after-life has never been quite clear. One of these generous sponsors is depicted as coming forth from the palace after the ceremony, to return to her own dominions; and, for conveyance, at the door is waiting her dragon, who has of necessity been kept in the street during the visit, as no building shorter than the Thames tunnel could have stabled an animal of his extent. This dragon is submitting to be held by a smart goblin-groom whom he could have swallowed like an oyster, and is good-humouredly unconscious that some street-boys, distant a few minutes' walk, are taking liberties with his tail.
Incidentally we learn from Doyle a good deal about the personal attributes of dragons. We perceive that as there are one-humped and two-humped camels, and one-horned and two-horned rhinoceroses, so there are one-headed and two-headed dragons. One groom, however, suffices to hold a two-headed dragon, used for draught or riding, as he might suffice for a pair of horses. Besides the teeth and claws, the spiky wings, shaped on the principle of holly-leaves, would cause considerable annoyance to an antagonist if vigorously flapped about his head; and further, the end of the tail is furnished with an arrow-head sting, which, if time permits, can be brought up and buried in the body of the foe. Also the dragon's eyes burn and his breath smokes, as if from an internal furnace; so that the knight who would tackle him would find, altogether, a very ugly customer. We see also that the tradition expressed in the tavern sign of the Green Dragon is a true one – the creature's coat-of-mail is of the sheen of the ivy-leaf; and though Campbell tells us how War "yoked the red dragons of her iron car," we may, on Doyle's authority, safely affirm of the dragon's colour, as of the chameleon's, "'Tis green – 'tis green, sir, I assure ye."
One of the most curious and unexpected facts of dragon-life which our artist has brought to light is that respecting the young brood. Having supposed them to be rare animals, we were surprised to find them existing in flocks, hatched apparently from eggs, and used as a kind of farm-stock. Several representations show us witches driving young dragons to market. Who the purchasers can be of these strange articles of commerce we cannot divine – perhaps they are bought up by dealers who, after breaking them to harness or saddle, sell them to rich fairies. In one case the sorceress, young and not ungraceful, and clad in diaphanous drapery, is descending a mountainside in misty moonlight; in another, an old witch, of the kind that Macbeth knew of, is driving with outstretched broom her singular poultry along the shore of a lake, on the margin of which stands a ruined monastery. In all cases the character of the flock is much the same: though quite newly hatched – for they are no bigger than turkeys – there is plenty of latent truculence to be developed with maturity; they show the fire of the race glowing in eye and nostril, and are extremely troublesome to drive.
It was pleasant to see last year, at the Institute in Piccadilly, an indication that an artist, Mr Fitzgerald, existed among us capable of carrying on the traditions of Doyle. He had chosen for his subject a hare just escaped from the hounds, and resting within a screen of grass and brambles. In the distance the hunters and the pack are seen jogging homeward against the evening sky. Round the fugitive are drawing the pitying fairy population of the district. A sylph, splendidly
