of them: and it will also happen that one
has frequently some time to wait before a
perfectly satisfactory answer can be obtained.
I do not ask why the Scolopendræ cannot do
without their hundred legs; why the Chirotes,
those very small Saurians, indulge in such an
extravagant length of tail; why the family
of the Auks are so fond of sitting in rows
like nine-pins, with little wings apparently of
not the slightest use; why certain
pachydermatous animals have their faces disfigured
by warts.  These, and a thousand similar
questions, I do not ask, because I know that
Professor Owen could at once tell me the
reason why.  But there are questions which
I often have a strong inclination to put,
touching more than one lusus naturæ;
instigated to do so, without doubt, by the
conviction that nobody—not even the
distinguished naturalist whom I have just named
—can afford me the information I profess to
require.

The present queries refer chiefly to the
class familiarly called monsters; not those in
human shape, who figure so conspicuously in
police reports,—but the bonâ-fide prodigies
about whom there can be no mistake:
monsters that don't beat their wives, or eat
live cats for wagers; but creatures
"deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before" (or out of)
"their time;"  who have no conceivable
mission to accomplish, and who only seem to
have been expressly created to make the
universe "stare and gasp."   Such sportive
productions generally find their way now-a-
days into the booths of wandering showmen;
but there was a time when they were of far
higher account; when learned men chronicled
their acts, and their appearance was supposed
to have an influence—generally unpleasant—
on the destinies of nations or their rulers.

I must preface such an account as I mean
to give of the monsters about which I have
lately been reading, by saying that I quite
rely upon the authorities I quote from; that
is to say, I believe that they believed all they
asserted; and where so much belief is
involved, it is rather an invidious task to
attempt to set everybody right.  My
doubting, therefore, will be done, like Ariel's
spiriting, gently.   As the French say, Entrons
en matière—let us begin.

In the Traditions Tératologiques of
Monsieur Berger de Xivrey (Paris, eighteen
hundred and thirty-six), a commentary is given
on the text of a Latin manuscript of the
tenth century, intituled by him, De Monstris
et Belluis (Of Monsters and Great Beasts),
which belonged to the Marquis of Rosanbo.
This work, which owes its origin to the
eighth chapter of the sixteenth book of The
City of God, by Saint Augustine, is
supplemental to the Fables of Phædrus, which
occupies the first portion of the manuscript.
From this part of the volume compiled by
Monsieur Berger de Xivrey, I take some of
the following descriptions.

Under the head of Cynocephali
(Dogheaded), is this (translated) passage:
"Cynocephali are also said to be produced in India,
which have the heads of dogs, and every
word which they utter they corrupt by
barking.  And these people imitate beasts
rather than men, by eating their meat raw."
The most detailed account of "these people"
is given by Ctesias, the Greek physician, who,
in his History of India, says:  "In these
mountains it is said there are men who have
the heads of dogs, and whose garments are
made of the skins of wild beasts.  They have
no language, but they bark like dogs, and
understand each other.  Their teeth are
longer than those of dogs; their nails
resemble the nails of those animals, but they
are longer and rounder.  They inhabit the
mountains as far as the river Indus.  They
are black, and very just" (in their dealings)
"like the Indians, with whom they trade."
(A curious sensation it must excite, the
appearance of a dog-headed customer!)
"They comprehend what the latter say to
them, but they can only reply by barking,
and by signs which they make with their
hands and fingers, like the deaf and dumb.
They feed upon raw flesh.  The Indians call
them Calystrians, which signifies in Greek,
Cynocephales."  Ã†lian makes some additions
to this account.  He tells us that the
Calystrians "eat the flesh of wild animals, which
they easily capture because they are very
light of foot.  When they have taken their
prey, they kill it, cut it up in pieces, and
roast it, not with fire, but in the sun" (rather
a hot sun).  "They have flocks of sheep and
goats, and drink their milk" (lapping it,
probably, after the fashion of other dog-headed
animals).

The Imperial Library in Paris possesses a
manuscript copy of a poem by Manuel Philæus,
bearing the same title as Ælian's work, ????
???? ????????? (On the Peculiarities of
Animals), in which a Cynocephalus, very
carefully drawn and coloured, is represented like
a man hairy all over, except his hands, feet,
elbows, knees, and head.  The latter
resembles that of a setter, and the nails of the
feet are elongated like veritable talons.  The
figure is upright and well-proportioned; in
the left hand he carries a hare by the
hindlegs, and in his right the stick with which he
knocks down his game.

Respecting these Cynocephali, Sir John
Maundevile, the celebrated traveller, who
always swallows Pliny's lies with infinite
relish, discourses as follows:  "In an island
clept Nacemara, alle the men and women
have houndes' hedes; and they were clept
Cynocephali; and they were full resonable,