I am the Raven in the Happy Family—and nobody knows what a life of
misery I lead!
The dog informs me (he was a puppy about town before he joined us;
which was lately) that there is more than one Happy Family on view in
London. Mine, I beg to say, may be known by being the Family which
contains a splendid Raven.
I want to know why I am to be called upon to accommodate myself to a
cat, a mouse, a pigeon, a ringdove, an owl (who is the greatest ass
I have ever known), a guinea-pig, a sparrow, and a variety of other
creatures with whom I have no opinion in common. Is this national
education? Because, if it is, I object to it. Is our cage what they
call neutral ground, on which all parties may agree? If so, war to the
beak I consider preferable.
What right has any man to require me to look complacently at a cat on
a shelf all day? It may be all very well for the owl. My opinion of
_him_ is that he blinks and stares himself into a state of such dense
stupidity that he has no idea what company he is in. I have seen him,
with my own eyes, blink himself, for hours, into the conviction that
he was alone in a belfry. But _I_ am not the owl. It would have been
better for me, if I had been born in that station of life.
I am a Raven. I am, by nature, a sort of collector, or antiquarian.
If I contributed, in my natural state, to any Periodical, it would be
The Gentleman’s Magazine. I have a passion for amassing things that
are of no use to me, and burying them. Supposing such a thing—I don’t
wish it to be known to our proprietor that I put this case, but I say,
supposing such a thing—as that I took out one of the Guinea-Pig’s eyes;
how could I bury it here? The floor of the cage is not an inch thick.
To be sure, I could dig through it with my bill (if I dared), but what
would be the comfort of dropping a Guinea-Pig’s eye into Regent Street?
What _I_ want, is privacy. I want to make a collection. I desire to get
a little property together. How can I do it here? Mr. Hudson couldn’t
have done it, under corresponding circumstances.
I want to live by my own abilities, instead of being provided for in
this way. I am stuck in a cage with these incongruous companions, and
called a member of the Happy Family; but suppose you took a Queen’s
Counsel out of Westminster Hall, and settled him board and lodging
free, in Utopia, where there would be no excuse for ‘his quiddits, his
quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks,’ how do you think
_he_’d like it? Not at all. Then why do you expect _me_ to like it, and
add insult to injury by calling me a ‘Happy’ Raven!
This is what _I_ say: I want to see men do it. I should like to get
up a Happy Family of men, and show ’em. I should like to put the Rajah
Brooke, the Peace Society, Captain Aaron Smith, several Malay Pirates,
Doctor Wiseman, the Reverend Hugh Stowell, Mr. Fox of Oldham, the Board
of Health, all the London undertakers, some of the Common (very common
_I_ think) Council, and all the vested interests in the filth and
misery of the poor, into a good-sized cage, and see how _they_’d get
on. I should like to look in at ’em through the bars, after they had
undergone the training I have undergone. You wouldn’t find Sir Peter
Laurie ‘putting down’ Sanitary Reform then, or getting up in _that_
vestry, and pledging his word and honour to the non-existence of Saint
Paul’s Cathedral, I expect! And very happy _he_’d be, wouldn’t he, when
he couldn’t do that sort of thing?
I have no idea of you lords of the creation coming staring at me in
this false position. Why don’t you look at home? If you think I’m fond
of the dove, you’re very much mistaken. If you imagine there is the
least good will between me and the pigeon, you never were more deceived
in your lives. If you suppose I wouldn’t demolish the whole Family
(myself excepted), and the cage too, if I had my own way, you don’t
know what a real Raven is. But if you _do_ know this, why am _I_ to be
picked out as a curiosity? Why don’t you go and stare at the Bishop of
Exeter? ’Ecod, he’s one of our breed, if any body is!
Do you make me lead this public life because I seem to be what I ain’t?
Why, I don’t make half the pretences that are common among you men! You
never heard _me_ call the sparrow my noble friend. When did _I_ ever
tell the Guinea-Pig that he was my Christian brother? Name the occasion
of my making myself a party to the ‘sham’ (my friend Mr. Carlyle will
lend me his favourite word for the occasion) that the cat hadn’t really
her eye upon the mouse! Can _you_ say as much? What about the last
Court Ball, the next Debate in the Lords, the last great Ecclesiastical
Suit, the next long assembly in the Court Circular? I wonder you are
not ashamed to look me in the eye! I am an independent Member—of the
Happy Family; and I ought to be let out.
I have only one consolation in my inability to damage anything, and
that is that I hope I am instrumental in propagating a delusion as to
the character of Ravens. I have a strong impression that the sparrows
on our beat are beginning to think they may trust a Raven. Let ’em try!
There’s an uncle of mine, in a stable-yard down in Yorkshire, who will
very soon undeceive any small bird that may favour him with a call.
The dogs too. Ha ha! As they go by, they look at me and this dog,
in quite a friendly way. They never suspect how I should hold on to
the tip of his tail, if I consulted my own feelings instead of our
proprietor’s. It’s almost worth being here, to think of some confiding
dog who has seen me, going too near a friend of mine who lives at a
hackney-coach stand in Oxford Street. You wouldn’t stop _his_ squeaking
in a hurry, if my friend got a chance at him.
It’s the same with the children. There’s a young gentleman with a hat
and feathers, resident in Portland Place, who brings a penny to our
proprietor, twice a week. He wears very short white drawers, and has
mottled legs above his socks. He hasn’t the least idea what I should
do to his legs, if I consulted my own inclinations. He never imagines
what I am thinking of, when we look at one another. May he only take
those legs, in their present juicy state, close to the cage of my
brother-in-law of the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park!
Call yourselves rational beings, and talk about our being reclaimed?
Why, there isn’t one of us who wouldn’t astonish you, if we could only
get out! Let _me_ out, and see whether _I_ should be meek or not. But
this is the way you always go on in—you know you do. Up at Pentonville,
the sparrow says—and he ought to know, for he was born in a stack
of chimneys in that prison—you are spending I am afraid to say how
much every year out of the rates, to keep men in solitude, where they
+CAN’T+ do any harm (that you know of), and then you sing all sorts of
choruses about their being good. So am I what you call good—here. Why?
Because I can’t help it. Try me outside!
You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the Magpie says; and I agree
with him. If you are determined to pet only those who take things and
hide them, why don’t you pet the Magpie and me? We are interesting
enough for you, ain’t we? The Mouse says you are not half so particular
about the honest people. He is not a bad authority. He was almost
starved when he lived in a workhouse, wasn’t he? He didn’t get much
fatter, I suppose, when he moved to a labourer’s cottage? He was thin
enough when he came from that place, here—I know that. And what does
the Mouse (whose word is his bond) declare? He declares that you don’t
take half the care you ought; of your own young, and don’t teach
’em half enough. Why don’t you then? You might give our proprietor
something to do, I should think, in twisting miserable boys and girls
_into_ their proper nature, instead of twisting us out of ours. You are
a nice set of fellows, certainly, to come and look at Happy Families,
as if you had nothing else to look after!
I take the opportunity of our proprietor’s pen and ink in the evening,
to write this. I shall put it away in a corner—quite sure, as it’s
intended for the Post Office, of Mr. Rowland Hill’s getting hold of it
somehow, and sending it to somebody. I understand he can do anything
with a letter. Though the Owl says (but I don’t believe him), that the
present prevalence of measles and chicken-pox among infants in all
parts of this country, has been caused by Mr. Rowland Hill. I hope I
needn’t add that we Ravens are all good scholars, but that we keep our
secret (as the Indians believe the Monkeys do, according to a Parrot of
my acquaintance) lest our abilities should be imposed upon. As nothing
worse than my present degradation as a member of the Happy Family
can happen to me, however, I desert the General Freemasons’ Lodge of
Ravens, and express my disgust in writing.