Part 3

Being himself a physician, Peter Belon enlarges upon the maladies of birds; but he tells us that, with the exception of falcons, which are more especially under the care of man, they are their own doctors. “The pelican, which builds its nest on the ground, finding its young stung by a serpent, weeps bitterly, and piercing its own breast, gives its own blood to cure them.” (This is a new reading of the old story). “Quails, when they are indisposed, swallow the seeds of hellebore; and starlings take hemlock. The herb chélidoine (celandine, from the Greek kelidon, a swallow) derives its name from the fact that the swallow administers the juice of the plant to her young. The stork physics himself with marjoram. Wood pigeons, ravens, blackbirds, jays and partridges take laurel; while turtle-doves, pigeons, and cocks prescribe bird-weed. Ducks and geese eat sage.” (Sage enters largely into the affair, in combination with onions, when ducks and geese are eaten). “Cranes and herons employ marsh rushes. Thrushes and many smaller birds swallow the seeds of the ivy--which would be hurtful diet for man (qui seroit viande mauvaise à l’homme).” Not much worse, however, than hellebore or hemlock! But it would seem that the eagle family are exempt from the ordinary ailments of birds; for, in speaking of the Chrysaëtos, or great royal eagle, Belon tells us: “Eagles never change their place of abode, but always return to the same nest. It has thus been observed that they are long-lived. But becoming old, the beak grows so long that it becomes bent, and prevents the bird from eating, so that it dies, not of any malady, or extreme old age, but simply because it cannot make use of its beak.” I fear this is not one of the facts derived from Belon’s own observation.

Our fashionable ladies have passion for eider-down; but did they ever hear that the vulture can supply them with an article quite as soft? “Their skin,” says our author, “is almost as thick as that of a kid, and under the throat is a spot about the breadth of a palm, where the feathers are reddish, like the hair of a calf; and these feathers have no quills, any more than those on both sides of the neck and under the wings, where the down is so white that it shines like silk. The furriers, after removing the large feathers, leave the down, and curry the skins for mantles, which are worth a sum of money. In France they use them chiefly to place on the stomach (what we call bosom-friends). It would scarcely be believed that the vulture’s skin is so stout, if one had not seen it. Being in Egypt and on the plains of Arabia Deserta, we have noticed that the vultures are large and numerous, and the down from a couple of dozen of these would quite suffice for a large robe. At Cairo, on the Bezestein, where merchandise is exposed for sale, the traveller may obtain silken dresses lined with the skins of vultures, both black and white.”

Belon was a great observer of all the birds of prey, and appears to have taken many notes of their habits while living near the Monts d’Or, in Auvergne, under the protection of M. Duprat, the Bishop of Clermont. It was there he learnt the fact about the peasantry eating the goivan, called also the boudrée, which he thus describes: “There is not a peasant in the Limagne (a great plain) of Auvergne who does not know the goivan, and how to capture him with traps baited with frogs, or with lime, but more commonly with snares. He is taken principally in the winter, when he is very good to eat, for he is so fat that no other bird comes near him in that respect. The peasants lard or boil him, and find his flesh quite as good as that of a hen. This eagle eats rats, mice, frogs, lizards, snails, caterpillars, and sometimes serpents.”

That there may be no doubt about the last-named viand being food for eagles, one of Peter Belon’s lively portraitures follows the statement, in which a goivan is depicted in the act of dining on a serpent, twisted into a figure of eight (as, well he might be), and a number of astonished frogs and fishes scurrying away for dear life,--all save one philosophical member of the tadpole family, who, sitting on the tumultuous waves of an adjacent ditch, calmly contemplates the scene. It is observable throughout the plates in Belon’s work that the smaller quadrupeds endure the infliction of being devoured alive with far greater resignation than the Reptilia. I have before me at this moment the portrait of a rabbit, on whose back a buzzard is standing as if in the act of going to sing, while the long-eared animal on which he has pounced seems to apprehend his fate no more than if he were a music-stand. A mouse in the claws of a speckled magpie, puts on, in another plate, an air of equal indifference.

Amongst the birds of prey known to the French villagers--and to their cost--is one called by the singular name of White John (Jan le Blanc), or The Bird of St. Martin,--but why the latter name was bestowed on it, Belon is at a loss to discover. The first is obvious enough, for its belly and part of its tail are of spotless white. This fellow is very daring, and carries off fowls and rabbits from under the eyes of the owners; he feeds largely, too, upon partridges and all the smaller birds, so that he is not a Cheap John, at all events. But Belon has one comfort: White John has a natural antagonist in the Hobby-hawk, and the way they fight in the air till they tumble entangled to the ground and are taken, is quite a pleasant thing to see (moult plaisant à voir). This combat is not depicted; but on the next page there is a striking delineation of the manner in which a falconer lures a bird of prey. He does it in this wise: a hawk having caught a partridge, stands on its back in the air, quietly devouring it, and the cunning fowler takes this opportunity of approaching with the leg of another bird in his hand, which he offers on his knees to the hawk, in the expectation, apparently, that the greedy bird of prey will give up the whole for a part. Of the share which the falconer’s dog has in the transaction, I say nothing; because, though in the foreground of the picture, he is not a quarter the size of the victim partridge. It must be confessed that Belon’s descriptions are more satisfactory than the artist’s illustrations. This remark, however, does not apply to the actual portraits of the birds, which are in most instances very accurate. Nothing, for instance, can be better done than the Royal Kite, which some in France call Huo, and others Escoufle. This bird, being a lover of carrion, is protected; so much so, that “in England a fine is imposed on those who kill him.” Belon records a pleasant piece of pastime which this kite affords the infidels:

“The Turks who live at Constantinople take pleasure in throwing lumps of raw meat into the air, which the kites pounce upon so rapidly that they seize and carry it off before it can fall to the ground.”

The Venetian nobles amuse themselves differently--not with kites, but cormorants. When the weather is calm, they go out on the lagoons in light boots, two or three dozen in company, each boat being rowed by six men, and pulled very swiftly. Having surrounded the cormorant (like French huntsmen with a fox, to prevent him from getting away and giving them a run), he cannot rise in the air (why not?), but dives under the water, and every time he shows his head above the surface, the noblemen let fly at him with their cross-bows, till at last he is thoroughly done up, is half-suffocated, and gives in. “It is a fine sight to behold this sport (c’est un beau spectacle de voir un tel deduit), and also is to see a cormorant having caught a tolerably-sized eel, which he tries to swallow, but has to fight a long time with it before he can get it down.” The cormorants themselves are, oddly enough, not thought good eating by the common people, who say of them that they are “a dish for the devil” (qui voudroit jestoyer le diable, il luy faudroit doñer de tels oyseaux); but Belon does not think them so bad as they say (toute fois ne sont si mauvais qu’on crië).

The stork, unfortunately, did not, when Belon flourished, enjoy the same immunity; for though he admits that the Romans despised them at table, he says, “now they are looked upon as a royal dish.” He moreover tells us that the gizzard of a stork is an antidote to poison, and a remedy against squinting (le gesier de la cigogne est bon contre les venins et qui en aura mangé ne sera lousche en sa vie)! It appears also that even the ostrich, which can digest iron, is itself digested by Libyan gastronomers, who eat the flesh and sell the feathers.

This tendency to discover what birds are most eatable, is manifested throughout the volume of Peter Belon. Arriving at the noble Alectrion or Rooster of the United States, he cites the following recipe, from Dioscorides, for the concoction of cock-broth. “Take a fine strong old bird, and having properly trussed him, stuff him well with roots of fern, the seed of chartamus (whatever that may be), salt of mercury, and soldanella (a purgative sea-weed), and, having sewn him up, boil him well down.” A potage this, which bears some resemblance to “the sillakickaby of the ancients,” described in Peregrine Pickle, and, I should think, nearly as agreeable.

The majority of the birds in Belon’s book are accurately described and too well-known to afford much opportunity for quoting from what he says of their forms and habits, but now and then we meet with a rara avis. Such, for instance is the “Gellinote de bois” (Gelinotte) which, though still found in the Ardennes, and occasionally a visitor to Monsieurs Chevet’s shop in the Palais Royal, is rare enough to merit description at second-hand. What their price may be I know not, but three hundred years ago they cost two crowns a-piece, and were only seen at the banquets of princes and the wedding-feasts of great lords. “The feathers on the back are like those of the woodcock; the breast and belly white, spotted with black; the neck is like that of a pheasant; the head and beak resemble a partridge; the tail feathers are black with white tips, the large wing-feathers variegated like the owl; down to the feet the legs are feathered like the grouse.” If the gelinotte combines the flavour as well as the plumage of the birds just mentioned (omitting the owl) I should say it is worth the price which Monsieur Chevet puts upon it before he stuffs it with the truffles.

The Vanneau is another bird which, common enough in the marshy districts of France (particularly in Bourbon Vendée) is, I believe, unknown in England. It is a wading-bird, and bears some resemblance to the peacock: hence, its name, corrupted from paonneau to vanneau; but the peasants call it dinhuit, on account of its cry. It is crested with five or six long black feathers, and is of changeable hue: in size it is not much larger than a plover, and is perched on very high red legs. There is no question about the estimation as a delicacy in which the vanneau is still held.

Belon has a good deal to say about quails, and the various modes of catching them. One way is by means of an instrument made of leather and bone, which, set in motion, utters a sound like the voice of the female bird, and is called courcaillet, on hearing which the males run rapidly and are caught in the fowler’s net; but this device is only effectual during the season of courting. Every one has noticed how low the quail’s cages are made. Belon says, it is because they are so given to jumping and excitement that they would destroy themselves were the cages higher. Of the crested lark (in French, cochevis), he tells us, on the authority of several writers of antiquity, that when made into a broth or roasted--like punch--they cure the colic; we all know what capital pâtés are made of the lark uncrested. We learn that the woodcock--how admirable is he, too, in a pâté--though called bécasse, in French, on account of the length of his bill, ought to be designated “vvitcoc,” that being an English word, which signifies “cock of the wood,” and corresponds with the Greek term, “xilomita.” Some people, Belon says, call him Avis cœca (blind bird), because he suffers himself to be so easily caught, and he gives a sufficiently lively description of one mode of effecting his capture. It is as follows:--“He who desires to take the woodcock must put on a cloak and gloves, the colour of the dead leaves, and conceal his head and shoulders beneath a (brown) hat, leaving only two small holes to see through. He must carry in his hands two sticks covered with cloth of the same colour, about an inch of the ends of which must be of red cloth, and leaning upon crutches (rather a lame way of proceeding) must advance leisurely towards the woodcock, stopping when the bird becomes aware of his approach. When the woodcock moves on he must follow until the bird stops again without raising its head. The fowler must then strike the sticks together very quickly (moult bellement) which will so amuse and absorb the woodcock that its pursuer may take from his girdle a rod, to which a horsehair noose is attached, and throw the latter round its neck, for it is one of the stupidest and most foolish birds that are known.” I should think so, if it allowed itself to be caught by this tom-foolery.

Of birds which are not stupid, but knavish rather, even to much theft, Belon relates that the magpie is called Margot (the diminutive of Margaret, as Charles the First called his beautiful sister, the wife of Henry of Navarre); and the jay (Richard), each on account of their cry. Being somewhat skinny, the jay is thought rather a tough morsel by those who desire to dine upon him; but he himself eats everything that comes in his way, and is particularly fond of peas--green peas perhaps--at a guinea a pound. The common people think that the jay is subject to the falling sickness, nevertheless they eat him when they find him on the ground. It is, perhaps, a weakness in human nature which cannot be remedied, the tendency to make a meal of everything that has animal life. But for this, how severely might we not animadvert on the gluttony of those who, not remembering their song in spring, devour thrushes in the autumn: yet, that is the best time to eat them, for they are then perfectly delicious as you would say, with me, if you had made a diligence supper on thrushes travelling through the Ardennes.

But, I fear, if I read any more of Peter Belon’s volume, I shall write an article on Gastronomy, a thing I had no notion of when I began. Let me conclude with something more serious than eating--if anything be more serious: let me lament, with all the world, that so useful a man as Peter Belon should have been cut off sadly in the prime of his life and full vigour of his intellect. He was only forty-five years of age when he was murdered one night as he traversed the Bois de Boulogne on his way to Paris; whether for the sake of plunder or revenge is not known.

RHINE-LAND.

We lean’d beneath the purple vine, In Andernach, the hoary; And at our elbows ran the Rhine In rosy twilight glory.

Athwart the Seven-hills far seen The sun had fail’d to broaden; Above us stream’d in fading sheen The highway he had trodden.

His farewell crimson kiss he left On clouds suffused with blushes: One star beam’d down the dewberry-cleft Across the mirror’d flashes.

From cliffs of slate the vintage call’d In muffled leafage dusky: And down the river grandly wall’d, The grape reel’d ripe and husky.

We reach’d entwining hands to seize The clusters round us glowing: Our locks were fondled by the breeze From southern sandhills blowing.

The long-neck’d flask was not unbent, The globed green glass unemptied; The god of honest pleasure lent Young Love his powers, untempted.

Home-friends we pledged; our bridal-maids; Sweet wishes gaily squander’d: We wander’d far in faëry glades, Up golden heights we wander’d.

Like King and Queen in royal bliss, We paced a realm enchanted, A realm rose-vista’d, rich from this, Tho’ not from this transplanted.

For this Rome’s frontier foot endear’d, Her armèd heel made holy; And Ages grey as Time’s own beard, Wreathed it with melancholy.

Old days it has that live in gleams Of suns for ever setting: A moth-wing’d splendour, faint as dreams, That keeps the fancy fretting.

A gorgeous tracing dash’d with gloom, And delicately dusted: To grasp it is to spoil its bloom; ’Twas ours because we trusted.

No longer severing our embrace Was Night a sword between us; But richest mystery robed in grace To lock us close, and screen us.

She droopt in stars; she whisper’d fair; The wooded crags grew dimmer; The arrow in the lassie’s hair Glanced by a silver glimmer.

The ruin-rock renew’d its frown, With terror less transparent, Tho’ all its ghosts are hunted down, And all its knights are errant.

The island in the gray expanse, We watch’d with colour’d longing: The mighty river’s old romance Thro’ many channels thronging.

Ah, then, what voice was that which shed A breathless scene before us: We heard it, knowing not we heard; It rose around and o’er us.

It rose around, it thrill’d with life, And did infuse a spirit To misty shapes of ancient strife: Again I seem to hear it!

The voice is clear, the song is wild, And has a quaint transition; The voice is of a careless child Who sings an old tradition.

He sings it witless of his power; Beside the rushing eddies, His singing plants the tall white tower Mid shades of knights and ladies.

Against the glooming of the west The grey hawk-ruins darken, And hand in hand, half breast to breast, Two lovers gaze and hearken.

MILVERSTON WORTHIES.

From his sixth year, my brother Davie manifested undeniable symptoms of the divine afflatus, but it was not until fifteen that he commenced his immortal poem, “The Vengeance of Bernardo Caspiato.” He was a delicate, pretty, fair boy, with a spiritual countenance, a noble brow, and abundance of silky brown hair; quite the poet to look at, and very like my dear mother, as we all daily observed. It was expected that he would cover the name of Cleverboots with a halo of glory: unlike some families, we were the first to believe in our hero, and the most constant in our faith in his splendid future. At the epoch referred to, Davie began to tie his collar with a black ribbon, to wear his white throat exposed, and his beautiful hair very long; his appetite did not fail him in private, but at our little réunions he always partook of dry toast and strong green tea; was very silent, abstracted, and averse to men’s society: the women petted him, and called him “all soul.” He was very kind-hearted and sweet-tempered, and rather vain, which was nothing more than natural, considering how he was flattered.

He had a little room at the top of the house which looked over the town to Milverston mere, where the immortal poem was commenced. I remember he began it on a wet evening, and it opened dismally, with a storm; he had me up there with my plain sewing to listen to the first stanzas; and he consulted me about one or two difficult rhymes: he was not sure whether “horror” and “morrow” were correct. I thought not; and, his birthday falling three days after, I presented him with a rhyming dictionary. Subsequently, the poem made rapid progress.

Cousin John had just gone up to London to study law, and my father wished Davie to be articled to Mr. Briggs, the solicitor at Milverston. This did not chime in with his taste at all; he stated that it was his wish to follow the profession of letters. We did not quite understand this at the time. Cousin Jack said it meant that he wanted to be the idle gentleman. I had my doubts on the matter. Davie brought my mother over to his way of thinking. “I shall be very poor, but very happy, mother,” he used to say; “if you put me to anything else, I shall be miserable and do no good.” So Davie got his own way; and, as a preparation for his profession of letters, he stayed at home and finished “Bernardo Caspiato.” It was a splendid work. I have wept over it often. The heroine having been executed for witchcraft, her lover, Bernardo, devotes his life to avenge her; and, after committing a catalogue of murders, ends by disappearing mysteriously in a flash of blue lightning to rejoin her in heaven. My mother objected to the morality of the conclusion; but she acknowledged herself, at the same time, ignorant of the laws and licence of poetry.

With this great work, and some minor pieces of equal if not superior merit, my brother Davie went up to London on foot, with ten pounds in his pocket, and seventeen years of experience on his head. Cousin Jack had taken comfortable lodgings for him at a small baker’s shop, kept by a widow woman with a daughter named Lucy. The dear lad wrote us word that he was quite suited, and that, after a few days to look about him, he should carry his immortal poem to a publisher. His hopes were sanguine; his visions of fame magnificent.

To our surprise and grief, Bernardo Caspiato was declined with thanks. Nobody was inclined to publish it unless the author would bear all the expenses. Davie would not suffer my father to do this--he would earn money for himself. We wondered how he could do it; but Cousin Jack lent him a hand, and somebody who had something to do with a newspaper bought his minor pieces. He lived, at all events, by his own exertions. At this time, Lucy began to figure in letters to me marked “private.” It would be impossible to give the whole story as therein developed, but I will epitomise it as afterwards heard from his own lips.