as the wryneck does, in the hollow of a tree, he contracts the opening
by skilful masonry. Many, like the pine-pine, build a double nest in
two apartments: the mother sits in the alcove; in the vestibule watches
the father, an attentive sentinel, to repulse invasion.
[Illustration]
What enemies has he to fear! Serpents, men or apes, squirrels! And what
do I say? The birds themselves! This people, too, has its robbers. His
neighbours sometimes assist a feeble bird to recover his property,
to expel by force the unjust usurper. Naturalists assure us that the
rooks (a kind of crow) carry further the spirit of justice. They do not
pardon a young couple who, to complete their establishment the sooner,
rob the materials--"the movables"--of another nest. They assemble in a
troop of eight or ten to rend in fragments the nest of the criminals,
and completely destroy that house of theft. And punished thieves are
driven afar, and forced to begin all over again.
Is there not here an idea of property, and of the sacred lights of
labour?
Where shall they find securities, and how assure a commencement of
public order? It is curious to know in what way the birds have resolved
the question.
Two solutions presented themselves. The first was that of
_association_--the organization of a government which should
concentrate force, and by the reunion of the weak form a defensive
power. The second (but miraculous? impossible? imaginative?) would
have been the realization of the _aerial city_ of Aristophanes,--the
construction of a dwelling-place guarded by its lightness from the
unwieldy brigands of the air, and inaccessible to the approaches of the
brigands of the earth--the hunter, the serpent.
These two things--the one difficult, the other apparently
impossible--the bird has realized.
At first, association and government. Monarchy is the inferior venture.
Just as the apes have a king to conduct each band, several species of
birds, especially in dangerous emergencies, appear to follow a chief.
The ant-eaters have a king; so have the birds of paradise. The tyrant,
an intrepid little bird of extraordinary audacity, affords his
protection to some larger species, which follow and confide in him.
It is asserted that the noble hawk, repressing its instincts of prey
for certain species, allows the trembling families which trust in his
generosity to nestle under and around him.
But the safest fellowship is that between equals. The ostrich,
the penguin, a crowd of species, unite for this purpose. Several
kinds, associating for the purpose of travel, form, at the moment of
emigration, into temporary republics. We know the good understanding,
the republican gravity, the perfect tactic of the storks and cranes.
Others, smaller in size or less completely armed--in climates,
moreover, where nature, cruelly prolific, engenders without pause their
formidable foes--place their abodes close together, but do not mingle
them, and under a common roof, living in separate partitions, form
veritable hives.
The description given by Paterson appeared fabulous; but it has been
confirmed by Levaillant, who frequently encountered in Africa, studied,
and investigated the strange community. The engraving given in the
"Architecture of Birds" enables the reader more readily to comprehend
his narration. It is the image of an immense umbrella planted on
a tree, and shading under its common roof more than three hundred
habitations. "I caused it to be brought to me," says Levaillant, "by
several men, who set it on a vehicle. I cut it with an axe, and saw
that it was in the main a mass of Booschmannie grass, without any
mixture, but so strongly woven together that it was impossible for the
rain to penetrate. This is only the framework of the edifice; each
bird constructs for himself a separate nest under the common pavilion.
The nests occupy only the reverse of the roof; the upper part remains
empty, without, however, being useless; for, raised more than the
remainder of the pile, it gives to the whole a sufficient inclination,
and thus preserves each little habitation. In two words, let the reader
figure to himself a great oblique and irregular roof, whose edge in the
interior is garnished with nests ranged close to one another, and he
will have an exact idea of these singular edifices.
[Illustration]
"Each nest is three or four inches in diameter, which is sufficiently
large for the bird; but as they are in close contact around the roof,
they appear to the eye to form but a single edifice, and are only
separated by a small opening which serves as an entry to the nest;
and one entrance frequently is common to three nests, one of which is
placed at the bottom, and the others on each side. It has 320 cells,
and will hold 640 inhabitants, if each contains a couple, which may
be doubted. Every time, however, that I have aimed at a swarm, I have
killed the same number of males and females."
A laudable example, and worthy of imitation! I wish I could but
believe that the fraternity of those poor little ones was a sufficient
protection. Their number and their noise may sometimes alarm the enemy,
disturb the monster, make him take another direction. But if he should
persist; if, strong in his scaly skin, the boa, deaf to their cries,
mounts to the attack, invades the city at the time when the fledglings
have as yet no wings for flight, their numbers then can but multiply
the victims.
There remains the idea of Aristophanes, the _aerial city_--to isolate
it from earth and water, and build in the air.
This is a stroke of genius. And to carry it out is needed the miracle
of the two foremost powers in the world--love and fear.
Of the most vivid fear; of that which freezes your blood: if, peering
through a hole in a tree, the black flat head of a cold reptile rises
and hisses in your face, though you are a man, and a brave man, you
tremble.
How much more must the little, feeble, disarmed creature, surprised in
its nest, and unable to make use of its wings--how much more must it
tremble, and sink panic-stricken!
The invention of the aerial city took place in the land of serpents.
Africa, the realm of monsters, in its horrible arid wastes, sees them
cover the earth. Asia, on the burning shore of Bombay, in her forests
where the mud ferments, makes them swarm, and fatten, and swell with
venom. In the Moluccas they are innumerable.
Thence came the inspiration of the _Loxia pensilis_ (the grosbeak of
the Philippines). Such is the name of the great artist.
He chooses a bamboo growing close to the water. To the branches of this
tree he delicately suspends some vegetable fibres. He knows beforehand
the weight of the nest, and never errs. To the threads he attaches, one
by one (not supporting himself on anything, but working in the air)
some sufficiently strong grasses. The task is long and fatiguing; it
presupposes an infinite amount of patient courage.
The vestibule alone is nothing less than a cylinder of twelve to
fifteen feet, which hangs over the water, the opening being below, so
that one enters it ascending. The upper extremity may be compared to a
gourd or an inflated bag, like a chemist's retort. Sometimes five or
six hundred nests of this kind hang to a single tree.
Such is my city of the air; not a dream and a phantasy, like that of
Aristophanes, but actual, realized, and answering the three conditions:
security both on the side of land and water, and inaccessibility to
the robbers of the air through its narrow openings, where one can only
enter by ascending with great difficulty.
Now, that which was said to Columbus when he defied his guests to
make an egg stand upright, you perhaps will say to the ingenious bird
in reference to his suspended city. You will observe, "It was very
simple." To which the bird will reply, like Columbus, "Why did you not
discover it?"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: EDUCATION.]
[Illustration]
EDUCATION.
Behold, then, the nest made, and protected by every prudential means
which the mother can devise. She rests upon her perfected work, and
dreams of the new guest which it shall contain to-morrow.
At this hallowed moment, ought not we, too, to reflect and ask
ourselves what it is this mother's heart contains?
A soul? Shall we dare to say that this ingenious architect, this tender
mother, has _a soul_?
Many persons, nevertheless, full of sense and sympathy, will denounce,
will reject this very natural idea as a scandalous hypothesis.
Their heart would incline them towards it; their mind leads them to
repel it; their mind, or at least their education, the idea which, from
an early age, has been impressed upon them.
Beasts are only machines, mechanical automata; or if we think we can
detect in them some glimmering rays of sensibility and reason, those
are solely the effect of _instinct_. But what is instinct? A sixth
sense--I know not what--which is undefinable, which has been implanted
in them, not acquired by themselves--a blind force which acts,
constructs, and makes a thousand ingenious things, without their being
conscious of them, without their personal activity counting for aught.
If it is so, this instinct would be invariable, and its works immovably
regular, which neither time nor circumstances would ever change.
Indifferent minds--distracted, busy about other matters--which have
no time for observation, accept this statement upon parole. Why not?
At the first glance certain actions and also certain works of animals
appear _almost_ regular. To come to a different conclusion, more
attention, perhaps, is needed, more time and study, than the question
is fairly worth.
Let us adjourn the dispute, and see the object itself. Let us take the
humblest example, an individual example; let us appeal to our eyes, our
own observation, such as each one of us can make with the most vulgar
of the senses.
Perhaps the reader will permit me here to introduce, in all honesty
and simpleness, the journal of my canary, Jonquille, as it was written
hour by hour from the birth of her first child; a journal of remarkable
exactness, and, in short, an authentic register of birth.
* * * * *
"It must be stated, at the outset, that Jonquille was born in a cage,
and had not seen how nests were made. As soon as I saw her disturbed,
and became aware of her approaching maternity, I frequently opened her
door, and allowed her freedom to collect in the room the materials of
the bed the little one would stand in need of. She gathered them up,
indeed, but without knowing how to employ them. She put them together,
and stored them in a corner of her cage. It was very evident that the
art of construction was not innate in her, that (exactly like man) the
bird does not know until it has learned.
"I gave her the nest ready made, at least the little basket which forms
the framework and walls of the structure. Then she made the mattress,
and felted the interior coating, but in a very indifferent manner.
Afterwards she sat on her egg for sixteen days with a perseverance, a
fervour, a maternal devotion which were astonishing, scarcely rising
for a few minutes in the day from her fatiguing position, and only when
the male was ready to take her place.
"At noon on the sixteenth day the shell was broken in two, and we saw,
struggling in the nest, a pair of little wings without feathers, a
couple of tiny feet, a something which struggled to rid itself entirely
of its envelopment. The body was one large stomach, round as a ball.
The mother, with great eyes, outstretched neck, and fluttering wings,
from the edge of the basket looked at her child, and looked at me also,
as if to say: '_Do not come near!_'
"Except some long down on the wings and head, it was completely naked.
"On this first day she only gave it some drink. It opened, however,
already a bill of good proportions.
"From time to time, that it might breathe the more easily, she moved a
little, then replaced it under her wing, and rubbed it gently.
"The second day it ate but a very light beakful of chickweed, well
prepared, brought in the first place by the father, received by the
mother, and transmitted by her with short, quick chirps. In all
probability this was given rather for medicinal purposes than as food.
"So long as the nursling has all it requires, the mother permits
the male bird to fly to and fro, to go and come, to attend to his
occupations. But as soon as it asks for more, the mother, with her
sweetest voice, summons the purveyor, who fills his beak, arrives in
all haste, and transmits to her the food.
"The fifth day the eyes are less prominent; on the sixth, in the
morning, feathers stretch along the wings, and the back grows darker;
on the eighth it opens its eyes when called, and begins to stutter:
the father ventures to nourish it. The mother takes some relaxation,
and frequently absents herself. She often perches on the rim of the
nest, and lovingly contemplates her offspring. But the latter stirs,
feels the need of movement. Poor mother! in a little while it will
escape thee.
[Illustration]
"In this first education of the still passive and elementary life, as
in the second (and active, that of flight), of which I have already
spoken, one fact, evident and clearly discernible at every moment,
was, that everything was proportioned with infinite prudence to the
condition least foreseen, a condition essentially variable, the
nursling's individual strength; the quantity, quality, and mode of
preparation of the food, the cares of warmth, friction, cleanliness,
were all ordered with a skill and an attention to detail, modified
according to circumstance, such as the most delicate and provident
woman could hardly have surpassed.
"When I saw her heart throbbing violently, and her eye kindling as she
gazed on her precious treasure, I exclaimed: 'Could I do otherwise near
the cradle of my son?'"
* * * * *
Ah, if she be a machine, what am I myself? and who will then prove
that I am a person? If she has not a soul, who will answer to me for
the human soul? To what thereafter shall we trust? And is not all
this world a dream, a phantasmagoria, if, in the most individual
actions, actions the most plainly reasoned over and calculated upon, I
am to conclude there is nothing but a lack of reason, a mechanism, an
"automatism," a species of pendulum which sports with life and thought?
Note that our observations were made on a captive, who worked in fatal
and predetermined conditions of dwelling-place, nourishment, &c.
But how, if her action had been more evidently chosen, willed, and
meditated; if all this had transpired in the freedom of the forests, or
she had had cause to disquiet herself about many other circumstances
which captivity enabled her to ignore? I am thinking especially of
the anxiety for security, which, for the bird in savage life, is the
foremost of all cares, and which more than anything else exercises and
develops her free genius.
This first initiation into life, of which I have just given an example,
is followed by what I shall call the _professional education_; every
bird has a vocation.
[Illustration]
This education is more or less arduous, according to the medium and the
circumstances in which each species is placed. That of fishing, for
instance, is simple enough for the penguin, which, in her clumsiness,
finds it difficult to conduct her brood to the sea; its great nurse
attends the little one, and offers it the food all ready; it has but
to open its bill. With the duck, this education or training is more
complex. I observed one summer, on a lake in Normandy, a duck, followed
by her brood, giving them their first lesson. The nurslings, riotous
and greedy, asked but for food. The mother, yielding to their cries,
plunged to the bottom of the water, reappearing with some small worm or
little fish, which she distributed impartially, never giving twice in
succession to the same duckling!
In this picture the most touching figure was the mother, whose stomach
undoubtedly was also craving, but who retained nothing for herself, and
seemed happy in the sacrifice. Her visible desire was to accustom her
family to do as she did, to dive under the water intrepidly to seize
their prey. With a voice almost gentle, she implored this action of
courageous confidence. I had the happiness of seeing the little ones
plunge in, one after another, to the depth of the black abyss. Their
education was just on the eve of completion.
This is but a simple training, and for one of the inferior vocations.
There remains to speak of that of the arts: of the art of flight, the
art of song, the art of architecture. Nothing is more complex than the
education of certain singing birds. The perseverance of the father, the
docility of the young, are worthy of all admiration.
And this education extends beyond the family-circle. The nightingales,
the chaffinches, while still young or unskilful, know how to listen
to, and profit by, the superior bird which has been allotted to them
as their instructor. In those Russian palaces where flourishes the
noble Oriental partiality for the bulbul's song, you see everywhere
these singing-schools. The master nightingale, in his cage suspended
in the centre of a saloon, has his scholars ranged around him in their
respective cages. A certain sum per hour is paid for each bird brought
here to learn his lesson. Before the master sings they chatter and
gossip among themselves, salute and recognize one another. But as soon
as the mighty teacher, with one imperious note, like that of a sonorous
steel bell, has imposed silence, you see them listen with a sensible
deference, then timidly repeat the strain. The master complacently
returns to the principal passages, corrects, and gently sets them
right. A few then grow bolder, and, by some felicitous chords, essay to
supply the harmony to the dominant melody.
An education so delicate, so varied, so complex, is it that of a
machine, of a brute reduced to instinct? Who can refuse in this to
acknowledge a soul?
Open your eyes to the evidence. Throw aside your prejudices, your
traditional and derived opinions. Preconceived ideas and dogmatic
theories apart, you cannot offend Heaven by restoring a soul to the
beast.[26] How much grander the Creator's work if he has created
persons, souls, and wills, than if he has constructed machines!
Dismiss your pride, and acknowledge a kindred in which there is nothing
to make a devout mind ashamed. What are these? They are your brothers.
What are they? embryo souls, souls especially set apart for certain
functions of existence, candidates for the more general and more widely
harmonic life to which the human soul has attained.
When will they arrive thither? and how? God has reserved to himself
these mysteries.
[Illustration]
All that we know is this: that he summons them--them also--to mount
higher and yet higher.
They are, without metaphor, the little children of Nature, the
nurslings of Providence, aspiring towards the light in order to act and
think; stumbling now, they by Degrees shall advance much further.
"O pauvre enfantelet! du fil de tes pensées
L'échevelet n'est encore débrouillé."
Poor feeble child! not yet of thy thought's thread
Is the entangled skein unravellèd.
Souls of children, in truth, but far gentler, more resigned, more
patient than those of human children. See with what silent good
humour most of them (like the horse) support blows, and wounds, and
ill-treatment! They all know how to endure disease and suffer death.
They retire apart, surround themselves with silence, and lie down in
concealment; this gentle patience often supplies them with the most
efficacious remedies. If not, they accept their destiny, and pass away
as if they slept.
Can they love as deeply as we love? How shall we doubt it, when we
see the most timid suddenly become heroic in defence of their young
and their family? The devotedness of the man who braves death for his
children you will see exemplified every day in the martin, which not
only resists the eagle, but pursues him with heroical ardour.
Would you wish to observe two things wonderfully analogous? Watch on
the one side the woman's delight at the first step of her infant, and
on the other the swallow at the first flight of her little nursling.
You see in both the same anxiety, the same encouragements, examples,
and counsels, the same pretended security and lurking fear, the
trembling "Take courage, nothing is more easy;"--in truth, the two
mothers are inwardly shivering.
The lessons are curious. The mother raises herself on her wings; the
fledgling regards her intently, and also raises himself a little; then
you see her hovering--he looks, he stirs his wings. All this goes
well, for it takes place in the nest--the difficulty begins when he
essays to quit it. She calls him, she shows him some little dainty
tit-bit, she promises him a reward, she attempts to draw him forth with
the bait of a fly.
Still the little one hesitates. And put yourself in his place. You have
but to move a step in the nursery, between your nurse and your mother,
where, if you fell, you would fall upon cushions. This bird of the
church, which gives her first lesson in flying from the summit of the
spire, can scarcely embolden her son, perhaps can scarcely embolden
herself at the decisive moment. Both, I am sure of it, measure more
than once with their glances the abyss beneath, and eye the ground. I,
for one, declare to you, the spectacle is moving and sublime. It is an
urgent need that he should _trust_ his mother, that _she_ should have
confidence in the wing of the little one who is still a novice. From
both does Heaven require an act of faith, of courage. A noble and a
sublime starting-point! But he _has_ trusted, he has made the leap, he
will not fall. Trembling, he floats in air, supported by the paternal
breath of heaven, by the reassuring voice of his mother. All is
finished. Thenceforth he will fly regardless of the wind and the storm,
strong in that first great trial wherein he flew in faith.
[Illustration]
[NOTE.--_The Swallow's Flight._ According to Wilson, the swallow's
ordinary flight averages one mile per minute. He is engaged in
flying for ten hours daily. Now, as his life is usually extended
to a space of ten years, he flies, in that period, 2,190,000
miles, or nearly eighty-eight times the circumference of the
globe.
The swallow, as Sir Humphrey Davy observes, cheers the sense of
sight as much as the nightingale does the sense of hearing. He
is the glad prophet of the year, the harbinger of its brightest
season, and lives a life of free enjoyment amongst the loveliest
forms of nature.
There is something peculiarly beautiful in his rapid, steady,
well-balanced flight,--
"Which, ere a double pulse can beat,
Is here and there with motion fleet,
As Ariel's wing could scarce exceed;
And, full of vigour as of speed,
Forestalls the dayspring's earliest gleam,
Nor fails with evening's latest beam."
To all nations he is welcome, and by all the poets has been
celebrated with fond eulogium.--_Translator._]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE NIGHTINGALE.]
[Illustration]
THE NIGHTINGALE.
ART AND THE INFINITE.
The celebrated Pré-aux-Clercs, now known as the Marché Saint Germain,
is, as everybody knows, on Sundays, the Bird Market of Paris. The place
has more than one claim on our curiosity. It is a vast menagerie,
frequently renewed--a shifting, strange museum of French ornithology.
On the other hand, such an auction of living beings, of captives many
of whom feel their captivity, of slaves whom the auctioneer exposes,
sells, and values more or less adroitly, indirectly reminds one, after
all, of the markets of the East, the auctions of human slaves. The
winged slaves, without understanding our languages, do not the less
vividly express the thought of servitude; some, born in this condition,
are resigned to it; others, sombre and silent, dream ever of freedom.
Not a few appear to address themselves to you, seem desirous of
arresting the passer-by's attention, and ask only for a good master.
How often have we seen an intelligent goldfinch, an amiable robin,
regarding us with a mournful gaze, but a gaze by no means doubtful in
its meaning, for it said: "Buy me!"