" from its being used in exorcisms in churches on Sunday, a notion entertained by Jeremy Taylor, who says, referring to the Flagellum Dæmonum, "First, they (the Romish exorcisers) are to try the devil by holy water, incense, sulphur, rue, which from thence, as we suppose, came to be called "herb of grace." 3 Rue was also a common subject of puns, from being the

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same word which signified sorrow or pity (see "Richard II." iii. 4 cited above).

Holy Thistle.—The Carduus Benedictus, called also "blessed thistle," was so named, like other plants which bear the specific name of "blessed," from its supposed power of counteracting the effect of poison. 1 Cogan, in his "Haven of Health," 1595, says, "This herbe may worthily be called Benedictus, or Omnimorbia, that is, a salve for every sore, not known to physitians of old time, but lately revealed by the special providence of almighty God." It is alluded to in "Much Ado about Nothing" (iii. 4)—

"Margaret. Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart; it is the only thing for a qualm.
"Hero. There thou prickest her with a thistle.
"Beatrice. Benedictus! why Benedictus? You have some moral in this Benedictus.
"Margaret. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning: I mean plain holy-thistle."

Insane Root.—There is much doubt as to what plant is meant by Banquo in "Macbeth" (i. 3)—

"Have we eaten of the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?"

The origin of this passage is probably to be found in North's "Plutarch—Life of Antony," 1579 (p. 990), where mention is made of a plant which "made them out of their wits." Several plants have been suggested—the hemlock, belladonna, mandrake, henbane, &c. Douce supports the last, and cites the following passage 2:—"Henbane . . . is called insana, mad, for the use thereof is perillous; for if it be eate or dronke, it breedeth madness, or slow lykenesse of sleepe." Nares 3 quotes from Ben Jonson ("Sejanus" iii. 2), in support of hemlock—

"Well, read my charms,
And may they lay that hold upon thy senses
As thou hadst snufft up hemlock."

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Ivy.—It was formerly the general custom in England, as it is still in France and the Netherlands, to hang a bush of ivy at the door of a vintner. Hence the allusion in "As You Like It" (v. 4, Epilogue), where Rosalind wittingly remarks, "If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue." This custom is often referred to by our old writers, as, for instance, in Nash's "Summer's Last Will and Testament; 1" 1600—

"Green ivy bushes at the vintner's doors."

And in the "Rival Friends," 1632—

"’Tis like the ivy bush unto a tavern."

This plant was no doubt chosen from its being sacred to Bacchus. The practice was observed at statute hirings, wakes, &c., by people who sold ale at no other time. The manner, says Mr Singer, 2 in which they were decorated appears from a passage in Florio's "Italian Dictionary," in voce trcmola, "Gold foile, or thin leaves of gold or silver, namely, thinne plate, as our vintners adorn their bushes with." We may compare the old sign of "An owl in an ivy bush," which perhaps denoted the union of wisdom or prudence with conviviality, as "be merry and wise."

Kecksies.—These are the dry hollow stalks of hemlock. In "Henry V." (v. 2), Burgundy makes use of the word:—

"And nothing teems,
But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs,
Losing both beauty and utility."

It has been suggested 3 that kecksies may be a mistaken form of the plural kex; and that kex may have been formed from keck, something so dry that the eater would keck at it, or be unable to swallow it. The word is probably derived from the Welsh "cecys," which is applied to several plants of the umbelliferous kind. Dr Prior, 4 however, says that kecksies is from an old English word keek, or kike, retained in the northern counties in the sense of "peep" or "spy."

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Knotgrass. 1—The allusion to this plant in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 2):—

"Get you gone, you dwarf,
You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made,
You bead, you acorn"

refers to its supposed power of hindering the growth of any child or animal, when taken in an infusion, a notion alluded to by Beaumont and Fletcher ("Coxcombe" ii. 2):—

"We want a boy extremely for this function,
Kept under for a year with milk and knot-grass."

In "The Knight of the Burning Pestle" (ii. 2), we read:—"The child's a fatherless child, and say they should put him into a strait pair of gaskins, ’twere worse than knot-grass; he would never grow after it."

Lady Smocks.—This plant is so-called from the resemblance of its white flowers to little smocks hung out to dry ("Love's Labour's Lost" v. 2), as they used to be at that season of the year especially:—

"When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white
And cuckoo buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
* * * * * *
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks."

According to another explanation, the lady's smock is a corruption of "Our Lady's Smock," so called from its first flowering about Lady-tide. This plant has also been called cuckoo-flower, because, as Gerarde says, "it flowers in April and May when the cuckoo doth begin to sing her pleasant notes without stammering."

Laurel.—From the very earliest times this classical plant has been regarded as symbolical of victory, and used for crowns. In "Titus Andronicus" (i. 1), Titus says:—

"Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs."

And in "Antony and Cleopatra" (v. 3), the latter exclaims:—

"Upon your sword
Sit laurelled victory." 2

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Leek.—The first of March is observed by the Welsh in honour of St David, their patron saint, when, as a sign of their patriotism, they wear a leek. Much doubt exists as to the origin of this custom. According to the Welsh, it is because St David ordered his Britons to place leeks in their caps, that they might be distinguished in fight from their Saxon foes. Shakespeare in "Henry V." (iv. 7), alludes to the custom when referring to the battle of Cressy. Fluellen says:—"If your majesties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps, which your majesty know to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy's Day." 1 Dr Owen Pughe 2 supposes the custom arose from the practice of every farmer contributing his leek to the common repast when they met at the Cymmortha, an association by which they reciprocated assistance in ploughing the land. Anyhow, the subject is one involved in complete uncertainty, and the various explanations given are purely conjectural (see page 284).

Lily.—Although so many pretty legends and romantic superstitions have. clustered round this sweet and favourite flower, yet they have escaped the notice of Shakespeare, who, whilst attaching to it the choicest epithets, has simply made it the type of elegance and beauty, and the symbol of purity and whiteness.

Long Purples.—This plant mentioned by Shakespeare in "Hamlet" (iv. 7) as forming part of the nosegay of poor Ophelia, is generally considered to be the early purple orchis (orchis mascula) which blossoms in April or May. It grows in meadows and pastures, and is about ten inches high. Tennyson ("A Dirge") uses the name—

"Round thee blow, self-pleached deep,
Bramble roses, faint and pale,
And long purples of the dale."

Another term applied by Shakespeare to this flower was

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[paragraph continues] "Dead Men's Fingers," from the pale colour and hand-like shape of the palmate tubers—

"Our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them."

In "Flowers from Stratford-on-Avon" it is said "there can be no doubt that the wild arum is the plant alluded to by Shakespeare," but there seems no authority for this statement.

Love-in-Idleness, or, with more accuracy, Love-in-Idle, 1 is one of the many nicknames of the pansy or heart’s-ease—a term said to be still in use in Warwickshire. It occurs in "Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 1) 2 where Oberon says—

"Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness."

The phrase literally signifies love in vain, or to no purpose, as Taylor alludes to it in the following couplet:—

"When passions are let loose without a bridle,
Then precious time is turned to love and idle."

That flowers, and pansies especially, were used as love-philtres, 3 or for the object of casting a spell over people in Shakespeare's day, is shown in the passage already quoted, where Puck and Oberon amuse themselves at Titania's expense. Again, a further reference occurs (iv. 1) where the king removes the spell—

"But first I will release the fairy queen.
Be as thou wast wont to be:
See as thou wast wont to see:

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[paragraph continues] Dian's bud 1 o’er Cupid's flower 2
Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen."

"It has been suggested," says Mr Aldis Wright, 3 "that the device employed by Oberon to enchant Titania by anointing her eyelids with the juice of a flower, may have been borrowed by Shakespeare from the Spanish Romance of Diana by George of Montemayor. But apart from the difficulty which arises from the fact that no English translation of this romance is known before that published by Young in 1598, there is no necessity to suppose that Shakespeare was indebted to anyone for what must have been a familiar element in all incantations at a time when a belief in witchcraft was common." Percy ("Reliques," iii. b. 2) quotes a receipt by the celebrated astrologer, Dr Dee, for "an ungent to anoynt under the eyelids, and upon the eyelids eveninge and morninge, but especially when you call," that is, upon the fairies. It consisted of a decoction of various flowers.

Mandragora or Mandrake.—No plant, perhaps, has had, at different times, a greater share of folk-lore attributed to it than the mandrake; partly owing probably to the fancied resemblance of its root to the human figure, and the accidental circumstance of man being the first syllable of the word. An inferior degree of animal life was assigned to it; and it was commonly supposed that, when torn from the ground, it uttered groans of so pernicious a character, that the person who committed the violence either went mad or died. In "2 Henry VI." (iii. 2), Suffolk says:—

"Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent, &c.

And Juliet (iv. 3) speaks of—

"Shrieks like mandrake's torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad."

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[paragraph continues] To escape this danger, it was recommended to tie one end of a string to the plant and the other to a dog, upon whom the fatal groan would discharge its whole malignity. The ancients, it appears, were equally superstitious with regard to this mysterious plant, and Columella, in his directions for the site of gardens, says they may be formed where—

"The mandrake's flowers
Produce, whose root shews half a man, whose juice
With madness strikes."

Pliny 1 informs us that those who dug up this plant paid particular attention to stand so that the wind was at their back; and before they began to dig, they made three circles round the plant with the point of the sword, and then proceeding to the west commenced digging it up. It seems to have been well known as an opiate in the time of Shakespeare, who makes Iago say in "Othello," (iii. 3):—

"Not poppy, nor mandragora.
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which you owedst yesterday."

In "Antony and Cleopatra," (i. 5), the latter pathetically says:—

"Give me to drink mandragora.
Char. Why, madam?
Cleo. That I might sleep out this great gap of time,
My Antony is away."

Lyte, in his translation of "Dodoens," (1578, 438), tells us that "the leaves and fruit be also dangerous, for they cause deadly sleepe, and peevish drowsiness, like opium." It was sometimes regarded as an emblem of incontinence, as in "2 Henry IV." (i. 2):—

"Yes, lecherous as a monkey, and the whores call him mandrake."

A very diminutive figure was, too, often compared to a mandrake. In "2 Henry IV." (i. 2), Falstaff says:—

"Thou whoreson mandrake, thou are fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels."

Tracing back the history of this plant into far distant times, it is generally believed that it is the same as that which the

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ancient Hebrews called Dudain. 1 That these people held it in the highest esteem in the days of Jacob is evident from its having been found by Reuben, who carried the plant to his mother, and the inducement which tempted Leah to part with it, proves the value then set upon this celebrated plant. According to a curious superstition this plant was thought to possess the properties of making childless wives become mothers, and hence some suppose Rachel became so desirous of possessing the mandrakes which Reuben had found. Among the many other items of folk-lore associated with the mandrake; there is one which informs us that "it is perpetually watched over by Satan, and if it be pulled up at certain holy times, and with certain invocations, the evil spirit will appear to do the bidding of the practitioner." 2 In comparatively recent times, quacks and impostors counterfeited with the root briony figures resembling parts of the human body, which were sold to the credulous as endued with specific virtues. 3 The Germans, too, equally superstitious, formed little idols of the roots of the mandrake, which were regularly dressed every day, and consulted as oracles,—their repute being such that they were manufactured in great numbers and sold in cases. They were, also, imported into this country during the time of Henry VIII., it being pretended that they would; with the assistance of some mystic words, increase whatever money was placed near them. In order, too, to enhance the value of these so-called miracle workers, it was said that the roots of this plant were produced from the flesh of criminals which fell from the gibbet, and that it only grew in such a situation. 4

Marigold.—This flower was a great favourite with our old writers, from a curious notion that it always opened or shut its flowers at the sun's bidding; in allusion to which Perdita remarks in "Winter's Tale," (iv. 3):—

"The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun
And with him rises weeping."

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It was also said, but erroneously, to turn its flowers to the sun, a quality attributed to the sunflower (helianthus annuus), and thus described by Moore:—

"The sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she did when he rose."

A popular name for the marigold was "mary-bud," mention of which we find in "Cymbeline," (ii. 3):—

"Winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes."

Medlar.—This fruit, which Shakespeare describes as only fit to be eaten when rotten, is applied by Lucio to a woman of loose character, as in "Measure for Measure," (iv. 3):" They would else have married me to the rotten medlar."

Chaucer, in the "Reeve's Prologue," applies the same name to it—

"That ilke fruit is ever lenger the wers,
Till it be roten in mullok, or in stre.
We olde men, I drede, so faren we,
Till we be roten can we not be ripe."

Mistletoe.—This plant, which from the earliest times has been an object of interest to naturalists, on account of its curious growth, deriving its subsistence entirely from the branch to which it annexes itself, has been the subject of wide-spread superstition. In "Titus Andronicus" (ii. 3), Tamora describes it in the graphic passage below as "the baleful mistletoe," an epithet which, as Mr Douce observes, is extremely appropriate either conformably to an ancient, but erroneous, opinion, that the berries of the mistletoe were poisonous; or on account of the use made of this plant by the Druids during their detestable human sacrifices. 1

Demetrius. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother,
Why doth your highness look so pale and wan?
Tamora. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?
These two have ’tic’d me hither to this place:—
A barren detested vale you see it is;
The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,
O'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:
Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,
Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven."

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Mushroom.—Besides his notice of the mushroom in the following passages, Shakespeare alludes to the fairy rings 1 which are formed by fungi, though, as Mr Ellacombe 2 points out, he probably knew little of this. In the "Tempest" (v. 1), Prospero says of the fairies—

"You demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms."

the allusion in this passage being to the superstition that sheep will not eat the grass that grows on fairy rings.

Mustard.—Tewkesbury mustard, to which reference is made in "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4), where Falstaff speaks of "wit as thick as Tewkesbury mustard," was formerly very famous. Shakespeare speaks only of its thickness, but others have celebrated its pungency. Coles, writing in 1657, says:" In Gloucestershire, about Teuxbury, they grind mustard and make it into balls, which are brought to London, and other remote places, as being the best that the world affords."

Narcissus.—The old legend attached to this flower is mentioned by Emilia in "The Two Noble Kinsmen" (ii. 1)—

"That was a fair boy certain, but a fool,
To love himself; were there not maids enough."

Nutmeg.—A gilt nutmeg was formerly a common gift at Christmas and on other festive occasions, a notice of which occurs in "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2), in the following dialogue 3—

"Armado. The omnipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift.
Dumain. A gilt nutmeg."

Oak.—A crown of oak was considered by the Romans worthy of the highest emulation of statesmen and warriors.

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[paragraph continues] To him who had saved the life of a Roman soldier was given a crown of oak leaves; one, indeed, which was accounted more honourable than any other. In "Coriolanus" (ii. 1), Volumnia says—"He comes the third time home with the oaken garland." And again (i. 3)—"To a cruel war I sent him; from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak." Montesquieu, indeed, said that it was with two or three hundred crowns of oak that Rome conquered the world. Although so much historical and legendary lore have clustered round the oak, yet scarcely any mention is made of this by Shakespeare. The legend of Herne the hunter, which seems to have been current at Windsor, is several times alluded to, as for instance in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (iv. 4)—

"There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,
Sometime a keeper in Windsor forest,
Doth all the winter time, at still midnight,
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns."

"Page. There want not many that do fear
In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak."

Herne's Oak, so long an object of much curiosity and enthusiasm, is now no more. According to one theory, the old tree was blown down, August 31st, 1863; and a young oak was planted by Her Majesty, September 12th, 1863, to mark the spot where Herne's oak stood. 1 Mr Halliwell-Phillipps, however, tells us, "the general opinion is that it was accidentally destroyed in the year 1796, through an order of George III. to the bailiff Robinson, that all the unsightly trees in the vicinity of the castle, should be removed; an opinion confirmed by a well-established fact, that a person named Grantham, who contracted with the bailiff for the removal of the trees, fell into disgrace with the king for having included the oak in his gatherings." 2

Olive.—This plant ever famous from its association with the return of the dove to the oak, has been considered typical of peace. It was as an emblem of peace, that a garland of olive was given to Judith when she restored peace to the

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[paragraph continues] Israelites by the death of Holofernes (Judith xv. i3). It was equally honoured by Greeks and Romans. It is, too, in this sense, that Shakespeare speaks of it when he makes Viola in "Twelfth Night" (i. 5), say—"I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand, my words are as full of peace as matter." In his "Sonnet" (cvii.), here are too those well-known lines 1—

"And peace proclaims olives of endless age."

Palm.—As the symbol of victory, this was carried before the conqueror in triumphal processions. Its classical use is noticed by Shakespeare in "Coriolanus" (v. 3). Volumnia says 2—

"And bear the palm for having bravely shed
Thy wife and children's blood."

In "Julius Cæsar" (i. 2), Cassius exclaims—

"Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world
And bear the palm alone."

Pilgrims were formerly called "palmers," from the staff or bough of palm they were wont to carry. So in "All's Well That End's Well" (iii. 5), Helena asks—

"Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?"

Pear.—In his few notices of the pear, Shakespeare only mentions two by name, the warden and the poperin—the former was chiefly used for roasting or baking, and is mentioned by the clown in the "Winter's Tale" (iv. 3)—

"I must have saffron to colour the warden pies."

Hence, Ben Jonson makes a pun upon Church-Warden pie's. According to some antiquarians, the name warden is from the Anglo-Saxon wearden, to preserve, as it keeps for a long time; but it is more probable that the word had its origin

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from the horticultural skill of the Cistercian monks of Wardon Abbey, in Bedfordshire, founded in the twelfth century. Three warden pears appeared on the armorial bearings of the Abbey. 1 It is noticeable that the warden pies of Shakespeare's day, coloured with saffron, have been replaced by stewed pears coloured with cochineal.

The Poperin.—This pear was probably introduced from Flanders by the Antiquary Leland, who was made rector of Popering, by Henry VIII. It is alluded to by Mercutio in "Romeo and Juliet" (ii. 1), where he wishes that Romeo were "a poperin pear." In the old dramas there is much attempt at wit on this pear.

Peas.—A practice called "peascod wooing" was formerly a common mode of divination in love affairs. The cook, when shelling green peas, would, if she chanced to find a pod having nine, lay it on the lintel of the kitchen door, and the first man who entered was supposed to be her future husband. Another way of divination by peascod consisted in the lover selecting one growing on the stem, snatching it away quickly, and if the good omen of the peas remaining in the husk were preserved, in then presenting it to the lady of his choice. Touchstone in "As You Like It" (ii. 4), alludes to this piece of popular suggestion:—"I remember the wooing of a peascod 2 instead of her." Gay, who has carefully chronicled many a custom of his time, says in his "Fourth Pastoral":—

"As peascods once I pluck’d, I chanc’d to see,
One that was closely fill’d with three times three,
Which when I cropp’d I safely home convey’d,
And o’er my door the spell in secret laid."

We may quote as a further illustration the following stanza from Browne's "Pastorals" (Bk. ii., song 3).

"The peascod greene, oft with no little toyle,
He’d seek for in the fattest, fertil’st soile,
And rende it from the stalke to bring it to her,
And in her bosom for acceptance wooe her." 3

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Plantain.—The leaves of this plant were carefully valued by our forefathers for their supposed efficacy in healing wounds, &c. It was also considered as a preventive of poison. And to this supposed virtue we find an allusion in "Romeo and Juliet"(i. 2):—

"Benvolio. Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
Romeo. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.
Benvolio. For what, I pray thee?
Romeo. For your broken skin." 1

In the "Two Noble Kinsmen" (i. 2), Palamon says:—

"These poor slight sores
Need not a plantain."

Poppy.—The plant referred to by Shakespeare in "Othello" (iii. 3), is the opium poppy, well known in his day for its deadly qualities. It is described by Spencer, "Faerie Queene" (ii. 7, 52), as the "dead-sleeping poppy," and Drayton ("Nymphal" v.), enumerates it among the flowers that procure "deadly sleeping."

Potato.—It is curious enough, says Nares 2 to find that excellent root which now forms a regular portion of the daily nutriment of every individual, and is the chief or entire support of multitudes in Ireland, spoken of continually as having some powerful effect upon the human frame, in exciting the desires and passions—yet this is the case in all the writings contemporary with Shakespeare. Thus Falstaff in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (v. 5) says:—"Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves, hail kissing comfits," &c. In "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 2) Thersites adds:—"How the devil Luxury with his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together." 3 It appears, too, that the medical writers of the times countenanced this fancy. Mr Ellacombe 4 observes that the above passages are of peculiar interest inasmuch as they contain almost the

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earliest notice of potatoes after their introduction into England.

Primrose.—Although the early primrose has always been such a popular and favourite flower, yet it seems to have been associated with sadness, 1 or even worse than sadness; for in the following passages the "primrose paths," and "primrose way," are meant to be suggestive of sinful pleasures. Thus in "Hamlet" (i. 3), Ophelia says:—

"Like a puffed and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And recks not his own rede."

And in "Macbeth" (ii. 3), the porter declares:—

"I had thought to have let in some of all professions that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire."

Curious to say, too, Shakespeare's only epithets for this fair flower are "pale," "faint," "that die unmarried." Nearly all the poets of that time spoke of it in the same strain, with the exception of Ben Jonson and the two Fletchers.

Reed—Among the uses to which the reed was formerly applied were the thatching of houses, and the making of shepherds’ pipes. The former is alluded to in the "Tempest" (v. i.):—"His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops from eaves of reeds"; and the latter in "Merchant of Venice" (iii. 4), where Portia speaks of "a reed voice." It has generally been regarded as the emblem of weakness, as in "Antony and Cleopatra" (ii. 7)—"A reed that will do me no service."

Rose.—As might be expected, the rose is the flower most frequently mentioned by Shakespeare; denoting. in many cases the symbol of all that is fair and lovely. Thus, for instance, in "Hamlet" (iii. 4), the queen says

"Such an act . . . takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there."

And Ophelia (iii. i), describes Hamlet as—

"The expectancy and rose of the fair state."

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[paragraph continues] In days gone by the rose entered largely into the customs and superstitions of most nations, and even now-a-days there is an extensive folklore associated with it.

It appears that in Shakspeare's time one of the fashions of the day was the wearing of enormous roses on the shoes, of which full-length portraits afford striking examples. 1 Hamlet (iii. 2) speaks "of two provincial roses on his razed shoes."—meaning, no doubt, rosettes of ribbon in the shape of roses of Provins or Provence. Douce favours the former, Warton the latter locality. In either case it was a large rose. The Province or damask rose, was probably the better known. Gerarde in his "Herbal," says that the damask rose is called by some "Rosa provincialis." 2 Mr Fairholt 3 quotes from Friar Bacon's Prophecy, 1604, the following in allusion to this fashion:—

"When roses in the gardens grew,
And not in ribbons on a shoe:
Now ribbon roses take such place
That garden roses want their grace."

Again, in King John (i. 1), where the Bastard alludes to the three-farthing silver pieces of Queen Elizabeth, which were extremely thin, and had the profile of the sovereign, with a rose on the back of her head, there doubtless is a fuller reference to the court fashion of sticking roses in the ear:— 4

"My face so thin,
That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose,
Lest men should say, 'Look, where three-farthings goes.'"

Shakspeare also mentions the use of the rose in rose-cakes and rose-water, the former in "Romeo and Juliet" (v. r), where Romeo speaks of "old cakes of roses," the latter in "Taming the Shrew" (induction, sc. 1):—

"Let one attend him with a silver basin
Full of rose water and bestrewed with flowers."

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Referring to its historical lore, we may mention its famous connection with the "Wars of the Roses." In the fatal dispute in the Temple Gardens, Somerset, on the part of Lancaster, says, ("1 Henry VI." ii. 3):—

"Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,
But dare maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me."

Warwick, on the part of York, replies:—

"I have no colours, and without all colour
Of base insinuating flattery
I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet."

The trailing white dog-rose is commonly considered to have been the one chosen by the house of York. A writer however, in the "Quarterly Review" (vol. cxiv.), has shown that the white rose has a very ancient interest for Englishmen, as, long before the brawl in the Temple Gardens, the flower had been connected with one of the most ancient names of our island. The elder Pliny, in discussing the etymology of the word Albion, suggests that the land may have been so named from the white roses which abounded in it. The York and Lancaster rose, with its pale striped flowers, is a variety of the French rose known as Rosa Gallica. It became famous when the two emblematical roses, in the persons of Henry VII. and Elizabeth of York at last brought peace and happiness to the country which had been so long divided by internal warfare. The canker rose referred to by Shakspeare is the wild dog rose, a name occasionally applied to the common red poppy.

Rosemary.—This plant was formerly in very high esteem, and was devoted to various uses. It was supposed to strengthen the memory, hence it was regarded as a symbol of remembrance, and on this account was often given to friends. Thus, in "Hamlet" (iv. 5), where Ophelia seems to be addressing Laertes, she says:—

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance."

In the "Winter's Tale" (iv. 4), rosemary and rue are beautifully put together:—

"For you there's rosemary and rue, these keep;
Seeming and savour all the winter long:
Grace and Remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing."

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[paragraph continues] Besides being used at weddings, it was also in request at funerals, probably for its odour, and as a token of remembrance of the deceased. Thus the Friar in "Romeo and Juliet" (iv. 5) says:—

"Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse."

This practice is thus touchingly alluded to by Gay in his "Pastorals"—

"To shew their love, the neighbours far and near
Followed with wistful look, the damsel's bier:
Sprigg’d rosemary the lads and lasses bore,
While dismally the parson walk’d before."

Rosemary, too, was one of the evergreens with which dishes were anciently garnished during the season of Christmas, an allusion to which occurs in "Pericles" (iv. 6)—"Marry, come up my dish of chastity, with rosemary and bays."

Rush.—Before the introduction of carpets, the floors of churches and houses were strewed with rushes, a custom to which Shakespeare makes several allusions. In "Taming of the Shrew" (iv. i.) Grumio asks—"Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept;" and Glendower in "1 Henry IV." (iii. 1) says—

"She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down
And rest your gentle head upon her lap." 1

At the coronation of Henry V. ("2 Henry IV.," v. 5) when the procession is coming, the grooms cry, "More rushes, more rushes," which seems to have been the usual cry for rushes to be scattered on a pavement or a platform when a procession was approaching. 2 Again, in "Richard II." (i. 3) the custom is further alluded to by John of Gaunt, who speaks of the presence strew’d," referring to the presence chamber. So, too, in "Cymbeline" (ii. 2), Iachimo soliloquizes—

"Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes ere he waken’d
The chastity he wounded."

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[paragraph continues] And in "Romeo and Juliet" (i. 4) Romeo says—

"Let wantons light of heart
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels."

—an expression which Middleton has borrowed in his "Blunt Master Constable," 1602—

"Bid him, whose heart no sorrow feels,
Tickle the rushes with his wanton heels,
I have too much lead at mine."

In the "Two Noble Kinsmen" (ii. 1) the gaoler's daughter is represented carrying "strewings" for the two prisoners’ chamber.

Rush-bearings were a sort of rural festival, when the parishioners brought rushes to strew the church. 1

The "rush-ring" appears to have been a kind of token for plighting of troth among rustic lovers. It was afterwards vilely used, however, for mock marriages, as appears from one of the Constitutions of Salisbury. In "All's Well that Ends Well" (ii. 2) there seems a covert allusion to the rush-ring—

"As a Tib's Rush for Tom's forefinger."

Spenser, in the "Shepherd's Kalendar," speaks of—

"The knotted rush-rings and gilt Rosemarie."

Du Breul, in his "Antiquities of Paris," 2 mentions the rush-ring as "a kind of espousal used in France by such persons as meant to live together in a state of concubinage; but in England it was scarcely ever practised except by designing men, for the purpose of corrupting those young women to whom they pretended love."

The "rush candle," which in times past was found in nearly every house, and served as a night-light for the rich and candle for the poor, is mentioned in "Taming of the Shrew" (iv. 5)—

"Be it moon or sun, or what you please:
An if you please to call it a rush candle,
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me."

Saffron.—In the following passage ("All's Well that Ends Well," iv. 5) there seems to be an allusion 3 by Lafeu to the

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fashionable and fantastic custom of wearing yellow, and to that of colouring paste with saffron:—"No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour."

Spear-grass.—This plant—perhaps the common reed—is noticed in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 4) as used for tickling the nose and making it bleed. In Lupton's "Notable Things" it is mentioned as part of a medical recipe—"Whoever is tormented with sciatica or the hip gout, let them take an herb called spear-grass, and stamp it and lay a little thereof upon the grief." Mr Ellacombe 1 thinks that the plant alluded to is the common couch grass, (Triticum repens), which is still known in the Eastern Counties as spear-grass.

Stover.—This word, which is often found in the writings of Shakespeare's day, denotes fodder and provision of all sorts for cattle. In Cambridgeshire, stover signifies hay made of coarse rank grass, such as even cows will not eat while it is green. In the "Tempest" (iv. 1) Iris says—

"Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep."

According to Steevens, stover was used as a thatch for cart-lodges and other buildings that required but cheap coverings.

Strawberry.—Shakespeare's mention of the strawberry in connection with the nettle in "Henry V." (i. 1):—

"The strawberry grows underneath the nettle
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best
Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality."

deserves, says Mr. Ellacombe, a passing note. "It was the common opinion in his day that plants were affected by the neighbourhood of other plants to such an extent that they imbibed each other's virtues and faults. Thus sweet flowers were planted near fruit trees with the idea of improving the flavour of the fruit, and evil-smelling trees, like the elder, were carefully cleared away from fruit trees, lest they should be tainted. But the strawberry was supposed to be an exception to the rule, and was said to thrive in the midst of 'evil communications without being corrupted.'"

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Thorns.—The popular tradition which represents the marks on the moon 1 to be that of a man carrying a thorn-bush on his head, is alluded to in "Midsummer Night's Dream" (v. 1) in the prologue: "This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn, presenteth Moonshine." Little else is mentioned by Shakespeare with regard to thorns, save that they are generally used by him as the emblems of desolation and trouble.

Violets.—An old superstition is alluded to by Shakespeare, when he makes Laertes wish that violets may spring from the grave of Ophelia ("Hamlet" v. 1):—

"Lay her i’ the earth:
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring."

an idea which occurs in Persius's "Satires" (i. 39)

"—E tumulo fortunataque favilla
Nascentur violæ."

The violet has generally been associated with early death. This, Mr Ellacombe considers 2 "may have arisen from a sort of pity for flowers that were only allowed to see the opening year, and were cut off before the first beauty of summer had come, and so were looked upon as apt emblems of those who enjoyed the bright springtide of life and no more." Thus, the violet is one of the flowers which Marina carries to hang "as a chaplet on the grave" in "Pericles" (iv. 1):—

"The yellows, blues,
The purple violets and marigolds,
Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave,
While summer-days do last."

Again, in that exquisite passage in the "Winter's Tale" (iv. 4), where Perdita enumerates the flowers of spring, she speaks of:—

"Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
Or Cytherea's breath."

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[paragraph continues] Upon which Mr Singer 1 thus comments:—"The eyes of Juno were as remarkable as those of Pallas, and:—

"Of a beauty never yet
Equalled in height of tincture."

The beauties of Greece and other Asiatic nations tinged their eyes of an obscure violet colour, by means of some unguent, which was doubtless perfumed like those for the hair, etc., mentioned by Athenæus.

Willow.—From time immemorial the willow has been regarded as the symbol of sadness. Hence it was customary for those who were forsaken in love, to wear willow garlands—a practice to which Shakespeare gives several allusions. In "Othello" (iv. 3), Desdemona, anticipating her death, says:—

"My mother had a maid call’d Barbara;
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,
And did forsake her: she had a song of willow,
An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune,
And she died singing it: that song to-night
Will not go from my mind."

The following is the song 2:—

"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
Sing all a green willow must be my garland."

And further on Emilia says (v. 2):—

"I will play the swan,
And die in music [singing], willow, willow, willow."

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[paragraph continues] And, again, Lorenzo, in "Merchant of Venice" (v. 1), narrates:—

"In such a night
Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea-banks."

It was, too, in reference to this custom that Shakespeare in "Hamlet" (iv. 7), represented poor Ophelia hanging her flowers on the "willow aslaunt a brook." "This tree," says Douce 1 "might have been chosen as the symbol of sadness from the cxxxvii. Psalm (verse 2)—'We hanged our harps upon the willows;' or else from a coincidence between the weeping-willow and falling tears." Another reason has been assigned. The agnus castus was supposed to promote chastity, and "the willow being of a much like nature," says Swan, in his "Speculum Mundi," 1635, "it is yet a custom that he which is deprived of his love must wear a willow garland." Bona, the sister of the King of France, on receiving news of Edward the Fourth's marriage with Elizabeth Grey, exclaimed, "In hope he'll prove a widower shortly, I'll wear a willow garland for his sake."

Wormwood.—The use of this plant in weaning infants is alluded to in "Romeo and Juliet" (i. 3) by Juliet's nurse in the following passage—

"For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
. . . . . . . . .
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool."

Yew.—This tree styled by Shakespeare "the dismal yew" ("Titus and Andronicus," ii. 3) apart from the many superstitions associated with it, has been very frequently planted in churchyards, besides being used at funerals. Paris in "Romeo and Juliet" (v. 3) says—

"Under yon yew trees lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,
But thou shalt hear it."

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Although various reasons have been assigned for planting the yew tree in churchyards, it seems probable that the practice had a superstitious origin. As witches were supposed to exercise a powerful influence over the winds, they were believed occasionally to exert their formidable power against religious edifices. Thus Macbeth says (iv. i)—

"Though you untie the winds and let them fight
Against the churches."

To counteract, therefore, this imaginary danger, our ancestors may have planted the yew tree in their churchyards—not only on account of its vitality as an evergreen, but as connected, in some way in heathen times, with the influence of evil powers. 1 In a statute made in the latter part of Edward the First's reign, to prevent rectors from cutting down trees in churchyards, we find the following: "Verum arbores ipsæ, propter ventorum impetus ne ecclesiis noceant, sœpe plantantur." 2

The custom of sticking yew in the shroud is alluded to in the following song in "Twelfth Night" (ii. 4)—

"My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it."

Through being reckoned poisonous, it is introduced in "Macbeth" (iv. 1), in connection with the witches—

"Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon's eclipse."

"How much the splitting or tearing off of the slip had to do with magic we learn from a piece of Slavonic folk-lore. It is unlucky to use for a beam, a branch, or a tree, broken by the wind. The devil, or storm spirit, claims it as his own, and, were it used, the evil spirit would haunt the house. It is a broken branch the witches choose; a sliver’d slip the woodman will have none of." 3

Its epithet, "double fatal" "Richard II." (iii. 2), no doubt refers to the poisonous quality of the leaves, and on account

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of its wood being employed for instruments of death. Sir Stephen Scroop, when telling Richard of Bolingbroke's revolt, declares that "the very beadsmen learn to bend their bows of double-fatal yew against thy state."

It has been suggested that the poison intended by the Ghost in "Hamlet" (i. 5), when he speaks of the juice of cursed ebenon is that of the yew, and is the same as Marlowe's "juice of hebon" ("Jew of Malta," iii. 4). The yew is called hebon by Spenser, and by other writers of Shakespeare's age; and, in its various forms of eben, eiben, hiben, etc., this tree is so named in no less than five different European languages. From medical authorities, both of ancient and modern times, it would seem that the juice of the yew is a rapidly fatal poison; next, that the symptoms attendant upon yew poisoning correspond, in a very remarkable manner, with those which follow the bites of poisonous snakes; and lastly, that no other poison but the yew produces the "lazar-like" ulcerations on the body, upon which Shakespeare, in this passage, lays so much stress. 1

Amongst the other explanations of this passage, is the well-known one which identifies "hebenon" with henbane. Mr Beisly suggests that nightshade may be meant, while Nares considers that ebony is meant. 2

From certain ancient statutes it appears that every Englishman, while archery was practised, was obliged to keep in his house either a bow of yew or some other wood. 3

Folk-lore of Shakespeare

2009-07-03T19:14:00.000-07:00

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CHAPTER VII.

ANIMALS.

Ape—Ass—Bat—Bear—Boar—Bull—Cat—Chameleon—Cockatrice—Colt—Crocodile—Deer—Dog—Dragon—Elephant—Fox—Goat—Hare—Hedgehog—Horse—Lion—Mole—Mouse—Pole-Cat—Porcupine—Rabbit—Rat—Snail—Tiger—Unicorn—Weasel.

As in the case of the birds, considered in the previous chapter, Shakespeare has also interwoven throughout his plays an immense deal of curious folk-lore connected with animals. Not only does he allude with the accuracy of a naturalist to the peculiarities and habits of certain animals, but so true to nature is he in his graphic descriptions of them that it is evident his knowledge was in a great measure acquired from his own observation. It is interesting, also, to note how carefully he has, here and there, worked into his narrative some old proverb, or superstition, thereby adding a freshness to the picture which has, if possible, imbued it with an additional lustre. In speaking of the dog, he has introduced many an old hunting custom; and his references to the tears of the deer are full of sweet pathos, as, for instance, where Hamlet says (iii. 2), "Let the stricken deer go weep." It is not necessary, however, to add further illustrations, as these will be found in the following pages.

Ape.—In addition to Shakespeare's mention of this animal as a common term of contempt, there are several other allusions to it. There is the well known phrase, "to lead apes in hell," applied to old maids mentioned in the "Taming of the Shrew" (ii. 1)—the meaning of this term not having been yet satisfactorily explained. 1 (It is further discussed in the chapter on Marriage.)

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In "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4), it is used as a term of endearment—"Alas, poor ape, how thou sweat’st."

Ass.—Beyond the proverbial use of this much ill-treated animal to denote a silly, foolish person, Shakespeare has said little about it. In "Troilus and Cressida" (ii. 1), Thersites uses the word "assinego," a Portuguese expression for a young ass—"Thou hast no more brain than I have in my elbows; an assinego may tutor thee." It is used by Beaumont and Fletcher in the "Scornful Lady" (v. 4)—"All this would be forsworn, and I again an assinego, as your sister left me." 1 Dyce 2 would spell the word "Asinico," because it is so spelt in the old editions of Shakespeare, and is more in accordance with the Spanish word. 3 In "King Lear" (i. 4), the Fool alludes to Æsop's celebrated fable of the old man and his ass—

"Thou borest thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt."

Bat.—The bat, immortalised by Shakespeare ("Tempest," v. I) as the "delicate Ariel's" steed—

"On the bat's back I do fly."

has generally been an object of superstitious dread, and proved to the poet and painter a fertile source of images of gloom and terror. 4 In Scotland 5 it is still connected with witchcraft, and if, while flying, it rise and then descend again earthwards, it is a sign that the witches’ hour is come—the hour in which they are supposed to have power over every human being who is not specially shielded from their influence. Thus in "Macbeth" (iv. 1) the "wool of bat" forms an ingredient in the witches’ cauldron. One of its popular names is "rere-mouse," which occurs in a "Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 2), where Titania says—

"Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats."

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[paragraph continues] This term is equivalent to the Anglo-Saxon, hrére-mús, from hreran, to stir, agitate, and so the same as the old name "flitter-mouse." 1 The early copies spell the word reremise. 2 It occurs in the Wicliffite versions of Lev. xi. 19, and the plural in the form "reremees" or "rere-myis" is found in Isaiah ii. 20. At Polperro, Cornwall, 3 the village boys call it "airy-mouse," and address it in the following rhyme:—

"Airy mouse, airy mouse! fly over my head,
And you shall have a crust of bread;
And when I brew, and when I bake,
You shall have a piece of my wedding cake."

In Scotland 4 it is known as the Backe or Bakie bird. An immense deal of curious folk-lore has clustered round this curious little animal. 5

Bear.—According to an old idea, the bear brings forth unformed lumps of animated flesh, and then licks them into shape—a vulgar error, referred to in "3 Henry VI." (iii. 2), where Gloucester, bemoaning his deformity, says of his mother—

"She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,
. . . . . .
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp,
That carries no impression like the dam."

This erroneous notion, however, was long ago confuted by Sir Thomas Browne. 6 Alexander Ross, in his "Arcana Microcosmi," nevertheless affirms that bears bring forth their young deformed and mis-shapen, by reason of the thick membrane in which they are wrapped, that is covered over

p. 155

with a mucous matter. This, he says, the dam contracts in the winter-time, by lying in hollow caves without motion, so that to the eye the cub appears like an unformed lump. The above mucilage is afterwards licked away by the dam, and the membrane broken, whereby that which before seemed to be unformed appears now in its right shape. This he contends is all that the ancients meant. 1 Ovid (Metam. xv. 379) thus describes this once popular fancy—

"Nec Catulus partu quem reddidit ursa recenti,
Sed male viva caro est. Lambendo mater in artus
Fingit, et in formam quantam capit ipsa, reducit."

Bears, in days gone by, are reported to have been surprised by means of a mirror, which they could gaze on, affording their pursuers an opportunity of taking the surer aim. 2 In "Julius Cæsar" (ii. 1), this practice is mentioned by Decius—

"Unicorns may be betray’d with trees,
And bears with glasses."

Batman, "Upon Bartholome" (1582), speaking of the bear, says, "And when he is taken he is made blinde with a bright basin, and bound with chaynes, and compelled to playe." This, however, says Mr Aldis Wright, 3 probably refers to the actual blinding of the bear.

A favourite amusement with our ancestors was bear-baiting. As early as the reign of Henry II. the baiting of bears by dogs was a popular game in London, 4 whilst at a later period "a royal bear-ward" was an officer regularly attached to the royal household. In "2 Henry VI." (v. 1), this personage is alluded to by Clifford, who says—

"Are these thy bears? We'll bait thy bears to death,
And manacle the bear-ward in their chains,
If thou darest bring them to the baiting place."

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[paragraph continues] And again, in "Much Ado about Nothing" (ii. 1), Beatrice says, "I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell." The synonymous term, "bear-herd," occurs in "Taming of the Shrew" (Introduction, scene 2), where Sly speaks of himself as "by transmutation a bear-herd;" and in "2 Henry IV." (i. 2), Sir John Falstaff remarks how "true valour is turned bear-herd." Among the Harleian MSS. 1 is preserved the original warrant of Richard III. appointing John Brown to this office, and which recites "the diligent service he had done the king" as the ground for granting him the privilege of wandering about the country with his bears and apes, and receiving the "loving benevolence and favours of the people." 2 In the time of Queen Elizabeth, bear-baiting was still a favourite pastime, being considered a fashionable entertainment for the ladies of the highest rank. 3 James I. encouraged this sport. Nichols 4 informs us that on one occasion the king, accompanied by his court, took the Queen, the Princess Elizabeth, and the two young Princes to the Tower to witness a fight between a lion and a bear, and by the king's command, the bear (which had killed a child that had been negligently left in the bear-house), was afterwards "baited to death upon a stage in the presence of many spectators." Popular, says Mr Kelly, as bear-baiting was in the metropolis and at court, it was equally so among all classes of the people. 5 It is on record that at Congleton, in Cheshire, "the town-bear having died, the corporation in 1601 gave orders to sell their Bible, in order to purchase another, which was done, and the town no longer without a bear." This event is kept up in a popular rhyme—

"Congleton rare, Congleton rare,
Sold the Bible to pay for a bear."

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[paragraph continues] The same legend attaches to Clifton, a village near Rugby:—

"Clifton-upon-Dunsmore, in Warwickshire,
Sold the Church Bible to buy a bear."

In Pulleyn's "Etymological Compendium," 1 we are told that "this cruel amusement is of African origin, and was introduced into Europe by the Romans. It is further alluded to by Shakespeare in "Twelfth Night" (i. 3), "dancing and bear-baiting;" and further on in the same play (ii. 5) Fabian says, "he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here;" and Macbeth (v. 7) relates:—

"They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,
But, bear-like, I must fight the course." 2

and in "Julius Cæsar"(iv. 1), Octavius says:—

"—We are at the stake
And bay’d about with many enemies."

Boar.—It appears that in former times boar-hunting was a favourite recreation; many allusions to which we find in old writers. Indeed, in the middle ages, the destruction of a wild boar ranked among the deeds of chivalry, 3 and "won for a warrior almost as much renown as the slaying an enemy in the open field." So dangerous too, was boar-hunting considered, that Shakespeare represents Venus as dissuading Adonis from the perilous practice:—

"O, be advised! thou know’st not what it is,
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
* * * * *
His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm’d,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture."

Such hunting expeditions were generally fatal to some of the dogs, and occasionally to one or more of the hunters.

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[paragraph continues] An old tradition of Grimsby, in Lincolnshire, 1 asserts that every burgess at his admission to the freedom of the borough, anciently presented to the mayor a boar's head, or an equivalent in money, when the animal could not be procured. The old seal of the mayor of Grimsby represents a boar hunt. The lord, too, of the adjacent manor of Bradley, was obliged by his tenure to keep a supply of these animals in his wood, for the entertainment of the mayor and burgesses. 2 A curious triennial custom called the "Rhyne Toll," is observed at Chetwode, a small village about five miles from Buckingham. 3 According to tradition, it originated in the destruction of an enormous wild boar—the terror of the surrounding county—by one of the lords of Chetwode; who, after fighting with it for four hours on a hot summer's day, eventually killed it.

"Then Sir Ryalas he drawed his broad sword with might,
Wind well thy horn, good hunter;
And he fairly cut the boar's head off quite,
For he was a jovial hunter."

As a reward, it is said, the king "granted to him and to his heirs for ever, among other immunities and privileges, the full right to levy every year the Rhyne Toll." This is still kept up, and consists of a yearly tax, on all cattle found within the manor of Chetwode between the 30th October and the 7th November, inclusive. In "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 13) Cleopatra alludes to the famous boar killed by Meleager—"The boar of Thessaly was never so emboss’d." 4

Bull.—Once upon a time there was scarcely a town or village of any magnitude which had not its bull-ring. 5 Indeed, it was not until the year 1835 that baiting was finally

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put down by an act of Parliament, "forbidding the keeping of any house, pit, or other place for baiting or fighting any bull, bear, dog, or other animal;" and after an existence of at least seven centuries, this ceased to rank among the amusements of the English people. 1 This sport is alluded to in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (v. 5), "Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa." We may too compare the expressions in "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 7)—"Now, bull, now, dog!—the bull has the game." 2

Cat.—Few animals, in times past, have been more esteemed than the cat, or been honoured with a wider folk-lore. Indeed, among the Egyptians this favoured animal was held sacred to Isis or the moon, and worshipped with great ceremony. In the mythology of all the Indo European nations, the cat holds a prominent place; and its connection with witches is well known. "The picture of a witch," says Mr Henderson, 3 "is incomplete without her cat, by rights a black one." In "Macbeth" (iv. i) the First Witch says—"Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d,"—it being a common superstition that the form most generally assumed by the familiar spirits of witches was the cat. Thus in another passage of the same play (i. 1), the First Witch says:—"I come, Graymalkin,"—the word otherwise spelt Grimalkin, 4 meaning a grey cat. Numerous stories are on record of witches having disguised themselves as cats, in order to carry out their fiendish designs. A woodman out working in the forest has his dinner every day stolen by a cat. Exasperated at the continued repetition of the theft, he lies in wait for the aggressor, and succeeds in cutting off her paw, when lo! on his return home he finds his wife minus a hand. 5 An honest Yorkshireman, 6 who bred pigs, often lost the young

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ones. On applying to a certain wise man of Stokesley, he was informed that they were bewitched by an old woman who lived near. The owner of the pigs calling to mind that he had often seen a cat prowling about his yard, decided that this was the old woman in disguise. He watched for her, and, as soon as she made her appearance, flung at her a poker with all his might. The cat disappeared, and curiously enough the poor old woman in question, that night fell and broke her leg. This was considered as conclusive, that she was the witch that had simulated the form of a cat. This notion is very prevalent on the Continent. It is said that witch-cats 1 have a great hankering after beer. Witches are adepts in the art of brewing, and therefore fond of tasting what their neighbours brew. On these occasions they always masquerade as cats, and what they steal they consume on the spot. There was a countryman whose beer was all drunk up by night whenever he brewed, so that at last he resolved for once to sit up all night and watch. As he was standing by his brewing pan, a number of cats made their appearance, and calling to them, he said; "Come, puss, puss, come, warm you a bit." So in a ring they all sat round the fire as if to warm themselves. After a time, he asked them "if the water was hot." "Just on the boil," said they, and, as he spoke he dipped his long-handled pail in the wort, and soused the whole company with it. They all vanished at once, but on the following day his wife had a terribly scalded face, and then he knew who it was that had always drunk his beer. This story is widely prevalent, and is current among the Flemish-speaking natives of Belgium. Again, a North German tradition 2 tells us of a peasant who had three beautiful large cats. A neighbour begged to have one of them, and obtained it. To accustom it to the place, he shut it up in the loft. At night, the cat, popping its head through the window, said, "What shall I bring to-night?" "Thou shalt bring mice," answered the man. The cat then set to work, and cast all it caught on the floor. Next morning the place was so full of dead mice that it was hardly possible to open

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the door, and the man was employed the whole day in throwing them away by bushels. At night the cat again asked, 'what shall I bring to night?' 'Thou shalt bring rye,' answered the peasant. The cat was now busily employed in shooting down rye, so that in the morning the door could not be opened. The man then discovered that the cat was a witch, and carried it back to his neighbour." A similar tradition occurs in Scandinavian mythology. 1 Spranger 2 relates that a labourer, on one occasion, was attacked by three young ladies in the form of cats, and that they were wounded by him. On the following day they were found bleeding in their beds. In Vernon, 3 about the year 1566, "the witches and warlocks gathered in great multitudes under the shape of cats. Four or five men were attacked in a lone place by a number of these beasts. The men stood their ground, and succeeded in slaying one cat, and wounding many others. Next day a number of wounded women were found in the town, and they gave the judge an accurate account of all the circumstances connected with their wounding." It is only natural, then, that Shakespeare in his description of the witches in "Macbeth," should have associated them with the popular superstition which represents the cat as their agent—a notion that no doubt originated in the classic story of Galanthis being turned into a cat, and becoming, through the compassion of Hecate, her priestess. From their supposed connection with witchcraft, cats were formerly often tormented by the ignorant vulgar. Thus it appears 4 that, in days gone by, they (occasionally fictitious ones) were hung up in baskets and shot at with arrows. In some counties, too, they were enclosed, with a quantity of soot, in wooden bottles suspended on a line, and he who could beat out the bottom of the bottle as he ran under it, and yet escape its contents, was the hero of the sport. 5 Shakespeare

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alludes to this practice in "Much Ado about Nothing" (i. 1), where Benedick says—

"Hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me."

Percy, in his "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry" (1794, i. p. 155), says—"It is still a diversion in Scotland to hang up a cat in a small cask or firkin, half filled with soot; and then a parcel of clowns on horseback try to beat out the ends of it, in order to show their dexterity in escaping before the contents fall upon them."

This practice was once kept up at Kelso in Scotland, according to Ebenezer Lazarus, who, in his "Description of Kelso" (1789, p. 144), has given a graphic description of the whole ceremony. He says—"This is a sport which was common in the last century at Kelso on the Tweed. A large concourse of men, women, and children assembled in a field about half a mile from the town, and a cat having been put into a barrel stuffed full of soot, was suspended on a crossbeam between two high poles. A certain number of the whipmen, or husbandmen, who took part in this savage and unmanly amusement, then kept striking, as they rode to and fro on horseback, the barrel in which the unfortunate animal was confined, until at last, under the heavy blows of their clubs and mallets, it broke, and allowed the cat to drop. The victim was then seized and tortured to death." He justly stigmatizes it, saying

"The cat in the barrel exhibits such a farce,
That he who can relish it is worse than an ass."

Cats, from their great powers of resistance, are said to have nine lives; 1 hence Mercutio, in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 1), says—"Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives." Ben Jonson, in "Every Man in His Humour" (iii. 2), makes Edward Knowell say to Bobadill—"’Twas pity you had not ten; a cat's and your own." And in Gay's fable of the "Old Woman and her Cats," one of these animals is introduced, upbraiding the witch

"’Tis infamy to serve a hag,
Cats are thought imps, her broom a nag;
And boys against our lives combine,
Because ’tis said, your cats have nine."

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In Marston's "Dutch Courtezan," we read—

"Why, then, thou hast nine lives like a cat."

And in Dekker's "Strange Horse-Race" (1613)—"When the grand Helcat had gotten these two furies with nine lives." This notion, it may be noted, is quite the reverse of the well-known saying—"Care will kill a cat," mentioned in "Much Ado About Nothing" (v. 1), where Claudio says" What though care killed a cat."

For some undiscovered reason a cat was formerly called Tybert or Tybalt; 1 hence some of the insulting remarks of Mercutio, in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 1), who calls Tybalt "rat catcher" and "king of cats." In the old romance of "Hystorye of Reynard the Foxe" (chap. vi.), we are told how "the king called for Sir Tibert, the cat, and said to him, Sir Tibert, you shall go to Reynard, and summon him the second time." 2 A popular term for a wild cat was "cat-o’-mountain," an expression 3 borrowed from the Spaniards, who call the wild cat "gato-montes." In the "Merry Wives of Windsor" (ii. 2), Falstaff says of Pistol—"Your cat-a-mountain looks."

The word cat was used as a term of contempt, as in "Tempest" (ii. 1), and "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 2), where Lysander says, "Hang off, thou cat." Once more, too, in "Coriolanus" (iv, 2), we find it in the same sense

"’Twas you incensed the rabble;
Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth,
As 1 can of those mysteries which heaven
Will not have earth to know."

A gib, or a gib cat, is an old male cat 4—gib being the contraction of Gilbert, 5 and is, says Nares, an expression exactly analogous to that of a jack-ass. 6 Tom-cat is now the

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usual term. The word was certainly not bestowed upon a cat early in life, as is evident from the melancholy character ascribed to it in Shakespeare's allusion in "1 Henry IV." (i. 2)" I am as melancholy as a gib cat." Ray gives "as melancholy as a gib’d [a corruption of gib] cat." The term occurs again in "Hamlet" (iii. 4). It is improperly applied to a female by Beaumont and Fletcher in the "Scornful Lady" (v. 1)—"Bring out the cat-hounds! I'll make you take a tree, whore; then with my tiller bring down your gib-ship, and then have you cased and hung up in the warren."

Chameleon.—This animal was popularly believed to feed on air, a notion which Sir Thomas Browne 1 has carefully discussed. He has assigned, among other grounds for this vulgar opinion, its power of abstinence and its faculty of self-inflation. It lives on insects, which it catches by its long gluey tongue, and crushes between its jaws. It has been ascertained by careful experiment that the chameleon can live without eating for four months. It can inflate not only its lungs but its whole body, including even the feet and tail. In allusion to this supposed characteristic, Shakespeare makes Hamlet say (iii. 2)—"Of the chameleon's dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed; you cannot feed capons so;" and in the "Two Gentlemen of Verona" (ii. 1) Speed says" Though the chameleon, Love, can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat." There is, too, a popular notion that this animal undergoes frequent changes of colour, according to that of the bodies near it. This, however, depends on the volition of the animal, or the state of its feelings, on its good or bad health, and is subordinate to climate, age, and sex. 2 In "3 Henry VI." (iii. 2), Gloucester boasts—

"I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages."

Cockatrice.—This imaginary creature, also called a basilisk, has been the subject of extraordinary prejudice. It was absurdly said to proceed from the eggs of old cocks. It has

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been represented as having eight feet, a crown on the head, and a hooked and recurved beak. 1 Pliny asserts that the basilisk had a voice so terrible that it struck terror into all other species. Sir Thomas Browne, 2 however, distinguishes the cockatrice from the ancient basilisk. He says—"This of ours is generally described with legs, wings, a serpentine and winding tail, and a crest or comb somewhat like a cock. But the basilisk of elder times was a proper kind of serpent, not above three palms long, as some account; and different from other serpents by advancing his head and some white marks, or coronary spots upon the crown, as all authentic writers have delivered." No other animal, perhaps, has given rise to so many fabulous notions. Thus, it was supposed to have so deadly an eye as to kill by its very look, to which Shakespeare very often alludes. In "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 2), the latter says—

"Say thou but 'I,'
And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice."

In "Richard III." (iv. 1) the Duchess exclaims"—

"O my accursed womb, the bed of death!
A cockatrice has thou hatch’d to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murderous."

In "Lucreece" (1. 540), we read:—

"Here with a cockatrice's dead-killing-eye
He rouseth up himself and makes a pause."

Once more, 3 in "Twelfth Night" (iii. 4), Sir Toby Belch affirms—"This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices." It has also been affirmed that this animal could not exercise this faculty, unless it first perceived the object of its vengeance before it was itself seen by it—if first seen, it died. Dryden has alluded to this superstition—

"Mischiefs are like the cockatrice's eye,
If they see first they kill, if seen they die."

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Cockatrice was a popular phrase for a loose woman, probably from the fascination of the eye. 1 It appears, too, that Basilisk 2 was the name of a huge piece of ordnance carrying a ball of very great weight. In the following passage in "Henry V." (v. 2), there is no doubt a double allusion—to pieces of ordnance, and to the fabulous creature already described:—"the fatal balls of murdering basilisks."

Colt.—From its wild tricks, the colt was formerly used to designate, according to Johnson, "a witless, heady, gay youngster." Portia mentions it with a quibble in "The Merchant of Venice" (i. 2), referring to the Neapolitan prince:—"Ay, that's a colt indeed." The term "to colt," meant to trick, or befool; as in the phrase in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 2):—"What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?" Mr Halliwell-Phillipps 3 explains the expression, in "Henry VIII." (i. 2), "Your colt's tooth is not cast yet," to denote a love of youthful pleasure. In "Cymbeline" (ii. 4), it is used in a coarser sense:—"She hath been colted by him."

Crocodile.—According to fabulous accounts, the crocodile was the most deceitful of animals; its tears being proverbially fallacious. Thus, Othello (iv. 1) says:—

"O devil, devil!
If that the earth could teem with woman's tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile:
Out of my sight!"

We may also compare the words of the queen in "2 Henry VI." (iii. 1):—

"Henry my lord is cold in great affairs
Too full of foolish pity, and Gloucester's show
Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile
With sorrow snares relenting passengers."

It is said that this treacherous animal weeps over a man's head when it hath devoured the body, and will then eat up the head too. In "Bullokar's Expositor," i616, we read:—

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[paragraph continues] "Crocodile lachrymæ, crocodiles teares, do signify such teares as are feigned, and spent only with intent to deceive or do harm." In Quarles's "Emblems," there is the following allusion:—

"O what a crocodilian world is this,
Compos’d of treachries and ensnaring wiles!
She cloaths destruction in a formal kiss,
And lodges death in her deceitful smiles."

In the above passage from "Othello," Singer says, there is, no doubt, a reference to the doctrine of equivocal generation by which new animals were supposed to be producible by new combinations of matter. 1

Deer.—In "King Lear" (iii. 4), Edgar uses deer for wild animals in general:—

"But mice and rats, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food for seven long year."

Shakespeare frequently refers to the popular sport of hunting the deer; 2 and by his apt allusions shows how thoroughly familiar he was with the various amusements of his day. 3 In "Winter's Tale" (i. 2), Leontes speaks of "the mort o’ the deer;" certain notes played on the horn at the death of the deer, and requiring a deep drawn breath. 4 It was anciently, too, one of the customs of the chase, for all to stain their hands in the blood of the deer as a trophy. Thus, in "King John" (ii. 1), the English herald declares to the men of Angiers how—

"Like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes."

The practice is again alluded to in "Julius Cæsar" (iii. 1)—

"Here thy hunters stand,
Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe."

Old Tuberville gives us the details of this custom—"Our

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order is, that the prince, or chief, if so please them, do alight, and take assay of the deer, with a sharp knife, the which is done in this manner—the deer being laid upon his back, the prince, chief, or such as they do appoint, comes to it, and the chief huntsman, kneeling if it be a prince, doth hold the deer by the forefoot, whilst the prince, or chief, do cut a slit drawn along the brisket of the deer."

In "Antony and Cleopatra" (v. 2), where Cæsar, speaking of Cleopatra's death, says—

"Bravest at the last,
She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal,
Took her own way,"

there is possibly an allusion to the hart royal which had the privilege of roaming unmolested, and of taking its own way to its lair.

Shooting with the cross-bow at deer was an amusement of great ladies. Buildings with flat roofs, called stands, partly concealed by bushes, were erected in the parks for the purpose. Hence the following dialogue in "Love's Labour's Lost" (iv. 1)—

"Princess. Then forester, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murderer in?
Forester. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
A stand where you may make the fairest shoot."

Amongst the hunting terms to which Shakespeare refers may be mentioned the following:—

"To draw," meant to trace the steps of the game, as in "Comedy of Errors" (iv. 2)—

"A hound that runs counter and yet draws dry-foot well."

The term “to run counter” was to mistake the course of the game, or to turn and pursue the backward trail.”

The "recheat" denoted certain notes sounded on the horn, properly and more usually employed to recall the dogs from a wrong scent. It is used in "Much ado about Nothing" (i. 1)—

"I will have a recheat winded on my forehead."

We may compare Drayton's "Polyolbion" (xiii.):—

"Recheating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers."

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"The phrase 'to recover the wind of me' used by Hamlet (iii. 2) is borrowed from hunting, and means to get the animal pursued to run with the wind that it may not scent the toil or its pursuers." Again, when Falstaff in "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4) speaks of "fat rascals," he alludes to the phrase of the forest—"rascall," says Puttenham, "being properly the hunting term given to a young deer leane and out of season."

The phrase "a hunt's up" implied any song intended to arouse in the morning,—even a love song—the name having been derived from a tune or song employed by early hunters. 1 The term occurs in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 5) where Juliet says to Romeo, speaking of the lark—

"Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's up to the day."

In Drayton's "Polyolbion" (xiii.) it is used—

"No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave,
At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring,
But hunt's-up to the morn the feather’d sylvans sing."

In Shakespeare's day it was customary to hunt as well after dinner as before, hence in "Timon of Athens" (ii. 2) Timon says—

"So soon as dinner's done, we'll forth again."

The word "embossed" was applied to a deer when foaming at the mouth from fatigue. In "Taming of the Shrew" (i. ind.) we read—"the poor club is embossed," and in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 13)—"the boar of Thessaly was never so emboss’d."

It was usual to call a pack of hounds "a cry," from the French meute de chiens. The term is humorously applied to any troop or company of players by Hamlet (iii. 2), who speaks of "a fellowship in a cry of players." In "Coriolanus," Menenius says (iv. 6)—"You have made good work, you and your cry."

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Antony in "Julius Cæsar" (iii. i) alludes to the technical phrase to "let slip a dog," employed in hunting the hart. This consisted in releasing the hounds from the leash or slip of leather by which they were held in hand until it was judged proper to let them pursue the animal chased. 1 In 1 Henry IV." (i. 3) Northumberland tells Hotspur—

"Before the game is afoot, thou still let's slip."

In "Taming of the Shrew" (v. 2) Tranio says—

"O, sir, Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound,
Which runs himself and catches for his master."

A sportsman's saying, applied to hounds, occurs in "2 Henry IV." (v. 3); "a’ will not out; he is true bred," serving to expound Gadshill's expression, "such as can hold in," "1 Henry IV." (ii. 1).

The severity of the game laws under our early monarchs was very stringent; and a clause in the "Forest Charter" 2 grants "to an archbishop, bishop, earl, or baron, when travelling through the royal forests, at the king's command, the privilege to kill one deer or two in the sight of the forester, if he was at hand; if not, they were commanded to cause a horn to be sounded, that it might not appear as if they had intended to steal the game." In "Merry Wives of Windsor" (v. 5), Falstaff, using the terms of the forest, alludes to the perquisites of the keeper. Thus he speaks of the "shoulders for the fellow of this walk," i.e., the keeper.

Shakespeare has several pretty allusions to the tears of the deer, this animal being said to possess a very large secretion of tears. Thus Hamlet (iii. 2) says—"Let the stricken deer go weep;" and in "As You Like It" (ii. 1), we read of the "sobbing deer," and in the same scene, the First Lord narrates how, at a certain spot,

"A poor sequester’d stag
That from the hunter's aim hath ta’en a hurt
Did come to languish. . . . .
. . . . And the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase."

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Bartholomœus 1 says, that "when the hart is arered, he fleethe to a ryver or ponde, and roreth cryeth and wepeth when he is take." 2 It appears that there were various superstitions connected with the tears of the deer. Batman 3 tells us that "when the hart is sick, and hath eaten many serpents for his recoverie, he is brought unto so great a heate, that he hasteth to the water, and there covereth his body unto the very eares and eyes, at which time distilleth many tears from which the [Bezoar] stone is gendered." 4 Douce 5 quotes the following passage from the "Noble Art of Venerie," in which the hart thus addresses the hunter:—

"O cruel!, be content, to take in worth my tears,
Which growe to gumme, and fall from me: content thee with my heares,
Content thee with my homes, which every year I new,
Since all these three make medicines, some sickness to eschew.
My tears congeal’d to gumme, by peeces from me fall,
And thee preserve from pestilence, in pomander or ball.
Such wholesome tears shedde I, when thou pursewest me so."

Dog.—As the favourite of our domestic animals, the dog not unnaturally possesses an extensive history, besides entering largely into those superstitions which, more or less, are associated with every stage of human life. It is not surprising, therefore, that Shakespeare frequently speaks of the dog, making it the subject of many of his illustrations. Thus he has not omitted to mention the fatal significance of its howl; which is supposed either to foretell death or misfortune. In "2 Henry VI." (i. 4), he makes Bolingbroke say—

"The time when screech-owls cry and ban dogs howl 6
And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves."

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[paragraph continues] And again, in "3 Henry VI." (v. 6), King Henry, speaking of Gloucester, says—

"The owl shriek’d at thy birth,—an evil sign;
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;
Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempests shook down trees."

The same superstition prevails in France and Germany, 1 and various charms are resorted to for averting the ill-consequences supposed to attach to this sign of ill-omen. Several of these, too, are practised in our own country. Thus, in Staffordshire, when a dog howls, the following advice is given—"Take off your shoe from the left foot, and spit upon the sole, place it on the ground bottom upwards, and your foot upon the place you sat upon, which will not only preserve you from harm, but stop the howling of the dog." 2 A similar remedy is recommended in Norfolk 3—"Pull off your left shoe, and turn it, and it will quiet him. A dog won't howl three times after." We are indebted to antiquity for this superstition; some of the earliest writers referring to it. Thus, Pausanias relates how, previous to the destruction of the Messenians, the dogs pierced the air by raising a louder barking than usual; and it is on record how, before the sedition in Rome, about the dictatorship of Pompey, there was an extraordinary howling of dogs. Virgil, 4 (Georgic i. 470), speaking of the Roman misfortunes, says—

"Obscœnique canes, importunæque volucres
Signa dabant."

Capitolinus narrates, too, how the dogs by their howling presaged the death of Maximinus. The idea which associates the dog's howl with the approach of death is probably derived from a conception in Aryan mythology, which represents a dog as summoning the departing soul. Indeed, as Mr Fiske 5 remarks, "Throughout all Aryan mythology, the souls of the dead are supposed to ride on the night-wind, with their

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howling dogs, gathering into their throng the souls of those just dying as they pass by their houses."

Another popular superstition—in all probability derived from the Egyptians—refers to the setting and rising of Sirius or the dog-star, as infusing madness into the canine race. Hence the name of the "Dog-days" was given by the Romans to the period between the 3rd July and the 11th August, to which Shakespeare alludes in "Henry VIII." (v. 3)—"The dog-days now reign." We may, too, compare the words of Benvolio in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 1)—"For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." It is obvious, however, that this superstition is utterly groundless, for not only does the star vary in its rising, but is later and later every year. The term "dog-day" is still a common phrase, and it is difficult to say whether it is from superstitious adherence to old custom, or from a belief in the injurious effect of heat upon dogs, that the magistrates, often unwisely, at this season of the year order them to be muzzled or tied up. It was the practice to put them to death; and Ben Jonson, in his "Bartholomew Fair," speaks of "the dog-killer" in this month of August. Lord Bacon, too, in his "Sylva Sylvarum," tells us that "it is a common experience that dogs know the dog-killer, when, as in times of infection, some petty fellow is sent out to kill them. Although they have never seen him before, yet they will all come forth and bark and fly at him."

A "curtal dog," to which allusion is made in "Merry Wives of Windsor" (ii. 1), by Pistol—

"Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs,"

denoted "originally the dog of an unqualified person, which, by the forest laws, must have its tail cut short, partly as a mark, and partly from a notion that the tail of a dog is necessary to him in running." In later usage, curtail dog means either a common dog, not meant for sport, or a dog that missed the game, which latter sense it has in the passage above. 1

Dragon.—As the type and embodiment of the spirit of evil, the dragon has been made the subject of an extensive

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legendary lore. The well-known myth of "St George and the Dragon," which may be regarded as a grand allegory representing the hideous and powerful monster against whom the Christian soldier is called to fight, has exercised a remarkable influence for good in times past, over half-instructed people. It has been truly remarked that "the dullest mind and hardest heart could not fail to learn from it something of the hatefulness of evil, the beauty of self-sacrifice, and the all-conquering might of truth." This graceful conception is alluded to by Shakespeare in his "King John" (ii. 1), where, according to a long established custom, it is made a subject for sign-painting 1—

"St George that swinged the dragon, and e’er since,
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door,
Teach us some fence."

In ancient mythology the task of drawing the chariot of night was assigned to dragons, on account of their supposed watchfulness. In "Cymbeline" (ii. 2), Iachimo addressing them says—

"Swift, swift, you dragons of the night! that dawning
May bare the raven's eye." 2

Milton, in his "Il Penseroso," mentions the dragon yoke of night, and in his "Comus" (l. 130)

"The dragon womb
Of Stygian darkness."

It may be noticed that the whole tribe of serpents sleep with their eyes open, and so appear to exert a constant watchfulness. 3

In devising loathsome ingredients for the witches’ mess, Shakespeare "Macbeth" (iv. 1), speaks of "the scale of dragon," alluding to the horror in which this mythical being was held. Referring, also, to the numerous legends associated with its dread form, he mentions "the spleen of fiery dragons" ("Richard III." v. 3); "dragon's wings," "1 Henry VI." (i. 1),

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and in "Pericles" (i. 1), "death-like dragons." Mr Conway 1 has admirably summed up the general views respecting this imaginary source of terror:—"Nearly all the dragon forms, whatever their original types and their region, are represented in the conventional monster of the European stage, which meets the popular conception. The dragon is a masterpiece of the popular imagination, and it required many generations to give it artistic shape. Every Christmas he appears in some London pantomime, with aspect similar to that which he has worn for many ages. His body is partly green, with the memories of the sea and of slime, and partly brown or dark, with lingering shadow of storm clouds. The lightning flames still in his red eyes, and flashes from his fire-breathing mouth. The thunderbolt of Jove, the spear of Wodan, are in the barbed point of his tail. His huge wings—bat-like, spiked, sum up all the mythical life of extinct harpies and vampires. Spine of crocodile is on his neck, tail of the serpent, and all the jagged ridges of rocks and sharp thorns of jungles bristle around him, while the ice of glaciers and brassy glitter of sunstrokes are in his scales. He is ideal of all that is hard, obstructive, perilous, loathe-some, horrible in nature; every detail of him has been seen through and vanquished by man, here or there, but in selection and combination they rise again as principles, and conspire to form one great generalisation of the forms of Pain—the sum of every creature's worst." 2

Elephant.—According to a vulgar error current in bygone times, the elephant was supposed to have no joints—a notion which is said to have been first recorded from tradition by Ctesias the Cnidian. 3 Sir Thomas Browne has entered largely into this superstition, arguing from reason, anatomy, and general analogy with other animals, the absurdity of the error. In "Troilus and Cressida" (ii. 3), Ulysses says:—"the elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy: his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure." Steevens quotes from "the Dialogues of Creatures Moralized"—a curious specimen

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of our early natural history—the following:—"the olefawnte that bowyth not the kneys." In the play of "All Fools," 1605, we read:—"I hope you are no elephant—you have joints." In a note to "Sir Thomas Browne's Works," 1 we are told, "it has long been the custom for the exhibitors of itinerant collections of wild animals, when showing the elephant, to mention the story of its having no joints, and its consequent inability to kneel; and they never fail to think it necessary to demonstrate its untruth by causing the animal to bend one of its fore-legs, and to kneel also."

In "Julius Cæsar" (ii. 1), the custom of seducing elephants into pitfalls, lightly covered with hurdles and turf, on which a proper bait to tempt them was exposed, is alluded to. 2 Decius speaks of elephants being betrayed "with holes."

Fox.—It appears that the term fox was a common expression for the old English weapon, the broad sword of Jonson's days, as distinguished from the small (foreign) sword. The name was given from the circumstance that Andrea Ferrara adopted a fox as the blade mark of his weapons—a practice, since his time, adopted by other foreign sword-cutlers. Swords with a running fox rudely engraved on the blades, are still occasionally to be met with in the old curiosity shops of London. 3 Thus, in "Henry V." (iv. 4), Pistol says:—

"O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
Except, O Signieur, thou do give to me
Egregious ransom."

In Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair" (ii. 6), the expression occurs:—"What would you have, sister, of a fellow that knows nothing but a basket-hilt, and an old fox in it?"

The tricks and artifices of a hunted fox were supposed to be very extraordinary, hence Falstaff makes use of this expression in"1 Henry IV." (iii. 3):—

"No more truth in thee than in a drawn fox."

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Goat.—It is curious that the harmless goat should have had an evil name, and been associated with devil-lore. Thus, there is a common superstition in England and Scotland that it is never seen for twenty-four hours together; and that once in this space, it pays a visit to the devil in order to have its beard combed. It was, formerly, too, a popular notion that the devil appeared frequently in the shape of a goat, which accounted for his horns and tail. Sir Thomas Browne observes that the goat was the emblem of the sin offering, and is the emblem of sinful men at the day of judgment. This may, perhaps, account for Shakespeare's enumerating the "gall of goat" ("Macbeth" iv. 1), among the ingredients of the witches’ cauldron. His object seems to have been to include the most distasteful and ill-omened things imaginable—a practice shared, indeed, by other poets, contemporary with him.

Hare.—This was formerly esteemed a melancholy animal, and its flesh was supposed to engender melancholy in those who ate it. This idea was not confined to our own country, but is mentioned by La Fontaine in one of his "Fables" (Liv. ii. Fab. 14)—

"Dans un profond ennui ce lievre se plongeoit,
Cet animal est triste, et la crainte le rounge."

and later on 'he says—"Le melancolique animal." Hence, in "1 Henry IV." (i. 2), Falstaff is told by Prince Henry, that he is as melancholy as a hare. This notion was not quite forgotten in Swift's time; for in his "Polite Conversation," Lady Answerall, being asked to eat hare, replies: "no madam; they say ’tis melancholy meat." Mr Staunton quotes the following extract from Tuberville's book on "Hunting and Falconry:"—"The hare first taught us the use of the hearbe called wyld succory, which is very excellent for those which are disposed to be melancholicke. She herself is one of the most melancholicke beasts that is, and to heale her own infirmitie, she goeth commonly to sit under that hearbe."

The old Greek epigram relating to the hare—

"Strike ye my body, now that life is fled:
So hares insult the lion when he's dead"

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is alluded to by the Bastard in "King John" (ii. 1)—

"You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard."

A familiar expression amongst sportsmen for a hare is "wat," so called perhaps from its long ears or wattles. In "Venus and Adonis" the term occurs—

"By this, poor wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs, with listening ear."

In Drayton's "Polyolbion" (xxiii.), we read—

"The man whose vacant mind prepares him to the sport,
The finder sendeth out, to seek out nimble Wat,
Which crosseth in the field, each furlong, every flat,
Till he this pretty beast upon the form hath found."

Hedgehog.—The urchin or hedgehog, like the toad, for its solitariness, the ugliness of its appearance, and from a popular belief that it sucked or poisoned the udders of cows, was adopted into the demonologic system; and its shape was sometimes supposed to be assumed by mischievous elves. 1 Hence in the "Tempest" (i. 2), Prospero says—

"Urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee."

and later on in the same play (ii. 2), Caliban speaks of being frighted with "urchin shows." In the witch scene in "Macbeth" (iv. 1), the hedgepig is represented as one of the witches’ familiars; and in the "Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 2), in the incantation of the fairies, "thorny hedgehogs are exorcised. For the use of urchins in similar associations we may quote "Merry Wives of Windsor" (iv. 4), "like urchins, ouphes, and fairies;" and "Titus Andronicus" (ii. 3), "ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins." 2 In the phrase still current of "little urchins" for a child, the idea of the fairy also remains. In various legends we find this animal holding a prominent place. Thus, for example, it was in the form of a hedgehog, 3 that the devil is said to have

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made his attempt to let the sea in through the Brighton Downs, which was prevented by a light being brought, though the seriousness of the scheme is still attested in the Devil's Dyke. There is an ancient tradition that when the devil had smuggled himself into Noah's Ark, he tried to sink it by boring a hole; but this scheme was defeated, and the human race saved, by the hedgehog stuffing himself into a hole. In the Brighton story, as Mr Conway points out, the devil would appear to have remembered his former failure in drowning people, and to have appropriated the form which defeated him. In "Richard III." (i. 2), the hedgehog is used as a term of reproach by Lady Anne, when addressing Gloucester.

Horse.—Although Shakespeare's allusions to the horse are most extensive, yet he has said little of the many widespread superstitions, legends, and traditional tales that have been associated from the earliest times with this brave and intellectual animal. Indeed, even now-a-days, both in our own country and abroad, many a fairy tale is told and credited by the peasantry, in which the horse occupies a prominent place. It seems to have been a common notion that, at night time, fairies in their nocturnal revels played various pranks with horses, often entangling in a thousand knots their hair—a superstition to which we referred in our chapter on Fairies, where Mercutio, in "Romeo and Juliet," says, (i. 4):—

"This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once entangled much misfortune bodes."

In "King Lear" (ii. 3), Edgar says:—"I'll elf all my hair in knots." Mr Hunt, in his "Popular Romances of the West of England" (1871, p. 87), tells us that when a boy, he was on a visit at a farmhouse near Fowey River, and well remembers the farmer with much sorrow, telling the party one morning at breakfast how "the piskie people had been riding Tom again." The mane was said to be knotted into fairy stirrups, and the farmer said he had no doubt that at least twenty small people had sat upon the horse's neck. Warburton 1 considers that this superstition may have originated from the

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disease called "Plica Polonica." Witches, too, have generally been supposed to harass the horse, using it in various ways for their fiendish purposes. Thus, there are numerous local traditions in which the horse at night-time has been ridden by the witches, and found in the morning in an almost prostrate condition, bathed in sweat.

It was a current notion that a horse hair dropped into corrupted water would soon become an animal. The fact, however, is that the hair moves like a living thing, because a number of animalculæ cling to it. 1 This ancient vulgar error is mentioned in ("Antony and Cleopatra," i. 2):—

"Much is breeding,
Which, like the courser's hair hath yet but life,
And not a serpent's poison."

Steevens quotes from Churchyard's "Discourse of Rebellion," 1570,—

"Hit is of kinde much worse than horses heare,
That lyes in donge, where on vyle serpents brede."

Dr Lister, in the "Philosophical Transactions," says, that these animated horse-hairs are real thread worms. It was asserted that these worms moved like serpents, and were poisonous to swallow. Coleridge tells us it was a common experiment with boys in Cumberland and Westmoreland, to lay a horse-hair in water, which, when removed after a time, would twirl round the finger and sensibly compress it—having become the supporter of an immense number of small slimy water lice.

A horse is said to have a "cloud in his face," when he has a dark coloured spot in his forehead between his eyes. This gives him a sour look, and, being supposed to indicate an ill-temper, is generally considered a great blemish. This notion is alluded to in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iii. 2), where Agrippa speaking of Cæsar says:—

"He has a cloud in’s face,"

whereupon Enobarbus adds:—

"He were the worse for that, were he a horse;
So is he, being a man."

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Burton in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," uses the phrase for the look of a woman:—"Every lover admires his mistress, though she be very deformed of herselfe—thin, leane, chitty face, have clouds in her face," etc.

"To mose in the chine," a phrase we find in "Taming of the Shrew" (iii. 2):—

"Passened with the glanders, like to mose in the chine"

refers to a disorder in horses, also known as "mourning in the chine."

Alluding to the custom associated with horses, we may note that a stalking-horse, or stale, was either a real or artificial one, under cover of which the fowler approached towards and shot at his game. It is alluded to in "As You Like It" (v. 4), by the Duke, who says of Touchstone:—"He uses his folly like a stalking-horse and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit." In "Much Ado About Nothing" (ii. 3), Claudio says:—"Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits." 1 In "Comedy of Errors" (ii. 1), Adriana says:—"I am but his stale," upon which Malone remarks:—"Adriana undoubtedly means to compare herself to a stalking-horse, behind whom Antipholus shoots at such game as he selects." In "Taming of the Shrew," Katharine says to her father (i. 1):—"Is it your will to make a stale of me amongst these mates?" which, says Singer, means "make an object of mockery." So in "3 Henry VI." (iii. 3), Warwick says:—"Had he none else to make a stale but me?"

That it was also a hunting term might be shown, adds Dyce, 2 by quotations from various old writers. In the inventories of the wardrobe belonging to King Henry VIII., we frequently find the allowance of certain quantities of stuff for the purpose of making "stalking coats and stalking hose for the use of his Majesty." 3

Again, the forehorse of a team was generally gaily ornamented with tufts, and ribbons, and bells. Hence in "All's

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[paragraph continues] Well that Ends Well" (ii. 1), Bertram complains that bedizened like one of these animals, he will have to squire ladies at the court, instead of achieving honour in the wars."

"I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,
Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,
Till honour be bought up and no sword worn
But one to dance with."

A familiar name for a common horse was "Cut,"—either from its being docked or gelded—a name occasionally applied to a man as a term of contempt. In "Twelfth Night" (ii. 3), Sir Toby Belch says:—"Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ the end, call me cut." In "1 Henry IV." (ii. 1), the carrier says:—"I prithee, Tom, beat Cut's saddle." We may compare, too, what Falstaff says further on in the same play (ii. 4), "I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse." Hence, call me Cut is the same as call me horse—both expressions having been used.

In Shakespeare's day, a race of horses was the term for what is now called a stud. So in "Macbeth" (ii. 4), Rosse says:—

"And Duncan's horses—a thing most strange and certain,
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn’d wild in nature."

The words "minions of the race," according to Steevens, mean the favourite horses on the race-ground.

Lion.—The traditions and stories of the darker ages abounded with examples of the lion's generosity. "Upon the supposition that these acts of clemency were true, Troilus, in the passage below, reasons not improperly ("Troilus and Cressida," v. 3) that to spare against reason, by mere instinct and pity, became rather a generous beast than a wise man." 1

"Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,
Which better fits a lion, than a man."

It is recorded by Pliny 2 that "the lion alone of all wild animals is gentle to those that humble themselves before him,

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and will not touch any such upon their submission, but spareth what creature soever lieth prostrate before him." Hence Spenser's Una, attended by a lion; and Perceval's Lion, in "Morte Arthur," (b. xiv. c. 6). Bartholomæus says the lion's "mercie is known by many and oft ensamples: for they spare them that lie on the ground." Shakespeare again alludes to this notion in "As you Like It" (iv. 3)—

"For ’tis
The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead."

It was also supposed that the lion would not injure a royal prince. Hence in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 4) the Prince says—"You are lions too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince; no, fie!" 1* The same notion is alluded to by Beaumont and Fletcher in "The Mad Lover" (iv. 5)—

"Fetch the Numidian lion I brought over;
If she be sprung from royal blood, the lion
He'll do you reverence, else—
. . . . .
He'll tear her all to pieces."

According to some commentators there is an allusion in "3 Henry VI." (i. 3) to the practice of confining lions and keeping them without food that they may devour criminals exposed to them—

"So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws."

Mole.—The eyes of the mole are so extremely minute, and so perfectly hid in its hair, that our ancestors considered it blind—a vulgar error to which reference is made by Caliban in the "Tempest" (iv. 1)—"Pray you tread softly that the blind mole may not hear a foot fall." And again by Pericles (i. 1)—"The blind mole casts copp’d hills towards heaven." Hence the expression "blind as a mole." Alexander Ross 2 absurdly speaks of the mole's eyes as only the "forms of eyes," given by nature "rather for ornament than for use; as wings are given to the ostrich which never flies, and a long tail to the rat, which serves for no other purpose but to be catched sometimes by it." Sir Thomas Browne, however,

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in his "Vulgar Errors" (Bk. iii. xviii.) 1 has, with his usual minuteness, disproved this idea, remarking "that they have eyes in their head is manifested unto any that wants them not in his own." A popular term for the mole was the "Moldwarp" or "Mouldiwarp," 2 so called from the Anglo-Saxon, denoting turning the mould. Thus in "1 Henry IV." (iii. 1) Hotspur says—

"Sometime he angers me
With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant."

Mouse.—This word was formerly used as a term of endearment, from either sex to the other. In this sense it is used by Rosaline in "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2)—

"What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word."

And again in "Hamlet" (iii. 4).

Some doubt exists as to the exact meaning of "Mouse-hunt," by Lady Capulet, in "Romeo and Juliet" (iv. 4)—

"Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time,
But I will watch you from such watching now."

According to some, the expression implies "a hunter of gay-women," mouse having been used in this signification. 3 Others are of opinion that the stoat 4 is meant, the smallest of the weasel tribe, and others again the pole-cat. Mr Staunton 5 tells us that the mouse-hunt is the marten, an animal of the weasel tribe which prowls about for its prey at night, and is applied to any one of rakish propensities.

Holinshed in his "History of Scotland" (1577, p. 181) quotes from the laws of Kenneth II., King of Scotland—"If a sowe eate her pigges, let hyr be stoned to death and buried, that no man eate of hyr fleshe." This offence is probably alluded to by Shakespeare in "Macbeth" (iv. 1) where the witch says—

"Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten
Her nine farrow."

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Pole-Cat, or Fitchew.—This animal is supposed to be very amorous; and hence its name, Mr Steevens says, was often applied to ladies of easy or no virtue. In "Othello" (iv. 1) Cassio calls Bianca a "fitchew," and in "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 1) Thersites alludes to it. 1

Porcupine.—Another name for this animal was the porpentine, which spelling occurs in "Hamlet" (i. 5). "Like quills upon the fretful porpentine." And again in "2 Henry IV." (iii. 2) York speaks of "a sharp-quill’d porpentine." Ajax, too, in "Troilus and Cressida" (ii. 1) applies the term to Thersites, "do not, porpentine." In the above passages, however, and elsewhere, the word has been altered by editors to porcupine. According to a popular error, the porcupine could dart his quills. They are easily detached, very sharp, and slightly barbed, and may easily stick to a person's legs, when he is not aware that he is near enough to touch them. 2

Rabbit.—In "2 Henry IV." (ii. 2), this animal is used as a term of reproach, a sense in which it was known in Shakespeare's day. The phrase "Cony-catch," which occurs in "Taming of the Shrew" (v. 1)—"Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business," implied the act of deceiving or cheating a simple person—the cony or rabbit being considered a foolish animal. 3 It has been shown from Dekker's "English Villanies," that the system of cheating was carried to a great length in the early part of the seventeenth century, that a collective society of sharpers was called "a warren," and their dupes, "rabbit-suckers," i.e., young rabbit or conies. 4 Shakespeare has once used the term to express harmless roguery, in the "Taming of Shrew" (iv. 1). When Grumio, will not answer his fellow-servants, except in a jesting way, Curtis says to him:—"Come, you are so full of cony-catching."

Rat.—The fanciful idea, that rats were commonly rhymed to death, in Ireland, is said to have arisen from some metrical charm or incantation, used there for that purpose—to which

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there are constant allusions in old writers. In the "Merchant of Venice" (iv. 1), Shylock says—

"What if my house be troubled with a rat
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats
To have it baned?"

And in "As You Like It" (iii. 2), Rosaline says:—"I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember." We find it mentioned by Ben Jonson, in the "Poetaster," (v. 1)—

"Rhime them to death, as they do Irish rats,
In drumming tunes."

"The reference, however, is generally referred in Ireland," says Mr Mackay, "to the supposed potency of the verses pronounced by the professional rhymers of Ireland, which according to popular superstition, could not only drive rats to destruction, but could absolutely turn a man's face to the rack of his head." 1

Sir W. Temple, in his "Essay on Poetry," seems to derive the idea from the Runic incantations, for, after speaking of them in various ways, he adds, "and the proverb of rhyming rats to death, came, I suppose, from the same root."

According to a superstitious notion of considerable antiquity, rats leaving a ship are considered indicative of misfortune to a vessel, probably from the same idea that crows will not build upon trees that are likely to fall. This idea is noticed by Shakespeare in the "Tempest" (i. 2), where Prospero, describing the vessel in which himself and daughter had

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been placed, with the view to their certain destruction at sea, says—

"They hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat; not rigg’d,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it."

The Shipping Gazette of April 1869 contained a communication entitled, "A Sailor's Notion About Rats," in which the following passage occurs—"It is a well-authenticated fact that rats have often been known to leave ships in the harbour previous to their being lost at sea. Some of those wiseacres who want to convince us against the evidence of our senses will call this superstition. As neither I have time, nor you space, to cavil with such at present, I shall leave them alone in their glory." The fact, however, as Mr Hardwick has pointed out in his "Traditions, Superstitions, and Folk-lore" (1872, p. 251), that rats do sometimes migrate from one ship to another, or from one barn or corn-stack to another, from various causes, ought to be quite sufficient to explain such a superstition. Indeed, a story is told of a cunning Welsh captain who wanted to get rid of rats that infested his ship, then lying in the Mersey, at Liverpool. Having found out that there was a vessel laden with cheese in the basin, and getting alongside of her about dusk, he left all his hatches open, and waited till all the rats were in his neighbour's ship, and then moved off.

Snail.—A common amusement among children consists in charming snails, in order to induce them to put out their horns—a couplet, such as the following, being repeated on the occasion—

"Peer out, peer out, peer out of your hole,
Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal."

In Scotland, it is regarded as a token of fine weather if the snail obey the command and put out its horn 1—

"Snaffle, snailie, shoot out your horn,
And tell us if it will be a bonnie day the morn."

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Shakespeare alludes to snail-charming in the "Merry Wives of Windsor" (iv. 2), where Mrs Page says of Mrs Ford's husband, he "so buffets himself on the forehead, crying, Peer out! peer out! that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now." In "Comedy of Errors" (ii. 2), the snail is used to denote a lazy person.

Tiger.—It was an ancient belief that this animal roared and raged most furiously in stormy and high winds—a piece of folk-lore alluded to in "Troilus and Cressida" (i. 3), by Nestor, who says—

"The herd hath more annoyance by the breese
Than by the tiger: but when the splitting wind
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,
And flies fled under shade, why, then, the thing of courage,
As roused with rage, with rage doth sympathise."

Unicorn.—In "Julius Caesar" (ii. 1), Decius tells how "unicorns may be betray’d with trees," alluding to their traditionary mode of capture. They are reported to have been taken by one, who, running behind a tree, eluded the violent push the animal was making at him, so that his horn spent its force on the trunk, and stuck fast, detaining the animal till he was despatched by the hunter. 1 In Topsell's "History of Beasts" (1658, p. 557), we read of the unicorn—"He is an enemy to the lions, wherefore, as soon as ever a lion seeth a unicorn, he runneth to a tree for succour, that so when the unicorn maketh force at him, he may not only avoid his horn, but also destroy him; for the unicorn, in the swiftness of his course, runneth against the tree, wherein his sharp horn sticketh fast, that when the lion seeth the unicorn fastened by the horn, without all danger he falleth upon him and killeth him." With this passage we may compare the following from Spenser's "Fairy Queen" (Bk. ii. canto 5)—

"Like as a lyon, whose imperiall power
A prowd rebellious unicorn defyes,
T’ avoide the rash assault and wrathful stowre
Of his fiers foe, him to a tree applyes,

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[paragraph continues] And when him ronning in full course he spyes,
He slips aside: the whiles that furious beast
His precious home, sought of his enimyes
Strikes in the stocke, ne thence can be releast,
But to the mighty victor yields a bounteous feast."

Weasel.—To meet a weasel was formerly considered a bad omen. 1 That may be a tacit allusion to this superstition in "Lucrece" (p. 307)—

"Night wandering weasels shriek to see him there;
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear."

It appears that weasels were kept in houses, instead of cats, for the purpose of killing vermin. Phædrus notices this their feline office in the first and fourth fables of his fourth book. The supposed quarrelsomeness of this animal is spoken of by Pisanio in "Cymbeline" (iii. 4), who tells Imogen that she must be "as quarrelous as the weasel;" and in "2 Henry IV." (ii. 3), Lady Percy says to Hotspur—

"A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen
As you are toss’d with."

This character of the weasel is not, however, generally mentioned by naturalists.

Folk-lore of Shakespeare

2009-07-03T19:00:00.000-07:00

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CHAPTER VI.

BIRDS.

Barnacle-Goose—Blackbird—Buzzard—Chaffinch—Chough—Cock—Cormorant Crow—Cuckoo—Domestic Fowl—Dove—Duck—Eagle—Goldfinch—Goose—Gull—Hawk—Heron—Jay—Kestril—Kingfisher—Lark—Magpie—Martin—Nightingale—Osprey—Ostrich—Owl—Parrot—Peacock—Pelican—Pheasant—Phœnix—Pigeon—Quail—Raven—Robin-Redbreast—Rook—Snipe—Sparrow—Sparrow-Hawk—Starling—Swallow—Swan—Tassel-Gentle—Turkey—Vulture—Wagtail—Wildfowl—Woodcock—Wren.

In the present chapter we have not only a striking proof of Shakespeare's minute acquaintance with natural history, but of his remarkable versatility as a writer. Whilst displaying a most extensive knowledge of ornithology, he has further illustrated his subject by alluding to those numerous legends, popular sayings, and superstitions which have, in this and other countries, clustered round the feathered race. Indeed, the following pages are alone sufficient to show, if it were necessary, how fully he appreciated every branch of antiquarian lore; and what a diligent student he must have been in the pursuit of that wide range of information, the possession of which has made him one of the most many-sided writers that the world has ever seen. The numerous incidental allusions, too, by Shakspeare, to the folk-lore of bygone days, whilst showing how deeply he must have read and gathered knowledge from every available source, serve as an additional proof of his retentive memory, and marvellous power of embellishing his ideas by the most apposite illustrations. Unfortunately, however, these have, hitherto, been frequently lost sight of through the reader's unacquaintance with that extensive field of folk-lore which was so well known to the poet. For the sake of easy reference, the

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birds with which the present chapter deals are arranged alphabetically.

Barnacle-Goose.—There was a curious notion, very prevalent in former times, that this bird (Anser bernicla) was generated from the barnacle (Leilas anatifera), a shell-fish, growing on a flexible stem, and adhering to loose timber, bottoms of ships, &c., a metamorphosis to which Shakspeare alludes in the "Tempest" (iv. i), where he makes Caliban say—

"We shall lose our time, And all be turn’d to barnacles."

This vulgar error, no doubt, originated in mistaking the fleshy peduncle of the shell-fish for the neck of a goose, the shell for its head, and the tentacula for a tuft of feathers. These shell-fish, therefore, bearing, as seen out of the water, a resemblance to the goose's neck, were ignorantly, and without investigation, confounded with geese themselves. In France, the barnacle-goose may be eaten on fast days, by virtue of this old belief in its fishy origin. 1 Like other fictions this one had its variations, 2 for sometimes the barnacles were supposed to grow on trees, and thence to drop into the sea, and become geese, as in Drayton's account of Furness, (Polyolb. 1622, Song 27, p. 1190). As early as the 12th century this idea 3 was promulgated by Giraldus Cambrensis in his "Topographia Hiberniæ." Gerarde, who in the year 1597 published his "Herball, or Generall Historie of Plantes," narrates the following:—"There are found in the north parts of Scotland, and the isles adjacent called Orcades, certain trees, whereon do grow certain shell-fishes, of a white colour, tending to russet, wherein are contained little living creatures; which shells in time of maturity do open, and out of them grow those little living things, which, falling into the water, do become fowls, whom we call barnacles, in the north of England brant geese, and in Lancashire tree geese; but the others that do fall upon the land perish, and do come to nothing. Thus much of the writings of others, and also

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from the mouths of people of those parts, which may very well accord with truth. But what our eyes have seen and hands have touched, we shall declare. There is a small island in Lancashire called the Pile of Foulders, wherein are found the broken pieces of old ships, some whereof have been cast thither by shipwreck, and also the trunks or bodies, with the branches, of old rotten trees, cast up there likewise, whereon is found a certain spume or froth, that in time breedeth into certain shells, in shape like those of the mussel, but sharper pointed, and of a whitish colour; wherein is contained a thing in form like a lace of silk, one end whereof is fastened unto the inside of the shell, even as the fish of oysters and mussels are. The other end is made fast unto the belly of a rude mass or lump, which in time cometh to the shape and form of a bird; when it is perfectly formed the shell gapeth open, and the first thing that appeareth is the foresaid lace or string; next come the legs of the bird hanging out, and as it groweth greater it openeth the shell by degrees, till at length it is all come forth and hangeth only by the bill. In short space after it cometh to full maturity, and falleth into the sea, where it gathereth feathers and groweth to a fowl, bigger than a mallard, and lesser than a goose; having black legs and bill, or beak, and feathers black and white, spotted in such a manner as is our magpie, which the people of Lancashire call by no other name than a tree goose." An interesting cut of these birds so growing is given by Mr Halliwell-Phillipps from a manuscript of the 14th century, who is of opinion that the barnacle mentioned by Caliban was the tree-goose. It is not to be supposed, however, that there were none who doubted this marvellous story, or who took steps to refute it. Belon, so long ago as 1551, says Mr Harting, 1 and others after him, treated it with ridicule, and a refutation may be found in Willughby's "Ornithology," which was edited by Ray in 1678. 2 This

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vulgar error is mentioned by many of the old writers. Thus Bishop Hall, in his "Virgidemiarum" (Lib. iv., sat. 2), says:—

"The Scottish barnacle, if I might choose,
That of a worme doth waxe a winged goose."

Butler, too, in his "Hudibras," (III., ii. 1. 655), speaks of it; and Marston, in his "Malecontent," (1604), has the following:—"Like your Scotch barnacle, now a block, instantly a worm, and presently a great goose."

Blackbird—This favourite is called in the "Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 1.) an ousel, (old French, oisel), a term still used in the neighbourhood of Leeds:—

"The ousel cock so black of hue,
With orange tawny bill."

In the 2d part of King Henry IV. (iii. 2) when Justice Shallow inquires of Justice Silence, "And how doth my cousin?" he is answered—

"Alas, a black ousel, 1 cousin Shallow," a phrase which, no doubt, corresponded to our modern one, a "black sheep." In Spenser's "Epithalamium" (1. 82), the word occurs—

"The ousel shrills, the ruddock warbles soft."

Buzzard.—Mr Staunton suggests that in the following passage of the "Taming of the Shrew" (ii. 1), a play is intended upon the words, and that in the second line, "buzzard" means a beetle from its peculiar buzzing noise—

"O slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?
Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard."

The beetle was formerly called a buzzard; and in Staffordshire, a cock-chafer is termed a hum-buz. In Northamptonshire, we find a proverb, "I'm between a hawk and a buzzard," which means, "I don't know what to do, or how to act." 2

Chaffinch.—Some think that this bird is alluded to in the song in the "Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 1), where the expression "Finch" is used; the chaffinch having always

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been a favourite cage bird with the lower-classes. 1 In "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 1), Thersites calls Patroclus a "finch-egg," which was evidently meant as a term of reproach. Others again consider the phrase is equivalent to coxcomb.

Chough.—In using this word, Shakespeare probably in most cases meant the jackdaw; 2 for in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 2), he says—

"Russet-pated choughs, many in sort,
Rising and cawing at the gun's report."

the term russet-pated being applicable to the jackdaw, but not to the real chough. In "1 Henry IV." (v. 1), Prince Henry calls Falstaff chewet—"Peace, chewet, peace"—in allusion no doubt to the chough or jackdaw, for common birds have always had a variety of names. 3 Such an appellation would be a proper reproach to Falstaff, for his meddling and impertinent talk. Steevens, and Malone, however, finding that chewets were little round pies made of minced meat, thought that the Prince compared Falstaff for his unseasonable chattering, to a minced pie. Cotgrave 4 describes the French "chouette;" as an owlet; also, a "chough," which many consider to be the simple and satisfactory explanation of chewet. Belon in his "History of Birds" (Paris, 1855), speaks of the chouette as the smallest kind of chough or crow. Again, in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 2), in the amusing scene where Falstaff, with the Prince and Poins, meet to rob the travellers at Gadshill, Falstaff calls the victims "fat chuffs," probably, says Mr Harting, who connects the word with chough, from their strutting about with much noise. Nares, 5 too, in his explanation

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of chuff, says, that some suppose it to be from chough which is similarly pronounced, and means a kind of sea-bird generally esteemed a stupid one. Various other meanings are given. Thus, Mr Gifford 1 affirms that chuff is always used in a bad sense, and means "a coarse unmannered clown, at once sordid and wealthy;" and Mr Halliwell-Phillipps explains it as spoken in contempt for a fat person. 2 In Northamptonshire, 3 we find the word chuff used to denote a person in good condition, as in Clare's "Village Minstrel"—

"His chuff cheeks dimpling in a fondling smile."

Shakespeare alludes to the practice of teaching choughs to talk, although from the following passages he does not appear to have esteemed their talking powers of much value, for in "All's Well that Ends Well" (iv. 1), he says—

"Choughs’ language, gabble enough, and good enough."

And in Tempest (ii. 1), he represents Antonio as saying—

"There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat."

Shakespeare always refers to the jackdaw as the "daw." 4 The chough or jackdaw was one of the birds considered ominous by our forefathers, an allusion to which occurs in "Macbeth" (iii. 4.)—

"Augurs and understood relations have,
By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret’st man of blood."

At the present day this bird is not without its folklore, and there is a Norwich rhyme to the following effect 5—

"When three daws are seen on St Peter's vane together,
Then we're sure to have bad weather."

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[paragraph continues] In the north, too, of England 1 the flight of jackdaws down the chimney is held to presage death.

Cock.—The beautiful notion which represents the cock as crowing all night long on Christmas Eve, and by its vigilance dispelling every kind of malignant spirit 2 and evil influence, is graphically mentioned in "Hamlet" (i. 1), where Marcellus, speaking of the ghost, says—

"It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes,
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow’d and so gracious is the time."

In short, there is a complete prostration of the powers of darkness; and thus, for the time being, mankind is said to be released from the influence of all those evil forces which otherwise exert such sway. The notion that spirits fly at cock-crow is very ancient, and is mentioned by the Christian poet Prudentius, who flourished in the beginning of the fourth century. There is also a hymn, said to have been composed by St Ambrose, and formerly used in the Salisbury Service, which so much resembles the following speech of Horatio (i. 1), that one might almost suppose Shakespeare had seen it 3—

"The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine."

This disappearance of spirits at cock-crow is further alluded to (i. 2) 4—

"The morning cock crew loud,
And at the sound it shrunk in haste away,
And vanish’d from our sight."

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[paragraph continues] Blair, too, in his "Grave" has these graphic words—

"The tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O’er some new-open’d grave, and strange to tell,
Evanishes at crowing of the cock."

This superstition has not entirely died out in England, and a correspondent of "Notes and Queries" 1 relates an amusing legend current in Devonshire:—"Mr N. was a squire who had been so unfortunate as to sell his soul to the Devil, with the condition that after his funeral the fiend should take possession of his skin. He had also persuaded a neighbour to be present on the occasion of the flaying. On the death of Mr N. this man went in a state of great alarm to the parson of the parish and asked his advice. By him he was told to fulfil his engagement, but he must be sure and carry a cock into the church with him. On the night after the funeral the man proceeded to the church armed with the cock, and, as an additional security, took up his position in the parson's pew. At twelve o'clock the devil arrived, opened the grave, took the corpse from the coffin, and flayed it. When the operation was concluded he held the skin up before him and remarked, 'Well, ’twas not worth coming for after all, for it is all full of holes!' As he said this, the cock crew, whereupon the fiend, turning round to the man, exclaimed, 'If it had not been for the bird you have got there under your arm, I would have your skin too!' But, thanks to the cock, the man got home safe again." Various origins have been assigned to this superstition, which Hampson 2 regards as a misunderstood tradition of some Sabæan fable. The cock, he adds, which seems by its early voice to call forth the sun, was esteemed a sacred solar bird, hence it was also sacred to Mercury, one of the personifications of the sun.

A very general amusement up to the end of the last century was cock-fighting, a diversion of which mention is occasionally made by Shakespeare, as in "Antony and Cleopatra" (ii. 3)—

"His cocks do win the battle still of mine,
When it is all to nought."

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[paragraph continues] And again Hamlet says (v. 2)—

"O, I die, Horatio;
The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit"

—meaning the poison triumphs over him, as a cock over his beaten antagonist. Formerly, cock-fighting entered into the occupations of the old and young. 1 Schools had their cockfights. Travellers agreed with coachmen that they were to wait a night if there was a cock-fight in any town through which they passed. When country gentlemen had sat long at table, and the conversation had turned upon the relative merits of their several birds, a cockfight often resulted, as the birds in question were brought for the purpose into the dining-room. Cock-fighting was practised on Shrove Tuesday to a great extent, and, in the time of Henry VII., seems to have been practised within the precincts of Court. The earliest mention of this pastime in England is by Fitzstephens, in 1191. Happily, now-a-days, cock-fighting is by law a misdemeanour, and punishable by penalty. One of the popular terms for a cock beaten in a fight was "a craven," to which we find a reference in the "Taming of the Shrew" (ii. 1)—"No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven." We may also compare the expression in Henry V. (iv. 7)—"He is a craven and a villain else." In the old appeal or wager of battle, 2 in our common law, we are told, on the authority of Lord Coke, that the party who confessed himself wrong, or refused to fight, was to pronounce the word cravent, and judgment was at once given against him. Singer 3 says the term may be satisfactorily traced from crant, créant, the old French word for an act of submission. It is so written in the old metrical romance of "Ywaine and Gawaine" (Ritson i. 133)—

"Or yelde the til us als creant."

and in "Richard Coeur de Lion" (Weber ii. 208)—

"On knees he fel down, and cryde, crêaunt."

It then became cravant, cravent, and at length craven.

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In the time of Shakespeare, the word cock was used as a vulgar corruption or purposed disguise of the name of God, an instance of which occurs in Hamlet (iv. 5)—"By cock, they are to blame." This irreverent alteration of the sacred name is found at least a dozen times 1 in Heywood's "Edward the Fourth," where one passage is—

"Herald—Sweare on this booke, King Lewis, so help you God,
You mean no otherwise then you have said.
King Lewis—So helpe me Cock as I dissemble not."

We find, too, other allusions to the sacred name, as in "cock's-passion," "cock's-body;" as in "Taming of the Shrew" (iv. i)—"Cock's passion, silence!" A not uncommon oath, too, in Shakespeare's time was "Cock and pie"—cock referring to God, and pie being supposed to mean the service-book of the Romish Church; a meaning which, says Mr Dyce, seems much more probable than Douce's 2 supposition that this oath was connected with the making of solemn vows by knights in the days of chivalry, during entertainments, at which a roasted peacock was served up. It is used by Justice Shallow (2 Henry IV., v. 1)—"By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night." We may also compare the expression in the old play of "Soliman and Perseda" (1599)—"By cock and pye and mousefoot." Mr Harting 3 says the "Cock and Pye" (i.e., magpie) was an ordinary ale-house sign, and may have thus become a subject for the vulgar to swear by.

The phrase, "Cock-a-hoop," 4 which occurs in "Romeo and Juliet" (i. 5)—

"You'll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!"

—no doubt refers to a reckless person, who takes the cock or tap out of a cask, and lays it on the top or hoop of the barrel, thus letting all the contents of the cask run out. Formerly, a quart pot was called a hoop, being formed of staves bound

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together with hoops like barrels. There were generally three hoops to such a pot; hence, in "2 Henry VI." (iv. 2), one of Jack Cade's popular reformations was to increase their number, "The three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer." Some, however, consider the term Cock-a-hoop 1 refers to the boastful crowing of the cock.

In "King Lear" (iii. 2) Shakespeare speaks of the "cataracts and hurricanoes" as having—

"Drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!"

Vanes on the tops of steeples were in days gone by made in the form of a cock—hence weathercocks—and put up, in papal times, to remind the clergy of watchfulness. 2 Apart, too, from symbolism, the large tail of the cock was well adapted to turn with the wind. 3

Cormorant.—The proverbial voracity of this bird 4 gave rise to a man of large appetite being likened to it, a sense in which Shakespeare employs the word, as in "Coriolanus" (i. 1)—"The cormorant belly;" in "Love's Labour's Lost" (i. 1)—"Cormorant devouring time;" and in "Troilus and Cressida" (ii. 2)—"This cormorant war." "Although," says Mr Harting, 5 "Shakespeare mentions the cormorant in several of his plays, he has nowhere alluded to the sport of using these birds, when trained, for fishing; a fact which is singular, since he often speaks of the then popular pastime of hawking, and he did not die until some years after James I. had made fishing with cormorants a fashionable amusement."

Crow.—This has from the earliest times been reckoned a bird of bad omen; and in "Julius Cæsar," (v. 1), Cassius, on

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the eve of battle, predicted a defeat, because, to use his own words:—

"Crows and kites
Fly o’er our heads and downward look on us,
As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem
A canopy most fatal, under which
Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost."

Allusions to the same superstition occur in "Troilus and Cressida" (i. 2); "King John" (v. 2), etc. Virgil (Bucolic i., 18), mentions the croaking of the crow as a bad omen:—

"Sæpe sinistra cava prædixit ab ilice cornix."

And Butler in his "Hudibras" (part ii, canto 3), remarks:—

"Is it not ominous in all countries,
When crows and ravens croak upon trees."

Even children now-a-days regard with no friendly feelings this bird of ill-omen; 1 and in the north of England there is a rhyme to the following effect:—

"Crow, crow, get out of my sight,
Or else I'll eat thy liver and lights."

Among other allusions, mentioned by Shakspeare, to the crow, may be noticed the crow-keeper—a person employed to drive away crows from the fields. At present, 2 in all the midland counties, a boy set to drive away the birds is said to keep birds; hence, a stuffed figure, now called a scare-crow, was also called a crow-keeper, as in "King Lear" (iv. 6):—

"That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper."

One of Tusser's directions for September is—

"No sooner a-sowing, but out by-and-by,
With mother or boy that alarum can cry:
And let them be armed with a sling or a bow,
To scare away pigeon, the rook, or the crow."

In "Romeo and Juliet," (i. 4), a scare-crow seems meant—

"Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper."

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Among further references to this practice, is that in "1 Henry VI." (i. 4), where Lord Talbot relates that, when a prisoner in France, he was publicly exhibited in the market-place:—

"Here, said they, is the terror of the French,
The scarecrow that affrights our children so." 1

And once more, in "Measure for Measure," (ii. 1):—

"We must not make a scare-crow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch and not their terror."

The phrase "to pluck a crow" is to complain good-naturedly but reproachfully, and to threaten retaliation. 2 It occurs in "Comedy of Errors," (iii. 1):—"We'll pluck a crow together." Sometimes the word pull is substituted for pluck, as in Butler's "Hudibras," part ii. canto 2:—

"If not, resolve before we go
That you and I must pull a crow."

The crow has been regarded as the emblem of darkness, which has not escaped the notice of Shakspeare, who in "Pericles" (iv. introd.), speaking of the white dove, says:—

"With the dove of Paphos might the crow
Vie feathers white." 3

Cuckoo.—Many superstitions have clustered round the cuckoo, and both in this country and abroad it is looked upon as a mysterious bird, being supposed to possess the gift of second sight, a notion referred to in "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2):—

"Cuckoo, cuckoo: 4 O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear."

And again, in "Midsummer Night's Dream," (iii. 1), Bottom sings:—

"The plain-song cuckoo gray,
Whose note full many a man doth mark,
And dares not answer nay."

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It is still a common idea that the cuckoo, if asked, will tell anyone, by the repetition of its cries, how long he has to live. The country lasses in Sweden count the cuckoo's call to ascertain how many years they have to remain unmarried, but they generally shut their ears and run away on hearing it a few times. 1 Among the Germans the notes of the cuckoo, when heard in spring for the first time, are considered a good omen. Cæsarius (A.D. 1222), tells us of a convertite who was about to become a monk, but changed his mind on hearing the cuckoo's call, and counting twenty-two repetitions of it. "Come," said he, "I have certainly twenty-two years still to live, and why should I mortify myself during all that time. I will go back to the world, enjoy its delights for twenty years, and devote the remaining two to penitence." 2 In England, the peasantry salute the cuckoo with the following invocation:—

"Cuckoo, cherry-tree,
Good bird tell me,
How many years have I to live."

the allusion to the cherry-tree having probably originated in the popular fancy, that before the cuckoo ceases its song, it must eat three good meals of cherries. Pliny mentions the belief, that when the cuckoo came to maturity, it devoured the bird which had reared it; a superstition several times alluded to by Shakespeare. Thus, in "King Lear," (i. 4) the Fool remarks—

"The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,
That it's had it head bit off by it young."

Again, in "1 Henry IV." (v. 1), Worcester says—

"And being fed by us you used us so
As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird,
Useth the sparrow; did oppress our nest;
Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk
That even our love durst not come near your sight
For fear of swallowing."

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Once more, the opinion that the cuckoo made no nest of its own, but laid its eggs in that of another bird, is mentioned in "Antony and Cleopatra" (ii. 6):—

"Thou dost o’er-count me of my father's house;
But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
Remain in’t as thou mayst."

It has been remarked, 1 however, in reference to the common idea that the young cuckoo illtreats its foster mother, that if we watch the movements of the two birds, when the younger is being fed, we cannot much wonder at this piece of folk-lore. When the cuckoo opens its great mouth, the diminutive nurse places her own head so far within its precincts, that it has the exact appearance of a voluntary surrender to decapitation.

The notion 2 "which couples the name of the cuckoo with the character of the man whose wife is unfaithful to him, appears to have been derived from the Romans, and is first found in the middle ages in France, and in the countries of which the modern language is derived from the Latin. But the ancients more correctly gave the name of the bird, not to the husband of the faithless wife, but to her paramour, who might justly be supposed to be acting the part of the cuckoo. They applied the name of the bird in whose nest the cuckoo's eggs were usually deposited—'carruca'—to the husband. It is not quite clear how, in the passage from classic to mediæval, the application of the term was transferred to the husband." In further allusion to this bird, we may quote the following from "All's Well that Ends Well" (i. 3):—

"For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true will find,
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind."

The cuckoo has generally been regarded as the harbinger of spring, and according to a Gloucestershire rhyme—

"The cuckoo comes in April,
Sings a song in May;
Then in June another tune,
And then she flies away."

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[paragraph continues] Thus, in "1 Henry IV." (iii. 2), Henry IV., alluding to his predecessor, says—

"So when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded."

In "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2), spring is maintained by the cuckoo, in those charming sonnets descriptive of the beauties of the country at this season.

The word cuckoo has, from the earliest times, been used as a term of reproach; 1 and Plautus 2 has introduced it on more than one occasion. In this sense we find it quoted by Shakespeare in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 4):—"O’ horseback, ye cuckoo." The term cuckold, too, which so frequently occurs throughout Shakespeare's Plays, is generally derived from cuculus; 3 from the practice already alluded to of depositing its eggs in other birds’ nests.

Domestic Fowl.—In the "Tempest" (v. 1), the word chick is used as a term of endearment, "Nay arise, chick, &c.;" and in "Macbeth" (iv. 3), Macduff speaks of his children as "all my pretty chickens." In "Coriolanus" (v. 3), hen is applied to a woman—"Poor hen, fond of no second brood;" and in "Taming of the Shrew" (ii. 1), Petruchio says, "So Kate will be my hen;" and, once more, "1 Henry IV." (iii. 3), Falstaff says, "How now, Dame Partlet, the hen?" In "Othello" (i. 3), Iago applies the term "guinea-hen" to Desdemona, a cant phrase in Shakespeare's day for a fast woman.

Dove.—Among the many beautiful allusions to this bird we may mention one in "Hamlet" (v. 1), where Shakespeare speaks of the dove only laying two eggs. 4

"As patient as the female dove
When that her golden couplets are disclosed."

The young nestlings, when first disclosed, are only covered with a yellow down, and the mother rarely leaves the nest, in

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consequence of the tenderness of her young; hence the dove has been made an emblem of patience. In "2 Henry IV." (iv. 1), it is spoken of as the symbol of peace—"The dove, and very blessed spirit of peace;" and in the "Taming of the Shrew" (ii. 1), we find the expression "as modest as the dove." Its love, too, is several times referred to, as in "Romeo" (ii. 1), "Pronounce but—'love' and 'dove';" and in "1 Henry VI." (ii. 2), Burgundy says—

"Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves,
That could not live asunder day or night."

This bird has, also, been regarded as the emblem of fidelity, as in the following graphic passage in "Troilus and Cressida" (iii. 2):—

"As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,
As sun to day, as turtle to her mate,
As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre."

and in "Winter's Tale" (iv. 4), we read—"Turtles pair, that never mean to part." Its modesty is alluded to in the "Taming of the Shrew" (ii. 1)—"Modest as the dove;" and its innocence in "2 Henry VI." (iii. 1), is mentioned, where King Henry says—

"Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent
From meaning treason to our royal person
As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove:
The duke is virtuous, mild and too well given
To dream on evil or to work my downfall."

The custom of giving a pair of doves or pigeons as a present or peace-offering, is alluded to in "Titus Andronicus" (iv. 4), where the Clown says, "God and Saint Stephen give you good den: I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here;" and when Gobbo tried to find favour with Bassanio in "Merchant of Venice" (ii. 2), he began by saying—"I have here a dish of doves, that I would bestow on your worship." Shakespeare alludes in several places to the "doves of Venus," as in "Venus and Adonis:"—

"Thus weary of the world, away she (Venus) hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is conveyed;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen."

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and in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (i. 1), where Hermia speaks of "the simplicity of Venus’ doves." This will also explain, says Mr Harting, 1 the reference to "the dove of Paphos" in "Pericles" (iv., Introduction). The towns of Old and New Paphos are situated on the south-west extremity of the coast of Cyprus. Old Paphos is the one generally referred to by the poets, being the peculiar seat of the worship of Venus, who was fabled to have been wafted thither, after her birth amid the waves. The "dove of Paphos" may therefore be considered as synonymous with the "dove of Venus."

Mahomet, we are told, had a dove, which he used to feed with wheat out of his ear; when hungry, the dove lighted on his shoulder, and thrust its bill in to find its breakfast;—Mahomet persuading the rude and simple Arabians that it was the Holy Ghost that gave him advice. 2 Hence, in "1 Henry VI." (i. 2), the question is asked—

"Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?"

Duck.—A barbarous pastime in Shakespeare's time was hunting a tame duck in the water with spaniels. For the performance of this amusement it was necessary 3 to have recourse to a pond of water sufficiently extensive to give the duck plenty of room for making its escape from the dogs when closely pursued: which it did by diving as often as any of them came near it, hence the following allusion in "Henry V." (ii. 3)—

"And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck." 4

"To swim like a duck" is a common proverb, which occurs in the "Tempest" (ii. 2), where Trinculo, in reply to Stephano's question how he escaped, says: "Swum ashore, man, like a duck; I can swim like a duck, I'll be sworn."

Eagle.—From the earliest time this bird has been associated with numerous popular fancies and superstitions, many of which have not escaped the notice of Shakspeare. A

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notion of very great antiquity attributes to it the power of gazing at the sun undazzled, to which Spenser in his "Hymn of Heavenly Beauty" refers:—

"And like the native brood of eagle's kind,
On that bright sun of glory fix thine eyes."

In "Love's Labour's Lost," (iv. 3), Biron says of Rosaline:—

"What peremptory eagle-sighted eye
Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
That is not blinded by her majesty?" 1

And in 3 Henry VI. (ii. 1), Richard says to Edward, Prince of Wales:—

"Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,
Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun."

The French naturalist, Lacepede, 2 has calculated that the clearness of vision in birds is nine times more extensive than that of the farthest-sighted man. The eagle, too, has always been proverbial for its great power of flight, and on this account has had assigned to it the sovereignty of the feathered race. Aristotle and Pliny both record the legend of the wren disputing for the crown, a tradition which is still found in Ireland: 3—The birds all met together one day and settled among themselves that whichever of them could fly highest was to be the king of them all. Well, just as they were starting, the little rogue of a wren perched itself on the eagle's tail. So they flew and flew ever so high, till the eagle was miles above all the rest, and could not fly another stroke, for he was so tired. "Then," says he, "I'm the king of the birds," says he; "hurroo!" "You lie," says the wren, darting up a perch and a-half above the big fellow. The eagle was so angry to think how he was outwitted by the wren, that when the latter was coming down he gave him a stroke of his wing, and from that day the wren has never been able to fly higher than a hawthorn bush. The swiftness

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of the eagle's flight is spoken of in "Timon of Athens," (i. 1):—

"An eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no track behind." 1

The great age, too, of the eagle is well known; and the words of the psalmist are familiar to most readers:—

"His youth shall be renewed like the eagle's."

Apemantus, however, asks of Timon ("Timon of Athens," iv. 3):—

"Will these moss’d trees,
That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels,
And skip where thou point’st out?"

Tuberville, in his "Book of Falconry," 1575, says that the great age of this bird has been ascertained from the circumstance of its always building its eyrie or nest in the same place. The Romans considered the eagle a bird of good omen, and its presence in time of battle was supposed to foretell victory. Thus, in "Julius Cæsar," (v. 1), we read:—

"Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign
Two mighty eagles fell; and there they perch’d,
Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands."

It was selected for the Roman legionary standard, 2 through being the king and most powerful of all birds. As a bird of good omen it is mentioned also in "Cymbeline," (i. 1):—

"I chose an eagle, and did avoid a puttock."

and in another scene (iv. 2), the Soothsayer relates how "Last night the very gods shew’d me a vision": thus:—

"I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d
From the spongy south to this part of the west,
There vanish’d in the sunbeams: which portends
(Unless my sins abuse my divination),
Success to th’ Roman host."

The conscious superiority 3 of the eagle is depicted by Tamora in "Titus Andronicus," (iv. 4):—

"The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wing,
He can at pleasure stint their melody."

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Goose.—This bird was the subject 1 of many quaint proverbial phrases often used in the old popular writers. Thus, a tailor's goose was a jocular name for his pressing iron, probably from its being often roasting before the fire, an allusion to which occurs in "Macbeth," (ii. 3):—

"Come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose."

The "wild-goose chase," which is mentioned in "Romeo and Juliet" (ii. 4)—

"Mercutio—Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done."

—was a kind of horse-race, which resembled the flight of wild-geese. Two horses were started together, and whichever rider could get the lead, the other was obliged to follow him over whatever ground the foremost jockey chose to go. That horse which could distance the other won the race. This reckless sport is enumerated by Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," as a recreation much in vogue in his time among gentlemen. The term, "Winchester goose," was a cant phrase for a certain venereal disease, because the stews in Southwark were under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Winchester, to whom Gloucester tauntingly applies the term in the following passage ("1 Henry VI.," i. 3):—

"Winchester goose, I cry, a rope! a rope!"

In "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 10), there is a further allusion—

"Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss."

Ben Jonson 2 calls it—

"The Winchestrian goose,
Bred on the banke in time of Popery,
When Venus there maintain’d the mystery."

"Plucking geese" was formerly a barbarous sport of boys ("Merry Wives of Windsor," v. 1), which consisted in stripping a living goose of its feathers. 3

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In "Coriolanus" (i. 4), the goose is spoken of as the emblem of cowardice. Marcius says—

"You souls of geese,
That hear the shapes of men, how have you run
From slaves that apes would beat."

Goldfinch.—The Warwickshire name 1 for this bird is "Proud Tailor," to which, some commentators think, the words in "1 Henry IV." (iii. 1) refer

"Lady P.—I will not sing.
Hotsp.—’Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be red-breast teacher."

It has, therefore, been suggested that the passage should be read thus—"’Tis the next way to turn tailor, or red-breast teacher," i.e., "to turn teacher of goldfinches or redbreasts." 2 Singer, 3 however, explains the words thus—"Tailors, like weavers, have ever been remarkable for their vocal skill. Percy is jocular in his mode of persuading his wife to sing; and this is a humorous turn which he gives to his argument, 'Come, sing.' 'I will not sing.' '’Tis the next (i.e., the readiest, nearest) way to turn tailor, or redbreast teacher'—the meaning being, to sing is to put yourself upon a level with tailors and teachers of birds."

Gull.—Shakespeare often uses this word as synonymous with fool. Thus in Henry V. (iii. 6), he says—

"Why, ’tis a gull, a fool."

The same play upon the word occurs in "Othello" (v. 2), and in "Timon of Athens" (ii. 1). In "Twelfth Night" (v. 1), Malvolio asks—

"Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,.
And made the most notorious geck and gull
That e’er invention played on? tell me why."

It is also used to express a trick or imposition, as in "Much Ado About Nothing" (ii. 3)—"I should think this a gull,

p. 114

but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it." 1 "Gull-catchers," or "gull-gropers," to which reference is made in "Twelfth Night"(ii. 5), where Fabian, on the entry of Maria, exclaims—

"Here comes my noble gull-catcher."

were the names by which sharpers 2 were known in Shakespeare's time. 3 The "gull-catcher" was generally an old usurer, who lent money to a gallant at an ordinary, who had been unfortunate in play. 4 Decker devotes a chapter to this character in his "Lanthorne and Candle-light," 1612. According to him, "the gull-groper is commonly an old monymonger, who having travailed through all the follyes of the world in his youth, knowes them well, and shunnes them in his age, his whole felicitie being to fill his bags with golde and silver." The person so duped was termed a gull, and the trick also. In that disputed passage in the "Tempest" (ii. 2), where Caliban, addressing Trinculo, says—

"Sometimes I'll get thee
Young scamels from the rock."

some think that the sea-mew, or sea-gull, is intended, 5 sea-mall, or sea-mell, being still a provincial name for this bird. Mr Stevenson, in his "Birds of Norfolk" (ii. p. 260), tells us that "the female bar-tailed godwit is called a 'scammell' by the gunners of Blakeney. But as this bird is not a rock-breeder, 6 it cannot be the one intended in the present passage, if we regard it as an accurate description from a naturalist's point of view." Holt says that "scam" is a limpet, and scamell probably a diminutive. Mr Dyce 7 reads "Scamels," i.e., the kestrel, stannel, or windhover, which breeds in rocky situations, and high cliffs on our coasts. He also further observes

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that this accords well with the context "from the rock," and adds that staniel or staunyel occurs in "Twelfth Night" (ii. 5), where all the old editions exhibit the gross misprint, "stallion."

Hawk.—The diversion of catching game with hawks was very popular in Shakespeare's time, 1 and hence, as might be expected, we find many scattered allusions to it throughout his plays. The training of a hawk for the field was an essential part of the education of a young Saxon nobleman; and the present of a well-trained hawk was a gift to be welcomed by a king. Edward the Confessor spent much of his leisure time in either hunting or hawking; and in the reign of Edward III. we read how the Bishop of Ely attended the service of the church at Bermondsey, Southwark, leaving his hawk in the cloister, which in the meantime was stolen—the bishop solemnly excommunicating the thieves. On one occasion Henry VIII. met with a serious accident when pursuing his hawk at Hitchin in Hertfordshire. In jumping over a ditch, his pole broke, and he fell headlong into the muddy-water, where he was with some difficulty rescued by one of his followers. Sir Thomas Moore, writing in the reign of Henry VIII., describing the state of manhood, makes a young man say—

"Man-hod I am, therefore I me delyght
To hunt and hawke, to nourish up and fede
The greyhounde to the course, the hawke to th’ flight,
And to bestryde a good and lusty stede."

In noticing then, Shakespeare's allusions to this sport, we have a good insight into its various features, and also gain a knowledge of the several terms associated with it. Thus frequent mention is made of the word "haggard"—a wild untrained hawk—and in the following allegory ("Taming of the Shrew," iv. 1), where it occurs, much of the knowledge of falconry is comprised:—

"My falcon now is sharp and passing empty;
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, 2

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[paragraph continues] For then she never looks upon her lure.
Another way I have to man my haggard,
To make her come and know her keeper's call,
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites,
That bate and beat and will not be obedient.
She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not." 1

Further allusions occur in "Twelfth Night" (iii. 1), where Viola says of the Clown:—

"This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye."

In "Much Ado about Nothing," Hero (iii. 1), speaking of Beatrice says that—

"her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggerds of the rock."

And Othello (iii. 3), mistrusting Desdemona, and likening her to a hawk, exclaims—

"If I do prove her haggard,—
I’ld whistle her off." 2

The word "check" alluded to above was a term in falconry applied to a hawk when she forsook her proper game and followed some other of inferior kind that crossed her in her flight 3—being mentioned again in Hamlet (iv. 7), where the king says—

"If he be now return’d,
As checking at his voyage." 4

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Another common expression used in falconry is "tower," applied to certain hawks, etc., which tower aloft, soar spirally to a height in the air, and thence swoop upon their prey. In "Macbeth" (ii. 4), we read of "a falcon, towering in her pride of place;" in "2 Henry VI." (ii. 1), Suffolk says, "My lord protector's hawks do tower so well;" and in "King John" (v. 2), the Bastard says, "And, like an eagle o’er his aery 1 towers."

The word "quarry" which occurs several times in Shakespeare's plays, in some instances, means the "game or prey sought." The etymology has, says Nares, been variously attempted, but with little success. It may, perhaps, originally have meant the square, or inclosure (carrée) into which the game was driven (as is still practised in other countries), and hence the application of it to the game there caught, would be a natural extension of the term. Randle Holme, in his "Academy of Armory" (Book II., c. xi. p. 240), defines it as "the fowl which the hawk flyeth at, whether dead or alive." It was also equivalent to a heap of slaughtered game, as in the following passages. In "Coriolanus" (i. 1), Caius Marcius says—"I’ld make a quarry with thousands of these quarter’d slaves." In "Macbeth" (iv. 3) 2 we read "The quarry of these murder’d deer," and in "Hamlet" (v. 2), "This quarry cries on havoc."

Another term in falconry is "stoop," or "swoop,'' denoting the hawk's violent descent from a height upon its prey. In "Taming of the Shrew" (iv. 1) the expression occurs, "Till she stoop, she must not be full-gorged." In "Henry V." (iv. 1), King Henry, speaking of the king, says, "Though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing." In "Macbeth,"

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too (iv. 3), Macduff, referring to the cruel murder of his children, exclaims, "What! at one fell swoop?" 1 Webster, in the "White Devil," 2 says—

"If she [i.e., Fortune] give aught, she deals it in small parcels,
That she may take away all at one swoop."

Shakespeare gives many incidental allusions to the hawk's trappings. Thus in "Lucreece" he says—

"Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon's bells."

And in "As You Like It" (iii. 3) 3, Touchstone says, "As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires." The object of these bells was to lead the falconer to the hawk when in a wood or out of sight. In Heywood's play entitled, "A Woman Killed with Kindness," 1617, is a hawking scene, containing a striking allusion to the hawk's bells. The dress of the hawk 4 consisted of a close-fitting hood of leather or velvet, enriched with needle-work, and surmounted with a tuft of coloured feathers, for use as well as ornament, inasmuch as they assisted the hand in removing the hood when the birds for the hawk's attack came in sight. Thus in "Henry V." (iii. 7), the Constable of France, referring to the valour of the Dauphin, says, "’Tis a hooded valour, and when it appears it will bate." 5 And again, in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 2), Juliet says—

"Hood my unmann’d blood, bating 6 in my cheeks."

The "jesses" were two short straps of leather or silk, which were fastened to each leg of a hawk, to which was attached

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a swivel from which depended the leash or strap which the falconer 1 twisted round his hand. Othello (iii. 3), says

"Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings."

We find several allusions to the training of hawks. 2 They were usually trained by being kept from sleep, it having been customary for the falconers to sit up by turns and "watch" the hawk, and keep it from sleeping, sometimes for three successive nights. Desdemona in "Othello" (iii. 3), says—

"My lord shall never rest;
I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience;
His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift;
I'll intermingle every thing he does
With Cassio's suit."

So in Cartwright's "Lady Errant" (ii. 2),—

"We'll keep you as they do hawks,
Watching until you leave your wildness."

In "The Merry Wives of Windsor" (v. 5), where Page says

"Nay, do not fly: I think we have watch’d you now"

the allusion is, says Staunton, to this method employed to tame or "reclaim" hawks.

Again, in "Othello" (iii. 3), 3 Iago exclaims—

"She that, so young, could give out such a seeming,
To seel her father's eyes up close as oak;"

in allusion to the practice of seeling a hawk, or sewing up its eyelids, by running a fine thread through them, in order to make her tractable and endure the hood of which we have already spoken. Henry IV. ("2 Henry IV." iii. 1), in his soliloquy on sleep, says—

"Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge." 4

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In Spenser's "Fairie Queen," (I. vii. 23), we read:—

"Mine eyes no more on vanity shall feed,
But sealed up with death, shall have their deadly meed."

It was a common notion, that if a dove was let loose with its eyes so closed, it would fly straight upwards, continuing to mount, till it fell down through mere exhaustion. 1

In "Cymbeline," (iii. 4), Imogen, referring to Posthumus, says:—

"I grieve myself
To think, when thou shall be disedged by her
That now thou tirest on,"

this passage containing two metaphorical expressions from falconry. A bird was said to be disedged when the keenness of its appetite was taken away by tiring, or feeding upon some tough or hard substance given to it for that purpose. In "3 Henry VI." (i. 1), the king says:—

"That hateful duke,
Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,
Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle
Tire on the flesh of me and of my son."

In "Timon of Athens," (iii. 6), one of the lords says:—

"Upon that were my thoughts tiring, when we encountered."

In "Venus and Adonis," too, we find a further allusion:—

"Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone," &c.

Among other allusions to the hawk, may be mentioned one in "Measure for Measure," (iii. i):—

"This outward-sainted deputy,
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i’ th’ head and follies doth emmew,
As falcon doth the fowl."

—the word "emmew" signifying the place where hawks were shut up during the time they moulted. In "Romeo and Juliet," (iii. 4), Lady Capulet says of Juliet:—"To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness;" and in "Taming of Shrew," (i. 1), Gremio speaking of Bianca to Signor Baptista, says:—"Why will you mew her?"

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When the wing or tail feathers of a hawk were dropped, forced out, or broken, by any accident, it was usual to supply or repair as many as were deficient or damaged, an operation called "to imp 1 a hawk." Thus in Richard II. (ii. 1), Northumberland says:—

"If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing."

So Massinger in his "Renegado" (v. 8), makes Asambeg say—

"Strive to imp
New feathers to the broken wings of time."

Hawking was sometimes called birding. 2 In the "Merry Wives of Windsor," (iii. 3), Master Page says:—"I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we'll a-birding together, I have a fine hawk for the bush." In the same play (iii. 5), Dame Quickly, speaking of Mistress Ford, says:—"Her husband goes this morning a-birding;" and Mistress Ford says (iv. 2):—"He's a-birding, sweet St John." The word hawk, says Mr Harting, is invariably used by Shakspeare in its generic sense; and in only two instances does he allude to a particular species. These are the kestrel and sparrowhawk. In "Twelfth Night," (ii. 5), Sir Toby Belch, speaking of Malvolio, as he finds the letter which Maria has purposely dropped in his path, says

"And with what wing the staniel 3 checks at it."

—staniel being a corruption of stangdall, a name for the kestrel hawk. 4 "Gouts" is the technical term for the spots on some parts of the plumage of a hawk, and perhaps Shakspeare uses the word in allusion to a phrase in heraldry. Macbeth (ii. 1), speaking of the dagger, says:—"I see thee still, and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood."

Heron.—This bird was frequently flown at by falconers. Shakespeare, in "Hamlet" (ii. 2), makes Hamlet say, "I am

p. 122

but mad north-north-west; when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw;" handsaw being a corruption of "heronshaw," or "hernsew," which is still used, in the provincial dialects, for a heron. In Suffolk and Norfolk it is pronounced "harnsa," from which to "handsaw," is but a single step. 1 Shakespeare here alludes to a proverbial saying, "He knows not a hawk from a handsaw." 2 Mr J. C. Heath 3 explains the passage thus: "The expression obviously refers to the sport of hawking. Most birds, especially one of heavy flight like the heron, when roused by the falconer or his dog, would fly down or with the wind, in order to escape. When the wind is from the north, the heron flies towards the south, and the spectator may be dazzled by the sun, and be unable to distinguish the hawk from the heron. On the other hand, when the wind is southerly, the heron flies towards the north, and it and the pursuing hawk are clearly seen by the sportsman, who then has his back to the sun, and without difficulty knows the hawk from the hernsew."

Jay.—From its gay and gaudy plumage, this bird has been used for a loose woman, as "Merry Wives of Windsor" (iii. 3):—

"We'll teach him to know turtles from jays,"

i.e., to distinguish honest women from loose ones. Again, in "Cymbeline" (iii. 4), Imogen says—

"Some jay of Italy
Whose mother was her painting, 4 hath betray’d him."

Kestrel.—A hawk 5 of a base unserviceable breed, and therefore used by Spenser in his "Faerie Queen" (II. iii. 4), to signify base

"Ne thought of honour ever did assay
His baser breast, but in his kestrell kynd
A pleasant veine of glory he did fynd."

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[paragraph continues] By some 1 it is derived from "coystril," a knave or peasant, from being the hawk formerly used by persons of inferior rank. Thus, in "Twelfth Night" (i. 3), we find "coystrill," and in "Pericles" (iv. 6), "coystrel." The name kestrel, says Singer, 2 for an inferior kind of hawk, was evidently a corruption of the French quercelle or quercerelle, and originally had no connection with coystril, though in later times they may have been confounded. Holinshed 3 classes coisterels with lacqueys and women, the unwarlike attendants on an army. The term was also given as a nick-name to the emissaries employed by the kings of England in their French wars. Dyce 4 also considers kestrel distinct from coistrel.

Kingfisher.—It was a common belief in days gone by, that during the days the halcyon or kingfisher was engaged in hatching her eggs, the sea remained so calm that the sailor might venture upon it without incurring risk of storm or tempest; hence this period was called by Pliny and Aristotle "the halcyon days," to which allusion is made in "1 Henry VI." (i. 2)—

"Expect St Martin's summer, halcyon days."

Dryden also refers to this notion—

"Amidst our arms as quiet you shall be,
As halcyons brooding on a winter's sea."

Another superstition connected with this bird occurs in "King Lear" (ii. 1), where the Earl of Kent says—

"Turn their halcyon beaks
With every gale and vary of their masters."

the prevalent idea being, that a dead kingfisher, suspended, from a cord, would always turn its beak in that direction from whence the wind blew. Marlow, in his "Jew of Malta," (i. 1), says—

"But now how stands the wind?
Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill?"

Occasionally one may still see this bird hung up in cottages, a remnant, no doubt, of this old superstition. 5

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Kite.—This bird was considered by the ancients to be unlucky. In "Julius Cæsar" (v. 1), Cassius says—

"Ravens, crows, and kites,
Fly o’er our heads and downward look on us."

In "Cymbeline," too (i. 2), Imogen says—

"I chose an eagle, and did avoid a puttock,"

puttock, 1 here, being a synonym sometimes applied to the kite. Formerly the kite became a term of reproach from its ignoble habits. Thus in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iii. 13), Antony exclaims, "You kite," and King Lear (i. 4), says to Goneril, "detested kite, thou liest." Its intractable disposition is alluded to in "Taming of the Shrew" by Petruchio (iv. 1). A curious peculiarity of this bird is noticed in "Winter's Tale" (iv. 3), where Autolycus says:—"My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen"—meaning that his practice was to steal sheets; leaving the smaller linen to be carried away by the kites, who will occasionally carry it off to line their nests. 2 Mr Dyce 3 quotes the following remarks of Mr Peck on this passage—"Autolycus here gives us to understand that he is a thief of the first class. This he explains by an allusion to an odd vulgar notion. The common people many of them, think that, if anyone can find a kite's nest, when she hath young, before they are fledged, and sew up their back doors, so as they cannot mute, the mother kite in compassion to their distress, will steal lesser linen, as caps, cravats, ruffles, or any other such small matters as she can best fly with, from off the hedges where they are hanged to dry after washing, and carry them to her nest, and there leave them, if possible to move the pity of the first corner, to cut the thread, and ease them of their misery."

Lapwing.—Several interesting allusions are made by Shakespeare to this eccentric bird. It was a common notion that the young lapwings ran out of the shell with part of it sticking on their heads, in such haste were they to be hatched. Horatio ("Hamlet," v. 2) says of Osric—

"This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head."

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It was, therefore, regarded as the symbol of a forward fellow. Webster 1 in the "White Devil" (1859, p. 13)—

"Forward lapwing!
He flies with the shell on’s head."

The lapwing, like the partridge, is also said to draw pursuers from her nest by fluttering along the ground in an opposite direction or by crying in other places. Thus in the "Comedy of Errors" (iv. 2), Shakespeare says—

"Far from her nest the lapwing cries away."

Again in "Measure for Measure" (i. 4), Lucio exclaims—

"Though ’tis my familiar sin,
With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest
Tongue far from heart."

Once more in "Much Ado about Nothing" (iii. 1) we read—

"For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs,
Close by the ground, to hear our conference."

Several, too, of our older poets refer to this peculiarity. In Ben Jonson's "Underwoods" (lviii.) we are told—

"Where he that knows will like a lapwing fly,
Farre from the nest, and so himself belie."

Through thus alluring intruders from its nest, the lapwing became a symbol of insincerity; and hence originated the proverb, "The lapwing cries tongue from heart;" or, "The lapwing cries most, farthest from her nest." 2

Lark.—Shakespeare has bequeathed to us many exquisite passages referring to the lark, full of the most sublime pathos and lofty conceptions. Most readers are doubtless acquainted with that superb song in "Cymbeline" (ii. 3), where this sweet songster is represented as singing "at heaven's gate;" and again, as the "bird of dawn," it is described in "Venus and Adonis," thus—

"Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty." 3

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In "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2 song), we have a graphic touch of pastoral life—

"When shepherds pipe on oaten straws
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks."

The words of Portia, too, in "Merchant of Venice" (v. 1), to sing "as sweetly as the lark," have long ago passed into a proverb.

It was formerly a current saying that the lark and toad changed eyes, to which Juliet refers in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 5)—

"Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes."

Warburton says this popular fancy originated in the toad having very fine eyes, and the lark very ugly ones. This tradition was formerly expressed in a rustic rhyme—

"To heav’n I’d fly,
But that the toad beguil’d me of mine eye."

In "Henry VIII." (iii. 2), the Earl of Surrey, in denouncing Wolsey, alludes to a curious method of capturing larks, which was effected by small mirrors and red cloth. These scaring the birds made them crouch, while the fowler drew his nets over them—

"Let his grace go forward,
And dare us with his cap like larks."

In this case the cap was the scarlet hat of the cardinal, which it was intended to use as a piece of red cloth. The same idea occurs in Skelton's "Why Come Ye not to Court?" a satire on Wolsey—

"The red hat with his lure
Bringeth all things under cure."

The words "tirra-lyra" ("Winter's Tale," iv. 3), are a fanciful combination of sounds, 1 meant to imitate the lark's note, borrowed, says Nares, from the French tire-lire. Browne, "British Pastorals" (bk. i. song 4), makes it teery-leery. In

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one of the Coventry pageants there is the following old song sung by the shepherds at the birth of Christ, which contains the expression—

"As I out rode this endenes night,
Of three joli shepherds I sawe a syght,
And all aboute there fold a stare shone bright,
They sang terli terlow,
So mereli the sheppards their pipes can blow."

In Scotland 1 and the north of England, the peasantry say that if one is desirous of knowing what the lark says, he must lie down on his back in the field and listen, and he will then hear it say:—

"Up in the lift go we,
Tehee, tehee, tehee, tehee!
There's not a shoemaker on the earth
Can make a shoe to me, to me!
Why so, why so, why so?
Because my heel is as long as my toe."

Magpie.—It was formerly known as magot-pie, probably from the French magot, a monkey, because the bird chatters and plays droll tricks like a monkey. It has generally been regarded as a mysterious bird, and regarded with superstitious awe, 2 and is thus alluded to in "Macbeth," (iii. 4):—

"Augurs and understood relations, have
By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret’st man of blood."

And again, in 3 "Henry VI.," (v. 6), it is said:—

"Chattering pies in dismal discords sung."

There are numerous rhymes 2 relating to the magpie, of which we subjoin as a specimen one prevalent in the north of England:—

"One is sorrow, two mirth,
Three a wedding, four a birth.
Five heaven, six hell,
Seven the de’il's ain sell."

In Devonshire, in order to avert the ill-luck from seeing a magpie, the peasant spits over his right shoulder three times,

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and in Yorkshire various charms are in use. One is to raise the hat as a salutation, and then to sign the cross on the breast; and another consists in making the same sign by crossing the thumbs. It is a common notion in Scotland that magpies flying near the windows of a house portend a speedy death to one of its inmates. The superstitions associated with the magpie are not confined to this country, for in Sweden 1 it is considered the witch's bird, belonging to the evil one and the other powers of night. In Denmark, when a magpie perches on a house, it is regarded as a sign that strangers are coming.

Martin.—The martin, or martlet, which is called in "Macbeth," (i. 6), the "guest of summer," as being a migratory bird, has been from the earliest times treated with superstitious respect,—it being considered unlucky to molest or in any way injure its nest. Thus, in the "Merchant of Venice," (ii. 9), the Prince of Arragon says:—

"The martlet
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty."

Forster 2 says that the circumstance of this bird's nest being built so close to the habitations of man indicates that it has long enjoyed freedom from molestation. There is a popular rhyme still current in the north of England:—

"The martin and the swallow
Are God Almighty's bow and arrow."

The Nightingale.—The popular error that the nightingale sings with its breast impaled upon a thorn is noticed by Shakespeare, who makes Lucreece say:—

"And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part,
To keep thy sharp woes waking."

In the "Passionate Pilgrim," (xxi.), there is an allusion:—

"Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.

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[paragraph continues] She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity."

Beaumont and Fletcher, in "The Faithful Shepherdess" (v. 3), speak of—

"The nightingale among the thick-leaved spring,
That sits alone in sorrow, and doth sing
Whole nights away in mourning."

Sir Thomas Browne 1 asks "Whether the nightingale's sitting with her breast against a thorn, be any more than that she placeth some prickles on the outside of her nest, or roosteth in thorny prickly places, where serpents may least approach her." 2 In the "Zoologist" for 1862 the Rev. A. C. Smith mentions "the discovery, on two occasions, of a strong thorn projecting upwards in the centre of the nightingale's nest." Another notion is that the nightingale never sings by day; and thus Portia in "Merchant of Venice," (v. 1), says:—

"I think,
The nightingale, if she could sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren."

Such, however, is not the case, for this bird often sings as sweetly in the day as at night-time. There is an old superstition 3 that the nightingale sings all night, to keep itself awake, lest the glow-worm should devour her. The classical fable 4 of the unhappy Philomela turned into a nightingale, when her sister Progne was changed to a swallow, has doubtless given rise to this bird being spoken of as she; thus Juliet tells Romeo (iii. 5),—

"It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree;
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale."

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[paragraph continues] Sometimes the nightingale is termed Philomel, as in "Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 2, song) 1—

"Philomel, with melody,
Sing your sweet lullaby."

Osprey.—This bird, 2 also called the sea-eagle, besides having a destructive power of devouring fish, was supposed formerly to have a fascinating influence, both which qualities are alluded to in the following passage in "Coriolanus" (iv. 7)—

"I think he'll be to Rome,
As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it
By sovereignty of nature."

Drayton, in his "Polyolbion" (Song xxv.), mentions the same fascinating power of the osprey—

"The osprey, oft here seen, though seldom here it breeds,
Which over them the fish no sooner do espy,
But, betwixt him and them by an antipathy,
Turning their bellies up, as though their death they saw,
They at his pleasure lie, to stuff his gluttonous maw."

Ostrich.—The extraordinary digestion of this bird 3 is said to be shown by its swallowing iron and other hard substances. 4 In 2 Henry VI. (iv. 10), the rebel Cade says to Alexander Iden—"Ah villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the .king by carrying my head to him; but I'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part." Cuvier, 5 speaking of this bird, says, "It is yet so voracious, and its senses of taste and smell are so obtuse, that it devours animal and mineral substances indiscriminately, until its enormous stomach is completely full. It swallows without any choice, and merely as it were to serve for ballast, wood, stones, grass, iron, copper, gold, lime, or, in fact, any other substance equally hard, indigestible,

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and deleterious." Sir Thomas Browne, 1 writing on this subject, says, "The ground of this conceit in its swallowing down fragments of iron, which men observing, by a forward illation, have therefore conceived it digesteth them, which is an inference, not to be admitted, as being a fallacy of the consequent." In Loudon's "Magazine of Natural History" (No. 6, p. 32), we are told of an ostrich having been killed by swallowing glass.

Owl.—The dread attached to this unfortunate bird is frequently spoken of by Shakespeare, who has alluded to several of the superstitions associated with it. At the outset, many of the epithets ascribed to it show the prejudice with which it was regarded—being in various places stigmatised as "the vile owl," in "Troilus and Cressida" (ii. 1); and the "obscure bird," in "Macbeth" (ii. 3), etc. From the earliest period it has been considered a bird of ill-omen, and Pliny tells us how, on one occasion, even Rome itself underwent a lustration, because one of them strayed into the Capitol. He represents it also as a funereal bird, a monster of the night, the very abomination of human kind. Virgil 2 describes its death-howl from the top of the temple by night, a circumstance introduced as a precursor of Dido's death. Ovid, 3 too, constantly speaks of this bird's presence as an evil omen; and indeed the same notions respecting it may be found among the writings of most of the ancient poets. This superstitious awe in which the owl is held may be owing to its peculiar look, its occasional and uncertain appearance, its loud and dismal cry, 4 as well as to its being the bird of night. 5 It has generally been associated with calamities and deeds of darkness. 6 Thus its weird shriek pierces the ear of Lady Macbeth (ii. 2), while the murder is being committed—

"Hark!—Peace!
It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern’st good night."

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[paragraph continues] And when the murderer rushes in exclaiming—

"I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?"

She answers—

"I heard the owl scream."

Its appearance at a birth has been said to foretell ill-luck to the infant, a superstition to which King Henry, in "3 Henry VI." (v. 6), addressing Gloucester, refers—

"The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign."

Its cries 1 have been supposed to presage death, and, to quote the words of the "Spectator," "a screech-owl at mid: night has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers." Thus, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (v. 1), we are told how—

"The screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud";

and, in "1 Henry VI." (iv. 2), it is called the "ominous and fearful hour of death." Again, when Richard III. (iv. 4) is exasperated by the bad news, he interrupts the third messenger by saying—

"Out on you, owls! nothing but songs of death?"

The owl by day is considered by some equally ominous, as in "3 Henry VI." (v. 4) 1—

"The owl by day,
If he arise, is mock’d and wonder’d at."

And in "Julius Cæsar" (i. 3), Casca says,—

"And yesterday the bird of night did sit
Even at noon-day, upon the market-place,
Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,
These are their reasons,—they are natural';
For, I believe they are portentous things
Unto the climate that they point upon."

Considering, however, the abhorrence with which the owl is generally regarded, it is not surprising that the "owlet's wing" 2

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should form an ingredient of the cauldron in which the witches in "Macbeth" (iv. 1), prepared their "charm of powerful trouble." The owl is, too, in all probability, represented by Shakespeare as a witch, 1 a companion of the fairies in their moonlight gambols. In "Comedy of Errors" (ii. 2), Dromio of Syracuse says—

"This is the fairy land: O, spite of spites!
We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites.
If we obey them not, this will ensue,
They'll suck our breath, and pinch us black and blue!"

Singer in his Notes on this passage (ii. p. 28) says—"It has been asked, how should Shakespeare know that screech-owls were considered by the Romans as witches?" Do these cavillers think that Shakespeare never looked into a book? Take an extract from the Cambridge Latin Dictionary (1594, 8vo), probably the very book he used: "Strix, a scritche owle; an unluckie kind of bird (as they of olde time said) which sucked out the blood of infants lying in their cradles; a witch, that changeth the favour of children; an hagge or fairie." So in the "London Prodigal," a comedy, 1605:—"Soul, I think I am sure crossed or witch’d with an owl." 2 In the "Tempest" (v. 1), Shakespeare introduces Ariel as saying—

"Where the bee sucks, there suck I,
In a cowslip's bell I lie,
There I couch when owls do cry."

Ariel, 3 who sucks honey for luxury in the cowslip's bell, retreats thither for quiet when owls are abroad and screeching. According to an old legend, the owl was originally a baker's daughter, to which allusion is made in "Hamlet" (iv. 5), where Ophelia exclaims—"They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be." Douce 4 says the following story was current among the Gloucestershire peasantry:—"Our Saviour went into a baker's shop where they were baking, and asked for some

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bread to eat; the mistress of the shop immediately put a piece of dough into the oven to bake for him; but was reprimanded by her daughter, who, insisting that the piece of dough was too large, reduced it to a very small size; the dough, however, immediately began to swell, and presently became a most enormous size, whereupon the baker's daughter cried out, 'Heugh, heugh, heugh!' which owl-like noise probably induced our Saviour to transform her into that bird for her wickedness." Another version of the same story, as formerly known in Herefordshire, substitutes a fairy in the place of our Saviour. Similar legends are found on the Continent. 1

Parrot.—The "popinjay," in "1 Henry IV." (i. 3), is another name for the parrot—from the Spanish, papagayo—a term which occurs in Browne's "Pastorals" (ii. 65)—

"Or like the mixture nature dothe display
Upon the quaint wings of the popinjay."

Its supposed restlessness before rain is referred to in "As you like it," (iv. 1):—"More clamorous than a parrot against rain." It was formerly customary to teach the parrot unlucky words, with which when anyone was offended, it was the standing joke of the wise owner to say, "Take heed, sir, my parrot prophesies,"—an allusion to which custom we find in "Comedy of Errors," (iv. 4), where Dromio of Ephesus says:—"Prophesy like the parrot, beware the rope's end." To this Butler hints, where speaking of Ralpho's skill in augury, he says 2:—

"Could tell what subtlest parrots mean,
That speak and think contrary clean;
What member ’tis of whom they talk,
When they cry rope, and walk, knave walk."

The rewards given to parrots to encourage them to speak are mentioned in "Troilus and Cressida," (v. 2) 3—"The parrot will not do more for an almond." Hence, a proverb for the greatest temptation that could be put before a man

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seems to have been "An almond for a parrot." To "talk like a parrot," is a common proverb, a sense in which it occurs in "Othello," (ii. 3).

Peacock.—This bird was as proverbially used for a proud, vain fool as the lapwing for a silly one. In this sense some would understand it in the much disputed passage in "Hamlet," (iii. 2):—

"For thou dost know, O Damon dear,
This realm dismantled was
Of Jove himself; and now reigns here
A very, very—peacock." 1

The third and fourth folios reads pajock, 2 the other editions have "paiock," "paiocke," or "pajocke," and in the later quartos the word was changed to "paicock" and "pecock," whence Pope printed peacock.

Dyce says that in Scotland the peacock is called the pea-jock. Some have proposed to read paddock, and in the last scene Hamlet bestows this opprobrious name upon the king. It has been also suggested to read puttock, a kite. 3 The peacock has also been regarded as the emblem of pride and arrogance, as in 1 "Henry VI." (iii. 3) 4:—

"Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while,
And, like a peacock, sweep along his tail;
We'll pull his plumes and take away his train."

Pelican.—There are several allusions by Shakespeare to the pelican's piercing her own breast to feed her young. Thus, in Hamlet (iv. 5), Laertes says:—

"To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms;
And like the kind life-rendering pelican,
Repast them with my blood."

And in "King Lear," where the young pelicans are represented

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as piercing their mother's breast to drink her blood, an illustration of filial impiety (iii. 4), the king says:—

"Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers
Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?
Judicious punishment! ’Twas this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters." 1

It is a common notion that the fable here alluded to is a classical one, but this is an error. Shakespeare, says Mr Harting, "was content to accept the story as he found it, and to apply it metaphorically as the occasion required." Mr Houghton, in an interesting letter to "Land and Water " 2 on this subject, remarks that the Egyptians believed in a bird feeding its young with its blood, and this bird is none other than the vulture. He goes on to say that the fable of the pelican doubtless originated in the Patristic annotations on the scriptures. The ecclesiastical Fathers transferred the Egyptian story from the vulture to the pelican, but magnified the story a hundredfold, for the blood of the parent was not only supposed to serve as food for the young, but was also able to reanimate the dead offspring. Augustine, commenting on Psalm cii. 6,—"I am like a pelican of the wilderness,"—remarks:—"These birds [male pelicans] are said to kill their offspring by blows of their beaks, and then to bewail their death for the space of three days. At length, however, it is said that the mother inflicts a severe wound on herself, pouring the flowing blood over the dead young ones, which instantly brings them to life." To the same effect write Eustathius, Isidorus, Epiphanius, and a host of other writers. 3

According to another idea 4 pelicans are hatched dead, but the cock pelican then wounds his breast, and lets one drop of blood fall upon each, and this quickens them.

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Pheasant.—This bird is only once alluded to in "Winter's Tale" (iv. 4), where the Clown jokingly says to the Shepherd—"Advocate's the Court word for a pheasant; say you have none."

Phœnix.—Many allusions are given to this fabulous bird which is said to rise again from its own ashes. Thus in "Henry VIII." (v. 4), Cranmer tells how—

"When
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phœnix,
Her ashes new create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself."

Again, in "3 Henry VI." (i. 4), the Duke of York exclaims—

"My ashes, as the phœnix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all."

Once more, in "Henry VI." (iv. 7), Sir William Lucy speaking of Talbot and those slain with him, predicts that "from their ashes shall be rear’d a phœnix that shall make all France afeard." 1

Sir Thomas Browne 2 tells us that there is but one phœnix in the world, "which after many hundred years burns herself, and from the ashes thereof ariseth up another." From the very earliest times there have been countless traditions respecting this wonderful bird. Thus its longevity has been estimated from three hundred to fifteen hundred years; and among the various localities assigned as its home are Ethiopia, Arabia, Egypt, and India. In the "Phœnix and the Turtle," it is said—

"Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be."

Pliny says of this bird, "Howbeit, I cannot tell what to make of him; and first of all, whether it be a tale or no, that there is never but one of them in the whole world, and the same not commonly seen." Malone 3 quotes from Lyly's "Euphues and his England" (p. 312, ed. Arber). "For as

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there is but one phœnix in the world, so is there but one tree in Arabia wherein she buyldeth;" and Florio's "New Worlde of Wordes" (1598), "Rasin, a tree in Arabia, whereof there is but one found, and upon it the phœnix sits."

Pigeon.—As carriers these birds have been used from a very early date, and the castle of the birds at Bagdad takes its name from the pigeon-post which the old monks of the convent established. The building has crumbled into ruins long ago by the lapse of time, but the bird messengers of Bagdad became celebrated as far westward as Greece, and were a regular commercial institution between the distant parts of Asia Minor, Arabia, and the east. 1 In ancient Egypt also the carrier breed was brought to great perfection, and, between the cities of the Nile and the Red Sea, the old traders used to send word of their caravans to each other by letters written on silk, and tied under the wings of trained doves. In "Titus Andronicus" (iv. 3), Titus, on seeing a clown enter with two pigeons, says—"News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, What tidings? have you any letters?" From the same play we also learn that it was also customary to give a pair of pigeons as a present. The Clown says to Saturninus (iv. 4), "I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here." 2

In "Romeo and Juliet" (i. 3), the dove is used synonymously for pigeon; where the nurse is represented as "sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall." 3* Mr Darwin in his "Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication" (i. pp. 204, 205), has shown that from the very earliest times pigeons have been kept in a domesticated state. He says—"The earliest record of pigeons in a domesticated condition occurs in the 5th Egyptian dynasty, about 3000 B.C., but Mr Birch of the British Museum informs me that the pigeon appears in a bill of fare in the previous dynasty. Domestic pigeons are mentioned in "Genesis," "Leviticus," and "Isaiah." Pliny informs us that the Romans gave immense prices for pigeons; 'nay, they are come to this pass, that they can

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reckon up their pedigree and race.' In India, about the year 1600 pigeons were much valued by Akber Khan; 20,000 birds were carried about with the Court." In most countries, too, the breeding and taming of pigeons have been a favourite recreation. The constancy of the pigeon has been proverbial from time immemorial; allusions to which occur in "Winter's Tale" (iv. 3); and in "As You Like it" (iii. 3).

Quail.—The quail was thought to be an amorous bird; and hence was metaphorically used to denote people of a loose character. 1 In this sense it is generally understood in "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 1), "Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails." Mr Harting, 2 however, thinks that the passage just quoted refers to the practice formerly prevalent of keeping quails, and making them fight like game-cocks. The context of the passage would seem to sanction the former meaning. Quail fighting 3 is spoken of in "Antony and Cleopatra" (ii. 3), where Antony, speaking of the superiority of Cæsar's fortunes to his own, says—

"If we draw lots, he speeds;
His cocks do win the battle still of mine,
When it is all to nought; and his quails ever
Beat mine, inhoop’d, at odds."

It appears that cocks as well as quails were sometimes made to fight within a broad hoop—hence the term inhoop’d—to keep them from quitting each other. Quail-fights were well known among the ancients, and especially at Athens. 4 Julius Pollux relates that a circle was made, in which the birds were placed, and he whose quail was driven out of this circle lost the stake, which was sometimes money, and occasionally the quails themselves. Another practice was to produce one of these birds, which being first smitten with the middle finger, a feather was then plucked from its head. If the quail bore this operation without flinching, his master

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gained the stake, but lost it if he ran away. Some doubt exists as to whether quail-fighting prevailed in the time of Shakespeare. At the present day 1 the Sumatrans practise these quail combats, and this pastime is common in some parts of Italy, and also in China. Mr Douce has given a curious print, from an elegant Chinese miniature painting, which represents some ladies engaged at this amusement, where the quails are actually inhooped.

Raven.—Perhaps no bird is so universally unpopular as the raven, its hoarse croak in most countries being regarded as ominous. Hence, as might be expected, Shakespeare often refers to it, in order to make the scene he depicts all the more vivid and graphic. In "Titus Andronicus" (ii. 3), Tamora, describing "a barren detested vale," says—

"The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,
O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:
Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,
Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven."

And in "Julius Cæsar" (v. 1), Cassius tells us how ravens

"Fly o’er our heads and downward look on us,
As we were sickly prey." 2

It seems that the superstitious dread 3 attaching to this bird has chiefly arisen from its supposed longevity, 4 and its frequent mention and agency in Holy Writ. By the Romans it was consecrated to Apollo, and was believed to have a prophetic knowledge—a notion still very prevalent. Thus its supposed faculty 5 of "smelling death" still renders its presence, or even its voice, ominous. Othello (iv. i) exclaims—

"O, it comes o’er my memory,
As doth the raven o’er the infected house,
Boding to all."

There is no doubt a reference here to the fanciful notion that it was a constant attendant on a house infected with the plague. Most readers, too, are familiar with that famous

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passage in "Macbeth" (i. 5), where Lady Macbeth, having heard of the king's intention to stay at the castle, exclaims—

"The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty!"

We may compare Spenser's language in the "Faerie Queene" (bk. ii., c. vii. 23)

"After him owles and night ravens flew,
The hateful messengers of heavy things,
Of death and dolor telling sad tidings."

And once more the following passage from Drayton's "Barons’ Wars" (book v. st. 42), illustrates the same idea—

"The ominous raven often he doth hear,
Whose croaking him of following horror tells."

In "Much Ado About Nothing" (ii. 3), the "night-raven" is mentioned. Benedick observes to himself—"I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it." 1* This inauspicious bird, according to Steevens, is the owl; but this conjecture is evidently wrong, "being 2 at variance with sundry passages in our early writers, who make a distinction between it and the night-raven."

Thus Johnson, in his "Seven Champions of Christendom" (part i), speaks of "the dismal cry of night-ravens, . . . . and the fearefull sound of schriek owles." Cotgrave regarded the "night-crow" and the "night-raven" as synonymous; and Mr Yarrell considered them only different names for the night-heron. 3 In "3 Henry VI." (v. 6), King Henry says—

"The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time."

Goldsmith, in his "Animated Nature," calls the bittern the night-raven, and says—"I remember, in the place where I

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was a boy, with what terror the bird's note affected the whole village; they consider it as the presage of some sad event, and generally found, or made one to succeed it. If any person in the neighbourhood died, they supposed it could not be otherwise, for the night-raven had foretold it; but if nobody happened to die, the death of a cow or a sheep gave completion to the prophecy."

According to an old belief, the raven deserts its own young, to which Shakespeare alludes in "Titus Andronicus" (ii. 3)—

"Some say that ravens foster forlorn children,
The whilst their own birds famish in their nests."

"It was supposed that when the raven," says Mr Harting, 1 "saw its young ones newly hatched, and covered with down, it conceived such an aversion that it forsook them, and did not return to the nest until a darker plumage had shown itself." To this belief the commentators consider the Psalmist refers, when he says—"He giveth to the beast his food, and to the young ravens which cry" (Psalm cxlvii. 9). We are told, too, in Job, "Who provideth for the raven his food? when his young ones cry unto God, they wander for lack of meat" (Job xxxviii. 41). Shakespeare, in "As You Like It" (ii. 3), probably had the words of the Psalmist in his mind—

"He that doth the ravens feed
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow."

The raven has from earliest times been symbolical of blackness, both in connection with colour and character. In "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 2), Juliet exclaims—

"O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face,
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather’d raven!" 2

Once more, ravens’ feathers were formerly used by witches, from an old superstition that the wings of this bird carried

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with them contagion wherever they went. Hence in the "Tempest" (i. 2), Caliban says

"As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both."

Robin Redbreast.—According to a pretty notion, 1 this little bird is said to cover with leaves any dead body it may chance to find unburied; a belief which probably in a great measure originated in the well-known ballad of the "Children in the Wood," although it seems to have been known previously. Thus Singer quotes as follows from "Cornucopia, or Divers Secrets," &c. (by Thomas Johnson, 1596)—"The robin redbreast, if he finds a man or woman dead, will cover all his face with moss; and some think that if the body should remain unburied that he would cover the whole body also." In Dekker's "Villaines Discovered by Lanthorn and Candlelight" (1616), quoted by Douce, it is said—"They that cheere up a prisoner but with their sight, are robin redbreasts that bring strawes in their bills to cover a dead man in extremitie." Shakespeare, in a beautiful passage in "Cymbeline" (iv. 2), thus touchingly alludes to it, making Arviragus, when addressing the supposed dead body of Imogen, say—

"With fairest flowers
While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack
The flower that like's thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of Eglantine, whom not to slander
Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would,
With charitable bill,—o bill, sore shaming
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie
Without a monument! bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse."

the "ruddock" 2 being one of the old names for the redbreast,

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which is now-a-days found in some localities. John Webster, also, refers to the same idea in "The White Devil" (1857. Edit. Dyce, p. 45),—

"Call for the robin redbreast and the wren,
Since o’er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men."

Drayton, too, in the "Owl," has the following lines:

"Cov’ring with moss the dead's unclosed eye,
The little redbreast teaching charitie."

Rook.—As an ominous bird this is mentioned in "Macbeth," (iii. 4). Formerly the nobles of England prided themselves in having a rookery 1 in the neighbourhood of their castles, because rooks were regarded as "fowls of good omen." On this account no one was permitted to kill them, under severe penalties. When rooks desert a rookery 2 it is said to foretell the downfall of the family on whose property it is. A Northumbrian saying informs us that the rooks left the rookery of Chipchase before the family of Reed left that place. There is also a notion that when rooks haunt a town or village "mortality is supposed to await its inhabitants, and if they feed in the street it shows that a storm is at hand." 3

The expression "bully-rook," in "Merry Wives of Windsor," (I. 3), in Shakespeare's time, says Mr Harting, 4 had the same meaning as "jolly-dog" now-a-days; but subsequently it became a term of reproach, meaning a cheating sharper. It has been suggested that the term derives its origin from the rook in the game of chess; but Douce 5 considers it very improbable that this noble game, "never the amusement of gamblers, should have been ransacked on this occasion."

Snipe.—This bird was in Shakespeare's time proverbial for

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a foolish man. 1 In "Othello," (1. 3), Iago, speaking of Roderigo, says:—

"For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane,
If I would time expend with such a snipe,
But for my sport and profit."

Sparrow.—A popular name for the common sparrow was, and still is, philip, perhaps from its note, "Phip, phip." Hence the allusion to a person named Philip in "King John," (i. 1):—

Gurney, Good leave, good Philip.
Bastard, Philip!—sparrow.

Staunton says perhaps Catullus alludes to this expression in the following lines:—

"Sed circumsiliens, modo huc, modo illuc,
Ad solam dominam usque pipilabat."

Skelton, in an elegy upon a sparrow, calls it "Phyllyp Sparowe"; and Gascoigne also writes "The praise of Philip Sparrow."

In "Measure for Measure," (iii. 2), Lucio, speaking of Angelo, the Deputy-Duke of Vienna, says:—"Sparrows must not build in his house-eaves, because they are lecherous." 2

Sparrow-hawk.—A name formerly given to a young sparrow hawk was eyas-musket, 3 a term we find in "Merry Wives of Windsor," (iii. 3):—

"How now, my-eyas-musket!
What news with you?"

It was thus metaphorically used as a jocular phrase for a small child. As the invention, too, of fire-arms took place 4 at a time when hawking was in high fashion, some of the new weapons were named after those birds, probably from

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the idea of their fetching their prey from on high. Musket has thus become the established name for one sort of gun. Some, however, assert that the musket was invented in the fifteenth century, and owes its name to its inventors.

Starling.—This was one of the birds that was in days gone by trained to speak. In "1 Henry IV." (i. 3), Hotspur says—

"I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion."

Pliny tells us how starlings were taught to utter both Latin and Greek words for the amusement of the young Cæsars; and there are numerous instances on record of the clever sentences uttered by this amusing bird.

Swallow.—This bird has generally been honoured as the harbinger of spring, and Athenæus relates that the Rhodians had a solemn song to welcome it. Anacreon has a well known ode. Shakespeare in the "Winter's Tale" (iv. 3), alludes to the time of the swallow's appearance in the following passage—

"Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

And its departure is mentioned in "Timon of Athens" (iii. 6), "The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship."

We may compare Tennyson's notice of the bird's approach and migration in the "May Queen"—

"And the swallow ’ll come back again with summer o’er the wave."

It has been long considered lucky for the swallow to build its nest on the roof of a house, but just as unlucky for it to forsake a place which it has once tenanted. Shakespeare probably had this superstition in his mind when he represents Scarus as saying, in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 12)—

"Swallows have built
In Cleopatra's sails their nests: the augurers
Say they know not,—they cannot tell;—look grimly,
And dare not speak their knowledge."

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Swan.—According to a romantic notion, dating from antiquity, the swan is said to sing sweetly just before its death, many pretty allusions to which we find scattered here and there throughout Shakespeare's plays. In "Merchant of Venice" (iii. 2), Portia says—

"He makes a swan-like end,
Fading in music."

Emilia, too, in "Othello" (v. 2), just before she dies, exclaims—

"I will play the swan,
And die in music."

In "King John" (v. 7), Prince Henry, at his father's deathbed, thus pathetically speaks—

"’Tis strange that death should sing.
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest."

Again, in "Lucrece" (1611), we have these touching lines—

"And now this pale swan in her watery nest,
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending."

And once more in "Phœnix and the Turtle"—

"Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right."

This superstition, says Douce, 1 "was credited by Plato, Chrysippus, Aristotle, Euripides, Philostratus, Cicero, Seneca, and Martial. Pliny, Ælian, and Athenæus, among the ancients, and Sir Thomas More, among the moderns, treat this opinion as a vulgar error. Luther believed in it." This notion probably originated in the swan being identified with Orpheus. Sir Thomas Browne 2 says we read that, "after his death Orpheus the musician became a swan. Thus was it the bird of Apollo, the bird of music by the Greeks." Alluding

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to this piece of folk-lore, Carl Engel 1 remarks:—"Although our common swan does not produce sounds which might account for this tradition, it is a well-known fact that the wild swan (Cygnus ferus), also called the 'whistling swan,' when on the wing emits a shrill tone, which, however harsh it may sound if heard near, produces a pleasant effect when, emanating from a large flock high in the air, it is heard in a variety of pitches of sound, increasing or diminishing in loudness according to the movement of the birds and to the current of the air." Colonel Hawker 2 says, "The only note which I ever heard the wild swan make, in winter, is his well-known 'whoop.'" 3

Tassel-Gentle. 4—The male of the Goshawk was so called on account of its tractable disposition, and the facility with which it was tamed. It occurs in "Romeo and Juliet" (ii. 2)—

"O, for a falconer's voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!"

Spenser, in his "Faerie Queene" (Bk. iii., iv. 49), says—

"Having far off espied a tassel-gent
Which after her his nimble wings doth straine."

This species of hawk was also commonly called a "falcon-gentle;" on account of "her familiar, courteous, disposition." 5

Turkey.—This bird, so popular with us at Christmas-tide, is mentioned in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 1), where the First Carrier says:—"God's body! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved." This however, is an anachronism on the part of Shakespeare, as the turkey was unknown in this country until the reign of Henry VIII. According to a rhyme written in 1525, commemorating the introduction of this bird, we are told how—

"Turkies, carps, hoppes, piccarell, and beere,
Came into England all in one yeare."

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[paragraph continues] The turkey is again mentioned by Shakespeare in 'Twelfth Night' (ii. 5), where Fabian says of Malvolio:—"Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes."

Vulture.—In several passages Shakespeare has introduced most forcibly this bird to deepen the beauty of some of his exquisite passages. Thus King Lear (ii. 4), when complaining of the unkindness of a daughter, bitterly exclaims—

"O Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here."

What, too, can be more graphic than the expression of Tamora in "Titus Andronicus" (v. 2)—

"I am Revenge, sent from the infernal kingdom,
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind."

Equally forcible too are Pistol's words in "The Merry Wives of Windsor" (i. 3)—

"Let vultures gripe thy guts."

Johnson considers that "the vulture of sedition" in "2 Henry VI." (iv. 3), is in allusion to the tale of Prometheus, but of this there is a decided uncertainty.

Wagtail.—In "King Lear" (ii. 2), Kent says—

"Spare my grey beard, you wagtail,"

the word being used, in an opprobrious sense, to signify an officious person.

Woodcock.—In several passages this bird is used to denote a fool or silly person; as in "Taming of the Shrew" (i. 2)—

"O this woodcock! what an ass it is!"

And again in "Much ado about Nothing" (v. 1) where Claudio, alluding to the plot against Benedick, says—

"Shall I not find a woodcock too."

In "Love's Labour's Lost" (iv. 3) Biron says—

"O heavens, I have my wish;
Duncan's transformed: four woodcocks in a dish."

The woodcock has generally been proverbial as a foolish bird,—perhaps because it is easily caught in springes or

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nets. 1 Thus the popular phrase "Springes to catch woodcocks "meant arts to entrap simplicity, 2 as in "Hamlet" (i. 3)—

"Aye, springes to catch woodcocks."

A similar expression occurs in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Loyal Subject" (iv. 4)—

"Go like a woodcock,
And thrust your neck i’ th’ noose."

"It seems," says Nares, "that woodcocks are now grown wiser by time, for we do not now hear of their being so easily caught. If they were sometimes said to be without brains, it was only founded on their character, certainly not on any examination of the fact." 3 Formerly, one of the terms for twilight 4 was "cock-shut time," because the net in which cocks, i.e. woodcocks, were shut in during the twilight, was called a "cock-shut." It appears that a large net was stretched across a glade, and so suspended upon poles as to be easily drawn together. Thus in "Richard III." (v. 3) Ratcliff says—

"Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself,
Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop,
Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers."

In Ben Jonson's "Masque of Gypsies" we read—

"Mistress, this is only spite;
For you would not yesternight
Kiss him in the cock-shut light."

Sometimes it was erroneously written "cock-shoot." "Come, come away then, a fine cock-shoot evening." In the "Two Noble Kinsmen" (iv. i) we find the term "cock-light."

Wren.—The diminutive character of this bird is noticed in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 1, song)—

"The wren with little quill."

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Lady Macbeth (iv. 2) says—

"The poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl."

Considering, too, that as many as sixteen young ones have been found in this little bird's nest, we can say with Grahame in his poem on the birds of Scotland—

"But now behold the greatest of this train
Of miracles, stupendously minute;
The numerous progeny, claimant for food
Supplied by two small bills, and feeble wings
Of narrow range, supplied—ay, duly fed—
Fed in the dark, and yet not one forgot."

The epithet "poor" applied to the wren by Lady Macbeth was certainly appropriate in days gone by, when we recollect how it was cruelly hunted in Ireland on St Stephen's day—a practice which prevailed also in the Isle of Man. 1

Folk-lore of Shakespeare

2009-06-22T00:39:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER V.

NATURAL PHENOMENA.

Many of the most beautiful and graphic passages in Shakespeare's writings have pictured the sun in highly glowing language, and often invested it with that sweet pathos for which the poet was so signally famous. Expressions, for instance, such as the following are ever frequent:—"The glorious sun" ("Twelfth Night," iv. 3); "heaven's glorious sun" ("Love's Labour's Lost," i. 1); "gorgeous as the sun at Midsummer" ("1 Henry IV.," iv. 1); "all the world is cheered by the sun" ("Richard III.," i. 2); "the sacred radiance of the sun" ("King Lear," i. 1); "sweet tidings of the sun's uprise" ("Titus Andronicus," iii. 1), &c. Then, again, how often we come across passages replete with pathos, such as "the sun sets weeping in the lowly west" ("Richard II.," ii. 4); "ere the weary sun set in the west" ("Comedy of Errors," i. 2); "the weary sun hath made a golden set" ("Richard III.," v. 3); "the sun for sorrow will not show his head" ("Romeo and Juliet," v. 3), &c. Although, however, Shakespeare has made such constant mention of the sun, yet his allusions to the folk-lore connected with it are somewhat scanty.

According to the old philosophy, the sun was accounted a planet, 1 and thought to be whirled round the earth by the motion of a solid sphere, in which it was fixed. In "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 15), Cleopatra exclaims—

"O sun,
Burn the great sphere thou movest in! darkling stand
The varying shore o’ the world."

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[paragraph continues] Supposing this sphere consumed, the sun must wander in endless space, and, as a natural consequence, the earth be involved in endless night.

In "1 Henry IV.," (i. 2), Falstaff, according to vulgar astronomy, calls the sun a "wandering knight,"—and by this expression evidently alludes to some knight of romance. Mr Douce 1 considered the allusion was to "The Voyage of the Wandering Knight," by Jean de Cathenay, of which the translation, by W. Goodyeare, appeared about the year 1600. The words may be a portion of some forgotten ballad.

A pretty fancy is referred to in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 5), where Capulet says—

"When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright."

And so, too, in the "Rape of Lucreece":—

"But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set."

"That Shakespeare thought it was the air," says Singer, 2 "and not the earth, that drizzled dew, is evident from many passages in his works. Thus, in King John" (ii. 1) he says:—"Before the dew of evening fall." Steevens, alluding to the following passage in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 1), "and when she (i.e. the moon) weeps, weeps every little flower," says that Shakespeare "means that every little flower is moistened with dew, as if with tears; and not that the flower itself drizzles dew."

By a popular fancy, the sun was formerly said to dance at its rising on Easter morning—to which there may be an allusion in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 5), where Romeo addressing Juliet, says

"Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east;
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops."

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[paragraph continues] We may also compare the expression in "Coriolanus" (v. 4):—

"The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes,
Tabors and cymbals and the shouting Romans,
Make the sun dance."

Mr Knight remarks, there was "Something exquisitely beautiful in the old custom of going forth into the fields before the sun had risen on Easter Day, to see him mounting over the hills with tremulous motion, as if it were an animate thing, bounding in sympathy with the redeemed of mankind." 1

A cloudy rising of the sun has generally been regarded as ominous—a superstition equally prevalent on the Continent as in this country. In "Richard III." (v. 3), King Richard asks:—

"Who saw the sun to-day?
Ratcliff. Not I, my lord,
K. Richard. Then he disdains to shine; for, by the book
He should have braved the east an hour ago:
A black day will it be to somebody."

"The learned Moresin in his 'Papatus,'" says Brand, 2 "reckons among omens, the cloudy rising of the sun." Virgil, too, in his 1st Georgic (441–9) considers it a sign of stormy weather 3:—

"Ille ubi nascentem maculis variaverit ortum
Conditus in nubem, medioque refugerit orbe;
Suspecti tibi sint imbres; namque urget ab alto
Arboribusque satisque notus pecorique sinister,
Aut ubi sub lucem densa inter nubila sese
Diversi rumpent radii, ut ubi pallida surget,
Tithoni croceum linquens Aurora cubile:
Heu male tum mites defendet pampinus uvas:
Tam multa in tectis crepitans salit horrida grando."

A red sunrise is also unpropitious, and according to a well-known rhyme:—

"If red the sun begins his race,
Be sure the rain will fall apace."

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This old piece of weather-wisdom is mentioned by our Lord in St Matthew xvi. 2, 3:—"When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. And in the morning, It will be foul weather today, for the sky is red and lowring." Shakespeare in his "Venus and Adonis," thus describes it:—

"—A red morn, that ever yet betoken’d
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds."

Mr Swainson 1 shows that this notion is common on the Continent. Thus, at Milan the proverb runs, "If the morn be red, rain is at hand."

Shakespeare in "Richard II." (ii. 4), alludes to another indication of rain:—

"The sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe and unrest."

A "watery sunset" is still considered by many a forerunner of wet. A red sunset, on the other hand, beautifully described in "Richard III" (v. 3):—

"The weary sun hath made a golden set,"

is universally regarded as a prognostication of fine weather, and we find countless proverbs illustrative of this notion—one of the most popular being—"Sky red at night, is the sailor's delight."

From the earliest times an eclipse of the sun was looked upon as an omen of coming calamity; and was oftentimes the source of extraordinary alarm as well as the occasion of various superstitious ceremonies. In 1597, during an eclipse of the sun, it is stated that at Edinburgh, men and women thought the day of judgment was come. 2 Many women swooned, much crying was heard in the streets, and in fear some ran to the kirk to pray. Mr Napier says he remembers "an eclipse about 1818, when about three parts of the sun was covered. The alarm in the village was very great, indoor work was suspended for the time, and in several families

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prayers were offered for protection, believing that it portended some awful calamity; but when it passed off there was a general feeling of relief." In "King Lear" (i. 2), Gloucester remarks:—"These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects; love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide; in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father." Othello, too (v. 2), in his agony and despair, exclaims:—

"O heavy hour!
Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration."

Francis Bernier 1 says that, in France in 1654, at an eclipse of the sun, "some bought drugs against the eclipse, others kept themselves close in the dark in their caves and their well closed chambers, others cast themselves in great multitudes into the churches; those apprehending some malign and dangerous influence, and these believing that they were come to the last day, and that the eclipse would shake the foundations of nature." 2

In "3rd Henry VI." (ii. 1), Shakespeare refers to a curious circumstance in which, on a certain occasion, the sun is reported to have appeared like three suns. Edward says, "do I see three suns?" to which Richard replies:—

"Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow’d some league inviolable:
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun,
In this the heaven figures some event." 3

This fact is mentioned both by Hall and Holinshed, the latter says:—"At which tyme the sun (as some write)

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appeared to the Earl of March like three sunnes, and sodainely joyned altogether in one, upon whiche sight hee tooke such courage, that he fiercely setting on his enemyes put them to flight."—We may note here that on Trinity Sunday three suns are supposed to be seen. In the "Memoires de l’Academie Celtique" (iii. 447), it is stated that "Le jour de la fête de la Trinite, quelques personne vont de grand matin dans la campagne, pour y voir levre trois soleils à la fois."

According to an old proverb to quit a better for a worse situation was spoken of as to go "out of God's blessing into the warm sun," a reference to which we find in "King Lear" (ii. 2), where Kent says:—

"Good King, that must approve the common saw,
That out of heaven's benediction comest
To the warm sun."

Dr Johnson thinks that Hamlet alludes to this saying (i. 2), for when the king says to him, "How is it that the clouds still hang on you?" he replies, "not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun," i.e., out of God's blessing.

This expression, says Mr Dyce, 1 is found in various authors from Heywood down to Swift—the former has:—

"In your running from him to me, yee runne
Out of God's blessing into the warme sunne."

And the latter—

"Lord Sparkish. They say, marriages are made in heaven; but I doubt, when she was married, she had no friend there.
Neverout. Well, she's got out of God's blessing into the warm sun." 2

There seems to have been a prejudice from time immemorial against sunshine in March; and according to a German saying, it were "better to be bitten by a snake than to feel the sun in March." Thus in "1 Henry IV." (iv. 1), Hotspur says—

"Worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues."

Shakespeare employs the words "sun-burned" in the sense of uncomely, ill-favoured. In "Much ado" (ii. 1), Beatrice

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says, "I am sunburnt;" and in "Troilus and Cressida" (i. 3), Æneas remarks—

"The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth
The splinter of a lance."

Moon. Apart from his sundry allusions to the "pale-faced," "silver moon," Shakespeare has referred to many of the superstitions associated with it, several of which still linger on in country nooks. A widespread legend of great antiquity informs us that the moon is inhabited by a man 1 with a bundle of sticks on his back, who has been exiled thither for many centuries, and who is so far off that he is beyond the reach of death. This tradition, which has given rise to many superstitions, is still preserved under various forms in most countries; but it has not been decided who the culprit originally was, and how he came to be imprisoned in his lonely abode. Dante calls him Cain; Chaucer assigns his exile as a punishment for theft, and gives him a thorn-bush to carry, while Shakespeare also loads him with the thorns, but by way of compensation gives him a dog for a companion. In the "Tempest" (ii. 2), Caliban asks Stephano whether he has "not dropp’d from heaven?" to which he answers, "Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man i’ the moon when time was." Whereupon Caliban says—

"I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee:
My mistress show’d me thee and thy dog and thy bush."

We may also compare the expression in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (v. 1), where, in the directions for the performance of the play of "Pyramus and Thisbe," Moonshine is represented "with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn." And further on in the same scene, describing himself, Moonshine says—"All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; 2 this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog."

Ordinarily, 3 however, his offence is stated to have been

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[paragraph continues] Sabbath-breaking—an idea derived from the Old Testament. Like the man mentioned in the "Book of Numbers" (xv. 32), he is caught gathering sticks on the Sabbath; and, as an example to mankind, he is condemned to stand for ever in the moon, with his bundle on his back. Instead of a dog, one German version places him with a woman, whose crime was churning butter on Sunday. The Jews have a legend that Jacob is the moon, and they believe that his face is visible. Mr Baring Gould 1 says that the "idea of locating animals in the two great luminaries of heaven is very ancient, and is a relic of a primeval superstition of the Aryan race." The natives of Ceylon, instead of a man, have placed a hare in the moon; and the Chinese represent the moon by "a rabbit pounding rice in a mortar." 2

From the very earliest times the moon has not only been an object of popular superstition, but been honoured by various acts of adoration. In Europe, 3 in the fifteenth century, "it was a matter of complaint that some still worshipped the new moon with bended knee, or hood or hat removed. And to this day we may still see a hat raised to her, half in conservatism and half in jest. It is with deference to silver as the lunar metal that money is turned when the act of adoration is performed, while practical peasant wit dwells on the ill luck of having no piece of silver when the new moon is first seen." Shakespeare often incidentally alludes to this form of superstition. To quote one or two out of many instances, Enobarbus, in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 9) says—

"Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon."

In "Love's Labour's Lost" (v. 2), the king says—

"Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,
Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne."

Indeed it was formerly a common practice for people to address invocations to the moon, 4 and even at the present day we find remnants of this practice both in this country and

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abroad. Thus in many places it is customary for young women to appeal to the moon to tell them of their future prospects in matrimony, 1 the following or similar lines being repeated on the occasion—

"New moon, new moon, I hail thee:
New moon, new moon, be kind to me;
If I marry man or man marry me,
Show me how many moons it will be."

It was also the practice to swear by the moon, to which we find an allusion in "Romeo and Juliet" (ii. 2), where Juliet reproves her lover for testifying his affections by this means—

"O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable."

And again, in "Merchant of Venice" (v. 1), where Gratiano exclaims—

"By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong."

We may note here that the inconstancy 2 of the moon is the subject of various myths, of which Mr Tylor has given the following examples:—Thus an Australian legend says that Mityan, the moon, was a native cat, who fell in love with some one else's wife, and was driven away to wander ever since. A Slavonic legend tells us that the moon, king of night, and husband of the sun, faithlessly loved the morning star, wherefore he was cloven through in punishment, as we see him in the sky. The Khasias of the Himalaya say that the moon falls monthly in love with his mother-in-law, who throws ashes in his face, whence his spots. 3

As in the case of the sun, an eclipse of the moon was formerly considered ominous. The Romans 4 supposed it was owing to the influence of magical charms, to counteract which they had recourse to the sound of brazen instruments of all

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kinds. Juvenal alludes to this practice in his Sixth Satire (44i), when he describes his talkative woman—

"Jam nemo tubas, nemo æra fatiget,
Una laboranti poterit succurrere lunæ."

Indeed eclipses, which to us are well-known phenomena witnessing to the exactness of natural laws, were in the earlier stages of civilisation regarded as "the very embodiment of miraculous disaster." Thus the Chinese believed that during eclipses of the sun and moon these celestial bodies were attacked by a great serpent, to drive away which they struck their gongs or brazen drums. The Peruvians entertaining a similar notion, raised a frightful din when the moon was eclipsed, 1 while some savages would shoot up arrows to defend their luminaries against the enemies they fancied were attacking them. It was also a popular belief that the moon was affected by the influence of witchcraft, a notion referred to by Prospero in "The Tempest" (v. 1), who says—

"His mother was a witch, and one so strong
That could control the moon."

In a former scene (ii. 1), Gonzalo remarks:—"You are gentlemen of brave metal; you would lift the moon out of her sphere." Douce 2 quotes a marginal reference from Adlington's translation of "Apuleius" (1596), a book well known to Shakespeare:—"Witches in old time were supposed to be of such power, that they could put downe the moone by their enchantment." 3 One of the earliest references to this superstition among classical authorities is, that in the "Clouds" of Aristophanes, where Strepsiades proposes the hiring of a Thessalian witch, to bring down the moon and shut her up in a box, that he might thus evade paying his debts by a month. Ovid, in his "Metamorphoses" (c. xii. 263), says:—

"Mater erat Mycale; quam deduxisse canendo
Sæpe reluctanti constabat cornua lunæ."

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[paragraph continues] Horace in his fifth Epode (l. 45) tells us:—

"Quæ sidera excantata voce Thessala,
Lunamque cœlo deripit." 1

Reverting again to the moon's eclipse; such a season being considered most unlucky for lawful enterprises, was held suitable for evil designs. Thus, in "Macbeth" (iv. 1), one of the witches, speaking of the ingredients of the cauldron, says:—

"Gall of goat, and slips of yew,
Sliver’d in the moon's eclipse."

As a harbinger of misfortune it is referred to in "Antony, and Cleopatra" where (iii. 13), Antony says:—

"Alack, our terrene moon
Is now eclipsed; and it portends alone
The fall of Antony!"

Milton in his "Paradise Lost" (bk. i. S97), speaks much in the same strain:—

"As when the sun new-risen
Looks through the horizontal misty air
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds
On half the nations."

And in "Lycidas," he says of the unlucky ship that was wrecked:—

"It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in the eclipse."

Its sanguine colour is also mentioned as an indication of coming disasters in "Richard II." (ii. 4), where the Welsh captain remarks how

"The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth."

And its paleness, too, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 2), is spoken of as an unpropitious sign.

According to a long accepted theory, insane persons are said to be influenced by the moon; and many old writers

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have supported this notion. Indeed, Shakespeare himself in "Othello" (v. 2), tells how the moon when "She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, makes men mad." Dr Forbes Winslow, in his "Light: its Influence on Life and Health," says, that "it is impossible altogether to ignore the evidence of such men as Pinel, Daquin, Guislain, and others, yet the experience of modern psychological physicians, is to a great degree opposed to the deductions of these eminent men." He suggests that the alleged changes observed among the insane at certain phases of the moon, may arise, not from the direct, but the indirect, influence of the planet. It is well known that certain important meteorological phenomena, result from the various phases of the moon, such as the rarity of the air, the electric conditions of the atmosphere, the degree of heat, dryness, moisture, and amount of wind prevailing. It is urged then, that those suffering from diseases of the brain, and nervous system affecting the mind, cannot be considered as exempt from the operation of agencies that are admitted to affect patients afflicted with other maladies. Dr Winslow further adds, that "an intelligent lady, who occupied for about five years the position of matron in my establishment for insane ladies, has remarked that she invariably observed among them, a greater agitation when the moon was at its full." A correspondent of "Notes and Queries" (2nd S., xii. 492), explains the apparent aggravated symptoms of madness at the full moon by the fact that the insane are naturally more restless on light than on dark nights, and that in consequence loss of sleep makes them more excitable. We may note here, that in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 9), Enobarbus invokes the moon as the "sovereign mistress of true melancholy."

The moisture of the moon is invariably noticed by Shakespeare. In "Hamlet" (i. 1) Horatio tells how "the moist star upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse." In "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (ii. 1) Titania says—

"Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound."

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[paragraph continues] And in "The Winter's Tale" (i. 2) Polixenes commences by saying how—

"Nine changes of the watery star hath been
The shepherd's note since we have left our throne
Without a burthen."

We may compare, too, the words of Enobarbus in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iv. 9), who, after addressing the moon, says—"The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me." And once more in "Romeo and Juliet" (i. 4) we read of the "moonshine's watery beams."

The same idea is frequently found in old writers. Thus for instance, in Newton's "Direction for the Health of Magistrates and Studentes," (1574), we are told that "the moone is ladye of moisture." Bartholomœus in "De Proprietate Rerum" describes the moon as "mother of all humours, minister and ladye of the sea." 1 In Lydgate's prologue to his "Story of Thebes" there are two lines not unlike those in "Midsummer Night's Dream" already quoted—

"Of Lucina the moone, moist and pale,
That many shoure fro heaven made availe."

Of course, the moon is thus spoken of as governing the tides, and from its supposed influence on the weather. 2 In 1 Henry IV. (i. 2) Falstaff alludes to the sea being governed "by our noble and chaste mistress the moon"; and in "Richard III." (ii. 2) Queen Elizabeth says—

"That I, being govern’d by the watery moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world."

We may compare, too, what Timon says, "Timon of Athens" (iv. 3)—

"The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears."

The expression of Hecate in "Macbeth" (iii. 5)—

"Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound,"

seems to have been meant for the same as the virus lunare of the ancients, being a foam which the moon was supposed

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to shed on particular herbs, when strongly solicited by enchantment. Lucan introduces Erictho using it (Pharsalia, book vi. 669)—"Et virus large lunare ministrat."

By a popular astrological doctrine the moon was supposed to exercise great influence over agricultural operations, and also over many "of the minor concerns of life, such as the gathering of herbs, the killing of animals for the table, and other matters of a like nature." Thus the following passage in the "Merchant of Venice" (v. 1), it has been suggested, has reference to the practices of the old herbalists who attributed particular virtues to plants gathered during particular phases of the moon and hours of the night. After Lorenzo has spoken of the moon shining brightly, Jessica adds—

—"In such a night
Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs,
That did renew old Æson."

And in "Hamlet" (iv. 7) the description which Laertes gives of the weapon-poison refers to the same notion—

"I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death."

The sympathy of growing and declining nature with the waxing and waning moon is a superstition widely spread, and is as firmly believed in by many as when Tusser in his "Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry," under "February" gave the following advice—

"Sow peason and beans, in the wane of the moon,
Who soweth them sooner, he soweth too soon,
That they with the planet may rest and arise,
And flourish, with bearing most plentifull wise."

Warburton considers that this notion is alluded to by Shakespeare in "Troilus and Cressida" (iii. 2) where Troilus speaking of the sincerity of his love tells Cressida it is—

"As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,
As sun to day, as turtle to her mate."

There is a little doubt as to the exact meaning of plantage in this passage. Nares observes that it probably

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means anything that is planted; but Mr Ellacombe in his "Plant Lore of Shakespeare" (1878, p. 165) says "it is doubtless the same as plantain."

It appears that, in days gone by, "neither sowing, planting, nor grafting was ever undertaken without a scrupulous attention to the increase or waning of the moon." 1 Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," notes how "the poore husbandman perceiveth that the increase of the moone maketh plants fruitful, so as in the full moone they are in best strength; decaieing in the wane, and in the conjunction do utterlie wither and vade."

It was a prevailing notion that the moon had an attending star—Lilly calls it "Lunisequa;" and Sir Richard Hawkins, in his "Observations in a voyage to the South Seas in 1593," published in 1622, remarks: "Some I have heard say, and others write, that there is a starre which never separateth itself from the moon, but a small distance." Staunton considers that there is an allusion to this idea in "Love's Labour's Lost" (iv. 3), where the king says—

"My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon:
She an attending star, scarce seen a light."

The sharp ends of the new moon are popularly termed horns—a term which occurs in "Coriolanus" (i. 1)—"They threw their caps as they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon." It is made use of in Decker's "Match me in London" (i.)—

"My lord, doe you see this change i’ the moone?
Sharp homes doe threaten windy weather."

When the horns of the moon appear to point upwards, the moon is said to be like a boat, and various weather prognostications are drawn from this phenomena. 2 According to sailors, it is an omen of fine weather, whereas others affirm it is a sign of rain—resembling a basin full of water about to fall.

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Among other items of folk-lore connected with the moon, we may mention the moon-calf, a false conception, or fœtus imperfectly formed, in consequence, as was supposed, of the influence of the moon. The best account of this fabulous substance may be found in Drayton's poem with that title. Trinculo in the "Tempest" (ii. 2), supposes Caliban to be a moon-calf—

"I hid me under the dead moon-calf's gaberdine."

It has been suggested that in calling Caliban a moon-calf, Shakespeare alluded to a superstitious belief formerly current, in the intercourse of demons and other non-human beings with mankind. In the days of witchcraft, it was supposed that a class of devils called Incubi and Succubi roamed the earth with the express purpose of tempting people to abandon their purity of life. Hence, all badly deformed children were suspected of having had such an undesirable parentage. 1

A curious expression, "a sop o’ the moonshine," occurs in "King Lear" (ii. 2), which probably alludes to some dish so called. Kent says to the steward—"Draw, you rogue; for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I'll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you."

There was a way of dressing eggs, called "eggs in moonshine," of which Douce 2 gives the following description:—"Eggs were broken and boiled in salad oil till the yolks became hard. They were eaten with slices of onion fried in oil, butter, verjuice, nutmeg, and salt." "A sop in the moonshine" must have been a sippet in this dish. 3

Planets.—The irregular motion of the planets was supposed to portend some disaster to mankind. Ulysses in "Troilus and Cressida" (i. 3), declares how—

"When the planets
In evil mixture to disorder wander,
What plagues and what portents! what mutiny!
What raging of the sea! shaking of earth!

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[paragraph continues] Commotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors,
Divert and crack, rend and deracinate
The unity and married calm of states
Quite from their fixture."

Indeed, the planets themselves were not thought in days gone by, to be confined in any fixed orbit of their own, but ceaselessly to wander about, as the etymology of their name demonstrates. A popular name for the planets was "wandering stars," of which Cotgrave says, "they bee also called wandering starres, because they never keep one certain place or station in the firmament." Thus Hamlet (v. 1), approaching the grave of Ophelia, addresses Laertes—

"What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers?"

In Tomkis's "Albumazar" (i. 1), they are called "wanderers"—

"Your patron Mercury, in his mysterious character
Holds all the marks of the other wanderers."

According to vulgar astrology, the planets like the stars, were supposed to affect, more or less, the affairs of this world, a notion frequently referred to by old writers. In "Winter's Tale" (ii. 1), Hermione consoles herself in the thought—

"There's some ill planet reigns:
I must be patient till the heavens look
With an aspect more favourable."

In 1 Henry VI. (i. 1), the Duke of Exeter asks—

"What! shall we curse the planets of mishap
That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?"

Again, King Richard (Richard III., iv. 4)—

"Be opposite all planets of good luck
To my proceedings."

And once more, in "Hamlet" (i. 1), Marcellus, speaking of the season of our Saviour's birth, says, "then no planets strike."

That diseases, too, are dependent upon planetary influence is referred to in "Timon of Athens" (iv. 3)—

"Be as a planetary plague, when Jove
Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison
In the sick air: Let not thy sword skip one."

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"Fiery Trigon" was a term in the old judicial astrology, when the three upper planets met in a fiery sign,—a phenomenon which was supposed to indicate rage and contention. It is mentioned in "2 Henry IV." (ii. 4)—

"P. Hen. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! What says the almanac to that?
Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his master's old tables!"

Dr Nash, in his notes to Butler's "Hudibras," says, "the twelve signs in astrology are divided into four trigons or triplicities, each denominated from the connatural element; so they are three fiery [signs], three airy, three watery, and three earthy:"—

Fiery—Aries, Leo, Sagittarius.

Airy—Gemini, Libra, Aquarius.

Watery—Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces.

Earthly—Taurus, Virgo, Capricornus.

Thus, when the three superior planets met in Aries, Leo, or Sagittarius, they formed a fiery trigon; when in Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces, a watery one.

Charles’s Wain was the old name for the seven bright stars of the constellation Ursa Major. The constellation was so named in honour of Charlemagne; or, according to some, it is a corruption of chorles or churl's, i.e., rustic's wain. Chorl is frequently used for a countryman in old books, from the Saxon ceorl. In "1 Henry IV." (ii. 1), the Carrier says, "Charles’ wain is over the new chimney."

Music of the spheres.—Pythagoras was the first who suggested this notion, so beautifully expressed by Shakespeare in the "Merchant of Venice" (v. 1).

"There's not the smallest orb which thou behold’st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins."

Plato says that a syren sits on each planet, who carols a most sweet song, agreeing to the motion of her own particular planet, but harmonising with the other seven. Hence Milton in his "Arcades" speaks of the "celestial syrens’ harmony, that sits upon the nine enfolded spheres."

Stars.—An astrological doctrine, which has kept its place

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in modern popular philosophy, asserts that mundane events are more or less influenced by the stars. That astronomers should have divided the sun's course into imaginary signs of the Zodiac, was enough, says Mr Tylor, 1 to originate astrological rules "that these celestial signs have an actual effect on real earthly rams, bulls, crabs, lions, virgins." Hence we are told that a child born under the sign of the Lion will be courageous; but one born under the Crab will not go forth well in life; one born under the Waterman is likely to be drowned, and so forth. Shakespeare frequently alludes to this piece of superstition, which, it must be remembered, was carried to a ridiculous height in his day. In "Julius Cæsar" (i. 2), Cassius says—

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

In the following passage in "Twelfth Night" (i. 3)—

"Sir Tob. Were we not born under Taurus?
Sir And. Taurus! that's sides and heart.
Sir Tob. No, sir; it is legs and thighs."

"Both the knights," says Mr Douce ("Illustrations of Shakspeare," p. 54), "are wrong in their astrology, according to the Almanacs of the time, which make Taurus govern the neck and throat."

Beatrice, in "Much Ado about Nothing" (ii. 1), says:" There was a star danced, and under that was I born;" Kent, in "King Lear" (iv. 3), remarks, "it is the stars, the stars above us, govern our conditions;" and once more, in "Pericles" (i. 1), King Antilochus, speaking of the charming qualities of his daughter, says:—

"Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride,
For the embracements even of Jove himself:
At whose conception, till Lucina reign’d,
Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence,
The senate-house of planets all did sit,
To knit in her their best perfections." 2

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Throughout the East, says Mr Tylor, 1 astrology even now remains a science in full esteem. The condition of mediæval Europe may still be perfectly realised by the traveller in Persia, where the Shah waits for days outside the walls of his capital till the constellations allow him to enter; and where, on the days appointed by the stars for letting blood, it literally flows in streams from the barbers’ shops in the streets. Professor Wuttke declares that there are many districts in Germany where the child's horoscope is still regularly kept with the baptismal certificate in the family chest." Astrology is ridiculed in a masterly manner in "King Lear" (i. 2); and Warburton suggests that if the date of the first performance of "King Lear" were well considered, "it would be found that something or other had happened at that time which gave a more than ordinary run to this deceit, as these words seem to indicate—"I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses." Zouch, 2 speaking of Queen Mary's reign, tells us that "Judicial astrology was much in use long after this time. Its predictions were received with reverential awe; and even men of the most enlightened understandings were inclined to believe that the conjunctions and oppositions of the planets had no little influence in the affairs of the world."

The pretence, also, of predicting events—such as pestilence from the aspect of the heavenly bodies—one form of medical astrology—is noticed in "Venus and Adonis"—

"Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries wear!
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banished by thy breath!"

Heroes were in ancient times immortalised by being placed among the stars, a custom to which Bedford refers in "1 Henry VI." (i. 1)—

"A far more glorious star thy soul will make
Than Julius Cæsar."

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[paragraph continues] And, again, "Pericles" (v. 3) exclaims—

"Heavens make a star of him."

On a medal of Hadrian, the adopted son of Trajan and Plotina, the divinity of his parents is expressed by placing a star over their heads; and in like manner the medals of Faustina the Elder exhibit her on an eagle, her head surrounded with stars. 1

In "2 Henry IV." (iv. 3) a ludicrous term for the stars is, "cinders of the elements;" and in "Merchant of Venice" (v. 1) they are designated "candles of the night."

Meteors.—An elegant description of a meteor well-known to sailors is given by Ariel in "The Tempest" (i. 2)—

"Sometime I’d divide
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join."

It is called by the French and Spaniards inhabiting the coasts of the Mediterranean—St Helme's or St Telme's fire; by the Italians—the fire of St Peter and St Nicholas. It is also known as the fire of St Helen, St Herm, and St Clare. Douce 2 tells us that whenever it appeared as a single flame it was supposed by the ancients to be Helena, the sister of Castor and Pollux, and in this state to bring ill luck, from the calamities which this lady is known to have caused in the Trojan war. When it came as a double flame it was called Castor and Pollux, and accounted a good omen. It has been described as a little blaze of fire, sometimes appearing by night on the tops of soldiers’ lances, or at sea on masts and sailyards, whirling and leaping in a moment from one place to another. According to some, it never appears but after a tempest, and is supposed to lead people to suicide by drowning. Shakespeare in all probability consulted Batman's "Golden Books of the Leaden Goddes," who, speaking of Castor and Pollux, says—"They were figured like two lampes or cresset lightes—one on the toppe of a maste, the other on the stemme or foreshippe." He adds that if the first light appears in the stem or foreship and ascends upwards, it is a

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sign of good luck; if "either lights begin at the topmast, bowsprit," or foreship, and descend towards the sea, it is a sign of a tempest. In taking, therefore, the latter position, Ariel had fulfilled the commands of Prospero and raised a storm. 1 Mr Swainson, in his "Weather Lore" (1873, p. 193), quotes the following, which is to the same purport—

"Last night I saw Saint Elmo's stars,
With their glittering lanterns all at play,
On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars,
And I knew we should have foul weather that day."

Capell, in his "School of Shakespeare" (1779, iii. 7), has pointed out a passage in Hakluyt's "Voyages" (1598, iii. 450), which strikingly illustrates the speech of Ariel, quoted above:—"I do remember that in the great and boysterous storme of this foule weather, in the night, there came vpon the toppe of our maine yarde and maine maste, a certaine little light, much like unto the light of a little candle, which the Spaniards called the Cuerpo-Santo, and said it was St Elmo, whom they take to bee the aduocate of sailers. . . . . This light continued aboord our ship about three houres, flying from maste to maste, and from top to top; and sometimes it would be in two or three places at once." This meteor was by some supposed to be a spirit; and by others "an exhalation of moyst vapours, that are ingendered by foul and tempestuous weather." 2 Mr Thoms in his "Notelets on Shakespeare" (1865, 59), says that, no doubt, Shakespeare had in mind the will-o’-the wisp. 3

Fire-Drake,—which is jocularly used in "Henry VIII." (v. 4), for a man with a red face, was one of the popular terms for the will-o’ the wisp, 4 and Burton in his "Anatomy of Melancholy" says:—"fiery spirits or devils are such as commonly work by fire-drakes, or ignes fatui, which lead men often in flumina et praecipitia." In Bullokar's "English Expositor" (1616), we

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have a quaint account of this phenomenon, "Fire-drake; a fire sometimes seen flying in the night like a dragon. Common people think it a spirit that keepeth some treasure hid, but philosophers affirme it to be a great unequal exhalation inflamed betweene two clouds, the one hot, the other cold, which is the reason that it also smoketh, the middle part whereof, according to the proportion of the hot cloud being greater than the rest, maketh it seem like a bellie, and both ends like unto a head and tail." 1 White, however, in his "Peripateticall Institutions" (p. 156), calls the fiery-dragon or fire-drake, "a weaker kind of lightning. Its livid colours, and its falling without noise and slowly, demonstrate a great mixture of watery exhalation in it. . . . . . ’Tis sufficient for its shape, that it has some resemblance of a dragon not the expresse figure."

Among other allusions to the will-o’ the wisp by Shakespeare, Mr Hunter 2 notices one in "King Lear" (iii. 3), where Glo’ster's torch being seen in the distance, the fool says, "Look, here comes a walking fire." Whereupon Edgar replies, "This is the foul fiend, Flibbertigibbet; he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock." "From which," observes Mr Hunter, "Flibbertigibbet seems to be a name for the will-o’-the-wisp. Hence the propriety of 'He begins at curfew, and walks till the crowing of the cock,' that is, is seen in all the dark of the night." It appears that when Shakespeare wrote, "a walking fire" was a common name for the ignis fatuus, as we learn from the story "How Robin Goodfellow lead a company of fellows out of their way'':—A company of young men having been making merry with their sweethearts, were, at their coming home, to come over a heath—Robin Goodfellow, knowing of it, met them, and to make some pastime hee led them up and downe the heathe a whole night, so that they could not get out of it, for hee went

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before them in the shape of a walking fire, which they all saw and followed till the day did appeare, then Robin left them, and at his departure spake these words:—

Get you home, you merry lads,
Tell your mammies and your dads,
And all those that newes desire
How you saw a walking fire,
Wenches, that doe smile and lispe
Use to call me willy-wispe."

Another allusion to this subject occurs in the "Tempest" (iv. 1), where Stephano, after Ariel has led him and his drunken companions through "tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns," and at last "left them i’ the filthy mantled pool," reproaches Caliban in these words—"Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us"—that is, to quote Dr Johnson's explanation of this passage "he has played Jack-with-a-lanthorn, has led us about like an ignis fatuus, by which travellers are decoyed into the mire." 1 Once more, when Puck, in "Midsummer Night's Dream" (iii. 1) speaks of the various forms he assumes in order to "mislead night wanderers, laughing at their harm," he says—

"Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire."

Shakespeare, no doubt, here alludes to the will-o’-the-wisp, an opinion shared by Mr Joseph Ritson, 2 who says—"This Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, seems likewise to be the illusory candle-holder, so fatal to travellers, and who is more usually called 'Jack-a-lantern,' 3 or 'Will-with-a-wisp,' and 'Kit-with-the-can-stick.'"

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[paragraph continues] "Milton in "Paradise Lost" (b. ix.) alludes to this deceptive gleam in the following lines

"A wandering fire
Compact of unctuous vapour, which the night
Condenses, and the cold environs round,
Kindled through agitation to a flame,
Which oft, they say, some evil spirit attends,
Hovering and blazing with delusive light,
Misleads th’ amaz’d night-wanderer from his way
To bogs and mires, and oft through pond and pool." 1

This appearance has given rise to a most extensive folklore, and is embodied in many of the fairy legends and superstitions of this and other countries. Thus, in Germany, Jack o’ Lanterns are said to be the souls of unbaptized children, that have no rest in the grave, and must hover between heaven and earth. In many places they are called land-measurers, and are seen like figures of fire, running to and fro with a red-hot measuring rod. These are said to be persons who have falsely sworn away land, or fraudulently measured it, or removed land-marks. 2 In the neighbourhood of Magdeburg, they are known as "Lüchtemännekens; and to cause them to appear, it is sufficient to call out "Ninove, Ninove." In the South Altmark they are termed "Dickepôten;" and if a person only prays as soon as he sees one, he draws it to him; if he curses, it retires. In some parts, too, a popular name is "Huckepôten," and "Tuckbolde." The Jack o’ Lanterns of Denmark 3 are the spirits of unrighteous men, who by a false glimmer, seek to mislead the traveller , and to decoy him into bogs and moors. The best safeguard against them, when they appear, is to turn one's cap inside out. A similar notion occurs in Devonshire with regard to the Pixies, who delight in leading astray such persons as they find abroad after nightfall; the only remedy to escape them being to turn some part of the dress. In Normandy, these fires are called "Feux Follets," and they are believed to be

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cruel spirits, whom it is dangerous to encounter. Among the superstitions which prevail in connection with them, two, says Mr Thoms, 1 are deserving of notice:—"One is, that the ignis fatuus is the spirit of some unhappy woman, who is destined to run en furolle, to expiate her intrigues with a minister of the church, and it is designated from that circumstance La Fourlore, or La Fourolle. Another opinion is, that Le Feu Follet is the soul of a priest, who has been condemned thus to expiate his broken vows of perpetual chastity; and it is very probable that it is to some similar belief existing in this country at the time when he wrote, that Milton alludes in "L’Allegro," when he says—

"She was pinched and pulled, she said,
And he by Friar's Lanthorn led."

In Brittany, the "Porte-brandon" appears in the form of a child bearing a torch, which he turns like a burning wheel; and with this, we are told, he sets fire to the villages, which are suddenly, sometimes in the middle of the night, wrapped in flames.

The appearance of meteors, Shakespeare ranks among omens, as in "1 Henry IV." (ii. 4), where Bardolph says:—"My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold these exhalations? what think you they portend?" And in "King John" (iii. 4), Pandulph speaks of meteors as "prodigies and signs." The Welsh Captain in "Richard II." (ii. 4), says—

"’Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay,
The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d,
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven."

Comet.—From the earliest times comets have been superstitiously regarded, and ranked among omens. Thus Thucydides tells us, that the Peloponnesian war was heralded by an abundance of earthquakes and comets; and Virgil, in speaking of the death of Cæsar, declares that at no other time did comets and other supernatural prodigies appear in greater numbers. It is probably to this latter event that Shakespeare alludes in "Julius Cæsar" (ii. 2), where he represents Calpurnia as saying:—

"When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

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[paragraph continues] Again, in "1 Henry VI." (i. 1), the play opens with the following words uttered by the Duke of Bedford:—

"Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!
Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
That have consented unto Henry's death!"

In "Taming of the Shrew," too (iii. 2), Petruchio, when he makes his appearance on his wedding-day, says:—

"Gentles, methinks you frown:
And wherefore gaze this goodly company,
As if they saw some wondrous monument,
Some comet, or unusual prodigy?"

In "1 Henry IV." (iii. 2), the king, when telling his son how he had always avoided making himself "common-hackney’d in the eyes of men," adds—

"By being seldom seen, I could not stir
But like a comet, I was wonder’d at."

Arcite, in the "Two Noble Kinsmen" (v. 1), when addressing the altar of Mars, says:—

"Whose approach
Comets forewarn."

Dew.—Amongst the many virtues ascribed to dew was its supposed power over the complexion, a source of superstition which still finds many believers, especially on May morning. 1* All dew, however, does not appear to have possessed this quality—some being of a deadly or malignant quality. Thus Ariel, in the "Tempest" (i. 2), speaks of the "deep brook" in the harbour—

"Where once
Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still vex’d Bermoothes."

And "Caliban" (i. 2), when venting his rage on Prospero and Miranda, can find no stronger curse than the following

"As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d,
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both!"

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It has been suggested that, in "Antony and Cleopatra" (iii. 12), Shakespeare may refer to an old notion whereby the sea was considered the source of dews as well as rain, Euphronius is represented as saying:—

"Such as I am, I come from Antony:
I was of late as petty to his ends
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf
To his grand sea."

According to an erroneous notion formerly current, it was supposed that the air, and not the earth, drizzled dew—a notion referred to in "Romeo and Juliet" (iii. 5):—

"When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew."

And in "King John" (ii. 1)—

"Before the dew of evening fall."

Then there is the celebrated honey-dew, a substance which has furnished the poet with a touching simile, which he has put into the mouth of "Titus Andronicus" (iii. 1):—

"When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d."

According to Pliny, "honey-dew" is the saliva of the stars, or a liquid produced by the purgation of the air. It is, however, a secretion deposited by a small insect, which is distinguished by the generic name of Aphis. 1

Rainbow.—Secondary rainbows, the watery appearance in the sky accompanying the rainbow, are in many places termed "water-galls"—a term we find in the "Rape of Lucreece" [1586–9]:—

"And round about her tear-distained eye
Blue circles stream’d, like rainbows in the sky:
These water-galls in her dim element
Foretell new storms to those already spent."

Horace Walpole several times makes use of the word—"False good news are always produced by true good, like the water-gall by the rainbow"; and again, "Thank heaven it is complete, and did not remain imperfect like a water-gall." 2

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[paragraph continues] In "The Dialect of Craven" we find "Water-gall, a secondary or broken rainbow. Germ. Wasser-galle."

Thunder.—According to an erroneous fancy the destruction occasioned by lightning was effected by some solid body known as the thunder-stone or thunder-bolt. Thus in the beautiful dirge in "Cymbeline" (iv. 2)—

"Guid. Fear no more the lightning flash,
Arv. Or the all dreaded thunder-stone."

Othello asks (v. 2)—

"Are there no stones in heaven
But what serve for the thunder?"

And in "Julius Cæsar" (i. 3) Cassius says

"And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see,
Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone."

The thunder stone is the imaginary product of the thunder, which the ancients called Brontia, mentioned by Pliny (Nat. Hist. xxxvii. 10) as a species of gem, and as that which, falling with the lightning, does the mischief. It is the fossil commonly called the Belemnite, or Finger Stone, and now known to be a shell.

A superstitious notion prevailed among the ancients, that those who were stricken with lightning were honoured by Jupiter, and therefore to be accounted holy. It is probably to this idea that Shakespeare alludes in "Antony and Cleopatra" (ii. 5)—

"Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt." 1

The bodies of such were supposed not to putrify; and, after having been exhibited for a certain time to the people, were not buried in the usual manner, but interred on the spot where the lightning fell, and a monument erected over them. Some, however, held a contrary opinion. Thus Persius (Sat. ii. line 27), says—

"Triste jaces lucis evitandumque bidental."

The ground, too, that had been smitten by a thunderbolt was accounted sacred, and afterwards enclosed; nor did anyone even presume to walk on it. Such spots were, therefore,

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consecrated to the gods, and could not in future become the property of anyone.

Among the many other items of folk-lore associated with thunder is a curious one referred to in "Pericles" (iv. 2)—

"Thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels."

The notion formerly being that thunder had the effect of rousing eels from their mud, and so rendered them more easy to be taken in stormy weather. Marston alludes to this superstition in his satires ("Scourge of Villainie," sat. vii.)—

"They are nought but eeles, that never will appeare
Till that tempestuous winds or thunder teare
Their slimy beds."

The silence that often precedes a thunder storm is thus graphically described in "Hamlet" (ii. 2)—

"We often see, against some storm,
A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,
The bold wind speechless, and the orb below
As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region."

Earthquakes, around which so many curious myths and superstitions have clustered, 1 are scarcely noticed by Shakespeare. They are mentioned among the ominous signs of that terrible night on which Duncan is so treacherously slain ("Macbeth," ii. 3)—

"The obscure bird
Clamour’d the livelong night: some say, the earth
Was feverous and did shake."

And in "1 King Henry IV." (iii. 1) Hotspur assigns as a reason for the earthquakes the following theory:—

"Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth
Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d
By the imprisoning of unruly wind
Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldam earth, and topples down
Steeples, and moss-grown towers."

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Equinox—The storms that prevail in spring at the vernal equinox are aptly alluded to in "Macbeth" (i. 2)—

"As whence the sun 'gins his reflection,
Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,
So from that spring whence comfort seem’d to come
Discomfort swells."

—the meaning being:—the beginning of the reflexion of the sun is the epoch of his passing from the severe to the milder season, opening, however, with storms.

Wind—An immense deal of curious weather lore 1 has been associated with the wind from the earliest period; and in our own and foreign countries innumerable proverbs are found describing the future state of the weather from the position of the wind, for, according to an old saying, "every wind has its weather." Shakespeare has introduced some of these, showing how keen an observer he was of those everyday sayings which have always been much in use, especially among the lower classes. Thus the proverbial wet which accompanies the wind when in the south is mentioned in "As you Like It" (iii. 5)—

"Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain."

And again in "1 Henry IV." (v. 1)—

"The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his (i.e. the sun's) purposes,
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blustering day."

A popular saying to the same effect, still in use, tells us that—

"When the wind is in the south,
It is in the rain's mouth."

Again, in days gone by, the southerly winds were generally supposed to be bearers of noxious fogs and vapours, frequent allusions to which are given by Shakespeare. Thus in the "Tempest" (i. 2), Caliban says

"A south-west blow on ye
And blister you all o’er."

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[paragraph continues] A book, 1 too, with which, as already noticed, Shakespeare appears to have been familiar, tells us, "This southern wind is hot and moist. Southern winds corrupt and destroy; they heat, and make men fall into the sickness." Hence, in "Troilus and Cressida" (v. 1), Thersites speaks of "the rotten diseases of the south;" and in "Coriolanus" (i. 4), Marcius exclaims—"All the contagion of the south light on you." Once more, in"Cymbeline" (ii. 3), Cloten speaks in the same strain—"The south fog rot him."

Flaws—These are sudden gusts of wind. It was the opinion, says Warburton, "of some philosophers that the vapours being congealed in the air by cold (which is the most intense in the morning), and being afterwards rarefied and let loose by the warmth of the sun, occasion those sudden and impetuous gusts of winds which were called 'flaws.'" Thus he comments on the following passage in "2 Henry IV." (iv. 4)—

"As humourous as winter and as sudden
As flaws congealed in the spring of day."

In "2 Henry VI." (iii. 1), these outbursts of wind are further alluded to—

"And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw."

Again, in "Venus and Adonis" (425), there is an additional reference—

"Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds."

In the Cornish dialect a flaw signifies primitively a cut. 2 But it is also there used in a secondary sense for those sudden or cutting gusts of wind. 3

Squalls.—There is a common notion that "the sudden

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storm lasts not three hours," an idea referred to by John of Gaunt in "Richard II." (ii. 1)—

"Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short."

Thus, in Norfolk, the peasantry say that "the faster the rain, the quicker the hold up," which is only a difference in words from the popular adage, "after a storm comes a calm."

Clouds.—In days gone by, clouds floating before the wind, like a reek or vapour, were termed racking clouds. Hence in "3 Henry VI." (ii. 1), Richard speaks of—

"Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated with the racking clouds."

This verb though now obsolete, was formerly in common use; and in "King Edward III.," 1596, we read:—

"Like inconstant clouds,
That, rack’d upon the carriage of the winds,
Increase," &c.

At the present day one may often hear the phrase, the rack of the weather, in our agricultural districts; many, too, of the items of weather-lore noticed by Shakespeare being still firmly credited by our peasantry.