In spite of these petty troubles and annoyances—who is exempt from

them in this world?—Topaz filled his barns; and his fame increased,

keeping pace with his fortune. He perceived that the time had arrived

for him to fill a larger field. His own industry had secured for him

riches and honour, but the dream of his life was yet unfulfilled.

Why should he not embrace the golden opportunity, and become a great

teacher, a benefactor of his kind? His fame had reached the ears

of a distant potentate, an Elephant-sovereign whose territory was

somewhere—no matter where—it had never found its way into any {172}

map; no civilised being had ever set foot on his soil. This Elephant

sent an embassy to the Parisian painter, charged with the mission

of bringing Topaz to his court. He was an elephantine Francis I.,

calling to his presence another Léonardo da Vinci. His brilliant

offers were at once accepted. This is how absolute monarchs proceed

in their caprices, Topaz was promised, besides a considerable share

of the native produce, the title of Cacique, and the ribbon of the

ivory tooth. The artist set off mounted on a horse, and followed

by a mule, bearing his faithful Sapajo and his precious machine.

He at length arrived without accident at the court of the Sultan

Poussal. Topaz was at once introduced to his Royal Highness, by

the usual Minister of Rites and Ceremonies. The artist prostrated

himself before the potentate, who gracefully raised him with the

point of his proboscis, and allowed him to kiss one of his enormous

feet, the same foot which later—but I must not anticipate events.

His Massive Majesty was in such a ferment of impatient curiosity,

that before taking any rest or refreshment, Topaz was requested to

unpack his box and set to work without delay. He accordingly prepared

his instrument, heated his drugs, and selected his finest plate for

the royal image. The plate was small, but it was necessary that the

entire elephant should figure on its surface.

“Good,” said Topaz, “since it is a miniature His Majesty requires, I

am certain he will be delighted with the result” (Topaz recalled his

early experience with the Boar).

He placed the king as far as possible from the camera so as to

diminish his image and fill the plate, after which he conducted his

operations with the nicest care. All the courtiers awaited the result

with anxiety as profound as if it were the casting of a statue. The

sun was scorching. After a few minutes the artist took up the plate

lightly, and triumphantly presented it to the gaze of His Majesty;

hardly had the king cast his eyes upon it, when he burst into a loud

laugh, and without knowing why, all the courtiers joined in the royal

hilarity. It was like an Olympian scene.

[Illustration]

“What is this?” roared the Elephant as soon as he could speak. “That

is the portrait of a rat, and you presume to say it is me? You are

joking, my friend” (the laughter still continued), “why,” continued

the king after silence had been restored, his tone getting gradually

more and more severe, “it is owing to my great size and strength

that I have been chosen king. Were I to exhibit this miserable

portrait to my subjects they would imagine I was an insect, a weak,

hardly {173} perceptible, creature, only fit to be dethroned and

crushed. The interest of the State, sir, forbids my taking this

course,” saying which, he hurled the plate at the artist, who bowed

down to the ground, not so much from humility as to escape a shock

that would have been fatal to {174} him. “I should have tested the

truth of the stories so freely circulated about you.”

The king and his ministers were becoming furious.

“Ugh! you are one of the hawkers of inventions and secrets, one of

those innovators we have heard so much of, who prowl about seeking

what good old institution they can devour; fellows who would bring

down our constitution, and heaven itself about our ears, with their

infernal machines. Bah!”

Here the mighty king stepped over the still prostrate body of the

artist, and approaching the innocent machine—in his eyes big with the

darkest plots ever brewed in the heart of a State—full of a no less

legitimate wrath than Don Quixote, when breaking the marionettes of

Master Peter, he raised his formidable foot, and crushed the camera

to atoms.

Adieu fortune, honour, fame, civilisation! Adieu art! adieu artist!

At the sound of the smashing which announced his doom, Topaz sprang

to his feet, and starting off like a man, ended his sorrows in the

waters of the Amazon.

He who became his heir and confidant was Ebony, the poor black

Sapajo, who came over to Europe and studied at one of the

universities, in order to qualify himself to write this history.

[Illustration]

{175}

JOURNEY OF AN AFRICAN LION TO PARIS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

In which the political reasons for the visit of Prince Leo shall be

fully discussed.

[Illustration]

At the foot of the Atlas, on its desert side, there reigns an old

Lion. Much of his youth was spent in travelling. He had visited the

Mountains of the Moon, lived in Barbary, Timbuctoo, in the land

of the Hottentots, among the republicans of Tangier, and among

Troglodytes. From his universal benevolence he acquired the name

of Cosmopolite, or friend of all the world. Once on the throne, it

became his policy to justify the jurisprudence of the lions; carrying

this beautiful axiom into practice—“To take is to learn.” He passed

for one of the most erudite monarchs of his time, and, strange as

it may seem, he utterly detested letters and learning. “They muddle

still more what was muddled before.” This was a saying in which he

took peculiar delight.

It was all very well; his subjects, nevertheless, were possessed by

an insane craving for progress and knowledge. Claws appeared menacing

him on all points. The popular displeasure poisoned even the members

of the Cosmopolite’s family who began to murmur. They complained

bitterly of his habit of shutting himself up with a griffin, and

counting his treasure without permitting a single eye to rest upon

the heap. {176}

This Lion spoke much, but acted little. Apes, perched on trees, took

to expounding most dangerous political and social doctrines; tigers

and leopards demanded a fair division of the revenue, as indeed, in

most commonwealths, the question of meat and bones divided the masses.

On various occasions the old Lion had to resort to severe measures

to quell the public discontent. He employed troops of savage dogs

and hyenas to act as spies, but they demanded a high price for their

service. Too old to fight, the Cosmopolite was desirous of ending his

days peacefully—as he said, in Leonine language—“to die in his den.”

Thus his difficulties and the instability of his throne set him to

scheming.

When the young princes became troublesome he stopped their allowance

of food, wisely reflecting that there is nothing like an empty

stomach for sharpening instinct, and sending the young lions to seek

food abroad. At last, finding Liona in a state of hopeless agitation,

he hit upon a very advanced policy for an animal of his age, viewed

by diplomatists as the natural development of the tricks which

rendered his youth famous.

One evening while surrounded by his family, it is recorded that the

king yawned several times. In the annals of a less enlightened State

this important fact might have been overlooked. He then uttered

these memorable words: “I feel age and infirmity creeping on apace.

I am weary of rolling the stone called royal power. My mane has

grown grey in the service of my country; I have spent my strength,

my genius, and my fortune; and what, my children, is the result?

Simply nothing! nothing, save discontent! I ought to lavish bones and

honours on my supporters. Should I succeed in this, it would hardly

stifle the national discontent. Every one is complaining, I alone am

satisfied; but, alas! infirmity gains upon me so surely, that I have

resolved to abdicate in favour of my children. You are young, you

have energy and cunning; get rid of the leaders of popular discontent

by sending them to victory, to death!” Here the venerable potentate,

recalling his youth, growled a national hymn, and ended by urging his

tender-hearted sons to “sharpen their claws, and bristle their manes.”

[Illustration]

“Father,” said the heir-apparent, “if you are really disposed to

yield to the national will, I will own to you that the lions from all

{178} parts of Africa, furious at the _far niente_ of your Majesty,

were about to take up arms against the State.”

“Ah, my fine fellow,” thought the king, “you are attacked by the

malady of royal princes, and would wish for nothing better than my

abdication. I shall teach you a lesson.”

“Prince,” replied the Cosmopolite in a roar, “one no longer reigns by

glory, but by cunning. I will convince you of this by placing you in

harness.”

As soon as the news flashed through Africa, it created a great

sensation. Never before, in the annals of history, had a Lion of the

desert been known to abdicate; some had been dethroned by usurpers,

never had a king of beasts voluntarily left the throne. The event was

therefore viewed with some apprehension, as it had no precedent.

Next morning at daybreak, the Grand Dog Commander of the Life Guards

appeared in his gay costume, fully armed, and around him the guard

ranged in battle-array. The king occupied the throne, surmounted by

the royal arms representing a chimera pursued by a poignard. Then,

before all the birds composing his court, the great Griffin brought

the sceptre and crown to the king who addressed the young lions in

these words, first giving them his benediction—the only thing he

cared to bestow, as he judiciously guarded his treasures—“Children, I

yield you my crown for a few days; please the people, if you can, but

do not fail to report progress.” Then turning to the court, he said

in a voice of thunder, “Obey my son, he has my instructions!”

As soon as the heir was seated on the throne, he was supported by

a band of young, ardent, ambitious followers, whose pretentious

doctrines led to the dismissal of the ancient counsellors of the

crown. Each one desired to sell his advice, so that the number of

places fell far short of the number of place-hunters. Many were

turned back, fired with hatred and jealousy which they poured forth

to the masses in eloquent harangues, stirring up the mud of popular

corruption. Tumults arose; schemes for the destruction of the

young tyrant were everywhere secretly discussed; and the youthful

sovereign was privately informed that his power was built over a

mine of political petroleum and social nitro-glycerine. Alarmed, he

at last sought the counsel of his father who, cunning old rogue, was

busy stirring up the slough of popular disorder and discontent. The

people clamoured for the reinstatement of the venerable Cosmopolite,

who, yielding to the pressure, again {179} received the sceptre

from the hands of his son who was thus completely outwitted by his

crafty parent. The worthy king, moved no doubt by parental love,

determined to rid himself of his dutiful heir by sending him on a

foreign mission. If men have their Eastern question to settle, the

lions also find matters no less pressing to draw their attention to

Europe, where their names, their position, and habits of conquest,

have so long been usurped. Besides, by instituting international

complications, the Cosmopolite succeeded in engaging the attention of

his people, and securing the tranquillity of the State. Accordingly,

the heir-apparent, accompanied by a Tiger in ordinary, was sent to

Paris on a diplomatic mission.

We subjoin the official despatches of the prince and his secretary.

FIRST DESPATCH.

“SIRE,—As soon as your august son had crossed the Atlas Mountains, he

was warmly received by a discharge of loaded muskets presented by the

French outposts. We at once understood this to be a graceful mark of

the homage due to rank. The government officials hastened to secure

him, and even placed at his disposal a carriage decked with bars of

solid iron. The prince was constrained to admire the conveyance as

one of the triumphs of modern civilisation. We were fed with viands

the most delicate, and so far, can only speak in praise of the

manners of France. My master and your slave were conveyed on board

ship and taken to Paris, where we were lodged, at the expense of the

state, in a delicious abode called the King’s Garden. The people

flocked to see us in such crowds that our staff of men attendants

had to put up strong iron rails to protect our royal master from

the vulgar throng. Our arrival was most fortunate, as we found an

unusually large gathering of ambassadors from the animals of all

nations collected in the garden. In a neighbouring palace I perceived

Prince Beanokoff, a white Bear from the other side of the ocean, who

had visited Paris on behalf of his government, and who informed me

that we were the dupes of France, that the lions of Paris dreading

the result of our embassy had shut us up; made us prisoners!

“ ‘How can we find these so-called lions of Paris,’ I inquired—Your

Majesty will appreciate the action I have taken, in order to uphold

your high reputation for boldness and fair dealing—This Bear, seeming

to divine my thoughts, replied, that ‘Parisian lions dwell in

regions where asphalt forms the pavement; where the choicest veneers

and {180} varnishes of civilisation are produced, and guarded by

spirits called the municipal authorities. Go straight on, and when

you reach the quarter St. Georges, you will find them abounding.’

“ ‘You ought to congratulate yourself, Prince Beanokoff, to find that

your name and northern characteristics are not burlesqued in this

capital.’

“ ‘Pardon me, the Beanokoffs are no more exempt from the evil than

are the lions of Leona.’

“ ‘Dear Prince Beanokoff, what possible advantage can man derive from

imitating our attributes?’

“ ‘Ah! you have a great deal to learn. Why, look around at the

pictorial representations of all sorts of animals that figure on the

scutcheons of the nobility. There you will find that the proudest

families claim us as their ancestors.’

“Wishing to make myself fully acquainted with the policy of the

north, I said to him, ‘I suppose, my dear Prince, you have already

represented the matter in a proper light to your government?’

“ ‘The Bears’ cabinet is above dealing with such drivelling

questions. They are more suited to the capacity of the lower animals,

to Lions!’

“ ‘Do you pretend, old iceberg, to ignore the fact that my master is

the king of beasts?’

“The barbarian remained silent and looked so insulting that with

one bound I broke the bars of my prison, his Highness, your son,

followed my example, and I was about to avenge the insult when the

Prince judiciously interfered, saying, ‘We must for the present avoid

conflict with the northern powers, our mission is yet unfulfilled.’

“As this occurred during the night, under cover of darkness, we made

our way into the Boulevards, where at day-break we heard the passing

workmen exclaim, ‘Oh, what heads! would any one believe they were not

real animals?’ ”

SECOND DESPATCH.

_Prince Leo in Paris during the carnival, His Highness’s opinion of

what he saw._

“Your son, with his usual discernment, perceived that we had gained

our liberty just as the carnival was at its height, and thus might

come and go without danger. We felt excessively embarrassed, not

knowing the manners, the usages, or the language of the people. Our

anxiety was relieved in the following manner:— {181}

“Interrupted by severe cold.”

_Prince Leo’s first letter to his father, the King._

“MY DEAR AUGUST FATHER,—When I left the palace, you, with true

paternal affection, bestowed almost nothing on me save your blessing.

Without undervaluing that inestimable gift, I am bound to say I can

raise hardly anything on it among the miserable money-lenders of

this city. My dignity must be maintained on something more closely

resembling coin than a father’s benediction. Paris is unlike the

desert; everything here is bought and sold. I could even find a ready

market for my skin, if I could only get on without it. To eat is

expensive, and to starve, inconvenient.

“Conducted by an elegant Dog, we made our way along the Boulevards

where, owing to our likeness to men, we almost escaped notice. At the

same time we kept a sharp look-out for the Parisiens they call lions.

This Dog, who knew Paris perfectly, consented to become our guide

and interpreter. We were thus enabled like our adversaries to pass

for men in the disguise of brutes. Had you known, sire, what Paris

really is, you would never have troubled me with a mission. I often

fear being compelled to sacrifice my dignity in order to satisfy you.

On reaching the Boulevard des Italiens it became necessary for me

to follow the fashion and smoke a cigar, which caused me to sneeze

so violently as to create a sensation. A popular writer passing,

remarked, ‘These young fellows are well up in their parts!’

“ ‘The question is about to be settled, I said to my Tiger.’

“ ‘Rather,’ suggested the Dog, ‘let it remain for a time like the

Eastern question—diplomatic, vague, doubtful, open! It will pay

better in the end.’

“This Dog, Sire, is constantly affording the most astounding proofs

of his intelligence. It will therefore hardly surprise you, to learn

that he belongs to a celebrated administration, situated in the Rue

de Jerusalem, devoted to the guidance of strangers in France.

[Illustration]

“He led us, as I have just said, to the Boulevard des Italiens,

where, as indeed all over this large town, Nature’s share is very

small. There are trees, but such trees. Instead of pure air, smoke;

instead of rain, dust; so that the leaves are bronzed, and the trees

are mere sticks, supporting a tuft like the crown of leaves on the

brows of the bronze heroes of France. There is nothing grand in

Paris; everything is small, and the cooking is execrable! I entered

a café for breakfast, and {182} asked for a horse, but the waiter

seemed so astonished that we profited by his surprise, took him round

the corner and devoured him. The Dog cautioned us not to make this a

rule, as it might be {183} misunderstood. He nevertheless accepted a

bone which he polished with manifest joy.

“Our guide rather likes talking politics, and his conversation is not

without its fruit. I have picked up wonderful scraps of knowledge

from him. On my return to Leona no tumult shall disturb me, as I have

discovered the best mode of governing the world. The chief in Paris

does not rule; the business of governing and collecting the revenue

is entrusted to a body of senators. Some of whom are descended from

sheep, foxes, and donkeys, but the title of statesmen has made them

lions. When any important question has to be settled, they all speak

in turn, without paying the slightest attention to the views of their

predecessors. One discusses the Eastern question, after some member

who has exhausted himself on the subject of cod-fishing. When they

have all done talking, it is not unfrequently discovered that the

wise ones have carried through some important measure, while the

donkeys have been braying to their heart’s content.

“I noticed a sculpture in the palace, wherein you were represented

struggling with the revolutionary serpent, a work infinitely superior

to any of the statues of men by which it was surrounded. Many of

these poor devils are represented with long dinner-napkins over their

left arms, just like waiters; others, with pots on their heads.

Such a contrast proves our superiority over men, whose imagination

delights in building stones one upon the other, and cutting on their

surface the finest flowers and forms of Nature.

“My Dog informed me that he would take us to a place where we would

behold lions, lynxes, panthers, and Paris birds of night.

“ ‘Why,’ I inquired, ‘does a lynx live in such a country?’

“ ‘The lynx,’ replied the Dog, ‘is accustomed to appropriating. He

plunges into American funds; he hazards the most daring actions in

broad day and darts into concealment. His cunning consists in always

having his mouth open, and strangely enough, doves, his chief food,

are drawn into it.’

“ ‘How is that?’

“ ‘He has cleverly written some word on his tongue which attracts the

doves.’

“ ‘What is the word?’

“ ‘I ought rather to say words. First, there is the word _profit_;

when that has gone it is replaced by _dividend_; after dividend comes

_reserve_, or _interest_. The doves are always caught.’ {184}

“ ‘Why so?’

“ ‘Ah! we are in a land where men have such a low opinion of each

other, that the most foolish is certain to find another more foolish

still—some one simple enough to believe that a slip of printed paper

is a mine of gold. Human governments cannot be held altogether

blameless, as they have too frequently misled the people by their

paper. The operation is called “founding public credit.” When it

happens that the credit exceeds the public credulity, all is lost.’

“Sire, credit does not yet exist in Africa. We might occupy the

malcontents there by getting them to found a bank. My _détaché_—I can

hardly call my Dog an _attaché_—took me to a public café, and, by the

way, explained many of the faults and frailties of beasts. At this

famed resort there were a number of the animals we had been looking

for. Thus the question is being cleared up little by little. Just

imagine, my dear father, a Parisian lion is a young man who wears

patent-leather boots worth about two pounds, a hat of equal value, as

he has nothing better to protect in his head than in his feet; a coat

of six pounds, a waistcoat of two pounds, trousers, three pounds,

gloves, five shillings, tie, one pound; add to these rags about one

hundred pounds for jewellery and fine linen, and you obtain a total

of about one hundred and sixteen pounds, five shillings. This sum

distributed as above, renders a man so proud that he at once usurps

our name. With one hundred and sixteen pounds, five shillings, and,

say, nine-pence for pocket money, one rises far above the common

herd of animals of intellect and culture, and obtains universal

admiration. If one can only lay one’s claws on that sum, one is

handsome, brilliant. One may look with scorn upon the unfortunate

poet, orator, man of science, whose attire is humble and cheap. You

may indeed be what you like; if you do not wear the harness of the

authorised maker, of the regulation cut and cost, you are certain to

be neglected. A little varnish on your boots, and the other etceteras

make up the roaring lion of society. Alas, Sire, I fear the same

varnish and veneer conceals the hollowness of human vanity. Tear it

off, and nothing remains.

“ ‘My lord!’ said my _détaché_, seeing my astonishment on beholding

this frippery, ‘it is not every one who knows how to wear these fine

things. There is a manner, and here, in this country, everything

resolves itself into a question of manners.’

“I sincerely wish I had stayed at home!” {185}

THIRD DESPATCH.

“SIRE,—At the ball, Musard, His Highness, came face to face with a

Parisian lion. Contrary to all dramatic rules, instead of throwing

himself into the prince’s arms, as a real lion would have done, the

Parisian counterfeit almost fainted, but plucking up courage he had

recourse to cunning, and by this talent, common to all low animals,

wriggled out of the situation.

“ ‘Sir,’ said your son, ‘how is it you take our name?’

“ ‘Son of the desert,’ replied the child of Paris in a humble tone,

‘I have the honour of observing that you call yourselves lions. We

have adopted your name.’

“ ‘But,’ said His Highness, ‘what right have you, any more than a

rat, to assume our name?’

“ ‘The truth is we are like yourself, flesh eaters, only we eat our

flesh cooked, you eat yours raw. Do you wear rings?’

“ ‘That is not the question.’

“ ‘Well then,’ continued the Parisian fraud, ‘let us reason, and

clear the matter up. Do you use four different brushes; one for the

hair, another for the hands, a third for the nails, and a fourth for

the skin? Have you nail scissors, moustache scissors? Seven different

sorts of perfume? Do you pay a man so much a month for trimming your

corns? Perhaps you do not know what a chiropodist is. You have no

corns, and yet you ask me why we are called lions. I will tell you

why. We mount horses, write romances, exaggerate the fashions, strut

about, and are the best fellows in the world. You are happy having no

tailor’s bill to pay.’

“ ‘No,’ said the prince of the desert.

“ ‘Well then, what is there in common between us? Do you know how to

drive a tilbury?’

“ ‘No.’

“ ‘Thus you see the strong points in our character are quite

different from yours. Do you play whist, or frequent the Jockey Club?’

“ ‘No,’ said the prince.

“ ‘Well, your Highness, with us whist and the club are everything.’

“This polite nonsense became so aggravating that His Highness replied—

“ ‘Do you, sir, deny that you had me shut up?’

“ ‘I had not the power to shut you up. It was the government. I am

not the government.’ {186}

“ ‘Why did the government impose on His Highness?’ I inquired.

[Illustration]

“ ‘Exactly,’ replied the Parisian. ‘Why? hem! the government {187}

takes no notice of popular whys and wherefores, it has its own

political reasons for action, which are never divulged.’

“On hearing this, the prince was so utterly astounded that he fell on

all fours. The Parisian lion, profiting by the prince’s blind rage,

saluted His Highness, turned a pirouette, and escaped.

“Your august son, deeming it wise to leave men alone to enjoy their

illusions—the gilded toys, the pomp and tinsel, the borrowed names

and nameless follies which make up the happiness and misery of their

existence—prepared to quit Paris. A few days later one read in the

‘Semiphone’ of Marseilles—

“ ‘Prince Leo passed here yesterday _en route_ for Toulon, where he

embarked for Africa. The news of his father’s death is assigned as

the reason of his sudden departure.’

“Tardy justice too often yields its tribute to greatness after death.

This trustworthy organ even gave a picture of the consternation which

your Majesty’s untimely end spread through Leona. ‘The agitation

is so great, that a general rising is feared, and a massacre of

the ancient enemies of the crown. It is asserted that the Dog,

the prince’s guide and interpreter, was present when His Highness

received the fatal news, and bestowed the following advice, so

characteristic of the utter demoralisation of the dogs of Paris:

Prince Leo, if you cannot save all, _save the treasury!_’ ”

{188}

ADVENTURES OF A BUTTERFLY.

_RELATED BY HER GOVERNESS._

Her infancy.—Youth.—Sentimental Journal.—From Paris to Baden.—Her

wanderings, marriage, and death.

EDITORIAL PREFACE.

[Illustration]

In studying the manners and customs of the insect world, naturalists

have brought to light many most curious and interesting facts. In the

case of the three genders of Hymenoptera, each gender performs its

allotted functions with a degree of care, tenderness, and precision

that mimics the complex organisation of human society.

The neuter Hymenoptera are the working members of the insect

world, and enjoy a greater share of life than either the males or

females of their kind, outliving, indeed, two or three successive

generations. In His infinite wisdom, God has denied them the power

of reproduction, and at the same time entrusted to them the care

and rearing of the young. Nothing in nature is without design. The

neuter Hymenoptera bring up the orphan larvæ of their relatives who

invariably die after giving birth to their young. It falls to the lot

of the neuters to provide food for the larvæ who, thus deprived of

the care of their parents, find in the neuter Hymenoptera the nurses

who, with the most tender solicitude, take the place of sisters

of mercy among men. Our correspondents’ account of the life of a

Butterfly will embody some interesting facts relative to the habits

of this beautiful family.

EDITORS.

{189}

“DEAR SIRS,—Had I been requested to write down my personal

experiences I should have declined the task, as it seems to me

impossible to write an honest history of one’s own career. The

following biographical sketch is the fruit of moments stolen from

the active hours of a busy life. I stand alone in the world, and

shall never know the happiness of being either a father or a mother;

I belong to the great family of neuter Hymenoptera. Feeling the

misery of a solitary life, you will not be surprised to learn that

I consented to become a tutor. An aristocratic Butterfly who lived

near Paris in the woods of Belle Vue, had once saved my life, and as

a token of gratitude I consented to become the foster-parent of the

child he would never live to see. The egg was carefully deposited

in the calyx of a flower, and hatched by a ray of sunlight the day

after the parent’s death. It pained me to see the youth begin life

by an act of ingratitude. He left the flower that had found a place

for him in her heart without saying a word. His early education was

most trying to one’s temper; he was as capricious as the wind, and of

unheard-of thoughtlessness. But thoughtless characters are ignorant

of the harm they do, and as a rule, are not unpopular. I loved the

little orphan, although he had all the faults of a poor caterpillar.

My instruction, advice, and guidance seemed to be thrown away upon

him. Full of vivacity and light-heartedness, he embraced every

opportunity of following the bent of his own reckless will. If I left

him for an instant, on my return I never found him in the same place.

He would venture to climb almost inaccessible plants, and risk his

neck along the edges of leaves that hung over a yawning precipice. I

remember being called away on important business, at a time when his

sixteen legs would hardly carry him. On my return, I in vain searched

for my charge, until at last I found him up a tree whose topmost

branch he had reached, at the peril of his life.

“He was scarcely out of his babyhood when his vivacity suddenly

left him. It seemed to me that my counsels were beginning to bear

fruit, but I was soon undeceived. What I had mistaken for signs of

repentance was the chrysalis malady, common to the young. He remained

from fifteen to twenty days without moving a muscle; apparently

asleep.

“ ‘What do you feel like?’ I asked him from time to time. ‘What is

the matter, my poor child?’

“ ‘Nothing,’ he replied in a husky voice. ‘Nothing, my good tutor.

{190} I cannot move about, and yet feel sensations of life and motion

all over me. I am weary, weary, do not talk to me! Keep quiet, do not

stir!’

“He became quite unrecognisable; his body swollen and of a yellow

hue, like a faded leaf. This latent life so much resembled death,

that I despaired of saving him; when one day, warmed by a splendid

sun, he gradually awoke. Never was transformation more startling,

more complete; he had lost his worm-like mould, and rose from

his shell like a disembodied spirit, glorious in prismatic hues.

Four azure wings, as if by enchantment, had been placed upon his

shoulders, feelers curved gracefully above his head, while six dainty

legs peeped out beneath his velvet coat. His eyes, bright as gems,

sparkling with the boundless prospect his new attributes had brought

with them, he shook his wings and rose lightly in the air.

“I followed him as fast as my worn wings would carry me. Never was a

course more erratic. Never flight more impetuous. It seemed as though

the earth belonged to him, and all its flowers were designed for his

pleasure; as though all created things, edged with the roseate light

of his new being, were made to minister to his joy. He seemed to have

risen from the grave to flit through a paradise all his own.

“Soon weary of caprice, fields and flowers lost their enchanting

lustre, and ennui crept on apace. Against this evil, riches, health,

the joys of liberty, all the pleasures of nature, were powerless. He

alighted, choosing the plant of Homer and Plato, the daffodil, only

to leave it for the lichen of bare rocks, where, folding his wings he

remained the prey of discontent and satiety.

“More than once, dreading his desperate mood, I hid away the dark

poisonous leaves of the belladona and hemlock.

“One evening he came in a state of great agitation, and confided to

me that he had met in his wanderings a most amiable Butterfly who had

just arrived from distant lands, bringing tidings of the wonders of

the world.

“A craving for exploration had seized upon him. ‘I must either die or

travel,’ said he.

“ ‘Do not die,’ I replied; ‘self-inflicted death is only fit for the

sneak and coward. Let us travel!’

“My words filled him with new life; he spread his wings, and we

started for Baden.

“It is impossible to describe his joy at our departure, his delighted

{191} ecstasy. He was full of young life, its hopes and aspirations.

As for myself, grief had enfeebled my wings, so that I found it hard

to follow him. We only stopped at Chateau Thierry, the birthplace of

La Fontaine, not far from the vaunted borders of the Marne.

“Shall I tell you the true cause of our stoppage? He caught sight of

a humble Violet in the corner of a wood.

“ ‘Who could help loving you, little Violet,’ he exclaimed, ‘with

your face so sweet and dewy? If you only knew how charmingly honest

you look, decked with your border of little green leaves, you would

then understand my love. Be kind, consent to become my dear sister.

See how calm I remain when near you! How I love these sheltering

trees, the peaceful freshness, and the sacred perfume you breathe

around. How modestly you hide your beauty in this delicious shade.

Love me! love me in return, and make life happy!’

“ ‘Be a poor flower like me,’ replied the Violet, ‘and I will love

you; and when winter comes, when the snow covers the ground, and

the wind whistles through the leafless trees, I will hide you under

my leaves, and together we will forget the cold that spreads death

around. Fold your wings, and promise to be always faithful.’

“ ‘Always?’ he repeated, ‘that is too long. Besides, there is no

winter!’ and he flew away.

“ ‘Don’t grieve,’ I said to the Violet, ‘you have escaped misery.’

“Our way lay over wheat-fields, forests, towns, villages, and the sad

plain of Champagne. Not far from Metz, attracted by a sweet smell, he

exclaimed, ‘The gardens watered by these clear springs must indeed be

beautiful!’ Here he winged his way to a single Rose, growing on the

banks of the Moselle.

“ ‘Beautiful Rose,’ he murmured, ‘never has the sun shone on a flower

more lovely. I have travelled far, suffer me to rest on one of your

leaves.’

“ ‘Stay!’ replied the Rose, ‘presumptuous flatterer, do not approach

me!’

“Nothing daunted he touched a branch and retreated, exclaiming, ‘You

have pricked me!’ and he showed his wounded wing. ‘I no longer love

wild roses, they are cruel, devoid of heart. Let us fly, to be happy

is to be unfaithful!’

“Not far from the Rose he saw a Lily whose form charmed him. While

its stateliness, purity, and cold, aristocratic bearing, filled him

with mingled fear and admiration. {192}

“ ‘I do not dare to love you,’ he said in his most respectful voice,

‘for I am nothing more than a Butterfly, and I fear even to disturb

the air you have glorified by your presence.’

“ ‘Be spotless, pure, and unchangeable,’ replied the Lily, ‘and I

will befriend you.’

[Illustration]

“ ‘Never change! In this world few Butterflies are sincere.’ He

really could not promise. A puff of wind carried him away to the

silvery banks of the Rhine. I soon joined him.

“ ‘Follow me,’ he was addressing a Daisy, ‘follow me, and I will love

you for your simplicity. Let us cross the Rhine and go to Baden. You

will enjoy brilliant concerts, routs, dances, gay palaces, and the

great mountains you can descry on the distant horizon. Leave these

tame banks and shine as the queen of flowers in the smiling country

yonder.’

“ ‘No,’ replied the virtuous Daisy. ‘No! I love my native land,

my sisters around me, and the mother earth that nourishes me. Here

I must stay, must live and die. Do not tempt me to do wrong. The

reason why Daisies are loved, is because they are the emblems of

constancy. I cannot follow you, but you can remain with me, far from

the noise of the world of which you speak. I will love you. Believe

me, happiness is within the reach of all who are true and contented.

{193} What flower will love you better than I? Here, come, count my

petals. Do not forget a single one, and you will find that I love

you, and that I am not loved in return.’

“He hesitated an instant, and the eye of the tender flower dilated

with hope. ‘What are my wings made for?’ he said, and left the ground.

“ ‘I shall die,’ said the Daisy, bending low.

[Illustration]

“ ‘Nay,’ I replied, ‘thy grief will pass away.’

“A tiny Forget-me-not whispered, ‘Daisy queen! you have our love,

our admiration! Why break our harmony? Why cast your pure heart away

on a worthless Butterfly, whose flight and fancy follow every breath

of wind, who is as swift to change his loves as evil tidings to fly

abroad.’

“Following my young scapegrace, I observed him dart down towards a

stream as if fired by a sudden resolution to end his days. ‘Good

heavens!’ I cried, ‘what has he done?’ as, descending to the water,

I beheld nothing but the floating leaves on its surface. Shall I own

it? my blood froze with terror and apprehension. Fool that I was, he

was enjoying the joke all the while through a tuft of reeds. ‘Come,

my tutor, come. I have found her at last.’ He was dancing like a

lunatic round a bulrush. My temper was sorely tried; I nearly swore

on observing this fresh token of folly. {194}

“The young rogue continued: ‘She is no flower this time; a real

treasure, a daughter of the air, winged like an angel, and jewelled

like a queen.’

[Illustration]

“I then perceived at the top of the reed, softly swaying in the wind,

a graceful Dragon-fly of many colours.

“ ‘Allow me to present my betrothed,’ continued my pupil.

“ ‘What? Already!’ I exclaimed.

“ ‘Yes,’ said the Fly. ‘Our shadows have grown, and these flowers

have closed, since we became acquainted. I seem to have known and

loved my charmer all my days.’

“Soon setting out for Baden, they gratified every caprice, arranged

their wedding, and issued formal invitations to the gayest of the gay

among the insect aristocracy. It was a civil marriage, advertised

with all the pomp of a royal union, and attended by the cream of the

native and foreign nobility. Certain clauses in the marriage code,

touching the obedience and constancy of the wedded pair, gave offence

to the lady, as she deemed them superfluous; she, however, modestly

kept her views on these subjects to herself. The ceremony was so

imposing that I employed a spider to make a sketch of the scene.

[Illustration]

“The wedding was followed by rejoicing, feasting, and gaiety. {196}

Pleasure parties thronged the ruts in the fields, making their way

onward to congratulate the happy pair. The Snail drove over in her

carriage, while the Hare mounted his thorough-bred Tortoise, and the

Ant his Centiped, to pay their formal visits. Even the rustics held

high holiday, and thronged to witness the marvellous performances of

a troop of acrobats on the verge of a corn-field. Here, a Grasshopper

displayed wonderful dexterity in dancing with and without a pole on a

horizontal stem of grass; and a showman cricket was blowing a blast

of music through the corolla of a tricoloured convolvulus.

[Illustration]

“A ball had been arranged, for which great preparations were made.

A large Glow-worm, aided by a staff of Fire-flies, was charged

with the illumination. The Glow-worm produced the central light,

while his assistants, the Fire-flies, stood around the open cups of

flowers with such marvellous effect, that every one thought a fairy

had passed that way. The golden stems of astragalus were of such

dazzling brightness that even the Butterflies could hardly bear its

light; while many nocturnal insects retired, without being able to

congratulate the married couple. Some remained from sheer politeness,

veiling their eyes with their velvet wings.

[Illustration]

“When the bride appeared, the whole assembly burst into transports of

admiration. She was certainly a georgeously-dressed, charming-looking

creature. She never rested for a second, but kept up with the {198}

music and dance. ‘Waltzing much too frequently’ said an old neuter,

‘with a magnificent cousin in the Guards.’ Her husband, my pupil,

was the heart and soul of the party; he was everywhere, dancing and

conversing.

“The orchestra, led by a humble Bee, a clever pupil of Da Costa,

performed admirably a number of new waltzes and field-flower

dances. Towards midnight the Signora Cavelleta, dressed in rather a

transparent costume, danced a satarelle, which was only moderately

successful. The ball was then interrupted by a grand vocal and

instrumental concert, in which figured a number of celebrated artists

who had followed the fine weather to Baden. A young Cricket played a

solo on the violin, which Paganini had also executed just before his

death.

“A Grasshopper, who had created a _furore_ at Milan, the classic

land of grasshoppers, sang a song of her own composition with great

effect. Others followed, rendering some of the finest music of modern

times in a manner unsurpassed. At the close of the concert a supper,

ingeniously prepared from the juice of jessamine, myrtle, and orange

blossom, was served in pretty little blue and rose-coloured bells.

This delicious repast was prepared by a Bee, whose secret even the

most renowned makers of bon-bons would have been glad to know.

“At one o’clock dancing recommenced with renewed vigour. The fête

was at its height. Half an hour later strange rumours arose. It was

whispered that the husband, in a transport of rage and jealousy,

was searching everywhere for his missing wife. Some friends, with

the intention, no doubt, of reassuring him, said she had danced

constantly with her handsome, dashing cousin, and was seen to elope

with him.

“ ‘Ah! the false one!’ cried the poor, despairing husband; ‘I will be

revenged!’

“I pitied his despair, and coaxed him away from the scene, at once so

gay and so tragic. ‘You have sown,’ I said, ‘and you have reaped. It

is now not a question of cursing life, but of bearing it.’

“We left Baden that night, and, contrary to my expectation, my pupil

never recovered the humiliating shock his own folly had brought upon

him, by ‘marrying in haste, and repenting at leisure.’ True to his

weak nature, easily attracted by glitter and flare, he at last flung

himself into a lamp at Strasbourg, and perished with a comforting

{199} belief in the doctrine of transmigration of Buddha and

Pythagoras.

The fate of the runaway Dragon-fly is a warning to weak wives. She

and her admirer were caught in the net of a princely bird, and pinned

down on a board, in a museum, two days after their elopement.

[Illustration]

{200}

THE MISFORTUNES OF A CROCODILE.

[Illustration]

You see in me, gentlemen, a very unfortunate animal. Under the

circumstances, I think I am justified in maintaining that no reptile

has the same reason to complain. Judge for yourselves! What do I ask?

Simply to be left alone to eat, digest, sleep, and warm my thick

coat in the sun. If other animals are foolish enough to display

their restless activity, and wear themselves out, in order to earn

a miserable living, that is their business, not mine. I await my

prey quietly, in a manner becoming the descendant of the illustrious

Crocodiles worshipped by the Egyptians. Faithful to my aristocratic

origin, I detest anything more intellectual than a good dinner,

and the full enjoyment of the senses. Why will men pester me with

their schemes for the extension of my mud bank by warfare, or harass

me with their brand new measures for pacific financial reform? My

privacy is perpetually invaded; I have hardly an hour I can call my

own.

One bright summer morning my history began, like the first part of

a novel, all perfume and roses, steeped in the social tranquillity

which precedes the storms and heart-breakings of closing volumes.

The primary event of this important history was the breaking of my

egg, which led to my taking bearings. Daylight for the first time

fell upon my young life, casting its shadow across the desert covered

with sphinxes and pyramids. The great Nile lay unexplored at my

feet—a glorious expanse of turbid water, edged with corn-fields,

and swollen by the tears of slaves. On its bosom reposed the lovely

Isle of Raondah, with its alleys of sycamore and orange groves.

Without {201} pausing—as a historian ought to do—to admire this

sublime spectacle, I advanced towards the stream, and commenced my

gastronomic career by swallowing a passing fish. There still remained

on the sand about a score of eggs similar to the one I had left. Have

they been dissected by Otters and Ichneumons? or have they burst into

life? No matter; free Crocodiles have no family ties.

For ten years I lived by fishing and capturing stray birds and

unhappy dogs that mistook me for a mud bank. Arrived at this mature

age, it occurred to me that philosophic reflection would aid

digestion. I therefore reflected after a fashion common in the world.

Nature has loaded me with her rarest gifts, charm of face, elegance

of figure, and great capacity of stomach. Let me think how I may

wisely use her gifts.

I belong to horizontal life, and must abandon myself to indolence.

I have four rows of sharp teeth, I shall therefore eat others and

endeavour to escape being eaten myself. I shall cultivate the art

of enjoyment, and adopt the morals of good living—whatever they may

be—and shun marriage. Why should I saddle myself with a wife to

share my prey, when I myself can eat the whole, or with a pack of

ungrateful children?

Such were my thoughts about the future, and all the Saurians in the

great river could not shake my resolution to remain single. Only once

I thought I was seriously in love with a young Crocodile of about

sixty summers. Her laughing mouth seemed as wide as the entrance to

the pyramid of Cheops, her little, green eyes were shaded by eyelids,

yellow as the waters of the Nile in flood. Her skin, hard and rough,

was adorned with green spots. Yet I resisted her blandishments and

severed the ties that menaced our lives.

For many years I contented myself with the flesh of quadrupeds

and fish of the stream, never daring to follow the example of my

ancestors and declare war on man. One day, however, the Sheriff of

Rahmanich passing near my haunt, I drew him under the water before

his attendants had time to turn their heads. He proved as tender a

morsel as any dignitary ought to be who is paid for doing nothing.

How many high and mighty men there are who could thus be spared for

my supper! From this time forth I became a man-eater; men are tender,

and besides they are our natural foes. It was not long before I

acquired amongst my fellows a high reputation for audacity and {202}

sybaritism. I became the king of their feasts, and presided at many

banquets.

[Illustration]

{203}

The banks of the Nile often witnessed our convivial meetings, and

echoed with the sound of our songs.

About the beginning of the moon of Baby-el-Alonel, the year of Higera

1213, otherwise 3d Thermidor, year VII., otherwise 21st July 1798,

I happened to be reposing on a bed of reeds, and was awakened by a

strange noise. Clouds of dust rose round the village of Embabeh. Two

great armies were advancing to close in battle. On the one side the

Arabs, the Mamelouks with breastplates of gold, the Keayas and the

Beys mounted on superb horses. The other was a foreign army, made up

of soldiers wearing black felt hats with red feathers, blue or rather

dirty white uniforms and trousers. The commander was a slight, short,

thin man. I pitied the human beings who were led by such a weak

creature, hardly a mouthful for a Crocodile.

The little man uttered a few words, at the same time pointing to

the pyramids, after which the cannonade began, the guns belched

forth their fire and shot, while shells whistled and exploded among

the Crocodiles, laying some of them low. That was a fatal day, the

turning point in my history. The invaders carried off a gigantic

column, placed it on board ship and transported it to one of the

finest cities in Europe. The inscriptions on this stone have never

been deciphered; I am told the meaning runs thus:—

“Worship good living,

Let your belly be your god.

Selfishness is a virtue

When practised voluntarily.

You must never take the obelisk

By force or by consent,

Two millions must you pay

If you take it unjustly.”

Some of the new comers took it into their heads to hunt and shoot

our noble selves. I was captured, but not killed, and became a

prisoner at the disposal of man, and was conveyed to El-Kahiret—which

the infidels call Cairo—and there provisionally lodged at the

consulate. The tumult of war was as nothing compared to the clamour

of disputants discussing the Eastern question in this house.

Fighting was carried on with the sharpest weapon known—the human

tongue. They squabbled from dusky dewy morn till eve. It was truly

unfortunate that no free Crocodile was there to end the disputes by

devouring Consul, swords, tongues and all. Had I been free, this

useful office {204} should have been performed and that speedily. My

sailor captor, judging me unfit for a museum, handed me over to an

adventurer. On our arrival at Havre—oh misery! my jaws were paralysed

with cold. I was placed in a huge tub and exposed to the vulgar gaze

of the crowd. The showman stood at the door of his hut bawling out

this terrible fiction, “Walk in, ladies and gentlemen, now is the

time when this interesting reptile is about to feed!”

He pronounced these words in a tone so delusive that I instinctively

opened my jaws, to receive, what? nothing!

The traitor fearing to put my strength on an equality with my

ferocity subjected me to systematic starvation.

An old money-lender, who had advanced a sum to my master, delivered

me from this slavery by seizing the menagerie of which I was the

chief ornament—all the other animals were stuffed. Two days later he

handed me over, instead of money, to a man he was piously engaged

in ruining. I was placed in a large pond near the sea, where my

new owner possessed a villa. I gathered from the servants—internal

enemies, as yet happily unknown amongst the Saurians—that my master

was a young man of forty-five years, a distinguished gastronomist,

the possessor of twenty-five thousand pounds a year—indulgent

tradesmen allowing him to spend two hundred thousand pounds.

He had remained a bachelor, wisely viewing marriage as the closing

scene in the comedy of life. The only thing remarkable about him was

his stomach, of which he was very proud, “I have made it what it is,”

he would say, “it cost me a good bit, but I have not lost my money.

Nature intended me to be thin and dry, but, thanks to an intelligent

regimen, in spite of Nature I have acquired this honourable

_embonpoint_.” The cheapest dinner of this truly great man, cost him

at least fifty francs. He used to say with great feeling, “only fools

die of hunger.”

One summer evening, after dinner, my master visited me with a

numerous company of guests, some of whom found my countenance most

prepossessing; others thought me hideous, and all agreed that I bore

a strong resemblance to their host.

“Why do you delight in rearing such a monster?” said an old toothless

man, who in truth, himself merited this insulting appellation. “Were

I in your place, I should have him killed and sent to the kitchen. I

have been told that crocodile’s flesh is very much sought after by

certain African and Cochin Chinese tribes.” {205}

“Upon my honour,” said my patron, “your idea is original;

notwithstanding his resemblance to me, I will sacrifice him to

your palates. Cook, to-morrow you will make a crocodile pie with

Egyptian onions.” All the parasites clapped their hands, the

cook bowed, and I disappeared to the bottom of my pond. After a

terrible night, the first rays of the morning sun revealed the cook

sharpening an enormous knife. He approached me, followed by two

assistants who unlocked my chain and beat me with a stick about the

head. I was lost, had not a sudden noise attracted the attention of

my executioners. I beheld my master struggling with four unknown

bull-dog-looking men, who had just arrived from Paris. One of them

held a watch in his hand. Five o’clock had just struck, when I heard

the words “_En route_ for Clichy.” A carriage appeared, and without

pausing to make further notes, profiting by the excitement, I left my

pond and gained the sea.

After many perils, I at last reached my native shore, where I found

civilisation and M. de Lesseps were turning everything upside

down. Should this rage continue for steam traffic, cutting canals,

negotiating loans, and generally playing the mischief with all our

ancient institutions, what will become of Crocodiles? Who knows,

before long the Nile may be found to flow back to its source—wherever

that may be—and the world itself, propelled by steam, may make its

way to the sun, or take its enchanted inhabitants on a tour through

space.

Progress is most annoying to a conservative Crocodile!

[Illustration]

{206}

THE FUNERAL ORATION OF A SILKWORM.

[Illustration]

The sun, having done his day’s work of shining right well, suddenly

and wearily retired to rest. The last notes of the birds’ song of

praise were still lingering in the echoes of the woods, and the

earth, wrapping herself in her dark mantle, was preparing for repose.

The death’s-head Moth giving the signal of departure, the little

cortége set out on the march for the purple heath. Field-spiders,

whose work consisted in clearing the road, preceded the corpse which

was surrounded by beetles, in black, carrying the bier of mulberry

leaf. These were followed by tail-bearing mutes, next came the Ants,

and lastly the Grubs. When at some little distance from the sacred

mulberry tree, around which were assembled the relatives of the

deceased, the Cardinal Pyrochre gave orders that the hymn of the dead

should be intoned by the choir of Scarabs, and afterwards sung by

Bees and Crickets.

[Illustration]

At intervals, when the harmony ceased, one could hear deep sighs

{207} and sobs, bearing evidence of the universal grief caused

by the loss of the humble insect, whose remains were being borne

to their last resting-place. The procession at length reached the

cemetery on the heath, where the sextons were still bending over the

new dug grave. Sighs and sobs were hushed in that profound silence

which betokens the deepest sorrow. But when the bearers had laid the

body in the {208} tomb, and the yawning earth closed over it, the

air was rent with a piteous wail, for the mourners had seen the last

of a true friend.

[Illustration]

An insect, robed in black, advanced to the grave-mound, saying:

“Why this outburst of bitter grief? Why weep for one who has been

delivered from the trial and burden of life. Yet,” he added, “weep

on, for he who lies there can feel no pang of sorrow; no tears, no

{209} loving tones, can wake a responsive throb in his cold breast,

nor bring him back to his earthly home!” They would not be comforted.

“Brothers,” said another, advancing in turn, “it is at the birth of

a silkworm one ought rather to mourn. His life was one of ceaseless

toil. By leaving this earth he has left his misery behind; neither

joy nor sorrow can follow him beyond the grave. I tell you simple

truth; this is no time for hypocrisy. Why should worms mourn this

event? Death has no terrors for us!” They still wept.

One of the mourners said with faltering voice: “Brother, we know

that there is a beginning, and alas! an end, to everything, and that

all must die; we know, too, the sorrows of our life, the labour of

gathering our food leaf by leaf; we know the toil that transforms a

mulberry leaf into a shining silken robe; we know the dangers that

beset our lives; and the doom of the silken shroud that at last

imprisons and blights the dreams of our young lives; we know that to

die is to cease to toil, death being the end of the silken thread

which began with our birth—we know all this; but, oh, we know, too,

that we loved our brother, and who can console us for so great a

loss?”

“We loved him! we loved him!” cried the mourners.

“I wept like you,” said the Cardinal, “for our brother who is gone;

yet, when I meet death face to face in the silkworm, my heart

expands. ‘Go to the other world,’ I say, the better world; there

the gates will open for the good, both high and low; there you will

rejoin your lost loved ones in a land where flowers breathe an

eternal fragrance; where the mulberries bordering the glassy streams

are ever green. Ah, brothers, tell them to wait for us there, for to

die is to be born to a better life!”

With these words the weeping ceased. The moon broke out, silvering

the heath with a chaste glory.

The good insect added: “Go back to your homes; our brother has no

longer need of you.”

Each of the mourners, after placing a flower on the grave, left the

scene, feeling comforted.

[Illustration]

{210}

TO THE READER.

DEAR READER,

We are now halfway on our journey, and feel confident that you will

place confidence in us as your guides during the second part of our

expedition. Be assured of this, while we lead you into the unknown

regions of the animal kingdom, we are prepared to shield you from

the dangers of contact with its uncivilised or purely savage races.

At the same time, your well-known craving for all that is marvellous

has been fully considered, and shall be duly gratified.

Our correspondents have sharpened their wits and pens, and are

impatient to lay open a perfect mine of treasure.

Good evening, dear friends. Go home, bar your doors well! One

never knows what may happen. The calmest nights are frequently the

harbingers of storms. Sleep with one eye open. At any rate, sleep

well. Pleasant dreams!

THE MONKEY, PAROQUET, AND COCK,

_Editors in Chief_.

{211}

[Illustration: Part II.

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE LIFE OF ANIMALS.]

{213}

PART SECOND.

JARDIN DES PLANTES, PARIS.

In preparing the second part of our work for press, we were about to

discharge the sacred duty of congratulating ourselves upon having

laid the solid foundation of the animal constitution, when our pen

was arrested by rumours of sedition and conspiracy. Dark clouds

have been observed on the horizon; but our astronomers—creatures of

true instinct—by their forewarnings, have hitherto enabled us to

weather the worst storms, while at the same time, they have greatly

increased our store of knowledge by clearing up some obscure points

of siderology. They have further invented the seasons, and assured

us that days and nights shall succeed each other as long as the

observatory is properly endowed. They have decreed that the sun shall

be free to all who pay the constitutional rates for the maintenance

of paupers, of police, and of the state.

The wide experience and sagacity of these creatures have led them to

investigate various natural phenomena, which they do not understand,

nevertheless, with the innate modesty of votaries of science,

they have compelled nature to bend to their conclusions and have

accordingly arrived at certain incontestable facts.

The following communication has just been received from the

observatory:

“We have discovered the true cause of alarm. Unless we are mistaken,

the clouds that obscure the political horizon consist of swarms of

flies and other winged insects—whose political opinions change with

the wind—all of them armed to the teeth and tips of their tails.

“This rising is the result of social decomposition among the masses,

and a breeze of false doctrine which threatens the glorious fabric of

the animal constitution, founded by our first assembly.

“Conspiracy broods over the land. For all that, as the swarms have

never been known to pursue any definite policy, we hope to be

{214} enabled to contradict the news, which to-day we announce as

certain.—In any case: _Caveant consules!_ do not slumber.”

[Illustration]

No, we will not sleep; and as we have great faith in the wisdom of

our brothers. Since anarchy watches, we shall watch with and against

her.

As a first measure, to maintain order, we propose to issue a daily

bulletin of events, which will, at any rate, supply material for

gossip to the various members of our league.

EXTRACT FROM THE “DAILY MONITEUR” OF THE ANIMALS.

Our worst fears are confirmed. Grave disorders of a seditious

character have broken out. A band of rioters, numbering about three

thousand, have detached themselves from the army, with the avowed

intention of exciting the animal kingdom to revolt. Sword in hand,

or sting in tail, they clamour for what they are pleased to term

“general reform.” This band is led by a notorious Wasp, famed for his

poison and {215} the purity of his principles. In vain have a number

of venerable flies striven to calm the popular tumult. Their words

have been misunderstood. Happen what may, we are prepared to tide

over the storm, and to defeat these odious attempts to uproot the

constitution. “Troubles,” said Montesquieu, “build up empires.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The captain of our winged guards, Lord Humble Bee, has not succeeded

in dispersing the rioters; he thought—and rightly—that it would be

advisable to withdraw before shedding blood, contenting himself by

cutting off the food supplies and hemming in the insurgents, who,

after a few hours, would thus be compelled to capitulate or starve.

The humanity of this noble leader is worthy of all praise.

The insurgents are throwing up barricades of grass and dried twigs,

and are prepared, it is said, to sustain a regular siege. The field

they occupy is at least eighteen inches wide by ten inches long.

The most contradictory rumours are spread abroad. Some of the rebels

accuse us of indirectly stirring up revolt. “Tyrants of the deepest

dye,” said one, “maintain their power by setting their subjects one

against the other, so that in their petty strife they may overlook

the defects of government.” What can we say of such absurdities. If

the {216} rulers of states had nothing to fear save the unity of the

people, they would sleep on downy pillows!

[Illustration]

It is reported that the disaffected flies are everywhere rousing the

nation. One of them the Clarion, a clever musician, has composed a

war march entitled, “The Roll Call of the Flies.” We can now hear the

tones of this impious music floating over Paris. It is wafted from

a thousand instruments at the Pantheon, the Val de Grace, the tour

Saint Jacques la Boucherie, the Salpîtrière, the Père Lachaise, where

the emissaries have been stationed by the leaders of the movement.

A number of prisoners have been arrested, but they refuse to disclose

their principles.

“We are of snow-white purity!” say they. “Why should such innocents

be arrested? Take our heads!”

“Your heads! what can we do with a fly’s head? Nevertheless we will

consider this proposition.”

[Illustration: EXAMINING THE FLY’S HEAD.]

The pretensions of the rebels are now known, “_the common good_”

serves them as a pretext for personal ambition and private hatred.

Revolution means nothing more than the relinquishing of our posts to

others who are not so well qualified to fill them. If we refuse to

yield to their demands—as we intend to do—we are doomed, so they say.

Our posts and {217} emoluments will be sold with our lives! We owe

this as a tribute to the animal kingdom.

For what are we reproached? Have we been unjust, or partial? Have

we not followed our programme and printed all contributions without

preference, or selection, blindly as every just editor ought to do?

We are over head and ears in paper, knee deep in ink; we have burned

the midnight oil, endeavoured to please everybody, entertained foes

in the guise of friends, and in short, succeeded so well in our

various duties as to secure the envy and hatred of an ungrateful

rebel.

The chief of the insurrection is a Scarab! the Scarab Hercules!

This is no doubt a very fine name for a leader. Have you made the

acquaintance of this Scarab? We for our part might scorn the attacks

of such a grovelling fellow, did we not know that the bite or sting

of the meanest of God’s creatures is always most venomous and

destructive.

[Illustration]

“We have therefore pleasure unalloyed in issuing the following order:—

_1st._ A price is placed upon the head of the Scarab Hercules; a

suitable reward will be paid to any one who will bring him dead or

alive (we would prefer him dead).

_2d._ Measures will be immediately taken to raise a large body of

troops; a force of nine hundred thousand flies fully equipped to

fight the rebels in the field or in the air. {218}

_3rd._ The commissioners of police are required to carry one or more

lengths of rope as their means will permit.

_4th._ All honest subjects are required to remain at home, go to

bed early, get up late, and to see or hear nothing. Such a line of

conduct will prove to the rioters that their projects find no favour

among slumbering citizens.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_5th._ Animals found in pairs, or in groups, shall be cooked, or

dispersed by force. This notice concerns Ostriches, Ducks, gregarious

and socially-disposed animals.

A Kite was sent to us bearing a flag of truce. We deigned to receive

and listen to him. He said, “You, sirs, have spoken and managed

affairs after your own fashion; now listen, we must each one have our

turn. Over there, we number thirty three million free subjects, God’s

creatures, and every one as ambitious as yourselves to make a stir

in the world; to write and speak fearlessly, Equality is our divine

right!”

“What is a right?” inquired an old Crow whose acquaintance the {219}

reader has already made, “_summum jus, summa injuria_! If you must

all write, the folios of the whole world would not be sufficient to

contain the manuscript, not even if each one restricted himself, not

to his history, nor to a page, line, word, letter, or even a comma.”

This judicious refutation was deemed simply absurd, and the foolish

Kite replied by asking another question. “That is enough! who endowed

you with your power of reckoning? Has the God of Scarabs not made

earth, sky, light, trees, and even leaves, that every one who has an

equal stake, may have an equal share in all created things?”

O folly! the victory of such reasonable kites and scarabs is certain.

Go back to your camp.

Alas! civil war is making its way into the most peaceful valleys. The

spirit of revolt has spread from the insects to the birds, and even

to the quadrupeds. Alarm is everywhere abroad. The doors of the cages

have to be kept shut, a proceeding most galling to those animals who

sit outside watching their neighbours. Let the peacefully disposed

take courage, the geese are still guarding the capital.

The insurgents have replied to the articles of our journal, in a

paper they have established, called “The Guardian of Freedom;” or,

“Review of Animal Reform.”

Yesterday, the friends of liberty assembled in the Hall of Natural

History, where stuffed animals are preserved.

This preliminary meeting was held at a late hour. One by one the

members assembled, and silently exchanging tokens of recognition,

seated themselves in the galleries opposite their preserved

ancestors. The stillness was such, that one could hardly distinguish

the dead from the living. The Elephant, Bear, Buffalo, Bison, and

the Eagle all arrived at the same moment, as if drawn thither by

some power supernatural. But who can deny that love of liberty moves

mountains, and at once explains the presence of these noble beasts.

[Illustration: MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY.]

“Brothers,” said an orator at last, “we have remained silent, and

yet we know full well the cause of our meeting. Fellow elephants,

apes, birds, and beasts! I crave your forbearance—(cheers)—while I

point out to you the only true elements of reform. (Loud applause.)

Our proceedings last year have let us in for a rather bad thing;

the animals elected to edit our proceedings, and to conduct the

affairs of our kingdom, have tampered with our liberty. Visit their

chambers—there you shall behold histories without number, rejected

and shelved; shelved to suit the editor’s caprices! (Cheers.) Many

of the pages thus consigned to {221} oblivion, are very mirrors of

light and liberty that would have shed a glorious lustre over the

ages. Ah! I see, in the cultured faces around, the lineaments of

all that is noble and patriotic in the land! I hear in those deep

drawn sighs, harrowing tales of genius neglected and suppressed by

the jealousy of those who are set over us! (Thunders of applause.)

I read the sentiments of true hearts, roused by oppression, in the

fervour of your wagging tails and glorious gnashing of incisors!

Brothers, let calm and tranquil sagacity resume its throne in your

breasts, which are torn with righteous indignation! Listen—words must

express pent-up thoughts! I must speak! you must act!! The course we

are pursuing is leading us to ruin! What has the publication of our

history done for us? For us? nay, not for us; for the few—the select

favoured ones whose stories have appeared in its pages. What has it

done for us? simply nothing. In these pages the wrongs of all, high

and low, should find a place. Has it been so? I ask you. (Shouts of

‘No! no! no! down with the editors!’) Down with them! the tyrants!!

they have abused the power we placed in their hands! served their

friends, and calmly said, ‘All is well.’ What has come of it all?

Has our world ceased to be a vale of tears? Have our homes been

happier? Our prospects brighter? Has our fame been spread abroad?

(‘The stag, elk, and calf, No! no!!’) Brothers, since that memorable

night, when the first outcry for liberty and reform was hailed by

the acclamations of the whole world, our rights and liberties have

been systematically betrayed. We have been sold! sold!! sold to men!!

(‘True, true! they sold us,!’) sold to men!!! But let us leave these

inferior animals alone, they are not our worst enemies. Our leaders

have betrayed us for a caress from their keepers, or a miserable

subsidy of nuts and crusts. Whither shall we direct our steps? shall

it be back to our narrow prisons, or lonely desert wastes? (All the

animals, ‘Alas! alas!’) Will the clouds be our canopy and the earth

our pillow? I tell you, friends, we shall all of us die in irons. (In

chorus, ‘O misery, misery!’)”

The orator, turning towards the remains of countless generations of

animals, continued—

“Remains of our illustrious ancestors, you who once lived and

breathed. Miserable mummies! ghosts of all that is beautiful in our

vitality and action. Did you voluntarily relinquish the care of the

creator to play your part in this ghastly mimicry of life? Were we

created to be stuffed and preserved in cases, side by side with

the poor {222} works of man, in place of returning to your parent

earth after fulfilling your destinies? Brothers, let us escape from

men and the doom that awaits us. The way to liberty may be narrow

and well-guarded; it is our only way! we must follow it, force the

passes, water them with our blood, and gain the glorious grassy

plains and wooded vales of freedom!”

If one may credit the report of this pompous oration, the effect it

produced was perfectly marvellous. We need only notice one point in

this wicked dithyrambic. You say, Mr. Bison, the speaker, that we

have sold you—you are right we have sold you! and what is more we are

proud of it! No less than 20,000 copies. Could you have done so much?

You owe us your thanks for raising your market value.

The dean of the Jardin des Plantes—a venerable Buffalo—whose personal

character we esteem, replied thus to his cousin the Bison:—

“My children, I am the oldest slave in this garden, and have the

sad honour of being your dean. Of my early days I have but a dim

recollection, indeed I can only recall the days of my freedom. Sweet

days they were, and in spite of my twenty odd years of bondage the

young blood comes back to my heart as I reflect on the prospect of

renewed liberty. (Cheers.) I speak of your liberty, my children, not

of my own, for my eyes will close in death long before the dawn of

that glorious day. Slave I have lived, and slave I shall die. (Shouts

of ‘Long live the Buffalo.’) My good friends,” replied the speaker,

“it is not in your power to add an hour to my life. It is not the

selfish freedom of one, or of many, but of all that we must seek.

I therefore beseech you to remain united. (Murmurs of dissent.) My

children, do not plunge into the misery of civil strife. Do not cavil

over the mean rags of power. When you have changed your one-eyed

house for a blind mock, what benefit will the change confer? Think

of the misery you may bring upon the poor and helpless ones, and how

that a little power, more or less, vested in the hands of my hearers

can never effect the good of all.”

The closing words of this speech were listened to coldly, the respect

due to the speaker alone preventing a demonstration.

“Civil war leads to despotism and not to liberty,” said the dean, as

he sadly resumed his seat.

“Are we here to listen to a sermon?” roared the Lynx.

A number of agitators followed. It is necessary here to remark that

{223} the more indifferent the cause to be advocated the greater the

crowd of speakers.

The Boar proceeded to address the assembly in a flow of eloquence,

until domestic duties called him to the bosom of his numerous family.

Here we end our quotations from the “Journal of Reform,” and in

justice to the rioters, will conclude with a literal account of the

proceedings, furnished by a Ferret who was present at the meeting.

“For three hours the rioters, irrespective of the place, or the

sacred presence of the dead around, kept up an incessant thunder of

inarticulate sounds, stamping, groaning, and applauding. Sixty-three

speakers addressed the audience simultaneously. The result of this

tumult of voices may be more easily imagined than described.”

Our correspondent adds: “The art of whistling and howling has made

such astonishing progress among the audience as to suggest a mass

meeting in England!”

One of those doubtful dogs who have no political opinions, and who

are to be found in every popular assembly attempted to gain a hearing.

“If we are vanquished!” he said.

“Vanquished! bah! Out with the cur!” cried the Bear, with that air of

brutality so peculiarly his own.

“Out with him!” growled the Hyena; “barking is not enough, we must

bite!”

“Beware of the spy,” shrieked the Weasel.

The prudent brute waiting to hear no more, tucked his tail snugly

between his legs and bolted through a window.

Here the Ram ventured to point out that the editors had gained the

confidence of the people.

“Popularity is no proof of genius,” said the Wolf. “The people will

forget their idols.”

“And hate them,” growled the Hyena.

“If they neglect their love, they will nurse their hatred!” hissed

the Snake.

The Fox perceiving that unanimity of sentiment was hopeless,

adjourned the meeting by proposing that the rioters should refresh

themselves by a night’s repose. So they departed each one to his den,

and there dreaming of reform and rapine, rose with the sun to renew

the conflict. They awoke to arms and assaulted the amphitheatre. The

onslaught was severe, and in our extremity we inquired for Prince

Leo. {224}

“They have taken the amphitheatre,” said that great general, “and

what is more they shall keep it.”

The prince’s firm attitude proved reassuring, for this renowned

tactician had taken timely measures to teach the traitors a terrible

lesson. He shut them in and secured the approaches, so that the

stronghold was like to become the tomb of the insurgents. All

attempts to relieve their position were vigorously repulsed by Prince

Humble-Bee.

[Illustration]

An audacious Ape mounted the amphitheatre roof and raised the

standard of revolt; while a Mole proposed to entrench the army within

its hill. The proposal was negatived, as the position was deemed

already too strong.

A celebrated engineering Spider offered to spin a suspension bridge

over which the insurgents might escape during the night. To this the

Fly objected, while the Elephant urged that the work should be at

once proceeded with.

The extraordinary simplicity of this giant of the forest inspired

one {225} of our friends with the idea for the following couplet,

which we gladly insert (as it ought not to be lost to posterity),

regretting, at the same time, that the gifted poet insists on

remaining anonymous:—

[Illustration]

AIR—“_Femmes, voulez-vous éprouver_.”

“Un Éléphant se balançait

Sur une toile d’Araignée;

Voyant qu’il divertissait,

Une Mouche en fut indignée:

‘Comment peux-tu te rejouer,’

Dit-elle, ‘en voyant ma souffrance

Ah! viens plutôt me soucourir,

Ma main sera ta recompense.’ ”

{226}

We secured a number of brave auxiliaries in the shrimps, who, headed

by a valiant sea-crab, shouted, as they formed into marching order—

“Forward let us march

With our backs upon the foe.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

All good citizens were ordered to leave wife and children, and

prepare to be everywhere at a moment’s notice, ready to fight for

their {227} country. Notwithstanding the happy stratagem which

shut in the rebels, we were doomed to defeat. A company of the

enemy’s flies, mechanics, were drafted to place the guns so as to

command our position. The coolness of these creatures, foes though

they were, won our admiration. They planted the weapons with an

unconcern as complete as if preparing to storm the calix of a flower,

while the result of their manœuvres soon told terribly on our left

wing. Our swarms, impatient for the fray—displaying more valour

than discretion—fell upon the foe in disorganised detachments.

The right attacked the enemy’s left under the leadership of the

Goliaths, but the light infantry under Prince Humble-Bee were

as waves against a rock scattered in boiling foam. Our left was

opposed by the mining, cutting, and carpentering Andrines, and the

corporation of Rhinoceros-Beetles, who having only one horn, obeyed

the mighty two-horned Stags. Flies, Moths, Grubs, and other insects

attacked and routed our centre. Prince Humble-Bee calculated on the

Rhinoceros-Beetles attacking his heavy troops, compelling them to

traverse the field, separating the two armies; but the Beetle, who

had been apprised of the plan of campaign by a deserter, commanded

his troops to close their ranks and their wings, thus to await the

enemy’s shock.

[Illustration]

The colours floated in the wind, the sun shone brightly on the

insects ranged in battle array, while martial music fired our foes

with {229} desperate resolve. From time to time grains of balsam,

projected into the air by Stag-Beetles with much precision, fell

among our troops, exploding and scattering death and dismay around.

The enemy’s forces stood firm as a rock. Our army, thoroughly

demoralised, made a final attack, and were beaten off with great

loss. Bruised wings, scattered mandibles and limbs impeded their

movements, till at last they fell back in disorder. As a climax

to our misfortunes, the general of the May Bugs, rolling over on

his back, was pierced by the sting of a rebel Wasp. It was a lost

battle—the Waterloo of our cause! Prince Humble-Bee, not caring to

survive his defeat, plunged into the thick of the fray, when, after

performing prodigies of valour, he died the death of the brave,

pierced by twenty-nine wounds.

[Illustration]

_Notes by the Office-Boy._

Knowing the anxiety of my chiefs to keep our readers posted up in

news, I take the liberty of writing in my turn, and shall go on until

I am arrested.

My masters had just finished speaking, when the door flew to atoms.

The Elephant had rung out the hour of doom at the door bell, and

shivered the door with his foot. The pen fell from Mr. Parroquet’s

claw, and his eyes closed as if in deep thought.

“What do you see?” he inquired of Mr. Cock, who stood at the window.

“I see trouble upon trouble; we are menaced on all sides! Confound

them!!” cried he bravely; “why should we yield?”

“Yield only to reason!” said the Monkey; “never to force!”

“What!” crowed the Cock, jumping on the back of the Ape; “you

cowardly, man-like animal, reason would tempt you to yield up your

post?”

“No doubt about it,” replied the Ape, who became as livid as this

paper; “if I am”——

He had no time to finish his sentence; the cabinet door flew open and

the Fox entered.

“Arrest these gentlemen,” said he to the Dogs who followed him,

pointing to the trio of editors.

The Parroquet flew up the chimney, the Monkey hid beneath his

arm-chair, while the Cock stood defiant, his comb never having

assumed a hue so red. They were arrested.

“What are you doing here?” said the Fox to me. {230}

[Illustration: THE BELL OF DOOM.]

{231}

“Whatever you choose, my lord,” I replied.

“Well, remain here,” he continued.

Many others had entered with the speaker, and shouted, “Long live my

lord the Fox!” They were right, for never had I beheld so affable a

prince.

“My friends,” he said, “nothing in this office is changed; only one

additional animal appears.” (Cheers.)

The Fox, taking up the abandoned pen of the Ape, sat down to write

his first proclamation.

FIRST PROCLAMATION.

“Inhabitants of the Jardin des Plantes, the editors having been

removed, all cause for disorder has ceased.”

“THE FOX,

“_Provisional President and Editor_.”

“Read and sign this document,” said he to the ex-editors.

Whereupon the Cock replied, “Sir, I shall not dishonour myself by

such a treacherous act.”

“We shall see,” replied the Fox.

He then proceeded to draw up another proclamation.

SECOND PROCLAMATION.

“Citizens, while you were asleep you were being betrayed, but

friends were watching for you. Too long had we bowed our heads

without murmuring; the time had come for us to assert our dignity.

The traitors who governed and sold you breathe no more! The records

of our nation will teach the world how the animal kingdom redresses

its wrongs. During this hour justice has been executed, the work is

finished, the culprits have paid with their lives the penalty of

their guilt—they have been hanged!

“_N.B._—Out of sacred regard for our ancestors who suffered the

extreme penalty of the law, they have been hanged on new gibbets.

“THE FOX.”

The Cock listened unmoved to the reading of this second document.

“But,” said the Monkey, “my lord, we are not hanged.”

“Are you really thinking of hanging us?” cried the Parroquet, weeping

at the prospect. {232}

“No,” replied the Fox, “it is a proceeding I do not care to carry

out, only you must appear to have been hanged.”

The shouts of the populace outside could be plainly heard, demanding

the heads of the editors.

“Patience,” replied the Fox, addressing the people from time to

time—“patience, if you are wise. You shall have some medals to

commemorate this event. [_Aside._] To refuse nothing, and to give

nothing, is the way to govern wisely and well.”

[Illustration]

The shouts, “Death to the tyrants!” “Death to the editors!” redoubled.

“You hear, gentlemen,” said the Fox. “It is necessary to do something

for the people; yet,” he added, “if you can find means to deceive

them by preserving your lives, you may do so.”

“Means!” screamed the Monkey; “I have found them,” and in his joy he

turned three somersaults.

Mr. Monkey had got possession of the stuffed body of an ancestor,

{233} no doubt with the intention of honouring his race. He at once

produced the relic, and it was decided that this defunct relative

should figure on the gibbet in place of his erring descendant. To

better deceive the multitude, before sending the mummy to martyrdom

the Monkey attired it in his coat and well-known cap; this he did,

not without tokens of genuine grief.

“Now, my dear sir,” continued the Fox, “you must seek retirement for

fifteen days, after which I think you may venture to show yourself

again. There is no dead man or monkey who in Belle France has not

the right to come to life audaciously at the end of a fortnight. The

people are the most magnanimous of enemies—they forget everything.”

“They are also the most fickle friends,” replied the Ape; then,

casting a last fond look on his boxes, his table, and his office, he

vanished.

The Parroquet found means of communicating with an old friend, an

ardent admirer of his talent, who volunteered to be hanged in his

stead. A quarter of an hour after the execution, the ungrateful

Parroquet was joking with his wife about the folly of martyrdom.

The Cock, who remained true to his principles, suffered death, much

to the regret of a numerous circle of female admirers.

The crowd, drawn together with the view of seeing such mighty

personages dangling in the air, had its wish gratified. Some silent

worshippers of the illustrious dead could scarcely believe their eyes.

“Is it possible,” they said, “that animals of such influence can be

hanged like common felons? What is the world coming to? They, only

the other day, seemed to be the mainsprings of life!”

A bird whose name remains unknown published a pamphlet on this

subject, in which he developed this proposition: “Is it good that he

who governs is not the State? for should misfortune befall him, there

would be an end to the State.”

After the executions had taken place the Fox thought proper to make

the two proclamations public, and being in a mood for proclamations,

issued a third.

THIRD PROCLAMATION.

“Inhabitants of the Jardin des Plantes, invested by your confidence

with a post so important as that of directing the second and last

part {234} of our National History, it is needless here to expose

the principles which obtained for me your suffrage. It is by my work

you shall judge me. I shall make no pledges, although pledges cost

nothing. I shall not tell you that the golden age is about to begin

for you, whatever the golden age may be; but I can assure you that

when you find neither pen, ink, nor paper in my office, it will be

because they are not to be had at any price. My advice for all is to

observe justice and sincerity. Remember, were these words blotted

out of the dictionary, you would still find them indelibly engraved

on the heart of a Fox.

“Your brother and director,

“THE FOX.”

The effect of these proclamations, which were circulated everywhere,

was almost magical. Perfect tranquillity reigned; the politest

civilities were exchanged by all; a little dust sprinkled over the

dead, and one would imagine that neither war nor bloodshed had ever

disgraced this smiling land. Some disagreeable animals who sneak

about and ferret out everything, having no fault to find with the

chief editorship of the Fox, inquired by whom he had been elected

chief? What can it matter to them, so long as he has been elected?

One names one’s self, but one is no less editor-in-chief for all that.

My lord, casting his eyes over my work, was pleased to inform me

that I gave him satisfaction, and that he intended to recompense

me. Yesterday I was office-boy, to-day I am His Highness’s private

secretary! Yesterday my feet were trod on, to-day they are licked! I

am evidently somebody, and can do something. I embraced the occasion

to inform him I had been yard-dog in a college.

“I congratulate you on your university training. Even if one knows

nothing on leaving the walls of such an institution, one is credited

with profound knowledge. The important part of life consists not in

being, but in appearing to be.”

It is said that I sold myself; it is a mistake, I was bought, that

was all. Besides, the advantageous post just given to me belonged to

no one; it was made expressly for me. There is a ring at the bell, it

is a deputation of animals.

“We come,” said the chief of the deputation humbly, “to represent

to your Highness that something is wanting in our glorious

constitution.” {235}

“What?” said the Fox.

“Sir,” replied the deputy, “what will posterity say to our pulling

through a revolution without eating or drinking?”

[Illustration: THE DEPUTATION.]

{236}

“Gentlemen,” said His Highness President Fox, “I note with pleasure

your attention to important details, and that the country may rely

upon your practical common sense. Go and dine.”

[Illustration: GOING TO THE BANQUET.]

A great public dinner was prepared, in token of rejoicing, in a field

{237} in front of the amphitheatre. As on all similar occasions,

there was much speech-making and little food, at least for many of

the most deserving supporters of the republic. The Insects were

relegated to an obscure position, politely called the place of

honour, where they feasted on fine phrases. In consideration of

his position, the Fox, as President, was supported by a Duck and

Indian Hen, who kept a respectful distance from His Excellency. It

was a most amicable gathering. The views expressed were as diverse

as the individuals present. One said white, another black; one red,

another green; and all agreed that the speakers were the living

representatives of worth, genius, and national progress. The Fox was

everything to every one. He had a smile and kind word for each guest.

“You do not eat,” he said to the Cormorant. “Are you ill?” to the

White Bear; “you seem pale.” To his _vis à vis_, “Have the Wolves no

teeth now?” To the Penguin, who was yawning, “You require rest after

your exploits.” To the Blackbird, “You seem silent.” And to all, “My

good friends, use your pens freely.” At last came the toasts, the

time for oratorical display. You should have watched how each one

retired within himself, scratched his head or pensively caressed

his tail as a means of inspiration, how each silently rehearsed

his little speech. Unfortunately the order of the toasts had been

arranged beforehand—not only the order, but the number as well.

Splendid fasting might be forgiven, but the cancelling of a cherished

toast—never! In spite of this wise precaution, there were so many

speakers that my pen and patience alike failed to enumerate them. As

may be imagined, the first toast was Liberty; this is traditional,

and it is no fault of those who dine if liberty makes a poor show on

such occasions. By courtesy the second was the Ladies, couched in

these terms, “To the sex that adorns and ennobles life!” This toast,

proposed by an amiable Hippopotamus well known for his gallantry, was

greeted with applause.

Towards the close of the evening wine flowed freely, and as the

contents of the cask fell, the spirits of the party rose to that

pitch when all things earthly seemed steeped in the roseate light of

a glorious dawn. The repast ended like all others of the kind, when

the face of the universe is proposed to be changed, and the world

forced backwards by eating and drinking. But the morning revealed

the marvellous fact that the world still revolved in its old way,

and that recourse must again be had to the common, traditional,

time-honoured modes of life, at least so thought the Fox, who

replaced his cap by a little crown, {238} declaring at the same time

that in future he would shun popular feasts as he would the devil.

“I am about to draw up a charter. A nation that has a charter wants

for nothing. Here is my charter:—

“All animals who can read, write, and especially count, who have

hay in their racks, and powerful friends, being all equal before

the law, shall receive protection. The great ones of the Jardin des

Plantes may therefore enjoy their ease. The lesser ones are requested

to give up what little they have, and to become so small as to be

imperceptible and impalpable.

“It is impossible to please every one; those who are displeased ought

not to be astonished, as they have a right to complain. The right

of drawing up petitions is solemnly recognised. But as it is well

known that the moments of a ruler are precious, and as it would be

impossible for him to receive all the petitioners, it is forbidden

for any one to bring his petition to the august arm-chair. They will

only be received when sent by post, postage prepaid, and will only be

read when convenient to do so.”

The animals required no second telling. Every one having some source

of complaint, petitions arrived in cartloads. The earth and air were

thronged with messengers and couriers of every description. The

charter had not been published two hours before the house, cellars,

and lofts were packed full of petitions. They were even piled up

against the outside door.

“Fools!” said the Fox, laughing in his sleeve to see they had taken

him at his word. “How long will they imagine that governments are

made to protect them? Yet I must look at these petitions, and in

order to observe the strictest impartiality, will close my eyes.”

He opened one written by a Bittern, signed and crossed by many

supporters. It ran as follows:—

“The undersigned declare that they have had enough of civil discords

and of preliminary proceedings, and suggest that the white Blackbird

should now be called upon to relate his history.”

“I like this petition,” said the Fox, “as it enables us to dispense

with opening the others. The others may make a bonfire.”

No sooner said than done. They were burned.

{239}

HISTORY OF A WHITE BLACKBIRD.

How glorious and yet how painful it is to be an exceptional

Blackbird! I am not a fabulous bird. M. de Buffon has described me.

But, alas! I am of an exceedingly rare type, very difficult to find,

and one that ought, I think, never to have existed.

[Illustration]

My parents were worthy birds, who lived in an old out-of-the-way

kitchen-garden. Ours was a most exemplary home. While my mother

laid regularly three times a year, my father, though old and

petulant, still grubbed round the tree in which she sat, bringing

her the daintiest insect fare. When night closed round the scene,

he never missed singing his well-known song, to the delight of the

neighbourhood. No domestic grief, quarrel, or cloud of any sort had

marred this happy union.

Hardly had I left my shell, when my father, for the first time in his

life, thoroughly lost his temper. Although I was of a doubtful grey,

he neither recognised in me the colour nor the shape of his numerous

posterity.

“This is a most doubtful child,” he used to say, as he cast a side

{240} glance at me, “neither white nor black, as dirty-looking as he

seems ill-begotten.”

“Ah me!” sighed my mother, who was always coiled up in a ball on her

nest. “You yourself, dear, were you not a charming good-for-nothing

in your youth? Our little pet will grow up to be the best of our

brood.”

While taking my part, my mother felt inward qualms as she saw my

callow down grow to feathers; but, like all mothers, her heart warmed

to the child least favoured by nature, and she instinctively sought

to shield me from the cruel world.

When I was moulting, for the first time my father became quite

pensive, and considered me attentively. While my down fell off he

even treated me with some degree of favour, but as soon as my poor

cold wings received their covering, as each white feather appeared,

he became so furious that I dreaded his plucking me alive. Having no

mirror, I remained ignorant of the cause of his wrath, and was at a

loss to account for the studied unkindness of the best of parents.

One day, filled with joy by a beam of sunlight and the warmth of

my new coat, I left the nest, and alighting in the garden, burst

into song. Instantly my father darted down from his perch with the

velocity of a rocket.

“What do I hear?” he cried. “Is that meant for a Blackbird’s whistle?

Is it thus I sing? Do you call that song?”

Returning to my mother with a most dangerous expression lurking round

his beak, “Unfortunate! who has invaded our nest? who laid that egg?”

At these words my good mother jumped from her nest fired by proud

resentment. In doing so she fell and hurt her leg; she wished to

speak, but her heart was too full for words. She fell to the ground

fainting.

Frightened and trembling, I cast myself at my father’s feet. “O my

father!” I said, “if I whistle out of tune, and am clothed in white,

do not punish my poor mother. Is it her fault that nature has not

tuned my ear like yours? Is it her fault that I have not your yellow

beak and glossy black coat, which recall a sleek parson swallowing an

omelette? If Heaven has made me a monster, and if some one must bear

the punishment, let me be the only sufferer.”

“That is not the question,” said my father. “Who taught you to

whistle against rule?”

“Alas! sir,” I said humbly, “I whistled as best I could, because my

breast was full of sunshine and stomach full of grubs.” {241}

[Illustration]

“Such whistling was never known in my family,” he replied. “For

untold centuries we have whistled, from father to son, the notes

alone by which we are known. Our morning and evening warblings have

{242} been the pride of the world since the dawn that awoke us to the

joys of paradise. My voice alone is the delight of a gentleman on the

first floor and of a poor girl in the attic of yonder house. They

open their windows to listen to me. Is it not enough to have your

whitened clown-at-a-fair coat constantly before my eyes? Were I not

the most pacific of parents, I should have you plucked and toasted on

the poor girl’s spit.”

“Well,” I cried, disgusted with my father’s injustice, “be it so, I

will leave you—deliver you from the sight of this white tail you are

constantly pulling. As my mother lays three times a year, you may yet

have numerous black children to console your old age. I will seek a

hiding-place for my misery; perchance some shady spout which shall

afford flies or spiders to sustain my sad life. Adieu!”

“Please yourself,” replied my father, who seemed to enjoy the

prospect of losing me; “you are no son of mine—in fact, you are no

Blackbird.”

“And who may I be, pray?”

“Impossible to say; but you are no Blackbird.”

After these memorable words, my unnatural parent with slow steps left

me, and my poor mother limped into a bush to weep. As for myself, I

flew to the spout of a neighbouring house.

II.

My father was heartless enough to leave me in this mortifying

situation for some days. In spite of his violence he was naturally

kind-hearted, and had he not been prevented by his pride, he would

have come to comfort me. I saw that he would fain forgive and forget,

while my mother’s eyes hardly left me for an instant. For all that,

they could not get over my abnormally white plumage, and bring

themselves to own me as a member of the family.

“It is quite evident I am not a Blackbird,” I repeated to myself, and

my image, reflected in a pool of water in the spout, confirmed this

belief.

One wet night, when I was going off to sleep, a thin, tall,

wiry-looking bird alighted close by my side. He seemed, like myself,

a needy adventurer, but in spite of the storm that lifted his

battered plumage, he carried his head with a proud and charming

grace. I {243} made him a modest bow, to which he replied with a

blow of his wing, nearly sweeping me from the spout.

“Who are you?” he said with a voice as husky as his head was bald.

“Alas! good sir,” I replied, fearing a second blow, “I have no notion

who I am; I imagine myself to be a Blackbird.”

The singularity of my reply, together with my simple artlessness,

interested him so much that he requested me to tell him my history,

which I did.

“Were you like me, a Carrier-Pigeon,” said he, “all the doubtings

and nonsense would be driven out of your head. Our destiny is to

travel. We have our loves—we also have our history; yet I own I don’t

know who my father is. To cleave the air, to traverse space, to view

beneath our feet man-inhabited mountains and plains; to breathe the

blue ether of the sky, in place of the foul exhalations of the earth;

to fly like an arrow from place to place, bearing tidings of peace or

war,—these are our pleasures and our duties. I go farther in one day

than a man does in six days.”

“Well, sir,” I replied, a little emboldened, “you are a Bohemian

bird.”

“True,” he said; “I have no country, and my knowledge is limited to

these things—my wife, my little ones; and where my wife is, there is

my country.”

“What have you round your neck?”

“These are papers of importance,” he replied proudly. “I am bound

for Brussels with news to a celebrated banker which will lower the

interest of money one franc seventy-eight centimes.”

“Ah me!” I exclaimed, “you have a noble destiny. Brussels must, I

suppose, be a fine city? Could you not take me with you? as I am not

a Blackbird, perhaps I am a Carrier-Pigeon.”

“Were you a Carrier you would have returned my blow.”

“Well, sir,” I continued, “I will return it, only don’t let us

quarrel about trifles. Morning dawns and the storm has abated, pray

let me follow you. I am lost, have no home, nothing in the world;

should you leave me, I shall destroy myself in the gutter.”

“Come along, follow me if you can.”

Casting a last look at the garden where my mother was sleeping, I

spread my wings and away I flew. {244}

III.

My wings were still feeble, and while my guide flew like the wind, I

struggled along at his side, keeping up pretty well for some time.

Soon I became confused, and nearly fainting with fatigue, gasped out,

“Are we near Brussels?”

“No, we are at Cambray, and have sixty miles to fly.”

Bracing myself for a final effort, I flew for another quarter of an

hour, and besought him to rest a little as I felt thirsty.

“Bother! you are only a Blackbird,” replied my companion, continuing

his journey as I fell into a wheat-field.

I know not how long I lay there. When at last I made an effort

to raise myself, the pain of the fall and fatigue of the journey

so paralysed me that I could not move. The dread of death filled

my breast when I saw approaching me two charming birds, one a

nicely-marked coquettish Magpie, the other a rose-coloured Ringdove.

The Dove stopped a few paces off and gazed on me with compassion, but

the Magpie hastened to my side, saying, “Ah, my poor child, what has

befallen you in this lonely spot?”

“Alas! madam, I am a poor traveller left by a courier on the road; I

am starving.”

“What do I hear?” she exclaimed, and flew to the surrounding bushes,

gathering some fruits, which she presented on a holly leaf. “Who

are you?” she continued; “where do you come from? Your account of

yourself is scarcely to be credited; you are so young, you have only

cast your down. What are your parents? how is it they leave you in

such a plight? I declare it is enough to make one’s feathers stand on

end.”

While she was speaking I raised myself a little and ate the fruit

ravenously, the Dove watching my every movement most tenderly.

Seeing I was athirst, she brought the cup of a flower half full of

rain-drops, and I quenched my thirst, but not the fire kindled in my

heart. I knew nothing of love, but my breast was filled with a new

sensation. I should have gone on dining thus for ever, had it been

possible, but my appetite refused to keep pace with my sentiment, nor

would my narrow stomach expand.

The repast ended and my energies restored, I satisfied the curiosity

of my friends by relating my misfortunes. The Magpie listened with

marked attention, while the tender looks of the Dove were full of

{246} sympathy. When I came to the point where it was necessary to

confess ignorance of my name and nature, I felt certain I had sealed

my fate.

[Illustration: RESCUED.]

“Come,” cried the Magpie, “you are joking. You a Blackbird? Nonsense;

you are a Magpie, my dear fledgling—a Magpie, if ever there was one,

and a very nice one too,” she added, touching me lightly with her

fan-like wing.

“Madam,” I replied, “it seems to me that I am entirely white, and

that to be a Magpie—— Do not be angry, pray.”

“A Russian Magpie, my dear; you are a Russian Magpie.”

“How is that possible, when I was hatched in France, of French

parents?”

“My good child, there is no accounting for these freaks of nature.

Believe me, we have Magpies of all colours and climes born in France.

Only confide in me, and I will take you to one of the finest places

on earth.”

“Where, madam, if you please?”

“To my verdant palace, my little one. There you will behold life

as it ought to be. There you shall not have been a Magpie for five

minutes before you shall resolve to die a Magpie. We are about one

hundred all told, mark you, not common village Magpies who pick up

their bread along the highway. Our set is distinguished by seven

black marks and five white ones on our coats. You are altogether

white. That is certainly a pity, but your Russian origin will render

you a welcome addition to our number. I will put that straight.

Our existence is spent in dressing and chattering, and we are each

careful to choose our perch on the oldest and highest tree in the

land. There is a huge oak in the heart of our forest, alas! it is

uninhabited; it was the home of the late Pius X., and is now the

resort of Penguins. We pass our time most pleasantly, our women folk

are not more gossiping than their husbands are jealous. Our pleasures

are pure and joyous, since our hearts are as true as our language

is free. Our pride is unbounded. Should an unfortunate low-born Jay

or Sparrow intrude himself, we set upon him and pick him to pieces.

Nevertheless, our fellows are the best in the world, and readily

help, feed, and persecute the poor Sparrows, Bullfinches, and Tomtits

who live in our underwood. Nowhere can one find more gossip, and

nowhere less malice. We are not without devout Magpies who tell their

beads all day long, and the gayest of our youngsters are left to

themselves, even by dowagers. In {247} a word, we pass our time in an

atmosphere of glory, honour, pleasure, and misery.”

“This opens up a splendid prospect, madam, and I would be foolish

not to accept your hospitality; yet, before starting on our journey,

permit me to say a word to this good Ringdove. Madam,” I continued,

addressing the Dove, “tell me frankly, do you think I am a Russian

Magpie?”

At this question the Dove bent her head and blushed. “Really, sir,”

she replied, “I do not know that I can.”

“In Heaven’s name, madam, speak; my words cannot offend you. You who

have inspired me with a feeling of devotion so new and so intense

that I will wed either of you if you tell me truly what I am.” Then

softly I continued, “There seems to be something of the Dove about

me, which causes me the deepest perplexity.”

“In truth,” said the Dove, “it may be the warm reflection from the

poppies that imparts to your plumage a dove-like hue.”

She dared say no more. “Oh, misery!” I exclaimed, “how shall I

decide? How give my heart to either of you while it is torn with

doubts? O Socrates, what an admirable precept was yours, yet how

difficult to follow, ‘Know your own mind’! It now occurred to me to

sing, in order to discover the truth. I had a notion that my father

was too impulsive, as he condemned me after hearing the first part of

my song. The second part, I was fain to believe, might work miracles

with these dear creatures. Politely bowing by way of claiming

their indulgence, I began to whistle, then twitter and make little

warblings, after which, inflating my breast to its fullest, I sang

as loud as a Spanish muleteer in his mountains. The melody caused

the Magpie to move away little by little with an air of surprise,

then in a stupefaction of fright she described circles round me like

a cat round a piece of bacon which had burned her, and which proved

too tempting to relinquish. The more impatient she became, the more

I sang. She resisted five-and-twenty bars, and then flew back to her

green palace. The Ringdove had fallen asleep—admirable illustration

of the power of song. I was just about to fly away when she awoke and

bade me adieu, saying—

“Handsome, dull, unfortunate stranger, my name is Gourouli. Think of

me, adieu!”

“Fair Gourouli!” I replied, already on my way, “I would fain live and

die with thee. Such happiness is not for me.” {248}