In any case, however, his chief merit in this department of study belonged to Michael Scot as the exponent of the Arabian naturalists. It is difficult for any one who has not read the books in question to form an adequate idea of their contents, and still more of their style; even from the most careful description. We are made to feel that the task of the translator must have been a very difficult one. There is a concentration combined with great wealth of detail, and withal a constant nimble transition from one subject to another, seemingly remote, under the suggestion of some subtle connection, which result in a style almost baffling to one who sought to reproduce it in his comparatively slow and clumsy Latin.
No greater contrast could be imagined than that which separates such works from those which are the production of our modern writers on the same subject. Nor does this difference depend, as one might suppose, on the fact that a wider field of observation is open to us, and more adequate collections of facts are at our disposal. Rather is it the case that between ancients and moderns, between the eastern and western world, there is an entirely different understanding of the whole subject. A different principle of arrangement is at work, and results in the wide diversity of manner which strikes us as soon as we open the De Animalibus or the Abbreviatio. We find ourselves in the presence of a system of ideas, more or less abstract, which a wealth of facts derived from keen and wide observation of the world of nature is employed to illustrate. There is a finer division than with us. The unit in these works is not the species nor even the individual, but some single part or passion. This the author follows through all he knew of the multitudinous maze of nature, comparing and discerning and recording with a bizarrerie which comes to resemble nothing so much as the fantastic dance of form and colour in a kaleidoscope.
‘Birds,’ says Avicenna,[104] ‘have a way of life that is peculiar to themselves. Those that are long-necked drink by the mouth, then lift their head till the water runs down their neck. The reason of this is that their neck is long and narrow, so that they cannot satisfy their thirst by putting beak in water and straightway drinking. There is, however, a great difference between different birds in their way of drinking, and the mountain hog loveth roots to which his tusk helpeth, wherewith he turneth up the ground and breaketh out the roots. Six days or thereabout are proper for his fattening, wherein he drinketh not for three, and there are some who feed their hogs and yet will not water them for perchance seven days on end. And in their fattening all animals are helped by moderate and gentle exercise, save the hog, who fatteneth lying in the mud, and that mightily, for thereby his pores are shut upon him so that he loseth nothing by evaporation. And the hog will fight with the wolf, and that is his nature, and cows fatten on every windy thing, such as vetches, beans, and barley, and if their horns be anointed with soft wax, straightway, even while still upon the living animal, they become soft, and if the horns of ox or cow be anointed with marrow, oil, or pitch, this easeth them of the pain in their feet after a journey.’
In another place[105] he continues: ‘Some animals have teeth which serve them not save for fighting, and not for the mastication of their food. Such are the hog and the elephant, for the elephant’s tusks are of use to him in this matter as we have said. And there are animals which make no use of their teeth save for eating or fighting, nay, I believe that every animal having teeth will fight with them upon occasion, and some there are whose teeth are sharp and stand well apart, so that they are therewith furnished to tear prey: such is the lion. And those animals that have need to crop their food, as grass and the like, from the ground, have level and regular teeth, and not long tusks or canines, which would hinder them from cropping; and since in some kinds the males are more apt to anger than the females, tusks have been given them that they may defend the females, because these are weaker in themselves and of a worse complexion, and this is true in a general way of all animals, even in those kinds that eat no flesh, and need not their tusks for eating, but only for defence, such as boars, and this is the reason why they have the strength of which we have just spoken. It is the same with the camel, and so we pass to speak of this general truth as it appears with regard to all other means of defence. Hence hath the stag his horn and not the hind; the ram and not the ewe; the he-goat and not his female, and fish which eat not flesh have no need of teeth that are sharp.’
The city where these strange writings were deciphered and translated into Latin, being itself so strange and remote from the ways of modern life, had a certain poetic fitness as the scene where Michael Scot undertook his labours upon the Arabian authors. No passage of all their texts was more bizarre and tortuous than the mass of intricate lanes which formed then, as they form to-day, the thoroughfares of communication in Toledo. No hidden jewel of knowledge and observation could surprise and reward the translator in the midst of his tedious labours with a flash of sudden light and glory more unexpectedly delicious than that felt by the traveller, when, after long wandering in that maze and labyrinth, he finds a wider air; a stronger light beats before him, beckoning, and in a moment he stands in the full sunshine of the plaza mayor, with space to see and light to show the wonders of mind and hand, and all the toil of past ages in the fabric of the great cathedral.
Such as it now stands, the Cathedral of Toledo had not yet begun to rise above ground when Michael Scot had his residence there, but enough of the ancient city remains to show what Toledo must have been like in these early days. The splendid and commanding site, swept about by the waves of the Tagus; the famous bridge of Alcantara; the steep slope of approach crowned by ancient fortifications; and above all the massed and massive houses of the old town, so closely crowded together as hardly to give room for streets that should rather be called lanes; all this, beneath the unchanging sky of the south, recalls sufficiently what must have been the surroundings of Scot’s life during ten laborious years. Even yet, where white-wash peels and stucco fails, strange records of that forgotten past reveal themselves in the walls and on the house fronts: sculptured stones of every age; bas-reliefs, arabesques; windows in the delicate Moorish manner of twin arches, and a central shaft with carved cornices, long built up and forgotten till accident has revealed them.
Here then, perhaps in some house still standing, the scholar come from Sicily made his home. The quiet courtyard is forgotten; the azulejos have disappeared from walls and pavement; the rich wood-work of the ceilings, still bearing dim traces of colour and gold, looks down on the life of another age; even the curious cedar book-chest has crumbled to dust, for all its delicate defence of ironwork spreading away like a spider’s web from hinges and from lock. But the name and the fame endure, and the years which Michael Scot spent in Toledo have left a deep mark upon that and every succeeding age.