Chapter 9

“Far from her nest the lapwing cries away.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”[260]

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 breastThe sun ariseth in his majesty.”[261]

“Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,And wakes the morning, from whose silver breastThe sun ariseth in his majesty.”[261]

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.”

“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;”

“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.”

“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.”

“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 lureBringeth all things under cure.”

“The red hat with his lureBringeth all things under cure.”

The words “tirra-lirra” (“Winter’s Tale,” iv. 3) are a fancifulcombination of sounds,[262]meant to imitate the lark’s note; borrowed, says Nares, from the Frenchtire-lire. Browne, “British Pastorals” (bk. i. song 4), makes it “teery-leery.” In 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 sheppards 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.”

“As I out rode this endenes night,Of three joli sheppards 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[263]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 earthCan make a shoe to me, to me!Why so, why so, why so?Because my heel is as long as my toe.”

“Up in the lift go we,Tehee, tehee, tehee, tehee!There’s not a shoemaker on the earthCan 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 Frenchmagot, a monkey, because the bird chatters and plays droll tricks like a monkey. It has generally been regarded with superstitious awe as a mysterious bird,[264]and is thus alluded to in “Macbeth” (iii. 4):

“Augurs and understood relations, haveBy magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forthThe secret’st man of blood.”

“Augurs and understood relations, haveBy magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forthThe secret’st man of blood.”

And again, in “3 Henry VI.” (v. 6), it is said:

“chattering pies in dismal discords sung.”

“chattering pies in dismal discords sung.”

There are numerous rhymes[265]relating to the magpie, of which we subjoin, as a specimen, one prevalent in the northof England:

“One is sorrow, two mirth,Three a wedding, four a birth,Five heaven, six hell,Seven the de’il’s ain sell.”

“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, 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[266]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 martletBuilds in the weather, on the outward wall,Even in the force and road of casualty.”

“the martletBuilds in the weather, on the outward wall,Even in the force and road of casualty.”

Forster[267]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 swallowAre God Almighty’s bow and arrow.”

“The martin and the swallowAre God Almighty’s bow and arrow.”

Nightingale.The popular error that the nightingale singswith its breast impaled upon a thorn is noticed by Shakespeare, who makes Lucrece say:

“And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy partTo keep thy sharp woes waking.”

“And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy partTo keep thy sharp woes waking.”

In the “Passionate Pilgrim” (xxi.) there is an allusion:

“Everything did banish moan,Save the nightingale alone.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.”

“Everything did banish moan,Save the nightingale alone.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 singWhole nights away in mourning.”

“The nightingale among the thick-leaved spring,That sits alone in sorrow, and doth singWhole nights away in mourning.”

Sir Thomas Browne[268]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?”[269]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 should sing by day,When every goose is cackling, would be thoughtNo better a musician than the wren.”

“I think,The nightingale, if she should sing by day,When every goose is cackling, would be thoughtNo 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[270]that the nightingale sings all night, to keep itself awake, lest the glow-worm should devour her. The classicalfable[271]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 asshe; thus Juliet tells Romeo (iii. 5):

“It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree;Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.”

“It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree;Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.”

Sometimes the nightingale is termed Philomel, as in “Midsummer-Night’s Dream” (ii. 2, song):[272]

“Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby.”

“Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby.”

Osprey.This bird,[273]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 itBy sovereignty of nature.”

“I think he’ll be to Rome,As is the osprey to the fish, who takes itBy 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.”

“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[274]is said to be shown by its swallowing iron and other hard substances.[275]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,[276]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, and deleterious.” Sir Thomas Browne,[277]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 stigmatized as “the vile owl,” in “Troilus and Cressida” (ii. I); 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. Vergil[278]describes its death-howl from the top of the temple by night, a circumstance introduced as a precursor of Dido’s death. Ovid,[279]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,[280]as well as to its being the bird of night.[281]It has generally been associated with calamities and deeds of darkness.[282]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.”

“Hark!—Peace!It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman,Which gives the stern’st good night.”

And when the murderer rushes in, exclaiming,

“I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?”

“I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?”

she answers:

“I heard the owl scream.”

“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 Gloster, refers:

“The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign.”

“The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign.”

Its cries[283]have been supposed to presage death, and, to quote the words of theSpectator, “a screech-owl at midnight 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 woeIn remembrance of a shroud;”

“the screech-owl, screeching loud,Puts the wretch that lies in woeIn remembrance of a shroud;”

and in “1 Henry VI.” (iv. 2), it is called the “ominous and fearful owl of death.” Again, in “Richard III.” (iv. 4), whereRichard is exasperated by the bad news, he interrupts the third messenger by saying:

“Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of death?”

“Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of death?”

The owl by day is considered by some equally ominous, as in “3 Henry VI.” (v. 4):

“the owl by day,If he arise, is mock’d and wonder’d at.”

“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 prodigiesDo so conjointly meet, let not men say,‘These are their reasons,—they are natural;’For, I believe, they are portentous thingsUnto the climate that they point upon.”

“And yesterday the bird of night did sit,Even at noon-day, upon the market-place,Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigiesDo so conjointly meet, let not men say,‘These are their reasons,—they are natural;’For, I believe, they are portentous thingsUnto 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”[284]should form an ingredient of the caldron 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,[285]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, or pinch us black and blue!”

“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, or pinch us black and blue!”

Singer, in his Notes on this passage (vol. 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, ascritche 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.”[286]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.”

“Where the bee sucks, there suck I,In a cowslip’s bell I lie,There I couch when owls do cry.”

Ariel,[287]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[288]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 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.[289]

Parrot.The “popinjay,” in “1 Henry IV.” (i. 3), is anothername for the parrot—from the Spanishpapagayo—a term which occurs in Browne’s “Pastorals” (ii. 65):

“Or like the mixture nature dothe displayUpon the quaint wings of the popinjay.”

“Or like the mixture nature dothe displayUpon 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 any one 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:[290]

“Could tell what subtlest parrots mean,That speak and think contrary clean;What member ’tis of whom they talk,When they cryrope, andwalk, knave, walk.”

“Could tell what subtlest parrots mean,That speak and think contrary clean;What member ’tis of whom they talk,When they cryrope, andwalk, knave, walk.”

The rewards given to parrots to encourage them to speak are mentioned in “Troilus and Cressida” (v. 2):[291]“the parrot will not do more for an almond.” Hence, a proverb for the greatest temptation that could be put before a man 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 wasOf Jove himself; and now reigns hereA very, very—peacock.”[292]

“For thou dost know, O Damon dear,This realm dismantled wasOf Jove himself; and now reigns hereA very, very—peacock.”[292]

The third and fourth folios readpajock,[293]the other editionshave “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 peajock. Some have proposed to readpaddock, and in the last scene Hamlet bestows this opprobrious name upon the king. It has been also suggested to readputtock, a kite.[294]The peacock has also been regarded as the emblem of pride and arrogance, as in “1 Henry VI.” (iii. 3):[295]

“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.”

“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.”

“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 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 fathersShould have thus little mercy on their flesh?Judicious punishment! ’Twas this flesh begotThose pelican daughters.”[296]

“Is it the fashion, that discarded fathersShould have thus little mercy on their flesh?Judicious punishment! ’Twas this flesh begotThose pelican daughters.”[296]

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”[297]on this subject, remarks that the Egyptians believed in abird 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.[298]

According to another idea[299]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.

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 made to this fabulous bird, which is said to rise again from its own ashes. Thus, in “Henry VIII.” (v. 4), Cranmer tells how

“whenThe bird of wonder dies, the maiden phœnix,Her ashes new create another heir,As great in admiration as herself.”

“whenThe 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 forthA bird that will revenge upon you all.”

“My ashes, as the phœnix, may bring forthA bird that will revenge upon you all.”

Once more, in “1 Henry VI.” (iv. 7), Sir William Lucy,speaking of Talbot and those slain with him, predicts that

“from their ashes shall be rear’dA phœnix that shall make all France afeard.”[300]

“from their ashes shall be rear’dA phœnix that shall make all France afeard.”[300]

Sir Thomas Browne[301]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 Turtle,” it is said,

“Let the bird of loudest layOn the sole Arabian tree,Herald sad and trumpet be.”

“Let the bird of loudest layOn 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[302]quotes from Lyly’s “Euphues and his England” (p. 312, ed. Arber): “For as 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.[303]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?”

“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 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.”[304]

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.”

“Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall.”

Mr. Darwin, in his “Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication” (vol. 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 fifth Egyptian dynasty, about 3000B.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 reckon up their pedigree and race.’ In India, about the year 1600, pigeons were much valued by Akbar Khan; 20,000 birds were carried about with the court.” In most countries, too, the breeding and taming of pigeons has been a favorite 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.[305]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,[306]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[307]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 everBeat mine, inhoop’d, at odds.”

“if we draw lots, he speeds;His cocks do win the battle still of mine,When it is all to nought; and his quails everBeat mine, inhoop’d, at odds.”

It appears that cocks as well as quails were sometimes made to fight within a broad hoop—hence the terminhoop’d—to keep them from quitting each other. Quail-fights were well known among the ancients, and especially at Athens.[308]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 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[309]the Sumatrans practisethese 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.”

“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.”[310]

“Fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us,As we were sickly prey.”[310]

It seems that the superstitious dread[311]attaching to this bird has chiefly arisen from its supposed longevity,[312]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[313]of “smelling death” still renders its presence, or even its voice, ominous. Othello (iv. 1) exclaims,

“O, it comes o’er my memory,As doth the raven o’er the infected house,Boding to all.”

“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 famouspassage in “Macbeth” (i. 5) where Lady Macbeth, having heard of the king’s intention to stay at the castle, exclaims,

“the raven himself is hoarseThat croaks the fatal entrance of DuncanUnder my battlements. Come, you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-fullOf direst cruelty!”

“the raven himself is hoarseThat croaks the fatal entrance of DuncanUnder my battlements. Come, you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-fullOf direst cruelty!”

We may compare Spenser’s language in the “Fairy Queen” (bk. ii. c. vii. l. 23):

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