IV.

The sad effect of my song weighed heavily upon me. Alas! music and

poesy, how few hearts there are who understand thee! Wrapped in

these reflections, I knocked my head against a bird flying in an

opposite direction. The shock was so great that we both fell into a

tree. After shaking ourselves, I looked at the stranger, expecting a

scene, and with surprise noted he was white, wearing on his head a

most comical tuft and cocking his tail in the air. He seemed in no

way disposed to quarrel, so I took the liberty of asking his name and

nationality.

“I am more than astonished you do not recognise me,” he said. “Are

you not one of us?”

“In truth, sir,” I replied, “I do not know who I am myself, far less

who you are. Every one asks me the same question, ‘Who are you?’ Who

should I be if I am not one of nature’s practical jokes?”

“Come now, that will do; I am no green hand to be caught by chaff.

Your coat suits you too well; you cannot disguise yourself, my

brother. You certainly belong to the illustrious and ancient family

called in Latin _Cacuata_, and in the vulgar tongue Cockatoo.”

“Indeed, sir? Since you have been good enough to find me a family and

a name, may I inquire how a well-bred Cockatoo conducts his affairs?”

“We do nothing, and what is more, we are paid for doing nothing! I am

the great poet Cacatogan—quite an exceptional member of my family.

I have made long journeys, crossed arid plains, and made no end of

cruel peregrinations. It seems but yesterday since I courted the

Muses, and my attachment has been most unfortunate. I sang under

Louis XVI., I clamoured for the Republic, I chanted under the Empire,

discreetly praised the Reformation, and even made an effort in these

degenerate days to meet the exigencies of this heartless century. I

have tossed over the world clever distiches, sublime hymns, graceful

dithyrambics, pious elegies, furious dramas, doubtful romances, and

bloody tragedies. In a word, I flatter myself I have added some

glorious festoons, gilded pinnacles, and choice arabesques to the

temple of the Muses. Age has not bereft me of poetic fire. I was

just composing a song when we came into collision, and you knocked

the train of my ideas off the line. For all that, if I can be of any

service to you I am heartily at your disposal.” {249}

“You, sir, can serve me,” I replied, “for at this moment I too feel

something of the poetic fire of which you speak, although, unlike

yourself, laying no claims to poetic fame. I am naturally endowed

with a voice and song which together violate all the old rules of

art.”

[Illustration]

“I myself have forgotten the rules. Genius may not be fettered, her

flights are far beyond all that is stiff and formal in schools of

art.”

“But, sir, my voice has a most unaccountable effect on those who

{250} listen to its melody, an effect similar to that of a certain

Jean de Nivelle whom—— You know the rest.”

“Yes, yes,” said Cacatogan. “I myself suffer from a similar cause,

thoroughly inexplicable, although the effect is incontestable.”

“Sir, you are the Nestor of poetry. Can you suggest a remedy for this

peculiarity of song?”

“No; during my youth I was much annoyed by it. Believe me, its effect

indicates only the public inability to appreciate true inspiration.”

“That may be so. Permit me to give you an example of my style, after

which you will be better able to advise me.”

“Willingly,” replied Cacatogan; “I am all ears.”

I tuned my pipe at once and had the satisfaction of seeing that he

neither flew off nor fell asleep, but riveted his gaze on me, and

from time to time displayed tokens of approbation. Soon, however, I

perceived he was not listening; his flattering murmurs were lavished

on himself.

Taking advantage of a pause in my song he instantly struck in, “It is

the six-thousandth production of my brain, and who dare say I am old?

My lines are as harmonious and my imagination as vivid as ever. I

shall exhibit this last child of my genius to my good friends;” thus

saying he flew off without another word.

V.

Left thus alone and disappointed, I hastened my flight to Paris,

unfortunately losing my way. The journey with the Pigeon had been too

rapid and unpleasant to leave any lasting impression of landmarks on

my mind. I had made my way to Bourget, and was driven to seek shelter

in the woods of Morfontaine just as night closed in.

Every bird had sought its nest save the Magpies and Jays—the worst

bedfellows in the world—who were quarrelling on all sides. On the

borders of a brook two Herons stood gravely meditating, while close

at hand a pair of forlorn husbands were patiently waiting the arrival

of their giddy wives, who were flirting in an adjoining hedge.

Loving Tomtits played in the underwood, beneath a tree where a busy

Woodpecker was hustling her brood into a hollow in the trunk. On all

sides resounded voices saying, “Come, my wife!” “Come, my daughter!”

{252} “Come, my beauty!” “Here I am, my dear!” “Good-night, love!”

“Adieu, my friends!” “Sleep well, my children!”

[Illustration]

The situation for a celibate was most embarrassing. I was almost

tempted to seek the hospitality of some birds of my own size, as

we all looked alike grey in the dark. At last perching on a branch

where there was a row of different birds, and modestly taking the

lower end, I hoped to remain unobserved; but I was disappointed. My

nearest neighbour was an old Dove, as thin as a rusty weather-cock.

The moment I approached her, the few feathers which covered her bones

became the objects of her solicitude. She pretended to pick them, but

as they had only a slender hold of her skin, merely passed them in

review, to make sure she had her right number. Scarcely had I touched

her with the tip of my wing, when, drawing herself up majestically,

she said, “How dare you, sir?” administering at the same time a

vigorous British push that sent me spinning into the heath, on the

top of a Hazel Hen, who would have willingly made room for me, only

her spare bed was taken up by a son returned from the harvesting.

I heard myself called by the sweet voice of a Thrush, who made signs

for me to join her companions. Here at last, I thought, are some

birds of my feather, and nothing loath, took my place among them

as lightly as a _billet-doux_ disappearing in a lady’s muff. Alas!

I discovered that the dames had feasted freely on the juice of the

grape, so I left them, to flee I knew not where, as the night was

pitchy dark. Onward I sped till arrested by a burst of heavenly

music. It was the song of the Nightingale, and dame Nature, attired

in her sombre hues, stood listening in silence to the glorious

lullaby that had soothed her children to sleep. The song recalled the

first notes that doomed me to become an outcast. There was a touch of

melancholy about the music, a mournful refrain that seemed to breathe

forth a longing for something brighter, purer, holier than all life’s

experiences. My resolution to live my life out seemed to melt away

in the liquid strain, and at the risk of becoming the prey of some

nocturnal Owl, I plunged into the darkness determined to return to

my home or die in the effort. At daybreak I descried the towers of

Notre Dame, and soon perched upon the sacred building, to rest for a

moment before alighting in the old garden. Alas! absence had wrought

a sad change. Nothing remained to mark the site save a bundle of

fagots. Where was my mother? In vain I piped and sang, and called on

her to return. She had left the old familiar scene. There stood the

woodman’s axe that {253} had laid low the trees and severed the ties

of kindred. The shrubs of the green lane were rooted up to make way

for the cold grey stones of the abodes of men.

VI.

I searched for my parents in all the gardens around, but in vain;

they had doubtless sought refuge in some distant spot, and were lost

to me for ever. Overwhelmed with sorrow, I lingered about the spout

from which my father’s wrath had exiled me. Sleep deserted me, and I

lay down to die of hunger and grief. One day my sad reflections were

interrupted by the jarring discord of two voices. Two slattern dames,

standing slipshod, dirty, and bedraggled in the road beneath, were

disputing over some point of household discipline, when one clinched

the argument by exclaiming, “Egad! when you manage, you slut, to do

these things, just let me know on’t, and my faith, I’ll bring you a

white Blackbird.”

Here was a discovery; probably the little unforeseen circumstance

destined to turn the tide of my fortune and land me at last in

Elysium. I must be a real, though rare bird of a misguided type.

Thus impartial speech is sufficient to justify the conclusion. That

being so, humility ill befits me. It is a mistake to cheapen what

in reality are attributes as rare as they are highly prized. I am

the one living illustration that in nature, as in law, nothing is

impossible—that black even may become white. In law, I am told, this

transformation is effected thoroughly, but at the same time at great

cost to clients, and only by highly-gifted members of the bar. In my

own case, natural law has been manipulated to bring about a like end,

intended clearly for my gain.

These sage conclusions led at once to my assuming the airs and

importance of a creature who for the first time discovers that his

genius has raised him from the gutter far above all his fellows. I

seemed at once to acquire a more dignified and imposing strut while

parading the spout, and at the same time a capacity for looking

calmly into space, towards the place of my ultimate destiny, far

removed from this narrow terrestrial sphere. All this was a wonderful

transformation to be wrought by the careless boast of a tawdry

gossip, and clearly proves how nicely poised are the affairs of life.

Such incidents are not unknown among men, as the word of a fool has

been known to arrest the overthrow of a kingdom. {254}

Among other things, it occurred to me, since Nature has gone out

of her way to make me what I am, I must be a poet. I can hardly

explain the process of reasoning which led to this belief; for all

that, the belief became so rooted in my brain that I must needs

jot down my inspiration. It is universally acknowledged that the

first step to be taken towards becoming a great poet is to look

like one. I accordingly studied to look genius all over, and the

result was, I was accepted as my own estimate. Next I determined

to go in for classical verse, and bring out a poem in forty-eight

cantos, so framed as to apprise the universe of my existence. I

shall deplore my isolation in such a manner as to stir up the envy

of the happiest beings on earth. Since Heaven has refused me a mate,

I shall utterly condemn the law which divides the bird creation into

families, each having its own distinctive attributes. I will cry

down everything—prove that grapes are sour, that Nightingales sing

one into despair, and that Blackbirds have fallen away from their

primeval whiteness. But first I must lay hold of a good rhyming

companion, a handy-book to lift me out of the horrors of fishing

for words of the same sound. It will also be necessary to establish

about my person a retinue of needy journalists and authors as an

exhaustless source of inspiration, in order to deluge the world with

rhymes copied from the strophes of Chaucer, and with plays decked out

from the sentiments of Shakespeare. Thus shall I ease my overburdened

soul, make all the Tomtits cry, the Ringdoves coo, and the old Owls

screech. Above all, one must prove one’s self inexorable to the

sweet sentiment of love. In vain shall I be waylaid and entreated to

have compassion on maidenly hearts melted by my song. My manuscripts

shall be sold for their weight in gold, my books shall cross the

seas, fame and fortune shall everywhere follow me. In short, I shall

be a perfectly exceptional bird, an eccentric, and at the same time

brilliant writer, received with open arms, courted, admired, and

thoroughly detested by a thousand rivals.

VII.

An interval of six weeks introduced my first work to the world, which

turned out, as I promised myself it should, a poem in forty-eight

cantos. It was slightly marred by a few negligences, the result of

prodigious fertility of brain and the inability of my pen to keep

pace with my inspiration. Nevertheless, I wisely concluded that the

public, {255} accustomed as they are in modern times to all that

is swift in thought and action, would shield me from reproach. The

success of this, my pristine effort, was simply as unparalleled as

it was thoroughly deserved. The subject of the poem was my noble

self; in this respect adhering to the prevailing custom, I related

my sufferings and adventures, and put the reader in possession

of a thousand domestic details of the most piquant interest. The

description of my mother’s nest filled no less than fourteen cantos.

With the most graphic minuteness were noted the number of straws,

grasses, and leaves of which it was composed, the whole being

idealised by the tints and reflections of poetic genius. I displayed

the inside and the outside, the bottom and the brim, the graceful

curves and inclined planes and angles, gradually leading the reader

up to the grand theme of the contents—the remains of flies, may-bugs,

and grubs which supplied the dainty fare of our home. Thus ascending,

I reserved, with true poetic art, the dramatic incidents of my life

for the grand _dénoûement_.

Europe was moved by the apparition of my book, and eagerly devoured

its thrilling revelations. How could it be otherwise? I had not

only laid bare the facts of my existence, but pictured the dreams

which disturbed my repose for many years, even introducing an ode

composed in the yet unbroken egg. Of course I did not neglect the

subject which interests every one—that is, the future of humanity.

This problem, which for a moment had arrested my attention, was dealt

with, and dashed off in outline, giving universal satisfaction.

Every day brought its tribute of congratulatory letters and

anonymous love declarations, while my door was besieged by newspaper

correspondents and Western tourists seeking an interview. All

personal intercourse I positively declined, until forced to make an

exception to a Blackbird from Senegal and another from China, who

announced themselves as relatives of my own.

“Ah, sir,” they said, nearly choking me with their embraces, “you are

indeed a noble bird. How admirably you have painted in your immortal

lines the profound sufferings of an unknown genius! If we are not

already thoroughly misunderstood, we should become so after reading

you. How deeply we sympathise with your griefs and your sublime scorn

of vulgar opinion. Our own experience, sire, has made us familiar

with all the troubles of which you sing. Here are two sonnets we

humbly pray you to accept as a token of our worship.” {256}

“Here is besides,” added the Chinese, “a song composed by my wife on

a passage in your preface. She seems to have caught wonderfully the

inspiration which it breathes.”

“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you seem to be gifted persons endowed with

sentiments that are a credit to your nations, but permit me to

inquire the reason of your manifest melancholy?”

“Ah, sir, see how I am formed. My plumage, it is true, is pleasant to

behold; it is not without the tinge of emerald green, the glory of

Ducks and dupes. For all that, my beak is too short and my claws too

long, and whoever saw such a frightful tail as mine? I am nearly all

tail. Is it not enough to give one the blues?”

“As for me, sir,” said John Chinaman, “my misfortune is a still more

painful one. My comrade’s tail sweeps the streets, while the vulgar

point the finger of scorn at me because I have only a stump.”

“Gentlemen,” I replied, “I pity you with all my heart. It is always

painful to have too much or too little of anything, no matter what

it is. But allow me to tell you that in our museums there are many

examples of your class who have been stuffed and preserved in peace

for years. My own case is infinitely worse than yours put together.

I have the misfortune to be a lettered bird, a genius, and the only

bird of my kind. In spite of my resolution to remain single, the

return of spring-time caused me much uneasiness, and an event as

unexpected as it was welcome decided my future. I received a letter

from a young white Merle in London. It ran thus:—

“ ‘I have read your poem, and the devotion it inspired has

constrained me to offer you my hand and fortune. God created us for

each other. I am like you, for I am a white Merle.’

“My surprise and joy may be imagined. A white Merle! Is it possible?

I hastened to reply to the charming note—equal in terseness and

fathomless sentiment to a love message in the second column of the

_Times_. I besought the fair unknown to come at once to Paris, the

refuge of romance-stricken young ladies. My reply had the desired

effect; she came at once, or rather soon after her second letter,

which informed me that she would not bother her parents with details.

It was better to tell them nothing, as they might deem it necessary

to send an old carrion Crow to look into my character.

[Illustration]

“She came at last. Oh, joy! she was the loveliest Merle in the world.

Was it possible that a creature so charming had lived and been reared

for me? All my father’s curses, and, above all, my {258} sufferings

were welcome, since Heaven had reserved such an unexpected

consolation for me. Till to-day I thought myself doomed to an eternal

solitariness, but now I feel, while gazing on my lovely bride, all

the nobler qualities of a father fully developed within me. Accept my

claw, fair one, let us wed in the Anglo-Saxon fashion, and start for

Switzerland.

“Nay,” replied my love, “our wedding must be on a truly magnificent

scale, all the Blackbirds of good birth must be invited. Birds in

our position ought to observe the nicest ceremony, and not wed like

water-spout cats. I have brought a provision of bank-notes with me.

Arrange your invitations, and spare no cost in ordering the feast. I

am of French origin and love display.”

Blindly yielding to the wishes of my charmer, our wedding was of

extraordinary brilliancy. Ten thousand flies were slaughtered for the

feast, and we received the nuptial benediction from an old father

Cormorant, archbishop _in partibus_, and the happy day’s festivities

concluded with a splendid ball.

The more I studied the character of my wife, the greater became my

love. She combined in her dainty person every imaginable grace of

body and mind. Only she was given to gossip, which I attributed to

the influence of the English fog, and never had a moment’s doubt that

our genial climate would dissipate this little cloud.

There was some mystery hedging her round, which troubled me with

grave forebodings. She used to shut herself up with her maids, under

lock and key, for hours together, engaged, so she said, at her

toilet. Husbands as a rule have no patience with such proceedings.

More than a score of times have I knocked at my wife’s door without

receiving the slightest response. One day I insisted with such

violence that she was compelled to open the door, but not without

favouring me with a sample of her temper. On entering, the first

thing that met my gaze was a huge bottle of a sort of paste made up

of flour and whitewash. I inquired of my wife what she used that

stuff for, to which she replied, it was a mixture for chilblains.

This seemed rather strange, yet how could so charming a creature

inspire me with anything but confidence.

[Illustration]

Up to the present time I had remained ignorant of the fact that my

wife had cultivated letters. Imagine my joy on discovering that

she was the author of a romance modelled after the style of the

illustrious Sir Walter Scott. I was then not only the husband of

an incomparable {259} beauty, but of a truly gifted companion.

From that instant we worked together; while I composed my poems,

she covered reams of paper and {260} displayed the rare gift

of listening to my recitations without pausing in her task of

composition. She composed her romances with a facility almost

equal to my own, always choosing subjects of rare dramatic value;

homicides, murders, and highway robberies, taking care in passing,

to shoot poisoned shafts at the Government by advocating the cause

of the Merula vulgaris. In a word, no efforts were too great for her

mind, or tricks for her modesty. Never had she need to cross through

a line, or lay her plans before beginning to work.

One day while my wife was toiling with unusual ardour, she perspired

freely, and to my horror I beheld a black patch on her back. “Bless

my soul, dear!” I said “what is that? Are you plague-stricken? Are

you ill?” She at first seemed frightened and speechless, but her

knowledge of the world soon restored her habitual self-composure,

and she replied that it was a spot of ink, a stain to which she was

subject in moments of inspiration. Inwardly I was greatly troubled.

Does my wife lose her whiteness? was a question which cost me many

wakeful nights. The paste bottle rose like a phantom before me. Oh

heavens! what doubts. Can this celestial creature, after all, only

be a painting, a work of art? Is she varnished to deceive me? Had

I been wooed and won by a mixture of flour and whitewash? Haunted

by doubt, I took measures to lay the apparition by investing in a

barometer, and watching for signs of coming rain. I planned to decoy

my wife some doubtful Sunday into the country, and try the effect of

an impromptu wash, but we were in the middle of July, and the weather

provokingly fine. Real happiness, and long habit of writing, had

much increased my sensitiveness. While at work it sometimes happened

that my affections were stronger than my inspiration, and I gave

way to tears, while waiting for my rhyme. My wife loved these rare

occasions, and strove to soothe my masculine weakness.

One evening while dashing through my writing according to Boileu’s

precept, my heart opened. “Oh thou, my queen!” I said, “thou my only

truly loved one, thou without whom my life is a dream, thou whose

look, whose smile, fills my world with light. Life of my heart! dost

thou know the height, the breadth, the depth of my love? Before thou

camest to me my lot was that of an exiled orphan, now it is that of

a king. In my poor breast thine image shall be enshrined till death.

All! All my hopes and aspirations are centred in thee.”

While thus raving, I wept over my wife, and as each tear-drop fell

upon her back, she visibly changed colour. Feathers, one by one,

not {261} even black, but red appeared—she must have coloured red

to fill some other _rôle_. Soon I found myself _vis-à-vis_ with

a creature unpasted, unfloured, and nothing more than a vulgar

Blackbird. How dare I publish my shame! I plucked up courage and

resolved to quit the gay world, to give up my career, to flee to a

desert, if that were possible, to shun the sight of every living

creature.

IX.

I flew away broken-hearted, and the wind, the good angel of birds,

wafted me on its wings to a branch at Mortfontaine. It was night,

the birds were asleep, but the Nightingale still sang. Alone in the

darkness his heart overflowed with his song to God for His goodness,

his breast expanded with the sacred theme, and with a rapture unfelt

by the most gifted poets who sing for the ears of men. I could not

resist the temptation of addressing him.

“Happy Nightingale, you sing because your heart is bursting with joy.

You are indeed highly favoured, you have a wife and little ones which

you sing to sleep on their pillow of moss. You have a full moon to

cheer you, plenty to eat, and no journals to praise or condemn you.

Rubini and Rosini are as nothing to you. You are equal to the one,

and divine when compared with the other. I, sir, have wasted my life

in pursuing the empty vanities of fame, while you have secured real

happiness in the wood. May your secret be learned?”

“Yes,” replied the Nightingale, “but it is not what you imagine. My

wife bothers me, I do not love her! I am passionately fond of the

Rose; Sadi, the Persian, has spoken of it. I sing all night to her

while she sleeps and is deaf to my praise. Her petals are closed at

this hour. She cradles an old Scarab, and when the gray dawn breaks

sadly over the wood, and my eyes are closing in sleep, then she will

open her breast, and the Bee will be welcomed with the dainty pollen

from the lips of her lover.”

{262}

THE QUEEN’S HUSBAND.

The first political act in which I took part made so deep an

impression on me, that I attribute the strange vicissitudes of my

life to its influence. Permit me to begin my narrative without

further introduction.

[Illustration]

I had reached maturity and become a citizen of the hive, when one

morning I was roused by a knocking at the partition, and some one

calling on me by name.

“What is wanted?” I inquired.

“Come out at once!” was the instant rejoinder. “You are wanted.

Monsieur is about to be executed, and you are required as one of the

guards of honour.”

These awful words, which I scarcely comprehended, filled me with

horror. I was, for all that, aware beforehand of the impending doom

of Monsieur, but had no notion that my services would be required at

the ghastly ceremony.

“Here I am!” I exclaimed, and finishing my toilet in all haste,

precipitated myself outside the hive, a prey to the strongest

emotion. I was not pale, but green! Monsieur was one of the

finest drones in the hive, rather stout, but, withal, well made;

his physiognomy was full of a pleasing, wistful, and yet proudly

aristocratic expression—as novelists would say—I had often seen him

accompany the queen in her daily rounds of inspection, tormenting

her with his jokes, helping her with his foot, sharing with her

the prestige of sovereignty, and altogether appearing to be the

happiest of princes, and most beloved of husbands. The people loved

him little, but feared him much, he had the queen’s ear, the queen

had publicly kissed his forehead, and it was reported by one of the

chamber maids that Monsieur was soon to be a father. This important

news spread around, and filled each cell with joy. We saw ourselves

transformed into nurses surrounded by groups of children, giving

food to this one, rocking that one. Already in each chamber a soft

couch was prepared to receive the new comer, and in the evening {263}

before going to sleep, certain flowers had been pointed out as those

containing the sugar which would yield the most delicate honey, as

food for the youngsters when they made their appearance.

[Illustration]

Our expectations were confirmed. Our beloved queen laid ten thousand

twin eggs, all so beautiful that it was impossible to choose between

them. The prince was radiant with joy, and spent his whole time in

kissing the eggs one after the other. I had witnessed all this, {264}

had beheld him in his glory, and now, I was rudely awakened to see

him dragged to his doom. More than that, oh horror! I was chosen to

be his executioner. The prince, under the dreadful circumstances,

showed decided reluctance to yield up his life. This seemed all the

more pitiable as nature had deprived him of either offensive or

defensive weapons. He was completely in our power.

“What have I done to deserve this doom? Oh, my queen, grant me but

one hour!” he cried, kneeling before her, “but half an hour, nay,

five minutes. I have revelations, confessions . . . ”

“Make haste!” said the queen, striving to conceal her emotion; “we

must abide by the law. Away with him; put an end to him; he is now

worse than useless.”

The queen retired to her chamber, still full of souvenirs of the

prince, and in an instant he was pierced by a thousand darts. Should

I live a century, I shall never forget the scene. I pretended to

share in the outrage, yet never moved my sting from its sheath. Even

among the most advanced communities there are barbarous laws. Poor

Messieurs, poor Messieurs!

Of these Messieurs, vulgarly called Drones, there are from five to

six hundred in one hive, each one to be called upon to mount the

steps of the throne, and to pay with his life for the excess of

honour thus accorded to him. The prospect of a tragic end gave many

of them sad looks, which contrasted with the natural gaiety of their

fellows. One could mark them crawling listlessly along among the

thousands of orderly workers that thronged the streets, alleys, and

cells of the city, dejected and oppressed by their coming glory. At

the slightest noise they turned round tremblingly. “Is the queen

calling us?” they would inquire, and speedily they hid themselves

away among the crowd, and, escaping from the hive, sought the freedom

of fields and flowers.

There are many troubles which fall to the lot of those in high

positions. The fat, overfed idlers who strut about, are most of them

merely servants and dependants, unworthy of the vulgar admiration

lavished on them by the working class. This sentiment of aristocracy

worship is a common folly to which I myself have been subject, and

which it ill befits me to condemn. Shall I confess it? I madly loved

a Drone. Yes, I loved him. He was handsome beyond description. When

he entered the corolla of a flower, I trembled lest the contact with

its petals should spoil his beauty. I was mad. Platonic love; {265}

for Nature permitted us only the ideal, impossible love of the poet,

the dream of the artist. I loved this creature simply for his beauty.

I admired the blue Dragon-fly with his silken wings, as I watched him

skimming over the grass at the close of the day. I had, indeed, an

eye for everything beautiful, and above all, for my superb Drone.

One day I found him half drunk with honey, lying fast asleep in the

heart of a lily; his face, though smeared with yellow pollen, still

retained its noble expression. He was snoring in a most majestic and

regular manner. I stood for a moment, quite rooted to the spot by the

glorious spectacle. This then, I thought, is a future husband of our

queen! I at last approached him, foolishly curious to examine the

details of his figure, and gently touched him, when, yawning, he said—

“What does your Majesty want now?”

Then looking at me, he perceived his mistake, and added smiling—

“I am not in your way, my child, so proceed with your work, and

permit me to rest in peace.”

There must have been a subtle odour in this flower which stole into

my head, for I instantly forgot my work, and remained looking at him

dreamily. What are we? I thought. Only miserable workers, makers of

honey, moulders of wax, and neuter nurses to the children of those

magnificent idlers who spend their days in sleeping in the heart of

flowers, and dreaming that they hear the silvery tones of the queen’s

voice calling them. I own myself ashamed of my humble, laborious

calling. How could he love such a simple drudge? Were I even a Wasp,

scouring lanes and hedgerows, and annoying wayfarers—careless,

coquettish, unkind—always armed, offensive and useless; perhaps then

he might love me. Is not fear the beginning of love? Hence is it not

a means of seduction? Such thoughts, and a thousand others, were

buzzing in my brain; still my admiration only became all the more

intense, and I exclaimed, in spite of myself—

“O Prince, most handsome Prince, you are exceedingly beautiful!”

“All right,” replied the Prince, “I know it; my position requires it.

Pray do not disturb my repose; go away, like a good fellow.”

This strange language to a neuter disturbed me not a little. He

evidently did not even know my sex, far less my love for him. That

which charmed me most was—I scarce dare write it—his glorious {266}

idleness, the helplessness of his fine body, and insolent coolness

of his fine language. I scorned and yet loved him. I knew he was

accustomed to snore daily when in this perfumed spot; I therefore got

through with my work quickly, and made the flower my resort, after

dressing the little ones confided to my care, and nearly choking them

with hasty meals, so that I might go and prepare his place, and sweep

away with my wings any yellow powder that would soil his coat. If a

few drops of water had gathered in the corolla, I pierced it with my

stings and left, so that my master might repose there without fear of

rheumatism.

He was none the more thankful; his requirements only increased and

kept pace with my love and care for him. He would smile, blissfully

stretching himself, and request me to mount guard outside the flower,

so that no common insect might trouble his dreams. It tried my

temper, yet I watched. One day I saw him coming; he was very pale,

but his walk was steadier than usual.

“What is the matter, Prince?” I inquired anxiously.

“Go away, little one. I have need of air, and the sun will not mind

seeing me face to face to-day.”

I trembled for the misfortune that seemed to have overtaken him.

“To-morrow! to-morrow!!” he cried, making gestures which denoted the

trouble of his mind. “To-morrow I shall be the queen’s husband!”

A mist obscured my eyes; deep resentment filled my heart. I was mad

with jealousy.

“From to-day till to-morrow many things may happen!” I exclaimed.

“Silence! how dare you in my presence proclaim your seditions?”

“No,” I said, “you shall never wear the crown!” I flew at him, and

profiting by a momentary turn of his head, pierced him to the heart

with my sting. Hardly had he breathed his last, when I burst into

remorseful tears.

I returned to the hive to find everything in the greatest disorder.

The entire community, a prey to the deepest agitation, were jostling

and knocking each other about.

“What has happened?” I inquired of the first Bee I met.

“What happened?” he replied. “Why, one of the Drones is missing.

“How is that known?” I continued with much fear. {267}

“At the evening call there were only five hundred and ninety-nine

Drones present. The queen has had a nervous attack, and one is lost

in conjecture as to what will be the result.”

“A dreadful affair!” I replied, and hastened to mingle with the crowd.

The queen was inconsolable, and so was I myself, for the space of two

whole days.

{268}

THE LOVES OF TWO INSECTS.

_PRESENTED AS AN EXAMPLE TO WISE MEN._[1]

SENTIMENTAL HISTORY OF ANIMALS.

I.

PROFESSOR GRANARIUS.

[Illustration]

“Certainly,” said Professor Granarius, one evening while seated

beneath his limes, “nothing is more curious than the conduct of

Jarpeado. In truth, if the French followed his example, we should

have no need of codes, mandates, sermons, or social gatherings, for

the advancement of mankind. Nothing proves more conclusively that

_reason_ alone—the attribute of which men are so proud—is the prime

cause of all the evils of Society.”

[1] The distinguished animal to whom we owe this

history—designed to show that the creatures so boldly named

stupid by men, and in reality superior to human beings—desires

to remain anonymous. It may nevertheless be said, that he is a

creature who held a very high place in the affections of Miss

Anna Granarius, and that he belongs to the sect of reasoning

animals, for whose members she had the greatest esteem.—ED.

Miss Anna Granarius, who was devotedly attached to a poor student,

could not help blushing deeply, for her skin was fair and delicate.

Anna was the typical {269} heroine of a Scotch novel, the profound

depths of her blue eyes almost betokening “Second-sight.” By the

candid and caught look of the professor, she perceived he had said

one of those foolish things which frequently fall from the lips of

scientific dreamers. Leaving her father to follow out his dream on

the depravity of human reason, she bent her steps to a favourite spot

in the Jardin des Plantes which was closed for the night, as the

month was July and the hour half-past eight.

“What does my father mean to say about this Jarpeado who turns his

head?” she inwardly inquired, seating herself outside a hothouse.

Pretty Anna remained pensively rooted to the seat, while her father,

absorbed in his own thoughts, never missed her presence. The maiden

was endowed with a highly strung nervous temperament which, had she

lived four hundred years ago, would have brought her to the stake

in the Place de Grève. But happily for her, she was born in more

enlightened times.

II.

That which Prince Jarpeado found most extraordinary in Paris, was

himself, like the dodge of Gênes at Versailles. He was undoubtedly a

fine fellow, though small, remarkable for the classic beauty of his

features. His legs might have been doubtful, a trifle or so bandy,

but they were encased in boots garnished with precious stones and

fixed up on three sides _a la poulaine_. On his back, as was the

usage of Castraine, in his country, he carried a cape which cast

into the shade those worn by the ecclesiastics of Charles X. It was

covered with aberesques of diamonds on a ground of lapis-lazuli,

divided into two equal parts like the two flaps of a trunk. These

flaps were fastened by a gold clasp, and displayed like the priestly

surplice, in token of dignity, for he was prince of Coccirubri. He

wore a pretty necklace of sapphire and two aigrettes infinitely finer

than any of the feathers in the caps of European potentates worn on

State occasions.

Anna thought him charming, only his two arms were rather short and

slender for embracing. This slight defect, however, was carried off

by the rich carnation of his royal blood. Anna soon found out what

her father meant, by witnessing one of those mysterious things which

pass unnoticed in this terrible Paris, at once so full and so empty,

so foolish and so wise, so preoccupied and so much on the alert, yet

always so fantastic. {270}

III.

The three thousand windows of this glass palace exchanged glances

of moonlight so bright that the edifice seemed glowing at a white

heat, ablaze with the fire, kindled by the rising orb which so

frequently deceives the traveller. The cactus was breathing forth a

store of strange odour, the vanilla its sweet perfume. The volcaneria

distilled the vinous heat from its tufts, the jessamine exhaled a

poetic fragrance, the magnolia intoxicated the air, while the aroma

of the datura advanced with the pomp of a Persian king, and the

powerful Chinese lily sent her breath onward with an overpowering

force that assimilated all the other odours of the flowery scene.

The perfume-laden air stood motionless to feast upon the spectacle

presented by a troop of midnight spirits, as they rose from an

enchanted spot shaded by a grove of bananas, whose wide-spreading

leaves formed a canopy gilded by a phosphorescent light. Soft

streams of music floated around, gently awakening the spirits to

their nocturnal revels. Suddenly the lights fell on a patch of green

cactus, revealing the gay form of Prince Jarpeado exposed to the

witchery of the fairy queen and her gorgeous attendants, robed in

costumes so aërial as to disclose the full charms of their lovely

forms. Phantom-Crickets sang love-ditties in the daintiest retreats,

while a choir of winged musicians chanted the praises of the prince,

who stood unmoved by the seductive art of this witching band. The

passion-imbued glance of the queen fell, shivered against the armour

of Jarpeado’s true heart, where, enshrined in all its artless purity,

he treasured the image of the fair Anna. The music ceased, and in a

silvery voice the queen, radiant with an unearthly beauty, exclaimed—

“Jarpeado! Jarpeado! receive the homage of the fairy queen whose

heart thou hast won.”

The moment was enchanting. The perfumed breeze wooed the flushed

cheek of the prince, and whispered love. Jarpeado stood irresolute.

It was but for an instant, when rousing himself from the subtle

influences that were kindling a fire of unworthy passion in his

breast, he replied—

“Fair spirit, whose unearthly radiance lays siege to a true heart,

and who with cunning and skill have sought out the weak points of my

armour, all thine arts, wiles, and hellish tricks can never quench my

love for the fair Anna.” {271}

[Illustration]

{272}

Scarcely had the last word escaped his lips, when the weird scene

was blotted out from his gaze, and a ghastly green light disclosed a

slimy waste alive with crawling monads, and all the simplest forms

of life. The balmy air was chilled and its fragrance replaced by the

noxious breath of animal decay. A flash of lightning and peal of

thunder heralded the approach of a monster with mouth wide open, dark

and deep as the bottomless pit, his horns erect, his tail fiercely

sweeping the waste; onward he came, spreading terror around, and

leaving death in his train.

This was the Valvos, which preyed like cholera on the people, but the

prince escaped, saved by a fair maiden.

“Daughter of my country!” he exclaimed, “my deliverer, cruel destiny

stands between us; I cannot wed thee.”

The scene changed, and Anna was transported unseen to the attic of

her lover, the poor pupil of Granarius. Bent over his books, for a

moment he raised his head, crying out—

“Oh! if Anna would only wait for me; in three years I shall have the

cross of the Legion of Honour. I feel, I know, I shall solve this

entomological problem, and succeed in transporting to Algeria the

culture of the _Cocus Cacti_. Good heavens! that would be a conquest.”

Anna awoke and found herself in bed, she had dreamed a dream. But who

was this Jarpeado of whom her father constantly spoke? She hastened

to ask the old professor. It was necessary to be careful, she must

watch, and after breakfast seize one of his lucid intervals; for in

his normal condition, her father’s mind was absent exploring the

fathomless depths of science. Seated at the breakfast table she

exclaimed—

“Father!”—just as the professor was putting a spoonful of salt into

his coffee—“what are you thinking about?”

“Well, Anna, dear, I was investigating the subject of monads, or

rather the nature of these simple inorganic forms, twelve months

before birth, and I come to the conclusion that”——

“That my dear father, if you succeed in introducing one of these

ridiculous creatures to the scientists of Paris, you will both be

decorated. But who, tell me, is this Prince Jarpeado?”

[Illustration]

“Prince Jarpeado is the last of the dynasty of the Cactriane,”

replied the worthy professor, who employed allegory in addressing his

daughter, forgetful that her mind had matured, and she had ceased

to play with dolls; “a large country, basking in the sun’s rays,

and {274} having a longitude and latitude—matters these you do not

comprehend. The country is populous as China, and like that unhappy

land, subject to periodical inundations, not of cold water, but of

hot water, let loose by the hand of man. This depopulates the land,

but nature has so provided that a single prince may alone repair the

damage. This reminds me of something I discovered ten years ago in

connection with Infusoria, the Rotafera of Cuvier, they”——

“Yes. But the prince, the prince!” cried Anna, fearing lest her

father should fall into a reverie and she would hear nothing more.

“The prince,” replied the old professor, giving a touch to his wig,

“escaped—thanks to the French Government—from the destroying flood,

and he has been brought up without consulting his future, away from

his fair realm. He was transported in his undeveloped form to my

illustrious predecessor Sacrampe—the inventor of Ducks.

“Jarpeado came here at the request of the Government on a bed of

dust, made up of millions of his father’s subjects, embalmed by the

Indians of Gualaca, not one of the nymphs of Rubens, not one of

Miéris’ pretty girls has been able to dispense with the mummies of

this race. Yes, my child, whole populations deck the lips which smile

upon or defy you from each canvas. How would you like the freak of

some giant painter who would take generations of human beings on his

palette, crushing them to produce the colours of an immense fresco?

Heaven forbid that it should be so!” Here the professor fell into a

profound reverie as was his wont after uttering the word heaven.

The pupil of Granarius, Jules Sauval, entered. If you have ever met

one of those modest young fellows devoted to science, knowing much,

yet possessing a certain simplicity, which, although charming, does

not prevent him from being the most ambitious creature in the world,

an innocent who would turn the earth upside down about a hyoïde bone,

or a univalve shell. If you have seen a youth of this type, then

you know Jules Sauval. He was as candid as he was poor—candour goes

when fortune comes.—He venerated Professor Granarius as a father,

and admired in him the disciple of the great Geoffroy St. Hilaire.

Blessed be science, Jules Sauval would have just been the same, even

supposing the professor had no pretty daughter Anna. He was a second

Jarpeado alive among the dry bones and débris of antiquity. Just

as the _Coccus cacti_—the subjects of Jarpeado—had been crushed to

lend a glow of life to the finest works of art, so the young student

identified himself with defunct organisms in {275} order that

science might all the more faithfully picture the forms and colours

of pre-historic life. Like Jarpeado, Jules Sauval had his loves,

he admired the fair Anna as a perfect type of a highly-organised

sensitive animal—so he said.

In common with the professor he was intent upon uniting this red

prince to some analogous creature. The men of science had come

down to the level of the members of the Chamber of Deputies, and

talked them into erecting a spacious hothouse to contain the finest

plants of the tropics. Within its glass walls the illustrious

professor has found a solitary living specimen of the _Coccus

cacti_—Cochineal—Jarpeado, whose habits they had studied so

profoundly as to discover that the prince was endowed with pride of

race, and passion of sentiment, opposed to his union with any partner

saving a princess of his own vermilion blood.

“Alas! Professor,” exclaimed Jules, “I have just left the

glass-house, and all is lost! There is no possibility of uniting

Jarpeado to any living creature, he refused the _Coccus ficus

caricæ_. I had them under our best microscope.”

“Ah, you horrid creature!” cried Anna. “This is then a prince of the

insect world, and yet his history is interesting. I might have known

he was no human being, since you say he will die faithful to his

first love.”

“Hush, child,” said Granarius, “I fail to note the difference between

dying faithful and unfaithful, when it is a question of dying.”

“You will never understand me, sir,” said Anna, in a tone which

startled the mild professor, “and as for you, Mr. Jules, all your

science and all your charms will never tempt the prince to prove

unfaithful. You, sir, shall never be capable of love such as his.

A little less science and a trifle more common sense would have

suggested keeping him among the dust of his defunct ancestors, where,

perchance, he left his living partner, or will find another of

red-royal blood.”

The professor and his pupil elated by this marvellous suggestion

hastened to replace Jarpeado in the dust from which he had been taken.

Alas! sighed Anna, Jules loves me not, else he would have lingered

with me to tell his love. I made the path clear for him. Yet he

perceived it not, but has gone with my father to speculate on the

introduction of this scarlet _Coccus cacti_ dynasty into Algeria.

Following them to the large hothouse in the Jardin des Plantes, Anna

{277} observed her father consigning the small paper of _Coccus

cacti_ dust into the centre of the first nopal that had flowered.

[Illustration]

A jealous Englishman, witness of this scientific operation, remarked

in passing, “This old fool uses the plant as a portfolio!”

“Heat the house well,” cried Granarius, as he fell into a profound

reverie, leaving his daughter and Jules to talk of love, or science.

“So, Mr. Jules, you have ceased to love me,” said Anna.

“Nay,” replied Jules, “I do not think you do me justice, but I have

come to the conclusion that sentiment, or passion, in all animals,

follows a fixed natural law, and being divided between two creatures

ought to form a perfect equation.”

“Oh, infernal science! thus to bamboozle a poor brain. Probably your

sentiments are established on the equation of dowry, and you have yet

to learn what love is, Mr. Jules. If you do not take care, science

will claim possession, not only of your soul, but of your body, and

you will become a beast like Nebuchadnezzar. History relates that

he assumed this form because he devoted seven years to zoology in

classing the different species, without once pausing to trim his

beard. Six hundred years hence it will be said of certain zoologists

that they were advanced types of the Orang-outang who stuck up for

their race, and for themselves as examples of progression.”

Jules was called away by the professor, while Anna, turning to a huge

microscope, beheld a new world of creatures, invisible to the naked

eye. There she saw the Volvoce engaged in a steeple-chase, mounted

on an animal making for the winning post. Many elegant Cercairæ were

on the course, the prize being infinitely superior to that of the

Derby; for the winner was to feast on the Vorticella, at once animals

and flowers. Neither Bory, Saint Vincent, nor Müller—that immortal

Dame—have taken it upon themselves to decide whether the Vorticella

is more plant than animal; had they been bolder they might have drawn

valuable conclusions from the man vegetable known to coachmen as

_melon_.

[Illustration]

Anna was soon drawn from the contemplation of this little world to

the fortunes of Jarpeado, who, in her vivid imagination, had become

the hero of a fairy tale. He had at last discovered the object of his

affections in a nursling of his tribe, over whom he watched as she

lay in state beneath a perfumed pavilion, awaiting the incarnation

common alike to heathen deities and zoological creatures. They were

the Paul and Virginia of insect life. The pavilion was guarded by

soldiers {279} attired in madder. The prince proved himself a wise

general, as well as ardent lover, for in order to protect his domain

against a powerful-winged foe called the Muscicapa, he ordered all

his intelligent subjects to throw themselves in such numbers on the

monster, as to choke him, {280} or else satisfy his hunger. For this

service he promised decorations and titles; that was all he had to

offer. The breast of Anna was filled with admiration of these cheap

and valuable political inventions.

[Illustration]

Invisible nuns shrouded the little princess in grey veils, so that

nothing but her head was seen as she lay in state, awaiting her new

winged life. Anna witnessed the joy of Paul, when, like Venus rising

from the waves, Virginia quitted her winding sheet, and like Milton’s

Eve—who is a real English Eve—smiled on the light, and looking at

Paul, exclaimed, “Oh!”—this superlative of English astonishment. The

prince, with a slave’s submission, offered to show the fair one the

path of life, across the hills and dales of his empire.

Virginia, growing in loveliness and in the prince’s affections,

returned his care with caresses, while Paul ministered to her wants,

bringing the ripest fruits for her food; and they at last embarked in

a little skiff, on a lake bright as a diamond, and hardly larger than

a drop of water. Virginia was arrayed in a bridal robe of brilliant

stripes and great richness, her appearance recalling the famous

Esmeralda, celebrated by Victor Hugo, only Esmeralda was a woman,

and Virginia an angel who would not for all the world have loved

a Marshal of the court, far less a Colonel. Her whole affections

were consecrated to Jarpeado. Happy pair, thought Anna, but alas!

what came of it all? After the wedding came family cares, and a

brood destined to make the fame and fortune of her much-loved, but

faithless Jules.

A few evenings later, Anna was frowning on her father, and saying to

Jules—

“You are no longer faithful to the palm-house, so much gazing on

the Cochineal has affected your taste. You are about to marry a

red-haired girl, with large feet, without any figure, devoid alike of

ideas and manners, freckled. She wears dyed dresses, and will wound

your pride twenty times a day, and your ears with her sonatas.”

She opened her piano and began to play with such feeling, that the

Spiders remained pensive in their webs on Granarius’ ceiling, and the

flowers put their heads in at the window to listen.

“Ah me!” said Anna, “animals have more sense than the wise men who

preserve them in glass-cases.”

Jules left the room, sad at heart, for the talent, beauty, and

brightness of this good soul was struggling with the concert of

vulgar coins which his red-haired bride was bringing to his door.

{281}

“Ah!” exclaimed Professor Granarius, “what have we here in the

papers? Listen, Anna.

“ ‘Thanks to the efforts of the learned Professor Granarius, assisted

by his clever pupil Jules Sauval, ten grains of cochineal have been

obtained on the Nopal in the great palm-house. Doubtless this culture

will flourish in our African possessions, and will free us from

the tribute we pay to the new world. Thus the expense of the great

palm-house has been justified—against which opposition was not slow

to make itself heard—but the costly structure will yet render many

valuable services to French commerce and agriculture. M. J. Sauval is

named Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.’ ”

“M. Jules behaves badly to us,” said Anna, “for you have commenced

the history of the _Coccus cacti_, and he has impudently taken up”——

“Bah!” said the professor, “he is my pupil.”

[Illustration]

{282}

LOVE ADVENTURES OF A FRENCH CAT.

MINETTE TO BÉBÉ.

FIRST LETTER.

[Illustration]

“What will you say, my dear Bébé, on receiving this letter from your

sister supposed to be dead, for whom you have doubtless wept, as one

who is almost forgotten.

“Forgive me, my sister, for supposing that you can ever forget

me, although we live in a world where many more than the dead are

forgotten.

“First of all I write to tell you I am not dead, that my love for you

is as strong as ever, and that I am still animated by the hope of one

day rejoining you, alas! my sister, that day may be far distant.

“This evening I thought about our good mother, who was always so kind

and careful of our toilet, whose delight it was to watch the flicker

of the fire-light on our glossy, silken coats, and to train us in

the paths of domestic peace, virtue, and sobriety. I was touchingly

reminded of our simple family-life, with its happy days, and innocent

frolic, all hallowed by the light of love. Yet the brightness of that

light of true hearts casts many dark shadows across my path, shadows

of regret for neglected ministries of tenderness to my mother who is

now perhaps no more. Above the sentiment that prompts me to write, is

the desire to make a regretful confession of the circumstances which

separated me from the dear ones at home. {283}

“Silently I took up the pen, and the result is before you. I am

bending over my task by the dim light of an alabaster lamp, carefully

shaded from the eyes of my sleeping mistress.

“Although I am rich, Bébé, I would rather be poor and happy! Oh, my

mistress is waking. I must quickly say good-bye. I have barely time

to roll up my letter and push it under the cover of a chair, where

it must remain till daybreak. When it is finished I will forward it

by one of our attendants who is now waiting on the terrace. He will

bring me your reply.

“My mother! my mother! tell me all about her.

“YOUR SISTER.”

“_P.S._—Place confidence in my messenger, he is neither young nor

handsome, neither a Spanish Grandee nor a rich Angora, but he is

devoted and discreet. He found out your address. He loves me and

would do anything for me, so he has become my courier. He is a slave!

Do not pity him; the chains of love are his fetters.

[Illustration]

{284}

“You must address your letters to Madam Rosa Mika, that is the name I

am known under here.

“My mistress is certainly waking up, she sleeps badly, and I dread

discovery.

“Again, adieu! In all this scribbling you will recognise more of the

heart than the hand of your sister.”

BÉBÉ TO MINETTE.

SECOND LETTER.

“MY DEAR MINETTE,—I thought I should go mad on reading your letter,

my joy knew no bounds, and indeed it was shared by all. One would

willingly see all one’s relations die, if they all came to life again

like you. Ah, Minette, your departure caused us great grief. Were you

forced to leave us so long in doubt? If you only knew how everything

is changed here since you left. To begin, your mother is deaf and

blind, and the poor old creature passes her days at the door, without

ever uttering a complaint. When I wished to tell her you were still

alive, I could not make her understand, and she could neither read

nor see your letter. Her many troubles have told sadly upon her.

After you left, she searched everywhere in vain for you, and the loss

seems to have undermined her health and left her the wreck I describe.

“Do not grieve too much, old age no doubt must take the lion’s share

of blame. Besides, she sleeps, drinks, and eats well; and there is

always plenty in the cupboard, as I would rather starve than let her

want.

“Our young mistress has lost her mother, so she is more unfortunate

than we are, as she has lost everything, except her pretty figure,

which does not change.

“It was necessary to leave the little shop in Murais; to give up the

ground floor, and all at once mount to the attic, and to work from

morning to night, and from night till morning sometimes. But, thank

heaven, I have a sure foot, good eye, and am a capital hunter.

“You touchingly remark that you are rich, and would rather sacrifice

wealth for happiness. I do not clearly see how I can complain of

being poor. How funny you are! you dine at a polished board, off

gilded plates, and goodly fare. One would think from your way of

putting it, that by stinting one’s self of food, one gets what riches

cannot {285} buy. Some wise cat will no doubt prove before long,

that poverty is the cure for all evils. Seriously, do you believe

that fortune impairs happiness? If that is your creed, become poor

at once, ruin yourself! Nothing is easier than that, live by your

teeth if you can. Tell me what you think of it. Complain of being

unhappy, but not of being rich, for we who are poor are no strangers

to misery. I scold you as your elder sister ought to do, so forgive

me.

“Do you not know that Bébé would only be too happy to be of some

use to you? Do not keep me waiting for another letter. I begin to

fear you have been seeking happiness where it can never be found. Of

course you will hide nothing from me. Ease your heart and write down

your griefs on your perfumed paper, as you proposed. Adieu, Minette,

adieu! This is enough, it is the hour for our mother’s meal, and it

is yet running about in the loft. Things are not going on well there,

the mice are clever, and every day seems to develop new instincts of

cunning. We have feasted so long on them, they begin to notice it.

My neighbour is a cat, not a bad specimen, were he not so original.

He dotes on the mice, and pretends that some day there will be a

revolution when mice will be able to hold their own against cats.

“You see I am right in profiting by the peace we now enjoy, hunting

at will in their grounds. But do not let us talk politics!

“Adieu, Minette.

“Your messenger is waiting. He refuses to disclose your address.

Shall we soon meet each other?

“Your sister till death,

“BÉBÉ.”

“_P.S._—I own your old courier is very ugly. For all that, when I saw

what he brought, I kissed him with all my heart. You should have seen

him bow when he presented the letter from Madam Rosa Mika. Were you

out of your mind Minette when you adopted such a name? Was Minette

not a charming name for a cat so white as yourself? As I have no more

paper, I conclude.”

A Starling had the misfortune of upsetting a bottle of ink over

Minette’s reply to Bébé, so that several pages of the letter are

illegible. The loss of these passages, however, does not interfere

with the narrative. The missing matter is indicated by dotted lines.

{286}

MINETTE TO BÉBÉ.

THIRD LETTER.

[Illustration]

. . . . “Do you remember the doll given to us by our mistress, which

soon became a subject of discord. How you used to scratch me. Oh

dear! I almost feel my back bleeding when I think of it. How I used

to complain of you to my mother when you so persistently called me

a story-teller, but I got no satisfaction. It is from this point,

this little wrong, that all my miseries sprang? Indignant at repeated

miscarriages of justice, I resolved to fly from you and seek a

happier home. Ascending to the roof, the heaven of cats, I viewed the

distant horizon, and determined to wander to its furthest limit. The

prospect {288} for a kitten so young was not tempting. I foresaw

many dangers to which I would be exposed in making my way into

strange lands. I remember . . . . I seemed to hear choirs of voices

in the air—

[Illustration]

“ ‘Do not cry, Minette,’ whispered a voice—no doubt that of my evil

genius—‘the hour of your deliverance approaches. This humble dwelling

is an unworthy shelter for one born by nature to adorn the halls of a

palace!’

“ ‘Alas,’ replied a voice softer and more musical—that of my

conscience—‘You mock me, sir, I am a lowly maiden, a palace is no

place for me!’

“ ‘Beauty is queen of the world,’ continued the first. ‘You are

extremely beautiful, therefore you are queen! What robe is whiter,

what eyes brighter than yours!’

“ ‘Think of your mother,’ said the pleading voice. ‘Can you forget

her? Can you forget your sister Bébé?’

“ ‘Bébé makes you her slave, and your mother does not love you. You

are a child of misfortune. You have been reared by chance. Chance is

your foster-mother. You are alone indebted to chance. Come, Minette,

come, the world is before you. Here is misery and obscurity, yonder,

riches and fame!’

“My good angel in vain tried to picture a future of darkness and

despair. The love of finery took possession of my heart and sealed my

doom!

“The voice became more and more irresistible, and I blindly followed

its commands.

“I had fallen into a faint, but when I became conscious, judge my

surprise to find that my charmer was no illusion. Before me stood a

young cat gazing tenderly down on me.

“Ah, Bébé, he was handsome! and his eyes sparkled with the flame

of kindling love. He was the ideal cat of whom we sing when gazing

on the moon veiled by the city smoke. At last, in a high-pitched

rapturous voice, he exclaimed, ‘Divine Minette, I adore thee.’ I

felt my tail expand at his audacity, but my heart expanded as if in

unison, for I already felt that he was mine. Soon he settled down,

his gaze riveted upon my face. You ought to have seen how humbly he

begged for a single glance from me. How could I refuse his request,

he who, perhaps, had rescued me from the terrible death of a fall

from the tiles.

“If you had only heard his eloquence, Bébé. I confess I felt {289}

flattered and puffed up with pride, and saw myself prospectively

arrayed in all the finery he promised to lay at my feet; lace,

collars, jewels, and a superb ermine muff. This last gift brought me

into great trouble.

“I was naturally indolent—he pictured to me a life of ease, with

its soft carpets, velvet and brocade cushions, arm-chairs, sofas,

and all sorts of fine furniture. He assured me that his mistress—an

ambassador’s wife—would be delighted to receive me whenever I cared

to visit her, and that all the collection which made her apartments a

magazine of curiosities was at my disposal.

“Oh, it was delightful to dream of being waited on so; I would have a

maid, and my noble mistress would serve me.

“ ‘We are called domestic animals,’ he said, why, it is impossible to

say. What position do we fill in a house? Whom do we serve and who

serves us, if not our masters? He assured me I was simply perfect, in

tones so musical, that I heard the old landlady below screaming with

delight. I said I felt lonely, and he swore eternal fidelity—Oh! how

he did swear—and promised a life of cloudless joy. In a word I was to

become his wife, and the ambassador’s titled cat.

“What more need I add. I followed him and thus became Madame de

Brisquet.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

FOURTH LETTER.

“Yes, Bébé, Madam de Brisquet.

“Pity me, Bébé, when I write this name it seems to me to contain

the whole story of my misery, condensed and sublimated, yet I have

imagined myself happy in the possession of wealth, honour, and

his affection. Our entrance into the hotel was a real triumph,

even the ambassador opened his window to receive us. The lady

pronounced me the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, and

after exhausting her store of agreeable flatteries, she rang for her

people, told them all to respect me, and committed me to the care

of her lady-in-waiting. I was at once named the queen of cats, the

fashionable beauty, by all the most renowned Angoras in Paris. My

husband was proud of my success, and I looked forward to a lifetime

of happiness.

“O Bébé, when I recall all this, I often ask myself how it is I have

any heart left. {290}

“My honeymoon lasted fifteen days, after which I discovered that

Brisquet had no real love for me. In vain were his assurances that

his affection had not changed—I was not to be deceived. But love

desires what is impossible, and is after all satisfied with very

little. Even when all tokens of affection were at an end, I felt I

still loved him, and would not believe that love so sincere awakened

no kindred flame in his heart.

“Remember this, Bébé, there is nothing more transient than the love

of cats. Far from being pleased at my constancy, Brisquet became

impatient with me.

“ ‘I cannot understand,’ he exclaimed angrily, ‘why love, the most

gay and agreeable pastime of youth, should become the most serious,

absurd, and bothering business of our maturer years.’

“I abandoned my mother and sister, because I loved you! I, I——wept!

“My grief only hardened his heart, he became cruel, even brutal, and

I, who had rebelled against my poor mother’s neglect, bent under

his oppression, and waited, hoping for brighter days. But time is a

pitiless monster, and teaches us many a hard lesson we would rather

not learn. Time may also be likened to a good physician, who, after

many days heals the deepest wounds. I became calm, feeling that the

last ember of my unrequited love had been rudely stamped out; and I

forgave him.

“Brisquet was one of those who love themselves better than all the

world, and who are easily elated by anything that flatters their

vanity. He was a true disciple of the school of gallantry, whose

doctrines are framed to please, without the troublesome sentiment of

love. Their hearts have two doors which open almost simultaneously,

the one to let you in, the other to kick you out. Naturally, Brisquet

while ceasing to care for me, had found another dupe. Fortune had

furnished a singular rival, a Chinese creature from the province of

Peichihli, who, soon after she had landed, set all the cats in Paris

in a ferment. This gay intriguer had been imported by the manager

of a theatre, who wisely foresaw that a Chinese cat would create a

tremendous sensation among the Parisians.

“The novelty of this last conquest pricked the self-love of Brisquet,

while the drooping ears of the foreigner did the rest. Not long after

he announced his intention of leaving me.

“ ‘I found you poor, I leave you rich. You were despairing and {291}

knew nothing of the world, now, your instinct has been sharpened by

experience. You owe all to me; thank me, and let me go.’

“ ‘Go,’ I said, ‘I ought never to have loved you,’ and he left me.

“His departure lifted a load from my heart. I no longer cared for

him. O Bébé, if I could only have forgotten all, and become a kitten

again.

“It was about the time of Brisquet’s disappearance that I renounced

the world, and refused to quit my apartments. Under the able tuition

of my mistress, I soon perceived that there was more probability

in the fable of the cat transformed into a woman, than one would

suppose. In order, therefore, to wile away the time, I took to the

study of human nature from our point of view. I resolved to put

together my observations in the form of a little treatise, entitled,

‘History of a Woman, as a Caution to Cats; by a Votary of Fashion.’

“Should I find an editor, this important work will soon see the

light. Bébé, I have no heart to write more. Oh, that I had, like you,

remained poor, and never known the pain of luxurious misery. Bébé, I

have decided to return to the loft to rejoin you and my dear mother,

who, perhaps, after some time may know me again. Do not deter me, I

will work, I will forget all the pomp and vanity of riches. Adieu! I

hope to leave for home to-morrow.”

BÉBÉ TO MINETTE.

FIFTH LETTER.

“As I have just received and perused your long, sad letter, I can

only say, that I am ready to welcome you home. Your story was read

through a mist of tears. Although, as I say, I am ready to receive

you, for your own sake, I entreat you to remain where you are. Think

well before plunging into poverty, and exchanging the sentimental

misery of your position for the real woes of want. Remain where you

are, for beneath the richly-laden boards of the great, you can never

feel privation. You can never feel the savage instinct that causes

your poor relations at home to fight for the foulest refuse.

“Mark well my words, Minette. There is only one overwhelming type

of misery in the world, and that is, born of poverty. I need say

nothing to prove that our lot is a sad one. The masons have just left

the loft, where they stopped up every mouse-hole, and transformed

our happy hunting-grounds into howling wastes of bare timber and

plaster. {292} My mother, who knows nothing of all this, is dying for

a meal. I have nothing to give her, and I have tasted nothing for

days.

“BÉBÉ.”

“_P.S._—I was begging the privilege of hunting in the neighbours’

preserves, and have been driven from their roofs and spouts. Keep

your sorrows, you have leisure to weep over them, and over the sad

lot of your poor sister and mother.

“It is said no one dies of hunger in Paris—we shall see!”

FROM BÉBÉ TO MINETTE.

SIXTH LETTER.

“We are saved! a generous cat has come to our aid. Ah, Minette, how

joyous it is to come to life again!

“BÉBÉ.”

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

SEVENTH LETTER.

“You do not reply, Minette. What is the reason? Ought I to excuse

you? I have great news, I am going to be married. I have consented

to wed our deliverer. He is elderly and fat, but very good. I feel

certain you will approve of the step. His name is Pompon, a nice name

which suits him well. It is, besides, a good match, he is a well-fed

cat. You see my education has led me to view this union in a plain

practical way. Write soon, lazy one!

“BÉBÉ.”

FROM MINETTE TO BÉBÉ.

EIGHTH LETTER (_written in pencil_).

“While I write to you, Bébé, my maid—the one kept for me by my

mistress—is engaged in making a linen bag, when finished I will be

thrust into it, it will be sewn up, and I shall be carried off by the

footman and thrown into the river.

“This is to be my fate.

“Do you know why, Bébé. It is because I am sick, and my mistress, who

has the most superfine feelings, dreads the sight of suffering and

death. ‘Poor Rosa Mika,’ she said, ‘how she is changed!’ and in a sad

voice gave the fatal order, ‘Be sure to drown her well, do not have

her suffer pain.’ {293}

“Ah, Bébé, what do you say now? Do you still envy my miseries? My

illness prevented me from writing. Adieu.

“Bébé, in a few minutes all will be over.

“MINETTE.”

You know the history of my married life, would you wish me to begin

again?

As for Bébé, her lot in life was a happy one, only marred by the

death of her mother, who expired in her arms while blessing her

daughter.

Pompon proved a devoted husband and father, for Bébé soon became the

mother of a numerous family of little Pompons and Minettes. {294}

EPILOGUE.

CHIEF EDITOR’S NOTE.

“We are happy to say that poor Minette is not dead, a telegram has

just been handed to us intimating that she escaped as if by a miracle

the sad end which menaced her.

“Both mistress and maid died suddenly before the fatal bag was

finished. Their death is an event most unaccountable, unless it was

brought about to meet the exigency of this romantic tale. Minette,

by means best known to the author of this faithful history, soon

recovered, and was restored to her sister, with whom she lived

happily for many years, enjoying neither riches nor poverty.

Minette’s tranquillity was broken for a time by the news that

Brisquet had first associated himself with a desperate gang of

nocturnal serenaders, and ended his midnight exploits and his life

by falling from a roof into the street. Bébé seeing Minette a lonely

widow, was filled with compassion, and tried to persuade her to wed

one of the friends of Pompon. All her efforts were vain. Minette

remained unmoved, saying, ‘One only loves once. There are those for

whom I might die, but with whom I must refuse to live. Besides, my

resolution is taken—I shall end my days in widowhood.’ ” {295}

[Illustration: THE FATAL FALL.]

{296}

CELEBRATED TRIALS.

[Illustration]

I am an old Crow, a member of the Bar of the animal kingdom. At the

urgent request of my friends and a wide circle of admirers, and

owing to the shortcomings of law reporters, I have resolved to set

before you a succinct account of the last assizes. They created

a great sensation; it could hardly be otherwise, since the happy

thought had suggested itself of selecting most of the judges and

jurymen from members of my own tribe, and these, by their grave

solemnity of countenance, and by their black attire, presented an

imposing spectacle to the crowd, for it was but natural to infer that

creatures so skilled in ransacking dead bodies would be peculiarly

apt in drawing conclusions as to the moral decomposition of prisoners.

A Stork was appointed President, his cold-blooded patience and

stolidity rendering him not unworthy of that honour. Perched

motionless on his chair with his eyes half shut, his breast puffed

out, his head thrown back, he carefully watched for any contradictory

statements made by the accused, and looked as if in ambush on the

borders of some swamp. The post of Attorney-General had fallen to

a wry-necked Vulture. This personage, if he ever possessed any

sensibility, had long forgotten its influence. Ardent and pitiless,

his only thought was to obtain success, or in other words conviction;

his claws and beak were ever ready to attack but never to defend.

The court of assizes was a field of battle, and the prisoner a foe

who must be subdued at any price. He proceeded to a criminal trial

like a soldier to an assault, throwing himself into the case like a

gladiator into the arena. In short, the Vulture makes an admirable

Attorney-General. {297} The inhabitants of the holes, nests, copses,

molehills, and neighbouring marshes flocked in crowds to attend these

judicial ceremonies, while Geese, Bitterns, Buzzards, and Magpies

swelled the throng. {298} This is the way of the world. Seats were

reserved for the representatives of the press—Ducks and Parrots most

of them. With what eagerness these gentry hurried to their places!

A reporter pounces upon a horrible trial as if it were his lawful

prey. When such an occasion presents itself, the regular staff find

themselves no longer obliged to task their imaginations, to cudgel

their well-worn brains. Copy is supplied to them ready-made, needing

no fresh spice to suit the public taste, but rather abounding in

dramatic incidents, such as the journalists could never have invented

themselves; so the editor can proudly cry out to his printer, “Strike

off 10,000 additional sheets!”

[Illustration]

It is needless to describe in detail the whole business of the

session. We will set aside the proceedings against a jolly Dog, who

in a moment of excitement bit the tail off a rival in front of a

tavern; against a Peacock for assuming an aristocratic title not

his own, a Magpie for theft, a Cat for unlawful trespass on private

tiles, a French Cock for stirring up hatred against the constituted

government, a Fox for fraudulent bankruptcy. We will content

ourselves by noticing the two leading trials, saying with a Rat of

our acquaintance, who had gnawed his knowledge out of a book-worm’s

library, _Musa mehi causus memora_.

In a recent issue of “The Microcosm,” a journal much patronised by

the Ducks, one might have read the following words:—

“A crime has just been committed of a nature so diabolical as to

rouse the indignation of the whole country. It is deeply to be

regretted that at the moment when the confederated animals had sworn

to maintain eternal friendship and peace, a Toad should be found

foully poisoned in a field. Justice is making investigation; she

investigated to such good purpose that two Sheep, three Snails, and

four Lizards, all equally guiltless, were arrested on suspicion,

and not released until they had been detained for ninety days in

precautionary imprisonment. May Providence protect you, my friends,

from having any idle charge ever laid at your doors. The first

thing to be done will be to lock you up in a cell; there you will

be detained in custody, that you may be interrogated, and even

cross-questioned, about family antecedents and occupation, your mode

of spending your leisure, and how you have been employed on certain

days, at certain hours, for some months past. After it has been duly

established that you are innocent, you will be politely requested

to go back to your domicile. During all this time your affairs have

languished and fallen into disorder, creditors {299} have become

furious, debtors have flown, your family has been injured, and

calumnies of all sorts have been kindly set afloat concerning you,

for we may always find plenty of animals who will say, ‘Where there’s

smoke there must be fire.’ ”

Those who were arrested on suspicion in this instance were found to

exhibit no traces of guilt. The inquiry was pushed with the greatest

energy and activity under the direction of a pair of Tortoises, but

the longer their examination continued, the more profound became the

darkness and mystery which shrouded the Toad’s death. At last a Mole

came tumbling up from under his hill, and stated that he had seen

an enormous Viper—_monstrum horrendum_, as my friend the Rat would

say—darting at the Toad. When brought face to face with the remains

of the deceased, he swore positively to its identity. The Bulldogs

were instantly despatched in search of the Viper, and falling

valiantly upon him during his sleep, brought him before the judges.

The court is opened; the indictment is read; the Ant, a distinguished

analyst, who had been ordered to examine the contents of the stomach,

proceeds to read his analysis—marked attention.

“Gentlemen, our duty has been to examine the body and intestines of

the unfortunate Toad, and to ascertain beyond doubt whether they

contained traces of the poisonous matter distilled in the fangs of

the Viper, called by the learned _Viperium_.

“This substance, combined with diverse oxides, acids, and simple

bodies, forms variously _Viperates_, _Viperites_, or _Viperures_.

“We have analysed, with the greatest care, the stomach, the liver,

the lungs, and the encephalic mass of the victim, using a variety

of reagents pilfered from a homœopathic chemist who carried his

medicine-chest in his pocket. After heating and evaporating to

dryness the pancreatic juice and other substances contained in the

stomach, we obtained a sweet solid body, which we treated with two

milligrammes of distilled water; by placing the whole in a glass

retort, and submitting it to ebullition for two hours and twenty-five

minutes, we obtained no result. But this same substance treated

successively with acetates, sulphates, nitrates, prussiates, and

chlorates, yielded a liquid of a blue apple green colour which, when

combined with certain powerful reagents, deposited a powder of an

indefinite but most characteristic colour. This powder can be nothing

but _Viperium_ in its pure state.”

Such a lucid and conclusive report deeply impressed the audience.

{300}

This trial, which ended in the conviction of the Viper, would

doubtless have excited greater interest had not public attention been

drawn away by important political matters, and by the account of a

still greater trial which took place about the same time.

The announcement of this affair appeared in the page of “The

Microcosm” consecrated to the horrible, headed, as usual, “Another

dreadful Tragedy.”

“A Ewe and her Lamb, setting a noble example to other domesticated

animals, had escaped from their fold. Both were at once placed under

the special protection of the Free Confederation of Animals, in spite

of which they have been basely murdered.

“A wolf, believed by all to be the true assassin, has been arrested,

thanks to the zeal and energy of the commander of the Bulldogs.”

The point of importance was to ascertain how the Sheep came by its

death. Accordingly, to place this question beyond doubt, a Turkey

was appointed to hold a _post-mortem_ examination. Now this Turkey

was among the most learned of birds. He had won a title by his

marvellous skill, and had gained a well-deserved reputation by

researches—unhappily inconclusive—into that important problem _Quare

opium facit dormire_.

This eminent practitioner stated that the Sheep had certainly not

succumbed to an attack of cholera as some had falsely reported, but

from a wound six inches in length having been made in her neck,

nearly severing the head from the trunk.

The trial was impatiently awaited, and at last came on for hearing.

From break of day an immense multitude besieged the entrance to the

court, but the authorities had taken measures to prevent disorder.

At ten o’clock the accused is brought in; he looks pale, his dark

eyes have lost their lustre, his attire though decent has nothing

_recherche_ about it. One can scarcely make out his features, which

seem to shun the curious gaze of the public. An old Crow, who out of

twenty applicants obtained the honour of defending the prisoner, was

in his place in his professional robes prepared to enter upon his

task. At length the examination commenced.

_Q._ “Prisoner, stand up! Your name and surname?”

_Ans._ “Canis Lupus.”

_Q._ “Your age?”

_Ans._ “Twelve years.” {301}

_Q._ “Your profession?”

_Ans._ “Botanist.”

_Q._ “Your dwelling?”

_Ans._ “The woods.”

“The charges against you, Canis Lupus, will be read over.”

The indictment was read amid profound silence, after which the

presiding judge resumed examination of the prisoner.

_Q._ “Canis Lupus, what have you to say in your defence?”

_Ans._ “I am innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I own, my lord,

for a long time I was accustomed to destroy Sheep, but in so doing I

consulted less my inclination than my hatred for man. If the death of

a Sheep or Lamb gave me pleasure, it was simply because I knew that I

thus carried off from my oppressors a portion of their daily food.

“For some time past I have looked upon Sheep with the tenderest

solicitude, without in any way permitting this sentiment to interfere

with my hatred for mankind. Picture my horror, my indignation, when

a few days back I beheld the innocents of whose death I am accused,

pursued by a butcher who struck them down without pity. I flew to

their aid, the infamous executioner taking to his heels in terror.

Just at that moment when I was preparing to bind up the wounds, the

officers of the court apprehended me as if I were a vulgar assassin!

Hereafter I propose to sue for false imprisonment and damages.”

The prisoner resumed his seat, placing his paw on his eyes. His

address awakened the sympathies of the audience, especially of the

fair sex.

“How well he spoke!” said a Crane.

“What wonderful grace and eloquence!” exclaimed a speckled Magpie.

“It is a thousand pities that a youth so handsome should be

condemned,” said a Woodcock, sighing, “Ah me! ah me!”

It would almost seem that in order to please some ladies one must be

a villain, but if one wishes to touch their hearts, hypocrisy must be

called in to add attractiveness to crime. Let us, however, return to

our mutton.

The judge replied—

“Prisoner, your version of the occurrence is full of contradictions

and must be set aside as utterly false. It is opposed to the sworn

testimony of the witnesses we are about to examine. Let us assure

you, once for {302} all, you will never be able to persuade your

fellow-brutes that you are capable of one spark of generosity. Your

antecedents are deplorable.”

_Prisoner._ “Alas! I have always been the victim of calumny.”

“You appear to have been reared in a hotbed of crime. At two years

old you bit the mother who nursed you.”

_Prisoner._ “She bit me first.”

“Later in life you fell a-quarrelling with one of your neighbours and

called him a Toad!”

_Prisoner._ “He had called me an Alligator.”

“Three years ago you were seen prowling round the royal rabbit

warren, a place which no animal of your species is permitted to

enter.”

_Prisoner._ “My lord, I never set foot inside it.”

“Perhaps not, but you intended to get in there, and to create a

disturbance inside. The gentlemen of the jury will know how to take

all these circumstances into account.”

The hearing of the witnesses followed, the Wolf cross-examining each

with great ability—calm with some, ardent, jocular, or sarcastic with

others, always ready with a reply to any damaging statement. Little

by little, nevertheless, his strength failed him; to the strain of

over-excitement there succeeded a sudden prostration, and at last he

fainted away.

The trial had to be adjourned till the following week. For some days

the Wolf was too feeble to appear. Never has an illustrious animal,

the head of a family or a prince adored by his people—as official

proclamations assure us—excited so keen a public interest during

sickness as did this unlucky Wolf. The _habitues_ of the court feared

lest a sensational prosecution should be lost to them. The judge’s

heart bled lest this important and popular trial should come to an

end, depriving him of the opportunity of summing up, and so dealing

with the evidence as to present to the jury the distorted form of

justice seen through the illusive medium of the law. The executioner,

his keen blade athirst for a victim, trembled lest it should be

robbed of its proper prey. The Vulture general dreaded lest his

eloquent speech should have to be shelved, again undelivered—a speech

that had cost him three weeks of close study.

Every morning the press published a bulletin of the Wolf’s condition.

{303}

“The accused suffers dreadfully, and is closely confined to bed. He

has always a number of Leeches near him; nevertheless he seems calm

and resigned.”

“The prisoner had a bad night. Several Geese of the aristocracy have

sent to the prison to inquire after his health.”

“The accused recovers slowly, he devotes his hours of convalescence

to reading and writing. The chief subject of his study is the

‘Proverbial Philosophy of Martin Tupper.’ He has used during his

captivity two thousand nine hundred and twenty-one sheets of paper.

He is composing a drama in seventeen acts, entitled ‘Virtue’s

Triumph,’ also a philosophical treatise on the desirability of

abolishing capital punishment.”

The following verses were penned by the prisoner, and will doubtless

be read with the interest they deserve:—

I.

“Ah, hapless is the prisoner’s fate in convict cell condemned to pine,

While birds abroad their songs uplift, and fields in summer’s glory shine.

If breeze-borne from the far-off flock, the fitful tinkling bells are heard,

If corn-fields wave their nodding ears, by wanton zephyrs lightly stirred,

All these the wretch’s sorrows swell, he scents but may not see the flowers,

And darker grows the lonely gloom which broods o’er all his friendless hours.

II.

“Soft coos the plaintive dove, the waves in whispering throbs their music pour,

Each after each in cadence breaks, and dies in rippling on the shore;

The woods and winds their voices blend, no heed the cheerless captive pays;

No joy to him the sunbeam brings, which o’er the smiling meadow plays.

Unhappy outcast! not for thee does universal gladness reign,

These joys were all in mockery sent to wring thy breast with deadlier pain.

III.

“The world outside, the busy world, its dear familiar rounds may tread,

But vain are dreams of pleasant life, when life’s long-lingering hope has fled.

Then, prisoner, cease to shake thy bars: no mercy cold mute iron shows;

In torments, terrors, threats, and tears, thy few remaining days must close.

Thy doom is sealed; the gaolers stern may never more their grip relax,

Until the headsman comes to claim thee for his hungry axe.”

I avow, ye gentlemen of the press, that the sort of enthusiasm of

which this miserable Wolf became the object, inspired me with sad

reflections. I have heard of unfortunate Nightingales, who for long

years together have poured forth the most sublime songs without

ever rising {304} from obscurity, or obtaining a wider fame than

that embraced in their native woodland shade, and yet this Wolf,

because he has committed a foul crime, saw his clumsy doggerel

rapturously applauded. I know of some good animals who, though they

have proved themselves heroes of virtue, have never got a single

line from the public press. Nevertheless the minutest sayings and

doings of this condemned wretch have been chronicled to please the

public craving. Mammas who would have thought twice before placing

the fables of Florian in the hands of their daughters—mammas strict

even in the choice of their own reading, have in the family circle

freely discussed details which initiated their children into all the

refinements of crime and depravity. Without ignoring evil, could not

the reports of crime be so framed as to avoid the ghastly pomp and

morbid parade with which they appear in the newspapers?

If an editor were to confine himself exclusively to the relation of

good actions, he would frequently have to supply blank sheets to his

readers.

As soon as the prisoner was able to appear at the bar, the

proceedings began anew, and continued eight days. Twenty-eight

witnesses were heard for and against the Wolf, while judges, jurymen,

counsel, and defendants poured out their questions, interruptions,

and observations in a never-ceasing flood. The result was that the

whole affair, clear and simple as it had been at first, became

gradually so confused as to be almost incomprehensible.

Most lawsuits are like the water of a fountain—the more it is stirred

up, the muddier it grows.

The prisoner had used so many subterfuges to rivet attention, he

became so thoroughly the lion of the day, that a profound feeling of

sympathetic emotion prevailed when the Vulture delivered himself of

the concluding speech for the prosecution.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “before I enter upon the details

already submitted to your intelligent consideration, my duty commands

me imperiously to put to you a question as grave as it is important.

I ask you with feelings of the deepest grief and bitterest pain—I

ask you, what is society coming to? In truth, gentlemen, turn where

we will, look in which direction we may, we discover nothing but

disorder—disorder, gentlemen, among quadrupeds, among bipeds, among

geese, though they may use but one leg at a time. What we see is

neither more nor less than symptoms of disorganisation, from bottom

to top, from root to core. Yes, gentlemen, the social fabric is being

{305} undermined, the social body is corrupting; it totters to its

fall, and fall it will, gentlemen, unless you are able to rear up a

barrier which shall arrest its dreadful downward progress towards

moral dissolution.”

The orator proceeded to view the crime in every possible light,

showing how such atrocities were committed in ancient times, how they

might be committed at any time by anybody, and how the guilt of this

particular crime had been clearly brought home to the prisoner.

The counsel for the defence replied in an effective series of

vigorous croaks, having first declared that in his opinion the finest

spectacle on earth was that of innocence overtaken by misfortune.

At half-past twelve the jurors retired to a silent copse to

deliberate, and soon returning, found the culprit guilty on all the

charges of the indictment.

The judge touchingly inquired of the felon whether he had any

objection to the sentence of death being passed upon him, to which

the prisoner replied with a feeble grin.

“The Wolf is condemned to be hanged.”

The immense crowd remained gloomy and speechless, not a word, not

even a bleat disturbed the scene, not a tail gave an involuntary wag.

One would have imagined, when viewing all eyes bent on the Wolf, and

all beaks hushed and dumb, that the assembly had been suddenly turned

to stone, or that an electric shock had struck them all motionless

for ever.

The Wolf was hanged this morning, gentlemen, and some zoophytes took

good care to avail themselves of the opportunity for a demonstration

in favour of the abolition of capital punishment. I confess that

their arguments have little effect on me. I cannot conceive why they

made so much fuss to save a wretch who destroyed his brother. It is

to punish him more severely, they say, that they would permit him to

live! How they deceive themselves! The convict always cherishes the

consoling hope of being one day able to escape. It may be he will

settle down contentedly to the undisturbed round of prison life. From

a wretched outcast who gained a precarious subsistence by crime, he

comes to take pleasure in his banishment. The burden of care has been

lifted from his back. His wants are provided for by the State, and he

need no longer dread the horrors of dying from hunger. The punishment

inflicted has given him at last a recognised position in society.

If the penalty of death is to cease to be carried into effect, the

nations {306} of Europe, and the world at large, must commence

by the abolition of war, for on the field of battle thousands

of innocent lives are sacrificed as the penalty of the guilt or

misgovernment of a single individual.

Let kings and emperors so raise the moral tone of their statesmen

and subjects as to enable them practically to carry out the Divine

command, “Thou shalt not kill.”

Twenty-two different portraits of the Wolf were issued, no one of

them resembling another, yet all guaranteed likenesses.

[Illustration]

The complete account of the trial, drawn up by a clever shorthand

writer, was sold by thousands. The memory of the Wolf was also

enshrined in verse and recited in the streets.

I.

“Give ear, Jays, Hawks, and Magpies,

Attend, all Kites and Crows, {307}

A story we shall now unfold

More black than ye suppose.

II.

“The story of a guilty deed,

For harpies vile befitted,

Which cunning Wolf with crafty tongue

And keen-edged tooth committed.

III.

“A tender Lamb one joyous morn

Beside its mother played,

The Wolf came creeping up

And friendliest greeting made.

IV.

“The Ewe responsive welcome gave,

The Wolf lay down to sleep,

But soon he started up again

And slew that trustful Sheep.

V.

“ ‘Help, mother dear!’ the Lambkin cried,

But oh! its cry was vain,

With cruel fangs the unsparing Wolf

Straight clove its neck in twain.

VI.

“But never while misdeeds abound

Shall wakeful vengeance fail,

Two Watch-Dogs bold, who guard the fold,

That guilty Wolf assail.

VII.

“ ‘Now, comrades,’ cries the wily Wolf,

‘Some healing balm obtain,

In yonder cave ‘tis stored;’ but soon

He found such tricks were vain.

VIII.

“For up and spake each trusty Hound,

‘Thou felon Wolf, say true,

Who bade thee slay this blameless Lamb,

And kill its mother too?’

IX.

“ ‘I cure, not kill,’ the Wolf replied,

‘Vex not a poor physician;

Such lies, base curs, would place my name

In quite a false position.’ {308}

X.

“The Watch-Dogs drag the prisoner off,

The courts his death decree,

Now hanged in chains his body swings

On yonder gallows-tree.

MORAL.

“Whene’er your steps incline to stray

Along the sinner’s wicked way,

A warning from this story take,

And know that truth sublime—

Each creature is a criminal

When he commits a crime.”

[Illustration]

{309}

THE BEAR; OR, A LETTER FROM THE MOUNTAINS.

“When introduced to the world, I brought with me a craving for

solitude, doubtless bestowed for some wise purpose. But instead

of directing my faculties to an end which answered my vocation in

the harmony of beings, like most gifted natures, I followed my own

inclinations.

[Illustration]

“Soon after the event which brought me to light, a fall from a lofty

tree lamed me for life, and contributed not a little to render me a

prey to fits of melancholy.

“Our den was the favourite resort of Bears of the surrounding

district. My father was a splendid hunter, and entertained his

convives sumptuously with the produce of the chase. Life in those

days seemed to be one endless round of dancing, gaiety, and

feasting. As for myself, I remained a stranger to my father’s

guests, whose visits bothered me. Although the good cheer was not

wholly distasteful, the frequent and vulgar eating, drinking, and

roaring bouts were odious to my nature. This repugnance was not

to be attributed to a finely-strung organisation, although modern

philosophy points to our organisation as the source and cause of our

positive and negative affections.

_Note._—This letter was meant for private circulation only; the

young Bear from whom it was received thought he might venture,

without offence, to divulge the secrets of friendship—more

especially as the writer had died, leaving this, among other

manuscripts, to his care. A dead Bear is not likely to complain of

ingratitude.—ED. {310}

“My love of silence and solitude at last settled into the gloomy

moroseness of a _misunderstood Bear_, which has always passed as

the token of incomprehensible genius, or of virtue too pure for the

world. Years of self-examination, added to a growing feeling of

dissatisfaction, convinced me at last that pride was the parent of

my brood of sickly imaginings, whose ghostly food was the moonbeams,

and the sighing of the mountains, as they whispered about me to the

passing wind. Before resipiscence, it was needful I should suffer

misfortune.

“My parents were grieved by my monomania. I had indeed determined

to leave them, and seek some distant secluded spot in which I might

remain undisturbed and alone. Conscience smote me in vain; my project

was at last confided to a friend of the family, who after I had

left broke the news to my parents, telling them I had voluntarily

renounced the world. Never shall I forget stealing like a thief from

the home of my childhood. The morning mist rose over the mountain

from the valleys in blinding masses. Soon settling into clouds, one

of pearly whiteness, fringed with the golden light of dawn, floated

like a curtain in front of my old home.

“It was a glorious scene; I could dimly descry my father returning

from the chase laden with a store of game. Snow mantled the heights,

and an icy wind rising with the sun shook the dark pines. The

violence of the wind increased, the clouds were driven, torn into

shreds, against the jagged rocks, and scattered like flames of living

fire flying over the pine forests. The wind, after a fearful blast

and deep-drawn sigh, paused as if to view the sport, then rising

suddenly, lifted the vapour from the hollows, chasing it from its

warm bed up the snowy steeps, and spreading it out in a dark veil

across the sun. In the deep gloom the voices of a thousand fiends

seemed to rise from vale and crag. The caverns and gorges were filled

with the spirits of a gathering storm, shrieking and clamouring like

a crowd at the gates of hell, impatient to be let loose to lay waste

the land. At last they burst forth; onward they came, guided by a

sword of lightning that shivered a great rock close to my feet, and

pierced the heart of my favourite tree. I rolled over in a faint

of panic fear, and awoke to see the wreck of many a green sapling,

the pathways strewn with leaves, branches, and the trunks of giant

pines. The storm had abated, and in its track left angry torrents

leaping from the once dry rocks, gathering force and roaring in brown

torrents down through the chasms, to flood and wreck {311} the

smiling plains beneath. This is not all, for a sentimental Bear is a

great observer.

“The sun again shone upon the scene with the brightness of hope to

the torn breast of Nature, for every green thing took heart and

expanded beneath its welcome rays. As for me, nothing daunted, I

started and pursued my way until I found a spot inaccessible to

everything but sweet solitude and myself.

“During live years my only visitor was an Eagle who perched on a

stunted tree not far off. No other living creature had ventured to

invade my horizon.

“My occupations were very simple. At dawn I sat on a ledge of rock

watching sunrise. The freshness of the morning filled me with a sense

of newness of life, and a vividness of imagination whose fruit was

a palingenesian poem, in which I meant to express all the griefs of

those who had raised the cup of happiness to their lips, only to find

it empty and polluted.

“During the day I studied the healing properties of plants, while my

evenings were devoted to watching the stars appear one by one in the

sky. My heart expanded when gazing on the moon and the sweet planet

Venus, and I even at times imagined I must have had some hand in

creating the stars and moon, in order that they might shine for my

special benefit. Five years were passed in dreaming, after which my

eyes opened to behold the vanity of a Bear. My illusions vanished,

and objects appeared in their true colours. A sense of loneliness

took hold of me, the stars lost their lustre, the flowers and grasses

their ethereal fragrance and heavenly hues. I considered my limbs,

my claws, my coat, and behold they were made for climbing, crawling,

clutching, and covering my nakedness. I found I could neither climb

to high heaven nor clutch the stars; on the contrary, my attributes

were practical, brutish, and earthly. These mortifying but useful

discoveries compelled me to seek other scenes—to return, in fact, to

the world and rejoin my fellows.

“Back I accordingly made my way, and, all unused to the craft of wise

Bears, became a prey to the cunning of men.

“I started one morning early to carry out my resolution, and had not

proceeded far when strange sounds smote my ear, voices shouting,

‘A Bear! a Bear!!’ Pausing to listen where the sounds came from, I

was suddenly struck and stunned by an invisible weapon which sent

me rolling over on the ground, where I was immediately surrounded

by {312} four savage Dogs, followed by three more savage men. In

spite of the pain of my wound I struggled bravely, but was at last

overpowered, and fainted from loss of blood.

“Upon recovering I found myself tied to a tree with a rope fastened

to a ring in my nose. To this day I have never been able to make

out how that solid metal ring was spirited into my nose. Verily the

skill of man passeth the knowledge of Bears! Homer says the man who

has lost his liberty has lost half his soul. I had sustained that

loss, and had gained a permanent ornament, so fixed that to regain my

liberty I must sacrifice my snout. There was no help for it, I had

been rudely pulled up to survey my changed position. Wherein did the

change consist? Sun, moon, and stars were still above me, but they

had no longer the same interest for me; they were simply sun, moon,

stars, and nothing more—heavenly bodies having their own affairs to

look after, while I had mine, which proved all-absorbing. Formerly

the beautiful in nature was my constant feast; there it was still

around me, but it had lost its old fascination and power of feasting

the senses.

“The truth is, I had never really renounced the world. For a time

I was the slave of morbid fancies, and had no more given up the

flesh-and-blood interest in life, than does the Buddhist bonze, who,

while he courts seclusion and broods over the ethics of his creed, is

careful to nourish and cherish the material part of his being.

“Here I was, by a mere fluke of misfortune, brought face to face with

my real self, a heavy-footed, full-grown, and withal sentimental

Bear. Many days passed in a sort of stupor of despair, followed by

the sweet inward confession of my sins, which brought resignation

and a calm I had never before experienced. If anything could replace

the loss of liberty, it was the repose of my new life, for my master

showed me uniform kindness. I was commensal of his house by day, and

by night was consigned to a stable with some other socially-disposed

animals.

“Soon after daybreak I was taken to the doorway, where, seated

beneath a plane-tree, the hours passed pleasantly in playing with

my master’s children, who showed me much affection, while the

thoroughfare along the highroad procured endless amusement.

“On fête-days the rustics came to dance under the tree; for my master

was an innkeeper, and his house a favourite resort.

“There the noise of jingling glasses and songs of gay spirits sounded

from dawn to sunset. I had always a formal invitation to the dances,

which commenced after the evening repast, and were kept up far into

{313} the night. Usually I had the good fortune to open the ball

with the prettiest girl of the crowd, by a dance similar to the one

in vogue a Crete, invented for the amiable Ariadne. Since then I have

been enabled to study the private life of men of rank, those on the

upper range of the social ladder, and give it as my conviction that

the poor mountaineers have a happier lot in life than those regarded

by the world as the highly-favoured ones. The conclusion forces

itself upon me, that men are happy just in proportion as they are

ignorant. It is sad it should be so, as it brings them down to the

level of the beast, and tempts some to regard even the Bear, owing

to the simplicity of his nature and habits, as an infinitely happier

animal than man. My rustic life lasted six months, during which time

I followed the example of Apollo, deprived of his glory, guarding the

flock of Admetus.

“One day, while I was seated as usual beneath the tree, a postchaise

drawn by four horses stopped at the door, and I learned that its

occupant, who had the air of a travelling aristocrat, was a poet of

noble birth and European fame, who had been voyaging in search of

adventure. This personage left the carriage to take some refreshment,

and during his stay I seemed to be the subject of a conversation

which ended in the stranger placing some pieces of gold in the hand

of my master, who undid my chain and consigned me to the vehicle.

“The peaceful valley where I had spent so many happy days was leagues

off before I recovered from my surprise. It is needless to remark

that any change in my mode of life caused me much pain and anxiety.

Believe me, dear reader, happiness is only to be found in the

monotony of an uneventful life.

“As the scenes of my youth faded in the distance, sorrow took

possession of my heart, and at last I bade adieu to my dear

mountains. I felt for the first time that loss of one’s country is

immortal, and that travels only produce fatigue of body and mind. Now

I was enabled to comprehend how Calypso, arrayed in all her charms,

could not tempt Ulysses to abandon his poor but much-loved Ithaca,

or to relinquish the noble ambition which induced him to return and

behold once more the smoke rising from his chimney.

“ ‘Vivite felices, quibus est fortuna peracta!

Vobis parta quies, nobis maris æquor arandum.’

“We embarked at Bayonne on board a ship setting sail for the British

Isles, where I afterwards passed two years with my master in a

Scottish {314} castle. This gifted man was to me a most interesting

study; at once poet and misanthrope, his example sealed my fate for

life, thoroughly curing me of the monomania which had forced me

into seclusion. I had at the same time contracted a depraved habit

of composing verses or rhymes, which I could not shake off, never

fully realising that only a few gifted poets have been enabled to win

fame by placing their sentiments on record. Like most half-fledged

misunderstood poets, I suffered acutely, being no favourite either

of the Muses or the public. Inspiration would not come, in spite of

great agony and superbearish effort. It was in vain I lay on my back

or rolled on my belly—rhythm, rhyme, and romance proved my severest

taskmasters. I walked fast in the dark lanes of the garden, as Pope

used to do, scaring the birds by the deep growlings that escaped my

breast.

“Who would believe it? My poetic breakdown stirred the worst passions

of my nature, and drove me to hate every successful songster—to hate

past, present, and future—to hate every one and everything saving my

own soured self.

“Since Solomon’s time many books have been written, but the book

which shall faithfully picture the miseries of a literary life has

yet to be penned. My master himself, with his acknowledged genius

and inordinate—— I must not retail his troubles, as most worthy

recipients of his kindness might be tempted to do. I shall content

myself, as a faithful servant, by merely raising the corner of the

veil. The Muses were his true loves, to whom he was fain to prove

unfaithful when he sought the joys of domestic life, to lay the

storms of his heart in the haven of home. But it was all too late,

the experiment failed, and he fled to end his accumulated woes on a

foreign shore.

“Here was a lofty example for me, an unfortunate poetaster, proving

as it did that poetic genius, just in proportion to its intensity,

dries up the font of social happiness and plays fearful havoc with

common sense.