pig; yet in the account of the murrain[1] which came upon plague-stricken Egypt we are helped to realize the hapless strait to which domesticated animals were reduced when we read—
"The swine which nature secretly doth teach,
Only by fasting sicknesses to cure,
Now but in vain is to itself a leech."
Early surgeons chose to perform many of their dissections on swine—
"As likest the human form divine,"
but I was not aware that pigs were ever held up by the faculty of any age as being examples of judicious temperance. Drayton seems to think, too, that the wit of mankind would never have devised a sledge had it not been for hints given by the habits of the beaver.[2] This remarkable beast submits to lie on his back and to have his upper surface laden with timber, kept from falling by means of his mighty tail, whilst he is dragged home by his comrades who haul at a stick which he grips enduringly between his jaws. Other creatures from which Drayton suspects man learned useful arts were the kite, whose guiding train "prescribes the helm"; the crane, who by burdening his craw with sand and gravel suggested ballast; the martin, whose mission was to recommend mud-dwellings; and the nightingale, who first taught music.[3]
That hart's tears were held precious in medicine we learn from the thirteenth Polyolbionic song,[4] the difficulty of collecting being no doubt contributory to their virtue. We have only to consult Cockayne's Leechdoms,[5] &c. to find out what an important factor the hart was in the pharmacopœia of long ago. Now-a-days, indeed, we still have great faith in hartshorn in domestic practice, but the drug has no more come from the hart than cheap sherry has from Xeres.
There is, as poor dear Mrs. Malaprop might say, a nice derangement of caparisons in a letter written by Drayton[6] in the character of virtuous
