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Public and Private Life of Animals
by J. Thomson
[Illustration]
PUBLIC & PRIVATE
LIFE OF ANIMALS.
[Illustration]
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
[Illustration:
PUBLIC AND PRIVATE
LIFE
OF
ANIMALS.
LONDON.
1876.
[Artist] _BREVIER. S._]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PUBLIC AND PRIVATE
LIFE OF ANIMALS.
_ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH OF
BALZAC, DROZ, JULES JANIN, E. LEMOINE, A. DE MUSSET,
GEORGES SAND, &c._
BY
J. THOMSON.
[Illustration]
With Illustrations.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET.
1877.
[_All rights reserved._]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PART I.
INTRODUCTION—
INTERNATIONAL CONGRESS OF ANIMALS • 1
RESUMÉ OF PROCEEDINGS • 4
HISTORY OF A HARE • 13
THE FLIGHT OF A PARISIAN BIRD IN SEARCH OF BETTER GOVERNMENT • 35
LIFE AND PHILOSOPHICAL OPINIONS OF A PENGUIN • 56
THE LAST WORDS OF AN EPHEMERA • 75
THE SORROWS OF AN OLD TOAD • 77
THE THEATRICAL CRITIC • 88
THE PHILOSOPHIC RAT • 98
THE SUFFERINGS OF A BEETLE • 108
A FOX IN A TRAP • 126
TEXT-BOOK FOR THE GUIDANCE OF ANIMALS STUDYING FOR HONOURS • 138
THE INCONSISTENCIES OF A GREYHOUND • 149
TOPAZ THE PORTRAIT-PAINTER • 162
JOURNEY OF AN AFRICAN LION TO PARIS • 175
ADVENTURES OF A BUTTERFLY • 188
THE MISFORTUNES OF A CROCODILE • 200
THE FUNERAL ORATION OF A SILKWORM • 206
PART II.
DAILY BULLETIN OF EVENTS • 213
HISTORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD • 239
THE QUEEN’S HUSBAND • 262
THE LOVES OF TWO INSECTS • 268
THE LOVE ADVENTURES OF A FRENCH CAT • 282
CELEBRATED TRIALS • 296
THE BEAR; OR, A LETTER FROM THE MOUNTAINS • 309
THE SEVENTH HEAVEN • 318
LETTERS FROM A SWALLOW TO A CANARY • 327
MEDICAL ANIMALS • 344
THE GIRAFFE’S TABLETS • 353
THE CROAKINGS OF A CROW • 361
SOUVENIRS OF AN OLD ROOK—
SUMMARY • 367
AN OLD CASTLE • 371
THE DUKE AND DUCHESS • 373
AN OLD FALCON • 375
WHAT ANIMATES THE HEART OF A CHAMELEON • 377
HISTORY OF THE HOSTS OF THE TERRACE • 380
LAST CHAPTER • 384
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PART FIRST.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION.
_INTERNATIONAL CONGRESS OF ANIMALS._
[Illustration]
Weary of insult, ignominy, and the constant oppression of man, we,
the so-called Lower Animals, have at last resolved to cast off the
yoke of our oppressors, who, since the day of their creation, have
rendered liberty and equality nothing more than empty names.
A deliberative Assembly has been constituted, with the {2} full
sanction of the Great Animal Powers, to whom we look with confidence
for that guidance and support which will enable us to carry out the
measures framed for our advancement.
The Assembly has been already convoked. Its first sitting took place,
on a lovely spring morning, on the green sward of the _Jardin des
Plantes_. The spot was happily chosen to secure a full attendance of
the animals of all nations. In justice to ourselves, let it be known
that the proceedings were conducted with the harmony and good manners
which the brutes have made peculiarly their own.
An Orang-outang, fired by his love of liberty, mastered the mechanism
of locks, and at night, while the great world slept, opened the iron
gates to the prisoners, who walked gravely out to take their seats.
A large circle was formed, the Domestic Animals on the right, the
Independent Wanderers on the left, and the Molluscs in the centre.
The rising sun, struggling through the gloom, fell upon a scene at
once imposing, and full of great historic interest. No assembly of
men that ever met on earth could possibly display a more masterly
control of passion than did the non-herbivorous and carnivorous
members of their powerful instincts. The Hyæna became almost musical,
while the notes of the Goose were full of deep pathos.
The opening of the Congress was marked by a scene most touching.
All the members embraced and kissed each other, in one or two
instances with such fervour as to lead to the effusion of blood.
In the interests of the Animal Kingdom, it must be recorded that a
Duck was strangled by an overjoyed Fox, a Sheep by an enthusiastic
Wolf, and a Horse by a delirious Tiger. As ancient feuds had existed
between the families, these events were clearly referable to the
power of ancestral usage, and the joy of reconciliation. A Barbary
Duck chanted a solemn dirge over the body of her companion, who
had fallen in the cause of freedom. Before resuming her seat, the
member for Barbary made an eloquent speech, urging the Congress to
overlook the accidents, and proceed with the orders of the day. At
this moment an unfortunate Siamese Ambassador Elephant was about to
propose the abolition of capital punishment. Being a devout Buddhist,
he advocated the preservation of life in every form. Unluckily for
his doctrine, he had placed his huge foot on a nest of Field-mice,
killing both parents and children. A young Toad {3} drawing his
attention to the melancholy fact overwhelmed him with remorse.
In simple courtesy to the reader, we must state that the report of
the proceedings was obtained from a Parroquet, whose veracity may be
trusted, as he only repeats what he has heard. We crave permission to
conceal his name. Like the ancient senators of Venice, he has sworn
silence on State affairs. In this instance alone he has thrown off
his habitual reserve.
[Illustration]
{4}
_RESUMÉ OF PROCEEDINGS._
ONE HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT.
Nomination of President.—Questions relative to the suppression
of man.—The members of the Left vote for war, the Right for
arbitration.—Discussions in which the Lion, Tiger, Horse,
Nightingale, Boar, and others take part.—The opinion of the Fox, and
what came of it.
This publication is edited conjointly by the Ape, Parroquet, and
Village Cock.
The garden paths are thronged with powerful deputies from the
menageries of London, Berlin, Vienna, New York, and St. Petersburg.
The Congress promises to be the most successful ever held in Paris.
The death of a great French author, who devoted his pen to Natural
History, has cast a gloom over the garden. The cultured animals wear
crape, while the bolder spirits, proudly disdaining such symbols of
grief, drop their ears and drag their tails along the ground. Here
and there distinguished parties are hotly discussing the formation of
the Congress, the framing of rules, and the choice of President. The
Wolf sits beneath a tree, intently gazing on the Ape, whose careful
attire and well-poised eye-glass proclaims man’s far-off cousinship
to his family.
The Chameleon considers the get-up of the Ape a graceful tribute to
his human kinsman.
The Wolf suggests that “to ape is not to imitate!”
The Snake in the grass hisses.
An erudite Crow croaks from his perch, “It would be extremely
dangerous to follow in the footsteps of man,” and quotes the
well-known line, “_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_.” He is loudly
congratulated on the happy quotation by a German Owl, well versed in
the dead languages.
The Buzzard devoutly contemplates the two scholars, while the
Mocking-bird jeeringly remarks, “One way of passing for a learned
biped is by talking to others of things they do not understand.” {5}
The Chameleon blushes, and then looks blue. At this moment the Marmot
awoke, to pronounce life a dream. “A dream?” said the Swallow, “nay,
rather a journey.” The Ephemera gasped out, “Too brief, too brief,”
and died.
[Illustration]
The question of the Presidency brings the scattered groups to the
{6} centre of the garden, and to business. When all are seated
and expectant, the Ass brays out silence, quite needlessly, as
the only audible sound was caused by a Flea sneezing in his ear.
His supporters had prepared a speech for him, and his assurance,
gravity, and weight obtained him a hearing. It was whispered that
the honourable member was about to move that his ancient policy of
progressing backward should be steadily kept in view. The orator,
so adjusting his ears as to catch the faintest murmur of applause,
flourished his tail impressively, and proceeded—
“Fellow-quadrupeds, and brother brutes of all climes and conditions,
the question of the Presidency of this noble Assembly is one of
primary importance. In order to lift the burdens from your backs, as
the lineal descendant of Balaam’s ass, I offer myself as candidate
for the position, hedged round as it is with difficulty and danger.
It is needless to remind you of the hereditary attributes which
qualify me for the office of President—firmness verging on obstinacy,
patience under affliction, and a rooted determination to kick against
all opposition.” Here the speaker was interrupted by the Wolf, who
protested against the presumption of this slave of man. Stung to the
heart, the honourable Ass was about to indulge his time-honoured
habit of kicking up his heels, when he was called to order by the
Bear.
“Brothers,” said the Bear, “let not the heat of party feeling, added
to the stifling air of Paris, compel me to return to my native
_climb_, the North Pole. There my suffering has been great, but in
the Arctic Circle I can grin and _bear_ it as becomes my nature.
Here, in a circle so refined, such brawling is only fit for men whose
fiery tempers dry up the fountain of their love.” The Seal trembled
at the sound of the dreaded voice.
The Lion roared and restored order, while the Fox unobserved slipped
into the tribune, and in a brief but subtle speech so eulogised the
Mule—who carried a useful appendage in the shape of a bell—that he
was chosen President.
The Mule takes the chair, and the tinkling of his bell is followed by
silence broken for an instant by the Watch-dog—who fancied himself at
his master’s door—gruffly inquiring, “Who’s there?”
The Wolf casts a scornful glance at the poor confused brute.
The Parroquet and Cat, preparing quills supplied by the Goose, seat
themselves at the table as Secretaries.
The Lion ascends the tribune with imposing gravity; “shaking {7}
the dewdrops from his mane,” he denounces in a voice of thunder
the tyranny of mankind, and continues: “There is but one way of
escape open for all! Fly with me to Africa, to the sweet solitudes
of boundless deserts and primeval forests, where we can hold our
own against the inroads of degenerate humanity! Far from sheltering
walls man is powerless against the noble animals I see around me.
Cities are men’s refuge, and few there are of the lion-hearted among
them, if I may use the expression” [ironical cheers from the Tiger],
“who would meet us face to face in our native wilds.” The speaker
concluded with a glowing picture of the proud independence of animal
life in Africa.
The Elephant advocated emigration to Central Africa. “It is a land,”
said he, “where teeth and tusks are excellent passports, and where
every traveller ought to carry his own trunk full of water.” This
latter remark was objected to by the Hippopotamus, who held that
water would be more useful if left in swamps and rivers.
Hereupon the Dog protested that nothing could equal city life, and
was put down by the Tiger, Wolf, and Hyæna. As for the Tiger, with a
terrific howl he leaped into the tribune bellowing out, “War! blood!
Nothing short of the utter extermination of man will establish the
security of the Animal Kingdom. Great generals seize great occasions.
Did not Rabbits undermine Tarragona? Did not liquor conquer Alexander
the Great? The doom of the human race is sealed, its world-wide
sway ended! The savage despots have driven us from our homes, hewn
down our forests, burned our jungles, ploughed up our prairies,
scooped out the solid world to build their begrimed cities, lay
their railroads, warm their thin blood, roast our flesh for food.
Torturing, slaying, and playing the devil right and left, men have
trod the skins of my ancestors under foot, worn our claws and teeth
as talismans, poisoned us, imprisoned us, dried and stuffed us, and
set us to mimic our bold natures beside mummies in museums. Down
with them, I say! Down with the tyrants!” Here the orator paused, he
caught sight of a tear glistening in the eye of a lamb, his teeth
watered, and his claws crept out at sight of this gentle tribute to
his eloquence.
“Well may you weep, sweet one. He, man, robbed your mother of her
fleece to clothe his guilty limbs, stole her life and devoured her,
head and all. But why recall our wrongs? Is it not enough that he
deprived us of our birthright? The world was ours before his advent,
{8} and he brought with him misery, confusion, death!” The Tiger
concluded with an appeal to all beasts of prey to fight for liberty.
An old Race-horse, now a poor hack, begged permission to say a few
words.
“Noble beasts, I must confess myself more familiar with sporting
life than politics, or with the questions under discussion. I have,
in my day, lived in clover; latterly the neglect and brutality of my
human taskmasters have caused me much suffering. I am descended from
a noble stock, the bluest blood of the turf circulates in my veins;
but alas! I disappointed my first owners, and was soon sent adrift on
the world. I was yoked in the last Royal Mail on the road, and earned
my hay gallantly, until the accursed railways ruined my prospects.
I beg humbly to move the abolition of steam traffic, and that the
influential members of Congress should send me to grass, that I may
end my days in the green fields, enjoying some State sinecure. Depend
upon it, no one is more deserving of your sympathy and support than
the reduced member of a noble family.”
The President was so moved by this appeal, that he left the chair,
announcing an interval of ten minutes.
[Illustration: CLEARING THE BRAIN FOR ACTION.]
The tinkle of the bell summons the delegates to their places, which
they take with a promptitude that bears witness to their zeal. {9}
The Nightingale alights on the tribune, and in a gush of melody prays
for bluer heavens and serener nights. He is called to order, as,
notwithstanding the purity of his notes, he had proposed no tangible
measure of reform. The Ass takes exception to the songster’s low
notes, as wanting in asinine richness.
A modest Camel from Mecca proposes that men should be taught to use
their legs in place of the backs of higher animals. This proposal is
greeted with the applause of equine animals, including the President,
who, discovering that the claims of this distinguished foreigner had
been overlooked, inquires as to the future of Turkish finance.
The Camel replies with much good sense, “There is one God, and
Mahomet is his prophet!”
The Pig here gave it out as her opinion that trouble will never end
until men are compelled to abjure the faith of Mahomet, respect Pigs,
supply unlimited food and drink, and abolish sanitary law, so as to
give nature free scope to expand.
An old Boar—accused by his foes of wandering about
farmyards—complimented the Pig on her good taste, suggesting, at the
same time, that the absence of sanitary law might tend to poison
the political atmosphere. Mrs. Pig protested against insinuations
calculated to mix up piggeries with politics.
The Fox, who had been taking notes, ascended the tribune and
commenced—
“It is with great satisfaction that I rise to offer one or two
remarks on the able speeches of the honourable members of this
Congress. Before reviewing the various propositions, I take this
opportunity of saying, that never throughout my diplomatic career
have I witnessed harmony more perfect. Never has there been a more
profound display of unanimity of sentiment than in the wagging tails
of this wise assembly. The tail is the chief attribute coveted by
man. [‘Right you are,’ growled an old Sporting-dog]. That by the way;
to return to business, nothing could be nobler than the proposal of
the Lion to establish and defend our animal commonwealth in Africa.
It must not, however, be forgotten that that continent is distant,
and inaccessible to many useful members of the Congress, industrial
animals, who might succumb to savage warfare or malaria.
“The allusion of the Dog to the joys of city life is not without
interest; but he is the slave of man. Mark his collar, inscribed with
some barbarous name!” The subject of comment scratches his ear, and
{11} the Mocking-bird observes that his ears must have been cropped
to imitate man.
[Illustration]
“For an instant—carried away by the tide of his eloquence—I shared
the ardour of the Tiger, and almost lent my voice to the war-cry. War
is very good for those who escape; but it leaves in its train orphans
and widows to be provided for by the survivors. Therefore it is not
an unmixed good, more especially as right does not always triumph.
“The reasoning of the Pig is both good and bad, and like that of the
Boar, is more calculated to affect pork than progress.
“I take you all to witness that peace, war, and liberty are alike
impossible for all. We are all agreed that evil exists somewhere, and
that something must be done. [Loud cheers.] I have now the honour
to propose a new, untried remedy. [Great excitement.] The only
reasonable, lawful, and sacred course to follow is to struggle for
knowledge. Why not take a leaf from human experience, and employ the
Press to make known our wants, aspirations, customs, and usages, our
public and private life.
“Naturalists imagine they have done all when they have analysed our
blood, and endeavoured to find out the secret of our noble instinct
from our physical organisation.
“We alone can relate our griefs, our patience under suffering, and
our joys—joys so rare to creatures on which the hand of man has
pressed so heavily.” The speaker paused to conceal his emotion. He
continued: “Yes, we must publish our wrongs.
“A word to the ladies. The circle which they most adorn is that
of home, and to them must we look for information—jotted down in
leisure-hours—on domestic subjects. Let them eschew politics. A lady
politician is a creature to be avoided. I have further to crave
the indulgence of this noble assembly in submitting the following
articles—
“_Article 1st._—It is proposed to vote unlimited funds to carry out
the ‘Illustrated Public and Private History of Animals,’ the funds
to be invested in Turkish Securities and Peruvian Bonds.”
A Member of the Left proposes to take charge of the money-bag.
The Mole suggests that the funds should be sunk in certain dark
mining companies, of which he is an active director.
This proposal is negatived by the Codfish, who is of opinion that
{12} they would be safer at the bottom of the sea, as molehills have
hitherto proved unremunerative. A Hen came forward with her Chickens,
saying, as she had a number of little bills standing open, and which
must be honoured, she would take part of the coin as a temporary
loan, and do her best to lay golden eggs.
This suggestion was referred to a select committee, and here the
matter dropped.
“_Article 2d._—The Journal of the Animals must combat ignorance
and bad faith, the joint enemies of truth. The entire matter to be
edited by competent brutes, in order to disarm criticism.
“_Article 3d._—Men must be employed to perform the drudgery of
printing.
“_Article 4th._—The Fox must find an intelligent philanthropic
publisher.”
Here the Fox shook his head dolefully, and said he would try. “I
have,” he continued, “imposed on myself the severest task of all,
as the profits of publication must, for a long time, be absorbed in
corrections, discounts, and advertising.”
A vote of confidence passed in favour of the speaker’s integrity and
ability closed the proceedings. Before the Assembly broke up, it was
announced, amid loud applause, that the Ape, Parroquet, and Village
Cock would enter at once on their duties as Editors in Chief of the
“Public and Private Lives of Animals,” and that the work would open
with the “History of a Hare.”
[Illustration]
{13}
[Illustration]
HISTORY OF A HARE.
_WRITTEN FROM DICTATION BY THE MAGPIE._
CHAPTER I.
In which the Magpie begins.—Some preliminary reflections by the
Author of this history.—The Hare is made prisoner.—The Hare’s theory
of courage.
One day last week, as I stood on the branch of an old tree,
meditating on the closing lines of a poem I was about to dedicate to
my race, my attention was arrested by a Leveret running at full speed
across a field. He turned out to be a personal friend of my own,
great-grandson of the hero of this tale.
“Mr. Magpie,” he cried, quite out of breath, “grandfather lies yonder
in a corner of the wood. He sent me to call you.”
“Good child,” I said, while I patted his cheek with my wing, “go your
grandfather’s errands, but do not run so fast, else you will come to
an untimely end.”
“Ah!” he replied, sadly, “love feels no fatigue. But come to one who
needs your counsel. My grandfather is ill, bitten by the keeper’s
dog.”
Repairing at once to the scene of the disaster, I found my old
friend suffering intense pain from a wound in his right foot, which
he carried slung in a willow-band. His head was also bandaged with
soothing leaves brought by a neighbourly Deer.
Blood still flowed, affording fresh testimony of man’s tyranny.
“My dear Magpie,” said the venerable sufferer, whose face, although
grave even to sadness, had lost nothing of its original simplicity,
“our lot in this world is, at best, an unhappy one.”
“Alas!” I replied, “we encounter fresh tokens of our misery every
day.” {14}
“I know,” he continued, “that one ought always to be on one’s guard,
and that the Hare is never certain to die peacefully in his form.
The campaign begins badly. Here am I, perhaps blind of an eye, and
certainly lamed so that a Spaniel might easily outrun me. Worse than
all, I am told the shooting begins in a fortnight. I must therefore
put my affairs in order, and leave the history of a short, but not
uneventful life, to posterity to profit by. When mingling in the
society of the world, one is constrained to observe a polite and
prudent silence, and to disguise one’s true sentiments. But in
prospect of death, brought face to face with the last enemy, one can
never hope to win his clemency by polished lying and hypocrisy. My
tale will therefore be unreserved and true. Besides, in bequeathing a
valuable history to posterity there is a satisfaction in feeling that
one’s influence will live, and prove a real power in the world long
after the author’s death.”
I had the greatest difficulty in making him understand that I was
quite of his opinion, for during his imprisonment he had become
very deaf, and what rendered it still more disagreeable was that he
obstinately denied being so. How many times have I not cursed the
unnatural life which bereft him of hearing! I said in a loud tone,
“It is a noble ambition to live one’s life over again in one’s works,
and the history you are about to give to the world should enable you
to face death calmly, as immortal fame may take the place of life.
In any case, the book ought to see the light; it can do no harm.”
He then told me that his troubles had been great. The wound in his
right foot had prevented his using the pen. He tried to dictate to
his grandchildren, but they, poor little ones, had only learned how
to eat and sleep. It had occurred to him to teach his eldest child
to commit the story to memory, and thus hand it down from father to
son. “But,” he added, “oral traditions are never trustworthy; and as
I have no desire to become a myth like the Great Buddha, or Saint
Simon, I beg you will act as my amanuensis. My history would then,
sir, reflect the lustre of your genius.”
Wishing to invest this, the most important and perhaps the last act
of his life, with due solemnity, he retired for a few seconds. Being
a learned Hare, he thought it necessary to commence with a quotation.
“Approchez, mes enfants, enfin l’heure est venue
Qu’il faut que mon secret éclate à votre vue.”
{15}
These two lines by Racine were splendidly rendered by the erudite
speaker.
[Illustration]
The eldest grandchild left his accustomed sport, and respectfully
seated himself on his grandfather’s knee. The second, who was
passionately fond of stories, pricked up his ears, while the youngest
sat up, prepared to divide his attention between the narrative and a
cabbage-leaf he was eating. The old Hare, seeing that I was waiting,
began thus—
“My secret, my dear children, is my history. May it serve you as
a lesson, for Wisdom does not come to us; we must travel by long
and tortuous ways to meet her. I am ten years old—so old, indeed,
that never before, in the memory of Hares, has so long a term of
life been granted to a poor animal. I was born in France, of French
parents, {16} in May 1830; there, behind that oak, the finest tree
in the beautiful forest of Rambouillet, on a bed of moss which my
good mother had lined with her softest fur. I can still recall those
beautiful nights of my infancy when simply to live was to be happy,
the moonlight seemed so pure, the grass so tender, and the wild thyme
and clover so fragrant. Life was to be clouded, but not without its
gleams of sunshine. I was gay then, giddy and idle as you are. I had
your age, your thoughtlessness, and the use of my four feet. I knew
nothing of life; I was happy, yes, happy! in ignorance of the cruel
fate that may at any moment overtake us. It was not long before I
became aware that the days, as they followed each other, were only
alike in duration; some brought with them burdens of sorrow that
seemed to blot out the joy from life.
“One day, after scampering over these fields, and through the woods,
I returned to sleep by my mother’s side (as a child ought to do). At
daybreak I was rudely awakened by two claps of thunder, followed by
the most horrible clamour. . . . My mother, at two paces from me, lay
dying, assassinated! . . . ‘Run away,’ she cried, and expired. Her
last breath was for me! One second had taught me what a gun was in
the cruel hands of man. Ah, my children! were there no men on earth,
it would be the Hares’ paradise. It is so full of riches. Its brooks
are so pure, its herbs so sweet, and its mossy nooks so lovely. Who,
I ask you, could be happier than a Hare, if the good God had not, for
His own wise ends, permitted man to oppress us? But alas! every medal
has a reverse face; evil is always side by side with good, and man by
the side of the brute. Would you believe it, my dear Magpie—I have it
on the best authority—that man was originally a godlike animal?”
“So it is said,” I replied, “and he has himself to thank for his
present condition.”
“Tell me, grandfather,” said the youngest; “in the field yonder were
two little Hares with their sister, and a large bird that wanted to
prevent them passing. Was that a man?”
“Be quiet,” said her brother; “since it was a bird, how could it be a
man? If you want grandfather to hear, you must scream, and that will
frighten the neighbours.”
“Silence!” cried the old Hare, who perceived they were not listening.
He then inquired, “Where was I?”
“Your mother had just died, and you had fled.” {17}
[Illustration]
“Yes, to be sure. My poor mother, she was right; her death was only
a prelude to my own suffering. It was a royal hunt that day, and a
horrible carnage took place. The ground was strewn with the slain;
blood everywhere, on the grass and underwood; branches, broken by
bullets, lay scattered about; and the flowers were trodden under
foot. {18} Five hundred victims fell on that dreadful day. One
cannot understand why men should call this sport, and enjoy it as a
pastime.
“My mother’s death was well and speedily avenged. It was a royal
hunt, but it was the last; he who held the gun, I am told, passed
once more through Rambouillet, but not as a sportsman.
“I followed my mother’s advice, and, for a hare only eighteen days
old, ran bravely; yes, bravely! If ever, my children, you are in
danger, fear nothing, flee from it. It is no disgrace to retreat
before superior force. Nothing annoys me more than to hear men talk
of our timidity and cowardice. They ought rather to admire and
imitate the tact which prompts us to use our legs, being ignorant of
the use of arms. Our weakness makes the strength of boastful men and
brutes.
“I ran until I fell quite exhausted, and became insensible. When I
recovered consciousness, judge of my terror! I found myself no longer
in the green fields, but shut up in a narrow prison, a closed basket.
My luck had deserted me, and yet it was something to know I was
still living, as it is said death is the worst of all evils, being
the last. But men rarely release their prisoners. My mind therefore
became a prey to bitter forebodings, as I had no notion of what might
become of me. I was shaken by rough jolts, when one, more severe than
the others, half-opened my prison door, and enabled me to see that
the man on whose arm it was suspended was not walking, yet a rapid
motion carried us along. You, who as yet have seen nothing, will find
it hard to believe that my captor was mounted on a horse. It was man
above, and horse beneath. I could never make out why such a strong,
noble creature should, like a dog, consent to become the slave of
man—to carry him to and fro, and be whipped, spurred, and abused by
him. If, like the Buddhists, we were to believe in transmigration
after death, it would all come right at last, and we some day, as
men, would have our time of torturing animals. But the doctrine, my
children, is more than doubtful. I, for one, have no faith in it.
“My captor was a magnificent creature—the king’s footman.”
{19}
CHAPTER II.
The Revolution of July, and its fatal consequences.—Utility of the
Fine Arts.
After a brief but impressive pause, a shadow seeming to settle on his
fine features, my old friend resumed the thread of his narrative.
“I offered no resistance. It was my fate, and I accepted it calmly.
Among men, every one is more or less the servant of another, the
only difference being in the kind of services rendered. Once within
the pale of civilisation, I was forced to accept its degrading
obligations. The king’s lackey was my master.
“As good luck would have it, his little girl, who had taken me for a
cat, became my friend. It was soon settled that I was to be killed.
My mistress pleaded for my youth and beauty, and the pleasure which
my society afforded her. Her chief delight was in pulling my ears, a
familiarity which I never resented. My patience won her heart, and I
felt grateful to her for her kindness to me.
“Women, my children, are infinitely superior to men; they never go
hunting hares, men are their game!
“I would have suffered patiently, had I seen the faintest prospect of
escape; but I dreaded the pitiless bayonet of the guard at the gate
of the Louvre.
“In a small room in Paris, beneath the shade of the Tuileries, I
often watered my bread with my tears. This bread of slavery seemed,
oh! so bitter, and so difficult to get over, for my heart was full of
the green fields and sweet herbs of freedom. No abode on earth can be
more dreary than a palace when one is compelled to remain within its
gilded walls. The gold and glitter soon grow dim when compared with
the blue sky and free earth, the delight of God’s creatures.
“I tried to while away the time by gazing out of the window, but this
only rendered my bondage all the more galling. I began to hate the
monotony of my new life. What would I not have given for one hour’s
liberty, and a bit of thyme. Often was I tempted to throw myself from
the window of my prison, to take one desperate leap, and live or die
for freedom. Believe me, my children, happiness seldom dwells within
palace walls. {20}
“My master, in his position as royal footman, had little to occupy
his leisure; his chief duties consisted in posturing, and wearing
a suit of gaudy clothes. From his lofty point of view my education
seemed extremely defective; he therefore set himself the task of
improving me, that is, rendering me more like himself. I was obliged
to learn a number of exercises by a process of torture as ingenious
as it was devilish, the lessons becoming more and more degrading.
O misery! I was soon able to do the dead hare and the living hare,
at the slightest sign from my master, as if I were a mere dog. My
tyrant, encouraged by the success I owed to the rigour of his method,
added to this series of lessons what he termed an accomplishment: he
taught me the art of fiendish music. In spite of the terror I felt at
the noise, I was soon able to perform a passable roll on the drum.
This new talent had to be displayed every time any member of the
royal family left the palace.
“One day, it was Tuesday, July 27, 1830 (I shall never forget that
date) the sun was shining gloriously. I had just finished beating
the roll for Monsieur the Duke of Angoulême. My nerves were always
irritated by contact with the donkey’s skin of the drum. All at once
I heard guns going off. They seemed to be approaching the Tuileries
from the side of the Palais Royal.
“Dear me! I thought, some unfortunate hares have had the imprudence
to show themselves in the streets of Paris, where there are so many
dogs and guns and sportsmen. But then I reflected that most of the
latter were picturesque, not real sportsmen, who had never shot a
hare. The dreadful recollection of the hunt at Rambouillet froze me
with fright. What could hares possibly have done to man to bring down
such vengeance upon them? I instinctively turned to my mistress to
implore her protection, when I beheld her face filled with terror
greater than my own. I was about to thank her for the pity she felt
for me, when I perceived that her fear was only personal, that she
was thinking very little indeed about me, and very much about herself.
“These gun-shots, each detonation of which congealed the blood in my
veins, were fired by men on their fellows. I rubbed my eyes, I bit my
feet till they bled, to assure myself I was not dreaming. I can only
say, like Orgon—
“ ‘ —— De mes propres yeux vu
Le qu’on appelle vu.’
{21}
“The need that men have for sport is so pressing, that in the absence
of other game they take to shooting each other.”
“It is dreadful to think of the depravity of human nature,” the
Magpie replied. “I am positively obliged to hide myself towards
evening, to escape the last shot of some passing sportsman, whose
only reason for not firing at a magpie would be to save his
gunpowder. In all probability, the wretch who might bring me down
would not think even me good enough to eat.”
“What is still more singular,” said my friend, “is that men glory in
this butchery, and a great ‘bag,’ filled with victims, is considered
something to be proud of. I shall not weary you with the full history
of the Revolution of July, although many details remain unrecorded.
A Hare, although a lover of freedom, would hardly be accepted as an
historian.”
“What is a revolution of July?” inquired the little Hare, who, like
all children, only listened now and then when any word struck him.
“Will you be quiet?” said his brother; “grandfather has just told us
that it is a time when every one is frightened.”
“I shall content myself by telling you that the struggle continued
three whole days. My ears were torn with the mingled noise of drums,
cannon, the whistle of the bullets, and the sound of fierce strife,
that filled Paris like the breaking of angry waves on a rocky shore.
“While the people fought and barricaded the streets, the Court was
at St. Cloud. As for ourselves, we passed a fearful night at the
Tuileries. Our terror seemed to prolong the darkness. When the dawn
came at last, the firing was renewed, and I heard that the Hôtel
de Ville had been taken and retaken. I no doubt would have felt
grieved at all this had I been able to go away like the Court, but
that was not to be thought of. On the morning of the 29th a dreadful
tumult was heard under the windows, followed by the booming of
cannon, and dull crash of iron balls. ‘It is finished, the Louvre is
taken,’ cried my master; and clasping the little girl in his arms,
he disappeared. It was then eleven o’clock. When they had gone, I
realised that I was alone and helpless, but then it occurred to me,
there being no one here, I have no enemies, and my courage rose with
the reflection. The men outside might kill each other, and thus
expend their ammunition as fast as they chose—so much the worse for
men, and the better for Hares. {22}
[Illustration]
“I was hidden beneath the bed, for the room was invaded by soldiers,
who cried in a strange tongue, ‘Long live the King.’ ‘Cry away,’ I
said, ‘it is easy to see that you are not Hares, and that the king
has not been making game of you.’ Soon the ‘redcoats’ disappeared,
{23} and a poor man—a scholar, I believe—came and sought shelter in
my room. He had no taste for war; he therefore deposited himself in
a cupboard, where he was soon discovered by a crowd of bloodstained
ruffians, who searched everywhere, crying ‘Liberty! long live
Liberty!’ as if they had hoped to find it in some odd corner of
the Tuileries. After fixing a flag out of the window, they sung a
striking song, commencing—
“ ‘Come children of the country,
The day of glory has arrived!’
Some of them were black with powder, and must have fought as hard
as if they had been paid for it. I thought that these poor begrimed
creatures, as they kept continually shouting ‘Liberty!’ must have
been imprisoned in baskets, or shut up in small rooms, and were
rejoicing in their freedom. I felt carried away by their enthusiasm,
and had advanced three steps to join in the cry of ‘Liberty!’ when my
conscience arrested me with the question, ‘Why should I?’
“During these three days—would you believe it, my dear magpie?—twelve
hundred men were killed and buried.”
“Bah!” I said, “the dead are buried, but not their ideas!”
“Hum!” he replied.
“Next day my master came back: he had not shown himself for
twenty-four hours. He was changed—he had ‘turned his coat,’ an
operation which cost him a pang, as he had made a good thing out of
the king’s livery. Men turn their coats as easily as the wind turns
the weathercock on yonder spire. It is a mean artifice, to which we
could not descend without spoiling our fair proportions.
“I learned from my master’s wife that there was now no king. Charles
X. had gone never to return, and the worst of all was, that they
themselves were ruined. You observe, the downfall of the king was
viewed selfishly, not as a national calamity, but simply as an event
which blighted their own fortunes. That is the way of men. Secretly
I rejoiced at the disaster, as it rendered my emancipation possible.
Alas! my dear little Hares, Hares propose, and man disposes. Have no
faith in the liberty born of the blood and agony of revolution. The
change wrought by strife only embittered my lot. My master, who had
never been taught any useful occupation, was reduced to living on
his wits, which served him so badly, as to leave him often without
bread. He was brought to such straits as we Hares are when the snow
lies heavy on the ground. I have seen his poor {24} child weeping for
the food that men often find so difficult to procure. Be thankful, my
children, that you are not men; and that you can feed on the simple
herbs as nature has provided them. Although suffering from hunger, I
felt many a bitter pang for my little mistress. If the rich only knew
the appetite of the poor, they would be afraid of being devoured. I
more times than once saw my master eye me with ferocity. A famished
man has no pity; I believe he would almost eat his own children. You
will readily understand, therefore, that my life was in the greatest
danger. May you ever be kept from the peril of becoming a stew.”
“What is a stew?” inquired the little Hare in a loud voice.
“A stew is a Hare cut up and cooked in a pan. A great man once said
that our flesh is delicious, and our blood the sweetest of all
animals; but he adds that we seem to be aware of our danger, as we
sleep with our eyes open.” At this reply the audience became so
quiet, that one might have heard the grass growing.
“Nothing can ever make me believe,” cried the old Hare, much moved
by the recollection of that incident in his life, “that Hares were
created to be cooked, and that man cannot employ himself better than
by eating animals in many respects superior to him. I owe my life to
the misery that reduced me to skin and bone, and to the timely word
of my mistress who pleaded for my life, that I might still display
my accomplishments. ‘Ah!’ said my master, striking his forehead and
looking dramatic, as Frenchmen always do in joy or sorrow, ‘I have an
idea’—that was for him a sort of miracle. From that day I became a
public character, and the saviour of the family.”
[Illustration]
{25}
CHAPTER III.
Public and political life.—His master becomes his charge.—Glory
nothing but a wreath of smoke.
“I soon discovered my destiny. It was not the Tuileries! My master
had made a little house of four boards, which he set up in the Champs
Elysées, and there, beneath the blue sky, I, a denizen of the forest
of Rambouillet, was exhibited in public at the cost of my proper
pride, natural modesty, and health. I well remember my master’s words
just before I made my _début_.
“ ‘Bless Heaven!’ he said, ‘that after profiting by your more than
ordinary education, you have fallen into the hands of such a master.
I have trained you and fed you for nothing. The moment has now
arrived for you to prove to the world your noble sense of gratitude.
When I caught you, you were rustic and uninstructed. The airs and
graces which you have acquired were taught you for your amusement.
Now they will enable us to enter upon a glorious and lucrative
career. It has always been understood that men, sooner or later, reap
the fruits of their disinterestedness. Remember that from this day
our interests become one. You are about to appear before a people,
the most polished, proud, and difficult to please, and all that is
required of you is to please everybody. Be careful never to mention
King Charles, and all will go well, as crime and injustice have
been abolished. Do your part, and I will relieve you of the task
of receiving the money. We shall never make millions; but the poor
manage to live upon less.’
“ ‘Ah me!’ I said to myself, ‘what a modest speech! My master is a
bold tyrant; to hear him, one would think that I had voluntarily
relinquished my liberty, and besought him to snatch me away from all
that was dear to me in life.’ For all that, my _début_ was a most
brilliant affair; I became the rage of Paris. During three years I
beat the roll-call for the Ecole Polytechnique, Louis Phillipe, La
Fayette, Lafitte, for nineteen ministers, and for Napoleon the Great.
I learned—go on writing, my dear Magpie—to fire cannon.
“For a long time, by great good luck, I never mistook one name for
another, and never once abused the trust of those depending on me. My
master praised my probity, and declared me incorruptible. {26}
[Illustration]
“During my public career I paid some attention to politics. In the
Oriental question I felt deeply interested. It was at last settled
by diplomatic subtlety, to the satisfaction of the Hares of all
nations. In the East the Hare has been an object of great political
importance. It {27} may be as well here to record my conviction that
there is no reason to dread the immediate development of the power
of the Ottoman Empire, or to give credence to the report that a cure
has been discovered for the moral and physical obliquity of Mongolian
eyes.
“To continue my narrative. Once, at the close of a long fatiguing
day, I had just finished the fiftieth representation, and obtained
numerous cheers and coppers. The two candles were nearly burned
out, when my master insisted on my firing a number of guns. I felt
fagged and stupid. At the words, ‘A salute for Wellington,’ I ought
to have refused to fire; but bang went the gun. I was accused of
treachery by the crowd, who hurled my master, show and all, into
the middle of the road. As for myself, I fell pell-mell with money,
candles, and theatre. St. Augustine and Mirabeau were right when they
said, each in his own way, ‘That glory is nothing but a wreath of
smoke,’ or like a candle that may be extinguished by the slightest
breath of adversity. Happily, fear gave me courage. Amid the tumult
I sought safety in flight. Hardly fifty feet from the scene of my
fame, I still heard the clamour of the angry crowd. About to cross
the road at a single bound, I was caught between the legs of some
one, who, like myself, seemed to be fleeing from the fray. My speed
was so rapid, and the shock so violent, that I rolled into the
ditch, carrying the owner of the legs with me. My doom was sealed, I
thought. Men are far too proud not to resent being brought low by a
poor Hare. My life will be sacrificed!”
CHAPTER IV.
“Birds of a feather flock together.”—Our hero secures the friendship
of a subaltern Government Clerk.—An unfortunate death.—Good-bye to
Paris.
“I could hardly believe my eyes—this man, of whom I was in the
greatest dread, was himself as frightened as if the devil had got
between his legs. Good, I said, my lucky star has not left me. This
old gentleman seems to have adopted my theory of courage. Both being
naturally timid, we will constantly agree. ‘Sir,’ I {28} whispered,
in my softest and most reassuring tones, ‘I am unused to addressing
your fellow-men, but I make bold to speak to you, as, if we are not
blood relations, we are at least brothers by sentiment. You are
afraid, you cannot deny it! and your emotion renders you all the more
worthy in my eyes.’
“At that moment a carriage passed, and by its light I perceived that
the stranger I had brought down was the wise man who hid himself
in the cupboard in the Tuileries, and who had been one of the most
attentive of my audience. He had a man’s body, it is true, but from
his honesty, and the gentle expression of his face, I felt certain
that his ancestors had belonged to our race. His joy was great when,
regaining his habitual calm, he recognised in me his favourite
actor. ‘The fear,’ he said, ‘that seized upon me is infinitely worse
than its cause.’ These words seemed to me to sound the very depths
of profundity. I felt, for the first time, a true attachment, and
permitted my new friend to carry me away. I soon discovered that he
was extremely humble and poor, being employed as a sub-Government
clerk. He was bent less by age than by his constant habit of saluting
every one, by his care to keep his head lower than his superiors, and
by his duty, which consisted in doing the work of those above him,
as well as his own. Next to his son, who bore a close resemblance to
him, he loved what he called his garden, a small box of earth at the
window, and a few flowers, which opened with the sun. They were the
little censers of his worship, whose fragrance ascended to heaven
with his morning prayers.”
“ ‘My dear sir,’ said one of our neighbours, an actor more successful
in life than my master, ‘you are far too modest; you do not make
enough of yourself. I was once modest like you, but I cured myself
of that grave defect. Do as I did—compel the world to accept you at
your own value. Speak louder; bluster about; give yourself full voice
and swagger. It is wonderful how it tells, although the voice owes
its depth to the emptiness within, and the swagger to the fact that
without it your natural endowments would never lift you from the
gutter.’
“The world is always liberal with advice to the poor; but my master
preferred his humble position to all the riches and fame that might
be acquired by becoming an impostor, whose energies would always be
strained to enable him to crow lustily from his own dunghill.
“Our life was a very regular one. The father left early for his {29}
office, and his son for school. I was left alone in charge of our
room, and should have felt dull had not the quiet and rest their
peculiar charm after the fatigues of my life in the Champs Élysées.
After the day’s work we were all united at our evening meal, a most
frugal one. I was, indeed, often afraid of being hungry. They would
have shared their last crust with me. It is always so with the poor.
I felt nearer God in this little room than I had done since I left
the green fields; I noticed so many acts of self-denying love.
“One day my master came home very much agitated, and burying his
head in his hands, exclaimed, ‘My God! they talk of another change
of Ministry; if I lose my place, what will become of us? We have no
money!’ ‘My poor father,’ said the son, ‘I will work for you. I am
big, and can make money.’ ‘No, my boy, you are still young, and know
nothing of the world.’ ‘But, father,’ he continued, ‘why not go to
the king, and ask him for money?’ My master said, ‘They are only
beggars who live upon their miseries; and besides, the king has his
own poor relations to provide for.’
“Since the rich have always their poor relations, why have not the
poor their rich ones?”
“Tell me,” said the little Hare, who had slipped behind her
grandfather, so as to shout into his ear; “You talk of king and
ministers—who are they?”
“Be quiet,” replied the old Hare, “it cannot be of any consequence
to you who or what the king is. It is not yet certain whether he is
a person or a thing. As to the ministers, they are the gentlemen who
cause others to lose their places, until they have lost their own.”
“Ah me!” said the little one, much satisfied with his explanation;
“never let it be said that it is useless to speak seriously to
children.”
“The fatal day came at last. My master lost his place by a change of
Ministry, and soon after died of a broken heart. His poor son was not
long in following him to the grave. I was left alone in the empty
room, as everything was taken and sold to meet the funeral expenses.
I should myself have been sacrificed had I not escaped after
nightfall, and sped through the streets of Paris, scarcely halting
to take breath until beyond the Arc de l’Étoile. There I paused for
a moment, casting a look of compassion on the great city wrapped in
slumber beneath a dark cloud, that shut out heaven from its view.”
{30}
CHAPTER V.
Return to the fields.—The worthlessness of men and other animals.—A
Cock, accustomed to the ring, provokes our hero.—Duel with pistols.
“I soon reached a wood, and felt my chest expand with the pure air.
It was so long since I beheld the full extent of the sky, that I
seemed to look upon it for the first time. The moonlight was bright,
and the night-breeze laden with a banquet of fresh odours that it had
caught up about the fields and hedgerows. Endowed by nature with an
acute sense of smell, nothing could be more delicious to a weary Hare
than the fresh fragrance of grass and thyme. Each breath I inhaled
filled me with the fond memories of my childhood, which passed into
my dreams as I slept in the open air. Early next morning I was roused
by the clang of steel. Two gentlemen were fighting with swords, and
appeared to me determined to kill each other; however, when they
were tired of fencing, they walked off quietly arm-in-arm. Other
combatants followed, but not one fell, and no blood was spilt in
these affairs of honour, after nights of gambling and debauchery.
“Journeying onward until within sight of a village, I fell in with
a Cock. As I had been cooped up in a town, and seen nothing but men
and women for so long, this bird interested me greatly. He was a fine
fellow, high on his legs, and carried his head as if he could not
bend his neck. He had quite a martial bearing, reminding one of a
French soldier.
“ ‘By my comb!’ he exclaimed, ‘I hope you will know me again. I never
came across a Hare with such a stock of assurance.’
“ ‘What!’ I replied, ‘may I not admire your fine proportions. I have
been so long in Paris, I have quite forgotten the grandeur of nature.’
“Would you believe it? Although my answer was so soft and simple, yet
the fellow was offended, crowed like to split my ears, and cried,
‘I am the Cock of the village, and it shall never be said that a
miserable Hare can insult me with impunity.’
“ ‘You astonish me,’ I continued, ‘I never intended to insult you.’
“ ‘I have nothing to do with your intentions. Every insult ought to
be wiped out with blood. I am rather badly off for a fight, and I
shall {31} have much pleasure in giving you a lesson in good manners.
Choose your arms.’
“ ‘I would rather die than fight. Let me pass—I am going to
Rambouillet to rejoin some old friends.’
“ ‘Fight you must, else I will put a ball through you. Here are an Ox
and a Dog, who will serve as seconds. Follow me, and do not attempt
to escape.’
“What could I do? flight was impossible—I obeyed. Then addressing the
seconds, I said, ‘Sirs, this Cock is a professed duellist. Will you
stand by and see me assassinated? I have never fought, and my blood
will be on your heads.’
“ ‘Bah!’ said the Dog, ‘that is a trifle. Everything must have a
beginning. Your simple candour interests me. I will stand by you.
Now that I am certain of you, it concerns my honour that you should
fight.’
“ ‘You are extremely polite, and I am touched with your goodness;
but I would rather deny myself the pleasure of having you witness my
death.’
“ ‘Hear him, my dear Ox,’ cried my adversary. ‘In what times do we
live? Has it positively come to this, that cowardice, impudence, and
low-bred nature are to triumph over all that is chivalrous and noble
in the world?’
“The pitiless Ox bellowed with rage. The Dog, taking me aside, said
in a soothing tone, ‘It makes little odds in the end how one dies;
and between us two, I don’t half like this Cock. Believe me, I
heartily wish you success. Were I a sporting Dog, you might doubt my
sincerity, but I have settled down to a country life, that would be
quiet were it not for the early crowing of your foe, who permits no
one in the village to sleep after daybreak.’
“ ‘I shall never be able to get through it,’ I replied, half dead.
“ ‘You have the choice of weapons. Choose pistols, and I will load
them.’
“ ‘In the name of all that is canine and good,’ I said, ‘try and
arrange this affair.’
“ ‘Come, make haste,’ cried the Cock. ‘Enter this copse! One of us
will never leave it!’ he added.
“At these words I felt a cold chill run through me. As a last
resource, I reminded the Ox and Dog of the law against duelling.
“ ‘Those laws are made by cowards,’ they replied. {32}
“I endeavoured to work upon the tenderest feelings of my adversary’s
nature by inquiring what would become of his poor hens should he
fall. All was in vain. Twenty-five paces were marked off; the pistols
were loaded, and we took our places.
[Illustration]
“ ‘Are you used to this arm?’ said the Dog.
“ ‘Alas! yes; but I have neither aimed at nor wounded any one.’ As
good luck would have it, I had to fire first. {33}
“ ‘Take good aim,’ said the Dog, ‘I detest this fellow.’
“ ‘Why on earth, then, don’t you take my place? Are you still at
enmity with me,’ I said to my foe. ‘Let us kiss and forget all.’
“ ‘Fire!’ he replied, cursing fearfully.
“This roused me. The Ox retired and gave the signal; I pressed the
trigger, and we both fell—I, from emotion, and the Cock from the ball
that pierced his heart.”
“ ‘Hurrah!’ cried the Dog.
“ ‘Silence, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘this is no time for rejoicing.’ But
he was a jolly dog, and light-hearted.
“ ‘Bravo!’ said the Ox, ‘you have rendered a public service. I
shall be glad if you will dine with me this evening. The grass is
particularly tender in this neighbourhood.’
“I declined the invitation and said, ‘May the blood of this miserable
bully be upon your heads. Gentlemen, good morning.’
“My journey to Rambouillet was, as you may be certain, a sad one. It
was long before the dread image of my dead enemy vanished from my
eyes. The freshness and beauty of nature at last acted as a balm to
my spirits; and ere I reached the forest, with all its souvenirs of
my youth, my troubles were forgotten. Some months after my return, I
had the pleasure of becoming a father, and soon after a grandfather.
You know the rest, my dear children, so now you are at liberty.” At
these words his audience awoke.
“Since my return, my dear Magpie, I have had leisure for reflection,
and have come to the conclusion that true happiness is not to be
found in this world. If it does exist at all, it is most difficult
to attain, and the most fleeting possession of our animal nature.
Philosophic men without number have wasted their lives in vainly
attempting to discover some clue to the mystery, and all to no
purpose. Some of them would fain have us believe that they had nearly
created a heaven for themselves where self-love had only set up its
own image as its god. Other men demand happiness of heaven as if it
were a debt owed them by its Divine Ruler, and probably the wisest
section settle down to enjoy the pleasures which life undoubtedly
affords, and to make the best of ‘the ills that flesh is heir to.’
“I believe, on the whole, that our lives, although they have their
disadvantages, are pleasanter than the lives of men, for this reason.
The present is to us everything. We live for to-day. Men live for
to-morrow. The to-morrow that is to be brimful of joy. Alas! thus
{34} human hope is carried on through all the days of life; but the
joy is never realised, and the hope goes with men beyond the grave.”
[Illustration]
{35}
THE FLIGHT OF A PARISIAN BIRD
_IN SEARCH OF BETTER GOVERNMENT._
[Illustration]
Parisian Sparrows have long been recognised as the boldest of the
feathered tribe. Thoroughly French, they have their follies, and
their virtues to atone for them; but above all, they have been for
many generations objects of envy to the birds of foreign climes. This
latter reflection is sufficient to account for all the calumnies
heaped upon them by their enemies. They who dwell amid the splendour
of the capital, are a happy tribe. As for myself I am one of the
number of distinguished metropolitan birds. Of a naturally gay
disposition, an unusually liberal education has lent gravity to my
appearance. I have been fed on crumbs of philosophy; having built my
nest in the spout of an illustrious writer’s dwelling. Thence I fly
to the windows of the Tuileries, and compare the anxieties of the
palace and the fading grandeur of kings, with the immortal roses,
budding in the simple abode of my master, which will one day wreathe
his brow with an undying glory.
By picking up the crumbs that have fallen from this great man’s
table, I myself have become illustrious among the birds of my
feather, who, after mature deliberation, have appointed me to select
the form of government calculated to promote the welfare of sparrows.
The task implied is a difficult one, as my constituents never remain
long on one perch, chattering incessantly when their liberty is
threatened, and fighting among themselves almost without cause. {36}
The birds of Paris, ever on the wing, have many of them settled down
to thinking, and are now giving their attention to such subjects as
religion, morality, and philosophy.
Before residing in the spout—in the Rue de Rivoli—I made my escape
from a cage in which I had been imprisoned for two years. Every time
I felt thirsty, I had to draw water to amuse my master, one of those
bearded animals who would have us believe they are the lords of
creation. As soon as I regained my liberty, I related my sad story to
some friends in the Faubourg St. Antoine, who treated me with great
kindness. It was then, for the first time, I observed the habits of
the bird-world, and discovered that the joy of life does not consist
in simply eating and drinking. I was led to believe that even the
life of the sparrow has higher ends, and to form convictions which
have added greatly to my fame.
Many a time have I sat on the head of one of the statues of the
Palais Royal, where I might be seen with my plumes ruffled, my
head between my shoulders, and, with one eye closed on the world,
reflecting on our rights, our duties, and our future. Grave questions
forced themselves upon me. Where do sparrows come from? Where do
they go to? Why can’t they weep? Why don’t they form themselves into
societies like crows? Why don’t French sparrows settle everything by
arbitration, since they enjoy such a sublime language?
Great changes were taking place around; houses were supplanting
gardens, and depriving birds of the insects and grubs found in the
shrubs and soil. The result, as might have been expected, was to draw
the line still more markedly between the rich and poor, and to set
up “caste” as it exists among certain types of the human race. The
sparrows in the densely-populated quarters were reduced to living on
offal, while the aristocracy fed daintily, and perched as near heaven
as the trees of the Champs d’Elysées would allow them.
This defective constitution could not last long; one half of the
feathered tribe chirping joyously in the fulness of their stomachs,
surrounded by superb families, and the other half brawling and
clamouring for filthy refuse. The latter, driven to desperation,
determined indeed to use, if need be, their horny beaks to improve
their social condition.
With this laudable object in view, a deputation waited on a bird who
had lived in the Faubourg St. Antoine, and assisted at the taking
of the Bastille. This bird was appointed to the command of the {37}
sufferers, who organised themselves into a body, each one feeling
the necessity of implicit obedience.
Judge of the surprise of the Parisians who beheld thousands of small
birds ranged on the roofs of the houses in the Rue de Rivoli; the
right wing towards the Hôtel de Ville, the left on the Madeleine,
and the centre on the Tuileries. The aristocratic birds, seized with
panic-fear at sight of this demonstration, and dreading the loss of
their power and position, despatched a fledgling of their number to
address the rioters in these words:—“Is it not well that we should
reason together and not fight?”
The rioters turned their eyes upon me. Ah! that was one of the
proudest moments of my life: I was elected by my fellow-citizens to
draw up a charter to conciliate all, and settle differences among
the most renowned sparrows in the world, sparrows who for a moment
were divided on the question “how to live,” the eternal backbone of
political discussions.
Those birds in possession of the enchanting abodes of the capital,
had they any absolute right to their property? Why and how had caste
become established? Could it last? Were perfect equality established
among Parisian sparrows, what form would the new government assume?
Such were the questions asked by both parties. “But,” said the
hedge-Sparrows, “the earth and all its riches should be equally
divided.” “That is an error,” said the privileged ones; “we live
in a city, and are subject to the restraints, as well as to the
refinement, of society; whereas you in your condition enjoy greater
freedom, and ought to content yourselves with the hedgerows and
fields, and all that satisfies untutored nature.”
Thereupon a general twittering threatened to lead to hostilities, but
the popular tumult with sparrows, as with man, is the labour-pangs
of national deliverance, and brings forth good. A proposition was
carried, to send an intelligent bird to examine the different forms
of government. I had the honour of being selected for the post, and
at once started on my mission. What would one not sacrifice for his
country? To tell the truth, the position was one which conferred both
dignity and emolument. Let me now lay the report of my travels as an
humble offering on the altar of my country.
{38}
THE ANTS’ FORM OF GOVERNMENT.
After traversing the sea, not without difficulty and danger, and
experiencing many of those adventures which take the place of genuine
information in modern books of travel, I arrived at an island called
Old Frivolity. Why it should be termed old I could never make out, as
it is said that the world was created all at once. A Carrion-Crow,
whom I met, pointed out the government of the ants as a suitable
model, so you may understand how eager I was to study their system,
and discover their secrets. On my way I fell in with scores of ants
travelling for pleasure. They were all of them black and glossy, as
if newly varnished, but utterly devoid of individuality, being all
alike. After, indeed, one has seen a single ant, one knows all the
others. They travel coated with a liquid which keeps them clean.
Should one meet an ant in his mountains, on the water, or in his
city-dwelling, his get-up is irreproachable. Care is even bestowed
on the cleanliness of his feet and mandibles. This affectation of
outward purity lowered them in my estimation. I inquired of the first
ant I met, “What would happen to you were you for an instant to
forget your careful habits?” He made no answer; I discovered, indeed,
that they never exchange a word with any one to whom they have not
been formally introduced. I fell in with an intelligent Coralline of
the Polynesian Ocean, who informed me that she had been arrested by
the fishes when engaged in raising the coral-foundation on which a
new continent was to repose. She mentioned a curious fact relating
to the government of the ants, namely, that they confer the right
upon their subjects to annex all new lands as soon as they appear
above sea-level. I now found out that Old Frivolity was so named to
distinguish it from New Coral-reef Island. I may mention in passing,
that these are private confidences, and caution my noble constituents
not to abuse them.
As soon as I set foot on the island, I was assailed by a troop of
strange animals—government servants—charged with introducing you
to the pleasures of freedom, by preventing you carrying certain
contraband objects you had set your heart upon. They surrounded me,
compelled me to open my beak in order that they might look down my
throat in case I should be carrying prohibited wares inland. As I
proved to be empty, I was permitted to make my way to the seat of the
government, whose liberty had been so lauded by my friend the Crow.
{39}
[Illustration]
Nothing surprised me more than the extraordinary activity of the
people. Everywhere were ants coming and going; loading and unloading
provisions. Palaces and warehouses were being built; the earth,
indeed, was yielding up all its finest materials to aid them in the
construction of their edifices. Workmen were boring underground,
making tunnels to relieve the traffic on the surface of the island.
So much taken up, indeed, was every one with his own business, that
my {40} presence was not noticed. On all sides, ships were leaving
laden with ants for the colonies, or with merchandise destined for
foreign shores; vessels were crowding into the ports, bearing produce
from distant parts of the world; messages were flashing from agents
abroad, telling merchants of the abundance of products that might
almost be had for the lifting. So clever are these ants in everything
connected with commerce, that whenever they receive a message, they
send off their vessels, laden with cheap wares which they sell to
weak races at the highest market prices. Some semi-savage nations
assert that the strong drink the ants export is too potent, and that
the narcotic they extract from a certain plant, which is watered
by the sweat of a servile race, affords a powerful stimulant to
national decay,—is, in fact, a physical and moral poison. To this,
diplomatists reply that the trade is lucrative, that there is a
demand for the narcotic, and that so long as the demand lasts the
ants must supply it at their own price. There are those among them
who abhor this traffic, and condemn it as a moral slave-trade, in
so far as the effect of the narcotic on its consumers is to render
them its bondsmen for life. These ants, curiously enough, profess
the Christian religion, and send propagandists to all parts of
the world. For all that, I soon found out that many of them are
idolaters, worshipping gods made of gold by themselves, and set up
in shrines called banks; other idols, called “consolidated funds,”
railway stocks, and generally sound investments, yield their owners
a temporal good, and enable them to “live in clover.” Other idols,
again, when sunk in foreign loans and spurious companies, rebel and
bring down all sorts of calamities on the widows and orphans of the
most industrious ants of the island. There are those among them,
whose avocation it is to make these images out of clay with such
attractive ingenuity that, when set up to public gaze, worshippers
flock to the shrines and take their glitter for pure gold; these gods
are for “raising the wind,” but they sometimes bring down a storm and
are overthrown, crushing in their fall thousands of poor devotees.
In the midst of the general activity I noticed some winged ants; and,
singling out one, inquired of the guard, “Who is that ant standing
unemployed while all the others are labouring?”
“Oh,” he replied, “that is a noble lord. We have many such as he,
patricians of our empire.”
“What is a patrician?” I asked.
“They are the glory of the land,—fellows with four wings who fly {41}
about in the sun, and are at their wits’ end to know how to pass the
time most pleasantly.”
“Can you yourself ever hope to become a patrician if you work hard?”
[Illustration]
“Well, no; not exactly. The wings of patricians are natural; they run
in the families, so to speak. But artificial wings may be ingrafted
by the sword of the sovereign for distinguished service; these,
however, are never strong enough to enable the wearer to soar clear
of his {42} plebeian fellows into the high heaven of aristocracy.
I must tell you that some of the four-winged order are almost
indispensable to the state; they nurse the national honour, and plan
our campaigns.”
The noble ant who had caused my inquiries was coming towards us. The
common ants made way for him; these working ants of the lower order
are extremely poor, possessing absolutely nothing. The patricians, on
the other hand, are rich, having palaces in the ant-hills, and parks,
where flies are reared for their food and sport.
The ants display the tenderest regard for their offspring; and to
the care bestowed upon the training of the young they attribute
their national greatness. It is astonishing to see the neuters
watching over the young. In place of sending—as some of our Parisian
sparrows do—their callow-brood to be nursed by birds of prey, they
themselves tend the orphans. They, indeed, live for them, sheltering
them from the cold winds that sweep their island, watching for the
fitful gleams of sunshine to lead them out. These ant-neuters watch
with pride the growth of the young lives, and the development of
the instinct for war and conquest in the young brood; not alone the
conquest of lands and races, but the mastery over the elements of
nature that informs them how to brave the worst storms, and build
their wonderful ant-hills. These nurses, although tender-hearted,
are proud, and will unflinchingly buckle the swords on to their
favourites, and send them away to fight for fame, or die for their
country. From the point of view of a philosophical French sparrow,
all this seemed to me strangely conflicting, and on the whole a
sign of defective national character. At this moment the patrician
ascended one of the city fortifications and said a few words to his
subordinates, who at once dispersed through the ant-hill; and in less
time than I take to write I noticed detachments issuing from the
stronghold, and embarking on straw, leaves, and bits of wood. I soon
learned that news of a defeat had arrived from abroad, and they were
sending out reinforcements. During the preparations, I overheard the
following conversation between two officers:—
“Have you heard the news, my lord, of the massacre of the innocents
by the savages of Pulo Anto?”
“Yes; we shall have to annex the territory of these painted devils,
and teach them the usages of civilisation.”
“I suppose it must be so; our fellows will have some rough {43} work
in the jungle, and the expedition to punish a handful of barbarians
will cost no end of money, and some good lives.”
“As pioneers of progress, we must be prepared to sacrifice something
for the common good, and our men are in want of active service.
Besides, Pulo Anto is a rich island, and will yield a good revenue.”
This last remark was very much to the point, so conclusive, indeed,
as to satisfactorily terminate the dialogue. Will it pay? is the
final question which settles all the transactions of this military
and mercantile race. I imagined that the noble lord spoke of
the “common good” in the sarcastic tone peculiar to his nation.
This phrase meant the immediate benefit of the Ant kingdom, and
the ultimate disappearance from the face of the earth of a weak
neighbour. The ants carry the process of civilising a savage nation
to such a degree of refinement, that the subliming and re-subliming
influences of contact gradually cause the destruction of the dross
of savagedom and the annihilation of race. It seemed to me that what
the ants happen to like they look upon as their own, and make it
their own if it suits their convenience. They extend their empire,
and carry warfare and commerce into the ant-hills of their weaker
neighbours. They wax stronger and richer year by year, while the
nations with which they trade, many of them, grow weaker and poorer.
I remarked to an officer that the aggressive policy of his government
was much to be reprobated.
“Well,” he replied, “there may be truth in what you say, but we must
obey the popular voice, open new fields for our commerce, and keep
our army and navy employed.”
“You, sir, call this fulfilling a divine mission; a foreign war is a
sort of god-send to keep the fighting ants employed. You go on the
principle of the surgeon who cuts up his patients to keep his hand
in, and his purse full. Such work ought to be left to the butcher.”
“Oh no; you labour under a great mistake. I own we do something
in the way of vivisection, just as would the skilful surgeon to
increase his knowledge, and enable him to heal the festering sores of
humanity. When we find pig-headed ants or deaths-head moths”——
“What are pig-headed ants?”
“A species of insect devoid alike of reason and all the nobler
qualities which we ourselves possess. I say, when we find them, it
becomes our duty to use strong measures to raise their condition, or
remove them out of our way.” {44}
“Just as a physician who fails to effect a cure would feel justified
in killing his patient?”
“Again, sir, you misapprehend my meaning. It is the custom of
Parisian sparrows, when they clamour for liberty, equality, and
fraternity, to kill each other, in order to purify the government.
Having no real grievances at home, we find it convenient to redress
our wrongs and seek for sweets abroad. Thus we preserve our
independence, and confer a benefit on the world at large. My time is
precious—good morning!”
My noble constituents will readily understand how I stood petrified
at the audacity of this fighting ant, who stoutly maintained that
might alone was right, and that his corrupt form of government ought,
forsooth, to be set up as a model.
I had it in my mind to tell him that the chief successes of his
foreign policy were effected by the subtile diplomacy of maintaining
intestine divisions in foreign states. In this way the time of their
enemies is fully occupied, and their strength weakened.
But he retreated before superior force, well knowing that his
arguments must be crushed by the criticism of a Philosophical French
Sparrow.
I afterwards learned that the officer had retired to his property
in the country, “there,” as the ants would say, “to practise those
virtues God has imposed upon our race.”
The only good points about the government of Old Frivolity lie in
the protection extended to the meanest subjects, and the way they
manage the working neuters, in making them pull together to effect
great ends. This latter would prove a great element of danger were it
introduced among ingenious Parisian sparrows.
I started much impressed with a sense of the perfection of this
oligarchy, and the boldness of its selfish measures, and left
regretting that in governments, as in individuals, close scrutiny
reveals many defects.
MONARCHY OF THE BEES.
Profiting by what I had seen in the Ants’ empire, I resolved in
future to observe more closely the habits of the tribes, before
trusting myself to princes or nobles. On reaching this new dominion I
stumbled against a bee bearing a bowl of honey. {45}
“Alas!” he exclaimed, “I am lost.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Do you not see I have spilt the queen’s soup, happily the
cup-bearer, the Duchess of Violets, will attend to her immediate
wants. I should die of grief if I thought my faults would not be
repaired.”
“How came you to worship your queen so devoutly? I come from a
country where kings and queens and all such human institutions are
held in light esteem.”
“Human!” cried the Bee; “know, bold Sparrow, that our queen and
our government are divine institutions. Our queen rules by divine
prerogative. Without her wise rule we could not exist as a hive. She
unceasingly occupies herself with our affairs. We are careful to feed
her, as we are born into the world to adore, serve, and defend her.
She has her sons and daughters for whom we rear private palaces. The
latter are, too frequently, wedded to hungry, petty princes, who thus
claim our service and support.”
“Who is this remarkable queen?”
“She is,” said the Bee, “Tithymalia XVII., a woman endowed with rare
wisdom; she can scent a storm afar off, and is careful to lay in
stores for severe winters. It is said also that she has treasures in
foreign lands.”
Here a young foreign prince came forward, and cautiously inquired if
we thought any of the young ladies of royal blood likely to want a
husband.
“Prince,” said the working Bee, “have you not heard of the ceremonies
and preparations for departure? If you wish to court any daughter of
Tithymalia you had better make haste. You are well enough in your
appearance, although you could do with a new coat.”
I beheld a splendid spectacle. One of the princesses was about to be
married. The pageant on which I gazed must have a powerful effect
on the vulgar imagination, and wed the people to the memories and
superstitions which are about the only links uniting the higher with
the lower orders of society.
[Illustration]
Eight drummers in yellow and black jackets left the old city called
Sadrach—from the name of the first Bee who preached social order;
these were followed by fifty musicians, all of them so brilliant
that one might have said they were living gems. Next came the
bodyguards armed with terrible stings. They were two hundred strong.
Each battalion was headed by a captain, wearing on his breast the
{47} order of Sadrach—a small star of beeswax. Behind them came
the queen’s dusters, headed by the grand duster, then the grand
tooth-pick-bearer, cup-bearer, eight little cup-bearers, and the
mistress of the Royal House, with twelve train-bearers, and lastly,
the young queen, beautiful in her maidenly grace, her true modesty.
The wings which shone with great splendour had never yet served for
flight. The queen-mother accompanied her, robed in velvet, aglow with
diamond-dust. Musicians followed humming a hymn of praise composed
for the occasion. After the band came twelve other old drones, who
seemed to me to be a sort of national clergy. They were all alike
one to the other, and buzzed uniformly and monotonously. About ten
or twelve thousand bees marched from the hive, upon the edge of
which stood Tithymalia, and addressed these memorable words to the
multitude:—
“It is always with a new pleasure that I witness your flight,
as it secures the tranquillity of my people, and that”——She was
here interrupted by an old drone who was afraid of the queen
using unparliamentary language—at least so I thought. Her Majesty
continued—“I am certain that, trained by our habits of thrift and
industry, you will serve God and spread the glory of His name on
the earth which He has so enriched with honey-yielding flowers. May
you never forget the honour due to your queen, and to the sacred
principles of our government. Think that without loyalty there is
anarchy, that obedience is the virtue of good bees, that the strength
of the state depends upon your fidelity. Know that to die for your
queen and the church is to give life to your land. I give you my
daughter Thalabath as queen. Love her well!”
This eloquent speech was followed by loud buzzing.
As soon as the young people had left with the queen, the poor prince
I had noticed buzzed around them, saying, “Oh most noble Tithymalia,
unkind fate has bereft me of the power of making honey, but I am
versed in economics, so if you have another daughter with a modest
dowry, I”——
“Do you know, prince,” said the grand mistress of the Royal House
“that with us the queen’s husband is always unfortunate. He is looked
upon as a sort of necessary evil, and treated accordingly. We do not
suffer him to meddle with the government, or live beyond a certain
age.”
But the queen heard his voice and said, “I will befriend you, you
{48} can serve me; you have a true heart, you shall wed my daughter,
and lend your pious aid to the work of our kingdom.”
This cunning prince, one of no mean power, had fallen in love with
one of the fair princesses.
There is one remark I have to make which has nothing to do with
government, and that is, that love is the same everywhere. Here was a
fellow who had winged his flight from a foreign land to bask in the
sunshine of his true love, follow her from flower to flower, sip the
nectar from the same cups; to worship even her shadow as it flitted
across the pale lily, or kiss her footprints on the dew-spangled
rose. Ah me! these thoughts send a tide of fond memories throbbing
through my old heart. There is one thing certain, on my return, I
must have a commission appointed to inquire into the nature of this
passion among men and bees.
My constituents will be pleased to learn that my fame gained me a
reception in the palace. I had despatched a bee to inform Her Majesty
that a stranger of distinction from Paris desired to be presented to
her.
Before being led into the audience-chamber, several magnificent bees
examined me to make certain that I carried no dangerous odour or
foreign matter about my person to soil the palace. Soon the old queen
came and placed herself on a peach blossom. “Great Queen,” I said,
“you see before you a member of the Order of Philosophical Sparrows,
an ambassador sent to study the governments and organisation of the
animal kingdoms.”
“Great ambassador, wisest of birds, my life would be a dull one were
it not for the cares of government and the events that compel me to
seek retirement twice every year. Do not call me Queen or Majesty,
address me simply as Princess, if you wish to please me.”
“Princess,” I replied, “it seems to me that the machine you call the
people excludes all liberty. Your workers do always the same thing,
and you live, I see, according to the Egyptian customs.”
“That is true; but order is the highest public virtue. Order is
our motto, and we practise it, while, if men strive to follow our
example, they content themselves with stamping the motto on the
buttons of their national guards. Our monarchy is order, and order is
absolute.”
“Order is to your profit, Princess. The bees on your civil list are
all workers, and only think of you.” {49}
“What else would you have? I am the State; without me the State would
perish. In other realms order is freely canvassed, and each one
follows it according to his own idea, and as there are as many orders
as opinions, constant disorder prevails. Here one lives happily,
because the order is always the same. It is much better that these
intelligent bees should have a queen instead of hundreds of nobles as
in the Ants’ kingdom. The Bee world has so many times felt the danger
of innovation, that it no longer seeks for radical change.”
“It is unfortunate,” I said, “that well-being can only be obtained by
a cruel division of castes. My bird’s instinct revolts at the notion
of such inequality.”
“Adieu,” said the queen; “may God enlighten you! From God proceeds
instinct; let us obey Him. If it were possible that equality should
be proclaimed, should it not be first among us whose duties serve a
great end. Our affections are ruled by laws the most mathematical.
But for all that, the hive and our various occupations can only be
maintained by our wise system of government.”
“For whom do you make your honey? for man!” said I. “Oh, liberty!”
“It is true that I am not free,” said the queen; “I am even more
bound than my subjects. Leave my State, Parisian Philosopher, else
you may yet turn some weak heads.”
“Some strong heads,” I replied. But she flew away. When the queen was
gone, I scratched my head, and made a peculiar sort of Flea fall out
of it. Being a perfectly cosmopolitan bird, I was about to enter into
conversation with this bloodthirsty intruder, but he had leaped for
dear life. Gaining confidence, he returned and said:—
“O Philosopher of Paris, I am only a poor Flea, who has made a
long journey on the back of a Wolf. I have listened with profound
interest to your remarks, and felt honoured while I sat upon your
learned pate. If you desire to find a government modelled on your
own principles, go through Germany, cross Poland, and make your
way to Ukraine, where you will find, in the administration of the
Wolves, the noble independence you require, and which you pointed
out to that old twaddler of a queen. The Wolf, Sir Bird, is the
most harshly-judged-of animals. Naturalists quite ignore his purely
republican principles, for he devours those of them who may cross
his {50} path; but he cannot kill a bird, so you may safely trust
yourself to his hospitality, and perch on the back of the proudest of
them.”
THE WOLVES’ REPUBLIC.
Parisian Sparrows, birds of every clime, animals of the whole world,
and ye petrified relics of antediluvian reptiles and monsters,
admiration would seize on you as it did on me, could you behold the
noble Wolves’ Republic—the only one in which hunger is conquered—This
is what elevates the animal spirits.
When I reached the magnificent steppes which stretch from the Ukraine
to Tartary, the weather was already cold, and I felt convinced that
the privileges of the subjects must be great to compensate for living
in such a land.
I was met by a Wolf on guard. “Wolf,” I said, “the cold is chilling
my blood. I shall die; and let me tell you, my death will be a loss
to the world at large. I am a traveller of renown!”
“Get upon my back,” said the Wolf.
“Pardon me, citizen, I prefer to cultivate your acquaintance afar
off. Perchance you wish to whet your appetite with such a dainty
morsel as a Parisian Sparrow.”
“What manner of good would you do me, stranger? Should I eat you, I
should be neither more nor less hungry. You are evidently a studious
Sparrow. You have burned the midnight oil, and offered up every drop
of your blood on the shrine of science or literature. Skin, bone,
and feathers. Ugh! you would only trouble me in my empty stomach,
and there study out at leisure the various odds and ends of my
organisation. No, no! get up; give my mouth a wide berth; sit on my
tail, if you like the fur.”
Concealing my dread of his hungry fangs, I perched lightly on the
tail, where I was not unfrequently disturbed by the tremor of his
emotions.
Fellow Sparrows, the tail of a beast of prey is the safest perch, and
it affords a true index of the play of passion in the brute.
“What are you doing here?” I said, to renew the conversation.
“Well,” said he, “we are awaiting some visitors at yonder castle,
and intend to devour them, horses, coachmen, and all.” Here the tail
whisked so briskly that I had difficulty in keeping my feet.
“That would be an extraordinary proceeding. Men, to be sure, are {51}
our foes, and you, no doubt, perform a useful function in keeping
down their numbers. As they are Russians, you won’t eat their heads,”
said I.
“Why?”
“It is said they have none.”
“What a pity! That will be a loss to us, but that won’t be the only
one.”
“How so?”
“Alas!” said the Wolf, “many of ours will fall in the attack, but it
will be in our country’s cause. There are only six men, a few horses,
and some provisions. Too few! too few! They won’t serve for a meal to
the right wing of our army. Bird, believe me, we are nearly famished!”
He turned and showed his fangs so hungrily that I almost fainted with
fright. “We have had nothing to eat.”
“Nothing,” I said, “not even a Russian?”
“No; not even a Tartar. Those rogues of Tartars scent us two miles
off.”
“Well, then, how do you manage?”
“The young and strong among us are bound to fight on an empty
stomach. She-wolves, cubs, and veterans must feed first.”
“That is a fine point in the character of your Republic.”
“Fine!” he said; “why, it is only fair. We know no distinction other
than that of age and sex; all are equal.”
“Why,” said I, “how can that be?”
“Because we are all of us the same in the sight of God.”
“And yet you are only a sentinel.”
“Yes, it is my turn to be on guard.”
“But, General,” said I—here the fellow pricked up his ears, and
seemed immensely pleased with even the shadow of distinction carried
in a name—“to-morrow it may be your turn to command.”
“Exactly, that’s how we square. Your intelligence, Sir Sparrow, does
your nation credit. It is something like this. When in danger we meet
together, and elect a leader, who, after the peril is passed, falls
again into the ranks.”
“Under what peculiar circumstances do you meet?”
[Illustration]
“When there is, say, a famine, to forage for the common good. In
time of great distress we share and share alike. But do you know
we are driven to the direst straits, when, as frequently happens,
the snow {52} lies ten feet deep on the ground; when the houses are
covered, and no food is to be had for months. Strange! our stomachs
grow smaller and we crowd together for warmth. We pull together
{53} wonderfully. Since the Republic was formed, the wolves have
abstained from devouring or destroying each other. This ought to make
men blush. The wolves are each and every one sovereign. They govern
themselves.”
“Do you know, General, that men say sovereigns are wolves, and prey
upon their people? You will have no need of punishment in your land.”
“Yes, we have; when a wolf commits a crime he is punished. Should he
not scent his game in time, or fail to secure it, he is beaten. But
he never loses caste on that account.”
“I have heard tell that some of your wolves in office are secretly
ravenous, devouring the substance of the country, and given to
dividing the good things of government among their friends.”
“Hush! Gently, please. These are matters of which we do not speak.
The natural tendency of wolves is to feed on carrion, and when the
body politic becomes corrupt, they perform the healthful function of
licking the sores. It is only wolf-nature to seek such office and
profit by it. One good feature in the Republic is, that a wolf is
free to hunt down his own game, and when required, he may rely on the
community.”
“This is indeed excellent,” I replied, “to live and govern one’s
self. You have indeed solved a great problem.” Yet I thought to
myself that the Parisian Sparrows will not be simple enough to adopt
such a system.
“Hurrah!” cried my friend, whisking me from his tail into the air.
All at once from a thousand to twelve hundred wolves with superb fur,
and agility wonderful to behold, arrived on the scene. I saw two
carriages drawn by horses, and defended by masters and servants. In
spite of the sword-blows that fell on all sides, and the wheels that
crushed the assailants, the wolves fixing their fangs into the horses
soon overpowered the caravans. The prey was portioned out. One skin
fell to the sentinel, who devoured it greedily. Other valiant wolves
were allotted the coats and buttons, and soon only six human skulls
remained that proved far too thick and hard for the profane fangs of
the destroyers. The corpses of the slain wolves were respected and
became the objects of a strange usage. Hungry wolves lay concealed
beneath them until such time as a flock of birds of prey had settled
on them. These they deftly caught and devoured. This was a touching
example of thrift, recalling the various modes by which men take a
profit out of their {54} dead. I am told they set up tombstones over
them, as baits for the world’s applause. A man will inscribe on the
stone which covers the remains of some poor wife sentiments of deep
regret and undying affection, while his carnal eyes are bent on some
pretty bird fluttering over him and sympathising with his grief.
One thing struck me about the Republic, and that was the seemingly
perfect equality of the people which arose, not so much from the
nature of their government, as from the fact that by nature they
are endowed with equal strength and instinct. The failure of human
Republics arises out of the unequal intellectual and physical
capacities of men. A more perfect system of education and a higher
moral code, strictly observed by all, may one day bring man and
man to the same level. Hereditary defects of character will then
disappear, and all men will regain something of the perfect image
of the God that created them. In the Wolves’ Republic the weak ones
go to the wall, die off, as the struggle for existence is severe,
so severe indeed that only the strong survive. The young wolf is
educated in warfare and suffering. Indolence and want of pluck are
punished by starvation, as all must work, and it becomes a habit to
toil, and to toil ungrudgingly. Ah me! I almost despair of the task
of reforming a country spoilt by luxury. Parisian birds, some of you
are daintily fed on grubs and grain in golden cages, others, alas,
have to pick up a precarious living on the streets. How shall we
raise the poor to the level of the rich? Raise them from their lowly
perch and place them in palaces? The wolves obey each other quite
as heartily as the bees obey their queen, or the ants their laws.
Liberty makes duty a slave. The ants are fettered by habit, and so
are the bees. The Wolves’ Republic possesses many advantages, for if
one must be a slave to anything, it is better to obey public reason
than to become the votary of pleasure, or the football of fate.
I must own, whether to my shame or glory, as I approached Paris my
admiration for wolfish freedom gradually diminished in the presence
of refinement; and while I thought of the priceless boon of a
cultivated mind, the proud Republic of the Wolves no longer satisfied
me. Is it not, after all, a sad condition, to live on rapine alone?
If the equality of wolves is one of the sublimest triumphs of animal
instinct, the war they wage against man, birds of prey, and horses,
is a violation of animal right.
The rude virtues of a Republic thus constituted depend alone on
{55} war. Is it possible that the best form of government can be
sustained by ceaseless warfare, by continuing to push one’s conquests
into the territory of weaker, simpler, and perchance more virtuous
foes? This, my philosophic companions, is the policy of the great
country of the wolves. Better rather to die of hunger, while we, by
our self-denial, add a single green leaf to the laurel-crown that
decks the brows of our country. We are placed here on God’s earth,
not to destroy, but to build up His glorious works. Take this to
heart, ye visionaries who seek to establish the edifice of peace
on a foundation of vice and blood. However humble our lot, let us
rather—like the coral insects who, by their toil, build up the
loveliest islands of the world—seek to do our duty in our allotted
spheres, that we may leave behind us an unsullied fame.
[Illustration]
{56}
LIFE AND PHILOSOPHICAL OPINIONS OF A PENGUIN.
“Must one seek for happiness?” I inquired of the Hare. “Search,”
replied he, but with fear and trembling.—_The Anonymous Bird._
I.
[Illustration]
Had I not been born in the extreme South, beneath the rays of a
burning sun, which helped to liberate me from my shell, and was
quite as much to me as the brave Penguin which abandoned me to fate,
I might have proved a happier bird; but being, as I said, hatched
under a tropic sun rather than a lucky star, I became an unhappy
bird. I had a hard struggle to get into the world, as my shell was an
uncommonly thick one. When at last I had found my way into the light,
I stood for some time gazing at my prison with feelings not unmingled
with surprise at the event which had introduced me to freedom. One,
of course, has only a confused remembrance of those early days,
and can hardly be expected to give a full account of the sudden
change implied in birth. I have heard it said that men when they are
born—some of them—smile blandly on the prospects that life presents
to them; while others, and they the majority, begin life with a wail
of regret, the prophetic note of a sorrowful existence.
Be that as it may, I remember, as soon as I was able to reflect, {57}
thinking how uncomfortable I must have felt, doubled up in a shell
too contracted to admit of motion. The change was truly appalling.
There lay the shell, to me a world which I had first filled and then
broken, to find myself a mean tenant of immeasurable space. The
prospect puzzled and hardly pleased me; I had exchanged my little egg
for one boundless in its infinity. Far from being modest, on finding
myself in the world my first notion was that all I saw belonged to
me, and that the sole purpose of the earth was to contribute to my
support.
Forgive the infantile pride of a poor Penguin, who, as the years
rolled on, has been taught humility. As soon as I discovered the use
of my eyes, I found myself alone in what proved to be the hollow of a
great rock overlooking the sea. The rocks, the stones, the water; a
boundless horizon around, immensity, indeed, and myself, in the midst
of it all, nothing more than an atom! I vainly inquired, “Why is the
universe so large?” and the echo from my empty shell answered “Why?”
The question had been asked before, and, as I afterwards learned, had
never been more conclusively answered. A little world, quite a small
one, filled by those alone who are devoted to each other’s welfare,
would have been more to my liking than this great gulf in which all
seems lost, and hopeless confusion reigns,—in which there is space
enough and to spare, not only for those creatures who detest each
other, but for nations whose conflicting interests cause endless
strife, and allow full scope to the play of crime and passion.
Penguins in general, and you my personal friends, would not a world
framed for ourselves have been better? a world with one low mountain
bathed in sunlight,—a tiny, leafy plain bordering the sea, carpeted
with flowers, and shaded by fruit-bearing trees, in which a score of
social birds might build their nests—birds decked with gay plumage
and bursting with song, unlike the poor Penguin whose lines you are
now reading?
These are vain imaginings, there is no such paradise for Penguins
or any other creatures. There are fields and flowers, foliages and
fruit-bearing trees, birds with bright plumage, and others with
song; but, alas! the wide world shares their charms—flowers here and
fruit there, all so scattered and dispersed as to minister alone to
the sport and pleasure of mankind. Yes, man alone has the power of
making nature his slave, of bringing all these elements together, of
rendering his mansions musical with the nightingale, his lawns gay
with flowers, and his orchards glorious with varied fruits. {58}
Again I crave pardon, dear reader. The habit of dwelling alone has
rendered me gloomy, and I forget myself, forget that I have no right
to forget my humble lot and obscure destiny.
II.
I ought to say that my early isolation and ignorance tempted me
to brood over the unattainable. Nevertheless, I claim credit for
self-denial in pruning my introduction, as I might have dived deep
into the miseries of solitude—the solitude of my early days. The
theme was a prolific one, which I should not have allowed thus to
escape. It is so soothing to complain; so comforting, indeed, as to
pass for real happiness.
I had not been alive a day before I learned what heat and cold were.
The sun disappeared, leaving my rock as cold as an iceberg. Having
nothing to do, I began to move, and felt about my shoulders something
I conceived must be intended for use. Stretching forth these little
arms or wings with which Nature had endowed me (she has lived too
long on her reputation of being a good mother, loving equally all her
children), after prolonged efforts I at last succeeded in rolling
from the top of my rock. Thus my first experience in life was, as
you see, a fall, which I speedily resented by digging my beak into
the unsympathetic soil. This only increased my pain, and led to
reflection. “It is evident,” I said, “one ought to be careful about
one’s first step in life, and to reflect well before moving.” I then
inwardly pondered over my destiny as a Penguin, not that I had the
faintest pretension to philosophy, only when one is forced to live,
and one is not accustomed to do so, one must find out some rules of
life.
“What is good?”
“What is evil?”
“What is life?”
“What is a Penguin?”
Before I could solve these questions, my eyelids closed in sleep.
III.
Hunger rudely awoke me! Forgetting my resolutions, strange as it may
seem, I did not wait to inquire, “What is hunger?” but immediately
proceeded to satisfy the craving by eating some shell-fish that
{59} were yawning before me. I ought to have first indulged in a
dissertation on the possible danger of following this ancient custom.
My inexperience was punished, for by dint of eating too fast, I was
nearly choked. I have no notion how I learned to eat, to drink, to
walk, and move to right or left, measure distances with my eye, to
know that all one sees is not one’s own; to come down and ascend,
to swim, to fish, to sleep standing, to content myself with little
or nothing, &c. It is sufficient to say that each and all of those
studies caused me countless troubles, fabulous misadventures, and
unheard-of trials.
IV.
What are our duties in the world? What will ultimately become of
Penguins? Where do we go to after death? Why were some birds created
without feathers, some fish without fins, or animals without feet?
My worldly experience often tempted me to wish to return to my egg.
One day, after profound reflection, I fell asleep, and during my
repose heard a noise, which was neither that of the waves nor any
sound to which I was accustomed. “Wake up!” said the active part
of my being, that which never seems to slumber, and is ever on the
alert like a guardian angel to ward off danger. “Wake up, and you
will behold something to rouse your curiosity.” “Certainly not,” said
that other most excellent part of ourselves which requires sleep. “I
am not curious, and have no desire to see anything. I have already
seen too much.” Still the other insisted, and I continued: “It would
be wrong to break my slumber for anything spurious; besides you
deceive me, the sound has gone. It is a dream; let me sleep! let
me sleep!” I really wished to sleep, stubbornly closed my eyes as
best I might, and folded and fondled myself to repose with all those
little cares common to sleepers. But, alas! all was of no avail; I
woke up. What shall I come to? I, who vainly thought myself the most
considerable creature living, the only bird in creation. I sank into
utter insignificance before the sight that met my gaze. There, before
me, I beheld at least a dozen most charming creatures, some with
expanded wings floating in mid-air, others diving into the waves, and
again rising to display their snow-white plumage in the morning sun.
Surely, I thought, these are the inhabitants of a happier and more
perfect world. Had they descended from the sun or moon? What unknown
caprice had brought them to my rock? {60} They were endowed with a
sublime mastery over the elements, skimming the waves as if to laugh
at their fury, resting for an instant on the solid earth, and, as if
disdaining its support, again cleaving the air with their glorious
wings. So wrapt was I in admiring the grace and perfection of their
movements, that jealousy never clouded my mind. At last, carried away
by the ardour of youth, and the emotion with which the beautiful
fills the breast, I rushed into their midst, exclaiming: “Celestial
birds, fairies of the air!” Here I had to pause for want of breath.
“A Penguin!” cried one of them.
“A Penguin!” repeated the whole band; and as they all laughed on
seeing me, I concluded that my presence gave them pleasure, and
so I boldly introduced myself in the following words:—“Ladies and
gentlemen, you are right, I am a Penguin, and you are the fairest
forms I have gazed upon since the hour I left my shell. I am proud of
your acquaintance, and should like to join in your sport.”
“Penguin,” said my lady friend who had first addressed me, and who
appeared to be the queen, but who, I afterwards learned, was only
a laughing Gull. “You do not know what you are asking, you may,
however, profit by experience. It shall never be said that such an
elegant Penguin received a denial.” She then gave me a flip with her
wing which sent me reeling into the midst of the group, another did
the same, and they all followed suit, flipping me about, first to one
side, then to another. This was sport!
As soon as I could get the words out, I shouted, “Stop! you are
killing me.”
“Bah!” said they, “we are only beginning, hah! hah! Keep him warm.
Keep the ball rolling.” The sport began anew, and with such vigour
that I soon fell to the ground thoroughly humbled and exhausted. The
Gull who had first called me Penguin, and who had taken the lead in
maltreating me, noticing my prostration, reproached herself for her
conduct.
“Forgive us, my poor Penguin. You do not seem to relish our
rollicking style, yet it is our nature, so pray do not blame us if
you are hurt.” She then came forward and bent over me with such a
tender look, that, in spite of what she had just done, she seemed for
the moment perfectly beautiful and good.
But pity often comes of self-love, and is nothing more than regret
for harshness. What I mistook for the dawn of affection was only {61}
sorrow for having done wrong. Thus, as soon as she saw me comforted,
away she flew with her companions.
This sudden flight so startled me, that it was impossible to find a
single word or gesture to prevent it, and again I was alone. From
that moment solitude seemed insupportable.
[Illustration]
IV.
To tell the truth, I was blindly in love, and savage at having done
{62} nothing to win a bride so beautiful. Why did I not exercise
my blandishments? While pondering these things I wandered to the
edge of a pool of water. It was placid and clear, reflecting only
the blue heaven, until, bending down to dip and cool my fevered
beak, I beheld my own image, and nearly choked as the picture of my
unsightly proportions flashed on my mind. I left the mirror, and
soon by reason of vanity forgot what manner of bird I was. Sleepless
nights and miserable days became my portion. Eagerly I listened to
the whisperings of the wind, thinking that I heard the gentle sound
of that lovely spirit of the air descending to soothe my troubled
heart. Vain thought! she never came, and worse luck, my appetite had
gone with her. My only solace was the sea. There was something in
the mournful voice of its waves, as they broke on the great rocks,
that soothed me in my saddest hours. There was something in its
immeasurable depth typical of the grief which overwhelmed me.
The reader may feel inclined to smile at my vulgar and unpoetic
proportions, nevertheless, let me remind him that God has so framed
the world, that in the rudest and most unlikely forms among men and
beasts repose the sublimest attributes. Thus human genius is seldom
found mated with bodies of herculean type. So the sentiment of a
love-sick Penguin can never be estimated by the appearance of its too
solid body.
V.
“Suspense becomes intolerable, I can no longer bear it,” I said, and
cast myself into the sea to drown my sorrow in its mournful waves.
VI.
Unfortunately, I discovered how to swim, so my history does not end
here.
VII.
When I rose to the surface—one always rises two or three times before
drowning—yielding to my passion for soliloquies, I inquired what
right had I thus to seek to destroy myself; if the world would not
be just one Penguin worse off, had I met my end, &c. My soliloquy
was long. I was drifting many leagues straight ahead; now and
again diving with the dire resolve of going to the bottom and {63}
remaining there. But for some reason I always found myself coming
to the surface, and, to tell the truth, the air seemed all the more
refreshing after each dip. Just as my seventh attempt at suicide had
miscarried, I rose to find myself side by side with a creature whose
simple unaffectedness won my heart at first sight.
“What were you after below there, Mr. Penguin? and where are you
going?” he inquired, bowing profoundly.
“I hardly know,” I replied.
“Well,” said he, “suppose we go together.”
I willingly agreed, and on the way related my misfortunes to him.
When I had finished, he asked me if I had formed any plans for the
future. “No,” I said, “not any, still I have half a mind to travel in
search of my lady-love, the Gull.”
[Illustration]
“How came you to love a Gull? You look a large solid bird enough.
Why don’t you devote your affections to one of your own decent
stay-at-home kind? Depend upon it, the Gull, could you wed her, would
only bring grief. She is puffed out with feathers, and ever on the
wing; she would soon desert you for one of her own kind.”
This seemed severe, and I replied testily, “There’s no accounting
either for tastes or for love. It came upon me like a sunbeam from
heaven.”
“From heaven!” said my companion. “Lovers’ language! A {64} strong
light, this light of love; and it has left a shadow of pitchy
darkness somewhere, has it not?”
“Ah! sir,” I said, “you look dejected. My story, perchance, stirred
up old memories.” He said nothing, but wrapped in profound melancholy
ascended a rock left dry by the tide, and I followed. There was such
an air of profundity about him that I inquired what he was thinking
about.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“But who are you, whose silence is so eloquent?”
“I am of the Palmiped family, and my name is Fool.”
“You, Fool!” I cried. “Come!”
“Yes,” he replied, “I am so named in the world from my habit of
minding other people’s affairs and neglecting my own; so sinking
myself, what can I do for you? Listen, my friend,” said this sublime
bird; “not far from here is an island called the ‘Isle of Penguins.’
It is only inhabited by birds of your tribe. They are all of them
equally ugly; go there, and who knows, you may even be thought
handsome.”
“Am I then so unsightly?” said I.
“Yes,” he said, “you are as unlike the gull as the grub is unlike the
butterfly.”
VIII.
During our voyage, encountering a severe storm, we rode it tranquilly
on the breast of the billows, while great ships, freighted with the
wealth of the world, were wrecked and lost before our eyes. It was
pitiful to hear the shrieks of the perishing sounding above the
tempest, men and women who had braved the dangers of the deep, some
to seek happier climes, others, the riches they were doomed never to
enjoy.
At last through many dangers we reached the shores of the “Happy
Island.”
“Let us pause here,” said my sage companion, “and note the native
mode of seeking what I hold to be a myth—earthly happiness.”
Shaking ourselves dry, my friend, who had studied geography, elevated
his beak, and casting his eye along its line, took our position from
the sun. The result was curious and instructive to navigators, and
even to mankind generally, not to mention birds. According to our
calculations, we had been availing ourselves of every slant of wind
{65} to push ahead, and, strange to say, reached land a hundred
miles astern of the point we started from. Had we been men, pioneers
of civilisation, gifted with a sublime belief in our own powers, we
should have no doubt proved to our own satisfaction that we had made
unheard-of progress. Men and mules, without knowing it, go as often
backwards as forwards.
My friend here remarked that the island was unknown, had never, in
fact, found its place in any map. Our observations, therefore, cannot
fail to prove useful.
“Let us go inland. If you don’t object?”
“With all my heart;” and in my youthful ardour was about to kiss the
happy soil.
“There, calm yourself,” said the Sage. “This is neither Peru nor the
Penguins’ Paradise. The name alone misleads you. This land, ‘Happy
Island,’ is so named because its inhabitants (all of them) inherit
a furious desire for happiness, not because they are happy; they
spend their lives chasing a phantom, and when it seems nearest, they
are swallowed up in the grave. These islanders cannot be brought
to understand that wrong must exist, and that happiness may be
obtained by redressing wrongs and grievances, and that the most one
can do is to snatch moments of bliss from one’s days and years of
toil and sorrow. I have heard that men, after trying all sorts of
new-fashioned receipts for happiness, fall back on the oldest plans,
imagining they have discovered in them a new panacea for all earthly
woes.
“These curious islanders make self their god. They make it a rule
each one to seek his own personal gratification, this plan is most
ancient: love, sympathy, self-sacrifice, devotion, virtue, duty,
are with them nothing more than words whose meaning has been long
forgotten. Another rule is to avoid doing anything that will in any
way mar one’s enjoyment, or spoil one’s ease. It will be seen that
only the rich among them are able to carry out their principles to
the full extent. Let us note how they manage affairs. Do you see
the mansion over there? is it not beautiful? In it the disciples of
pleasure carry on their amusements. Let us look in; we may learn
something. Over the doorway we read in Latin, ‘Here we are, four
hundred of us, all happy’; followed by a text from their sacred
classics, ‘Neutralise the influence of parents upon children, and all
will go well.’ ”
[Illustration]
In the first room we came across a charming illustration of the
text—a number of showily-dressed, attractive-looking mothers, who
refused {66} to sit on their eggs. Some of them had strolled into
the garden to spend their time more usefully in flirting with
dangerous-looking male friends. Somehow the poor little ones were
hatched. “You {67} unwelcome rubbish!” said the mothers; “now that
we have had all the trouble of bringing you into the world, some one
must nurse you—we are otherwise engaged. We will return and spoil
you {68} later on, if we think of it.” Guardians are found. A Weasel
displayed the deepest interest in the eggs, an Adder watched them
tenderly as they were about to break, while Wolves feasted on the
young to keep them out of harm’s way.
[Illustration]
By far the most telling scene was met with in the schoolroom. There
we saw bloated-looking Boars prosecuting their studies by lying
on their bellies, or rolling over on their backs. Oxen, that had
abandoned the plough, and Camels striving to make their neighbours
carry their humps.
Those who were not asleep were yawning, or going to yawn, or had
yawned. All of them seemed profoundly dull. Near the centre sat a
Monkey nursing his knee, who, with his head thrown back, seemed to be
absorbed in his reflections.
“Sir,” I said, addressing him, “are these dejected-looking creatures
around you happy?”
“I fear not,” was his reply; “although their sole pursuit is
happiness, some of them are miserable enough. As for myself, I feel
supremely uncomfortable on this confounded stool, but as governor I
must keep awake.”
On our way we passed in front of the shop of a blacksmith, who was
fitting a pair of carpet slippers to a tender-footed horse. Suddenly
I said to my travelling companion, “I have had quite enough of this
‘Happy Island,’ let us continue our voyage.”
IX.
PENGUIN ISLAND.
Two days later we reached Penguin Island. “What does that mean?” I
said, on perceiving some two hundred individuals of my kind ranged as
if in battle-array along the shore. “Are these troops intended to do
us honour, or to prevent our landing?”
“Fear nothing,” said my friend, “these Penguins are our friends. It
is the custom of their country to parade the shores in flocks.”
We were received with much kindness, and conducted with great
ceremony towards an old _Sphemiscus_, the King of the island. This
good King was seated on a stone, which served as a throne, and
surrounded by his subjects, who seemed to be all known to him. {69}
[Illustration]
“Illustrious strangers,” he exclaimed, as soon as he perceived us
approaching, “we are delighted to make your acquaintance,” and as the
crowd around him barred our way, he continued: “My children, range
yourselves on one side, and allow the strangers to pass.” The ladies
stood on his right, and the gentlemen on his left. “You, sirs, are
welcome to enjoy the freedom of our kingdom.” {70}
I ventured to say, “Sire, your renown is the talk of the whole world,
and the hope of seeing you alone sustained us through the perils of
our journey.”
“Good!” whispered my friend; “you are a courtly liar for one so
young; but be careful, else you may die a diplomatist.”
My speech so pleased the King, that he cast off his Phrygian cap,
descended from his perch, and clasped me to his breast, saying, “You
are, for one so young, a bird most fair and honest. Remain with me to
aid me in my old age.”
“Noble sir,” I replied, “your knowledge of Penguin character is
truly worthy of your fame. I will gladly accept your generous
offer, trusting that my youth and inexperience may excuse my many
shortcomings.”
“Stay, are you married?”
“No, your Majesty, I am a bachelor.”
“He is a bachelor!” cried the King, turning towards the ladies, who
at once, and for the first time, overwhelmed me with their fond gaze.
“A bachelor! a bachelor!” cried a chorus of voices, “what a dreadful
creature!”
“Hush!” said the King, “we have cured worse maladies. There is my
daughter.”
“But, Sire,” I protested, “my heart is lost to another.”
“The remark is worthy of your modesty. You shall wed my daughter; the
notion suits me; it is a question of privilege, not of heart.”
I so little expected this proposal, that I remained mute with
amazement.
“He who says nothing, consents,” said the King. Before I had time to
decide, my eyes met those of the princess. It was but for a moment.
The god of love had kindled a perfect conflagration in her breast.
Everything was arranged before I could say no, so engrossed was I
with my own reflections. That momentary glance had evidently sealed
my fate. So far as one’s after-life is concerned, it had more effect
in neutralising my happiness than if I had, from my earliest infancy,
set myself the task of inventing the best means of blighting my peace.
“Well,” said the monarch, “look at your future wife. Are you not
delighted? too happy to find words to express your joy? Is she
not lovely?” The poor old potentate looked tenderly on his {71}
daughter, and with tears in his eyes, continued—“You cannot know
what I am offering, she is a good child, a good child! and will make
a dear wife. Not a single subject in my realm boasts smaller eyes,
yellower beak, rounder form, or larger feet. She is indeed beautiful!”
The wedding was arranged, and we were married in great state. My
wife’s father paid all the expenses; for in Penguin land kings as
well as subjects have enough to marry and dower their daughters. This
was how I became the King’s son, and how foolish marriages are made.
My real troubles date from the close of the ceremony, as my wife was
neither very handsome nor very good.
X.
I might finish here, but as I have gone so far, I may as well relate
the bitter end.
I dreamt one night that I beheld my first love, and that she
beckoned to me to follow her. The whole scene was so vivid that when
I awoke, I felt I could recognise the spot if it existed in any
part of the earth. In a weak moment I resolved to start in search
of this heaven and its goddess. At last, I left the Penguin shore,
ostensibly on a diplomatic mission. For two whole years I searched
the world over; but in vain, until, just as I was giving up hope, I
discovered the object of my solicitude on a sandbank, stooping over
the filthy remains of a stranded Whale, in the society of a ragged,
vicious-looking Cormorant, the meanest of birds. This then was the
Gull of my dreams! the spirit of the air! the ideal of beauty, the
Peri, the sylph, whose seductive image had cursed my life. My eyes
opened, but too late to discover how the fool mistakes the glitter of
the basest metal for the lustre of pure gold. What would I not have
given to crush the memory of my folly out of my heart; to begin life
anew, and ponder well the first false steps. Yet I reflected, all may
be well, better far the bitterest truth than the sweetest falsehood.
Setting sail for Penguin Island, I resolved never again to quit its
shore, and to become a good husband, father, and prince.
XI.
On landing, I first visited the people, who were well, next, my {72}
father-in-law, who, thank God, was better than the people. I then
began to look for my dear wife and child, and—good heavens! I {73}
found my family had increased to four. My wife, poor soul, had taken
another husband, thinking I had deserted her.
[Illustration]
I at once repaired to my old friend and travelling companion, whose
ability the King had sought to reward by making him Prime Minister;
but he refused to add to his cares that of office, and retired to
live as a hermit on the top of a rock. He had chosen the highest rock
in the realm, whence, far above the turmoil of the state, he bent his
philosophic gaze on the lower world which he had abandoned to its
fate. I felt much in need of sympathy and advice. After recounting my
woes, the answer of the recluse sent a thrill of despair through my
heart.
“Bah!” he said, “I am sick of all the affairs of life. Each hour
wounds, but happily, the last kills us. Forget your troubles. Arm
your heart against the malignant influences that mar the peace of
brutes and men. Why the devil should _you_ be happy? (he was a
profane bird). What have you done to merit happiness? How fared
you in your journey? Have you seen enough of the world—sinned too
much? Hah! hah! Is your punishment greater than you can bear? Poor
deluded Penguin! you have been the football of our old enemy, fate.
It must have been great fun for the old rascal, to mark your abortive
attempts at heavenward flight with these half-formed wings. Hah! hah!
what a capital joke!”
“You seem merry, my friend,” said I, “your levity wounds me deeply.”
“Listen, my child,” he replied. “You have spent the best of your days
in vain pursuit of the unattainable. Depend upon it, the nearest
approach to happiness is found in paths obscure and humble. Paths of
duty along which kind Providence will ever act as our guide.”
“You puzzle me,” I remarked, “your language is as changeable as
English weather. At one moment you are a wicked bird, at another a
moral philosopher.”
“Nay, friend,” he said, “these are but the passing moods of the
mind. I am told that men as well as birds have their moods. Even
some most religious men, they tell me, wear a sombre cloak to
conceal the sinful thoughts that are always present with them. They
resemble the shells they employ in warfare; harmless enough, until
thrown to the ground by some sudden shock of passion which fires
the fuse and destroys them. It seems to me, in order to succeed in
the pursuit of happiness you must prefer clouds to sunshine, rain
to fair {74} weather, grief to joy. You must possess nothing, and
yet find yourself too rich, take all that is done as well done, all
that is said as well said, believe nothing, and yet know everything.
Dream while you are living, live in your dreams. After all when you
feel really happy, have patience, and time will surely destroy the
illusion.”
Here the philosopher paused for breath.
Reader, if you are unhappy, let me counsel you to take warning from
the life of a poor Penguin, who blighted his hopes by worshipping at
the shrine of a false goddess.
[Illustration]
{75}
THE LAST WORDS OF AN EPHEMERA.
It was the opinion of the savants of our race who lived in ancient
times, many minutes, indeed, before we came into being, that this
vast world would dissolve and disappear within eighteen hours. That
this hypothesis is not without foundation, and at the same time
worthy of the erudition of the ancients, I hope to be able to prove.
The great luminary travelling through space has, during my own time,
sensibly declined towards the ocean which bounds the earth on all
sides. If, therefore, we base our calculation on the space traversed
by the sun per second, it will be found that, before eighteen hours
have elapsed, his fire will be quenched in the ocean, and the world
given up to darkness and death. He has already passed the zenith. For
all that, the moment when the bright disc will dip beneath the waves
seems distant as eternity, when measured by the span of our lives.
I myself have enjoyed several moments of existence, and feel age
creeping on apace. I see children and grandchildren around me dancing
in the joyous light. I may live a few seconds longer, and witness
many changes; yet my life has been so full of sad experiences, as
to convince me that, in the course of nature, I must soon follow
those who have gone before. In reviewing my past existence, while
clearly discerning its failures and follies, I venture to hope that
it has not been altogether misspent. My researches have contributed
not a little to solve some of the problems connected with the most
curious phenomena of hedge-rows and ditches, keeping altogether out
of account the facts which I have established connected with the
duration of the earth. I have applied the most refined analysis
to discover the true constituents of the atmosphere, and the
meteorological conditions which promote or destroy insect life. I
could reveal secrets to mankind, to which their microscopes and
spectroscopes can never afford the faintest clue. These are certain
elements necessary to our existence only known to ourselves, as also
the important functions we perform in carrying out the wise economy
of nature.
Men are blind to everything that does not, as they conceive, bear
{76} directly or indirectly on their own interest, and in their
folly they imagine that our lives are worse than useless. They cannot
perceive that we are ministering spirits of the air, sent by an
all-wise Creator to correct abuses of which they themselves are the
authors. But life is short; all too short for the labour it implies.
Alas! my end draws near, and my friends console me by saying that I
have done enough to earn lasting fame, and to promote the happiness
of my race, until the eighteenth hour witnesses their destruction,
and the wreck of this great plain which men call the earth.
[Illustration]
{77}
THE SORROWS OF AN OLD TOAD.
[Illustration]
My father was already well up in years and corpulence, when the joys
of paternity came upon him for the last time. Alas! his happiness
was of short duration. My poor mother’s strength was overtaxed with
a dreadful laying of eggs, and, in spite of the tenderest nursing,
she at last succumbed to the effort of bringing me to the light. I
was brought forth in sorrow, and to this fact I attribute the deep
shade of melancholy which has clouded my existence. I was always
of a dreamy, contemplative nature. This, indeed, formed the basis
of my character. The early days of my Tadpole life are wrapped in
gloom, so dense as to render them void of incident. I can just dimly
recollect my father, squatted beneath a broad leaf on the bank of a
stream, smiling benignly as he watched my progress. He had always
a soft, liquid eye, in whose depths I could read the love of his
tender heart. His eyes were of a greenish hue, and protruded. This,
taken together with his noble proportions, his enemies attributed to
high living. He was in reality a contemplative Toad, whose greatest
success lay in the cultivation of philosophic leisure. He carefully
avoided the water, and, little by little, withdrew himself from the
scene of my exploits. I am ashamed to say that his absence never
caused me to shed a tear. I had two or three brothers about my own
age, with whom I giddily threw myself into all the pleasures of life.
It was a joyous time! What would I not give to recall those fleeting
hours of my youth, with all their happy experiences. Where is now
the lovely stream, over whose dewy banks the reeds and grasses bent
to watch the play of sunlight on its smiling face? Where the crystal
{78} pools, the scenes of my adventures in an enchanted world? the
dark-bearded stones, ’neath which we followed many a giddy course,
our hearts throbbed with fright as we came face to face with some
motionless Eel, or touched the silver scales of a dreamy Carp? I
can recall the great fish, troubled in his sleep, viewing us with a
quick, angry glance, until, perceiving our shame and confusion, he
smiled, and we renewed our game.
It is impossible to describe the pleasure of being rocked, caressed
and fondled by the current as it pursues its tranquil course. Every
ray of sunlight that found its way through the willows revealed new
wonders. The dull, dead sand was glorified by the light until it
shone like a bed of jewels. Myriads of creatures seemed to spring
into life. The weeds flashed with a thousand hues, the hard-hearted
pebbles flung back the rays with a brightness that pierced the deep
recesses of the stony bed.
Delirious with joy, how often have I not dived to mingle with the
light, to catch something of the fleeting charms it scattered so
lavishly around. At such times I completely lost my head. (Pardon me,
dear reader, should I seem to exaggerate; a Tadpole who has lost his
head must make the most of his _tail_, as he has nothing more left
to him.) We then thought ourselves indomitable, pursuing shoals of
microscopic fish that sought and found shelter beneath the stones.
But the huge Spiders, walking on the water and devouring all they
came across, afforded rare sport. Gliding cautiously up behind, we
used to lick the soles of their feet, and dart off, amazed at our
own audacity, to seek cover beneath the shade of lily leaves. I have
passed whole days under those leaves, examining with the profound
admiration of youth, the delicacy and beauty of their configuration.
In each one of their pores I discovered little lungs, and such a
marvellous organisation, that I dared not touch them, so much was
I moved by the notion that, like ourselves, they must have feeling
as well as vitality. These reflections intensified my curiosity to
such a degree, that I made my way among the roots to try and find
out the secrets of plant life, and see for myself the source of so
much beauty. It seemed to me that the water-lily was a perfect type
of goodness. It ungrudgingly displayed its charms to the gaze of
the world, at the same time sheltering with its broad leaves the
tenderest forms of life. Flower, leaves, and root alike refused to
yield up their secrets, and yet though silent, every detail of their
form was eloquent with the praise {79} of their Creator. Thoughts
of the good fellowship subsisting between plants and animals brought
tears to my eyes, which I suppose I must have shed and thus swollen
the stream beneath which I was submerged. All those things made a
permanent impression on my mind, although I have had my days of
scepticism, when it appeared to me that disorder and misery were
the ruling powers of the world. As my age advanced, my powers made
corresponding progress; strange longings for a higher state of
development filled my head, while my tail shortened and responded
more and more tardily to its office of oar and rudder. Sharp pains
shot through my posterior, ending in the growth of feet and lungs.
In truth, I was becoming a Toad! The transformation is not without
its moral significance. New members brought with them obligations
to which I was a stranger, hardly knowing how to use the attributes
Providence had placed at my disposal.
One day, I descried on the bank of the stream a Goose and her family
about to take their daily bath. The scene was not new to me, but
the emotions which filled my breast differed from anything I had
experienced. The Goslings were lying all of a heap on a tuft of fine
grass, and from my point of view, presented a confused mass of down,
gilded by the sun. Here and there a little yellow beak might be seen.
But the immobility of their position, and the utter abandonment
of their postures informed me of their perfect contentment and
tranquillity. The young brood was steeped in sleep, while the mother,
bending a tender, watchful eye over them, uttered a sound so touching
to their hearts, that every eye blinked, and every beak opened with a
joyous quack.
“Good morning, mother,” they seemed to say, “Is it time for our bath?”
“Yes, lazy little ones. Do you not hear the music of the stream,
or feel the heat of the mid-day sun? Your heads are exposed to its
scorching rays.”
“O mother! don’t disturb our rest,” they replied. “You have no notion
of our comfort. The drowsy humming of the bees, the languid nodding
of the harebell, and the scent of the new-mown hay are soothing us to
sleep.”
“Hush your silly prattle and wake. A little courage, a little
self-denial, my dears, and up with you.”
This was too much for the Goslings who slowly separated, presenting
a confusion of pink feet, plushy wings, and golden beaks most {80}
interesting to behold. Some rolled over and over in their attempts
to gain their legs. At length they succeeded, and went waddling, and
wagging their stumpy tails streamwards. When they reached the water’s
edge, after many hesitations, strivings, and chatterings, they at
last stretched their necks and entered boldly to float with the
current.
[Illustration]
“Strike out, my dears,” said the dame. “Heads erect, mind. It is
supremely vulgar, my children, to bend the head unless to pick up
something to your advantage. Kick the water bravely; it is made to
serve you.”
It was a beautiful sight, and I was about to ask permission to {81}
make one of their number, when the mother, in passing, haughtily
tossed her beak in the air, saying, “Avoid slimy toads, and all such
creatures—their presence is defiling!”
Judge, dear reader, of my pain and surprise. I dived into a dark pool
to drown my wounded pride. When I again came to the surface, the
interval had transformed me into a truly melancholy toad. A large
spider, with whom I had become acquainted, passed over my head,
smiling kindly at me; but he won no responsive smile. Feeling need of
breath, I mechanically sought the bank, and was startled by a hoarse
voice shouting—
“Confound you, reptile!” I turned, and perceived a gay personage
decked in blue and gold—a Kingfisher. “What are you doing there,
stupid? You with the four superfluous feet, body, head, and eyes.
You slimy scoundrel! Don’t you know your vile presence poisons the
stream? Get out, else I will swallow you like a gudgeon. Ugh!” I
thought he was going to be sick. “Make off, you frighten my clients.”
He was a fine-looking fellow, the colour of heaven itself; but with a
voice like a lawyer, or the devil. To tell the truth, I was so afraid
of him that I made for the bank. When fairly out of the water, I
leant over its surface to return thanks for all the pleasure it had
afforded me. To my horror, I beheld at my feet a strange misshapen
thing, bearing some likeness to my father. I moved my head, it did
the same; I raised my feet, it imitated the motion.
“Hah! hah!” shrieked the Kingfisher, “you lovely coquette! what do
you think of your beautiful proportions?”
“What!” I said, “is that my image?”
“Yes, my treasure; are you not proud of the picture?”
It was all too true. There I was, and the willows above me as a
frame, and the blue heaven as a background to my poor image. Well,
after all, I thought the pure mirror of the stream was perhaps my
truest friend, as it taught me to know myself. Bidding adieu to
my former haunts, I turned my back upon the stream, and soon felt
humbled and forsaken. My departure was quite unnoticed. The river
went on its way as before, not a single blade of grass, not an insect
moved to wish me a happy journey. Could I then be so completely
dispensed with, I who at first had thought the world all my own?
I felt so ashamed of giving offence that I asked pardon of the
Kingfisher, who replied—
“Go to —— ! ” I dare not repeat his answer, it was of such a nature
{82} as to convince me that he was a bird of the world. Day began to
decline, and feeling fatigued, I sat down to rest. Being of a dreamy
disposition, I found pleasure in contemplating nature. In front was
a forest wrapped in a veil of purple mist, behind which the sun was
setting and shooting its rays like fiery arrows through the leaves.
Above, the calm sky was of a pale green hue, so soft, so full of
tenderness, it filled my breast with the feeling that after all I was
not forsaken, and gave me courage to live on. Pray do not set me down
as a foolish toad, living on the pleasures of imagination. It is in
such follies as these that I have found the chief joys of my life.
The disinherited ones of earth must gather consolation where they
can. The air was hushed, the flowers and grasses sparkled with dewy
gems, the birds had sought their evening perches, and were singing
each other to sleep. All around were crowds of little beings, pushing
on to their homes, tired of the business of the day and covered with
dust. Some one, doubtless, was waiting and watching for the return of
each insect wanderer. Such thoughts as these again weighed down my
heart with a feeling of utter loneliness and despair. Happily, not
far from where I stood, I perceived a hole between two roots, which
I prudently approached, and timidly feeling the walls, I entered.
Surely, I thought, this will prove a quiet resting-place, when I
heard a regular monotonous noise resembling some one snoring.
“Who is there?” cried a gruff voice; at the same moment I felt a
sharp prick in my hind-quarters.
“I am a young toad, sir, not long out of the water.”
“Oh, horrors!” continued the voice.
“Forgive my intrusion, I will leave your house.” My eyes had become
accustomed to the darkness, and I made out my adversary to be a
jagged ball—a porcupine, would you believe it? This redoubtable
personage was rather good to me. The stab with his quills, which had
nearly killed me, still causes great suffering in damp weather. On my
assurance that I did not snore, he allowed me to pass the night in
his quarters. After he had a fair view of me, he cried—
“You are ugly! and that is drawing it mild. You are ugly, feeble,
clumsy, impotent, silly!”
“Yes,” I murmured, for I felt he spoke the truth.
“You little affected monster, do not add to your ridiculous
appearance by simulating wisdom and modesty. You are neither rich
enough nor independent enough to indulge in such vanities. You are
{83} doomed to be hated, strive to hate in return, it will give
you strength, and when one is strong, one is joyful. Should any
one approach you, spit at him! Resent even a look by your noxious
spittle. Show your spots, your wounds, your slimy horrors. Make men
flee and dogs bark at your hideousness. May the hatred of others be a
shield to you. You, if you are not a fool, will find joy in hating.
Be proud of your horrible envelope, as I am of my quills, and above
all, do as I do—love no one.”
“If you do not love me a little”—here he burst out laughing—“just a
very little, why do you give me such good advice?”
“Why, my simple friend,” he said, “I do not love you. You amuse me,
since the _rôle_ you are about to play resembles my own. My enemies
will be yours also. Don’t you see that the prospect of wounding their
superfine feelings through such an ugly medium affords me a new
pleasure? Let us be mutually accommodating, a joint-stock thorough
nuisance to all who affect to loathe what God has made for some good
end. I hardly know what I am made for, and next to erecting my quills
offensively, like the bayonets on which some thrones are built, my
chief happiness consists in doing nothing.”
These maxims seemed odious to me. I had no hand in making myself,
otherwise my mouth should have been more contracted, and my stomach
less capacious. Had I been consulted, I hardly think I would have
chosen a “fretful porcupine” as my model, nor yet my father, poor
old toad! who lived a contented sober life, and died regretting
that his paunch had reached its fullest rotundity. It was no fault
of mine that I inspired horror. If ugly and deformed, I was endowed
with a profound love of the beautiful, which compensated in some
measure for my awkward appearance, and, if I may use the expression,
with a merciful provision of vanity, which enabled me ever to admire
and cherish my own body. If my body was all too solid to respond
to my every wish, yet my dreams and imaginings were unfettered as
the wind. The reader, if he cares to study the habits of such an
humble creature as the toad, will discover much truth in what I say;
moreover, if he be an ill-favoured person, he may find comfort in my
philosophic view of life.
A love-sick toad may be deemed by some an object worthy of ridicule;
nevertheless, as my romantic experiences form one of the most
eventful pages in my history, I am bound to take the reader into my
confidence. {84}
I had reached that period of development when, rejoicing in the
strength of youth and the full maturity of my faculties, I leaped
from place to place, not without aim, as many might suppose, but
in the pursuit of knowledge, frolic, or recreation. The sun shone
brightly, grass and flowers were in full bloom around, breathing an
intoxicating perfume into the midday air, when I first beheld the
object of my dreams. My enemies may think me a plagiarist, and that
I have lifted my sentiment from some modern novel. All I can say is
that my book is nature, which I recommend to the study of writers
of fiction, many of whose works would poison the morals of toads,
for these prefer unadorned truth to the gaudy tinsel of the literary
showman.
My love was bewitching in her dress of pale green. Oh how fondly I
followed her with my eyes as she leaped from leaf to leaf, until
at last I beheld her against the sky, her silken wings spread out
to their fullest, descending lightly on to a blade of grass, which
bending, swayed to and fro in the breeze! Flying in the air, toying
with the flowers, making them quiver on their stems without soiling
a single petal, skimming the placid water, admiring her own image
on the wing, this fair creature won my heart. Vainly I strove to
court her glance, forgetful that a vile toad in love is no more
pleasing to the eye than a toad in grief or any other mood. At last
she turned towards me, and in that weak moment I tried to smile,
thinking I should look less repulsive. Alas! I discovered that my
capacious mouth, bloated-looking eyes, and unyielding physiognomy,
were powerless to respond to the sentiment of my heart. Besides, my
pretty grasshopper failed to see me, or mistook my form for a clod of
earth. Soon a deep shadow fell across me, and turning, I perceived
a chubby boy advancing slowly, cautiously, armed with a huge net at
the end of a long stick. I had already frequently observed him trying
to catch butterflies and winged insects. When one of these poor,
pretty, perfect little things escaped him, he lost his temper with
his coveted prize, and savagely continued pursuit, crushing the first
victim that fell to his net. I said to myself, “This is horrible!
To this boy it appears a crime for an insect to strive to escape
death. What have they done to warrant such a fate? They have not even
the misfortune to be ugly.” This cruelty had such an effect on me,
that one night I dreamed I saw large toads become light and mobile,
catching men-children in their nets, and pinning them to the trunks
of trees. I accepted the dream as a bad omen, and rightly, for not
long after I descried the child coming {85} towards the grasshopper,
and divined that he was bent on capturing my lady-love. Not a moment
was to be lost. I saw the danger, calculated my distance, and leaped
just to the spot where the boy’s foot fell; he slipped on my back and
rolled to the ground.
My love escaped from the snare! But I suffered greatly, having one of
my hind-feet crushed and broken; yet, in spite of my agony, it was
the sweetest moment of my life. The child got up crying, and seeing
the cause of his fall, ran off in terror, only stopping in his flight
to cast a stone at me. Happily he was as unskilful as wicked, and
I was left with only a few scratches. My heroine, who had taken in
the whole situation, came towards me accompanied by many friends. I
should have preferred her being alone. Her companions were daintily
dressed, perfumed with the fine essence of flowers, and seemed to
be led towards me more by curiosity than compassion. When they had
gathered around, I raised my eyes in hope of the happiness that I
thought awaited me.
“Is it this poor wretch, did you say, my darling, who was crushed?”
murmured a grasshopper in the tone of one about to perform a very
disagreeable duty. “Oh! ah! This is really disgusting. Mark the
creature’s wounds—how horrible! If one were not sustained by elevated
sentiments, one would feel inclined to quit the scene. Oh, the
hideous monster! Is it not strange that heroism should appear in such
ignoble guise?”
Here this heartless drivelling fool stroked his chin with his
foot and looked as if he had said rather a good thing. My
grasshopper-goddess laughed affectedly, and I think made a sign to
them to fetch her the strongest perfume to stifle the odour of my
bleeding body. Addressing me, she said, “Say, my good fellow, why did
you render me this service? Do you know that yours was a fine action?”
The moment had arrived for me to cast myself at her feet and proclaim
my love, and I stammered out, “Willingly would I have sacrificed my
life to save you, my love! my treasure! my”——
Sad to relate, my voice was drowned in the coarse laughter of the
lady and her foolish friends.
“Upon my honour,” said one, “this is a gay toad!” “Hah! hah! a
mangled toad in love!” roared another. “Isn’t he a romantic-looking
creature?” inquired a third. “Come, ladies, one of you waltz with
him. Nay, don’t go too near, I think he has teeth.” {86}
They then walked round and examined me with their glasses in the most
insulting manner.
“I find him less hideous than grotesque,” murmured the queen. “It is
his head that is unique. Why, his face is enough to make the daisies
yellow, and freeze the swamps with fright! Have you all seen his eye?”
“Yes! yes! his eye,” they replied, “is very strange! very strange!”
Could anything be more galling to my pride to be thus made the butt
of these hateful fools? Had they stabbed me to the heart, I think I
should have survived in spite of them, but their jeers and laughter
made me die a thousand deaths. Under the dominion of proud sentiment
(of which I am now heartily ashamed), I raised myself on my bleeding
foot and addressed the grasshoppers.
“I ask you for neither pity nor recompense. You yourselves
witnessed”——
“Listen!” said one; “he speaks well, although thick, like a person in
liquor.”
“This is horribly interesting.”
“You witnessed,” I continued, almost fainting, “an act of devotion.
I loved”—— The hilarity burst forth anew, and the grasshoppers, no
longer able to control themselves, joined hands and danced round me
like a troop of green devils, singing—
“Hail, lover, hail! joy to your tender heart.”
They certainly enjoyed themselves thoroughly that day. After all,
they had only obeyed their nature, and I had mistaken my own.
I had fully proved my own vanity and stupidity—at least, that was the
opinion of my friend the Porcupine, who that night drove me out of
his den.
From that time I felt myself an outcast, and sought humbly to win
the favour of my own kind by making myself useful in my own proper
sphere. I became almost a creature of the night, and lost sight of
much of the beautiful that had charmed me, for the world is full of
beautiful things to those who can look out of and beyond themselves.
It boasts also fortunate beings whose lives would be all the more
happy if they would only consent, now and then, to yield up one of
their joyous hours to gladden the hearts of the poor. I ask you, dear
reader, is it not so? You may be a creature, charming in person,
refined in manner, and successful. Their attributes, as you use
them, may make {87} you either a god-like ministering spirit in the
world, or a fascinating fiend. Your strong sympathy and timely help
may lighten the burden of the poor, may cause a deformed brother to
forget his deformity and delight in your beauty as much as if it
were his own. There would be no plain-looking or even ugly creatures
to curse the day of their birth, were there no cruel, well-favoured
observers to wound them with their looks and gestures. But I am
forgetting the lesson which I myself learned late in life. I had put
myself in the way of finding out by experience that a poor toad could
never have wings, nor, though everything is fair in love and war,
could he hope to win the heart of a grasshopper.
I am now full of years and philosophy; my wife, like myself, is
a contemplative full-bodied toad, in whose eyes I am perfectly
beautiful. I must own my appearance has greatly improved. The like
compliment cannot be honestly paid to my mother-in-law, who has
caused me no small trouble. She increases in age and infirmities. The
reader will pardon my repeating, that notwithstanding my rotundity,
I am no longer ugly. Should he have any doubt on this point, let him
ask my wife!
[Illustration]
{88}
THE THEATRICAL CRITIC.
MY DEAR MASTER,
[Illustration]
You must feel alarmed during this hot weather at seeing the walls
inscribed with “Death to poodle-dogs,” having yesterday, with your
own hand, sent me adrift without either muzzle or collar. You knew
that I wanted my liberty; I was indeed constrained to beg of you to
let me go by what you would term “some subtle indescribable impulse.”
To tell the truth, the conversation you carried on with your friends
about Boileau, Aristotle, Smith’s last book, and the “five unities,”
proved dull. I listened to you as long as I could, then yawned, and
barked as if I heard some one at the door. Nothing would for one
instant draw your attention from scientific discussion.
You even pushed me off your knee just as you had clinched an argument
by pointing out that the ancients were always the ancients.
It was truly unkind of you to persist in remaining indoors when duty
and inclination called me abroad. At last you let me go. I had found
on the table an order for a stage-box in the Theatre of the Animals,
a glorious place where they were only waiting for you and me. For two
reasons I will refrain from writing down a full review of the play:
first, because I am only a novice in the art; and secondly, because
you, my master, gain your bread by descriptive writing. How could
you. {89} cram your paper daily if you had not at hand all the stock
phrases of dramatic criticism? As for myself, I feel rich in the mine
of poesy that prompts every wag of my shaggy tail.
I should be an ungrateful dog if I robbed you of your capital. Your
imagination I have nothing to find fault with, seeing that your
greatest successes, as a dramatic critic, were penned on plays you
never took the trouble to witness.
I made my way to the theatre on foot, for the weather was fine.
I came across some agreeable acquaintances on the way, all going
with their noses to the wind. The bulldog at the door respectfully
inclined his head as I entered the box and threw myself carelessly
into a chair, my right foot on the velvet cushion in front, and my
legs resting on a couch. This graceful attitude you yourself assume
when preparing to sit out, or sleep out, a five-act play.
I had hardly been seated two minutes when the orchestra was invaded
by musicians. These personages were the gayest to behold. The flute
was played by a goose, while a donkey struck the harp—_asinus
ad lyram_, wrote some erudite poet. A turkey clacked in E flat.
The symphony began, and resembled those of which you speak so
enthusiastically every winter. The curtain then rose, and my troubles
as a critic commenced.
[Illustration]
It was a very solemn drama, written by a sort of greyhound, or {90}
half-greyhound and half-bulldog, a half-English half-German animal,
who had entered the Dogs’ Institute of Paris.
This great dramatic poet, whose name is Fanor, has a way of
manufacturing dramas as ingenious as it is simple. He first goes to
Mr. Puff’s Pug and demands a subject, next he makes his way to Mr.
Scribe’s Poodle and engages him to write it. When the play is put on
the stage, he employs six pariahs to applaud it, brutes they are who
bark savagely. He is a wonderful fellow. Fanor wears his coat well
brushed and most artistically curled, altogether he is just the sort
of cur to wait upon rank and bow it into the boxes.
The play was said to be new. Let us skip the first scene. It is
always the same—servants and confidants explaining the nature of the
crimes, griefs, intrigues, virtues, or ambitions of their masters.
Do you know, my master, it was perhaps a great mistake to remove the
muzzles of our poets. The traffic in the sublime has been left to
an unmuzzled race of poodle-dog poetasters. It was not so with the
ancients who wore the bands of art, and who dwelt far from the common
crowd within the temple of the Muses. As well-fed watchdogs, they
were thus restrained from poking their noses into the accumulated
filth of history.
There is more in the muzzle than one would think. It is a safeguard
against the spread of the hydrophobia of literature, so prevalent in
our own times, and requiring all the bullets of cold-blooded critics
to keep it in check. Evils other than the unnatural howlings and riot
of modern tragedy are caused by liberty. There is an unearthing of
old bones, which are scraped, polished, and displayed as the product
of that modern genius the nineteenth-century dramatist, who with
tragic instinct consigns the memory of their real owners to eternal
death and oblivion.
The tendency of some grovelling dogs thus to become resurrectionists
is too well known to require further comment at my hands. Death to
those who before us said what we will to say, “_Pereant qui ante nos
nostra dixerunt!_”
Little by little the plot expanded. When the pugs had revealed all
their masters’ secrets and hidden thoughts, the masters themselves
appeared, and in their turn gave us the paraphrase of what had
preceded, together with the culmination of their passions. If you
only knew how many odious persons I beheld. Imagine two old foxes
in mourning for their tails: these with a couple of superannuated
wolves, recumbent, {91} and gazing vacantly around; a pair of
badly-licked dancing bears, waltzing to soft music; weasels with
frayed ears and gloved hands, made up a staff of threadbare
comedians, all professing their loves and passions on the stage. Yet
I am told that outside the theatre door they would tear each other’s
eyes out for a leg of mutton or horse’s ham. But I had for the
moment forgotten that the secrets of public life should be carefully
walled around, so I dutifully returned to my analysis, in, I own, a
roundabout sort of way. The language was not very intelligible. It
was all about the sorrows of unfortunate Queen Zemire and her lover
Azor. You have no notion of the singular and unaccountable stuff
crowded into this hybrid composition.
The beautiful Zemire is a Queen of Spain, descended from a noble
stock, counting among her ancestors a jolly dog named Cæsar.
In the back-kitchen of the castle, and in the noble _rôle_ of
turnspit, a mangey animal, but withal a worthy fellow, named Azor,
turned the queen’s spit (while Queen Zemire had turned his head). He
says—
“Belle Zemire, O vous, blanche comme l’hermine,
O mon bel ange à l’œil si doux
Quand donc à fin prendrez-vous
En pitié mon amour, au fond de la cuisine,” &c. &c.
These verses, improvised by the pale light of the lamp, were found
admirable. The friends of the poet exclaimed, “Ah! sublime! They are
perfumed with the profoundest sentiment!” In vain the linguists—curs,
griffins, and boars—sought to criticise. “Why,” said they, “should
kitchen and cookery in a high-class composition be mixed up with
flowers and sentiment? What was there in a turnspit and its
associations—the devouring appetite of the queen, &c.—to fan the
flame of passion?” These expressions, let fall at random, nearly cost
them their seats.
The verses were forcibly rendered by Azor, who scratched himself at
intervals, either to relieve his feelings or lend piquancy to his
love. At last the lover subsided into his daily barking prose.
“Zemire! Zemire! Oh how I long to kiss the ground beneath thy feet!”
(in carrying out this ardent desire he would have encountered no
reasonable difficulty, as the full-bodied lady left her footprints
wherever she trod—this by the way). Azor howls in his agony of heart,
when the kitchen-boy all at once throws some hot cinders into his
eyes to remind him of his neglected duties at the spit.
I must tell you that in the castle there is a nasty dog, a Dane named
{92} Du Sylva, an intimate friend of the Count’s horses, with whom,
for his own pleasure, he goes hunting. He is, as you shall see, a cur
fierce, jealous, implacable, and desperately wicked. He is hopelessly
enamoured of the beautiful Zemire, who treats the attentions of this
northern boor with scorn. What does the Dane do? He, of course,
dissembles with such craft one would imagine he had forgotten the
insults heaped upon him. Alas! the traitor is only biding his time.
One day he finds Azor in the castle moat, looking fondly towards
his lady’s nest. “Azor, follow me,” says the Dane. He obeyed, and
followed with his tail hung pensively between his legs. What does
the Dane then do? He led Azor to a neighbouring pool, and ordered
him to plunge and remain there for an hour. Azor obeys gladly. The
cool water soothes his skin, and carries off the taint of cooking.
It imparts lustre to his disordered fur, grace to his sickly body,
vivacity to his eyes, which have been dimmed by the light of the
fire. Leaving the pool, Azor rolls with delight on the sweet-smelling
grass, impregnating his coat with the odour of flowers. He completes
his toilet by whitening his teeth against the lichen of an old tree.
That done, he feels the return of youth. The warm blood throbs
through his heart, and his pensive tail wags briskly with the sense
of new life. The whole world seems to open before him. There is
nothing to which he may not aspire, not even the paw of Zemire. At
sight of these extraordinary transports the Dane laughed in his
sleeve, like the crafty rascal he was. He seemed to mutter, “Curses
fall upon you, fool! You shall pay dearly for my fellowship!”
I ought to tell you, master, that this scene was played with great
success by the celebrated Laridon. He is perhaps rather stout and old
for his _rôle_, nevertheless, as they say in the papers, his energy
and _chic_ carry all before them.
[Illustration]
Perhaps the finest scene was laid in the forest of Aranjuez, when
the queen-dog walked pensively along with ears cast down, and a
poodle held her graceful tail. Suddenly, at the bend of a path, she
encounters Azor—Azor renewed, resplendent—the Azor of her dreams.
Is it really he? Oh mystery! oh terror! oh joy!! Their eyes meet,
and, eloquent with passion, tell their tale of love. Everything was
forgotten in those moments of bliss. Had any one reminded Zemire
that she filled one of the proudest thrones in the world, she would
have replied, “What of that, so long as one loves?” Had Azor been
informed of his humble position, he would simply {93} have shown his
teeth. Oh delights, miseries, joys of love! and also, to conclude
my exclamations, oh vanity of vanities! know that every door has a
hinge, every lock a key, on the rose is a grub, in the {94} kennel
a dog, and to every lamp, for the most cogent reason, there belongs
a wick, and so in the forest of Aranjuez there lurks a terrible Dane
who views our friends’ behaviour from afar.
[Illustration]
“Ah! oh! so you love each other, do you? Tremble! tremble! for {95}
your fate.” While speaking thus, when Zemire had quitted the scene,
the Dane approached Azor. “So! so!” said he, “Zemire thinks you
angelic in your borrowed beauty. You must now assume the skin of
a porcupine, and with quills erect, dirty, hideous, smeared with
sand and ashes, show yourself to Zemire, and break the spell that
binds her!” Thus howled the Dane, giving full vent to his passion in
foaming rage. Poor Azor obeyed, and appeared before his mistress.
Standing beneath a frightful long-beaked heron, he bowed to the
queen, declaring that he had played her false, as he was only an
obscure turnspit, and begging her forgiveness. Then he remained
motionless, prepared for his doom. Zemire cast herself at his feet,
“Ah!” she said, “let me share your sorrows. I love you still, even in
your vile condition. There! I give you my paw in the face of all the
world.”
[Illustration]
{96}
During this touching scene the whole house was moved to tears, and
at the close came down with thunders of applause. Every one, beasts
and birds—even to a flea on the tip of my nose—seemed delirious
with excitement. With great presence of mind I bit the tail of an
impulsive cock, arresting his flight to the stage to challenge the
Dane. In a few soothing words I assured him that the villain was
really a very decent fellow in his own house. At the same time I
reminded him that, as the village cock, he might be missed in the
morning from his dunghill, where he performed the useful office of
heralding the dawn.
The curtain fell on the fourth act. As to the fifth, I do not intend
to usurp your place as critic, but will conclude by saying that in
this act the dogs had become tigers—a natural metamorphosis of which
good authors avail themselves. The tiger, with equal consistency,
killed his wife by mistake, and consoled himself by slaughtering his
friends. It seems, when fairly married, Zemire became a tigress.
This, I have heard, is one of those unaccountable changes which not
unfrequently occur in real life. Be that as it may, the curtain at
last fell on scenes of crime, murder, and confusion.
[Illustration]
After the close of the drama, attendants handed round refreshments.
As for me, I followed your example. As it was the first night of
representation, I left the box at once with the air of one burdened
with thought; and making my way to the green-room, joined a group
of theatrical critics walking about with a supercilious pedantic
air. One had the {97} sting of the wasp, another the beak of the
vulture, a third the cunning of the fox. Beasts of prey were there,
hungering for helpless victims. Lions proudly showing their teeth. Of
mischievous animals of all sorts, it was a goodly company. I ought to
inform you, as soon as it became known that you belonged to me I was
permitted to go behind the scenes, and to cultivate the acquaintance
of the actors. But I must now conclude this rambling review, a
friendly greyhound is waiting to join me at supper.
[Illustration]
{98}
THE PHILOSOPHIC RAT.
PERSONAGES.
GNAWER, _Rat with grey beard_.
TROTTER, _A young rat, pupil of Gnawer_.
BABOLIN, _Dispenser of holy water_.
TOINON, _Daughter of Babolin_.
A VOICE.
SCENE I.
A DINING-ROOM MODESTLY FURNISHED.
GNAWER _alone, coming and going, seemingly much preoccupied_.
[Illustration]
My pupil Trotter is coming to share my dinner. I hope he may find no
cause to regret his old master’s invitation [_smelling an old piece
of cheese he found under the table_]. There now is a bit of cheddar
whose delicious perfume would make a dead rat come to life! We shall
hear what my pupil thinks of it. The rats of the rising generation
are so strange they seem to care for nothing. Nothing pleases them,
or dispels the frown they constantly wear. In my young days we were
less fastidious, we took things as they came. One day we dined off
corn, another off wood—wood or corn, it was all the same to us. Now,
alas! all is changed. There is no contentment. If my pupils have
bacon and nuts, they lament the absence of cheese. What is the world
coming to? Trotter is late, I wonder if anything has happened to him.
{99}