Saturday, July 25, 2015

The Mammoths of Niederweningen

During the summer of 1890, a work crew employed by the Swiss Northeastern Railway labored to extend a short spur up a valley from Zurich to the far side of the tiny hamlet of Niederweningen. As they approached their goal in July, they found convenient a layer of gravel on the south side of the tracks. The layer of gravel was nothing surprising. Switzerland was well processed during the ice ages and strata of glacial till were common in the valleys. What was surprising was the bones they found beneath it.

Unlike many stories I've told here, there was no mystery about the bones. By 1890, the ice age, extinction, and Pleistocene giants were completely accepted by European intellectuals. The workers, or at least their supervisors, knew the bones were something special that needed to be preserved. The railroad might even have had a formal policy about such things. They carefully collected each bone and took it to the local inn for storage. By the beginning of August, it was clear that there were a lot of bones there. The minister of the church in nearby Dielsdorf, Pastor Schluep (I can't find his first name), sent a telegram to the president of the Zurich Antiquarian Society telling him about the find.

The telegram arrived on August 2, a Saturday. Before the day was over, Arnold Lang was in Niederweningen eager to examine the site. As soon as business opened on Monday, he met with local authorities and the management of the railway and arranged formal permission to examine the site. In a mere two weeks he organized an conducted a full excavation of the site. During that time he not only collected bones, he brought in experts to examine the geological situation and botanical remains associated with the bones. In his account, he spends more words thanking the the people who helped him than in describing the actual work—something that is personally classy but frustrating to later historians and paleontologists. The following year Lang organized a second formal excavation. Remarkably, with all time he had to plan, they found little to add to his first, tiny, improvised season.

Lang thought mammoths were the most important part of the find. In his 1892 article, he cited mammoths in his title. The description of the find was buried deep within a historical essay on mammoth discoveries. Lang writes that they identified bones from six individual mammoths (modern paleontologists say seven), one so small he thought it might be a fetus. There were also bones from wolves, horses, birds, rodents, and a woolly rhinoceros that Lang calls "the constant companion of the extinct mammoths."

Herr Dreyer, one of the experts Lang recruited, used bones from all the adult mammoths to assemble a composite skeleton which was mounted and displayed in the zoology museum at the University of Zurich. Lang's drawing shows something remarkable about Dreyer's preparation. He put the tusks on the wrong sides. This wasn't a personal quirk of his; many paleontologists thought that was the proper mounting. Look carefully at some of the artwork from the time. Though mammoths are usually shown in profile, if you study the shading you'll see that the artists were portraying outward facing tusks. Unfortunately, art directors, even at scientific magazines, still use these illustrations. This is something of a pet peeve of mine.

The Niederweningen mammoth of 1892 (source)

The paleontologists and artists of the time labored under a certain disadvantage with respect to mammoths. No one had ever recovered a skull with the tusks still attached. In Siberia, where most mammoth remains were found, the finders were allowed to take and sell the ivory before notifying the authorities. And most of them preferred not to tell the authorities at all. In Europe, skulls didn't have a very good survival rate. The skulls of elephants and mammoths are very fragile. Though they look solid, they are actually made of of thin plates of bone honeycombed with sinuses. This makes them lighter. When the skulls were dug from the ground by farmers and railroad laborers, they frequently fell apart before scientists could arrive to examine them.

But, given all the possible arrangements, why did they choose one that looks so patently absurd to us? To be fair, they didn't all believe that. The proper placement was, as we say, controversial. Several placements had been suggested. By the 1890s, quite a few had come around to the right placement. At the root of it all was a conceptual problem. Western naturalists believed that all horns, antlers, fangs, and tusks had to be functional weapons. A moose's antlers might be over-engineered because the ladies love a good rack, but, in the end, they still need to be able to give a good thrashing to any challengers. The French word for an elephant's tusks is "défenses." In fact, modern elephants don't stab with their tusks; they swing sideways and hit with them.

Another argument was that the final inward curve of an old mammoth's tusks would have blocked their vision. The growth of an a mammoth's tusks begins downward and outward. They then curve forward and the outward growth ceases. By the time they seriously curve upward, they also begin to curve inward. In some old bulls, the tips actually cross in front of their faces. And that was the problem. Some naturalists, who weren't that familiar with elephant anatomy, thought this would dangerously obstruct their vision. However, an elephants eyes are not on the front of their skull. Like most herbivores, their eyes are on the side. The line of sight that these naturalists thought would be obstructed was already a blind spot for mammoths. Still, I am charmed by the image of old, cross-eyed mammoths staggering around the tundra supported by their woolly rhinoceros buddies.

During the 2003 and 2004 excavation seasons, new digs were conducted in Niederweningen. One of them was conducted at the same site as the 1890-1 dig. Like Lang, the organizers of these digs included botanists and geologists in their teams. They also took advantage of cores drilled during the eighties that revealed the geologic strata down to the bedrock twenty meters below the village. What they discovered was that the ice age before the most recent one scoured the valley clean. During the last glacial maximum, the ice didn't reach the future site of Niederweningen. For over 130,000 years, the valley has been home to alternating lakes and peat bogs.

Lang reported that the mammoths and other bones were discovered just beneath the gravel that the railroad desired and on top of a layer of peat. His geologists dug through the peat to reveal a layer of clay and silt—lake sediment—below it. Modern geologists interpret the gravel as glacial till washed down from the surrounding mountains at the end of the last ice age. The date the transition from peat bog to alluvial plain is uncertain. There is evidence of some erosion just above the boundary. The bones have been dated to 33-34 thousand years old while the peat just below it is six to eight thousand years older. Lang found some pits in the peat that he thought might have been mammoth footprints. Of they were, they weren't from any of the mammoths he found.

Dreyer's composite skeleton is still in Zurich (they have since fixed the tusks). Many of the other bones, including the woolly rhinoceros and the baby mammoth remained in Niederweningen. The 2004 dig discovered over half of a mammoth including the jaw, tusks, most of the limb bones, and part of the pelvis. The good citizens of Niederweningen promptly built a museum for their new mammoth. Due to the richness of the site, there will certainly be future digs there. I look forward to hearing about them.

The new Niederweningen mammoth (source)

Monday, July 20, 2015

I Just Signed Contract With a Literary Agent


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

On Planets X and Naming Names

This is a minor rewrite of a post I wrote in 2008. I have not updated it to include the controversy over demoting Pluto from planet to some other category. What to call and how to define that category is another story. Nor have I included the amazing KPO discoveries of Mike "Pluto Killer" Brown. Who knows, if I put it all together, I might have my next book.

In 2008, Scientists at Kobe University proposed that a Mars-sized planet still waited to be discovered in the outer solar system. Ever since the discovery of Neptune in 1846, scientists have debated whether another planet and its gravity were necessary to account for the observed motions of the other bodies in the solar system. Their prediction was based on a computer model of the evolution of the Kuiper Belt, that group of thousands of asteroids and mini planets that includes Pluto as its best known member.

The composer William Herschel and his sister Caroline in 1781 were the first people to discover a new planet. The idea of finding an unknown planet was so novel at the time that for months the Herschels thought they had discovered a comet and were puzzled by its orbit and refusal to develop a tail. When it finally dawned on them what they had discovered, they knew it need a better name than Comet Herschel. They called it George, after the insane king of England.

Understandably, continental astronomers were less than thrilled to accept a name chosen to flatter a foreign political figure. Several of their countries were at war with England at the time in support of the American rebellion. French astronomers graciously pushed for calling the planet Herschel. Johann Bode, a Prussian publisher of ephemeris tables, suggested a compromise. Since all of the other planets had names out of Greco-Roman mythology, why not continue the pattern and name it after a mythological figure? He suggested Uranus, the father of Saturn, as an appropriate name, not realizing how the mere heating of that name would cause English-speaking adolescent boys to fall into fits of giggles.

Bode's suggestion for the distant planet was adopted outside England and France, where astronomers stuck to their own names for another sixty years before finally giving in to the usage of the rest of the this planet. Bode's name was especially popular among other Germans. In 1789, a Berlin chemist, Martin Klaproth, isolated a new element found in pitchblende ore. Recalling the alchemical traditions of making connections between minerals and planets, he named his new element after the new planet, calling it Uranium. He has a crater on the moon named after him.

Herschel wasn't the first to use celestial discoveries to curry favor with his economic betters. When Galileo discovered the four major moons of Jupiter in 1610, he decided to name them after his former math student Cosimo de'Medici, who had since become the powerful Grand Duke of Tuscany. Galileo first thought to name them the Cosmican Stars, but then thought better of it. The name was too close to Cosmic Stars and the significance might be lost on the object of his up sucking. In Sidereus Nuncius, his little book announcing the discovery, he called the moons the Medicean Stars, a name unsubtle enough that even a busy Grand Duke would take notice. The attempt was successful; a few months later, Cosimo offered Galileo a high paying job that the the math teacher quickly accepted. Not that Galileo needs any more honors than he already has in order to be remembered, but the four giant moons of Jupiter are collectively known as the Galilean moons.

Four years after Galileo published his description of the Medicean Stars, a German astronomer, Simon Marius, published a work claiming to have discovered the moons before Galileo. He couldn't offer any convincing proof for his claim, so history has sided with Galileo. Marius' observations were, however, of high quality and he gave us something Galileo did not: individual names for the moons (Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto, all lovers of Jupiter in mythology). The French astronomer Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc suggested that the four moons be named after the four Medici brothers, something Galileo may also have had in mind, but the suggestion was not taken up by the budding international astronomical community.

The mythological names were not, in fact, Marius' first choice. His first idea was an awkward system of naming moons after the Sun's planets (i.e. the Mercury of Jupiter, the Venus of Jupiter). At the time there was no reason not to assume that smaller moons might be orbiting the bigger moons and so on. This might have led to names like the Saturn of the Mars of the Mercury of Jupiter. Clearly, a bad idea. Maris humbly credited Johannes Kepler with the much better suggestion of classical mythology. Kepler is famous for enough else that is vital for the development of astronomy; let's let Marius be remembered for publicizing the suggestion.

In 1655 Christiaan Huygens discovered a moon orbiting Saturn. He cleverly called it Saturn's Moon. When Giovanni Cassini discovered four more moons around Saturn, he followed Galileo's example and named them Sidera Lodoicea ("the stars of Louis") to honor his employer Louis XIV of France. He did not give his new moons individual names and, oddly, neither did anyone else. For most of the next two centuries, astronomers simply called them by numbers.

A century and a half later, following the Herschel's discovery of Uranus, other astronomers put their telescopes to work seeking out new Georges to name after their own political patrons. In 1801 a Sicilian astronomer, Giuseppe Piazzi, was the first to strike gold. Spotting an object orbiting between Mars and Jupiter and determining it not to be a comet, he announced that he had found a tiny planet, and named it Ceres Ferdinandea. The name seemed to cover all the bases, it had an element from classical mythology (Ceres, the Roman goddess of agriculture) and it sucked up to his king. Unfortunately, his king, Ferdinand of Sicily, had recently been overthrown by Napoleon and no one went along with naming a celestial object after a powerless refugee. Other mythological names were suggested, but eventually everyone accepted the Ceres part of Piazzi's suggestion.

As astronomers began looking at the region in which Ceres had been found, they promptly found three more tiny planets. These were named Pallas, Juno, and Vesta. Naming planets after kings had proved to be a non-starter, so the astronomers went straight classical mythology. On the other hand, naming elements after planets was very popular. Soon after the four tiny planets between Mars and Jupiter ere announced, chemists isolating the elements gave us Cerium and Palladium. Juno already had a month named after her, but poor Vesta didn't get squat, which is a shame because Vestanite would be a much cooler name than Rutherfordium or some of the other lame names given the transuranian elements.

Bode had predicted a planet in the region where the new mini-planets were found based on a pattern he, and other astronomers, perceived in the distances between the planets. This pattern is now called the Titus-Bode Law. However, the tiny new planets in that position bothered astronomers. They were smaller than any of the known moons. William Herschel suggested not letting these insignificant objects into the august club of planets. He coined a new word, "asteroid" (star like), to describe them. The little planets remained in limbo until the 1840s when a new generation of more powerful telescopes led to the discovery of more tiny bodies between Mars and Jupiter. Facing the prospect of dozens or more new planets, the international astronomical community adopted Herschel's suggestion and demoted the asteroids to a separate category apart from the planets.

The Herschels had discovered two moons to go with their new planet. These would later be named, on the suggestion of William's son John, after characters in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." While not strictly classical mythology, Shakespeare's fairies were close enough to satisfy Bode's mythology principle and the names were never seriously challenged. The Herschels also discovered two more moons around Saturn, bringing the known total to seven. Up until the 1840s, astronomers had simply referred to the Saturnian satellites by numbers counting out from the planet, not in the order of their discovery. This meant the names were subject to change every time a new moon was discovered. The largest moon had already been called Saturn II, IV, and VI. This couldn't continue. John suggested a classical mythology solution by naming the moons after the Titans, the brothers and sisters of Saturn, reserving the name Titan for the first discovered because it was so titanic. The named Saturnian moons are really no more than Titan and the Titans, which might be a decent name for a surf guitar band.

For their contributions, the Hershels had a well deserved number of objects named after them. Sir William had a crater on the moon, an impact basin on Mars, a crater Mimas (a Saturnian moon which he and Caroline discovered and which John named), and an asteroid named after him. Caroline has a lunar crater and an asteroid. John has a crater on the moon.

At about the same time that the word asteroid and the naming patterns for the moons of Saturn and Uranus were adopted, the search was on for another planet beyond Uranus. Based on a half century of observing Uranus' orbit and a search through older observations for potential Uranus sightings (stop giggling) some astronomers had come to believe that the gravity of another large body must be affecting it, causing it to move faster than expected till 1822 and slower afterwards. By the 1840s astronomers had a rough idea where to look for the mystery planet. In 1846 Urbain Le Verrier calculated and published the exact location and observers in three countries had no problem finding the planet soon after that. British astronomers had calculated the correct location before Le Verrier, but did not publish and were thus denied the glory of being part of the discovery.

Some French astronomers wanted to call the eighth planet Le Verrier, pointing out that naming a planet after its discoverer had a precedent, since they still called Uranus Herschel. Le Verrier at first suggested the name Neptune, after the god of the sea. For a while he also flirted with naming it after himself, but the name Neptune caught on beating out the other classical names Janus and Oceanus. The god of the sea was especially compelling because Neptune appeared very blue.

The new planet also got its commemorative element, thought this time it took longer. Neptunium was assembled, not refined, by scientists at Berkeley in 1940. It was the first synthetic element to be built by bombarding another element, in this case Uranium, with neutrons. Glenn Seaborg, who led the Berkeley project eventually got an element of his own for his work, Seaborgium, but he didn't get a celestial object... yet.

A mere seventeen days after the location of Neptune was confirmed, William Lassell, an English brewer, announced his discovery of a large moon. Since the astronomical community was busy arguing over the name of the planet, you would think that they would also get hot under the collar over a name for the moon. You would be wrong. Once again, naming the was forgotten. It carried the dull name Neptune's Moon for over thirty years. In 1880, Camille Flammarion suggested Triton, the name of Neptune's son, for the moon. He also named one of Jupiter's newly discovered minor moons, Amalthea, in 1892. For his contribution he has had a lunar crater, a Martian crater, and an asteroid named after him.

In 1919 the International Astronomical Union (IAU) was created uniting various national astronomical societies from around the world. One of its main functions was to be the central authority for assigning names to celestial bodies. In general, certain patterns for naming, such as those John Herschel suggested for moons seventy years earlier are voted on and astronomers are allowed to exercise the discoverer's right on naming within those conventions. The IAU must officially accept an astronomer's name before it goes into international use. A system of numeric designations are used for objects as temporary names prior to the announcement of official names. The IAU came in the nick of time. The ideological conflicts of the twentieth century could easily have been fought out in naming conventions. Each power bloc might have adopted its own name for every discovery and changed their names with every revolution. Imagine St. Petersburg to Petrograd to Leningrad and back to St. Petersburg played out on every comet and crater in the solar system.

In the 1830s, astronomers were convinced that another planet was required to explain Uranus' movements and had begun working on calculations to locate the planet. That planet was Neptune. Even then, some astronomers believed one planet would not be enough. In 1834, a Dutch astronomer, Peter Andreas Hansen, wrote that he was convinced that two planets would be required to explain Uranus' movements. Following the discovery of Neptune, other astronomers agreed, though they did not agree just what was required. By the 1870s, enough data had been collected about Neptune for astronomers the begin making predictions as to where the next planet would be found and how big it should be. Astronomers in various countries began their own searches. None of these predictions matched Le Verrier's and no new planets were found.

Le Verrier himself became involved with the search for a tiny planet between Mercury and the Sun. Mercury's orbit, like Uranus' never quite matched the predictions of astronomers. Beginning in 1859, a number of amateur astronomers claimed to witness the transit of a small body across the sun. Le Verrier examined one such claim and became convinced he had another planet. He announced his discovery to the French Academy and called his second planet Vulcan. Unfortunately, the periodic sightings of a spot on the Sun never resolved into a single planet. After Le Verrier's death Vulcan fell out of fashion and was all but forgotten by the astronomical community. In 1919, the same year that the IAU was founded, Einstein proved the problems with Mercury's orbit were caused by the curving of space so close to the sun and not by the pull of a missing planet. Mysterious dots still are reported from time to time on the face of the sun, but these are usually dismissed as uncharted asteroids, comets, or alien starships, though the latter is decidedly a minority opinion. Although he was wrong about Vulcan, Le Verrier's other contributions earned him craters on the moon, Mars, an asteroid, and a ring around Neptune.

In 1894, Percival Lowell burst onto the astronomy scene. Lowell was the product of old an Boston family with lots of old Boston money. Lowell had traveled extensively in Asia, written several books on Asian culture, and served as foreign secretary and counselor for a special Korean diplomatic mission to the United States. In the nineties he turned his attention and considerable enthusiasm to astronomy. Lowell moved to Flagstaff, Arizona and built a world-class observatory in the high, clear, mountain air. At first, Lowell was obsesses with the planet Mars. He was convinced that the "canali" of Mars, as drawn by Italian astronomer Giovanni Schiaparelli, were indication of life and civilization on our red neighbor. Lowell wrote three books and suffered a nervous breakdown before he let go of that idea and moved on to something else.

That something else was the missing planet beyond Neptune. This was a serious problem, recognized by serious astronomers. Though Lowell was thick-skinned about the mockery directed at him over Mars, years of it had begun to wear on the staff at his observatory. Besides, there was very little more he could do about Mars without a spaceship. Lowell did his own calculations on the Neptune problem and decided a large planet must be lurking in the constellation Gemini. He spent the last eleven years of his life looking for the body he called Planet X, but died without finding it.

After Lowell's death there was a delay of a decade in the search while Lowell's widow, Constance, and the observatory fought over his will. In 1929 with their share of Lowell's wealth assured, the observatory hired a young amateur astronomer from Kansas, Clyde Tombaugh, to take over the search. Tombaugh was an excellent candidate, both hard working and an excellent observer. He carefully went over the calculations for Planet X done by Lowell and by Lowell's competitors before deciding on an area to search. On February 18, 1930, after only a year of searching, Tombaugh discovered his Planet X.

Naming rights belonged to the observatory. They decided to be democratic and hold a vote. Mrs. Lowell sent suggestions of Zeus, Lowell, and her own name Constance. Mrs. Lowell was not the favorite person at the observatory, having almost stopped their work for a decade. Her names were ignored. The choices on the ballot were Minerva, Cronos, and Pluto. Pluto, the god of the underworld, who eternally dwellsin darkness, won unanimously.

While astronomers were excited about the discovery of Pluto, it was clear from the beginning that it was too small to be the longed for Planet X. As time went by, better observations showed that Pluto was even smaller than at first believed--smaller than the Earth's Moon--and that it had an irregular orbit far different that that of any other planet. Pluto, however, had an advantage that Ceres never did in becoming accepted as a planet: mass communication and mass literacy. The discovery of new planet was announced in newspapers and newsreels. The name had been suggested to the observatory by Venetia Burney, an eleven-year-old girl in Oxford, England. Walt Disney introduced a character named Pluto into his Mickey Mouse cartoons later that year. Pluto even got its commemorative element, Plutonium. Like Neptunium, Plutonium was assembled at Berkeley. Pluto wasn't just the business of the astronomical community; Pluto belonged to the masses, particularly to the children.

In the same year that Tombaugh discovered Pluto, Frederick C. Leonard predicted that there was a whole belt of tiny objects beyond Neptune. Sooner or later we would have good enough telescopes to find them and the astronomical community would be faced with the same problem that they had faced with the asteroids: too many and too small to be planets. That day finally came in 1992. Gerard Kuiper was an astrophysicist, who speculated in 1950 that the region beyond Neptune ought to at one time have contained a belt of debris left over from the formation of the solar system, pieces that were neither asteroids nor comets. At the time, when Pluto was still thought to be fairly large, Kuiper believed Pluto would have destroyed the belt by flinging them into new orbits. But as estimates of Pluto's size went down, the probability that the debris belt still survived went up. In the late eighties, astronomers began looking for it. One Pluto like object was discovered in 1992. Five more were identified the next year. Today, over 1000 of these Kuiper Belt Objects (KBOs) have been discovered.

While thousands more KBOs are expected to lie beyond the orbit of Pluto, very few astronomers expect to find a large planet out there. For one thing, it's no longer needed. Close measurements provided by Voyager 2's 1989 flyby of Neptune allowed astronomers to more accurately measure the mass of Neptune. According to the current measurements of their masses, Uranus and Neptune orbit exactly as they should. Occasionally, astronomers come up with new reasons for a large planet or even a small star to be lurking in the distant reaches of the solar system, but these no longer have to do with the orbits of the known planets.

This brings us to the Kobe University study. Patryk Lykawka and Tadashi Mukai have determined that a body, Earth sized or just a little smaller, is needed to explain the observed shape of the Kuiper Belt. The rapid discovery of so many KBOs allowed astronomers to map the shape of the belt. To their surprise, the belt abruptly stops at a distance of 50 astronomical units. The belt also appears to have been sorted into several distinct groups of bodies. Lykawka's conclusion is that something fairly large--a new Planet X--was needed to sort and sculpt the belt into the shape we now see.

Close up observation of Saturn's rings have shown that they are herded into shape by complex gravitational forces exerted by Saturn's moons. Lykawka thinks something similar is at work in the Kuiper Belt, but with one difference. In the computer simulations that he and Mukai did, Planet X shapes the belt early in its history and then is thrown into a distant orbit where it has only minor interactions with the belt. After its initial shaping, the main influence on the Kuiper Belt becomes Neptune.

While Lykawka's theory has some sympathetic listeners, it also has some strong critics. Not surprisingly, some of the strongest criticism comes from the proponents of competing theories of the early development of the solar system. The bottom line is that we are just beginning to understand the outer solar system and to come up with plausible scenarios for the evolution of the solar system that account for all of its parts. If Lykawka's theory proves correct and someone finds Planet X, the really important question will be what do we call it. George is still up for grabs.

Epilog: A few hours after I post this, a spaceship from Earth will fly by Pluto gathering data. Pluto as the first and best studied KPO and erstwhile ninth planet is a special object of interest for scientists, children, and former children alike. After Tombaugh discovered Pluto, it seemed to be evaporating. Almost immediately, it was obvious that it wasn't big enough to be the gravitational source needed to explain the peculiarities in Uranus' orbit observed by Nineteenth Century astronomers.

Over estimating Pluto's initially might have been based on wishful thinking. However, increasingly better observations over the next half century undermined that estimate and undermined it again. Originally estimated as larger than Earth, Pluto soon shrank to Mars sized and smaller. When I was in grade school in the early sixties, my science textbooks wanted to give each planet a unique quality. While Pluto and Mercury easily claimed closest and furthest from the sun, they were tied for smallest. By the next edition of those books, it was clear that Pluto was the smallest. Soon it was the size of the moon. Then smaller.

In 1980, Alexander Dessler, and Christopher Russell published a graph of historical estimates of Pluto's size and predicted it would disappear by 1984. It didn't. By then, James Christy of the United States Naval Observatory had discovered a large moon around Pluto. Christy gave it the appropriate name Charon, the boatman who carries the souls of the dead across the river Styx into the realm of Pluto. But Christy wanted the name to be pronounced "Sharon" like his wife's name.

Because Pluto didn't evaporate, NASA took advantage of a rare post-Apollo moment of funding to fire a probe at the children's planet or whatever you want to call it. Since the New Horizons probe was launched, two more moons have been discovered around Pluto. Each was given a name appropriate to the god of the underworld's realm.

And Clyde Tombaugh, what about him? What honors did he get. Tombaugh died in 1997. He had his mortal remains cremated. A portion of his ashes were placed in a small tube and given to NASA. That tube was ataced to the New Horizons probe and will pass within spitting distance of the celestrial object he discovered. In many ways, if you're dead, that's far better than having your name stuck on a map.

Go Clyde! You have no idea how many nerds wish they were there with you.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Kircher's giants

Athanasius Kircher is perhaps the most interesting mind of the Seventeenth Century. The German born Jesuit wrote over forty books on comparative linguistics, volcanoes, music theory, magnetism, China, diseases, and anything else that crossed his path. He claimed to be able to read Egyptian hieroglyphics, he used the newly-invented microscope and suggested that the tiny "animacules" caused plague and other diseases, he was the first European to publish Sanskrit, he coined he word "electromagnetism", he built a museum of mechanical gadgets, and he designed the cat piano. A recent collection of conference papers about him was entitled "The Last Man Who Knew Everything."

The times he lived in and the broad range of his interests ensured that a lot of what he wrote was bunk and, for almost 300 years, he was dismissed as a colorful crank. Lately, that's begun to change. Kircher was an influential figure in his day and it's not possible to write an accurate account of the scientific revolution without taking him into account. Even before his intellectual rehabilitation began, his books had been rediscovered as objects of art. Many of them are illustrated with fantastic illustrations and interesting maps--one shows the location of Atlantis. One of his most frequently reproduced illustrations compares the sizes of famous giants.

Kircher's Giants. Source.

Most cultures have a tradition of giants. I won't say "all", because whenever you say that there will be a cultural anthropologist who will show up to make a liar out of you. But there is quite a rich tradition in what became Western Civilization. The tradition drinks from four fountains. The first, is the mythology of Classical civilizations. This included the Titans, whom the gods of Olympus had to vanquish before they could rule, and the heroes, who must have had a great stature to match their great acts. Next, was the Jewish tradition, which was well known even before Christians made it dogma in the remains of the Roman Empire. This included the Antediluvian giants of Genesis 6; the tribes defeated by Moses, Joshua, and David; and the ancient patriarchs themselves. Third, were the local traditions of Northern regions gradually incorporated in Christendom. Finally, were the actual discoveries of large bones found in caves and plowed up in fields from time to time. By the time Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire, the first two fountains had been combined into a kind of standard list. Over the next thousand years, giants from the other two fountains were added to the list.

Kircher's famous illustration is from the second volume of his wonderful book Mundus Subterraneus (The Underground World). It shows five figures all in the same pose. Two are from ancient sources, two are from recent (to him) sources, and one is a normal man. The four on the right ascend from left to right while the one on the far left overshadows them all. His position, out of order, demonstrates his specialness. The point of the illustration is not to provide visual comparison of famous giants; it is to make a point about that particular giant. Kircher, who later writers would call gullible, thinks that giant is ridiculous.

The biggest giant is from the works of the late Medieval satirist Giovanni Boccaccio. Boccaccio was a pivotal figure in Italian literature, but he was also a literary critic and historian. In his Genealogia deorum gentilium (Genealogy of the Gods and gentiles), he tried to make sense of confused and often contradictory accounts of the Greek and Roman pantheons and, as much as possible, tie them into local histories. The giant illustrated by Kircher was a discovery that happened in Sicily during Boccaccio's lifetime. Some writers have said Boccaccio claimed to have been a witness to the discovery. He didn't. He was 400 miles away in Tuscany at the time and only reported what he was told. So, what was he told?

In 1342, near Trepani, on the western end of Sicily, a group of workers, digging the foundation for a new house, uncovered a deep cave. They climbed in and found a great grotto where they saw the figure of a seated man of almost unimaginable size. In his hand he held a staff as large as ship's mast. According to their report, he was 200 cubits tall (300 or 400 feet, depending on your cubit). The workers hurried back to the village of Erice to share the story of their discovery. Soon, a crowd of 300 people armed with torches and pitchforks marched to the work site and entered the cave. Once inside the grotto, they paused, all frightened and awestruck except for one brave man who stepped forward and touched the staff. It disintegrated leaving only dust and some iron pieces. He then touched the leg of the titan who also turned to dust leaving only some enormous teeth.

The teeth were taken to the Church of the Annunciation where they were strung on a wire to be displayed. This was a common practice in the days before museums. Wonders of nature were given to churches to inspire the faithful with the endless wonders of God's creation. Boccaccio does not report what happened to the iron. We can safely assume that the local blacksmith took advantage of the free materials.

There was some debate over the identity of the giant. Some thought he was Eryx, a legendary early king and founder of the village. Although a demigod himself, Eryx was killed in boxing match with his fellow demigod Hercules. The opposing and more popular theory was that he was the cyclops Polyphemus and this was the cave where he was blinded by Odysseus and his crew. In making that claim, they faced some competition. Over the years, a number of villages had discovered a number of caves containing the bones of a number of giants and all had proclaimed their giant to be Polyphemus. Classics scholars, then and now, believed that the Odyssey described an itinerary of real places around the central Mediterranean and that Sicily was the home of Polyphemus. Even the average peasant knew this and was proud of the history of their island. If the local giant wasn't Polyphemus, enough giants had been found that no one doubted that the island had once been home to a whole race of them.

In the early Twentieth Century, the Austrian paleontologist Otheniel Abel wondered if there was more to the story than mere myth . Fifty years earlier, in 1862, Hugh Falconer, one of the first great authorities on the diversity of extinct proboscideans, had presented a paper on the discovery of the remains of a dwarf elephant on the island of Malta. Falconer named it Elephas melitensis. In the years after that, other dwarfed species were found on most of the major Mediterranean islands. All of these species, except one, are believed to descended from Palaeoloxodon antiquus, the straight-tusked elephant. The exception is a dwarf mammoth that lived on Sardinia. Sicily is especially rich in these fossils, having been home to three different species of dwarfed elephants at different times. Abel thought the skeletons explained the origin of the cyclops myth.

Most land mammals share a basic skeletal structure, but proboscieans and humans have some very specific resemblances. These are mostly in the limbs. Both have long straight limbs with short ankles or wrists and five digits. Laying the disarticulated bones of a probosciean out on the ground, it's easy to form something that looks like an enormous, stocky human. Then comes the problem of the skull. Abel pointed out that the most distinguishing feature of the skull, if the tusks are missing, is a huge hole in the middle of the face. This is the nasal cavity with all of the attachments for the trunk. The eye sockets are on the sides of the skull are almost unnoticeable. This would make it very easy for an awestruck discoverer to mistake the nasal cavity for the socket of a single huge eye.

Elephas melitensis. Source.

Other differences in the skulls can be explained by the fact that giants are, by definition, monsters. Add to this the fact that probosciean skulls are not solid and bony. They are made of thin plates, honeycombed with sinuses and, when dried out, tend to fall apart at the first touch leaving nothing to be systematically examined.

Kircher raised some rather sophisticated environmental and bio-mechanical arguments against the possibility of a giant of that size having ever existed. He said it couldn't have been taller than forty feet. His illustration is meant to show how silly the claims of Boccaccio's informants were. Kircher thought the other figures on his illustration were reasonable. Starting next to Boccaccio's monster is the little, tiny figure of a normal human who barely reaches his ankle. Reaching to mid-calf is Goliath of Gath, who normal guy David smote with a stone. The figure on the far right, which Kircher calls the giant of Mauritania, was a skeleton found in Morocco according to the highly respected Roman writer Pliny [actually, it was Plutarch]. To his left was a giant found within the living memory of Kircher's elders and, artistically, the most important influence on his illustration.

When the prominent Basel physician Felix Plater was called to Lucern in 1584 to care for the ailing Colonel Ludwig Pfyffer, he expected to spend his spare time collecting rare plants on the neighboring mountains and visiting with his friend Renward Cysat. He was successful on both counts. He gathered over a hundred samples of plants unknown to him and Cysat had a special treat for him: mysterious bones.

Cysat explained that, seven years earlier, a tremendous storm had buffeted the village of Reyden, a village that Plater had passed through on his way to Lucern. When the brothers of the local monastery came out to inspect the damage, they found that an ancient oak on Kommende Hill had been knocked over. Tangled among it's roots were the bones that Cysat now showed Plater.

Many of the bones were damaged and only a few fragments of the skull remained. Naturally, the workmen were blamed for mishandling them. Plater convinced the city council to let him take them back to Basel with him for study. From the long bones of the arms and legs and, especially, digits that appeared to be a thumb, Plater felt confident in telling the Lucerners that they had the remains of a human giant. By his calculations, it stood fourteen strich tall (nineteen feet) in life. Since giants were not part of any local traditions, he believed that it must have lived and died during some prehistoric time before normal humans arrived in the mountains.

Plater asked Hans Bock, an artist who happened to be painting his portrait at the time, to prepare large drawings of the bones and an imaginative drawing of the giant as it must have appeared in life. In Boch's reconstruction, the heavily bearded giant stands with one hand on a dead tree, perhaps the oak, naked except for a laurel and a girdle of oak leaves. The beard and garb of leaves make him look like the Green Man and probably indicate his primitive state. Despite Plater's conclusion that the giant and normal people had never lived together, Bock included a modern man, gaping in awe at the giant, for comparison.

The Lucerners were delighted, both with Plater's conclusions and with Bock's drawings. The bones were put on display in the city hall and the giant was made the shield-bearer of the city coat of arms. They had a version of Bock's drawing painted on a tower attached to the city hall with a poem telling the story of his discovery. That wasn't the end of the giant's fame. In the next century, Cysat and members of the city council decided to decorate the three footbridges that connected the two parts of the city across the Reuss River. They hired Hans Heinrich Wägmann, a local artist, to paint triangular panels to be hung inside the bridges attached to the roof trusses. Prominent citizens were encouraged to sponsor panels and in return, their family crests were incorporated into the paintings. Cysat bought panel number one on the Chapel Bridge (Kapellbrücke). For the subject, he chose Bock's giant along with a poem that he composed.

The giant of Reyden displayed on the Kapellbrücke. Source.

Kircher, or his artist, used some version Bock's drawing as the standard giant to illustrate the relative sizes of famous giants and discredit Boccaccio's giant. All six of Kircher's giants have the same posture and attire of Bock's giant. In a modern court of law, that would probably be enough to nail him for plagiarism. In his day, the modern concept of plagiarism was just emerging and the first copyright laws were still a generation in the future. His use of Bock's drawing would have been considered more along the lines of an homage to the original artist than theft.

There were apparently differences among the three original versions of the giant—Bock's drawing, the tower mural, and the Kapellbrücke panel. I only have access to one, but I can make an educated guess at the source of Kitcher's version. Bock's original drawing was sent back to Platter in Basel and ended up in the library of the local Jesuit monastery. Even though Kircher was a Jesuit, he would have had to have visited the monastery to have viewed it. Kircher spend most of his productive life in Italy, rarely going far from Rome. The mural on the tower is gone. After years of neglect, the city decided it was irreparable and had it painted over in the 1860s. I haven't been able to locate any surviving drawings or photographs of it. Later, the stucco was scraped off the tower to reveal the underlying stone walls. In 1993, a fire destroyed most of the Kapellbrücke. Cysat's panel was one only thirty (of the original 158) that was saved. Like Bock's original drawing, Kircher never saw the panel or the tower, though it's possible that he may have seen sketches made by some other traveler. If he did, he didn't mention it.

Kircher's written description of the discovery gives a clue as to where he might have seen the giant. Platter published an account of the discovery in a collection of medical essays in 1614. Kircher's version bears no resemblance to this. Except for short paragraphs before and after, the majority of his account is a long quote of a legal affidavit filed by Cysat in Lucerne. We don't have to look far to discover where found the affidavit.

In 1661, three years before that volume of Mundus Subterraneus appeared, a small book written in German by Cysat's son appeared in Lucern. The book was a history of the city and the surrounding countryside. In the context of describing the towers and bridges of the city, the younger Cysat tells the story of the giant of Reyden. At the center of his narrative is his father's affidavit. He also included the poem from the tower along with a drawing of the giant.

Young Cysat's illustration. Source.

When Platter examined the Reyden bones, the idea of historically real giants was just beginning to be challenged. Because giants are unambiguously mentioned in the Bible, these challenges were in the form of arguments that the Bible used the word giant in an allegorical sense; the giants of the Old Testament were great in their capacity for evil, not in their actual stature. This position did not automatically kill the giants. Writing almost ninety years after the discovery of the Reyden giant, the most Kircher would say was that real giants weren't mush bigger than twenty feet tall. In the early 1700s, the French academy published a flurry of papers arguing both sides of the giant question. As late as 1764, the influential doctor Claude-Nicolas LeCat could receive a polite hearing before the academy while arguing for the historical reality of giants.

What finally did the giants in was the development of the sciences of comparative anatomy and paleontology. When Cysat showed Platter the bones, he had very little to compare them with. He knew whales and elephants were very large animals, but no accurate anatomical information was available to him, not even good drawings. It was only after his death that showmen were able to acquire elephants from India and show them in towns and villages in Europe. The first anatomical studies were in the 1780s, well after Kircher was dead. Paleontology, building on comparative anatomy, took another hundred years to develop.

In 1783, the young naturalist Johann Friedrich Blumenbach traveled through Switzerland. He knew the story of the giant of Reyden and wanted to see what the truth was. In Lucerne, he found that Platter had returned the bones to Cysat who put them back in their place of honor in the Council Hall. By then, only three fragments survived. After an examination, he felt confident identifying them as the bones of an elephant. His confidence was as strong as Platter's and more accurate. Thirteen years later, he was one of the first to decide that the mammoth and mastodon were distinct species, different from the known species of elephants (he was also one of the first to assert that Asian and African elephants were different species).

The last of the Reyden giant. Source

By 2013, only one fragment remained in Lucerne. It now resided in the Lucerne Natural History Museum instead of the Council Hall. That February, the keeper of the museum website and Adelheid Aregger, a journalist with an interest in cultural matters, got into a conversation about the bones. Looking over Blumenbach's account of his visit they realized that he had taken pieces with him when he left. Aregger and her husband continued to look into the story. The Blumenbach collection at Göttingen included quite a few bones. Using isotope analysis, they were able to identify two pieces of mammoth thigh that had come from the same soil as the as the remaining piece in Lucerne. Kircher got blacklight posters and the Lucerne bones didn't. But they're still pretty cool.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

The Teeth of Giants

In 1645, the twenty-seventh year of the Thirty Years War, Swedish armies inflicted a devastating blow to the Imperial forces in Bohemia and swept into Austria with the aim of capturing of Vienna. The Imperial capitol, was not prepared to give up easily. The Swedes soon found themselves digging in for a long siege  negotiating with allies for support, and building fortifications around the occupied countryside. Upriver from Vienna, in the Krems district, while digging trenches, a group of Swedish soldiers discovered the bones of a giant.

The discovery took place on St. Martin's Day, November 11. The soldiers had been ordered to build a series of defensive fortifications around an old tower at a place called Laimstetten. The winter was not making their job any easier. Rain and groundwater filed the trenches. The engineers in charge ordered the men to dig a series of deep drainage ditches down the hillside. It was in one of those ditches, at a depth of three or four klatters (eighteen to twenty-four feet), in a layer of yellowish soil that smelled of decay, that they ran into a cache of enormous bones.

The most impressive bones are described as being a skull as large as a medium-sized table, arms as thick as an average man, a shoulder-blade with a socket large enough to hold a 24 pound cannonball, and teeth weighing up to five pounds. Someone in charge ordered the diggers to save the bones so that they could be sent to learned men in Sweden and Poland for study. Two more giants were uncovered in the trench but, with a war to be fought, they were left there and nothing more was said about them.    

Here, the account of the discovery does the soldiers a great injustice. Many of the bones, including the skull, fell to pieces as they were brought out. Naturally, the workers got the blame for mishandling the bones. In fact, it would have been difficult to save most of them. Ancient bones, that have not petrified, are very fragile things. Collagen rots and acidic water carries away many of the minerals. As the bones dry out, deprived of the surrounding soil that maintained their shape for so long, the bones can literally turn to dust, just like in the movies. Only the densest parts of bones survive very long out of the ground without careful preparation. Skulls, which look so solid, are not among the best survivors. Sinuses honeycomb the face which, in many animals, is really nothing more than a series of thin plates. As it was, only the shoulder-blade with its amazing socket, a leg bone, and some teeth were in good enough condition to be sent away for study.

The sources tell us that rest of the bones, including at least one good tooth, were taken to the nearby Kremsmünster Jesuit abbey. Another tooth was sent to Hapsburg Emperor in Vienna for his collections. Two others eventually made it to churches in Germany. This presents us with a little mystery. For the Lutheran Swedes, the abbey should have been viewed as an outpost of the enemy. Worse, it was a Jesuit monastery. In the Protestant world at that time, Jesuits were regarded as ninjas of the Pope: amoral spies and saboteurs capable of any evil in the service of their master. Did the Swedes invite a group of probable spies into their military defenses, as a courtesy, because they thought the Jesuits might be interested in something they dug up? Did the Swedish commander pick out one of the better fossils and send it to the Hapsburg Emperor, the leader of the enemy alliance, out of a sense of good sportsmanship? The earliest account of the discovery, was written by Matthew Merian six years after the fact, and makes it sound as if that's exactly what happened. What's more likely, is that the Jesuits collected the bones after the Swedes were gone. By then, they would have been exposed to the elements for eight months and the teeth would have been the best prizes left among the remains. It's also likely that it was the Jesuits who sent the a tooth to the Emperor and not the besieging Swedes who did so. Sadly, there are no records to confirm this at the abbey, now owned by the Benedictines.

Matthew Merian, Theatrum Europaeum, 1651. "Truthful size and image of a tooth, from that broken body which was dug up at Krems in lower Austria in the year 1645 weighing eight and a half medical ounces or one half pound." Source.

Merian's description of the discovery and the bones is short--about 350 words--but he was a first-rate engraver and produced a detailed image of the tooth at the abbey. Merian made no attempt to explain the giant bones and teeth, however the implied explanation is that they are the remains of a giant human. Any modern zoologist or paleontologist will be able to identify the tooth at a glance; it comes from some kind of elephant. At a second glance, they will tell you that it is the tooth of a mammoth. Merian could not have made the mammoth identification, the word would not be introduced into Western Europe until forty years after his death and even then it would only apply to the ivory. If any ivory was recovered with the Laimstetten bones, Merian never heard about it. Even identifying the bones as elephantine would have been difficult for him. In his day, only a handful of elephants--assuming you have very large hands--had made it north of the Alps. Even written anatomical descriptions of elephants would not be available until after his death.

Petrus Lambecius (Peter Lambeck), Commentariorum de augustissima Bibliotheca Caesarese Vindobonensi, 1674. "Tooth of twenty three ounces, found in the year 1644 at Krems." Source.

In 1664, Emperor Leopold I hired Peter Lambeck to be his royal  librarian and court historiographer. In this role, one of Lambeck's primary duties was to organize and catalog the Emperor's various collections. The Krems tooth appears in the first volume in a chapter dedicated to giants' teeth, a bucket of three hundred year old grain, and a two-headed chicken. The grain and the chicken were both normal sized. Lambeck barely mentions the actual teeth in the collection writing, instead, an extended meditation on the nature of giant teeth. Were they the teeth of true giants, tricks of nature (i.e., stones shaped like bones), or were they the teeth of some other animal, like a whale, elephant, or Carpathian dragon? In his use of extended block quotes from St. Augustine, Athanasius Kircher, and others, Lambeck would have been a natural born blogger. As to the Krems tooth, Lambeck gives a one sentence description of the discovery, misstating the year as 1644, and provides an illustration.

Happelius (Eberhard Werner Happel), Größte Denkwürdigkeiten der Welt oder so genannte Relationes Curiosae, 1689. "Giant Tooth." Source.

The next mention of the Krems giant comes in the popular journal Relationes Curiosae by the novelist and historian Eberhard Werner Happel. Happel's description is nothing more than a paraphrasing of Merian's description. What's new is his illustration. Despite the low quality of the illustration, it is clear that this is a completely different tooth than either the Krems abbey tooth in Merian or the or the Imperial Museum tooth in Lambeck.

Writing in the next century, Hans Sloane figured that Happel's tooth was the tooth dug up at Laimstetten in 1645 and that Lambeck's tooth was a different tooth dug up the year before. Lambeck says the tooth was found "under fortifications near Krems." He doesn't say who was digging the fortifications. If you assume that it was the Austrians who were preparing fortifications, Sloan's theory makes sense. I have two problems with Sloane's theory. First, in 1644, the Swedish army was nowhere near Austria; the main theater of the war was in Northern Germany. It strikes me as extremely unlikely that the Austrians would have expended much energy building fortifications four hundred miles away from the fighting. Second, I question how Happel obtained his image of the tooth. Happel spent his entire life in Northern Germany. Even if he did travel to Vienna, he would not have found the Imperial collections open to the public. I think I know where he found the drawing.

Petrus Lambecius (Peter Lambeck), Commentariorum de augustissima Bibliotheca Caesarese Vindobonensi, 1674. "Monsterous teeth of the Ancient Giant, Og King of Basan." Source.

Four years after the publication of the first volume of Lambeck's catalog, another giant tooth passed through the Imperial Museum. The tooth had been sent from Constantinople by a seller who hoped the Emperor would pay twelve thousand ducats for it. The seller claimed that the tooth had been found in a tomb in Jerusalem under an inscription in Chaldaic which read: "Here lies the giant Og." In the old Testament, Og of Basan ruled a kingdom east of the River Jordan. He and his people were destroyed by Moses and the Hebrews. According to some traditions, Og was the last of the true giants. Despite these extravagant claims for the tooth, the Emperor decided to keep his ducats and sent it back to Constantinople, but not before Lambeck made an engraving of it. The tooth of Og was included as an appendix in the sixth volume of Lambeck's catalog.

The illustrations of Og's tooth in Lambeck and the Krems tooth in Happel bear a strong resemblance to each other. Both show a well weathered elephant's tooth with no roots. Happel's illustration faces the opposite direction than Lambeck's, which was a common occurrence when hand engraved illustrations were copied.

After Happel, Merian's story was repeated from time to time, but no more illustrations of the teeth were made. By the end of the century, several anatomies of elephants had been published in Europe making it possible to identify the teeth.  In the new century, although it was possible to identify specific teeth as elephantine, the belief in ancient giants still persisted in some circles. As late as 1764, Claude-Nicolas LeCat could get a hearing by the French Academy for his paper on giants, essentially arguing that so many prestigious authors of the past could not be wrong.

In 1703, Georg Henning Behrens made a charming argument against the teeth coming from giants. Behrens did not deny the reality of giants, he simply thought the teeth were too big. Behrens reasoned that Og was the biggest man in the Bible. In Deuteronomy, it is written that his bed was nine cubits long--thirteen or eighteen feet, depending on your cubit. Since beds are always longer than their owners, let's say he was eight cubits tall (a normal man is four and a very large man might be five). If we assume both Og and the Krems giant had the same basic proportions than a normal man, we find the Krems Abbey tooth is three hundred, ninety-six times the size of a very large man, which is clearly ridiculous.

The Kremsmünster Abbey tooth identified by Othenio Abel in 1912. Source.

In 1905, the Austrian paleontologist Othenio Abel traveled to Kremsmünster abbey to help Fr. Leonhard Angerer organize their fossil collections. Abel had gathered many of the items in the collection, including a complete cave bear skeleton, which he mounted. Abel had a special interest in mammoths, having hypothesized that pygmy mammoths were the source of the cyclops legend. Abel had read about the 1645 discovery and decided to try to identify the tooth in question. By then the abbey had accumulated a few more giants' teeth. In 1770, a merchant named Meyer in Krems found six mammoth teeth while digging a cellar and donated them to the abbey. By comparing the Merian drawing with the teeth in the Abbey collection Abel found one very good candidate for the Laimstetten tooth, but Fr. Angerer had doubts. The tooth that Abel identified weighed 628 grams. Some bits probably fell off over the years, but not enough to make a big difference. Merian gives two wildly different weights for the tooth. In the text he says it weighed five German pounds, about 2800 grams. On the illustration he says it weighed 8.5 medical ounces, 256 or 297.5 grams, depending on which system he was using. Neither measure is even close to Abel's tooth. The best we can say about the tooth that's currently on display at the Abbey is that maybe it is the right one.

The anonymous Swedish soldiers and Herr Meyer have not been the only ones to find ancient bones in the Krems district. Many mammoths have been dug up along that stretch of the Danube over the years along with thousands of human artifacts. Hunting camps have been identified and, in 2005, the grave of two human babies, probably twins, was discovered. The two had been sprinkled with red ocher and covered with a mammoth scapula. So far, no new human giants have been found.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

The White Elephant of Rucheni

On a Renaissance map of the world, there is a small white elephant standing near the Arctic coast of Russia. How it got there is a mystery. Is it a mammoth, or does it symbolize something else? The solution is like a jigsaw puzzle. We have many pieces of evidence, in different colors and shapes. But it's not clear that all of the pieces belong to the same puzzle and, in any case, too few pieces have survived for us to be able to construct a clear image of the thinking that led the artist to place that elephant in the frozen north. Perhaps the most important clue that we have to work with is that the elephant occupies a position that mapmakers had previously reserved for a monster that we now call the walrus.

The Dieppe school is the name given to a group of cartographers who worked, predictably, around Dieppe, France and who produced maps during the middle decades of the sixteenth century. Most of the Dieppe maps are large, hand-drawn, decorative maps produced for rich patrons. The maps are not useful for any practical purpose, such as sea navigation or invading the Netherlands, but they are very accurate and up to date for their times. Their real purpose was to inform kings and courts about the latest discoveries in other parts of the world.

The Desceliers map of 1550. (source)

The world map signed by Pierre Desceliers and dated 1550 is a perfect example this type of map. It is large, 135 cm x 215 cm. It was clearly meant to be read spread out on a table rather that hung on a wall. When looking at the map from the South, the text in the Southern hemisphere is right-side up, half way across the map, the text suddenly flips so that the Northern Hemisphere reads correctly for someone on the other side of the table. The map has notes scattered about it describing distant lands and recent discoveries. It is beautifully decorated with color illustrations of real and mythical animals, peoples, and cities. It carries the coat of arms of kingdom of France and was probably made for King Henri II.

For the last hundred and fifty years, two opposite corners of the map have attracted the most attention from scholars. In the Northwest, Canadian historians study this map and the other Dieppe maps because they were the first to display information gained from the voyages of Jacques Cartier and Jean-François Roberval. These maps were the first to show the Gulf of St Lawrence and a mostly correct shape for Newfoundland. In the Southeast, the map shows a great landmass with some Portuguese place names on it separated from Java by a narrow channel. On other Dieppe maps, this land is called Java la Grande. To many, this appears to be evidence that the Portuguese knew about Australia long before its official discovery by the Dutch in 1606.

Canadian bears at lunch.

Dog-headed men sacrifice one of their own in Java la Grande.

There are other fascinating details on the map, but for mammoth researchers, the most interesting detail is on the north side, just west of center. There, in what corresponds to Northwestern Russia, is the elephant. That part of the map is twisted ninety degrees counter-clockwise so that Russia's European Arctic coast runs straight north from Scandinavia instead of east. Although it is very close to France and Germany, very little was known about Scandinavia by continental mapmakers at the time. However, there are enough details and place names on the map for us to be sure where the elephant is meant to be.

Desceliers Arctic elephant. North is at the bottom of the page.

In the detail above, Scandinavia is at the top of the map. "Sveti" (the word that looks like "Sulti") is Sweden. The embayment just below it is the Gulf of Bothnia, part of the Baltic Sea. The embayment below that, to the left of the word "Finland," and entering from the West (right), is the White Sea. "Groullande" means Greenland. Why it's in Russia is a story for another day. Below that, next to a vacant native village, are a bear, some kind of deer, and a white elephant.

This scene is more than a decoration; the animals are supposed to be representative of the native fauna of that region. Other real animals on the map are in the same approximate locations where they would have been found in life. Mythical animals are in the correct places where the myths place them. There are other elephants on the map in central Africa, Persia, at the court of the Chinese emperor, and in Java la Grande (next to a description of Sumatra). Desceliers appears to have known the difference between Asian and African elephants. In his illustrations, the latter are bigger, have larger tusks, and larger ears (though he did give them Basset hound ears). And, in case there was any doubt, the legend specifically mentions elephants in Russia.

Desceliers description of Russia. (source)

In a text box to the right of the elephant, Desceliers describes Russia:
Near the north pole is a country and people called Rucheni and they confess in the manner of the Greeks. They are beautiful and blonde, dependent on sleighs, and have silver mines. Their merchandise consists of valuable pelts, falcons, gyrfalcons, white elephants [ylefanz blanc], bears, moose and others that they carry to other parts of the world. The region is very cold; the land is known as the glacial. It is continuous day for six months, when the sun is above the equator, and for another six months it is night, when it is the on the opposite side.
The obvious questions, at this point, are: Could Desceliers' white elephant be a reference to the mammoth and, if not, what else could it be? Unfortunately, the answer is not as simple as "well, of course it's a mammoth." Most people are familiar with the fact that mammoth bones, ivory, and, occasionally, complete carcasses of mammoths are found in Arctic Russia. In fact, mammoth ivory currently makes up a significant portion of the global ivory trade. How big a portion is impossible to determine, since most of the trade is illegal. But no mammoth remains have been found around the White Sea; it was still covered with glacial ice when mammoths died out in Europe. The prime region for collecting mammoth ivory begins two thousand miles to the East in Siberia. Still, there is a way that mammoth ivory could have been traded there.

The White Sea is at the end of a long system of trade routes that extend along the coast and deep into Siberia using small, shore hugging boats and the great northern river systems. The first known historical accounts that unambiguously mention Siberian mammoth ivory all are in the context of trade along this coast.

In 1611, Josias Logan, the representative of the British Moscovy Company at Pechora, on the European side of the Urals wrote, in a letter to Richard Hakluyt, "There use to come hither in the Winter about two thousand Samoieds with their Commodities, which may be such as we dreamed not on yet. For by chance one came to us with a piece of an Elephants Tooth... ." Logan thought the ivory meant that there was an easy way across Siberia to China, because that was the closest place he thought elephants could be found.

Eight years later, Richard James sailed to Russia as chaplain on a diplomatic mission to Moscow. The mission was a failure; James missed the ship back to England and ended up spending winter in Kholmogory on the White Sea. He kept a small journal in which he wrote new words that interested him. On page 62, following the word for elephant (slone), he wrote: "maimanto, as they say, a sea Elephant, which is never seene, but according to the Samites, he workes himself under grownde and so they find his teeth or hornes or bones in Pechare and Nova Zemla." Sea elephant was sometimes used as a synonym for walrus, but James had already made a separate entry for walrus (mors), so he clearly meant that maimanto was a different elephant-like creature.

Logan and James both observed elephant (mammoth) ivory in the hands of Samoyeds (now called Nenets), a people whose territory extended across the Arctic coast from the White Sea to the Urals and beyond, covering a large part of the trade route that would have brought mammoth ivory to Europe. From Kholmogory, where James saw ivory with the name mammoth (maimanto), to the mouth of the Pechora, where Logan saw what he called an elephant's tooth, is about four hundred miles. The trade route from Pechora across the Urals to the Gulf of Ob is another six hundred miles. From there to the region where most mammoth ivory is collected, on the Eastern side of the Tamyr Peninsula, is another thousand miles. How did mammoth ivory enter into such a long trade route? Given enough time, any valuable commodity will find its way to market.
At the western end of the trade route that brought mammoth ivory to Pechora and Kholmogory was a market that was that already demanded ivory. For centuries, this demand had been satisfied by walrus ivory. Over time, the western walrus herds were driven to near extinction and hunters and merchants moved further afield looking for new sources of ivory. As they  worked their way east, word of their desire for ivory and their willingness to pay for it with good iron tools would have moved east ahead of them into the mammoth regions.

Sometime before the year 890, a Viking named Othere, looking for new trade opportunities, showed up at the court of King Alfred of Wessex, who was busy uniting England at the time and would later be known as "the Great." Hoping perhaps to impress his host, Othere bragged of his wealth, his lands, and his travels. Othere was a lord in Hålogaland, the northernmost settlement of the Norwegians as he described it. Othere gave Alfred some walrus tusks and told him where he acquired them. "He said that on one occasion he wished to find out how far that land extended due north or whether anyone lived north of the waste...." Othere described sailing north for three days, east for three days, and finally south for five days. There he stopped at the mouth of a great river. North, east, and south from Hålogaland would have taken him around North Cape and the Kola Peninsula and deep into the White Sea. The largest river entering the White Sea is the Northern Dvina. At its mouth is the site where Kholmogory would later be built. At this point in his story he admits, "He traveled there chiefly - in addition to observing the land - for the walruses (horshwælum), because they have very fine bone in their teeth." Othere knew there was walrus ivory in the Northeast before he made his voyage, possibly from the Finnish tribes that paid him tribute. The implication of his story is that he made his journey to see if he could cut out the middleman and acquire ivory directly.

Othere's tale, which tradition says was written down by Alfred himself, shows that almost seven hundred years before Desceliers drew his map, Europeans were traveling to the White Sea, specifically to look for ivory. From that date forward, there are plenty of accounts of ivory being traded across the Russian lands into Europe, Central Asia, the Middle East, and the Mediterranean. In the eleventh century, the Persian polymath al Biruni wrote that the Volga Bulgars "bring from the northern sea teeth of a fish over a cubit long. White knife hafts are sawed out of them for the cutlers." In 1207, during one of their frequent uprisings, the people of Novgorod evicted their prince and each of the rebels took as their booty three coins and a walrus tusk. In 1476, one of those same Novgorodians presented a tusk to their new ruler, Ivan III of Moscow. In 1527, envoys from Moldova demanded free passage across Poland-Lithuania to Russia so they could "acquire furs and fish teeth to pay tribute to the Turks." By the early sixteenth century, walrus ivory had appeared everywhere that ivory was imported.

This is not to say that walrus ivory was recognized as such everywhere that it was imported. The trade routes that brought elephant ivory from Asia and Africa and walrus ivory from Greenland, Iceland, and northern Eurasia were long and involved, with the ivory changing hands many times before it reached its final consumers. Europe, in 1500, was in the midst of a poison panic. Unicorn horn was the only known protection against poisons and upper class Europeans would pay any price for genuine unicorn horn. In those pre-FDA days there was no quality control for magical anti-poison artifacts. The market responded to the demand by providing buyers with elephant ivory, walrus ivory, narwhal horn, old bones, random teeth, and even interestingly shaped white rocks, all of which were guaranteed to be authentic unicorn horn. In such an atmosphere it was only natural that there would be some confusion about the nature of the animals that supplied ivory.

Before 1500, Europeans had only the vaguest idea what an elephant actually looked like and no idea what a walrus looked like. There are records of only two elephants have been seen in Europe between the fall of the Roman Empire and the middle of the Renaissance. The artist who illustrated the Anne Walshe bestiary in the early fifteenth century might have been able to find some images of elephants in older illustrated manuscripts or descriptions from recent travelers. Instead, he pieced together an animal based entirely on classical texts. The accompanying, seven sentence description, uses information from the earlier bestiaries of Physiologus, Solinus, and St. Ambrose, all sources over a thousand years old at that time. The illustration gets some things right. The elephant is large, grey, and boxy. It has a trunk and tusks. But it has too many tusks—four. It also has tiny ears and hoofed feet. Like most medieval bestiaries, his follows a classical canon of animals known to Roman writers. It does not include any animals of the far north, such as moose, polar bears, or walruses.

Elephant from the Anne Walshe bestiary, early 1400s. (source)

The earliest European illustrations of walruses begin to appear after 1500 and are based on even less information than the Walshe elephant. The most influential of these illustrations came from Olaus Magnus, the last catholic bishop of Upsalla, Sweden. In 1539, Olaus published a colorful map of the northern Atlantic filled with ships and delightful monsters. But his monsters were not there just to fill space. Olaus was able to cite sources for most of the animals and dramatic scenes on his map. In 1555, he published Historia de Gentibus Septentrionalibus, a lavishly illustrated book on the people of the north that included descriptions of the animals and monsters depicted on his map. Olaus placed his walrus near the White Sea in roughly the same location as Desceliers' white elephant. He described the animal in this way: "To the far North, on the coast of Norway, there lives a mighty fish, as big as an elephant, called morse or rosmari ...." His walrus had legs and tusks in its lower jaw, like a wild boar. He also noted that it climbed mountains.

Olaus Magnus' rosmarus piscis (walrus fish) being tormented by snowball throwing Finns. From his 1539 map. (source)

Olaus Magnus' morso Norvagico (Norwegian walrus) about to be skinned by whalers. From his 1555 book Historia de Gentibus Septentrionalibus. (source)

Olaus' illustrations and descriptions carried a certain weight of authority; he came from a family of respected thinkers and had actually been further north than anyone else in the community of European thinkers. When writing the first edition of Historiae animalium (1551–1558), a work sometimes called the first work of modern zoology, Conrad Gesner relied heavily on Olaus' descriptions of marine animals. Olaus' Historia was translated into several European languages and republished many times over the next century. Even though somewhat more accurate information about walruses had been circulating since the 1520s, Olaus' images continued to influence concepts of the animal well into the next century. But if Olaus' readers thought his travels in the North had given him firsthand knowledge of walruses, they were mistaken. Olaus' written description of the walrus is based on a thirteenth century description of walrus hunting by Albertus Magnus and on two recent travelers to Russia who themselves repeated part of Albertus' description, adding only that walrus ivory was an important export commodity for Muscovy.

Olaus was not the first to repeat Albertus' description of walrus hunting—which involved slipping a rope through a cut in their skin while they slept on rocks, tying the end of the rope to a tree, awakening them, and allowing the frightened walruses to run out of their own skin in their rush to get back to the sea. Besides the two travelers Olaus mentioned by name (Maciej z Miechowa, 1517, and Paolo Giovio, 1525), at least two other writers had repeated the tale before him, Hector Boece (1526) and Sigismund von Herberstein (written in the 1520s but not published until 1549). Of these writers, only Herberstein mentions legs ("It has short feet, like those of a beaver"). Albertus described the walrus as a type of whale and, since whales were classified as fish during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, it should have been doubly clear that walruses should not have feet or legs. When Albertus described walruses climbing up on rocks to sleep, he clearly stated that they used their tusks to pull themselves up. Olaus repeated that detail. This raises the question, why did Olaus draw his walrus with feet and thick legs?

It should be easy to dismiss the legs as an imaginative flourish, but the work of another mapmaker suggests that Olaus might have had an unmentioned source that did mention legs. Like Desceliers, Martin Waldseemüller is best known for something other than his Arctic elephants. His 1507 map of the world was the first to use the word "America" to describe the new world. With such a claim to fame, it's not surprising that first thing most writers say about his next world map, the Carte Marina of 1516, is that it does not use the word "America." But, like Desceliers' map, there are plenty of other interesting details on this map that merit our attention. One of them is a strange, large creature in the far North.

Waldseemüller's morsus, 1516. (source)

The legend next to the animal reads:
The walrus (morsus) is an elephant sized animal with two long, quadrangular teeth. It is hindered by a lack of joints. The animal is found on promontories in Northern Norway where it moves in great herds.
Whoever drew the animals for Waldseemüller's map (possibly Albrecht Dürer) had more in mind than just an elephant-sized animal. What they drew is a very elephant-like animal. The body shape is passable for an elephant, as are the fan-shaped ears and longer legs than those on Olaus' morse. Less elephant-like are the hooves, lack of trunk, and boar's tusks. A second edition of Waldseemüller's map was made six years later by Laurent Fries. Fries produced a less expensive and smaller map that, while being much less detailed than the Carte Marina, retained the walrus and its description. Fries moved the morsus west of Greenland and made it more elephant-like by adding a trunk, though the hooves and boar's tusks remained.

Fries version of Waldseemüller's morsus. Fries map would go through several editions in the 1520s and 30s. (source)

Albertus' description compared the walrus' teeth to those of an elephant or boar. This was probably his way of saying that the teeth in question were tusks and not ordinary teeth. This mention could have been responsible both for the sixteenth century artists consistently putting the tusks in the walrus' jaw, boar style, and for the elephantish shape to its body. However, there is one strong clue that the elephant-ness of Waldseemüller's walrus was more than a suggestion planted in his artist's mind by Albertus using the word "elephant." That clue is Waldseemüller's mention in his description that the morsus has no joints. Ancient and Medieval scholarship is filled with authoritative statements that the elephant has no knees and sleeps standing up. Aristotle himself tried to debunk the legend, but was generally ignored on this point for the next two thousand years.

How did an animal that is basically a giant seal with fangs turn into a four-footed animal that invited comparison with an elephant? Did Waldseemüller and Olaus have unnamed sources that gave some additional anatomical details that sounded more elephant-like than seal-like? Unless we discover some amazingly detailed secret diaries, we will never know for sure if they had some unwritten sources or what those informants might have told them about walruses. We can, however engage in some logical speculation.

In a series of papers written in the first quarter of the last century, Berthold Laufer documented the history of walrus and narwhal ivory importation into China. He found accounts of ivory being traded down the Pacific coast from the far north as early as the fourth century AD. As a side note, he also described the ivory trade in Central Asia, the landward side of China. Laufer was strongly against the idea that any of the Pacific ivory was from mammoths, but grudgingly admitted that it might have been present in the Central Asian trade. He made very clear that the Chinese had no idea what kind of animal produced northern ivory. They generically called it ku-tu, a word which eventually made its way into Persian and Arabic. Laufer pointed out that, like unicorn horn in Europe, the ivory arriving in China passed through so many middlemen between the original collectors and the final consumers that any idea of the source animal was lost in transit. He also pointed out that often the ivory had been cut up to remove spoiled parts and for ease of transport, making it difficult to know even what shape the tusks or horns had originally had.

In the West, there would have been some important differences in this process. The Scandinavians, Russians, and Nenets who controlled different parts of the northern ivory trade were all people who hunted walruses and narwhals. They knew what these animals looked like, though they were not always eager to share their knowledge. In addition, walrus tusks and narwhal horns often made it to European markets uncut. When mammoth ivory moved along the Arctic coast to Pechora and Kholmogory, it would have been recognized as something different and treated as the "other" ivory. Questions about its origin would have been asked more knowledgably than in China or Central Asia where all three types of ivory were lumped together. They would have found out that the mammoth was a four-legged land animal, had a good idea of its size, and, possibly, even gained some idea of its general shape.

Waldseemüller and Olaus were not merchants. They never traveled into the Arctic and never saw any part of a walrus other than its tusks. Getting the shape of the walrus right was not their top concern. They were engaged in gathering enormous amounts of information about many things only one of which was the walrus. The descriptions and images that they ended up creating could very well have been a mish mash of information, part walrus and part mammoth, and representing nothing more than a vague "source of Russian ivory" animal.

Two other maps from the years between Olaus’ map and Desceliers’ are worth looking at to get a sense of where mapmakers’ minds were by mid-century, at least as far as walruses were concerned. Both are considered products of the Dieppe school. The first is a plate in the Vallard Atlas which was created sometime before 1547 by an unknown artist. The second is a map of the world created in 1546 and usually attributed to Desceliers. Both feature animals near the White Sea, though neither one has an explanatory legend.

The animal on the map of Europe in the Vallard Atlas, c. 1547. (source)

The animal on the Desceliers map of 1546. (source)

The animal in the Vallard Atlas looks so much like Waldseemüller's morsus that it could only have been copied from that source. It is in color and the artist has painted it a very elephant-like grey. The animal on the Desceliers map is similar, but not an exact copy. The body is longer and lower, like Olaus’ walrus, but with thinner legs and hooves, like Waldseemüller's. The hooves are cloven; it has droopy ears and a short snout. The total effect is very boar-like, but still within the tradition of walrus-monsters. In this context, the white elephant on Desceliers' 1550 map represents something new. He is no longer struggling to make sense of garbled descriptions of the walrus. At some point in the years between 1546 and 1550, Desceliers must have come into possession of some new information that caused him to believe that products, not just of an elephant-like animal, but of real elephants were being traded in—and originating in—the Russian far north.

Like Olaus and Waldseemüller, Desceliers did not record the names of all of his sources. He had a good reason for his silence; some of his informants may have been spies. In the sixteenth century, accurate maps and navigational directions were trade secrets for merchants and state secrets for imperial powers. They were the equivalent of high-resolution satellite photography during the Cold War. In Spain, merchants returning from far parts of the world were required to turn their logs and charts over to a government official, who incorporated new discoveries into the official world map, which was then used to produce official charts. In Portugal, after word of Vasco da Gama's trip around Africa into the Indian Ocean leaked out, giving away geographic secrets became a crime punishable by death. The Dutch East India Company maintained its own secret atlas. Attempts at monopolizing information were doomed to failure. Sailors drifted from ship to ship, port to port, and country to country and could always be encouraged to talk about their travels. Within the ranks of the smaller, but better informed, group of captains, mates, and government officials were plenty of bribable members. In the world of surreptitiously traded geographical intelligence, mapmakers were major players.

This is not just supposition where the Dieppe mapmakers are concerned. Remember that southeastern corner on the Desceliers' map? In the last years of the nineteenth century and again over the last thirty years, the land mass south of Indonesia has been the subject of a lot of attention. On the Dieppe maps, Java le Grande is seen as an extension of an assumed unknown southern continent believed necessary to create balance on the globe. Most of the place names on Java la Grande are of Portuguese origin. Whether or not this is evidence of a Portuguese discovery of Australia eighty years before the Dutch arrived there is still a subject of hot debate. What's less debatable is that these and other place names prove that the Dieppe mapmakers were getting some of their information from Portuguese sources. This was information that was not generally available to the rest of the world.

Portuguese imperial interests were not limited to Brazil and the Far East. The Treaty of Tordesillas, which divided the non-European world between Portugal and Spain, left much of the North Atlantic to Portugal. And Portugal did have an interest there. As early as 1500, Portuguese sailors had known about the fisheries around Newfoundland. Gaspar Côrte Real arrived in that year and rather unimaginatively named the island Terra Verde, Greenland (not that "Newfoundland" was a work of spectacular creativity). Most etymologies say Labrador was named for another Portuguese explorer, João Fernandes Lavrador ("lavrador" simply means "laborer" and was a nickname rather than a proper family name). Both Fernandes and Real may have sailed up the east coast of Greenland until they were stopped by floe ice. A number of maps published before 1550 show Labrador, Newfoundland, and southern Greenland as Portuguese possessions.

Portugal is not the only contender for a source of undocumented information on the far north. Within the Spanish office of the Padron Real, an Englishman of Venetian heritage, Sebastian Cabot, produced charts for thirty years. Despite his one voyage for the Spanish being a disaster, Cabot maintained the confidence of the emperor on matters of navigation right up until the day he defected to England in 1548. With his vast knowledge of Spanish discoveries, Cabot was welcomed with open arms, rewarded with a generous salary and pension for services already rendered to the crown and to be performed in the future. Once settled in England, Cabot set about establishing a company, the charmingly named Mystery and Company of Merchant Adventurers for the Discovery of Regions, Dominions, Islands, and Places Unknown, to explore the Arctic regions hoping to find a shortcut to China. The first voyage of the company, in 1553, was to the East across the Russian coast, not to the West, where his father John Cabot had explored.

Did Desceliers learn something from his Portuguese informants that led him to believe there were elephants in the North? We'll likely never know. The Portuguese archives of exploration were all destroyed in the fire that followed the Great Lisbon Earthquake of 1755. Did Cabot carry some information about the North learned during his long tenure in Spain? Cabot's personal papers have disappeared and nothing exists in the remaining Spanish and English archives to confirm such an idea. Could there have been a voyage to North not recorded in any government archive? This is very possible. Most voyages of exploration were commercial ventures, without government involvement. Thirty years after Desceliers published his map, a representative of the Muscovy Company (successor to the Mystery and Company of Merchant Adventurers) wrote to an unnamed Russian official asking for aid in exploring a route to the Ob River in Siberia. The Russian replied that he would be glad to help, although a ship load of Englishmen had already been in that country some years before. Stephen Burrough, one of the first English merchants of the Company, reported meeting Dutch merchants to the west of the White Sea. The Swedish king, Gustavus Vasa, attempted to extend his kingdom to the Arctic Ocean and White Sea and must have collected intelligence there. Norwegian trade to the White Sea dropped off in the thirteenth century, but it is unlikely that it ever completely died out.

We know that a trade in walrus ivory had been going on along the Russian Arctic coast since at least the ninth century, almost seven hundred years before Desceliers created his map. We know that at some point mammoth ivory made its way into that trade. The first unambiguous reference, Logan's "Elephants Tooth," comes only sixty years after the map. Before Desceliers, almost all written descriptions of walruses were based on Albertus' fanciful description of walrus hunting. Before Desceliers, visual representations of walruses in Europe portrayed a fantastic monster with legs and tusks. While these monsters might have been the result of mammoth characteristics being combined with Albertus' walrus, nothing that is unquestionably an elephant appears before Desceliers.

If early sixteenth century mapmakers had access to some intelligence about an elephant-like creature as a source for Arctic ivory, it appears that that information was lost soon after Desceliers finished his map. Russian tax rolls mention mammoth ivory in the 1580s. Logan's 1611 letter to Hakluyt, commenting on the elephant's tooth he bought at Pechora, was published in 1625. James recorded his in lexicon 1620, but the manuscript languished in various collections unnoticed until 1950. Literate society in Europe didn't become aware of the mammoth until the 1690s, didn't accept that it was an elephant until the middle of the eighteenth century, and didn't begin to understand it as a hairy, extinct cousin of the elephant until the beginning of the nineteenth century.

Was Desceliers' elephant a mammoth? In the end, we have only the mystery.

Update: I wrote this for the Scientific American guest blog in November 2011. Since then, I've discovered three more maps from the same period that show elephants in or near the Arctic. One is a later map by Desceliers, the other two are unrelated to the Dieppe school. I've also gone over some travelers' accounts of Russia from the early 1500s and I'm now confident that mammoth ivory was being traded, mixed in with walrus ivory, as early as when Waldseemüller prepared his map.