There used to be a great many kinds of dragons in the world. Anybody who looks at the old pictures, images, and decorations, or reads the stories of long ago, can see this.
There were bad dragons and good dragons. Some, like those that lived in China and Japan, had no wings; but very long tails. The Wyvern, or Scotch dragon, had two tails, like the Belgian lion, but the dragons in Turkey made up in wings what they lack in tail.
A long time ago, there was a Belgian crusader, a Fleming, who got acquainted with a dragon of most respectable character, that lived near Aleppo, which was one of the famous cities of the Saracens. This was a water-dragon, named Buccoleon (buc-có-le-on), that lived in the river near by, though sometimes, when it wanted to go on a picnic, or enjoy the company of the hill dragons, it flew into the mountains.
The Turkish water dragons were great friends of those fairies that lived in the clouds, and had much to do with the showers and heavy rains, that make the flowers grow.
A great many caravans passed through Aleppo. These brought the tea, ivory, silk, and spices from the countries in the Far East, where the sun rises. These, they sent from Aleppo, by sea, to Antwerp, one of the greatest seaports in the world. The camels did not, of course, require much rain water, for they only took a drink about once a week. When they did, however, they made up for it, with their long necks, by tasting the water all the way down; that is, for about two yards. On the other hand, when they had a cough, it was awfully troublesome, to have six feet of sore throat. So the good dragons pitied the camels, and were always kind to them.
It was necessary for the river dragons to keep on good terms with the hill dragons and cloud fairies; for, without rain, the river would dry up. Then the dragon, that lived in the water, would have no place to board, or to lodge, or even to wash in, for the river was its bath tub.
This river dragon was a peaceful creature and did not like war. In fact, among its fellow creatures, it was known as the Weeping Dragon, because it cried so much. Whenever there was a battle between the Belgian crusaders and the Saracens, this dragon wept great tears. Each tear, in volume and amount, was equal to a bucket of water. Why should men, the dragon thought, chop and hack each other to death, because one carried a crescent on his banner, and the other sewed a red cross on his coat, over his armor? After every bloody fight, this river dragon used to go over the fields where the men from Belgium were buried, and drop a tear over each grave. Then it mopped its eyes, with a great bandana handkerchief, because the Flemings had died so far from home.
Now a bucket full of tear-water, falling on each burial spot, changed the sandy soil into fertile ground, and thereupon up sprang a new flower.
This novelty in the plant world looked like a cup, held by its stem. It rose up, in the air and sunlight, and was very rich and varied in color. All the hues and tints, of the other buds and blossoms, seen in the gardens that lined the river banks, seemed to unite in this one flower, as if everything good in the dead man had come to life again in bright colors. On some days, when, in the early morning, the sunlight struck the dew drops that lay on these flowers, each one looked like a crown set with costly jewels.
Now a certain Belgian soldier, a Fleming, whose home town was Ghent, and who was a florist, by profession, noticed this splendid new flower. His name was Theophilus; but they called him Taff, for short. From the first, his hope and ambition, in going to the East, had been—if he were not killed while fighting the battles of the cross, or if he did not die of fever, or from the terrible ulcer, they called the “Aleppo button”—to take home a floral souvenir from the Turk’s country. He knew that all the little boys would be expecting to see him come home loaded with trophies, captured from the Saracens; but the strange flower would also show where he had been, and through what adventures he had passed.
The Pilgrims to Jerusalem always carried home a scallop shell; but he intended to surprise the Ghenters with something prettier.
What better than the spirit-flower, or memorial blossom, which sprang up, where the weeping dragon had shown its grief? In fact, Taff thought of naming it “the Dragon’s Tear.”
But when he thought of the bad reputation of dragons in his country, he feared that all the Ghent folk would laugh at him and say that a dragon’s tears were no better than a crocodile’s. Besides, the idea of weeping was not a cheerful one, nor did it tell of the victories of the cross and the crusaders. What then should be a proper name for the flower?
While pondering this question, Taff looked out and saw two big Turks quarreling. They called each other all sorts of bad names. Finally one cursed his enemy, saying:
“May you wear a hat in the next world!”
And the other retorted: “May your turban fall into a pig-sty!”
Now these, with the Turks, were the same as horrible oaths. It was against the law for Saracens, as it is for Turks, to wear a hat. All faithful followers of the prophet cover their heads with a turban, and any one, who does not thus protect his head, is looked on as a vile sinner. To let one’s turban fall among the pigs, is the greatest misfortune.
Whether it be a fez, that is, a round, red cap, with tassel on the top; or seventeen yards, of white muslin, or red damask, or green silk wound round one’s head, every disciple of the prophet must wear a turban. If it be not neatly wrapped, a man is apt to be called a Bashi Bazouk, or “rotten head.” All sorts of honors, and offices are denoted by the folds, colors, or methods of folding or wrapping the turban. Or, in the case of cleanliness and smartness on the one hand or dust or slovenliness, on the other, words of praise or nicknames, and low and vulgar terms, may be applied.
The tassel on the top is the handle, by which the good believer is lifted, by the angels, into Paradise!
When Taff noticed the variety of rich colors, and the beauty of the fashion of the Saracen headdress, he decided to name the new flower the Turk’s turban.
Now the word for this is tulipan, or tulip, for short. Thereupon Taff collected the seeds of this turban flower and when the war was over, he brought them to Flanders and planted them in his garden. Soon he had a tulip farm, and then orders came in, from all parts of Europe, for this wonderful flower.
The women did not care very much for the tulip, because it is not as well fitted, as are violets, or roses, or sweet peas, or honey suckles, for corsage bouquets, or to put in their hair. Moreover, in the language of flowers, it had neither poetry, nor message, nor meaning, like the pansy, for instance.
On the contrary, as the young ladies say, the men “adored” the tulip because of its bright colors. Every man, who had been a crusader, planted it in his garden, to remind him of the Saracens, whose heads he had cut off in battle; or, to tell, his sons and neighbors about the terrible warriors he had met and fought with.
This was necessary, for all the small boys were disappointed, whose fathers did not bring back a scimeter, a spear, a shield, a javelin, a real turban, a pair of turkish slippers, a harem shawl, or some other trophy, to show that they had really been to the wars. In fact, some of them expected their daddies to return with a string of Turks’ heads at the saddle.
So the tulip was called a man’s flower, and Taff got rich, by selling the bulbs. Then he cultivated many varieties, with new shapes and colors. It got to be the fashion to buy these, for every one wanted to show off the new hues and tints, the streaks and spots, and the flaming colors, and hoped to beat his neighbor with the most astonishingly big blooms.
At one time, it seemed as if the whole world had gone crazy over tulips. Thousands of dollars were paid for a single bulb, or even for a tulip in flower, which would lose its petals in a few hours. Every day the Bourse, or money market, was crowded with merchants and brokers; who were buying bulbs and plants, without ever seeing one of them. Prices were announced from distant markets, by means of signals given on the windmills. Some men had tulips on the brain. They sold all they had, chairs, tables, beds, dishes and even clothes, to buy tulips, red, yellow, blue, or black.
But wise men called all this madness, and even talked of “wind trade.” Soon the excitement died down, and the market fell as flat as a ship’s sails on the mast, when there is not enough breeze to flap them.
There was another Fleming, a returned crusader, whose first name was Isaac; but they called him Nyken for short. This man was a potter by trade. He was so pestered by the small boys who wondered why he hadn’t brought back two or three Turks’ heads, that he was at his wit’s end to explain and answer their questions. So Nyken hid himself away, resolving to get rich from what he had learned about turbans. Not having any garden, he could not raise flowers, so he made up his mind he would make tulips out of clay, and get rich, even faster than his neighbor Taff, who was an old bachelor; while Nyken had a wife, and three daughters, all highly accomplished.
So Nyken mixed his clay, got his potter’s wheel ready, loaded his palette with paints, and then set to work, with his “vrouw en kinderen”; that is, his wife Bab (or Barbara) and his daughters three, Beck, Beff, and Jin (that is Rebecca, Elizabeth, and Joanna). These fine girls had all been well educated in the public schools, which were, even then, the glory of the Netherlands. They kept everything secret until the market day.
Then, to the surprise of the whole town of Ghent, Nyken’s stall and shelves blossomed out like a bed of tulips. There was his fat wife, whom he called Bulb, for a pet name, and his three blooming daughters, whom he called his Tulip blossoms.
First in demand, was the turban-dish, or “Turk’s Head,” for baking apples, and pot pies, and cakes, and macaroni. This was made of earthenware.
Then there was hard, shining glazed ware, in many forms and for many uses, cups, saucers, vases and flower-holders. These were made into the form of the flowers themselves, or were decorated with tulips of many tints; besides those which were black, yellow, and red, the colors of the Duke of Brabant and of the Belgian flag.
What pleased the young folks, more than all else, was the bust of a Saracen. This was a copy of a real Turk, with a turban on his head. His hair was black, and his face swarthy. His mouth was wide open, as if ready for some one to throw a pill down his throat, which he should swallow, without chewing it.
This was called “The Gaper,” and was instantly popular with the apothecaries, who made the pills and sold them in boxes at a high price.
On the very first day, Nyken and Bulb had sold out their whole stock, and the three girls, Beck, Beff and Jin had already, in their minds, selected the new dresses and lace collars, which they intended to buy. Soon, all through the Netherlands, there was a “gaper” over every druggist’s shop. New medicines, and strange-looking bottles and boxes were seen on the counters.
There were “Saracen Sure Cure for Corns,” “Buccoleon Liniment,” “Dragons’ Elixir of Life,” “Palestinian Pills,” “Tulip Cure-Alls,” “Thousand-Years-of-Life Syrup,” “Crusaders’ Balm,” “Dragon-Scale Plasters,” “Oriental Ointment,” and a hundred other remedies.
Meanwhile, what had become of the Aleppo dragon?
It turned out, just as the fairies and hill dragons had predicted; that, as soon as the war was over, and peace came, this dragon’s eyes would dry up. Then, the energy, that was so long wasted, as they thought, on tears, would excite this dragon to travel, and then, also, the dry ground would turn no more into flowers. Instead, the stream of tears would strike inward, and all of a sudden, the dragon’s scales would become gold.
It happened just so, and soon Buccoleon’s skin was a mass of golden scales.
Hearing that the Flemings had done such wonders, with the turban flower, and the turban pottery, the dragon was filled with admiration and envy. He wanted to fly at once to Flanders, and see things. He had learned, rather to like Crusaders, but when further, a traveler told the dragon about the Turk’s Head, made of earthenware, for cooking, and the Gaper, for the medicine shops, Buccoleon laughed so loudly, that people in Aleppo thought it thundered.
But alas for men’s treachery!
There was always so much envy and jealousy among the guilds in Ghent, that riots sometimes broke out. Then the bells called out the people to put down the rioters, and do justice to all.
Just at this time, as Buccoleon, the Aleppo dragon, was flying toward Flanders, the goldsmiths of Ghent were almost savagely envious of both Taff, the florist, and Nyken, the potter. When they heard of the coming flight of Buccoleon, they posted archers on the high towers, and these shot to death the good water dragon of Aleppo.
The greedy goldsmiths expected, with hammers and chisels, to pry off its scales and sell them! They wanted to get rich quickly, like Taff and Nyken.
These bad men were awfully disappointed. For when the people heard of what they had done, they rushed into the belfry of the tower. Some of them climbed up the three hundred and seventy-six steps, and rang the great bell, making a terrific clangor.
Forthwith, all the citizens assembled, in the great square, to hear Taff and Nyken tell what this good dragon had done, and how its tears, over the dead Crusaders, had been turned into tulips.
It was voted unanimously that the highest honors should be paid to Buccoleon, the dragon. So, with ropes and pullies, and a strong scaffold, they raised a mighty tackle on the tower, while the blacksmiths made the iron weather vane. On its pivot, they set the Aleppo dragon, which was ten feet long. Now, when it came to dragons, Ghent could glory over Brussels, and the Boringue.
Flashing golden in the sun, high in air, near the clouds, while far below, in the rich fields and gardens, the tulip spreads beauty on earth and wealth to the Netherlands, Buccoleon, the dragon, on top of the great belfry, turns to all the winds that blow.