CHAPTER 1

Aristotle, Bestiaries & Cynocephali

Joannes Jonstonus (1603–1675), Historiae Naturalis de Quadrupedibus Libri, 1657; Sunfish and rays.

An ABC of Early Classification

(Antiquity–1700)

And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof. And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found a helper fit for him.

Genesis, Chapter II, XIX–XX

The oldest Western traditions of naming and classifying animals arose from the Judaeo-Christian tradition, and zoological organization certainly has a prominent place in the Scriptures. Adam was created on the same day as the beasts of the Earth – a surprising nod to the modern concept of ‘man as an animal’ – and one of the very first tasks assigned to him was to name those beasts. Indeed, it is notable that God only decided to create Eve because his non-human creations were not up to the task of accompanying and helping Adam.

Anonymous, Aberdeen Bestiary, c.1200; God creates the animals.

Charles Singer (1876–1960), A Short History of Biology, 1931; Aristotle’s Scala Naturae.

This biblical trope of animal classification continues later in, and is perhaps partly explained by, detailed proscriptions against eating certain animals. Leviticus, Chapter XI contains what we would now call ‘decision trees’ relating to the eating of animals with cloven hooves, that chew the cud, or that have fins and scales. It is possible that these rules derived from earlier trial-and-error experiments with different foodstuffs, which led, presumably, to some disastrous microbiological or parasitic consequences, and these rules survive in modern Jewish customs. The reader cannot help feeling that many of these arcane injunctions must have had a practical life-or-death rationale, and indeed practical considerations have often driven our need to classify animals. After all we, by definition, are the descendants of people who knew which beasts were ferocious or toxic.

The other ancestral strand of Western zoological classification is the ancient Greeks, whose writings seem to spring from an enlightened inquisitiveness rather than a crude need to survive. Indeed, at first sight, their approach appears surprisingly modern. Much of early Greek animal biology is summarized in Aristotle’s fourth-century BC Natural Philosophy, although it can sometimes be difficult to distinguish Aristotle’s own discoveries from those of his often-uncredited sources.

Aristotle lived and wrote on Lesbos, one of the largest islands in the Aegean Sea, and his descriptions of the island’s fauna, especially those that inhabited its warm, shallow lagoons, form the basis of much of the Natural Philosophy. Aristotle continually emphasized that his writings were based on observation of nature itself and not a repetition of the errors of his predecessors, and to some extent this is true. For each ζῷον (‘zoön’ means ‘animal’, hence ‘zoology’) he encountered, he analyzed particular traits he thought could be used to determine its affinities with other creatures. He realized that some features are common to all animals, and also that colour, shape and size are unreliable classificatory criteria. As a result, he recommended organizing animals according to the following categories: their food, habitat and behaviour, how they breathe, whether they metamorphose, whether they are social or solitary, nocturnal or diurnal, tame or wild, offensive or defensive, whether they lay eggs or bear live young, whether they are anchored to the seabed or swim, walk, wriggle or fly free.

Anonymous, Aberdeen Bestiary, c.1200; The pard.

Yet Aristotle’s thinking was not quite as modern as sometimes credited. Although he produced the first known ‘scientific’ classification of animals (see here), he was still bound by the wider metaphysical structure into which he wished to fit the world. He was an early proponent of the scala naturae, the ascending ‘ladder of nature’ by which all things are ranked in a carefully gradated ladder of ascent from base matter, through plants, animals and humans to the divine. This strict hierarchical classification, although at odds with the sprawling animal diversity Aristotle himself described, was to form the basis of many later zoological classifications, and indeed philosophy in general until the nineteenth century. It placed man reassuringly above the beasts, and set him (for it was usually assumed to be a ‘him’) on a journey along a scale of progress towards perfection, away from the formless and base towards the divine. However, Aristotle himself provided evidence that the scala was an imperfect concept – he often seems to consider humans to be ‘just another animal’, for example – yet it proved to be one of his most tenacious ideas.

Written by an unknown hand, probably in the second century AD, in Alexandria, the Physiologus is the next waypoint on the journey to modern animal classification. In many ways, it set the tone for over a thousand years. It is infused with the philosophy of the new Christian religion, and the forty animals it describes are presented less according to their zoological attributes, and more for what they can tell us as religious symbols. Each creature acquires a role in the Christian story, drawing on the earlier Greek traditions of animal parables, to illustrate particular theological principles. In the Physiologus, animals serve merely as illustrative elements of the word of God – zoology had become subservient to theology, and for centuries the scientific coherence of the former discipline was to suffer as a result.

A strange detour in these zoological traditions came in the early seventh century with the Etymologiae of Isidore of Seville. Isidore’s book was an enormous undertaking, ostensibly an early attempt to create an encyclopedia of all contemporary knowledge. Yet it was skewed by the author’s opinions about which ancient ideas were deemed deserving of perpetuation. Also, as the book’s name suggests, Isidore believed that discovering the origin of particular words was the key to understanding the ideas they denote. So, for example, he saw the concept of being ‘elephantine’ as directly philosophically equivalent to the very nature of the large grey pachyderm – whereas the modern reader would simply assume that concepts can be used to name animals (a sloth, for example), and animals can give their names to concepts (as in a ‘dogfight’). Indeed, in the long story of animal classification, the Etymlogiae is perhaps the instance when the human urge to organize animals most outstripped our actual understanding of those animals. However, the tome was endlessly reproduced throughout medieval Europe and the Islamic world, and became immensely influential.

Anonymous, Hereford Mappa Mundi, c.1300; Cynocephali.

Conrad Gessner (1516–1565), Historiae Animalium, 1551–1558; Rana perfecta.

These, then, were the forerunners of animal classification in the Late Middle Ages. Aristotle’s metaphysics, Isidore’s obsession with names, and Christianity’s inward-looking self-justification led directly to the first and one of the most artistically spectacular bodies of zoological organization: the bestiary.

Medieval bestiaries flourished, especially in France, England and Scotland in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and while their level of artistic achievement varies, they were surprisingly consistent in their structure and focus. Indeed, so much did their compilers draw on previous and contemporary works for their inspiration, that the evolution of medieval bestiaries can itself be arranged into an evolutionary genealogy, with works fitting neatly into ‘family’ lineages of relatedness and descent. The mainly north African animals of the Physiologus were supplemented with north European creatures, as well as mythical beasts, to yield a rich menagerie from which theological lessons could be extracted. Spectacular illustrations presumably made these parables accessible to the illiterate masses, and it is not known whether their audience worried about which of the animals depicted actually existed. In bestiaries animals have a meaning beyond their actual physical nature, so their existence or otherwise is less important than what they can tell us about God. Some symbolism was straightforward – a fox traps birds as the devil ensnares sinners; a panther mauls a dragon as Jesus attacks Satan. However, some animals, especially those with which medieval readers were more familiar, could be complex characters – a goat might be a sinner swallowed by hell in one context, and then the all-seeing sage Christ in another.

Ulisse Aldrovandi (1522–1605), Serpentum, et Draconum Historiæ, 1640; Snakes and dragons.

Another visual format that became popular in the Middle Ages was the mappa mundi, in which stylized geographies of the entire world (i.e. God’s creation) were summarized in giant cartographic images. In most, the three known continents, Asia, Africa and Europe, are arranged around a centrally placed Jerusalem, a reassurance of God’s place at the centre of the world. Around their periphery, however, lie strange lands, inhabited by exotic and horrific creatures – often distortions of real animals formulated to scare the faithful, or even devilish animal/human chimaeric hybrids. Some of the most dramatic examples of this zoological otherness appear towards the edges of the Hereford mappa mundi (see here) where dog-headed people or cynocephali, perhaps based on accounts of real-life baboons, can be seen frolicking.

During the Renaissance, thinking began to change. The religious certainty of medieval cataloguing started to give way to more objective attempts at classification. The sixteenth century saw the publication of works such as the Swiss philosopher Conrad Gessner’s meticulous Historiae Animalium. Fifty years later came Ulisse Aldrovandi, with his vast collection of zoological curiosities in Bologna, and his De Piscibus and Ornithologiae among many other books. The sheer variety of animal life was rendering old ideas of a neat scala naturae untenable. The ‘steppiness’ of the scala’s ladder of creation was starting to look less clear-cut. Indeed, its neat linear progression from base matter to godhead now seemed an oversimplification. One day this stepwise ascent of animal creation would be transformed into a branching tree, and other more alien forms never conceived by the medieval artist.

Nehemiah Grew (1641–1712), Musaeum Regalis Societatis, 1681; Fish and starfish.

Anonymous, Aberdeen Bestiary, c.1200; God creates the birds and fishes (above); Adam names the animals (below).

Although not the oldest medieval bestiary, the Aberdeen Bestiary is perhaps the most visually spectacular. Sometimes stirring, sometimes humorous, its illustrations were created to instruct readers in their quest to become closer to God. The creation of animals, and especially Adam’s naming of the animals, are strangely prominent in the Genesis narrative (see here) – a foretaste of later thinkers’ obsession with animal classification.

Anonymous, Northumberland Bestiary, c.1250–1260; Hedgehogs and bees (above and below); Sea monsters (bottom).

Bestiaries were a strange mix of the everyday, the exotic and the mythical – and the symbolism of some creatures may seem surprising to the modern reader. The Northumberland Bestiary, for example, depicts the harmless and charming hedgehog as an evil thief, using its spines to roll in fruit and steal as much of it as possible.

Noah’s Ark

Medieval motifs of life, death and classification

The origins of the Mesopotamian flood myths are unknown, but extremely ancient – possibly more than 5,000 years old. Although a global flood is impossible, these stories may derive from localized severe flooding of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, or may even represent memories of great thaws following the last ice age – the modern Persian Gulf, for example, had once been inhabited dry land.

The flood story recounted in the Bible’s book of Genesis is just one of several accounts, and is surprisingly brief, essentially comprising several repetitions of its first few lines:

And the Lord said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before me in this generation. Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that are not clean by two, the male and his female. Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth. (Chapter VII, I–IV)

However, the titanic scale of Noah’s scanty story, and the comforting way a godly man categorized beasts and fowl, clean and unclean, male and female – and thus saved all living things – provided an irresistible trope for creators of medieval illuminated manuscripts.

Frère Laurent d’Orléans, Somme le Roi, c.1295; Noah’s Ark.

A superb example is found in Somme le Roi, a guide to theological and moral rectitude compiled for King Philip III of France by the Dominican monk Frère Laurent (see opposite page). Clearly, an ark was not an easy thing to draw, and each animal species ends up residing awkwardly in its own schematized monastic cell. It is notable that many medieval arks look more like modern scientific tables than anything that might effectively breast the waves of the deluge.

Beatus of Liébana (c.730–785), Commentary on the Apocalypse, twelfth century; Noah’s Ark.

Anonymous, Hereford Mappa Mundi, c.1300.

Of all medieval mappae, the one at Hereford is perhaps the most spectacular – 24 square feet of lushly inscribed and illuminated vellum. Like many medieval maps, the three known continents are arranged in a circle with Jerusalem at the centre, and exotic and mythical beasts and beings scattered around the periphery (see here). This image is of the ‘two to three o’clock’ section of the map, containing a heavily distorted Egypt and east Africa, inhabited by a mandrake, a salamander, a phoenix, a unicorn, a rhinoceros and a yale (an antelope with swivelling horns). There is even a golden calf for the ancient Israelites’ misguided worship.

Bartholomaeus Anglicus (1203–1272), De Proprietatibus Rerum, posthumously illustrated 1403; Lion, deer, unicorn, horse.

Little is known of ‘Bartholemew the Englishman’ other than that he worked in Paris and Magdeburg, and wrote an early encyclopedia.

Ramon Llull (c.1230–c.1315), Ars Magna, c.1305; Ladder of Ascent and Descent of the Mind.

The scala naturae, or ‘scale of nature’ (see here), of the Majorcan philosopher Ramon Llull has been perhaps the most influential depiction of a stratified hierarchy of inanimate, animate and divine phenomena, setting the theme for many later biological ‘great chains of being’. The implied sense of progress towards perfection was not to be expunged from biology until well into the twentieth century. The steps in Llull’s philosophical staircase are rocks (lapis), fire (flama), plants (planta), beasts (brutum), man (homo), sky (caelum), angels (angelus) and God (Deus).

Didacus Valadés (1533–1582), Rhetorica Christiana, 1579; Great Chain of Being.

Distant in time, but not theme, Didacus Valadés’ scale of nature is more densely populated than that of Ramon Llull (shown opposite), but it is equally unyielding in its ordering of creation. Born in Mexico, Valadés was a Fransiscan monk whose theological treatise Rhetorica Christiana was influenced by his hierarchical view of the status and abilities of the unfortunate native inhabitants of Spain’s New World dominions.

Jacob van Maerlant (c.1235–1291), Der Naturen Bloeme, published with illustrations 1350; Various animals.

Ultimately derived from the Physiologus (see here), thirteenth-century Dutch poet van Maelant’s Der Naturen Bloeme (‘The Flower of Nature’) is ostensibly a description of the entire natural world, but focuses heavily on animals. The origins of this illustrated version, created after his death, are uncertain. Drawing on the bestiary tradition, the volume is profusely illustrated with creatures familiar, strange and mythical. March hares rub furry shoulders with the archetypal lion and lamb, walking fish, Bactrian camels, eagles and funnel-nosed elephants.

Hartmann Schedel (1440–1514), Nuremberg Chronicle, 1493; Creation of the fishes and fowl (above); Creation of man and the animals (below).

A history of the world in seven ages (the seventh being the Last Judgement), the Nuremberg Chronicle is one of the earliest printed books to combine images and text. Its ‘first age’ contains unusually charming depictions of that primary biblical classification of animals, the fish and birds created on the fifth day and humans and land animals on the sixth.

Anonymous, Miroir de l’Humaine Salvation, c.1320 (this version c.1500); Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the Whale, and other stories.

Many illuminated versions of the ‘Mirror of Human Salvation’ survive, recounting famous stories from the Old Testament, which are then claimed to prefigure events during and after the life of Christ. Over the centuries, the text was sometimes modified, and a wide variety of illustrative styles was employed. Once again, diverse animal types were to the fore as theological symbols or devices.

Illustrations attributed to Robinet Testard (1470–1531), Le Secret de l’Histoire Naturelle Contenant les Merveilles et Choses Mémorables du Monde, c.1500.

Its different versions hard to attribute or date, ‘The Secret of Natural History Containing the Wonders and Memorable Things of the World’ is an early encyclopedia and gazetteer of the world, often richly illustrated with a variety of creatures, both real and apocryphal, in wild and distant lands. Many of the tales are based on parables dating back to the ancient Greeks.

Volcher Coiter (1534–1576), Lectiones Gabrielis Fallopii, 1575; Bird skeletons (above); De differentiis avium (below).

Born in Groningen, Volcher Coiter’s work represents an important step towards modern methods of zoological organization. He conducted detailed analyses of animal structure and himself produced meticulous engravings, especially of skeletons. He also created detailed animal classifications, repeatedly dividing and subdividing animal groups according to their anatomical features – birds, in the example illustrated here.

Joannes Jonstonus and Matthäus Merian

The Natural Histories

TIMELINE

1593: Matthäus Merian born

1603: Joannes Jonstonus born

1650: Matthäus Merian dies

1657: Publication of Historiae naturalis

1675: Joannes Jonstonus dies

Joannes Jonstonus was a physician and scientist of Scottish descent, born in Poland, who worked throughout northern Europe – and he was to set the standard for zoological literature for the next hundred years.

In the mid-seventeeth century, he embarked upon one of his many great projects: a linked natural history of insects, ‘bloodless’ marine animals, fish, whales and birds. His survey was wide-ranging and detailed, and benefited greatly from the striking contributions of Swiss engraver Matthäus Merian.

From a rich Basel family, Merian was not only an artist, but conveniently enough, also owned a publishing house. His engravings are remarkable in their accomplishment, but also their empathy for their subjects, who seem to wriggle and flutter from the page. Especially endearing is the female bat, whose tiny sucklings cling to her, as if to emphasize that bats are biologically very different from birds.

Merian died at the age of fifty-six, but his legacy was to prove even greater than his own artistry – his daughter Maria (see here) was to become, if anything, even more influential.

Joannes Jonstonus (1603–1675), Historiae Naturalis de Quadrupedibus, 1657; Birds and bats.

Joannes Jonstonus (1603–1675), Historiae Naturalis de Exanguibus Aquaticus, 1657; Octopus and squid.

Joannes Jonstonus (1603–1675), Historiae Naturalis de Piscibus et Cetis, 1657; Sunfish and rays.

Joannes Jonstonus (1603–1675), Historiae Naturalis de Quadripendbus, 1657; Unicorns.

Francesco Redi (1626–1697), Esperienze Intorno alla Generazione degli Insetti, 1668; Lice.

Redi was a scientist in the modern sense, who learned by observation and experiment. For example, he demonstrated that simple life forms do not appear spontaneously in decaying matter, but arise from eggs invisible to the naked eye. Only an enthusiastic entomologist would have included such a detailed view of lice in his book – ‘Experiments on the Generation of Insects’.

Arnoldus Montanus (1625–1683) and Jacob van Meurs (c.1617–1679), De Nieuwe en Onbekende Weereld, 1671; Baboons and serpents.

Neither the author (Montanus) nor the engraver (van Meurs) had visited the ‘new’ western and southern lands they present in this remarkable book (‘The New and Unknown World’), and some of the people and animals depicted presumably strained the credulity of contemporary readers. Eagles attack unicorns, squid float in mid-air and, in this example, an alarming crowd of varied beasts bursts from the steamy jungle.

John Ray (1627–1705) after Francis Willughby (1635–1672), Ornithology, 1678; Curlew, curicaca, stilt and ibises.

The two naturalists Francis Willughby and John Ray (see here) were long-time collaborators, both interested in the classification of animals and plants. Ray developed Willughby’s original ideas into a system based on organisms’ similarities and differences. He is also often credited as the originator of the ‘species’ concept.

John Ray (1627–1705) after Francis Willughby (1635–1672), De Historia Piscium, 1686; Rays.

For the Royal Society, the financial strain of publishing De Historia Piscium was so great that it was unable to fund publication of Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica.

Nehemiah Grew (1641–1712), Musaeum Regalis Societatis, 1681; Classificatory scheme of shelled animals (above); Gastrointestinal anatomy of four mammals (below).

Grew’s work is part cabinet of curiosities and part enlightened analysis of the biological world. Above is an obvious forerunner of modern species identification keys, and opposite is a surprisingly schematic comparison of the alimentary canals of four mammalian species, with half of the image dominated by the torturous spirals, sacculations and speckled appendix of the humble rabbit.

Gerard Blasius (1627–1682), Anatome Animalium, 1681; Horse anatomy, with some comparisons to humans.

The prolific Dutch scientist Blasius published widely across the biological and physical sciences. In this image he draws upon comparative studies of equine structure largely carried out by anatomists in northern Italy.

Jan Luyken (1649–1712), Twenty-eight heads of people and animals, 1682.

Apparently assembled for entirely artistic reasons, this montage by Dutch poet and engraver Jan Luyken plays to the idea of ‘reverse anthropomorphism’ – that people’s superficial resemblance to animals might reflect deeper concordances in personality.