The Picture of Nature in Seventeenth-Century English Aesop’s Fables “Who painted the leon, tel me who?”1 1. Critical attention to Aesop’s fables in early modern England has usually focused on the political uses of the tales. Most of the stories in the Aesopic collection are about inequitable power relationships, usually prey and predator or slave and master, and they have always served as a means to explore power relations and put forth partisan positions and arguments. Annabel Patterson, Jayne Elizabeth Lewis, and Mark Loveridge have shown that the printed fables (and the life of Aesop, the hunchbacked African slave, that accompanied most editions of the tales) performed these functions during the early modern period, from the end of the fifteenth through the eighteenth centuries.2 The political edge of the fables is particularly pronounced in the late seventeenth-century Aesops, which were published within a period of political conflict for an audience with an appetite for political analysis, allegory, and opinion. Both of the men responsible for the late seventeenth century Aesops (John Ogilby and Francis Barlow) were involved with contemporary politics, even if their commitments were as much shaped by professional and commercial opportunities as they were by principle or ideology: Ogilby was a royalist polemicist, and Barlow published a set of prints supporting the Whig cause during the Popish Plot and its aftermath. While it is probably true, as is often said, that the fables have not received critical attention equal to their level of popularity and ideological importance in early modern culture, the quality and thoroughness of existing studies offer an excellent grounding in the cultural importance and impact of the verbal texts of Aesop’s fables in early modern England. I emphasize verbal texts, because these critics pay virtually no attention to Aesopic illustration. As I will discuss below, only some Aesops were illustrated – but the tradition of English and continental Aesopic illustration is nonetheless important, and both Ogilby’s and Barlow’s Aesops, certainly the most significant English Aesops of the early modern period, are generously illustrated. The unspoken presumption in the criticism seems to be that the pictures have little to say that is not already said in words: that they are, that is, illustrations in the sense The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 2 that they are pictorial elucidations or embellishments to texts whose primary dimension is verbal. This presumption seems counter-intuitive, given the prominence, expense, and success of the illustrations in many Aesops: even the most superficial evidence suggests that contemporary audiences valued the illustrations, and raises the possibility that they saw in the images things that weren’t available in the verbal texts. I will argue in this essay that the illustrations do indeed deserve analysis as a distinct form of representation, and that they certainly offered meanings that were independent of the words they accompany. I will also argue that the realm of knowledge to which these meanings belong is quite distinct from that which the verbal meanings do: that is, while the verbal texts express political values and opinions, as is traditional to the fable genre, the illustrations are not about politics in a partisan, ideological, or theoretical sense. Instead, the illustrations are primarily concerned with defining and depicting animals, especially animals in nature – topics that we understand, with the aid of hindsight, as political, but that were not directly part of the debates over the structure of political institutions, the qualities of political subjectivity, or the contours and breadth of religious tolerance, with which the verbal texts of the fables engaged. If it seems odd to say that the illustrations to seventeenth-century Aesops are not about politics even though the texts are, it is even more odd to say that the verbal fables – the majority of which feature animal characters – are not about animals, even if the illustrations are. But Erika Fudge, whose work on the representation of animals in early modern culture is widely respected, argues just that: “the real animal,” says Fudge, “is clearly absent from Aesopic works.”3 Fudge’s reasoning is sound: the animal characters in the verbal fables are types of human, which is why they can talk, often walk upright, and have relations with each other that are more social than natural. In consequence, the animals in the verbal texts of Aesops are ontologically empty as animals: the more they make sense as human beings, the less they make sense as animals. But in the few critical assessments of the illustrations, the opposite is held to be true: that is, the illustrations are thought to convey more richly, and more generously, an understanding of animals as animals, rather than as masks for human beings, than do the texts. For example, Martin Kemp, whose recent book The Human Animal in Western Art and Science surveys some of the same territory as Fudge's work, but who focuses on visual rather than verbal evidence, argues the opposite case to Fudge’s about seventeenth-century English Aesops. He writes that Aesopic illustrations had the potential to convey the “outer and inner dimensions”4 of animals The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 3 better than works in other media and genres, and that they challenged the Cartesian division between animals (as brutes without reason or sentiment) and humans (who are defined by their thinking and feeling capacities). Neither and both of these critics are right: in the early modern Aesop, the animal is conspicuously both absent and present. It depends where we look: Kemp, an art historian, is focused on the images, while Fudge, a literary and cultural critic, draws her evidence from the words. In early modern illustrated Aesops, the two forms of evidence say quite different things about animals. In the verbal texts, the animal actors function as humans that lack that which constitutes the human: they are missing human moral capacity, human reason, and human social and political intelligence and experience. The tales reveal what the animals lack as humans, and thereby frame for the human reader the superior capacities humanity, as a class of being, possesses. Generically the animals in the tales are allegorical figures, which means that we can’t believe them to be real (not real lions, or foxes, or crows, that is). To do so would be to misconstrue the way that they signify, and disturb the dynamic by which they are to be read: allegorical figures have to be read beyond what they seem to be to what they are not (e.g., the lion king of the jungle cannot be read as the lion king of the jungle, which in any literal, “factual” way wouldn’t make sense; the figure signals something, and what that something might be is first and foremost constrained by the fact that it cannot be that which it appears to be). So Fudge is quite right: there are no real animals in Aesop, and the verbal texts are about almost everything that it was presumed that humans are that animals aren’t. In the visual texts, though, as Kemp suggests, animals do make an appearance. Whether or not these are real animals in the sense that Fudge means – or indeed, that the Wife of Bath means when she asks, with reference to one of the Aesopic fables, who painted the lion – that is, animals as they know themselves – the illustrations to Ogilby and Barlow’s Aesops do represent animals as animals, rather than as stand-ins for humans. As I will discuss at greater length in the following pages, the genres the illustrations draw upon – natural history illustration and landscape composition – treat animals as components within a world named nature. The Aesopic illustrations with which this paper is concerned borrow the conventions of the representation of the natural from those genres, and propose a non-allegorical and empirical mode of reading for their viewers. The texts lead us to ask “what does that animal stand for? What does this animal lack that I have? How can I do better than The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 4 what that animal character does? What can I learn from this creature’s mistakes?” But the pictures suggest that we should ask instead “what does that animal feel like to touch? What is that animal doing? Where does that animal live? How big is that animal? Could that animal hurt me? How could I use that animal?” The texts’ questions lead to bigger questions about moral conduct and political justice in human society, while the illustrations’ questions lead to bigger questions about the state of nature, and man’s relation to it. The illustrations to late seventeenth- century Aesops therefore orient their viewers towards what are emerging as the most important epistemological questions of the modern era: what is nature to man, and man to nature? And, is a non-allegorical relationship with nature possible? In the real world outside of these works, the possibility of a non-allegorical relationship with nature has already been subsumed by the anti- allegorical relations established between nature and capital in mercantile imperialism, and between nature and property in political theory: capital and property do not have to regard nature as the sign of anything in order to do what they have to do. The illustrations in seventeenth- century Aesops therefore can be seen as offering us a strangely dilated moment in which it might have been possible to imagine a nature that afforded us no surplus in economic, ontological, or even theological terms. That this moment passed us by before it even happened is only one of the many deep ironies of the preposterous structure of our enlightenment epistemology: we never know in time, in more ways than one. Nevertheless, we can use hindsight to remember a past that we didn’t have, one sliver of which is revealed in the pictures with which this essay is concerned. 2. It may surprise readers that early modern Aesops, especially those used by children, were not normally illustrated. Of the more than one hundred publications of the fables between the advent of printing in England and 1700, only a handful were illustrated: very early editions published in England did have illustrations,5 but after 1500 there were none until 1639, when two new editions were published. One was Henry Peacham's, and no copy of it survives; it is likely that it was illustrated, probably with emblematic woodcuts similar to the other editions of this and earlier years and to Peacham’s other work. The other was William Barret's translation and versification of the fables, which included 113 woodcuts Edward Hodnett accurately calls “comically inept small copyings, without art or invention.”6 For the most part, then, early The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 5 modern Aesops did not have pictures. The collections of fables published by Ogilby (first in 1651) and Barlow (first in 1666) – expensive folios directed at adult audiences, generously illustrated with high-quality etchings designed by distinguished artists and executed by some of the best engravers working in England at the time – were very different kinds of books than the many versions printed before them, and their illustrations were an important part of their appeal and interest. John Ogilby’s 1651 edition of The fables of Aesop paraphras'd in verse, and adorn'd with sculpture is prefaced with a verse that states the importance of the illustrations in the volume: Examples are best Precepts; And a Tale Adorn’d with Sculpture better may prevaile To make Men lesser Beasts, than all the store Of tedious volumes, vext the world before.7 The “sculpture[s]” in Ogilby’s Aesop were full-page etchings by Francis Clein (or Cleyn), a German artist who settled in England in 1623. Clein was an accomplished artist who fulfilled commissions in virtually every medium and for most conceivable functions during his career, which ended with his death in 1658. In 1665, Ogilby produced a folio edition of this work; the larger format required larger plates, and Ogilby employed Wenceslaus Hollar to “transmute Cleyn's leaden images into golden ones” (Hodnett, Barlow 143). Hollar re-did 57 of 80 plates, and the rest were copied from Clein by Dirk Stoop. In 1668, Ogilby followed up on the success of this volume with Aesopics: or, A second collection of fables, paraphas'd in verse, adorn'd with sculpture which included 50 new fables and 38 new illustrations, half by Hollar, and most of the other half by Francis Barlow. The first volume was published again in 1668, and both volumes were re-issued in 1673 and 1675. All the illustrations in Ogilby's Aesops were derived from De warachtighe fabulen der dieren (Bruges, 1567) by Marcus Gheeraerts the elder. Gheeraerts was a Flemish painter and printmaker who lived in London from 1568 until his death, in or after 1586. Gheeraerts’ Aesopic illustrations are distinguished from their predecessors by their much higher levels of realism in the depiction of the creatures, and of naturalism in the representation of the animals’ relationships to their environment and to each other.8 The realism of Gheeraerts’ animals was influenced by zoological texts produced in the sixteenth century, which were copiously illustrated with images “cum ειconibus ad viuam ipsorum effigiem.”9 For mammals (which The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 6 feature in Aesops more than other animals, with birds as a close second) the standard source for an artist such as Gheeraerts was the works of Conrad Gesner, whose Historiae Animalium Liber I10 was devoted to four-footed, live-birthed, animals. The illustrations in Gesner’s work were widely disseminated in many redactions published by Gesner, in dozens of works by other naturalists, and in prints that provided templates for the decorative arts, and which were used to design embroidery patterns, tapestry-work, and paintings (on walls, ceilings, and furniture). 11 The illustrations in early modern natural histories were key to the quality and tenor of the knowledge about nature that these works advanced. As Brian Ogilvie shows in his book The Science of Describing, sixteenth century naturalists developed “new habits of observation and a new vocabulary to express them,” a “habitus” that defined the practice of naturalists and the standards by which their performance would be judged.12 Pictures were essential to the construction of this habitus: they were both the consequence of trained observation, and evidence of the ethos and quality of the naturalist. Leonhart Fuchs, the German botanist, argued that “nature was fashioned in such a way that everything may be grasped by us in a picture,”13 but crafting these pictures required that naturalists and artists establish conventions of representation that supported their scientific projects and enhanced the quality and breadth of natural historical discourse. In sixteenth century zoological illustrations, these conventions include emphasis on differentiae, or salient characteristics that distinguish one animal from another (the stripes of the tiger and the spots of the leopard, for example); a corresponding lack of emphasis on redundant or common features; elimination of background or environmental information, and the depiction of individual specimens in isolation, rather than with others of its kind, or animals of other types. Gheeraerts drew on some of these conventions to heighten the realism of his creatures for the audience of his Aesop. The salient differentiae are highlighted: the fur, features, and distinctive physiognomical structures are represented in great detail.14 Likewise, redundant features are downplayed; mammals have four legs, for instance, and to make note of all four in illustration would be to belabour an obvious point. Because Gheeraerts’ animals are also presented within naturalistic landscapes, as I will discuss in the next few paragraphs, he does not isolate the creatures, and he does include background. But by asserting the realistic qualities of the animals that he portrays, Gheeraerts drew the illustrations away from the allegorical tradition to which the texts belong and towards the quite different register of natural history. In construing his viewers as “observers” of nature, able to appreciate the qualities of illustration generated by the The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 7 habitus of the naturalist, Gheeraerts framed his readership as what Barlow would later call “the more Intelligible and Scientifick part of Mankind.”15 In depicting the scenes and settings for the fabular animals, and their interactions with other animals, Gheeraerts drew on his aptitude in landscape art. Objects in the distance are lighter, smaller, and less detailed; the distribution of light is natural; the composition appears clipped from nature, rather than shaped by art.16 Like precepts of zoological illustration, theories of the depiction of landscape (which could include animals and humans) were also non- allegorical: the representation of nature in landscape, like the representation of animals in natural history, was explicitly related to scientific and empirical theories of the appearance of phenomena, their observation by human beings, and the best ways to communicate those observations. Although landscape painting was not practiced in England in the sixteenth century and most of the seventeenth, continental examples circulated, and the theory was in place. For example, Henry Peacham’s Art of Dravving (1606) offers a description of how landscape painting was conceived in relation to theories of natural phenomena and of optical perception: If you laie your Landskip in coloures, the farther you goe, the more you must lighten it with a thinne and aiery blew, to make it seem farre off, beginning it first with a darke greene, so driuing it by degrees into a blew…your eie may easily been deceived in remote thinges, that is when the bodies appeare to your sighte farre bigger then indeede they are, by the corruption (as wee saie) of the Medium: as for example, the Sunne and Moone at their rising or Setting, you see, seeme farre bigger then when they are mounted ouer our heades in the Zenith: the reason is the thicknesse or corruption, as I sayd, of the ayre or Medium.17 As theorized by Peacham, and as practiced by Gheeraerts, landscape art has much in common with representation in natural history: it strives to produce an image of the world from the point- of-view of science, and to cast its viewers as observers of nature. Gheeraerts’ illustrations of Aesop’s fables reflected changes in the conception and practices of art that were taken up in northern European painting, drawing, and designs for print in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. What makes them remarkable in the context of the argument of this essay is the difference they establish between text and image in the fable genre: because they refer to different concepts and structures of representation than the texts do, Gheeraerts’ illustrations define the potential for an increasing divide between the visual and the The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 8 verbal aspects of the tales. If the verbal were to be refreshed and renewed, made ready for a new or even emergent market, then it would have to reflect the topics and practices of allegory and satire, especially political ones. If the visual were to be similarly refreshed and renewed, particularly for the kind of audience Barlow defines in his dedicatory epistle, it would have to reflect the topics, practices, and viewpoints of natural history and landscape painting, both of which stage representation in empirical and non-allegorical terms. The precedent established by Gheeraerts would be developed further by Barlow in the most significant illustrated Aesops of the early modern period. Barlow’s 1666 Aesop, AEsop's Fables with his life, is a polyglot edition that includes French and Latin prose, English verse, and 112 etched illustrations, under which the English text is inscribed;18 in 1687 an enlarged edition appeared, adding 31 plates to the life of Aesop.19 Barlow was a well-known artist specializing in nature scenes who called himself “a Well-wisher to the Art of Painting” in his letter to the reader in the first edition; John Evelyn called him the “famous Paynter of fowle Beastes & Birds.”20 He designed sets of natural history plates that continued to be reprinted into the eighteenth century “and were an important source for artists and craftsmen of succeeding generations.”21 Barlow based about half of his Aesopic etchings on Gheeraerts’ compositions, and another quarter on the full range of sources available to him, including other Aesops and emblem books;22 the last quarter was original designs. But all of Barlow’s illustrations, whatever their sources, share the qualities established by Gheeraerts for Aesopic illustration: the animals are realistic, in the terms established by the conventions of zoological images, and the scenes are naturalistic, in the very similar terms developed from the conventions of landscape painting. Hodnett remarks that Barlow is like a “scientist” whose animal studies reflect the observation of “all of the precise factual data that are the starting points of scientific observation.”23 Barlow's landscapes conform to the conventions described by Peacham and the compositional practices exemplified in the work of seventeenth-century northern European landscape painters. According to Hodnett, “Barlow followed Gheeraerts, and perhaps outdid him;”24 in outdoing his predecessor, and in aiming for an audience committed to the advancement of “ingenious Arts and Sciences,”25 Barlow concentrated on the features that drew the illustrations of Aesop’s fables further from the allegorical mode of the words the pictures accompanied, and closer to the values of representation espoused by early modern naturalists and landscape painters. The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 9 I would like to turn now to one of Barlow’s fables, entitled “The Hunted Beaver,” which offers a rich text for the development of our understanding of how the images in seventeenth- century Aesops could offer different modes for reading, and different meanings to be read, than the verbal texts they accompany. Although not common in English Aesops, the beaver's tale does appear in several continental collections; 26 the story is also traditional to medieval bestiaries, to emblem suites,27 and to most of the classical sources that these genres have in common. The emblem story and the fable are the same as the tale of the beaver in bestiaries: the beaver, hunted for its “castoreum,” which was used as medicine, bites off its testicles (both male and females were thought to have testicles) and throws them aside (or at an oncoming hunter), knowing that it will then not be valuable to hunt; the next time the hunter comes for it, it shows that it lacks that which makes it valuable, and the hunter turns away.28 In the Aberdeen bestiary (c. 1200), the (translated) moral of the story is “Thus every man who heeds God's commandment and wishes to live chastely should cut off all his vices and shameless acts, and cast them from him into the face of the devil. Then the devil, seeing that the man has nothing belonging to him, retires in disorder. That man, however, lives in God and is not taken by the devil.”29 The moral of the beaver emblem in the Augsburg collection of 1531 is “From this creature’s example you will learn not to spare material things, and to give money to the enemy to buy your life.”30 The fabular story of the beaver was specifically rejected in early modern natural history; Gesner, for example, counters the story of the self-castrating beaver on the basis of what is presented as empirical evidence from dissection combined with the authority of the ancients. Edward Topsell translated the passage in his 1607 publication, Foure-footed beastes as follows: But this is most false [i.e., that the beaver bites off its own testicles]…first, because their stones are verie small, and so placed in their bodie as are a Boares, and therefore impossible for them to touch or come by them: Secondly, they cleaue so fast vnto their back, that they cannot be taken awaie but the beast must of necessitie loose his life; and therefore ridiculous is their relation, who likewise affirme, that when it is hunted, hauing formerlie bitten off his stones, that he standeth vpright and sheweth the hunters that he hath none for them, and therefore his death cannot profit them, by meanes whereof they are auerted, and seeke for another.31 Earlier in his account, Gesner rejects the etymology of the creature’s name that is also traditional to the bestiary, fable, and emblem versions of the beaver: in Topsell’s translation, “the reason The Picture of Nature in 17th-Century Aesops 10 why the Graecians call it Castor, is not as the Latines haue supposed, because it biteth off his owne stones…but of castrando, bicause for the stones therof it is hunted and killed.”32 By the time that Barlow crafted his beaver illustration (more than a hundred years after Gesner’s account, and more than fifty years after Topsell’s translation was published) the separation between the allegorical method of the fables and the empirical method of science was wider and deeper than it had ever been before. Knowledge of the beaver, for example, as an animal in nature, rather than as an allegorical figure, was further developed in the seventeenth century, as scientists obtained specimens from North America and anatomized them. In Claude Perrault's Mémoires pour servir à l'histoire naturelle des animaux,33 the account of the dissection of a beaver “taken in Canada” includes a report of the anatomist’s search for the source of the castoreum: “To inform us of the Truth, we stript our Beaver of its skin.”34 They found the organs deep in the animal’s body, proving again, as Gesner and Topsell stated, that the myth of the beaver was exactly that – a myth. Nevertheless, in Barlow’s 1666 publication of “The Hunted Beaver,” the poem by Thomas Philipott retells the traditional fable, and states the moral: Beavers by Eager Hunters oft persu'd Cause nature with Castorium had Indu'd Their pregnant Testacles, they by instinct Knowing to what cause their persuit is linckt Byte of the Bagg which does the Drug comprize And baile their Lives by that rich Sacrifice. Thus we're oft safe by temporary Loss, To Keepe his gold [who] would not part with Dross (39). In the 1687 version, Aphra Behn writes: The hunted Beaver knowing what sweet Prise, Would make him to the dogs a sacrifice, Bites of the prey, and ends the eager strife, And with the loss of treasure bails his life. Morall: Who would not part with momentary Toys, To purchas to themselves eternall joys (39). Both poets stick to the traditional outlines of the story; while Philipott takes the meaning rather