The Fantasy and Reality of The Natural History of Ireland

            In 1602, twelve-year-old Philip O’Sullivan Beare fled Ireland for a life of exile in Spain. The English had just defeated Ireland's old Gaelic order in the Battle of Kinsale, and young Philip's cousin had led his remaining followers--women and children included--on a treacherous 250-mile march to Leitrim and the sea, fighting English and Irish opponents along the way. Out of the roughly 1000 that began the march, 35 people made it to the end.

            Philip O’Sullivan Beare was received hospitably in Spain. He was given an education, and he authored several manuscripts, many of which are known today. Although he remained in Spain until his death, O’Sullivan Beare continued to hope that his people would return to Ireland and oust its English occupiers, and he did what he could to make that happen. He drew up battle plans, and he wrote propaganda promoting Ireland and emphasizing connections between the Irish and their Spanish allies.

            In the late 16th and early 17th centuries, several accounts were being circulated which depicted Ireland in a negative light: an attempt at propaganda in favor of the English occupation of Ireland. O'Sullivan Beare attempted to refute those accounts—particularly those of Giraldus Cambrensis. In 1626, O'Sullivan Beare completed the Zoilomastix (now published as The Natural History of Ireland), emphasizing the land’s incredible wealth of valuable resources and marvelous features.

            In the book, O’Sullivan Beare sets down an encyclopedic account of Ireland’s plants, animals, natural features, and miracles. He tries to be as thorough and accurate as possible to prove that he is a greater authority on the contents of Ireland than any of its critics. He makes use of all the resources he can, from ancient accounts of Pliny the Elder and Aristotle, to the records of contemporary travelers, to his own memory of his childhood in Ireland.

            Keep in mind, however, that this was the early 1600s: large portions of the world were still strange and unknown, and they were rarely understood. It was difficult, if not impossible, to verify a first-hand account, and most resources were second- or third- or fourth-hand accounts which often relied on the authority of the ancient Greeks. As a result, a great deal of O’Sullivan Beare’s claims—which may have been plausible at the time—are known to be wildly inaccurate today. The book weaves a world of magical realism, where what could easily be a modern scientific account proceeds to slide directly into a flight of fancy without so much as a batting an eye. When a modern audience attempts to read it with the uncritical eye of a 17th-century readership, reality can become unglued. It becomes difficult to pinpoint what has been scientifically proven and what has not. One finds oneself asking, Does this really happen? Did it happen?

Some of my favorite entries:

“Hedgehogs…are protected by firm spines on their backs, but their belly is covered with a harmless wool. They roll on fruit, lying on the ground, which becomes affixed to their spines. They carry them to the holes of trees and hedges which they inhabit, holding just one in their mouths. When they sense a hunter they roll themselves into a ball with their snout, feet and every underneath part contracted so that nothing can be grasped except spines... (81)”

“River horses are similar to land horses. The fact is so true that they sometimes are not distinguished when feeding among horses. The unhappy death of a man of Obuillus, (O’Boyle) quite well-known among the Irish, explains the belief. This man by misfortune mounted a river horse fitted with trappings while it was feeding among the land horses. The river horse travelling by the nearby lake threw himself along with his rider into it. The river horse itself did not appear again nor did O'Boyle survive (169, 171)."

"Let me come now to the Sylvia (the robin)...Small in body, it is held in the highest sympathy among the Irish because, pious and courteous, it tries to cover lifeless bodies and deserted corpses of men with moss and grass (137)."

"[Ireland] begets no poisonous animal, and no noxious reptile. In truth, a certain and swift death is their fate at the first touch of Irish air, if by chance they are brought from elsewhere. Furthermore, whatever is taken out of Ireland has been proved to be an antidote to poisons (49)."

"Loch Neag is the most beautiful lake in which, if the branches of the berry-bearing holly or a slip are brought in, from those after a year trees are reported to grow which are wooden in the upper part that stands out from the water, stone in the bottom part which is fixed to the earth and iron in the middle part surrounded by water (263)."

            It might be easy for a knowledgeable resident of the 21st century to snort in derision at some of the claims in this work. Those tempted to do so, however, should attempt to see the world through the eyes of a 17th-century scholar in mainland Europe. If it makes sense for a hedgehog to roll into a ball for defense, why would it not make sense for it to use its spikes for carrying food? And what proof could one use to refute claims that robins cover dead bodies with moss? And what reason would one have to doubt that Ireland's special air kills poisonous animals? Inaccuracies such as these provide entertainment to the modern reader, for sure, but they also provide a very informative glimpse of 17th century life and natural knowledge.

            In a way, this glimpse that the Zoilomastix give us is proven even more genuine by the state in which it was found and translated. The original Latin work was lost for more than 300 years before it was found in a Swedish university. It was only recently translated to English by Denis C. O'Sullivan at the University College of Cork, in Ireland. It appears that the first three chapters have been lost—the manuscript begins, mid-argument, on the final

page of chapter four. Portions of the text have been struck through or added to the margins, sometimes in a different handwriting, and sections occasionally appear out of order, as if O'Sullivan Beare were intending to edit and rearrange the book at a later time. This is a work in progress, and the reader can see how much work has gone into it already. The reader

also gets a feel for how critical O'Sullivan Beare can be of what he considers dubious claims. And he seems fully aware of his potential for fallacy and incompleteness. Throughout the book, he throws in qualifiers, such as "it is said," or "if trust be put [into this account]," as if to emphasize that the knowledge is not empirical. O'Sullivan Beare concludes the work anticipating additions:

"This is my labour...although it will be considered less perfect by somebody else, nobody will deny that it will be easier to increase it by the addition of new facts than to begin and complete a whole work. What I have taken up I seem to have accomplished: that Ireland is not deserted, without roads, and boggy, as Gyraldus would have it, but that it is heaped with glory under many headings (267)."

I don't know how effective O'Sullivan Beare's propaganda was, or how much it helped Ireland's image in 17th-century Europe. I do, however, know many things O'Sullivan Beare could never have known in 1626. I know that hedgehogs do not use their spikes to carry fruit, and that Irish air does not kill poisonous creatures. I also know that, in spite of all of O'Sullivan Beare's hopes, the Gaelic order was never restored to Ireland, and England would continue to occupy the land for at least another 300 years. Such knowledge might have broken that scholar's heart.

            In a way, The Natural History of Ireland is like a time capsule from the early 1600s: a series of notes and wishes stashed away in some man's collection, mid-edit. In spite of all that has happened in the last 400 years, it gives us a very personal and wonder-inducing glimpse of what was, what was believed, and what could have been.


(Photos of script throughout this post are from the original manuscript of the Zoilomastix.)