XXIV A Dumb Appeal put into Words
The Griffin at Temple Bar, a lump of metal like a medieval nightmare, is one of multitudinous monstrosities such as Burns described:
“Forms like some Bedlam Statuary’s dream,
The crazed creation of misguided whim;
Forms might be worshipped on the bended knee,
And still the second dread command be free;
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air or sea!”
The significance of the Griffin, however, goes deeper than the conventionality, which alone the artists deride; for it is only half an explanation to cry “conventional.” What made it “conventional?” Why did men convene to admire such an object?
One has to grope among the beginnings of history to be able to guess; and for that purpose, one has to stoop to the mental level of wild backwoodsmen, not men of civilised breeds who have reverted, like the mustangs of South America, but real, wild backwoodsmen, none of whose ancestors have ever been anything else, since time began.
On trying the thing, I found it as easy to think with them as ever it was to keep down to the level of civilised men, carousing after dinner, when
“The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines
To seem but mortal, e’en in sound divines.”
Of course it is a commonplace to connect the Griffin with the winged lion of Babylon and other misshapen beasts. But Babylon was as much sophisticated as London is to-day, and as far removed from primitive conditions.
It is among the wild backwoodsmen, if anywhere, that one can reach back to the real antiquity; and if you listen to them at home, especially when they have forgotten you or suppose you asleep, you gradually realise what a great place is filled in their minds by beasts of prey, and in particular by the little-seen-but-much-felt feline foes. Many a man and woman among the jungle folk has never beheld them at all, but few have escaped their depredations. They combine the terrors of force and cunning, and abide a bugbear to humanity, from infancy to age.
Perhaps this may be best illustrated by one of the most famous incidents in the life of Confucius, dated by the Family Sayings at B.C. 516, about the time when Darius was sacking Babylon. Here is the paragraph in the old Chinese history (translated by Legge, Li Ki, II. II. 3, 10.)
“As he was passing by the side of the Ta’e mountain, there was a woman weeping and wailing by a grave. Confucius bent forward in his carriage, and after listening to her for some time, sent Tsze-Loo to ask the cause of her grief.
“‘You weep, as if you had experienced sorrow upon sorrow,’ said Tsze-Loo.
“The woman replied, ‘It is so. My husband’s father was killed here by a tiger, and my husband also; and now my son has met the same fate.’
“Confucius asked her why she did not remove from the place, and on her answering, ‘There is here no oppressive government,’ he turned to his disciples, and said, ‘My children, remember this, oppressive government is fiercer than a tiger.’”
It takes an effort for a modern man to feel the force of the words of the sage. The tiger means so little to us, and meant so much to the weeping woman and her neighbours. Still harder is it for us to realise the primitive ignorance of the exact shape of the enemy. Even to the few backwoodsmen who have seen one dead, it soon becomes a vague recollection. The infinite terror of the beasts and the ignorance of their forms are not the less indubitable facts, because they are so far beyond our ordinary comprehension; and these are the facts that perhaps explain, so far as we can explain, the grotesque shape of the Griffin. We must remember that our Zoos are a modern invention, almost like firearms; for two or three millenniums do not make antiquity in a world so old as ours. In the days when Griffins first took shape, whatever was the most hideous object would seem to be the best likeness of the horrid reality.
But the Zoos should let us know better now; and our writers and speakers should teach us better than to hate the beasts of prey. It is quite unnecessary. There is something coldly impartial in their war with us. They do not hate us, any more than the rocks do, or the icebergs. Red, “red in tooth and in claw,” they remain unconscious instruments of Fate, and serve to stiffen us. If they kill us, it is in self-defence or for food. There is no wanton cruelty; but there is no mercy. There are surprises, but no treachery. Even the French do not feel themselves betrayed, when it is the wolves that win. There is no sentimental humbug about this war; but also, no excuse for ferocity.
I never visit a Zoo and see the poor prisoners behind the bars without hearing, with the mind’s ears, a greeting, an appeal for pity, as if the poor big cats were really saying what they can only symbol in silence.
“Look at and pity us! You will not have such cats to look at long. Lions and tigers, leopards and jaguars, the species now all perishing salute ye, O men!
“We are neither grotesque nor hideous, neither wicked nor cowardly, neither cruel nor treacherous. We are merely cats. We had to live in the only way for which we were adapted.
“The war between you and us is nearly over now. It has lasted long, but the end is at hand. The world is lost to us big cats, and we are passing away, on the wings of the wind....
“Woe, woe to the conquered!!!...
“Ye may lay aside your fears! Do lay aside your fears, for fear is cruel. Ye have no need to fear us any more. We are your prisoners of war, and spared to make a human holiday....
“We killed or left alone, and cannot guess why ye do otherwise; but we cannot understand ye at all....
“We look around into daylight that is dimmer than darkness, and see not why we are here. We submit, because we must; and we are dying, dying, dying! All your devices but prolong our deaths! For life needs liberty. There is no life in prison for cats, or for men....
“The species all about to die salute ye!
“Have pity on us, O men!!!”